Legend of Krishna and the Origins of Brahmanism

source: Revue des Deux Mondes ,3rd period, volume 87, 1888( pp. 285 – 321 )

Aryan Civilization

From the conquest of India by the Aryas came one of the most brilliant civilizations that the earth has ever known. The Ganges and its tributaries saw the birth of great empires and immense capitals, such as Ayodhya, Hastinapoura and Indrapechta. The epic tales of the Mahabharata and the popular cosmogonies of the Puranas,which contain the oldest historical traditions of India, speak with dazzlement of the royal opulence, the heroic grandeur and the chivalrous spirit of those remote ages. There is nothing more proud, but also more noble, than one of those Aryan kings of India, standing on his war chariot, and commanding armies of elephants, horses, and infantry. A Vedic priest thus consecrates his king before the assembled crowd: “I have brought you among us. All the people want you. The sky is firm; the ground is firm; these mountains are firm; may the king of families also be firm. In a later code of laws, the Manava-Dharma-Sastra, we read: “These masters of the world who, ardent to undo each other, deploy their vigor in battle, without ever turning their face, ascend, after their death, directly to heaven.” In fact, they call themselves descendants of the gods, believe themselves to be their rivals, ready to become one themselves. Filial obedience, military courage with a feeling of generous protection towards all, this is the ideal of man. As for the woman, the Hindu epic, humble servant of the Brahmans, shows her to us only under the features of the faithful wife. Neither Greece nor the peoples of the North have imagined in their poems wives as delicate, as noble, as exalted as the passionate Sita or the tender Damayanti.

What the Hindu epic does not tell us is the profound mystery of the mixture of races and the slow incubation of religious ideas which brought about profound changes in the social organization of Vedic India. The Aryas, conquerors of pure race, found themselves in the presence of very mixed and very inferior races, where the yellow and red type intersected on a black background in multiple shades. The Hindu civilization thus appears to us as a formidable mountain, bearing at its base a Melanian race, the mixed bloods on its sides and the pure Aryans at its summit. The separation of castes not being rigorous in the primitive period, great mixtures took place between these peoples. The purity of the conquering race deteriorated more and more with the centuries; but, to this day, we note the predominance of the Aryan type in the upper classes and of the Melanian type in the lower classes. Now, from the troubled depths of Hindu society there always arose, like the miasma of juggling mingled with the smell of wild animals, a burning vapor of passions, a mixture of languor and ferocity. The superabundant black blood has given India its special color. He refined and effeminate the race. The marvel is that, despite this interbreeding, the dominant ideas of the white race have been able to maintain themselves at the top of this civilization through so many revolutions. The superabundant black blood has given India its special color. He refined and effeminate the race. The marvel is that, despite this interbreeding, the dominant ideas of the white race have been able to maintain themselves at the top of this civilization through so many revolutions. The superabundant black blood has given India its special color. He refined and effeminate the race. The marvel is that, despite this interbreeding, the dominant ideas of the white race have been able to maintain themselves at the top of this civilization through so many revolutions.

Here, then, is the ethnic basis of India well defined: on the one hand, the genius of the white race with its moral sense and its sublime metaphysical aspirations; on the other, the genius of the black race with its passionate energies and its dissolving force. How is this double genius reflected in the ancient religious history of India? The oldest traditions speak of a solar dynasty and a lunar dynasty. The kings of the solar dynasty claimed descent from the sun; the others called themselves sons of the moon. But this symbolic language covered two opposing religious conceptions, and meant that these two categories of sovereigns belonged to two different cults. Solar worship gave the God of the universe the male sex. Around him grouped all that was purest in the Vedic tradition: the science of sacred fire and prayer, the esoteric notion of the supreme God, respect for women, ancestor worship, elective and patriarchal royalty. The lunar cult attributed to the divinity the female sex, under the sign of which the religions of the Aryan cycle have always worshiped nature, and often blind, unconscious nature, in its violent and terrible demonstrations. This cult leaned towards idolatry and black magic, favored polygamy and tyranny based on popular passions. — The struggle between the sons of the sun and the sons of the moon, between the Pandavas and the Kuravas, forms the very subject of the great Hindu epic, the Mahabharata, a sort of summary in perspective of the history of Aryan India before the definitive constitution of Brahmanism. This struggle abounds in fierce battles, in strange and endless adventures. In the middle of the gigantic epic, the Kouravas, the lunar kings, are victorious. The Pandavas, the noble children of the sun, the guardians of pure rites, are dethroned and banished. They wander in exile, hidden in the forests, taking refuge with the anchorites, in bark clothes, with hermit sticks.

