Project Gutenberg's Translations of Shakuntala and Other Works, by Kaalidaasa

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: Translations of Shakuntala and Other Works

Author: Kaalidaasa

Translator: Arthur W. Ryder

Release Date: September 5, 2005 [EBook #16659]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRANSLATIONS OF SHAKUNTALA ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jayam Subramanian and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net












  EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY
  EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS





  POETRY AND THE DRAMA





  KALIDASA
  TRANSLATIONS OF SHAKUNTALA & OTHER WORKS


  BY ARTHUR W. RYDER




  THIS IS NO. 629 OF _EVERYMAN'S
  LIBRARY_. THE PUBLISHERS WILL
  BE PLEASED TO SEND FREELY TO ALL
  APPLICANTS A LIST OF THE PUBLISHED
  AND PROJECTED VOLUMES ARRANGED
  UNDER THE FOLLOWING SECTIONS:






  TRAVEL . SCIENCE . FICTION
  THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY
  HISTORY . CLASSICAL
  FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
  ESSAYS . ORATORY
  POETRY & DRAMA
  BIOGRAPHY
  REFERENCE
  ROMANCE


  THE ORDINARY EDITION IS BOUND
  IN CLOTH WITH GILT DESIGN AND
  COLOURED TOP. THERE IS ALSO A
  LIBRARY EDITION IN REINFORCED CLOTH

  LONDON: J.M. DENT & SONS LTD.
  NEW YORK: E.P. DUTTON & CO.



  [Illustration:
  KALIDASA
  TRANSLATIONS
  _of_ SHAKUNTALA
  AND OTHER
  WORKS, BY
  ARTHUR. W.
  RYDER.
  UNIVERSITY
  _of_ CALIFORNIA

  LONDON & TORONTO
  PUBLISHED BY J.M. DENT
  &. SONS LTD & IN NEW YORK
  BY E.P. DUTTON &. CO]


 [Illustration: #Poets are the trumpets which sing to battle
  poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world# Shelley]


  FIRST ISSUE OF THIS EDITION 1912
  REPRINTED 1920, 1928

  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN




INTRODUCTION

KALIDASA--HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS


I

Kalidasa probably lived in the fifth century of the Christian era.
This date, approximate as it is, must yet be given with considerable
hesitation, and is by no means certain. No truly biographical data are
preserved about the author, who nevertheless enjoyed a great
popularity during his life, and whom the Hindus have ever regarded as
the greatest of Sanskrit poets. We are thus confronted with one of the
remarkable problems of literary history. For our ignorance is not due
to neglect of Kalidasa's writings on the part of his countrymen, but
to their strange blindness in regard to the interest and importance of
historic fact. No European nation can compare with India in critical
devotion to its own literature. During a period to be reckoned not by
centuries but by millenniums, there has been in India an unbroken line
of savants unselfishly dedicated to the perpetuation and exegesis of
the native masterpieces. Editions, recensions, commentaries abound;
poets have sought the exact phrase of appreciation for their
predecessors: yet when we seek to reconstruct the life of their
greatest poet, we have no materials except certain tantalising
legends, and such data as we can gather from the writings of a man who
hardly mentions himself.

One of these legends deserves to be recounted for its intrinsic
interest, although it contains, so far as we can see, no grain of
historic truth, and although it places Kalidasa in Benares, five
hundred miles distant from the only city in which we certainly know
that he spent a part of his life. According to this account, Kalidasa
was a Brahman's child. At the age of six months he was left an orphan
and was adopted by an ox-driver. He grew to manhood without formal
education, yet with remarkable beauty and grace of manner. Now it
happened that the Princess of Benares was a blue-stocking, who
rejected one suitor after another, among them her father's counsellor,
because they failed to reach her standard as scholars and poets. The
rejected counsellor planned a cruel revenge. He took the handsome
ox-driver from the street, gave him the garments of a savant and a
retinue of learned doctors, then introduced him to the princess, after
warning him that he was under no circumstances to open his lips. The
princess was struck with his beauty and smitten to the depths of her
pedantic soul by his obstinate silence, which seemed to her, as indeed
it was, an evidence of profound wisdom. She desired to marry Kalidasa,
and together they went to the temple. But no sooner was the ceremony
performed than Kalidasa perceived an image of a bull. His early
training was too much for him; the secret came out, and the bride was
furious. But she relented in response to Kalidasa's entreaties, and
advised him to pray for learning and poetry to the goddess Kali. The
prayer was granted; education and poetical power descended
miraculously to dwell with the young ox-driver, who in gratitude
assumed the name Kalidasa, servant of Kali. Feeling that he owed this
happy change in his very nature to his princess, he swore that he
would ever treat her as his teacher, with profound respect but without
familiarity. This was more than the lady had bargained for; her anger
burst forth anew, and she cursed Kalidasa to meet his death at the
hands of a woman. At a later date, the story continues, this curse was
fulfilled. A certain king had written a half-stanza of verse, and had
offered a large reward to any poet who could worthily complete it.
Kalidasa completed the stanza without difficulty; but a woman whom he
loved discovered his lines, and greedy of the reward herself, killed
him.

Another legend represents Kalidasa as engaging in a pilgrimage to a
shrine of Vishnu in Southern India, in company with two other famous
writers, Bhavabhuti and Dandin. Yet another pictures Bhavabhuti as a
contemporary of Kalidasa, and jealous of the less austere poet's
reputation. These stories must be untrue, for it is certain that the
three authors were not contemporary, yet they show a true instinct in
the belief that genius seeks genius, and is rarely isolated.

This instinctive belief has been at work with the stories which
connect Kalidasa with King Vikramaditya and the literary figures of
his court. It has doubtless enlarged, perhaps partly falsified the
facts; yet we cannot doubt that there is truth in this tradition, late
though it be, and impossible though it may ever be to separate the
actual from the fanciful. Here then we are on firmer ground.

King Vikramaditya ruled in the city of Ujjain, in West-central India.
He was mighty both in war and in peace, winning especial glory by a
decisive victory over the barbarians who pressed into India through
the northern passes. Though it has not proved possible to identify
this monarch with any of the known rulers, there can be no doubt that
he existed and had the character attributed to him. The name
Vikramaditya--Sun of Valour--is probably not a proper name, but a
title like Pharaoh or Tsar. No doubt Kalidasa intended to pay a
tribute to his patron, the Sun of Valour, in the very title of his
play, _Urvashi won by Valour_.

King Vikramaditya was a great patron of learning and of poetry. Ujjain
during his reign was the most brilliant capital in the world, nor has
it to this day lost all the lustre shed upon it by that splendid
court. Among the eminent men gathered there, nine were particularly
distinguished, and these nine are known as the "nine gems." Some of
the nine gems were poets, others represented science--astronomy,
medicine, lexicography. It is quite true that the details of this late
tradition concerning the nine gems are open to suspicion, yet the
central fact is not doubtful: that there was at this time and place a
great quickening of the human mind, an artistic impulse creating works
that cannot perish. Ujjain in the days of Vikramaditya stands worthily
beside Athens, Rome, Florence, and London in their great centuries.
Here is the substantial fact behind Max Mueller's often ridiculed
theory of the renaissance of Sanskrit literature. It is quite false to
suppose, as some appear to do, that this theory has been invalidated
by the discovery of certain literary products which antedate
Kalidasa. It might even be said that those rare and happy centuries
that see a man as great as Homer or Vergil or Kalidasa or Shakespeare
partake in that one man of a renaissance.

It is interesting to observe that the centuries of intellectual
darkness in Europe have sometimes coincided with centuries of light in
India. The Vedas were composed for the most part before Homer;
Kalidasa and his contemporaries lived while Rome was tottering under
barbarian assault.

To the scanty and uncertain data of late traditions may be added some
information about Kalidasa's life gathered from his own writings. He
mentions his own name only in the prologues to his three plays, and
here with a modesty that is charming indeed, yet tantalising. One
wishes for a portion of the communicativeness that characterises some
of the Indian poets. He speaks in the first person only once, in the
verses introductory to his epic poem _The Dynasty of Raghu_[1].
Here also we feel his modesty, and here once more we are balked of
details as to his life.

We know from Kalidasa's writings that he spent at least a part of his
life in the city of Ujjain. He refers to Ujjain more than once, and in
a manner hardly possible to one who did not know and love the city.
Especially in his poem _The Cloud-Messenger_ does he dwell upon the
city's charms, and even bids the cloud make a detour in his long
journey lest he should miss making its acquaintance.[2]

We learn further that Kalidasa travelled widely in India. The fourth
canto of _The Dynasty of Raghu_ describes a tour about the whole of
India and even into regions which are beyond the borders of a narrowly
measured India. It is hard to believe that Kalidasa had not himself
made such a "grand tour"; so much of truth there may be in the
tradition which sends him on a pilgrimage to Southern India. The
thirteenth canto of the same epic and _The Cloud-Messenger_ also
describe long journeys over India, for the most part through regions
far from Ujjain. It is the mountains which impress him most deeply.
His works are full of the Himalayas. Apart from his earliest drama
and the slight poem called _The Seasons_, there is not one of them
which is not fairly redolent of mountains. One, _The Birth of the
War-god_, might be said to be all mountains. Nor was it only Himalayan
grandeur and sublimity which attracted him; for, as a Hindu critic has
acutely observed, he is the only Sanskrit poet who has described a
certain flower that grows in Kashmir. The sea interested him less. To
him, as to most Hindus, the ocean was a beautiful, terrible barrier,
not a highway to adventure. The "sea-belted earth" of which Kalidasa
speaks means to him the mainland of India.

Another conclusion that may be certainly drawn from Kalidasa's writing
is this, that he was a man of sound and rather extensive education. He
was not indeed a prodigy of learning, like Bhavabhuti in his own
country or Milton in England, yet no man could write as he did without
hard and intelligent study. To begin with, he had a minutely accurate
knowledge of the Sanskrit language, at a time when Sanskrit was to
some extent an artificial tongue. Somewhat too much stress is often
laid upon this point, as if the writers of the classical period in
India were composing in a foreign language. Every writer, especially
every poet, composing in any language, writes in what may be called a
strange idiom; that is, he does not write as he talks. Yet it is true
that the gap between written language and vernacular was wider in
Kalidasa's day than it has often been. The Hindus themselves regard
twelve years' study as requisite for the mastery of the "chief of all
sciences, the science of grammar." That Kalidasa had mastered this
science his works bear abundant witness.

He likewise mastered the works on rhetoric and dramatic
theory--subjects which Hindu savants have treated with great, if
sometimes hair-splitting, ingenuity. The profound and subtle systems
of philosophy were also possessed by Kalidasa, and he had some
knowledge of astronomy and law.

But it was not only in written books that Kalidasa was deeply read.
Rarely has a man walked our earth who observed the phenomena of living
nature as accurately as he, though his accuracy was of course that of
the poet, not that of the scientist. Much is lost to us who grow up
among other animals and plants; yet we can appreciate his "bee-black
hair," his ashoka-tree that "sheds his blossoms in a rain of tears,"
his river wearing a sombre veil of mist:

  Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dress
  To hide her charms;

his picture of the day-blooming water-lily at sunset:

  The water-lily closes, but
    With wonderful reluctancy;
  As if it troubled her to shut
    Her door of welcome to the bee.

The religion of any great poet is always a matter of interest,
especially the religion of a Hindu poet; for the Hindus have ever been
a deeply and creatively religious people. So far as we can judge,
Kalidasa moved among the jarring sects with sympathy for all,
fanaticism for none. The dedicatory prayers that introduce his dramas
are addressed to Shiva. This is hardly more than a convention, for
Shiva is the patron of literature. If one of his epics, _The Birth of
the War-god_, is distinctively Shivaistic, the other, _The Dynasty of
Raghu_, is no less Vishnuite in tendency. If the hymn to Vishnu in
_The Dynasty of Raghu_ is an expression of Vedantic monism, the hymn
to Brahma in _The Birth of the War-god_ gives equally clear expression
to the rival dualism of the Sankhya system. Nor are the Yoga doctrine
and Buddhism left without sympathetic mention. We are therefore
justified in concluding that Kalidasa was, in matters of religion,
what William James would call "healthy-minded," emphatically not a
"sick soul."

There are certain other impressions of Kalidasa's life and personality
which gradually become convictions in the mind of one who reads and
re-reads his poetry, though they are less easily susceptible of exact
proof. One feels certain that he was physically handsome, and the
handsome Hindu is a wonderfully fine type of manhood. One knows that
he possessed a fascination for women, as they in turn fascinated him.
One knows that children loved him. One becomes convinced that he never
suffered any morbid, soul-shaking experience such as besetting
religious doubt brings with it, or the pangs of despised love; that
on the contrary he moved among men and women with a serene and godlike
tread, neither self-indulgent nor ascetic, with mind and senses ever
alert to every form of beauty. We know that his poetry was popular
while he lived, and we cannot doubt that his personality was equally
attractive, though it is probable that no contemporary knew the full
measure of his greatness. For his nature was one of singular balance,
equally at home in a splendid court and on a lonely mountain, with men
of high and of low degree. Such men are never fully appreciated during
life. They continue to grow after they are dead.


