e the
husband may not even know the name of his fairy bride, on pain of losing
her for ever. These ideas about names, and freakish ways of avoiding the
use of names, mark the childhood of languages, according to Mr. Max
Muller, {74b} and, therefore, the childhood of Society. The Kaffirs call
this etiquette 'Hlonipa.' It applies to women as well as men. A Kaffir
bride is not called by her own name in her husband's village, but is
spoken of as 'mother of so and so,' even before she has borne a child.
The universal superstition about names is at the bottom of this custom.
The Aleutian Islanders, according to Dall, are quite distressed when
obliged to speak to their wives in the presence of others. The Fijians
did not know where to look when missionaries hinted that a man might live
under the same roof as his wife. {75a} Among the Turkomans, for six
months, a year, or two years, a husband is only allowed to visit his wife
by stealth.

The number of these instances could probably be increased by a little
research. Our argument is that the widely distributed myths in which a
husband or a wife transgresses some 'custom'--sees the other's face or
body, or utters the forbidden name--might well have arisen as tales
illustrating the punishment of breaking the rule. By a very curious
coincidence, a Breton sailor's tale of the 'Cupid and Psyche' class is
confessedly founded on the existence of the rule of nuptial etiquette.
{75b}

In this story the son of a Boulogne pilot marries the daughter of the
King of Naz--wherever that may be. In Naz a man is never allowed to see
the face of his wife till she has borne him a child--a modification of
the Futa rule. The inquisitive French husband unveils his wife, and,
like Psyche in Apuleius, drops wax from a candle on her cheek. When the
pair return to Naz, the king of that country discovers the offence of the
husband, and, by the aid of his magicians, transforms the Frenchman into
a monster. Here we have the old formula--the infringement of a 'taboo,'
and the magical punishment--adapted to the ideas of Breton peasantry. The
essential point of the story, for our purpose, is that the veiling of the
bride is 'the custom of women,' in the mysterious land of Naz. 'C'est
l'usage du pays: les maris ne voient leurs femmes sans voile que
lorsqu'elles sont devenues meres.' Now our theory of the myth of Urvasi
is simply this: 'the custom of women,' which Pururavas transgresses, is
prob