Will the instincts from below prevail? Will the powers of darkness represented in the Hindu epic by the black Rakshasas prevail over the luminous Devas? Will tyranny crush the elite under its chariot of war, and the cyclone of evil passions crush the Vedic altar, extinguish the sacred fire of the ancestors? No, India is only at the beginning of its religious evolution. She will deploy her metaphysical and organizing genius in the institution of Brahmanism. Priests who served kings and chiefs as pourohitas(workers of the fire sacrifice) had already become their counselors and ministers. They had great wealth and considerable influence. But they could not have given their caste this sovereign authority, this unassailable position above the royal power itself, without the aid of another class of men who personify the spirit of India in what it is more original and deeper. They are the anchorites.

From time immemorial, these ascetics lived in hermitages deep in the forests, on the banks of the rivers or in the mountains, near the sacred lakes. They were sometimes found alone, sometimes assembled in brotherhoods, but always united in the same spirit. We recognize in them the spiritual kings, the true masters of India. Heirs of the ancient sages, the rishis, they alone possessed the secret interpretation of the Vedas. In them lived the genius of asceticism, of occult science, of transcendent powers. To achieve this science and this power, they brave everything, hunger, cold, the scorching sun, the horror of juggling. Helpless in their wooden cabin, they live on prayer and meditation. With their voices, their gazes, they call or ward off snakes, soothe lions and tigers. Happy is he who obtains their blessing: he will have the Devas for friends! Woe to him who mistreats or kills them: their curse, say the poets, pursues the culprit into his third incarnation.The kings tremble before their threats, and, curiously enough, these ascetics even frighten the gods. In the Ramayana, Visvamitra, a king who has become an ascetic, acquires such power through his austerities and his meditations that the gods tremble for their existence. Then Indra sends him the most ravishing of the Apsaras, who comes to bathe in the lake, in front of the saint’s hut. The anchorite is seduced by the celestial nymph; a hero is born from their union, and for a few thousand years the existence of the universe is guaranteed. Beneath these poetic exaggerations, one divines the real and superior power of the anchorites of the white race, who, with deep divination, intense will, govern the stormy soul of India from the depths of their forests.

It was from the bosom of the brotherhood of anchorites that the priestly revolution was to emerge which made India the most formidable of theocracies. The victory of spiritual power over temporal power, of the anchorite over the king, from which was born the power of Brahmanism, came about through a reformer of the first order. By reconciling the two conflicting geniuses, that of the white race and the black race, the solar cults and the lunar cults, this divine man was the true creator of the national religion of India. Moreover, by his doctrine, this powerful genius threw into the world a new idea of immense significance: that of the divine word or of the divinity incarnated and manifested by man. This first of the messiahs, this eldest of the sons of God, was Krishna.

Its legend has this capital interest that it summarizes and dramatizes the whole Brahmanic doctrine. Only it has remained scattered and floating in tradition, for the reason that plastic force is absolutely lacking in Hindu genius. The confused and mythical account of Vishnu-Pourana , however, contains historical data on Krishna, of an individual and salient character. On the other hand, the Bhagavadgita, that marvelous fragment interpolated in the great poem of the Mahabharata, and which the Brahmins consider as one of their most sacred books, contains in all its purity the doctrine attributed to it. It is while reading these two books that the figure of the great religious initiator of India appeared to me with the persuasion of living beings. I will therefore tell the story of Krishna by drawing from these two sources, one of which represents the popular tradition and the other that of the initiates.

I. — THE KING OF MADOURA.

At the beginning of the age of Kali-Youg, around the year 3000 before our era (according to the chronology of the Brahmins), the thirst for gold and power invaded the world. For several centuries, say the ancient sages, Agni, the celestial fire which forms the glorious body of the Devas and which purifies the souls of men, had shed its ethereal effluvia on the earth. But the burning breath of Kali, the goddess of Desire and Death, which issues from the abysses of the earth like fiery breath, then passed over all hearts. Justice had reigned with the noble sons of Pandu, the solar kings who obeyed the voice of the wise. Winners, they forgave the vanquished and treated them as equals. But since the sons of the sun had been exterminated or driven from their thrones and their rare descendants were hiding among the anchorites, injustice, ambition and hatred had taken over. Changeable and false like the nocturnal star whose symbol they had taken, the lunar kings waged a merciless war against each other.