II

Kalidasa left seven works which have come down to us: three dramas,
two epics, one elegiac poem, and one descriptive poem. Many other
works, including even an astronomical treatise, have been attributed
to him; they are certainly not his. Perhaps there was more than one
author who bore the name Kalidasa; perhaps certain later writers were
more concerned for their work than for personal fame. On the other
hand, there is no reason to doubt that the seven recognised works are
in truth from Kalidasa's hand. The only one concerning which there is
reasonable room for suspicion is the short poem descriptive of the
seasons, and this is fortunately the least important of the seven. Nor
is there evidence to show that any considerable poem has been lost,
unless it be true that the concluding cantos of one of the epics have
perished. We are thus in a fortunate position in reading Kalidasa: we
have substantially all that he wrote, and run no risk of ascribing to
him any considerable work from another hand.

Of these seven works, four are poetry throughout; the three dramas,
like all Sanskrit dramas, are written in prose, with a generous
mingling of lyric and descriptive stanzas. The poetry, even in the
epics, is stanzaic; no part of it can fairly be compared to English
blank verse. Classical Sanskrit verse, so far as structure is
concerned, has much in common with familiar Greek and Latin forms:
it makes no systematic use of rhyme; it depends for its rhythm not
upon accent, but upon quantity. The natural medium of translation into
English seems to me to be the rhymed stanza;[3] in the present work
the rhymed stanza has been used, with a consistency perhaps too rigid,
wherever the original is in verse.

Kalidasa's three dramas bear the names: _Malavika and Agnimitra,
Urvashi_, and _Shakuntala_. The two epics are _The Dynasty of Raghu_
and _The Birth of the War-god_. The elegiac poem is called _The
Cloud-Messenger_, and the descriptive poem is entitled _The Seasons_.
It may be well to state briefly the more salient features of the
Sanskrit _genres_ to which these works belong.

The drama proved in India, as in other countries, a congenial form to
many of the most eminent poets. The Indian drama has a marked
individuality, but stands nearer to the modern European theatre than
to that of ancient Greece; for the plays, with a very few exceptions,
have no religious significance, and deal with love between man and
woman. Although tragic elements may be present, a tragic ending is
forbidden. Indeed, nothing regarded as disagreeable, such as fighting
or even kissing, is permitted on the stage; here Europe may perhaps
learn a lesson in taste. Stage properties were few and simple, while
particular care was lavished on the music. The female parts were
played by women. The plays very rarely have long monologues, even the
inevitable prologue being divided between two speakers, but a Hindu
audience was tolerant of lyrical digression.

It may be said, though the statement needs qualification in both
directions, that the Indian dramas have less action and less
individuality in the characters, but more poetical charm than the
dramas of modern Europe.

On the whole, Kalidasa was remarkably faithful to the ingenious but
somewhat over-elaborate conventions of Indian dramaturgy. His first
play, the _Malavika and Agnimitra_, is entirely conventional in plot.
The _Shakuntala_ is transfigured by the character of the heroine. The
_Urvashi_, in spite of detail beauty, marks a distinct decline.

_The Dynasty of Raghu_ and _The Birth of the War-god_ belong to a
species of composition which it is not easy to name accurately. The
Hindu name _kavya_ has been rendered by artificial epic, _epopee
savante, Kunstgedicht_. It is best perhaps to use the term epic, and
to qualify the term by explanation.

The _kavyas_ differ widely from the _Mahabharata_ and the _Ramayana_,
epics which resemble the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ less in outward form
than in their character as truly national poems. The _kavya_ is a
narrative poem written in a sophisticated age by a learned poet, who
possesses all the resources of an elaborate rhetoric and metric. The
subject is drawn from time-honoured mythology. The poem is divided
into cantos, written not in blank verse but in stanzas. Several
stanza-forms are commonly employed in the same poem, though not in the
same canto, except that the concluding verses of a canto are not
infrequently written in a metre of more compass than the remainder.

I have called _The Cloud-Messenger_ an elegiac poem, though it would
not perhaps meet the test of a rigid definition. The Hindus class it
with _The Dynasty of Raghu_ and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a
_kavya_, but this classification simply evidences their embarrassment.
In fact, Kalidasa created in _The Cloud-Messenger_ a new _genre_. No
further explanation is needed here, as the entire poem is translated
below.

The short descriptive poem called _The Seasons_ has abundant analogues
in other literatures, and requires no comment.

It is not possible to fix the chronology of Kalidasa's writings, yet
we are not wholly in the dark. _Malavika and Agnimitra_ was certainly
his first drama, almost certainly his first work. It is a reasonable
conjecture, though nothing more, that Urvashi was written late, when
the poet's powers were waning. The introductory stanzas of _The
Dynasty of Raghu_ suggest that this epic was written before _The Birth
of the War-god_, though the inference is far from certain. Again, it
is reasonable to assume that the great works on which Kalidasa's fame
chiefly rests--_Shakuntala_, _The Cloud-Messenger_, _The Dynasty of
Raghu_, the first eight cantos of _The Birth of the War-god_--were
composed when he was in the prime of manhood. But as to the succession
of these four works we can do little but guess.

Kalidasa's glory depends primarily upon the quality of his work, yet
would be much diminished if he had failed in bulk and variety. In
India, more than would be the case in Europe, the extent of his
writing is an indication of originality and power; for the poets of
the classical period underwent an education that encouraged an
exaggerated fastidiousness, and they wrote for a public meticulously
critical. Thus the great Bhavabhuti spent his life in constructing
three dramas; mighty spirit though he was, he yet suffers from the
very scrupulosity of his labour. In this matter, as in others,
Kalidasa preserves his intellectual balance and his spiritual
initiative: what greatness of soul is required for this, every one
knows who has ever had the misfortune to differ in opinion from an
intellectual clique.


III

Le nom de Kalidasa domine la poesie indienne et la resume brillamment.
Le drame, l'epopee savante, l'elegie attestent aujourd'hui encore la
puissance et la souplesse de ce magnifique genie; seul entre les
disciples de Sarasvati [the goddess of eloquence], il a eu le bonheur
de produire un chef-d'oeuvre vraiment classique, ou l'Inde s'admire et
ou l'humanite se reconnait. Les applaudissements qui saluerent la
naissance de Cakuntala a Ujjayini ont apres de longs siecles eclate
d'un bout du monde a l'autre, quand William Jones l'eut revelee a
l'Occident. Kalidasa a marque sa place dans cette pleiade etincelante
ou chaque nom resume une periode de l'esprit humain. La serie de ces
noms forme l'histoire, ou plutot elle est l'histoire meme.[4]

It is hardly possible to say anything true about Kalidasa's
achievement which is not already contained in this appreciation. Yet
one loves to expand the praise, even though realising that the critic
is by his very nature a fool. Here there shall at any rate be none
of that cold-blooded criticism which imagines itself set above a
world-author to appraise and judge, but a generous tribute of
affectionate admiration.

The best proof of a poet's greatness is the inability of men to live
without him; in other words, his power to win and hold through
centuries the love and admiration of his own people, especially when
that people has shown itself capable of high intellectual and
spiritual achievement.

For something like fifteen hundred years, Kalidasa has been more
widely read in India than any other author who wrote in Sanskrit.
There have also been many attempts to express in words the secret of
his abiding power: such attempts can never be wholly successful, yet
they are not without considerable interest. Thus Bana, a celebrated
novelist of the seventh century, has the following lines in some
stanzas of poetical criticism which he prefixes to a historical
romance:

  Where find a soul that does not thrill
    In Kalidasa's verse to meet
  The smooth, inevitable lines
    Like blossom-clusters, honey-sweet?

A later writer, speaking of Kalidasa and another poet, is more laconic
in this alliterative line: _Bhaso hasah, Kalidaso vilasah_--Bhasa is
mirth, Kalidasa is grace.

These two critics see Kalidasa's grace, his sweetness, his delicate
taste, without doing justice to the massive quality without which his
poetry could not have survived.

Though Kalidasa has not been as widely appreciated in Europe as he
deserves, he is the only Sanskrit poet who can properly be said to
have been appreciated at all. Here he must struggle with the truly
Himalayan barrier of language. Since there will never be many
Europeans, even among the cultivated, who will find it possible to
study the intricate Sanskrit language, there remains only one means of
presentation. None knows the cruel inadequacy of poetical translation
like the translator. He understands better than others can, the
significance of the position which Kalidasa has won in Europe. When
Sir William Jones first translated the _Shakuntala_ in 1789, his work
was enthusiastically received in Europe, and most warmly, as was
fitting, by the greatest living poet of Europe. Since that day, as
is testified by new translations and by reprints of the old, there
have been many thousands who have read at least one of Kalidasa's
works; other thousands have seen it on the stage in Europe and
America.

How explain a reputation that maintains itself indefinitely and that
conquers a new continent after a lapse of thirteen hundred years? None
can explain it, yet certain contributory causes can be named.

No other poet in any land has sung of happy love between man and woman
as Kalidasa sang. Every one of his works is a love-poem, however much
more it may be. Yet the theme is so infinitely varied that the reader
never wearies. If one were to doubt from a study of European
literature, comparing the ancient classics with modern works, whether
romantic love be the expression of a natural instinct, be not rather a
morbid survival of decaying chivalry, he has only to turn to India's
independently growing literature to find the question settled.
Kalidasa's love-poetry rings as true in our ears as it did in his
countrymen's ears fifteen hundred years ago.

It is of love eventually happy, though often struggling for a time
against external obstacles, that Kalidasa writes. There is nowhere in
his works a trace of that not quite healthy feeling that sometimes
assumes the name "modern love." If it were not so, his poetry could
hardly have survived; for happy love, blessed with children, is surely
the more fundamental thing. In his drama _Urvashi_ he is ready to
change and greatly injure a tragic story, given him by long tradition,
in order that a loving pair may not be permanently separated. One
apparent exception there is--the story of Rama and Sita in _The
Dynasty of Raghu_. In this case it must be remembered that Rama is an
incarnation of Vishnu, and the story of a mighty god incarnate is not
to be lightly tampered with.

It is perhaps an inevitable consequence of Kalidasa's subject that his
women appeal more strongly to a modern reader than his men. The man is
the more variable phenomenon, and though manly virtues are the same in
all countries and centuries, the emphasis has been variously laid. But
the true woman seems timeless, universal. I know of no poet, unless it
be Shakespeare, who has given the world a group of heroines so
individual yet so universal; heroines as true, as tender, as brave as
are Indumati, Sita, Parvati, the Yaksha's bride, and Shakuntala.

Kalidasa could not understand women without understanding children. It
would be difficult to find anywhere lovelier pictures of childhood
than those in which our poet presents the little Bharata, Ayus, Raghu,
Kumara. It is a fact worth noticing that Kalidasa's children are all
boys. Beautiful as his women are, he never does more than glance at a
little girl.

Another pervading note of Kalidasa's writing is his love of external
nature. No doubt it is easier for a Hindu, with his almost instinctive
belief in reincarnation, to feel that all life, from plant to god, is
truly one; yet none, even among the Hindus, has expressed this feeling
with such convincing beauty as has Kalidasa. It is hardly true to say
that he personifies rivers and mountains and trees; to him they have a
conscious individuality as truly and as certainly as animals or men or
gods. Fully to appreciate Kalidasa's poetry one must have spent some
weeks at least among wild mountains and forests untouched by man;
there the conviction grows that trees and flowers are indeed
individuals, fully conscious of a personal life and happy in that
life. The return to urban surroundings makes the vision fade; yet the
memory remains, like a great love or a glimpse of mystic insight, as
an intuitive conviction of a higher truth.

Kalidasa's knowledge of nature is not only sympathetic, it is also
minutely accurate. Not only are the snows and windy music of the
Himalayas, the mighty current of the sacred Ganges, his possession;
his too are smaller streams and trees and every littlest flower. It is
delightful to imagine a meeting between Kalidasa and Darwin. They
would have understood each other perfectly; for in each the same kind
of imagination worked with the same wealth of observed fact.

I have already hinted at the wonderful balance in Kalidasa's
character, by virtue of which he found himself equally at home in a
palace and in a wilderness. I know not with whom to compare him in
this; even Shakespeare, for all his magical insight into natural
beauty, is primarily a poet of the human heart. That can hardly be
said of Kalidasa, nor can it be said that he is primarily a poet of
natural beauty. The two characters unite in him, it might almost be
said, chemically. The matter which I am clumsily endeavouring to make
plain is beautifully epitomised in _The Cloud-Messenger_. The former
half is a description of external nature, yet interwoven with human
feeling; the latter half is a picture of a human heart, yet the
picture is framed in natural beauty. So exquisitely is the thing done
that none can say which half is superior. Of those who read this
perfect poem in the original text, some are more moved by the one,
some by the other. Kalidasa understood in the fifth century what
Europe did not learn until the nineteenth, and even now comprehends
only imperfectly: that the world was not made for man, that man
reaches his full stature only as he realises the dignity and worth of
life that is not human.

