A History of Sanskrit Literature c21.s3: 3. The Content and Style of the Daçakumāracarita

A History of Sanskrit Literature c21.s3

Language: English

c21.s3.12 — 5 parts

3. The Content and Style of the Daçakumāracarita

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It has been suggested² that the romance is really to be regarded as a didactic work, an attempt to teach the doctrines of the Nītiçāstra in narratives of attractive character. This we may fairly pronounce to be an exaggeration and an injustice to the author, whose real aim we may be sure was to give pleasure, however ready he might be to show himself an expert in the rules of polity as well as those of the Kāmaçāstra. His distinctive quality is the application to the simple tale of the grand manner of the Kāvya, though in a moderation which is utterly lost in the case of Subandhu and Bāṇa. Doubtless he had predecessors in the attempt, though they are lost to us and we cannot even say whether the Bhaṭṭāra Haricandra to whom Bāṇa refers in the introduction to his *Harṣacarita* as a fine author of prose was a predecessor of Daṇḍin. It may be conjectured that the application of the Kāvya style to prose had its origin in panegyrics such as are seen in the inscriptions of Rudradāman and Hariṣeṇa which we have already considered, and that it was only later that it was thought suitable to apply similar methods to tales. The application, of course, made the tale vitally different from its effect in its more simple form. The work of Guṇāḍhya, even through its changed forms, as it has come down to us gives the definite impression of swift and easy narrative, the poets not pausing to exercise their descriptive talents; Daṇḍin leads the way to the result that the narrative is a mere skeleton, the descriptions the essence.

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² Hertel, trans. iii. 8 ff.

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In Daṇḍin, however, we are far from the period when an exercise in style is aimed at. The main interest of the romance lies in the substance,¹ with its vivid and picturesque account of low life and adventure, of magicians and fraudulent holy men, of princesses and ruined kings, of hetairai, of expert thieves, of fervent lovers, who in a dream or by a prophecy are urged on to seek the beloved. The world of the gods is regarded with singularly little respect, and the ministers to holiness are equally far from finding favour. Not that there is a total disregard of moral considerations; one prince consoles himself for his action in seeking to secure the wife of another, and slaying to fulfil the end, by moral principles. It is legitimate according to the text-books to abandon one of the three ends of man, duty, profit, and love, if it tends to the attainment of the other two, and if he has violated duty he has enabled his parents to escape from captivity, has secured himself the delights of love and the possession of a realm. Apahāravarman again is a prince of thieves; he plans on the model laid down by Karṇīsuta, author of an unhappily lost text-book on the art, to rob a city in order, it is true, to reimburse an unfortunate who has been robbed by a hetaira;

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¹ How far original is unknown. In vi the insertion of stories has a parallel in the *Kathāsaritsāgara* where the Vetāla stories come in the report of the sixth minister, and there is a parallel for Nitambavatī. The figures of the ungrateful and the ideal wives here have parallels in Jātakas 193 and 546; Winternitz, GIL. iii. 357.

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moreover, he understands that there are too many misers in residence. Mantragupta in disguise worms himself into the confidence of a foolish king, persuades him to bathe in the sea in order to acquire greater beauty, murders him, and parades himself before the people as the new form of the king, extolling the wonderful deed that has been accomplished, which has put to shame all mockers as to the powers of the gods to work miracles. Viçruta in order to secure his protégé’s restoration to power makes use both of the temple and the name of Durgā to perpetrate a successful fraud. The gods appear as justifying the most disgraceful deeds; the moon god is cited as justifying adultery, the hetaira in her successful effort to pervert the pious ascetic can find authority in the scandals regarding heaven. The ascetic is far from being adamant, and it is not Brahmins alone who are subject to satire; the merchant whom she plunders down to his loin-cloth abandons that also and becomes a Digambara Jain monk, but confesses that the sublime teachings of the Jina are but a swindle. The Brahmins again with their reports of evil, requiring a special sacrifice with vessels of pure gold, are derided, while nuns are all go-betweens and one Buddhist lady is the head procuress in the service of a hetaira. The might of fate does not rule the affairs of these active princes; true, Apahāravarman when caught stealing, Pūrṇabhadra captured by robbers, ascribe to this cause their mishaps, but they both are ready and able by human exertion to defeat effectively the decrees of that unstable deity.