In northern India, on the banks of a wide river, shone a mighty city. It had twelve pagodas, ten palaces, a hundred gates flanked by towers. Multicolored banners floated on its high walls, like winged serpents. It was haughty Madoura, impregnable like Indra’s fortress. There reigned Kansa, with a crooked heart, an insatiable soul. He only suffered around him from slaves, he thought he possessed only what he had knocked down, and what he possessed seemed to him nothing compared to what remained for him to conquer. All the kings who recognized lunar cults had paid him homage. But Kansa dreamed of subjugating all of India, from Lanka to the Himavat. To accomplish this design, he allied himself with Kalayéni, master of the Vyndhia mountains, the powerful king of the Yavanas, the yellow-faced men. As a follower of the goddess Kali, Kalayéni had devoted himself to the dark arts of black magic. He was called the friend of the Rakshasas or the nocturnal demons and the king of the serpents, because he used these animals to terrify his people and his enemies. Deep in a thick forest was the temple of the goddess Kali, carved into a mountain; huge black cave whose bottom was unknown and whose entrance was guarded by colossi with animal heads, carved in the rock. It was there that those who wanted to pay homage to Kalayéni were brought to obtain some secret power from him. He appeared at the entrance of the temple, in the midst of a multitude of monstrous serpents which twisted around his body and rose at the command of his scepter. He forced his tributaries to bow before these animals, whose tangled heads towered above his own. At the same time, he muttered a mysterious formula. Those who had performed this rite and worshiped serpents were said to obtain immense favors and all that they desired. But they were fallingirrevocably in the power of Kalayéni. Far or near, they remained his slaves. If they tried to disobey him, to escape him, no matter how far away they were, they thought they saw the terrible magician standing before them surrounded by his reptiles, they saw themselves surrounded by their hissing heads, paralyzed by their fascinating eyes. Kansa asked Kalayéni for his alliance. The king of the Yavanas promised him the empire of the earth, on condition that he would marry his daughter.

Proud as an antelope and supple as a serpent was the magician king’s daughter, the beautiful Nysoumba, with golden pendants and ebony breasts. Her face looked like a dark cloud shaded with bluish reflections by the moon, her eyes like two flashes, her mouth greedy for the pulp of a red fruit with white pips. It looked like Kali herself, the Goddess of Desire. Soon she reigned supreme over Kansa’s heart, and blowing on all her passions made it a blazing inferno. Kansa had a palace full of women of all colors, but he only listened to Nysoumba.

“Let me have a son by you,” he said to her, “and I will make him my heir.” Then I will be the master of the earth and I will no longer fear anyone. However, Nysoumba had no sons, and his heart was irritated by it. She envied the other women of Kansa whose loves had been fruitful. She had her father multiply the sacrifices to Kali, but her womb remained sterile like earth scorched by fever. Then the king of Madura ordered to make before the whole city the great sacrifice of fire and to invoke all the Devas. The women of Kansa and the people attended with great fanfare. Prostrated before the fire, the priests invoked by their songs the great Varouna, Indra, the Açwins and the Marouts. Queen Nysoumba approached and threw a handful of perfumes into the fire with a gesture of defiance, by pronouncing a magic formula in an unknown language. The smoke thickened, the flames swirled, and the terrified priests cried out:

“O queen, it is not the Devas, but the Rakshasas who have passed over the fire. Your breast will remain sterile. — Kansa approached the fire in his turn and said to the priest:

“Then tell me which of my wives will be born the master of the world?”

At this moment, Devaki, the king’s sister, approached the fire. She was a virgin with a simple and pure heart who had spent her childhood spinning and weaving, and who lived as in a dream. His body was on earth, his soul still seemed to be in heaven. Devaki knelt down humbly, praying to the Devas to bear a son to his brother and the beautiful Nysumba. The priest looked alternately at the fire and at the virgin. Suddenly he exclaimed in astonishment:

— O king of Madura, none of your sons will be the master of the world! He will be born in the womb of this sister.

Great was Kansa’s consternation and Nysoumba’s anger at these words. When the queen found herself alone with the king, she said to him:

“Devaki must perish immediately!”

— How, replied Kansa, would I kill my sister? If the Devas protect her, their vengeance will fall on me.

— Then, said Nysoumba full of fury, let her reign in my place and let your sister give birth to the one who will make you perish shamefully. But I no longer want to reign with a coward who is afraid of the Devas, and I am going back to my father Kalayéni.

Nysoumba’s eyes flashed oblique fires, the pendants fluttered on her black, shiny neck. She rolled on the ground, and her beautiful body writhed like an angry snake. Kansa, threatened with losing her and fascinated by a terrible pleasure, was seized with fear and bitten by a new desire.

– Well ! said he, Devaki will perish; but don’t leave me. A flash of triumph shone in Nysoumba’s eyes, a wave of blood flushed his black face. She jumped to her feet and embraced the tamed tyrant with her supple arms. Then, brushing him with her ebony breasts from which heady perfumes exhaled and touching him with her burning lips, she whispered in a low voice:

“We will offer a sacrifice to Kali, the goddess of Desire and Death, and she will give us a son who will be the master of the world!

However, that very night, the pourohita, leader of the sacrifice, saw in a dream King Kansa drawing his sword against his sister. He immediately went to the virgin Devaki, told her that danger of death threatened her, and ordered her to flee without delay to the anchorites. Devaki, instructed by the fire priest, disguised as a penitent, walked out of the Kansa Palace and left the city of Madura without anyone noticing. Very early in the morning, the soldiers looked for the king’s sister to put her to death, but they found her room empty. The king interrogated the city guards. They replied that the doors had been closed all night. But in their sleep they had seen the dark walls of the fortress break under a ray of light, and a woman come out of the city following that ray. Kansa understood that an invincible power was protecting Devaki. From then on, fear entered his soul, and he began to hate his sister with a mortal hatred.