That Kalidasa seized this truth is a magnificent tribute to his
intellectual power, a quality quite as necessary to great poetry as
perfection of form. Poetical fluency is not rare; intellectual grasp
is not very uncommon: but the combination has not been found perhaps
more than a dozen times since the world began. Because he possessed
this harmonious combination, Kalidasa ranks not with Anacreon and
Horace and Shelley, but with Sophocles, Vergil, Milton.

He would doubtless have been somewhat bewildered by Wordsworth's
gospel of nature. "The world is too much with us," we can fancy him
repeating. "How can the world, the beautiful human world, be too much
with us? How can sympathy with one form of life do other than vivify
our sympathy with other forms of life?"

It remains to say what can be said in a foreign language of Kalidasa's
style. We have seen that he had a formal and systematic education; in
this respect he is rather to be compared with Milton and Tennyson than
with Shakespeare or Burns. He was completely master of his learning.
In an age and a country which reprobated carelessness but were
tolerant of pedantry, he held the scales with a wonderfully even hand,
never heedless and never indulging in the elaborate trifling with
Sanskrit diction which repels the reader from much of Indian
literature. It is true that some western critics have spoken of his
disfiguring conceits and puerile plays on words. One can only wonder
whether these critics have ever read Elizabethan literature; for
Kalidasa's style is far less obnoxious to such condemnation than
Shakespeare's. That he had a rich and glowing imagination, "excelling
in metaphor," as the Hindus themselves affirm, is indeed true; that he
may, both in youth and age, have written lines which would not have
passed his scrutiny in the vigour of manhood, it is not worth while to
deny: yet the total effect left by his poetry is one of extraordinary
sureness and delicacy of taste. This is scarcely a matter for
argument; a reader can do no more than state his own subjective
impression, though he is glad to find that impression confirmed by the
unanimous authority of fifty generations of Hindus, surely the most
competent judges on such a point.

Analysis of Kalidasa's writings might easily be continued, but
analysis can never explain life. The only real criticism is
subjective. We know that Kalidasa is a very great poet, because the
world has not been able to leave him alone.

ARTHUR W. RYDER.




SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY


On Kalidasa's life and writings may be consulted A.A. Macdonell's
_History of Sanskrit Literature_ (1900); the same author's article
"Kalidasa" in the eleventh edition of the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_
(1910); and Sylvain Levi's _Le Theatre Indien_ (1890).

The more important translations in English are the following: of the
_Shakuntala_, by Sir William Jones (1789) and Monier Williams (fifth
edition, 1887); of the _Urvashi_, by H.H. Wilson (in his _Select
Specimens of the Theatre of the Hindus_, third edition, 1871); of _The
Dynasty of Raghu_, by P. de Lacy Johnstone (1902); of _The Birth of
The War-god_ (cantos one to seven), by Ralph T.H. Griffith (second
edition, 1879); of _The Cloud-Messenger_, by H.H. Wilson (1813).

There is an inexpensive reprint of Jones's _Shakuntala_ and Wilson's
_Cloud-Messenger_ in one volume in the Camelot Series.


KALIDASA

  An ancient heathen poet, loving more
  God's creatures, and His women, and His flowers
  Than we who boast of consecrated powers;
  Still lavishing his unexhausted store

  Of love's deep, simple wisdom, healing o'er
  The world's old sorrows, India's griefs and ours;
  That healing love he found in palace towers,
  On mountain, plain, and dark, sea-belted shore,

  In songs of holy Raghu's kingly line
  Or sweet Shakuntala in pious grove,
  In hearts that met where starry jasmines twine

  Or hearts that from long, lovelorn absence strove
  Together. Still his words of wisdom shine:
  All's well with man, when man and woman love.

  Willst du die Bluete des fruehen, die
    Fruechte des spaeteren Jahres,
  Willst du, was reizt und entzueckt,
    Willst du, was saettigt und naehrt,
  Willst du den Hummel, die erde mit
    Einem Namen begreifen,
  Nenn' ich, Sakuntala, dich, und
    dann ist alles gesagt.

GOETHE.
       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: These verses are translated on pp. 123, 124.]

[Footnote 2: The passage will be found on pp. 190-192.]

[Footnote 3: This matter is more fully discussed in the introduction to my
translation of _The Little Clay Cart_ (1905).]

[Footnote 4: Levi, _Le Theatre Indien_, p. 163.]

       *       *       *       *       *




CONTENTS



INTRODUCTION: KALIDASA--HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS

SHAKUNTALA

THE STORY OF SHAKUNTALA

THE TWO MINOR DRAMAS--
  I. Malavika and Agnimitra
  II. Urvashi

THE DYNASTY OF RAGHU

THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD

THE CLOUD-MESSENGER

THE SEASONS

       *       *       *       *       *




SHAKUNTALA

A PLAY IN SEVEN ACTS



DRAMATIS PERSONAE


  KING DUSHYANTA.

  BHARATA, _nicknamed_ All-tamer, _his son_.

  MADHAVYA, _a clown, his companion_.

  His charioteer.

  RAIVATAKA, _a door-keeper_.

  BHADRASENA, _a general_.

  KARABHAKA, _a servant_.

  PARVATAYANA, _a chamberlain_.

  SOMARATA, _a chaplain_.

  KANVA, _hermit-father_.


  SHARNGARAVA   }

  SHARADVATA    } _his pupils_.

  HARITA        }


  DURVASAS, _an irascible sage_.

  The chief of police.


  SUCHAKA     }
              } _policemen_.
  JANUKA      }


  A fisherman.

  SHAKUNTALA, _foster-child of Kanva_.


  ANUSUVA       }
                } _her friends_.
  PRIYAMVADA    }


  GAUTAMI, _hermit-mother_.

  KASHYAPA, _father of the gods_.

  ADITI, _mother of the gods_.

  MATALI, _charioteer of heaven's king_.

  GALAVA, _a pupil in heaven_.

  MISHRAKESHI, _a heavenly nymph_.

_Stage-director and actress (in the prologue), hermits and
hermit-women, two court poets, palace attendants, invisible fairies_.

The first four acts pass in Kanva's forest hermitage; acts five and
six in the king's palace; act seven on a heavenly mountain. The time
is perhaps seven years.



SHAKUNTALA

PROLOGUE

BENEDICTION UPON THE AUDIENCE

  Eight forms has Shiva, lord of all and king:
  And these are water, first created thing;
  And fire, which speeds the sacrifice begun;
  The priest; and time's dividers, moon and sun;
  The all-embracing ether, path of sound;
  The earth, wherein all seeds of life are found;
  And air, the breath of life: may he draw near,
  Revealed in these, and bless those gathered here.

_The stage-director_. Enough of this! (_Turning toward the
dressing-room_.) Madam, if you are ready, pray come here. (_Enter an
actress_.)

_Actress_. Here I am, sir. What am I to do?

_Director_. Our audience is very discriminating, and we are to offer
them a new play, called _Shakuntala and the ring of recognition_,
written by the famous Kalidasa. Every member of the cast must be on
his mettle.

_Actress_. Your arrangements are perfect. Nothing will go wrong.

_Director_ (_smiling_). To tell the truth, madam,

  Until the wise are satisfied,
    I cannot feel that skill is shown;
  The best-trained mind requires support,
    And does not trust itself alone.

_Actress_. True. What shall we do first?

_Director_. First, you must sing something to please the ears of the
audience.

_Actress_. What season of the year shall I sing about? _Director_.
Why, sing about the pleasant summer which has just begun. For at this
time of year

  A mid-day plunge will temper heat;
    The breeze is rich with forest flowers;
  To slumber in the shade is sweet;
    And charming are the twilight hours.

_Actress_ (_sings_).

  The siris-blossoms fair,
    With pollen laden,
  Are plucked to deck her hair
    By many a maiden,
  But gently; flowers like these
  Are kissed by eager bees.

_Director_. Well done! The whole theatre is captivated by your song,
and sits as if painted. What play shall we give them to keep their
good-will?

_Actress_. Why, you just told me we were to give a new play called
_Shakuntala and the ring_.

_Director_. Thank you for reminding me. For the moment I had quite
forgotten.

  Your charming song had carried me away
  As the deer enticed the hero of our play.

(_Exeunt ambo_.)


ACT I


THE HUNT

(_Enter, in a chariot, pursuing a deer_, KING DUSHYANTA, _bow and
arrow in hand; and a charioteer_.)

_Charioteer_ (_Looking at the king and the deer_). Your Majesty,

  I see you hunt the spotted deer
    With shafts to end his race,
  As though God Shiva should appear
    In his immortal chase.

_King_. Charioteer, the deer has led us a long chase. And even now

  His neck in beauty bends
  As backward looks he sends
  At my pursuing car
  That threatens death from far.
  Fear shrinks to half the body small;
  See how he fears the arrow's fall!

  The path he takes is strewed
  With blades of grass half-chewed
  From jaws wide with the stress
  Of fevered weariness.
  He leaps so often and so high,
  He does not seem to run, but fly.

(_In surprise_.) Pursue as I may, I can hardly keep him in sight.

_Charioteer_. Your Majesty, I have been holding the horses back
because the ground was rough. This checked us and gave the deer a
lead. Now we are on level ground, and you will easily overtake him.

_King_. Then let the reins hang loose.

_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits rapid motion_.)
Look, your Majesty!

  The lines hang loose; the steeds unreined
    Dart forward with a will.
  Their ears are pricked; their necks are strained;
    Their plumes lie straight and still.
  They leave the rising dust behind;
  They seem to float upon the wind.

_King_ (_joyfully_). See! The horses are gaining on the deer.

  As onward and onward the chariot flies,
  The small flashes large to my dizzy eyes.
  What is cleft in twain, seems to blur and mate;
  What is crooked in nature, seems to be straight.
  Things at my side in an instant appear
  Distant, and things in the distance, near.

_A voice behind the scenes_. O King, this deer belongs to the
hermitage, and must not be killed.

_Charioteer_ (_listening and looking_). Your Majesty, here are two
hermits, come to save the deer at the moment when your arrow was about
to fall.

_King_ (_hastily_). Stop the chariot.

_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He does so. Enter a hermit with his
pupil_.)

_Hermit_ (_lifting his hand_). O King, this deer belongs to the
hermitage.

  Why should his tender form expire,
  As blossoms perish in the fire?
  How could that gentle life endure
  The deadly arrow, sharp and sure?

  Restore your arrow to the quiver;
    To you were weapons lent
  The broken-hearted to deliver,
    Not strike the innocent.

_King_ (_bowing low_). It is done. (_He does so_.)

_Hermit_ (_joyfully_). A deed worthy of you, scion of Puru's race, and
shining example of kings. May you beget a son to rule earth and
heaven.

_King_ (_bowing low_). I am thankful for a Brahman's blessing.

_The two hermits_. O King, we are on our way to gather firewood. Here,
along the bank of the Malini, you may see the hermitage of Father
Kanva, over which Shakuntala presides, so to speak, as guardian deity.
Unless other deities prevent, pray enter here and receive a welcome.
Besides,

  Beholding pious hermit-rites
    Preserved from fearful harm,
  Perceive the profit of the scars
    On your protecting arm.

_King_. Is the hermit father there?

_The two hermits_. No, he has left his daughter to welcome guests, and
has just gone to Somatirtha, to avert an evil fate that threatens her.

_King_. Well, I will see her. She shall feel my devotion, and report
it to the sage.

_The two hermits_. Then we will go on our way. (_Exit hermit with
pupil_.)

_King_. Charioteer, drive on. A sight of the pious hermitage will
purify us.

_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits motion again_.)

_King_ (_looking about_). One would know, without being told, that
this is the precinct of a pious grove.

_Charioteer_. How so? _King_. Do you not see? Why, here

  Are rice-grains, dropped from bills of parrot chicks
  Beneath the trees; and pounding-stones where sticks
  A little almond-oil; and trustful deer
  That do not run away as we draw near;
  And river-paths that are besprinkled yet
  From trickling hermit-garments, clean and wet.

Besides,

  The roots of trees are washed by many a stream
  That breezes ruffle; and the flowers' red gleam
  Is dimmed by pious smoke; and fearless fawns
  Move softly on the close-cropped forest lawns.

_Charioteer_. It is all true.

_King_ (_after a little_). We must not disturb the hermitage. Stop
here while I dismount.