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The realism of Daṇḍin’s outlook is entirely in accord with one strain of Indian tradition, that which from the *Ṛgveda* onwards notes and describes the sins of the gods, without any moral protest. It stands out the more prominently when it is compared with the pious attitude of the author of the Pūrvapīṭhikā. To him the sacrifice is the power that brings the gods; Rājahaṅsa is praised because of his devotion to the priests, the gods on earth, while Daṇḍin denies them that appellation save in one passage where his use for them of *dharaṇītala-taitila* is sneering, the term meaning also ‘rhinoceroses’. The king’s domestic priest possesses the full holiness of Brahman himself, and despite his appalling deeds the Brahmin Mātaṅga, because he died in saving another Brahmin, after an interesting tour of inspection of Yama’s hells is restored to life, and by his devotion to Çiva is rewarded with the aid of Rājavāhana to enable him to win an Asura princess and lordship of the nether regions. Not valour but Çiva’s club gives the king of Mālava victory over Rājahaṅsa. Daṇḍin makes a joke out of Mārkaṇḍeya’s curse which condemns Suratamañjarī, whose pearl necklace fell on the ascetic when bathing, to become a silver chain. The Pūrvapīṭhikā parts Çāmba from his wife for two months because of the curse of a water-fowl. The princes no longer are free agents; the great Vāmadeva and his acolytes protect and guard the father and the princess; Rājavāhana can win his princess only by a Brahmin’s aid.

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Characteristic of Daṇḍin is his power of characterization which is not content with making alive the more important figures on his stage, but invests with life and reality the minor personages. The ascetic Marīci, the merchant Vasupālita, and their seducer Kāmamañjarī, the old Brahmin who meets Pramati at the cock-fight and seconds him *con amore* in the trick to win his bride, improving on his instructions, the police commandant Kāntaka, who is deluded into believing that the king’s daughter is in love with him and treasures the nurse’s soiled garment as a pledge of affection, and the nurse herself, Çṛgālikā, who seconds Apahāravarman’s efforts to win the princess, are all depicted with liveliness, force, and insight. Nor is Daṇḍin limited in range; in chapter viii we have a deeper note in the characterization of the young king Anantavarman, his loyal minister Vasurakṣita, whom he casts aside because his advice is too wise for his taste, and the shallow but witty courtier Vihārabhadra whose advice leads to the utter ruin of realm and king.

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The humour and wit of the author are remarkable and far more attractive to modern taste than are usually these qualities in Indian works. The whole work is pervaded by the humour of the wild deeds of the princes, their determination to secure what they wish, and their light-hearted indifference to the morality of the means which they employ. The deception of Marīci¹ by the hetaira is perfectly drawn; the damsel pretends to be enamoured of the holy life, the ascetic warns her of the trials and advises her mother, who is shocked at her daughter’s indifference to duty, to let her stay a short time to experience what her purpose means;

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¹ Lüders’ comparison of the Ṛṣyaçṛṅga legend (GN. 1897, p. 109) is needless. For Christian parallels see Günter, *Buddha*, pp. 233 ff.

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alas, it is the ascetic who learns many things not suitable for ascetics. The silver chain which binds the captive turns itself into a beautiful maiden in an unexpected but delightful way. Queen Vasundharā finds a brilliant way of spreading a false rumour; she invites the oldest of the citizens and the highest of the ministers to a secret conclave at which under the most solemn pledge of secrecy she reveals the *canard*. There is admirable wit in Apahāravarman’s pious resolve to bring into a better frame of mind the misers of Campā by revealing to their eyes the perishable nature of all that is earthly, in vulgar parlance by stealing their money. Mitragupta offers Candrasenā a magic ointment to make her appear like a female ape to the prince, but she replies that she does not wish in this life to be parted from her mortal body. Arthapāla finds in the earth a lovely damsel whom he likens to the goddess of royal sovereignty who has taken refuge in the earth to avoid the sight of so many bad kings. Upahāravarman makes a very bitter jest at the expense of king Vikaṭavarman who is under the impression that he is his beloved queen; to confirm him in this view he asks him to swear to confine his love in future with his new form to the queen alone: the fool is prepared to take the oath but Upahāravarman continues: *kim vā çapathena? kaiva hi mānuṣī mām paribhaviṣyati? yady apsarobhiḥ saṁgacchase saṁgacchasva kāmam. kathaya kāni te rahasyāni. tatkathanānte tvatsvarūpabhraṁçaḥ.* ‘Nay, what need of an oath? What woman can vie with me? But if thou wouldst mate with the Apsarases, thou mayst do so at pleasure. Tell me thy secrets; when thou hast told, thy change of shape will come to pass.’ The foolish king little knows the meaning of the words which portend his wedlock with a denizen of the next world, and a change not to a fairer form but the passing of this mortal life.