II. — THE DEVAKI VIRGIN

When Devaki, dressed in a garment of bark that hid her beauty, entered the vast solitudes of the giant woods, she staggered, exhausted with fatigue and hunger. But scarcely had she felt the shade of these admirable woods, tasted the fruits of the mango tree and breathed in the freshness of a spring, than she revived like a languid flower. She entered first under enormous vaults, formed by massive trunks whose branches were planted in the ground and multiplied their arcades ad infinitum. For a long time she walked there, sheltered from the sun, as in a dark, dead-end pagoda. The buzzing of bees, the cry of peacocks in love, the song of kokilas and a thousand birds drew him ever further. And ever more immense became the trees, the forest ever deeper and more tangled. The trunks huddled together behind the trunks, the foliage bulged over the foliage in cupolas, in growing pylons. Sometimes Devaki glided through corridors of greenery where the sun cast avalanches of light and where tree trunks were thrown down by the storm. Sometimes she stopped under cradles of mango trees and açokas, from which fell garlands of lianas and showers of flowers. Deer and panthers bounded through the thickets; often also buffaloes cracked the branches, or else a troop of monkeys passed through the foliage, uttering cries. She walked like this all day. Towards evening, above a bamboo grove, she saw the motionless head of a wise elephant. He looked at the virgin with an intelligent and protective air, and raised his trunk as if to greet her. Then the forest cleared up, and Devaki saw a landscape of profound peace, of celestial and paradisiacal charm. from which fell garlands of lianas and showers of flowers. Deer and panthers bounded through the thickets; often also buffaloes cracked the branches, or else a troop of monkeys passed through the foliage, uttering cries. She walked like this all day. Towards evening, above a bamboo grove, she saw the motionless head of a wise elephant. He looked at the virgin with an intelligent and protective air, and raised his trunk as if to greet her. Then the forest cleared up, and Devaki saw a landscape of profound peace, of celestial and paradisiacal charm. from which fell garlands of lianas and showers of flowers. Deer and panthers bounded through the thickets; often also buffaloes cracked the branches, or else a troop of monkeys passed through the foliage, uttering cries. She walked like this all day. Towards evening, above a bamboo grove, she saw the motionless head of a wise elephant. He looked at the virgin with an intelligent and protective air, and raised his trunk as if to greet her. Then the forest cleared up, and Devaki saw a landscape of profound peace, of celestial and paradisiacal charm. or else a troop of monkeys passed through the foliage, uttering cries. She walked like this all day. Towards evening, above a bamboo grove, she saw the motionless head of a wise elephant. He looked at the virgin with an intelligent and protective air, and raised his trunk as if to greet her. Then the forest cleared up, and Devaki saw a landscape of profound peace, of celestial and paradisiacal charm. or else a troop of monkeys passed through the foliage, uttering cries. She walked like this all day. Towards evening, above a bamboo grove, she saw the motionless head of a wise elephant. He looked at the virgin with an intelligent and protective air, and raised his trunk as if to greet her. Then the forest cleared up, and Devaki saw a landscape of profound peace, of celestial and paradisiacal charm.

Before her stretched a pond strewn with lotuses and blue water lilies: its azure bosom opened out into the great hairy forest like another sky. Modest storks dreamed motionless on its banks, and two gazelles drank in its waves. On the other side smiled, sheltered by the palm trees, the hermitage of the anchorites. A quiet pink light bathed the lake, the woods and the abode of the holy rishis. On the horizon, the white peak of Mount Meru towered over the ocean of forests. The breath of an invisible river animated the plants, and the subdued thunder of a distant cataract wandered in the breeze like a caress or like a melody.

At the edge of the pond, Devaki saw a boat. Standing nearby, a middle-aged man, an anchorite, seemed to be waiting. Silently, he beckoned to the virgin to enter the boat and took the oars. As the gondola soared past the water lilies, Devaki saw a female swan swimming on the pond. In a bold flight, a male swan, coming through the air, began to describe great circles around her, then he fell on the water near his companion, quivering with his snowy plumage. At this sight, Devaki trembled deeply without knowing why. But the boat had touched the opposite bank, and the virgin with the lotus eyes found herself before the king of the anchorites: Vasichta.