_Charioteer_. I am holding the reins. Dismount, your Majesty.

_King_ (_dismounts and looks at himself_). One should wear modest
garments on entering a hermitage. Take these jewels and the bow. (_He
gives them to the charioteer_.) Before I return from my visit to the
hermits, have the horses' backs wet down.

_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_King_ (_walking and looking about_). The hermitage! Well, I will
enter. (_As he does so, he feels a throbbing in his arm_.)

  A tranquil spot! Why should I thrill?
    Love cannot enter there--
  Yet to inevitable things
    Doors open everywhere.

_A voice behind the scenes_. This way, girls!

_King_ (_listening_). I think I hear some one to the right of the
grove. I must find out. (_He walks and looks about_.) Ah, here are
hermit-girls, with watering-pots just big enough for them to handle.
They are coming in this direction to water the young trees. They are
charming!

  The city maids, for all their pains,
    Seem not so sweet and good;
  Our garden blossoms yield to these
    Flower-children of the wood.

I will draw back into the shade and wait for them. (_He stands, gazing
toward them. Enter_ SHAKUNTALA, _as described, and her two friends_.)

_First friend_. It seems to me, dear, that Father Kanva cares more for
the hermitage trees than he does for you. You are delicate as a
jasmine blossom, yet he tells you to fill the trenches about the
trees.

_Shakuntala_. Oh, it isn't Father's bidding so much. I feel like a
real sister to them. (_She waters the trees_.)

_Priyamvada_. Shakuntala, we have watered the trees that blossom in
the summer-time. Now let's sprinkle those whose flowering-time is
past. That will be a better deed, because we shall not be working for
a reward.

_Shakuntala_. What a pretty idea! (_She does so_.)

_King_ (_to himself_). And this is Kanva's daughter, Shakuntala. (_In
surprise_.) The good Father does wrong to make her wear the hermit's
dress of bark.

  The sage who yokes her artless charm
    With pious pain and grief,
  Would try to cut the toughest vine
    With a soft, blue lotus-leaf.

 Well, I will step behind a tree and see how she acts with her
friends. (_He conceals himself_.)

_Shakuntala_. Oh, Anusuya! Priyamvada has fastened this bark dress so
tight that it hurts. Please loosen it. (ANUSUYA _does so_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_laughing_). You had better blame your own budding
charms for that.

_King_. She is quite right.

  Beneath the barken dress
    Upon the shoulder tied,
  In maiden loveliness
    Her young breast seems to hide,

  As when a flower amid
    The leaves by autumn tossed--
  Pale, withered leaves--lies hid,
    And half its grace is lost.

Yet in truth the bark dress is not an enemy to her beauty. It serves
as an added ornament. For

  The meanest vesture glows
    On beauty that enchants:
  The lotus lovelier shows
    Amid dull water-plants;

  The moon in added splendour
    Shines for its spot of dark;
  Yet more the maiden slender
    Charms in her dress of bark.

_Shakuntala_ (_looking ahead_). Oh, girls, that mango-tree is trying
to tell me something with his branches that move in the wind like
fingers. I must go and see him. (_She does so_.)

_Priyamvada_. There, Shakuntala, stand right where you are a minute.

_Shakuntala_. Why?

_Priyamvada_. When I see you there, it looks as if a vine were
clinging to the mango-tree.

_Shakuntala_. I see why they call you the flatterer.

_King_. But the flattery is true.

  Her arms are tender shoots; her lips
    Are blossoms red and warm;
  Bewitching youth begins to flower
    In beauty on her form.

_Anusuya_. Oh, Shakuntala! Here is the jasmine-vine that you named
Light of the Grove. She has chosen the mango-tree as her husband.

_Shakuntala_ (_approaches and looks at it, joyfully_). What a pretty
pair they make. The jasmine shows her youth in her fresh flowers, and
the mango-tree shows his strength in his ripening fruit. (_She stands
gazing at them_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_smiling_). Anusuya, do you know why Shakuntala looks so
hard at the Light of the Grove?

_Anusuya_. No. Why?

_Priyamvada_. She is thinking how the Light of the Grove has found a
good tree, and hoping that she will meet a fine lover.

_Shakuntala_. That's what you want for yourself. (_She tips her
watering-pot_.)

_Anusuya_. Look, Shakuntala! Here is the spring-creeper that Father
Kanva tended with his own hands--just as he did you. You are
forgetting her.

_Shakuntala_. I'd forget myself sooner. (_She goes to the creeper and
looks at it, joyfully_.) Wonderful! Wonderful! Priyamvada, I have
something pleasant to tell you.

_Priyamvada_. What is it, dear?

_Shakuntala_. It is out of season, but the spring-creeper is covered
with buds down to the very root.

_The two friends_ (_running up_). Really?

_Shakuntala_. Of course. Can't you see?

_Priyamvada_ (_looking at it joyfully_). And I have something pleasant
to tell _you_. You are to be married soon.

_Shakuntala_ (_snappishly_). You know that's just what you want for
yourself.

_Priyamvada_. I'm not teasing. I really heard Father Kanva say that
this flowering vine was to be a symbol of your coming happiness.

_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, that is why Shakuntala waters the
spring-creeper so lovingly.

_Shakuntala_. She is my sister. Why shouldn't I give her water? (_She
tips her watering-pot_.)

_King_. May I hope that she is the hermit's daughter by a mother of a
different caste? But it _must_ be so.

  Surely, she may become a warrior's bride;
    Else, why these longings in an honest mind?
  The motions of a blameless heart decide
    Of right and wrong, when reason leaves us blind.

Yet I will learn the whole truth.

_Shakuntala_ (_excitedly_). Oh, oh! A bee has left the jasmine-vine
and is flying into my face. (_She shows herself annoyed by the bee_.)

_King_ (_ardently_).

  As the bee about her flies,
  Swiftly her bewitching eyes
    Turn to watch his flight.
  She is practising to-day
  Coquetry and glances' play
    Not from love, but fright.

(_Jealously_.)

  Eager bee, you lightly skim
  O'er the eyelid's trembling rim
    Toward the cheek aquiver.
  Gently buzzing round her cheek,
  Whispering in her ear, you seek
    Secrets to deliver.

  While her hands that way and this
  Strike at you, you steal a kiss,
    Love's all, honeymaker.
  I know nothing but her name,
  Not her caste, nor whence she came--
    You, my rival, take her.

_Shakuntala_. Oh, girls! Save me from this dreadful bee!

_The two friends_ (_smiling_). Who are we, that we should save you?
Call upon Dushyanta. For pious groves are in the protection of the
king.

_King_. A good opportunity to present myself. Have no--(_He checks
himself. Aside_.) No, they would see that I am the king. I prefer to
appear as a guest.

_Shakuntala_. He doesn't leave me alone! I am going to run away.
(_She takes a step and looks about_.) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! He is
following me. Please save me.

_King_ (_hastening forward_). Ah!

  A king of Puru's mighty line
    Chastises shameless churls;
  What insolent is he who baits
    These artless hermit-girls?

(_The girls are a little flurried on seeing the king_.)

_Anusuya_. It is nothing very dreadful, sir. But our friend
(_indicating_ SHAKUNTALA) was teased and frightened by a bee.

_King_ (_to_ SHAKUNTALA). I hope these pious days are happy ones.

(SHAKUNTALA's _eyes drop in embarrassment_.)

_Anusuya_. Yes, now that we receive such a distinguished guest.

_Priyamvada_. Welcome, sir. Go to the cottage, Shakuntala, and bring
fruit. This water will do to wash the feet.

_King_. Your courteous words are enough to make me feel at home.

_Anusuya_. Then, sir, pray sit down and rest on this shady bench.

_King_. You, too, are surely wearied by your pious task. Pray be
seated a moment.

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ SHAKUNTALA). My dear, we must be polite to
our guest. Shall we sit down? (_The three girls sit_.)

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Oh, why do I have such feelings when I
see this man? They seem wrong in a hermitage.

_King_ (_looking at the girls_). It is delightful to see your
friendship. For you are all young and beautiful.

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ ANUSUYA). Who is he, dear? With his mystery,
and his dignity, and his courtesy? He acts like a king and a
gentleman.

_Anusuya_. I am curious too. I am going to ask him. (_Aloud_.) Sir,
you are so very courteous that I make bold to ask you something. What
royal family do you adorn, sir? What country is grieving at your
absence? Why does a gentleman so delicately bred submit to the weary
journey into our pious grove?

_Shakuntala_ (_aside_). Be brave, my heart. Anusuya speaks your very
thoughts.

_King_ (_aside_). Shall I tell at once who I am, or conceal it? (_He
reflects_.) This will do. (_Aloud_.) I am a student of Scripture.
It is my duty to see justice done in the cities of the king.
And I have come to this hermitage on a tour of inspection.

_Anusuya_. Then we of the hermitage have some one to take care of us.

(SHAKUNTALA _shows embarrassment_.)

_The two friends_ (_observing the demeanour of the pair. Aside to_
SHAKUNTALA). Oh, Shakuntala! If only Father were here to-day.

_Shakuntala_. What would he do?

_The two friends_. He would make our distinguished guest happy, if it
took his most precious treasure.

_Shakuntala_ (_feigning anger_). Go away! You mean something. I'll not
listen to you.

_King_. I too would like to ask a question about your friend.

_The two friends_. Sir, your request is a favour to us.

_King_. Father Kanva lives a lifelong hermit. Yet you say that your
friend is his daughter. How can that be?

_Anusuya_. Listen, sir. There is a majestic royal sage named
Kaushika----

_King_. Ah, yes. The famous Kaushika.

_Anusuya_. Know, then, that he is the source of our friend's being.
But Father Kanva is her real father, because he took care of her when
she was abandoned.

_King_. You waken my curiosity with the word "abandoned." May I hear
the whole story?

_Anusuya_. Listen, sir. Many years ago, that royal sage was leading a
life of stern austerities, and the gods, becoming strangely jealous,
sent the nymph Menaka to disturb his devotions.

_King_. Yes, the gods feel this jealousy toward the austerities of
others. And then--

_Anusuya_. Then in the lovely spring-time he saw her intoxicating
beauty--(_She stops in embarrassment_.)

_King_. The rest is plain. Surely, she is the daughter of the nymph.

_Anusuya_. Yes.

_King_. It is as it should be.

  To beauty such as this
    No woman could give birth;
  The quivering lightning flash
    Is not a child of earth.

(SHAKUNTALA _hangs her head in confusion_.) _King_ (_to himself_).
Ah, my wishes become hopes.

_Priyamvada_ (_looking with a smile at_ SHAKUNTALA). Sir, it seems as
if you had more to say. (SHAKUNTALA _threatens her friend with her
finger_.)

_King_. You are right. Your pious life interests me, and I have
another question.

_Priyamvada_. Do not hesitate. We hermit people stand ready to answer
all demands.

_King_. My question is this:

  Does she, till marriage only, keep her vow
    As hermit-maid, that shames the ways of love?
  Or must her soft eyes ever see, as now,
    Soft eyes of friendly deer in peaceful grove?

_Priyamvada_. Sir, we are under bonds to lead a life of virtue. But it
is her father's wish to give her to a suitable lover.

_King_ (_joyfully to himself_).

  O heart, your wish is won!
  All doubt at last is done;
  The thing you feared as fire,
  Is the jewel of your desire.

_Shakuntala_ (_pettishly_). Anusuya, I'm going.

_Anusuya_. What for?

_Shakuntala_. I am going to tell Mother Gautami that Priyamvada is
talking nonsense. (_She rises_.)

_Anusuya_. My dear, we hermit people cannot neglect to entertain a
distinguished guest, and go wandering about.

(SHAKUNTALA _starts to walk away without answering_.)

_King_ (_aside_). She is going! (_He starts up as if to detain her,
then checks his desires_.) A thought is as vivid as an act, to a
lover.

  Though nurture, conquering nature, holds
    Me back, it seems
  As had I started and returned
    In waking dreams.

_Priyamvada_ (_approaching_ SHAKUNTALA). You dear, peevish girl! You
mustn't go.

_Shakuntala_ (_turns with a frown_). Why not?

_Priyamvada_. You owe me the watering of two trees. You can go when
you have paid your debt. (_She forces her to come back_.)

_King_. It is plain that she is already wearied by watering the trees.
See!

  Her shoulders droop; her palms are reddened yet;
    Quick breaths are struggling in her bosom fair;
  The blossom o'er her ear hangs limply wet;
    One hand restrains the loose, dishevelled hair.

I therefore remit her debt. (_He gives the two friends a ring. They
take it, read the name engraved on it, and look at each other_.)

_King_. Make no mistake. This is a present--from the king.

_Priyamvada_. Then, sir, you ought not to part with it. Your word is
enough to remit the debt.

_Anusuya_. Well, Shakuntala, you are set free by this kind
gentleman--or rather, by the king himself. Where are you going now?

