The White Goddess (108 page)

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Authors: Robert Graves

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What, then, is
samadhi
?
It is a psychopathic condition, a spiritual orgasm, indistinguishable from the ineffably beautiful moment, described by Dostoievsky, which precedes an epileptic fit. Indian mystics induce it at will by fasting and meditation, as the Essenes and early Christian and Mohammedan saints also did. Ramakrishna had, in fact, ceased to be a poet and become a morbid-psychologist and religious politician addicted to the most refined form of solitary vice imaginable. Ramprasad had never allowed himself to be thus tempted from his devotion to the Goddess by spiritual ambition. He had even rejected the orthodox hope of ‘not-being’, through mystic absorption in the Absolute, as irreconcilable with his sense of individual uniqueness as the Goddess’s child and lover:

Sugar
I
like,
yet
I
have
no
desire

To
become
sugar,

 
 

and faced the prospect of death with poetic pride:

How
can
yon
shrink
from
death,

Child
of
the
Mother
of
All
Living?

A
snake,
and
you
fear
frogs?

 
 

One Kalipuja Day he followed Kali’s image into the Ganges until the waters closed over his head.

The story of Ramprasad’s devotion to Kali reads familiarly to the Western romantic;
samadhi,
the unchivalrous rejection of the Goddess, will not appeal even to the Western townsman. Nor are any other revivals of Father-god worship, whether ascetic or epicurean, autocratic or communist, liberal or fundamentalist, likely to solve our troubles; I foresee no change for the better until everything gets far worse. Only after a period of complete political and religious disorganization can the suppressed desire of the Western races, which is for some practical form of Goddess-worship, with her love not limited to maternal benevolence and her after-world not deprived of a sea, find satisfaction at last.

How should she then be worshipped? Donne anticipated the problem in his early poem
The
Primrose.
He knew that the primrose is sacred to the Muse and that the ‘mysterious number’ of its petals stands for women. Should he adore a six-petalled or a four-petalled freak, a Goddess that is either more, or less, than true woman? He chose five petals and proved by the science of numbers that woman, if
she pleases, has complete domination of man. But it was said of the lotus-crowned Goddess in the Corinthian Mysteries, long before the phrase was applied to the ideally benign Father-god, ‘Her service is perfect freedom’;
1
and, indeed, her
habit has never been to coerce, but always to grant or withhold her favours according as her sons and lovers came to her with exactly the right gifts in their hands – gifts of their own choosing, not her dictation. She must be worshipped in her ancient quintuple person, whether by counting the petals of lotus or primrose: as Birth, Initiation, Consummation, Repose and Death.

It will be objected that man has as valid a claim to divinity as woman. That is true only in a sense; he is divine not in his single person, but only in his twinhood. As Osiris, the Spirit of the Waxing Year he is always jealous of his weird, Set, the Spirit of the Waning Year, and vice-versa; he cannot be both of them at once except by an intellectual effort that destroys his humanity, and this is the fundamental defect of the Apollonian or Jehovistic cult. Man is a demi-god: he always has either one foot or the other in the grave; woman is divine because she can keep both her feet always in the same place, whether in the sky, in the underworld, or on this earth. Man envies her and tells himself lies about his own completeness, and thereby makes himself miserable; because if he is divine she is not even a demi-goddess – she is a mere nymph and his love for her turns to scorn and hate.

Woman worships the male infant, not the grown man: it is evidence of her deity, of man’s dependence on her for life. She is passionately interested in grown men, however, because the love-hate that Osiris and Set feel for each other on her account is a tribute to her divinity. She tries to satisfy both, but can only do so by alternate murder, and man tries to regard this as evidence of her fundamental falsity, not of his own irreconcilable demands on her.

There are frequent denials of her power, for example Allan Ramsay’s
Goddess
of
the
Slothful
(from
The
Gentle
Shepherd,
1725):

O
Godless
of
the
Slothful,
blind
and
vain,

Who
with
foul
hearts.
Rites,
foolish
and
profane,

Altars
and
Temples
hallowst
to
thy
name!

 

Temples?
or
Sanctuaries
vile,
said
I
?

To
protect
Lewdness
and
Impiety,

Under
the
Robe
of
the
Divinity?

 

And
thou
Base
Goddess!
that
thy
wickedness,

When
others
do
as
bad,
may
seem
the
less,

Givest
them
the
reins
to
all
lasciviousness.

 

Rotter
of
soul
and
body,
enemy

Of
reason,
plotter
of
sweet
thievery,

The
little
and
great
world’s
calamity.

 

Reputed
worthily
the
Ocean
’s
daughter:

That
treacherous
monster,
which
with
even
water

First
soothes,
but
ruffles
into
storms
soon
after.

 

Such
minds
of
sighs,
such
Cataracts
of
tears,

Such
breaking
waves
of
hopes,
such
gulfs
of
fears,

Thou
makest
of
men,
such
rocks
of
cold
despairs.

 

Tides
of
desire
so
headstrong,
as
would
move

The
world
to
change
thy
name,
when
thou
shalt
prove

Mother
of
Rage
and
Tempests,
not
of
Love.

 

Behold
what
sorrow
now
and
discontent

On
a
poor
pair
of
Lovers
thou
hast
sent!

Go
thou,
that
vaunt’st
thyself
Omnipotent.

 
 

But the longer her hour is postponed, and therefore the more exhausted by man’s irreligious improvidence the natural resources of the soil and sea become, the less merciful will her five-fold mask be, and the narrower the scope of action that she grants to whichever demi-god she chooses to take as her temporary consort in godhead. Let us placate her in advance by assuming the cannibalistic worst:

 

Under
your
Milky
Way

   
And
slow-revolving
Bear,

Frogs
from
the
alder-thicket
pray

In
terror
of
the
judgement
day,

   
Loud
with
repentance
there.

 

The
log
they
crowned
as
king

   
Grew
sodden,
lurched
and
sank.

Dark
waters
bubble
from
the
spring,

An
owl
floats
by
on
silent
wing,

  
They
invoke
you
from
each
bank.

 

At
dawn
you
shall
appear,

   
A
gaunt,
red-wattled
crane,

She
whom
they
know
too
well
for
fear,

Lunging
your
beak
down
like
a
spear

   
To
fetch
them
home
again.

 
 

And we owe her a satire on the memory of the man who first tilted European civilization off balance, by enthroning the restless and arbitrary male will under the name of Zeus and dethroning the female sense of orderliness, Themis. The Greeks knew him as Pterseus the Destroyer, the Gorgon-slaying warrior-prince from Asia, remote ancestor of the destroyers Alexander, Pompey and Napoleon.

Swordsman
of
the
narrow
lips,

Narrow
hips
and
murderous
mind

Fenced
with
chariots
and
ships,

By
your
joculators
hailed

The
mailed
wonder
of
mankind,

Far
to
westward
you
have
sailed.

 

You
it
was
dared
seize
the
throne

Of
a
blown
and
amorous
prince

Destined
to
the
Moon
alone,

A
lame,
golden-heeled
decoy,

Joy
of
hens
that
gape
and
wince

Inarticulately
coy.

 

You
who,
capped
with
lunar
gold

Like
an
old
and
savage
dunce,

Let
the
central
hearth
go
cold,

Grinned,
and
left
us
here
your
sword

Warden
of
sick
fields
that
once

Sprouted
of
their
own
accord.

 

Gusts
of
laughter
the
Moon
stir

That
her
Bassarids
now
bed

With
the
unnoble
usurer,

While
an
ignorant
pale
priest

Rides
the
beast
with
a
man’
s head

To
her
long-omitted
feast.

 

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