Sitting on gazelle skin and wearing black antelope skin himself, he looked venerable like a god rather than a man. For sixty years he had eaten only wild fruits. His hair and beard were white as the peaks of the Himavat, his skin transparent, the gaze of his vague eyes turned inward in meditation. Seeing Devaki, he stood up and greeted her with these words: “Devaki, sister of the illustrious Kansa, welcome among us. Guided by Mahadeva, the supreme master, you left the world of misery for that of delight. For here you are near the holy rishis, masters of their senses, happy with their destiny and desirous of the way to heaven. For a long time we have been waiting for you as the night waits for the dawn. For we are the eye of the Devas fixed on the world, we who live deep in the forests. Men don’t see us, but we see men and we follow their actions. The dark age of desire, blood and crime rages on the earth. We have chosen you for the work of deliverance, and the Devas have chosen you by us. For it is in the womb of a woman that the ray of divine splendor must receive human form. »

At this time, the rishis came out of the hermitage for the evening prayer. Old Vasichta ordered them to bow to the ground before Devaki. They bowed, and Vasichta went on: “She will be our mother to all, since from her will be born the spirit which must regenerate us.” Then turning to her: “Go, my daughter, the rishis will lead you to the nearby pond where the penitent sisters live.” You will live among them and the mysteries will be fulfilled. »

Devaki went to live in the hermitage surrounded by creepers, among the pious women who feed the tamed gazelles while indulging in ablutions and prayers. Devaki took part in their sacrifices. An elderly woman gave him the secret instructions. These penitents had received the order to dress her like a queen, in exquisite and perfumed fabrics, and to let her wander alone in the middle of the forest. And the forest full of perfumes, voices and mysteries, attracted the young girl. Sometimes she met processions of old anchorites returning from the river. Seeing her, they knelt beside her, then resumed their journey. One day, near a spring veiled in pink lotuses, she saw a young anchorite praying. He rose at her approach, cast a sad and profound look on her, and walked away in silence. And the grave faces of the old men, and the image of the two swans, and the gaze of the young anchorite haunted the virgin in her dreams. Near the spring there was atree of immemorial age with wide branches, which the holy rishis called “the tree of life.” Devaki liked to sit in his shade. She often dozed there, visited by strange visions. Voices sang from behind the foliage: “Glory to you, Devaki! He will come crowned with light, that pure fluid emanating from the great soul, and the stars will pale before his splendour. “He will come, and life will defy death, and he will rejuvenate the blood of all beings. — He will come sweeter than honey and amrita, purer than spotless lamb and a virgin’s mouth, and all hearts will be transported with love. — Glory, glory, glory to you, Devaki [1] ! “Was it the anchorites? Was it the Devas singing like this? Sometimes it seemed to her that a distant influence or a mysterious presence, like an invisible hand stretched over her, was forcing her to sleep. Then she fell into a deep, sweet, inexplicable sleep, from which she emerged confused and troubled. She turned around as if to look for someone, but never saw anyone. Only she sometimes found roses strewn on her bed of leaves or a lotus crown in her hands.

One day Devaki fell into a deeper ecstasy. She heard heavenly music, like an ocean of harps and divine voices. Suddenly the sky opened up into abysses of light. Thousands of splendid beings gazed at her, and in the glare of a dazzling ray, the sun of suns, Mahadeva, appeared to her in human form. Then, having been overshadowed by the Spirit of the worlds, she lost consciousness, and in the oblivion of the earth, in boundless bliss, she conceived the divine child .

When seven moons had described their magic circles around the sacred forest, the leader of the anchorites summoned Devaki: “The will of the Devas has been accomplished,” he said. You conceived in the purity of heart and in divine love. Virgin and mother, we salute you. A son will be born from you who will be the savior of the world. But your brother Kansa is looking for you to kill you with the tender fruit that you carry in your sides. You have to escape him. The brothers will guide you to the shepherds who live at the foot of Mount Meru, under the fragrant cedars, in the pure air of the Himavat. There, you will give birth to your divine son and you will call him: Krishna, the sacred. But let him ignore his origin and yours; never talk to him about it. Go without fear, because we watch over you. »

And Devaki went to the pastors of Mount Meru.

III. — THE YOUTH OF KRISHNA.

At the foot of Mount Meru stretched a fresh valley strewn with pastures and dominated by vast forests of cedars, through which slid the pure breath of the Himavat. In this high valley lived a tribe of shepherds over whom reigned the patriarch Nanda, the friend of the anchorites. It was there that Devaki found refuge from the persecutions of the tyrant of Madura; and it was there, in Nanda’s house, that she gave birth to her son Krishna. Except for Manda, no one knew who the stranger was and where her son came from. The women of the country said only: “He is a son of the Gandharvas [3]. Because the musicians of Indra must have presided over the loves of this woman, who resembles a celestial nymph, an Apsara. The marvelous child of the unknown woman grows up among herds and shepherds, under the watchful eye of his mother. The shepherds called him “the Radiant,” because his very presence, his smile and his big eyes had the gift of spreading joy. Animals, children, women, men, everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone, smiling at his mother, playing with the sheep and children of his own age or talking with the old people. The child Krishna was fearless, full of boldness and surprising actions. Sometimes we met him in the woods, lying on the moss, embracing young panthers and holding their mouths open without their daring to bite him. He also had sudden immobility, profound astonishments, strange sadnesses. So he stood aside, and serious, absorbed, watched without answering. But above all things and all beings, Krishna adored his young mother, so beautiful, so radiant, who spoke to him of the heavens of the Devas, of heroic battles and of the marvelous things she had learned from the anchorites. And the shepherds, who led their flocks under the cedars of Mount Meru, said: “Who is this mother and who is her son?” Although dressed like our women, she looks like a queen. The marvelous child is brought up with ours, and yet he does not resemble them. Is it a genius? Is it a god? Whatever it is, it will bring us happiness. When Krishna was fifteen years old, his mother Devaki was recalled by the leader of the anchorites. One day she disappeared without saying goodbye to her son. Krishna, not seeing her anymore, went to the Patriarch Nanda and said to him:

– Where is my mother ?