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). I would never leave him if I could help
myself.

_Priyamvada_. Why don't you go now?

_Shakuntala_. I am not _your_ servant any longer. I will go when I
like.

_King_ (_looking at_ SHAKUNTALA. _To himself_). Does she feel toward
me as I do toward her? At least, there is ground for hope.

  Although she does not speak to me,
    She listens while I speak;
  Her eyes turn not to see my face,
    But nothing else they seek.

_A voice behind the scenes_. Hermits! Hermits! Prepare to defend the
creatures in our pious grove. King Dushyanta is hunting in the
neighbourhood.

  The dust his horses' hoofs have raised,
    Red as the evening sky,
  Falls like a locust-swarm on boughs
    Where hanging garments dry.

_King_ (_aside_). Alas! My soldiers are disturbing the pious grove in
their search for me. _The voice behind the scenes_. Hermits!
Hermits! Here is an elephant who is terrifying old men, women, and
children.

  One tusk is splintered by a cruel blow
  Against a blocking tree; his gait is slow,
  For countless fettering vines impede and cling;
  He puts the deer to flight; some evil thing
  He seems, that comes our peaceful life to mar,
  Fleeing in terror from the royal car.

(_The girls listen and rise anxiously_.)

_King_. I have offended sadly against the hermits. I must go back.

_The two friends_. Your Honour, we are frightened by this alarm of the
elephant. Permit us to return to the cottage.

_Anusuya_ (_to_ SHAKUNTALA). Shakuntala dear, Mother Gautami will be
anxious. We must hurry and find her.

_Shakuntala_ (_feigning lameness_). Oh, oh! I can hardly walk.

_King_. You must go very slowly. And I will take pains that the
hermitage is not disturbed.

_The two friends_. Your honour, we feel as if we knew you very well.
Pray pardon our shortcomings as hostesses. May we ask you to seek
better entertainment from us another time?

_King_. You are too modest. I feel honoured by the mere sight of you.

_Shakuntala_. Anusuya, my foot is cut on a sharp blade of grass, and
my dress is caught on an amaranth twig. Wait for me while I loosen it.

(_She casts a lingering glance at the king, and goes out with her two
friends_.)

_King_ (_sighing_). They are gone. And I must go. The sight of
Shakuntala has made me dread the return to the city. I will make my
men camp at a distance from the pious grove. But I cannot turn my own
thoughts from Shakuntala.

  It is my body leaves my love, not I;
    My body moves away, but not my mind;
  For back to her my struggling fancies fly
    Like silken banners borne against the wind. (_Exit_.)


ACT II


THE SECRET

(_Enter the clown_.)

_Clown_ (_sighing_). Damn! Damn! Damn! I'm tired of being friends with
this sporting king. "There's a deer!" he shouts, "There's a boar!" And
off he chases on a summer noon through woods where shade is few and
far between. We drink hot, stinking water from the mountain streams,
flavoured with leaves--nasty! At odd times we get a little tepid meat
to eat. And the horses and the elephants make such a noise that I
can't even be comfortable at night. Then the hunters and the
bird-chasers--damn 'em--wake me up bright and early. They do make an
ear-splitting rumpus when they start for the woods. But even that
isn't the whole misery. There's a new pimple growing on the old boil.
He left us behind and went hunting a deer. And there in a hermitage
they say he found--oh, dear! oh, dear! he found a hermit-girl named
Shakuntala. Since then he hasn't a thought of going back to town. I
lay awake all night, thinking about it. What can I do? Well, I'll see
my friend when he is dressed and beautified. (_He walks and looks
about_.) Hello! Here he comes, with his bow in his hand, and his girl
in his heart. He is wearing a wreath of wild flowers! I'll pretend to
be all knocked up. Perhaps I can get a rest that way. (_He stands,
leaning on his staff. Enter the king, as described_.)

_King_ (_to himself_).

  Although my darling is not lightly won,
    She seemed to love me, and my hopes are bright;
  Though love be balked ere joy be well begun,
    A common longing is itself delight.

(_Smiling_.) Thus does a lover deceive himself. He judges his love's
feelings by his own desires.

  Her glance was loving--but 'twas not for me;
  Her step was slow--'twas grace, not coquetry;
  Her speech was short--to her detaining friend.
  In things like these love reads a selfish end!

_Clown_ (_standing as before_). Well, king, I can't move my hand. I
can only greet you with my voice.

_King_ (_looking and smiling_). What makes you lame?

_Clown_. Good! You hit a man in the eye, and then ask him why the
tears come.

_King_. I do not understand you. Speak plainly.

_Clown_. When a reed bends over like a hunchback, do you blame the
reed or the river-current?

_King_. The river-current, of course.

_Clown_. And you are to blame for my troubles.

_King_. How so?

_Clown_. It's a fine thing for you to neglect your royal duties and
such a sure job--to live in the woods! What's the good of talking?
Here I am, a Brahman, and my joints are all shaken up by this eternal
running after wild animals, so that I can't move. Please be good to
me. Let us have a rest for just one day.

_King_ (_to himself_). He says this. And I too, when I remember
Kanva's daughter, have little desire for the chase. For

  The bow is strung, its arrow near;
    And yet I cannot bend
  That bow against the fawns who share
    Soft glances with their friend.

_Clown_ (_observing the king_). He means more than he says. I might as
well weep in the woods.

_King_ (_smiling_). What more could I mean? I have been thinking that
I ought to take my friend's advice.

_Clown_ (_cheerfully_). Long life to you, then. (_He unstiffens_.)

_King_. Wait. Hear me out.

_Clown_. Well, sir?

_King_. When you are rested, you must be my companion in another
task--an easy one.

_Clown_. Crushing a few sweetmeats?

_King_. I will tell you presently.

_Clown_. Pray command my leisure.

_King_. Who stands without? (_Enter the door-keeper_.)

_Door-keeper_. I await your Majesty's commands.

_King_. Raivataka, summon the general.

_Door-keeper_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He goes out, then returns with the
general_.) Follow me, sir. There is his Majesty, listening to our
conversation. Draw near, sir.

_General_ (_observing the king, to himself_). Hunting is declared to
be a sin, yet it brings nothing but good to the king. See!

  He does not heed the cruel sting
  Of his recoiling, twanging string;
  The mid-day sun, the dripping sweat
  Affect him not, nor make him fret;
  His form, though sinewy and spare,
  Is most symmetrically fair;
  No mountain-elephant could be
  More filled with vital strength than he.

(_He approaches_.) Victory to your Majesty! The forest is full of
deer-tracks, and beasts of prey cannot be far off. What better
occupation could we have?

_King_. Bhadrasena, my enthusiasm is broken. Madhavya has been
preaching against hunting.

_General_ (_aside to the clown_). Stick to it, friend Madhavya. I will
humour the king a moment. (_Aloud_.) Your Majesty, he is a chattering
idiot. Your Majesty may judge by his own case whether hunting is an
evil. Consider:

  The hunter's form grows sinewy, strong, and light;
  He learns, from beasts of prey, how wrath and fright
  Affect the mind; his skill he loves to measure
  With moving targets. 'Tis life's chiefest pleasure.

_Clown_ (_angrily_). Get out! Get out with your strenuous life! The
king has come to his senses. But you, you son of a slave-wench, can go
chasing from forest to forest, till you fall into the jaws of some old
bear that is looking for a deer or a jackal.

_King_. Bhadrasena, I cannot take your advice, because I am in the
vicinity of a hermitage. So for to-day

  The horned buffalo may shake
  The turbid water of the lake;
  Shade-seeking deer may chew the cud,
  Boars trample swamp-grass in the mud;
  The bow I bend in hunting, may
  Enjoy a listless holiday.

_General_. Yes, your Majesty.

_King_. Send back the archers who have gone ahead. And forbid the
soldiers to vex the hermitage, or even to approach it. Remember:

  There lurks a hidden fire in each
    Religious hermit-bower;
  Cool sun-stones kindle if assailed
    By any foreign power.

_General_. Yes, your Majesty.

_Clown_. Now will you get out with your strenuous life? (_Exit
general_.)

_King_ (_to his attendants_). Lay aside your hunting dress. And you,
Raivataka, return to your post of duty.

_Raivataka_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_Clown_. You have got rid of the vermin. Now be seated on this flat
stone, over which the trees spread their canopy of shade. I can't sit
down till you do.

_King_. Lead the way.

_Clown_. Follow me. (_They walk about and sit down_.)

_King_. Friend Madhavya, you do not know what vision is. You have not
seen the fairest of all objects.

_Clown_. I see you, right in front of me.

_King_. Yes, every one thinks himself beautiful. But I was speaking of
Shakuntala, the ornament of the hermitage.

_Clown_ (_to himself_). I mustn't add fuel to the flame. (_Aloud_.)
But you can't have her because she is a hermit-girl. What is the use
of seeing her?

_King_. Fool!

  And is it selfish longing then,
    That draws our souls on high
  Through eyes that have forgot to wink,
    As the new moon climbs the sky?

Besides, Dushyanta's thoughts dwell on no forbidden object.

_Clown_. Well, tell me about her.

_King_.

  Sprung from a nymph of heaven
    Wanton and gay,
  Who spurned the blessing given,
    Going her way;

  By the stern hermit taken
    In her most need:
  So fell the blossom shaken,
    Flower on a weed.

_Clown_ (_laughing_). You are like a man who gets tired of good dates
and longs for sour tamarind. All the pearls of the palace are yours,
and you want this girl!

_King_. My friend, you have not seen her, or you could not talk so.

_Clown_. She must be charming if she surprises _you_.

_King_. Oh, my friend, she needs not many words.

  She is God's vision, of pure thought
    Composed in His creative mind;
  His reveries of beauty wrought
    The peerless pearl of womankind.
  So plays my fancy when I see
  How great is God, how lovely she.

_Clown_. How the women must hate her!

_King_. This too is in my thought.

  She seems a flower whose fragrance none has tasted,
    A gem uncut by workman's tool,
  A branch no desecrating hands have wasted,
    Fresh honey, beautifully cool.

  No man on earth deserves to taste her beauty,
    Her blameless loveliness and worth,
  Unless he has fulfilled man's perfect duty--
    And is there such a one on earth?

_Clown_. Marry her quick, then, before the poor girl falls into the
hands of some oily-headed hermit.

_King_. She is dependent on her father, and he is not here.

_Clown_. But how does she feel toward you? _King_. My friend,
hermit-girls are by their very nature timid. And yet

  When I was near, she could not look at me;
    She smiled--but not to me--and half denied it;
  She would not show her love for modesty,
    Yet did not try so very hard to hide it.

_Clown_. Did you want her to climb into your lap the first time she
saw you?

_King_. But when she went away with her friends, she almost showed
that she loved me.

  When she had hardly left my side,
    "I cannot walk," the maiden cried,
  And turned her face, and feigned to free
    The dress not caught upon the tree.

_Clown_. She has given you some memories to chew on. I suppose that is
why you are so in love with the pious grove.

_King_. My friend, think of some pretext under which we may return to
the hermitage.

_Clown_. What pretext do you need? Aren't you the king?

_King_. What of that?

_Clown_. Collect the taxes on the hermits' rice.

_King_. Fool! It is a very different tax which these hermits pay--one
that outweighs heaps of gems.

  The wealth we take from common men,
    Wastes while we cherish;
  These share with us such holiness
    As ne'er can perish.

_Voices behind the scenes_. Ah, we have found him.

_King_ (_Listening_). The voices are grave and tranquil. These must be
hermits. (_Enter the door-keeper_.)

_Door-keeper_. Victory, O King. There are two hermit-youths at the
gate.

_King_. Bid them enter at once.

_Door-keeper_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He goes out, then returns with the
youths_.) Follow me.

_First youth_ (_looking at the king_). A majestic presence, yet it
inspires confidence. Nor is this wonderful in a king who is half a
saint. For to him

  The splendid palace serves as hermitage;
  His royal government, courageous, sage,
  Adds daily to his merit; it is given
  To him to win applause from choirs of heaven
  Whose anthems to his glory rise and swell,
  Proclaiming him a king, and saint as well.

_Second youth_. My friend, is this Dushyanta, friend of Indra?

_First youth_. It is.

_Second youth_.

  Nor is it wonderful that one whose arm
  Might bolt a city gate, should keep from harm
    The whole broad earth dark-belted by the sea;
  For when the gods in heaven with demons fight,
  Dushyanta's bow and Indra's weapon bright
    Are their reliance for the victory.

_The two youths_ (_approaching_). Victory, O King!

_King_ (_rising_). I salute you.

_The two youths_. All hail! (_They offer fruit_.)

_King_ (_receiving it and bowing low_). May I know the reason of your
coming?

_The two youths_. The hermits have learned that you are here, and they
request----

_King_. They command rather.