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In the arrangement of his work Daṇḍin shows distinct judgement. He varies his tone; from the light-hearted or grim humour of chapters ii and v we pass to the earnest tragedy of chapter viii. He alters his form; while most of the books are without break of subject, in chapter vi we have four clever tales, those of Dhūminī, Gominī, Nimbavatī, and Nitambavatī, told in succession to illustrate the maxim that cunning alone is able to accomplish the most difficult ends. If the work had been completed, as we have seen, before the present opening, we should doubtless have had some pictures of ancient love scenes.

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Daṇḍin is unquestionably masterly in his use of language. He is perfectly capable of simple easy narrative, and in the speeches which he gives to his characters he avoids carefully the error of elaboration of language. But he is prepared to exhibit his talent and command of the language in descriptions and in these he is markedly an adherent of the Vaidarbha style, and excels, as a traditional estimate holds, in pleasing sound effects. He aims both at exactness of expression and clearness of sense, at the avoidence of harsh sounds and exaggeration or bombast; he attains beauty, harmony of sound, and effective expression of sentiment. He makes free use, but with reasonable moderation, of the right in prose to construct long compounds, but they in the main are not difficult of comprehension. His desire to vary his forms of description is marked and receives effective illustration. Twice he has to describe the beauty of a slumbering maiden; in the first case¹ he resorts to a complete catalogue of all her perfections as the hero gazes on her and notes them in minutest detail through her thin garments; in the second case there is no realistic description, but four similes from mythology and nature serve to express her loveliness.² Yet again a picture is given of beauty unveiled, but the occasion is different;

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the hero sets up as an astrologer, and in this capacity has the privilege of inspecting youthful beauty presented to him to ascertain if it possesses the auspicious signs of suitability for marriage.³ Reference has already been made to the witty close of the description of the beautiful maiden of the underground dwelling, where the jest is given special point by following on several more stereotyped complimentary epithets.⁴ Another description is decidedly ingenious and is addressed to the lovely one herself: *bhāmini nanu bahv aparāddham bhavatyā cittajanmano yad amuṣya jīvitabhūtām Ratim ākṛtyā kadarthitavatī dhanuryaṣṭim bhrūlatābhyām bhramaramālāmāyīm jyāṁ nīlālakadyutibhir astrāṇy apāṅgavīkṣitavṛṣṭibhir mahārajanadhvajapaṭāñçukaṁ daçanacchadamayūkhajālaiḥ prathamasuhṛdam malayamārutam parimalapaṭīyasā niḥçvāsapavanena parabhṛtarutam atimañjulaiḥ pralāpaiḥ puṣpamayīm patākām bhujayaṣṭibhyāṁ digvijayārambhapūrṇa-* *kumbhamithunaṁ urojayugalena krīḍāsaro nābhimaṇḍalena saṁnāhyarathamaṇḍalaṁ çroṇimaṇḍalena bhavanaratnatoraṇa-stambhayugalam ūruyugalena līlākarṇakisalayaṁ caraṇatalapra-bhābhiḥ.* ‘Hast thou, gracious lady, not wrought much wrong on our lord Love? Hast thou not utterly eclipsed with thy form Rati, who is all his life to him; with thy creeper-like brows the staff of his bow; his bowstring formed of a row of bees with the flashings of thy dark locks; his arrows with the showers of thy sidelong glances;

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the silk of his saffron-dyed banner with the ruddy rays darting from thy lips; his dearest friend, the wind from Malaya, with the sweet fragrance of thy breath; the Kokila with thy charming utterance; his flower ensign with the flagstaffs of thy arms; the two bowls which were filled when he started to conquer the world with thy two rounded breasts, the lake in which he plays with the circle of thy navel; the rounded frame of his battle-chariot with thy round hips; the twin pillars of the jewelled arch of his palace with thy twin thighs; the lotus behind his ear with which he plays with the gleaming red of the soles of thy feet?’ The same variety is seen in his many changes of expression in describing the dawn and the sunset, which he delights to do.