Nanda bowed her head in reply:

‘My child, don’t question me. Your mother has gone on a long trip. She’s gone back to the country she came from, and I don’t know when she’ll be back.

Krishna did not answer, but he fell into such a deep reverie that all the children turned away from him as if seized with a superstitious fear. Krishna abandoned his companions, left their games and, lost in thought, went alone to Mount Meru. He wandered thus for several weeks. One morning he came to a high wooded peak from which the view extended over the Himavat range. Suddenly, he saw near him a tall old man in the white robe of an anchorite, standing under the giant cedars, in the morning light. He looked a hundred years old. His snow beard and bald forehead shone with majesty. The lively child and the centenarian looked at each other for a long time. The old man’s eyes rested complacently on Krishna. But Krishna was so amazed to see him that he was speechless with admiration.

“Who are you looking for?” finally said the old man.

– My mother.

“She’s not here anymore.

“Where will I find her?”

– With the one who never changes.

– But how to find Him?

– Look for.

“And you, will I see you again?”

– Yes ; when the daughter of the Serpent pushes the son of Taurus to crime, then you will see me again in a purple dawn. Then you will cut the Bull’s throat and you will crush the Serpent’s head. Son of Mahadeva, know that you and I are one in Him! Seek it, — seek, always seek!

And the old man stretched out his hands in blessing. Then heturned and took a few steps under the high cedars, in the direction of the Himavat. Suddenly it seemed to Krishna that his majestic form became transparent, then it quivered and disappeared, under the twinkling of the needles, in a luminous vibration [4] .

When Krishna came down from Mount Meru, he seemed transformed. A new energy radiated from his being. He called his companions together and said to them, “Let us go and fight the bulls and the serpents; We will defend the good and defeat the wicked. Bow in hand and sword in side, Krishna and his companions, the sons of herdsmen transformed into warriors, began to beat the forests fighting against the wild beasts. In the depths of the woods, the howls of hyenas, jackals and tigers were heard, and the cries of triumph of the young men in front of the slaughtered animals. Krishna killed and tamed lions; he waged war against kings and delivered oppressed peoples. But sadness remained deep in his heart. This heart had only one deep, mysterious, unacknowledged desire: to find its mother and see the strange, the sublime old man again. He remembered her words: “Didn’t he promise me that I would see him again, when I crushed the serpent’s head? Didn’t he tell me that I would find my mother with the one who never changes? But in vain he had struggled, conquered, killed; he had seen neither the sublime old man nor his radiant mother. One day he heard of Kalayéni, the king of serpents, and he asked to wrestle with the most terrible of his beasts in the presence of the black magician. It was said that this animal, trained by Kalayéni, had already devoured hundreds of men and that its gaze froze the bravest with terror. From the depths of the dark temple of Kali, Krishna saw a long greenish-blue reptile emerge at Kalayéni’s call. The snake slowly raised its thick body, swelled its red crest, and his piercing eyes lit up in his monstrous helmeted head of shining scales. “This snake, says Kalayéni, knows many things; he is a powerful demon. He will tell them only to whoever kills him, but he kills those who succumb. He saw you; he is looking at you, you are in his power. It only remains for you to adore it or perish in a senseless struggle. At these words, Krishna was indignant; for he felt that his heart was like the point of lightning. He looked at the snake and threw himself on it, grabbing it below the head. The man and the serpent rolled down the steps of the temple. But before the reptile had entwined him with his rings, Krishna cut off his head with his sword, and freeing himself from the still writhing body, the young conqueror raised his head with an air of triumph. knows many things; he is a powerful demon. He will tell them only to whoever kills him, but he kills those who succumb. He saw you; he looks at you, you are in his power. It only remains for you to adore it or perish in a senseless struggle. At these words, Krishna was indignant; for he felt that his heart was like the point of lightning. He looked at the snake and threw himself on it, grabbing it below the head. The man and the snake rolled down the steps of the temple. But before the reptile had entwined him with his rings, Krishna cut off his head with his sword, and freeing himself from the still writhing body, the young conqueror raised his head with an air of triumph. knows many things; he is a powerful demon. He will tell them only to whoever kills him, but he kills those who succumb. He saw you; he is looking at you, you are in his power. It only remains for you to adore it or perish in a senseless struggle. At these words, Krishna was indignant; for he felt that his heart was like the point of lightning. He looked at the snake and threw himself on it, grabbing it below the head. The man and the serpent rolled down the steps of the temple. But before the reptile had entwined him with his rings, Krishna cut off his head with his sword, and freeing himself from the still writhing body, the young conqueror raised his head with an air of triumph. It only remains for you to adore it or perish in a senseless struggle. At these words, Krishna was indignant; for he felt that his heart was like the point of lightning. He looked at the snake and threw himself on it, grabbing it below the head. The man and the serpent rolled down the steps of the temple. But before the reptile had entwined him with his rings, Krishna cut off his head with his sword, and freeing himself from the still writhing body, the young conqueror raised his head with an air of triumph. It only remains for you to adore it or perish in a senseless struggle. At these words, Krishna was indignant; for he felt that his heart was like the point of lightning. He looked at the snake and threw himself on it, grabbing it below the head. The man and the serpent rolled down the steps of the temple. But before the reptile had entwined him with his rings, Krishna cut off his head with his sword, and freeing himself from the still writhing body, the young conqueror raised his head with an air of triumph.snake in his left hand. However, this head was still alive, it still looked at Krishna, and said to him: “Why did you kill me, son of Mahadeva? Do you think you find the truth by killing the living? Fool, you will only find it by dying yourself. Death is in life, life is in death. Fear the serpent’s daughter and the spilled blood. Be careful ! be careful ! So saying, the serpent died. Krishna dropped his head and went away in horror. But Kalayéni said, “I can’t do anything about this man; Only Kali could tame him with a charm. »