_The two youths_. The powers of evil disturb our pious life in the
absence of the hermit-father. We therefore ask that you will remain a
few nights with your charioteer to protect the hermitage.

_King_. I shall be most happy to do so.

_Clown_ (_to the king_). You rather seem to like being collared this
way.

_King_. Raivataka, tell my charioteer to drive up, and to bring the
bow and arrows.

_Raivataka_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_)

_The two youths_.

  Thou art a worthy scion of
  The kings who ruled our nation
  And found, defending those in need,
  Their truest consecration.

_King_. Pray go before. And I will follow straightway.

_The two youths_. Victory, O King! (_Exeunt_.)

_King_. Madhavya, have you no curiosity to see Shakuntala?

_Clown_. I _did_ have an unending curiosity, but this talk about the
powers of evil has put an end to it.

_King_. Do not fear. You will be with me.

_Clown_. I'll stick close to your chariot-wheel. (_Enter the
door-keeper_.)

_Door-keeper_. Your Majesty, the chariot is ready, and awaits your
departure to victory. But one Karabhaka has come from the city, a
messenger from the queen-mother.

_King_ (_respectfully_). Sent by my mother?

_Door-keeper_. Yes.

_King_. Let him enter.

_Door-keeper_ (_goes out and returns with_ KARABHAKA). Karabhaka, here
is his Majesty. You may draw near.

_Karabhaka_ (_approaching and bowing low_). Victory to your Majesty.
The queen-mother sends her commands----

_King_. What are her commands?

_Karabhaka_. She plans to end a fasting ceremony on the fourth day
from to-day. And on that occasion her dear son must not fail to wait
upon her.

_King_. On the one side is my duty to the hermits, on the other my
mother's command. Neither may be disregarded. What is to be done?

_Clown_ (_laughing_). Stay half-way between, like Trishanku.

_King_. In truth, I am perplexed.

  Two inconsistent duties sever
    My mind with cruel shock,
  As when the current of a river
    Is split upon a rock.

(_He reflects_.) My friend, the queen-mother has always felt toward
you as toward a son. Do you return, tell her what duty keeps me here,
and yourself perform the offices of a son.

_Clown_. You don't think I am afraid of the devils?

_King_ (_smiling_). O mighty Brahman, who could suspect it?

_Clown_. But I want to travel like a prince.

_King_. I will send all the soldiers with you, for the pious grove
must not be disturbed. _Clown_ (_strutting_). Aha! Look at the
heir-apparent!

_King_ (_to himself_). The fellow is a chatterbox. He might betray my
longing to the ladies of the palace. Good, then! (_He takes the clown
by the hand. Aloud_.) Friend Madhavya, my reverence for the hermits
draws me to the hermitage. Do not think that I am really in love with
the hermit-girl. Just think:

  A king, and a girl of the calm hermit-grove,
  Bred with the fawns, and a stranger to love!
  Then do not imagine a serious quest;
  The light words I uttered were spoken in jest.

_Clown_. Oh, I understand that well enough. (_Exeunt ambo_.)


ACT III


THE LOVE-MAKING

(_Enter a pupil, with sacred grass for the sacrifice_.)

_Pupil_ (_with meditative astonishment_). How great is the power of
King Dushyanta! Since his arrival our rites have been undisturbed.

  He does not need to bend the bow;
  For every evil thing,
  Awaiting not the arrow, flees
  From the twanging of the string.

Well, I will take this sacred grass to the priests, to strew the
altar. (_He walks and looks about, then speaks to some one not
visible_.) Priyamvada, for whom are you carrying this cuscus-salve and
the fibrous lotus-leaves? (_He listens_.) What do you say? That
Shakuntala has become seriously ill from the heat, and that these
things are to relieve her suffering? Give her the best of care,
Priyamvada. She is the very life of the hermit-father. And I will give
Gautami the holy water for her. (_Exit. Enter the lovelorn king_.)

_King_ (_with a meditative sigh_).

  I know that stern religion's power
  Keeps guardian watch my maiden o'er;
  Yet all my heart flows straight to her
  Like water to the valley-floor.

Oh, mighty Love, thine arrows are made of flowers. How can they be so
sharp? (_He recalls something_.) Ah, I understand.

  Shiva's devouring wrath still burns in thee,
  As burns the eternal fire beneath the sea;
  Else how couldst thou, thyself long since consumed,
  Kindle the fire that flames so ruthlessly?

Indeed, the moon and thou inspire confidence, only to deceive the host
of lovers.

  Thy shafts are blossoms; coolness streams
  From moon-rays: thus the poets sing;
  But to the lovelorn, falsehood seems
  To lurk in such imagining;
  The moon darts fire from frosty beams;
  Thy flowery arrows cut and sting.

And yet

  If Love will trouble her
  Whose great eyes madden me,
  I greet him unafraid,
  Though wounded ceaselessly.

O mighty god, wilt thou not show me mercy after such reproaches?

  With tenderness unending
  I cherished thee when small,
  In vain--thy bow is bending;
  On me thine arrows fall.
  My care for thee to such a plight
  Has brought me; and it serves me right.

I have driven off the powers of evil, and the hermits have dismissed
me. Where shall I go now to rest from my weariness? (_He sighs_.)
There is no rest for me except in seeing her whom I love. (_He looks
up_.) She usually spends these hours of midday heat with her friends
on the vine-wreathed banks of the Malini. I will go there. (_He walks
and looks about_.) I believe the slender maiden has just passed
through this corridor of young trees. For

  The stems from which she gathered flowers
  Are still unhealed;
  The sap where twigs were broken off
  Is uncongealed.

(_He feels a breeze stirring_.) This is a pleasant spot, with the wind
among the trees.

  Limbs that love's fever seizes,
  Their fervent welcome pay
  To lotus-fragrant breezes
  That bear the river-spray.

(_He studies the ground_.) Ah, Shakuntala must be in this reedy bower.
For

  In white sand at the door
    Fresh footprints appear,
  The toe lightly outlined,
    The heel deep and clear.

I will hide among the branches, and see what happens. (_He does so.
Joyfully_.) Ah, my eyes have found their heaven. Here is the darling
of my thoughts, lying upon a flower-strewn bench of stone, and
attended by her two friends. I will hear what they say to each other.

(_He stands gazing. Enter_ SHAKUNTALA _with her two friends_.)

_The two friends_ (_fanning her_). Do you feel better, dear, when we
fan you with these lotus-leaves?

_Shakuntala_ (_wearily_). Oh, are you fanning me, my dear girls? (_The
two friends look sorrowfully at each other_.)

_King_. She is seriously ill. (_Doubtfully_.) Is it the heat, or is it
as I hope? (_Decidedly_.) It _must_ be so.

  With salve upon her breast,
    With loosened lotus-chain,
  My darling, sore oppressed,
    Is lovely in her pain.

  Though love and summer heat
    May work an equal woe,
  No maiden seems so sweet
    When summer lays her low.

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ ANUSUYA). Anusuya, since she first saw the
good king, she has been greatly troubled. I do not believe her fever
has any other cause.

_Anusuya_. I suspect you are right. I am going to ask her. My dear, I
must ask you something. You are in a high fever.

_King_. It is too true.

  Her lotus-chains that were as white
  As moonbeams shining in the night,
  Betray the fever's awful pain,
  And fading, show a darker stain.

_Shakuntala_ (_half rising_.) Well, say whatever you like.
_Anusuya_. Shakuntala dear, you have not told us what is going on in
your mind. But I have heard old, romantic stories, and I can't help
thinking that you are in a state like that of a lady in love. Please
tell us what hurts you. We have to understand the disease before we
can even try to cure it.

_King_. Anusuya expresses my own thoughts.

_Shakuntala_. It hurts me terribly. I can't tell you all at once.

_Priyamvada_. Anusuya is right, dear. Why do you hide your trouble?
You are wasting away every day. You are nothing but a beautiful
shadow.

_King_. Priyamvada is right. See!

  Her cheeks grow thin; her breast and shoulders fail;
  Her waist is weary and her face is pale:
  She fades for love; oh, pitifully sweet!
  As vine-leaves wither in the scorching heat.

_Shakuntala_ (_sighing_). I could not tell any one else. But I shall
be a burden to you.

_The two friends_. That is why we insist on knowing, dear. Grief must
be shared to be endured.

_King_.

  To friends who share her joy and grief
    She tells what sorrow laid her here;
  She turned to look her love again
    When first I saw her--yet I fear!

_Shakuntala_. Ever since I saw the good king who protects the pious
grove--(_She stops and fidgets_.)

_The two friends_. Go on, dear.

_Shakuntala_. I love him, and it makes me feel like this.

_The two friends_. Good, good! You have found a lover worthy of your
devotion. But of course, a great river always runs into the sea.

_King_ (_joyfully_). I have heard what I longed to hear.

  'Twas love that caused the burning pain;
  'Tis love that eases it again;
  As when, upon a sultry day,
  Rain breaks, and washes grief away.

_Shakuntala_. Then, if you think best, make the good king take pity
upon me. If not, remember that I was. _King_. Her words end all
doubt.

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ ANUSUYA). Anusuya, she is far gone in love
and cannot endure any delay.

_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, can you think of any scheme by which we could
carry out her wishes quickly and secretly?

_Priyamvada_. We must plan about the "secretly." The "quickly" is not
hard.

_Anusuya_. How so?

_Priyamvada_. Why, the good king shows his love for her in his tender
glances, and he has been wasting away, as if he were losing sleep.

_King_. It is quite true.

  The hot tears, flowing down my cheek
    All night on my supporting arm
  And on its golden bracelet, seek
    To stain the gems and do them harm.

  The bracelet slipping o'er the scars
    Upon the wasted arm, that show
  My deeds in hunting and in wars,
    All night is moving to and fro.

_Priyamvada_ (_reflecting_). Well, she must write him a love-letter.
And I will hide it in a bunch of flowers and see that it gets into the
king's hand as if it were a relic of the sacrifice.

_Anusuya_. It is a pretty plan, dear, and it pleases me. What does
Shakuntala say?

_Shakuntala_. I suppose I must obey orders.

_Priyamvada_. Then compose a pretty little love-song, with a hint of
yourself in it.

_Shakuntala_. I'll try. But my heart trembles, for fear he will
despise me.

_King_.

  Here stands the eager lover, and you pale
    For fear lest he disdain a love so kind:
  The seeker may find fortune, or may fail;
    But how could fortune, seeking, fail to find?

And again:

  The ardent lover comes, and yet you fear
    Lest he disdain love's tribute, were it brought,
  The hope of which has led his footsteps here--
    Pearls need not seek, for they themselves are sought.

_The two friends_. You are too modest about your own charms. Would
anybody put up a parasol to keep off the soothing autumn moonlight?

_Shakuntala_ (_smiling_). I suppose I shall have to obey orders. (_She
meditates_.)

_King_. It is only natural that I should forget to wink when I see my
darling. For

  One clinging eyebrow lifted,
    As fitting words she seeks,
  Her face reveals her passion
    For me in glowing cheeks.

_Shakuntala_. Well, I have thought out a little song. But I haven't
anything to write with.

_Priyamvada_. Here is a lotus-leaf, glossy as a parrot's breast. You
can cut the letters in it with your nails.

_Shakuntala_. Now listen, and tell me whether it makes sense.

_The two friends_. Please.

_Shakuntala_ (_reads_).

  I know not if I read your heart aright;
    Why, pitiless, do you distress me so?
  I only know that longing day and night
    Tosses my restless body to and fro,
    That yearns for you, the source of all its woe.

_King_ (_advancing_).

  Though Love torments you, slender maid,
    Yet he consumes me quite,
  As daylight shuts night-blooming flowers
    And slays the moon outright.

_The two friends_ (_perceive the king and rise joyfully_). Welcome to
the wish that is fulfilled without delay. (SHAKUNTALA _tries to
rise_.)

_King_.

  Do not try to rise, beautiful Shakuntala.
  Your limbs from which the strength is fled,
  That crush the blossoms of your bed
  And bruise the lotus-leaves, may be
  Pardoned a breach of courtesy.

 _Shakuntala_ (_sadly to herself_). Oh, my heart, you were so
impatient, and now you find no answer to make.

_Anusuya_. Your Majesty, pray do this stone bench the honour of
sitting upon it. (SHAKUNTALA _edges away_.)

_King_ (_seating himself_). Priyamvada, I trust your friend's illness
is not dangerous.

_Priyamvada_ (_smiling_). A remedy is being applied and it will soon
be better. It is plain, sir, that you and she love each other. But I
love her too, and I must say something over again.

_King_. Pray do not hesitate. It always causes pain in the end, to
leave unsaid what one longs to say.

_Priyamvada_. Then listen, sir.

_King_. I am all attention.

_Priyamvada_. It is the king's duty to save hermit-folk from all
suffering. Is not that good Scripture?

_King_. There is no text more urgent.