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So Upahāravarman sees the dawn thus: *cintayaty eva mayi mahārṇavonmagnamār-taṇḍaturaṅgamaçvāsarayāvadhūteva vyavartata triyāmā samu-dragarbhavāsajaḍīkṛta iva mandapratāpo divasakaraḥ prādur āsīt.* ‘While yet I pondered, night passed away, as though wafted away by the hot breath of the steeds of the sun as he emerged from the mighty ocean, and the sun stood revealed, but yet feeble his might as though he had been paralysed by his dwelling within the bosom of the sea.’ There is a very effective example of the simplicity and vividness of his style in his account in the legend of Dhūminī of the appalling famine which led to the tragic events of that tale: *kṣīṇasāraṁ sasyam oṣadhayo bandhyā na phalavanto vanaspatayaḥ klībā meghā bhinnasrotasaḥ sravantyaḥ paṅkaçeṣāṇi palvalāni niḥsyandāny utsamaṇḍalāni viralībhūtaṁ kandamūlaphalam avahīnāḥ kathā galitāḥ kalyāṇot-savakriyā bahulībhūtāni taskarakulāny anyonyam abhakṣayan pra-jāḥ paryaluṇṭhann itas tato balākāpāṇḍurāṇi naraçiraḥkapālāni paryahiṇḍanta çuṣkāḥ kākamaṇḍalyaḥ çūnyībhūtāni nagaragrā-makharvaṭapuṭabhedanādīni.* ‘The corn lost all its strength, the herbs became barren, the trees bore no fruit, the clouds rained not, the beds of the streams became dry, the tanks were reduced to mud, the springs ceased to flow, bulbs, roots, and fruits were hard to find, all ceased to converse or celebrate auspicious events, hordes of robbers became more common, people ate one another in their hunger, men's skulls, bleached white as cranes, rolled about, great flocks of starving crows flew around, while cities great and small, market-places, villages, and other resorts of men were abandoned.' It is significant that the author of the Pūrvapīṭhikā is quite unable to vie in description with his model, though he exaggerates the length of his compounds and in the introduction commits himself to a stanza playing on Daṇḍin's name.

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He commits also the grave fault of excessive use of alliterations, perpetrating the continuous riming effect of: *kumārā mārābhirāmā rāmādyapauruṣā ruṣā bhasmīkṛtārayo rayopahasitasamīraṇā raṇābhiyānena yānenābhyudayaçaṅsaṁ rājānam akārṣuḥ.* 'The princes, beautiful as Māra himself, with the heroism of Rāma and other heroes, reducing their enemies to ashes in their rage, in their swiftness defeating even the wind, advancing in their chariots to battle assured the king of victory.' It may be doubted whether it is not to his carelessness rather than to clerical errors or to learned pedantry that we should ascribe the incorrect forms *mahadāyudha*, *mahadabhikhyā*, *mahadāçā*, *āvoci*, *çāsan*, *adañci*, presented by manuscript tradition.¹ These are very different from the forms which have been censured in Daṇḍin, such as *āliṅgayitum*, *brāhmaṇabrūvaḥ*, *enam anuraktā*, which are clearly defensible as they stand.

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¹ ii. p. 62.

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² v. p. 13.

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³ vi. p. 31.

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⁴ iv. p. 10.

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¹ For differences in language between the Pūrvapīṭhikā and the text of Daṇḍin, see Gawroński, *Sprachl. Untersuchungen über das Mṛcchakaṭika und das Daśakumāracarita* (1907), pp. 47 ff.

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It must not, however, be denied that we see traces here and there of the desire even in Daṇḍin to strain language. The *tour de force* by which chapter vii is spoken by Mantragupta without any labial letters ² because his loved one had bitten him so deeply on the lower lip that he could not form labials is noteworthy but hardly admirable, and in chapter ii we find a piece ³ of complex argument elliptically expressed which might do credit for difficulty of comprehension to Subandhu or Bāṇa. But in him these deviations are exceptions, and though Indian taste would never have ranked his style with that of the other great romancers it is greatly to be preferred on modern standards. In one point, however, Daṇḍin surpasses Subandhu. He obeys the rule that the perfect shall only be used in describing what is not part of one's personal experience.¹ Hence in the narratives of the princes the perfect is excluded, although it is permitted in the four short tales inserted in chapter vi; in the princes' narrative he uses only imperfects, aorists, the historical present, and participles, active and passive. His frequent use of aorists is doubtless a sign of his familiarity with grammar and his anxiety to exhibit the fact.

Linked texts (6)

Kāvyādarśa — Daṇḍin, Sanskrit
Kathāsaritsāgara — Somadeva Bhaṭṭa, Sanskrit
Jātaka — Pāli
Daśakumāracarita — Daṇḍin, Sanskrit
Harṣacarita — Bāṇabhaṭṭa, Sanskrit
Ṛgvedasaṃhitā — Sanskrit