After a month of ablutions and prayers on the banks of the Ganges, after being purified in the light of the sun and in the thoughts of Mahadeva, Krishna returned to his native country, to the pastors of Mount Meru.

The autumn moon showed its resplendent globe over the cedar woods, and at night the air was fragrant with the scent of wild lilies in which the bees whisper all day long. Seated under a large cedar, at the edge of a lawn, Krishna, tired of the vain battles of the earth, dreamed of the celestial battles and the infinity of the sky. The more he thought of his radiant mother and the sublime old man, the more contemptible his childish exploits seemed to him, and the more heavenly things became alive in him. A consoling charm, a divine remembrance inundated him entirely. Then a hymn of gratitude to Mahadeva rose from his heart and overflowed from his lips on a sweet and divine melody. Attracted by this marvelous song, the Gopis, the daughters and wives of the shepherds, came out of their dwelling. The first, having seen old men of their family on their way, returned at once, after having pretended to pick a flower. Some came closer calling: Krishna! Krishna! then they fled all ashamed. Gradually growing bolder, the women surrounded Krishna in groups, like shy and inquisitive gazelles, charmed by his melodies. But he, lost in the dream of the gods, did not see them. Excited more and more by her singing, the Gopis began to grow impatient at not being noticed. Nichdali, Nanda’s daughter, had fallen with her eyes closed in a kind of ecstasy. But Sarasvati, her bolder sister, crept close to Devaki’s son and crowded to his side; then, in a caressing voice: after pretending to pick a flower. Some came closer calling: Krishna! Krishna! then they fled all ashamed. Gradually growing bolder, the women surrounded Krishna in groups, like shy and inquisitive gazelles, charmed by his melodies. But he, lost in the dream of the gods, did not see them. Excited more and more by her singing, the Gopis began to grow impatient at not being noticed. Nichdali, Nanda’s daughter, had fallen with her eyes closed in a kind of ecstasy. But Sarasvati, her bolder sister, crept close to Devaki’s son and crowded to his side; then, in a caressing voice: after pretending to pick a flower. Some came closer calling: Krishna! Krishna! then they fled all ashamed. Gradually growing bolder, the women surrounded Krishna in groups, like shy and inquisitive gazelles, charmed by his melodies. But he, lost in the dream of the gods, did not see them. Excited more and more by her singing, the Gopis began to grow impatient at not being noticed. Nichdali, Nanda’s daughter, had fallen with her eyes closed in a sort of ecstasy. But Sarasvati, her bolder sister, crept close to Devaki’s son and crowded to his side; then, in a caressing voice: the women surrounded Krishna in groups, like shy and curious gazelles, charmed by his melodies. But he, lost in the dream of the gods, did not see them. Excited more and more by her singing, the Gopis began to grow impatient at not being noticed. Nichdali, Nanda’s daughter, had fallen with her eyes closed in a kind of ecstasy. But Sarasvati, her bolder sister, crept close to Devaki’s son and crowded to his side; then, in a caressing voice: the women surrounded Krishna in groups, like shy and curious gazelles, charmed by his melodies. But he, lost in the dream of the gods, did not see them. Excited more and more by her singing, the Gopis began to grow impatient at not being noticed. Nichdali, Nanda’s daughter, had fallen with her eyes closed in a sort of ecstasy. But Sarasvati, her bolder sister, crept close to Devaki’s son and crowded to his side; then, in a caressing voice: bolder, slipped close to Devaki’s son and pressed beside him; then, in a caressing voice: bolder, slipped close to Devaki’s son and pressed to his side; then, in a caressing voice:

– Oh ! Krishna, she said, don’t you see that we are listening to you and that we can no longer sleep in our homes? Your melodies have enchanted us, O adorable hero! and here we are chained to your voice, and we can no longer do without you.