_Priyamvada_. Well, our friend has been brought to this sad state by
her love for you. Will you not take pity on her and save her life?

_King_. We cherish the same desire. I feel it a great honour.

_Shakuntala_ (_with a jealous smile_). Oh, don't detain the good king.
He is separated from the court ladies, and he is anxious to go back to
them.

_King_.

  Bewitching eyes that found my heart,
      You surely see
  It could no longer live apart,
      Nor faithless be.
  I bear Love's arrows as I can;
  Wound not with doubt a wounded man.

_Anusuya_. But, your Majesty, we hear that kings have many favourites.
You must act in such a way that our friend may not become a cause of
grief to her family.

_King_. What more can I say?

  Though many queens divide my court,
    But two support the throne;
  Your friend will find a rival in
    The sea-girt earth alone.

_The two friends_. We are content. (SHAKUNTALA _betrays her joy_.)
_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ ANUSUYA). Look, Anusuya! See how the dear
girl's life is coming back moment by moment--just like a peahen in
summer when the first rainy breezes come.

_Shakuntala_. You must please ask the king's pardon for the rude
things we said when we were talking together.

_The two friends_ (_smiling_). Anybody who says it was rude, may ask
his pardon. Nobody else feels guilty.

_Shakuntala_. Your Majesty, pray forgive what we said when we did not
know that you were present. I am afraid that we say a great many
things behind a person's back.

_King_ (_smiling_).

  Your fault is pardoned if I may
    Relieve my weariness
  By sitting on the flower-strewn couch
    Your fevered members press.

_Priyamvada_. But that will not be enough to satisfy him.

_Shakuntala_ (_feigning anger_). Stop! You are a rude girl. You make
fun of me when I am in this condition.

_Anusuya_ (_looking out of the arbour_). Priyamvada, there is a little
fawn, looking all about him. He has probably lost his mother and is
trying to find her. I am going to help him.

_Priyamvada_. He is a frisky little fellow. You can't catch him alone.
I'll go with you. (_They start to go_.)

_Shakuntala_. I will not let you go and leave me alone.

_The two friends_ (_smiling_). You alone, when the king of the world
is with you! (_Exeunt_.)

_Shakuntala_. Are my friends gone?

_King_ (_looking about_). Do not be anxious, beautiful Shakuntala.
Have you not a humble servant here, to take the place of your friends?
Then tell me:

  Shall I employ the moistened lotus-leaf
  To fan away your weariness and grief?
  Or take your lily feet upon my knee
  And rub them till you rest more easily?

_Shakuntala_. I will not offend against those to whom I owe honour.
(_She rises weakly and starts to walk away_.) _King_ (_detaining
her_). The day is still hot, beautiful Shakuntala, and you are
feverish.

  Leave not the blossom-dotted couch
    To wander in the midday heat,
  With lotus-petals on your breast,
    With fevered limbs and stumbling feet.

(_He lays his hand upon her_.)

_Shakuntala_. Oh, don't! Don't! For I am not mistress of myself. Yet
what can I do now? I had no one to help me but my friends.

_King_. I am rebuked.

_Shakuntala_. I was not thinking of your Majesty. I was accusing fate.

_King_. Why accuse a fate that brings what you desire?

_Shakuntala_. Why not accuse a fate that robs me of self-control and
tempts me with the virtues of another?

_King_ (_to himself_).

  Though deeply longing, maids are coy
    And bid their wooers wait;
  Though eager for united joy
    In love, they hesitate.

  Love cannot torture them, nor move
    Their hearts to sudden mating;
  Perhaps they even torture love
    By their procrastinating.

(SHAKUNTALA _moves away_.)

_King_. Why should I not have my way? (_He approaches and seizes her
dress_.)

_Shakuntala_. Oh, sir! Be a gentleman. There are hermits wandering
about.

_King_. Do not fear your family, beautiful Shakuntala. Father Kanva
knows the holy law. He will not regret it.

  For many a hermit maiden who
    By simple, voluntary rite
  Dispensed with priest and witness, yet
    Found favour in her father's sight.

(_He looks about_.) Ah, I have come into the open air. (_He leaves_
SHAKUNTALA _and retraces his steps_.) _Shakuntala_ (_takes a step,
then turns with an eager gesture_).

O King, I cannot do as you would have me. You hardly know me after
this short talk. But oh, do not forget me.

_King_.

  When evening comes, the shadow of the tree
    Is cast far forward, yet does not depart;
  Even so, beloved, wheresoe'er you be,
    The thought of you can never leave my heart.

_Shakuntala_ (_takes a few steps. To herself_). Oh, oh! When I hear
him speak so, my feet will not move away. I will hide in this amaranth
hedge and see how long his love lasts. (_She hides and waits_.)

_King_. Oh, my beloved, my love for you is my whole life, yet you
leave me and go away without a thought.

  Your body, soft as siris-flowers,
  Engages passion's utmost powers;
  How comes it that your heart is hard
  As stalks that siris-blossoms guard?

_Shakuntala_. When I hear this, I have no power to go.

_King_. What have I to do here, where she is not? (_He gazes on the
ground_.) Ah, I cannot go.

  The perfumed lotus-chain
    That once was worn by her
  Fetters and keeps my heart
    A hopeless prisoner. (_He lifts it reverently_.)

_Shakuntala_ (_looking at her arm_). Why, I was so weak and ill that
when the lotus-bracelet fell off, I did not even notice it.

_King_ (_laying the lotus-bracelet on his heart_). Ah!

  Once, dear, on your sweet arm it lay,
  And on my heart shall ever stay;
  Though you disdain to give me joy,
  I find it in a lifeless toy.

_Shakuntala_. I cannot hold back after that. I will use the bracelet
as an excuse for my coming. (_She approaches_.)

_King_ (_seeing her. Joyfully_). The queen of my life! As soon as I
complained, fate proved kind to me.

  No sooner did the thirsty bird
    With parching throat complain,
  Than forming clouds in heaven stirred
    And sent the streaming rain.

_Shakuntala_ (_standing before the king_). When I was going away, sir,
I remembered that this lotus-bracelet had fallen from my arm, and I
have come back for it. My heart seemed to tell me that you had taken
it. Please give it back, or you will betray me, and yourself too, to
the hermits.

_King_. I will restore it on one condition.

_Shakuntala_. What condition?

_King_. That I may myself place it where it belongs.

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). What can I do? (_She approaches_.)

_King_. Let us sit on this stone bench. (_They walk to the bench and
sit down_.)

_King_ (_taking_ SHAKUNTALA'S _hand_). Ah!

  When Shiva's anger burned the tree
    Of love in quenchless fire,
  Did heavenly fate preserve a shoot
    To deck my heart's desire?

_Shakuntala_ (_feeling his touch_). Hasten, my dear, hasten.

_King_ (_joyfully to himself_). Now I am content. She speaks as a wife
to her husband. (_Aloud_.) Beautiful Shakuntala, the clasp of the
bracelet is not very firm. May I fasten it in another way?

_Shakuntala_ (_smiling_). If you like.

_King_ (_artfully delaying before he fastens it_). See, my beautiful
girl!

  The lotus-chain is dazzling white
  As is the slender moon at night.
  Perhaps it was the moon on high
  That joined her horns and left the sky,
  Believing that your lovely arm
  Would, more than heaven, enhance her charm.

_Shakuntala_. I cannot see it. The pollen from the lotus over my ear
has blown into my eye.

_King_ (_smiling_). Will you permit me to blow it away?

_Shakuntala_. I should not like to be an object of pity. But why
should I not trust you? _King_. Do not have such thoughts. A new
servant does not transgress orders.

_Shakuntala_. It is this exaggerated courtesy that frightens me.

_King_ (_to himself_). I shall not break the bonds of this sweet
servitude. (_He starts to raise her face to his_. SHAKUNTALA _resists
a little, then is passive_.)

_King_. Oh, my bewitching girl, have no fear of me.

(SHAKUNTALA _darts a glance at him, then looks down. The king raises
her face. Aside_.)

  Her sweetly trembling lip
    With virgin invitation
  Provokes my soul to sip
    Delighted fascination.

_Shakuntala_. You seem slow, dear, in fulfilling your promise.

_King_. The lotus over your ear is so near your eye, and so like it,
that I was confused. (_He gently blows her eye_.)

_Shakuntala_. Thank you. I can see quite well now. But I am ashamed
not to make any return for your kindness.

_King_. What more could I ask?

  It ought to be enough for me
    To hover round your fragrant face;
  Is not the lotus-haunting bee
    Content with perfume and with grace?

_Shakuntala_. But what does he do if he is not content?

_King_. This! This! (_He draws her face to his_.)

_A voice behind the scenes_. O sheldrake bride, bid your mate
farewell. The night is come.

_Shakuntala_ (_listening excitedly_). Oh, my dear, this is Mother
Gautami, come to inquire about me. Please hide among the branches.

(_The king conceals himself. Enter _GAUTAMI, _with a bowl in her
hand_.)

_Gautami_. Here is the holy water, my child. (_She sees_ SHAKUNTALA
_and helps her to rise_.) So ill, and all alone here with the gods?

_Shakuntala_. It was just a moment ago that Priyamvada and Anusuya
went down to the river.

_Gautami_ (_sprinkling_ SHAKUNTALA _with the holy water_). May you
live long and happy, my child. Has the fever gone down? (_She touches
her_.)

_Shakuntala_. There is a difference, mother.

_Gautami_. The sun is setting. Come, let us go to the cottage.

_Shakuntala_ (_weakly rising. To herself_). Oh, my heart, you delayed
when your desire came of itself. Now see what you have done. (_She
takes a step, then turns around. Aloud_.) O bower that took away my
pain, I bid you farewell until another blissful hour. (_Exeunt_
SHAKUNTALA _and_ GAUTAMI.)

_King_ (_advancing with a sigh_.) The path to happiness is strewn with
obstacles.

  Her face, adorned with soft eye-lashes,
  Adorable with trembling flashes
  Of half-denial, in memory lingers;
  The sweet lips guarded by her fingers,
  The head that drooped upon her shoulder--
  Why was I not a little bolder?

Where shall I go now? Let me stay a moment in this bower where my
beloved lay. (_He looks about_.)

  The flower-strewn bed whereon her body tossed;
  The bracelet, fallen from her arm and lost;
  The dear love-missive, in the lotus-leaf
  Cut by her nails: assuage my absent grief
  And occupy my eyes--I have no power,
  Though she is gone, to leave the reedy bower.

(_He reflects_.) Alas! I did wrong to delay when I had found my love.
So now

  If she will grant me but one other meeting,
  I'll not delay; for happiness is fleeting;
  So plans my foolish, self-defeated heart;
  But when she comes, I play the coward's part.

_A voice behind the scenes_. O King!

  The flames rise heavenward from the evening altar;
    And round the sacrifices, blazing high,
  Flesh-eating demons stalk, like red cloud-masses,
    And cast colossal shadows on the sky.

_King_ (_listens. Resolutely_). Have no fear, hermits. I am here.

(_Exit_.)


ACT IV


SHAKUNTALA'S DEPARTURE

SCENE I

(_Enter the two friends, gathering flowers_.)

_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, dear Shakuntala has been properly married by
the voluntary ceremony and she has a husband worthy of her. And yet I
am not quite satisfied.

_Priyamvada_. Why not?

_Anusuya_. The sacrifice is over and the good king was dismissed
to-day by the hermits. He has gone back to the city and there he is
surrounded by hundreds of court ladies. I wonder whether he will
remember poor Shakuntala or not.

_Priyamvada_. You need not be anxious about that. Such handsome men
are sure to be good. But there is something else to think about. I
don't know what Father will have to say when he comes back from his
pilgrimage and hears about it.

_Anusuya_. I believe that he will be pleased.

_Priyamvada_. Why?

_Anusuya_. Why not? You know he wanted to give his daughter to a lover
worthy of her. If fate brings this about of itself, why shouldn't
Father be happy?

_Priyamvada_. I suppose you are right. (_She looks at her
flower-basket_.) My dear, we have gathered flowers enough for the
sacrifice.

_Anusuya_. But we must make an offering to the gods that watch over
Shakuntala's marriage. We had better gather more.

_Priyamvada_. Very well. (_They do so_.)

_A voice behind the scenes_. Who will bid me welcome?

_Anusuya_ (_listening_). My dear, it sounds like a guest announcing
himself.

_Priyamvada_. Well, Shakuntala is near the cottage. (_Reflecting_.)
Ah, but to-day her heart is far away. Come, we must do with the
flowers we have. (_They start to walk away_.)

_The voice_.

    Do you dare despise a guest like me?
  Because your heart, by loving fancies blinded,
    Has scorned a guest in pious life grown old,
  Your lover shall forget you though reminded,
    Or think of you as of a story told.

(_The two girls listen and show dejection_.)