– Oh ! sing again, said a young girl; teach us to modulate our voices!

“Teach us the dance,” said a woman.

And Krishna, coming out of his dream, cast benevolent glances on the Gopis. He spoke sweet words to them and, taking their hands, made them sit on the lawn, in the shade of the great cedars, under the light of the bright moon. So he told them what he had seen in himself: the story of the gods and the heroes, the wars of Indra and the exploits of the divine Rama. Women and young girls listened delighted. These stories lasted until dawn. When the pink dawn rose behind Mount Meru and the kokilas began to chirp under the cedars, the girls and women of the Gopas returned furtively to their homes. But the next day, as soon as the magic moon showed its sickle, they came back hungrier. Krishna, seeing that they were exalted at his stories, taught them to sing with their voices and to represent with their gestures the sublime actions of heroes and gods. He gave to some vinas with strings quivering like souls, to others sonorous cymbals like the hearts of warriors, to others drums which imitate thunder. And, choosing the most beautiful, he animated them with his thoughts; thus, arms outstretched, walking and moving in a divine dream, the sacred dancers represented the majesty of Varouna, the anger of Indra slaying the dragon, or the despair of abandoned Maya. Thus the combats and the eternal glory of the gods that Krishna had contemplated in himself were revived in these happy and transfigured women. to others cymbals sounding like the hearts of warriors, to others drums that imitate thunder. And, choosing the most beautiful, he animated them with his thoughts; thus, arms outstretched, walking and moving in a divine dream, the sacred dancers represented the majesty of Varouna, the anger of Indra slaying the dragon, or the despair of abandoned Maya. Thus the combats and the eternal glory of the gods that Krishna had contemplated in himself were revived in these happy and transfigured women. to others cymbals sounding like the hearts of warriors, to others drums that imitate thunder. And, choosing the most beautiful, he animated them with his thoughts; thus, arms outstretched, walking and moving in a divine dream, the sacred dancers represented the majesty of Varouna, the anger of Indra slaying the dragon, or the despair of abandoned Maya. Thus the combats and the eternal glory of the gods that Krishna had contemplated in himself were revived in these happy and transfigured women.

One morning the Gopis had dispersed. The timbres of their varied instruments, of their singing and laughing voices, were lost in the distance. Krishna, left alone under the big cedar, saw coming to him the two daughters of Nanda: Sarasvati and Nichdali. They sat down beside him. Sarasvati, throwing her arms around Krishna’s neck and ringing her bracelets, said to him: “By teaching us the sacred songs and dances, you have made us the happiest of women; but we will be most unhappy when you leave us. What will become of us when we no longer see you? Oh ! Krishna! marry us, my sister and I, we will be your faithful wives, and our eyes will not have the pain of losing you. While Sarasvati spoke thus, Nichdali closed her eyelids as if in ecstasy.

“Nishdali, why are you closing your eyes? Krishna asked.

“She is jealous,” replied Sarasvati, laughing; she doesn’t want to see my arms around your neck.

“No,” replied Nichdali, blushing; I close my eyes to contemplate your image which is engraved deep within me. Krishna, you can go; I will never lose you.

Krishna had become pensive. He smilingly untied Sarasvati’s arms passionately tied around his neck. Then he looked at the two women in turn and put his two arms around them. He first put his mouth on Sarasvati’s lips, then on Nichdali’s eyes. In these two long kisses, the young Krishna seemed to fathom and savor all the delights of the earth. Suddenly he shuddered and said:

“You are beautiful, O Sarasvati! you whose lips smell of amber and all the flowers; you are adorable, O Nichdali, you whose eyelids veil the deep eyes and who know how to look within yourself. I love you both. But how would I marry you, since my heart should be divided between you?

– Oh! he will never love! Sarasvati said resentfully.

— I will only love with eternal love.

“And what does it take to make you love like this?” said Nichdali tenderly.

Krishna had risen; his eyes were blazing.

“To love with eternal love?” he said. The light of day must go out, the lightning must fall in my heart and my soul must flee outside myself to the bottom of the sky!

As he spoke, it seemed to the young girls that he grew an cubit taller. Suddenly they were afraid of him and went home crying. Krishna took the path to Mount Meru alone. The following night, the Gopis gathered for their games, but in vain they waited for their master. He had disappeared, leaving them only one essence, a perfume of his being: the songs and the sacred dances.

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Tags: 1888 Hindu History Krishna