_Priyamvada_. Oh, dear! The very thing has happened. The dear,
absent-minded girl has offended some worthy man.

_Anusuya_ (_looking ahead_). My dear, this is no ordinary somebody. It
is the great sage Durvasas, the irascible. See how he strides away!

_Priyamvada_. Nothing burns like fire. Run, fall at his feet, bring
him back, while I am getting water to wash his feet.

_Anusuya_. I will. (_Exit_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_stumbling_). There! I stumbled in my excitement, and
the flower-basket fell out of my hand. (_She collects the scattered
flowers_. ANUSUYA _returns_.)

_Anusuya_. My dear, he is anger incarnate. Who could appease him? But
I softened him a little.

_Priyamvada_. Even that is a good deal for him. Tell me about it.

_Anusuya_. When he would not turn back, I fell at his feet and prayed
to him. "Holy sir," I said, "remember her former devotion and pardon
this offence. Your daughter did not recognise your great and holy
power to-day."

_Priyamvada_. And then----

_Anusuya_. Then he said: "My words must be fulfilled. But the curse
shall be lifted when her lover sees a gem which he has given her for a
token." And so he vanished.

_Priyamvada_. We can breathe again. When the good king went away, he
put a ring, engraved with his own name, on Shakuntala's finger to
remember him by. That will save her.

_Anusuya_. Come, we must finish the sacrifice for her. (_They walk
about_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_gazing_). Just look, Anusuya! There is the dear girl,
with her cheek resting on her left hand. She looks like a painted
picture. She is thinking about him. How could she notice a guest when
she has forgotten herself?

_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, we two must keep this thing to ourselves. We
must be careful of the dear girl. You know how delicate she is.

_Priyamvada_. Would any one sprinkle a jasmine-vine with scalding
water? (_Exeunt ambo_.)


SCENE II.--_Early Morning_

(_Enter a pupil of_ KANVA, _just risen from sleep_.)

_Pupil_. Father Kanva has returned from his pilgrimage, and has bidden
me find out what time it is. I will go into the open air and see how
much of the night remains. (_He walks and looks about_.) See! The dawn
is breaking. For already

  The moon behind the western mount is sinking;
  The eastern sun is heralded by dawn;
  From heaven's twin lights, their fall and glory linking,
  Brave lessons of submission may be drawn.

And again:

  Night-blooming lilies, when the moon is hidden,
  Have naught but memories of beauty left.
  Hard, hard to bear! Her lot whom heaven has bidden
  To live alone, of love and lover reft.

And again:

  On jujube-trees the blushing dewdrops falter;
  The peacock wakes and leaves the cottage thatch;
  A deer is rising near the hoof-marked altar,
  And stretching, stands, the day's new life to catch.

And yet again:

  The moon that topped the loftiest mountain ranges,
  That slew the darkness in the midmost sky,
  Is fallen from heaven, and all her glory changes:
  So high to rise, so low at last to lie!

_Anusuya_ (_entering hurriedly. To herself_). That is just what
happens to the innocent. Shakuntala has been treated shamefully by the
king. _Pupil_. I will tell Father Kanva that the hour of morning
sacrifice is come. (_Exit_.)

_Anusuya_. The dawn is breaking. I am awake bright and early. But what
shall I do now that I am awake? My hands refuse to attend to the
ordinary morning tasks. Well, let love take its course. For the dear,
pure-minded girl trusted him--the traitor! Perhaps it is not the good
king's fault. It must be the curse of Durvasas. Otherwise, how could
the good king say such beautiful things, and then let all this time
pass without even sending a message? (_She reflects_.) Yes, we must
send him the ring he left as a token. But whom shall we ask to take
it? The hermits are unsympathetic because they have never suffered. It
seemed as if her friends were to blame and so, try as we might, we
could not tell Father Kanva that Shakuntala was married to Dushyanta
and was expecting a baby. Oh, what shall we do? (_Enter_ PRIYAMVADA.)

_Priyamvada_. Hurry, Anusuya, hurry! We are getting Shakuntala ready
for her journey.

_Anusuya_ (_astonished_). What do you mean, my dear?

_Priyamuada_. Listen. I just went to Shakuntala, to ask if she had
slept well.

_Anusuya_. And then----

_Priyamvada_. I found her hiding her face for shame, and Father Kanva
was embracing her and encouraging her. "My child," he said, "I bring
you joy. The offering fell straight in the sacred fire, and auspicious
smoke rose toward the sacrificer. My pains for you have proved like
instruction given to a good student; they have brought me no regret.
This very day I shall give you an escort of hermits and send you to
your husband."

_Anusuya_. But, my dear, who told Father Kanva about it?

_Priyamvada_. A voice from heaven that recited a verse when he had
entered the fire-sanctuary.

_Anusuya_ (_astonished_). What did it say?

_Priyamvada_. Listen. (_Speaking in good Sanskrit_.)

  Know, Brahman, that your child,
  Like the fire-pregnant tree,
  Bears kingly seed that shall be born
  For earth's prosperity.

 _Anusuya_ (_hugging_ PRIYAMVADA). I am so glad, dear. But my joy is
half sorrow when I think that Shakuntala is going to be taken away
this very day.

_Priyamvada_. We must hide our sorrow as best we can. The poor girl
must be made happy to-day.

_Anusuya_. Well, here is a cocoa-nut casket, hanging on a branch of
the mango-tree. I put flower-pollen in it for this very purpose. It
keeps fresh, you know. Now you wrap it in a lotus-leaf, and I will get
yellow pigment and earth from a sacred spot and blades of panic grass
for the happy ceremony. (PRIYAMVADA _does so. Exit_ ANUSUYA.)

_A voice behind the scenes_. Gautami, bid the worthy Sharngarava and
Sharadvata make ready to escort my daughter Shakuntala.

_Priyamvada_ (_listening_). Hurry, Anusuya, hurry! They are calling
the hermits who are going to Hastinapura. (_Enter_ ANUSUYA, _with
materials for the ceremony_.)

_Anusuya_. Come, dear, let us go. (_They walk about_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_looking ahead_). There is Shakuntala. She took the
ceremonial bath at sunrise, and now the hermit-women are giving her
rice-cakes and wishing her happiness. Let's go to her. (_They do so.
Enter_ SHAKUNTALA _with attendants as described, and_ GAUTAMI.)

_Shakuntala_. Holy women, I salute you.

_Gautami_. My child, may you receive the happy title "queen," showing
that your husband honours you.

_Hermit-women_. My dear, may you become the mother of a hero. (_Exeunt
all but_ GAUTAMI.)

_The two friends_ (_approaching_). Did you have a good bath, dear?

_Shakuntala_. Good morning, girls. Sit here.

_The two friends_ (_seating themselves_). Now stand straight, while we
go through the happy ceremony.

_Shakuntala_. It has happened often enough, but I ought to be very
grateful to-day. Shall I ever be adorned by my friends again? (_She
weeps_.)

_The two friends_. You ought not to weep, dear, at this happy time.

(_They wipe the tears away and adorn her_.)

_Priyamvada_. You are so beautiful, you ought to have the finest gems.
It seems like an insult to give you these hermitage things. (_Enter_
HARITA, _a hermit-youth with ornaments_.) _Harita_. Here are
ornaments for our lady. (_The women look at them in astonishment_.)

_Gautami_. Harita, my son, whence come these things?

_Harita_. From the holy power of Father Kanva.

_Gautami_. A creation of his mind?

_Harita_. Not quite. Listen. Father Kanva sent us to gather blossoms
from the trees for Shakuntala, and then

  One tree bore fruit, a silken marriage dress
  That shamed the moon in its white loveliness;
  Another gave us lac-dye for the feet;
  From others, fairy hands extended, sweet
  Like flowering twigs, as far as to the wrist,
  And gave us gems, to adorn her as we list.

_Priyamvada_ (_Looking at_ SHAKUNTALA). A bee may be born in a hole in
a tree, but she likes the honey of the lotus.

_Gautami_. This gracious favour is a token of the queenly happiness
which you are to enjoy in your husband's palace. (SHAKUNTALA _shows
embarrassment_.)

_Harita_. Father Kanva has gone to the bank of the Malini, to perform
his ablutions. I will tell him of the favour shown us by the trees.

(_Exit_.)

_Anusuya_. My dear, we poor girls never saw such ornaments. How shall
we adorn you? (_She stops to think, and to look at the ornaments_.)
But we have seen pictures. Perhaps we can arrange them right.

_Shakuntala_. I know how clever you are. (_The two friends adorn her.
Enter_ KANVA, _returning after his ablutions_.)

_Kanva_.

  Shakuntala must go to-day;
    I miss her now at heart;
  I dare not speak a loving word
  Or choking tears will start.

  My eyes are dim with anxious thought;
  Love strikes me to the life:
  And yet I strove for pious peace--
  I have no child, no wife.

  What must a father feel, when come
  The pangs of parting from his child at home?

(_He walks about_.) _The two friends_. There, Shakuntala, we have
arranged your ornaments. Now put on this beautiful silk dress.

(SHAKUNTALA _rises and does so_.)

_Gautami_. My child, here is your father. The eyes with which he seems
to embrace you are overflowing with tears of joy. You must greet him
properly. (SHAKUNTALA _makes a shamefaced reverence_.)

_Kanva_. My child,

  Like Sharmishtha, Yayati's wife,
    Win favour measured by your worth;
  And may you bear a kingly son
    Like Puru, who shall rule the earth.

_Gautami_. My child, this is not a prayer, but a benediction.

_Kanva_. My daughter, walk from left to right about the fires in which
the offering has just been thrown. (_All walk about_.)

  The holy fires around the altar kindle,
    And at their margins sacred grass is piled;
  Beneath their sacrificial odours dwindle
    Misfortunes. May the fires protect you, child!

(SHAKUNTALA _walks about them from left to right_.)

_Kanva_. Now you may start, my daughter. (_He glances about_.) Where
are Sharngarava and Sharadvata? (_Enter the two pupils_.)

_The two pupils_. We are here, Father.

_Kanva_. Sharngarava, my son, lead the way for your sister.

_Sharngarava_. Follow me. (_They all walk about_.)

_Kanva_. O trees of the pious grove, in which the fairies dwell,

  She would not drink till she had wet
    Your roots, a sister's duty,
  Nor pluck your flowers; she loves you yet
    Far more than selfish beauty.

  'Twas festival in her pure life
    When budding blossoms showed;
  And now she leaves you as a wife--
    Oh, speed her on her road!

 _Sharngarava_ (_listening to the song of koil-birds_). Father,

  The trees are answering your prayer
  In cooing cuckoo-song,
  Bidding Shakuntala farewell,
  Their sister for so long.

_Invisible beings_,

  May lily-dotted lakes delight your eye;
  May shade-trees bid the heat of noonday cease;
  May soft winds blow the lotus-pollen nigh;
  May all your path be pleasantness and peace.

(_All listen in astonishment_.)

_Gautami_. My child, the fairies of the pious grove bid you farewell.
For they love the household. Pay reverence to the holy ones.

_Shakuntala_ (_does so. Aside to_ PRIYAMVADA). Priyamvada, I long to
see my husband, and yet my feet will hardly move. It is hard, hard to
leave the hermitage.

_Priyamvada_. You are not the only one to feel sad at this farewell.
See how the whole grove feels at parting from you.

  The grass drops from the feeding doe;
  The peahen stops her dance;
  Pale, trembling leaves are falling slow,
  The tears of clinging plants.

_Shakuntala_ (_recalling something_). Father, I must say good-bye to
the spring-creeper, my sister among the vines.

_Kanva_. I know your love for her. See! Here she is at your right
hand.

_Shakuntala_ (_approaches the vine and embraces it_). Vine sister,
embrace me too with your arms, these branches. I shall be far away
from you after to-day. Father, you must care for her as you did for
me.

_Kanva_.

  My child, you found the lover who
  Had long been sought by me;
  No longer need I watch for you;
  I'll give the vine a lover true,
  This handsome mango-tree.

And now start on your journey. _Shakuntala_ (_going to the two
friends_). Dear girls, I leave her in your care too.

_The two friends_. But who will care for poor us? (_They shed tears_.)

_Kanva_. Anusuya! Priyamvada! Do not weep. It is you who should cheer
Shakuntala. (_All walk about_.)

_Shakuntala_. Father, there is the pregnant doe, wandering about near
the cottage. When she becomes a happy mother, you must send some one
to bring me the good news. Do not forget.

_Kanva_. I shall not forget, my child.

_Shakuntala_ (_stumbling_) Oh, oh! Who is it that keeps pulling at my
dress, as if to hinder me? (_She turns round to see_.)

_Kanva_.

  It is the fawn whose lip, when torn
  By kusha-grass, you soothed with oil;
  The fawn who gladly nibbled corn
  Held in your hand; with loving toil
  You have adopted him, and he
  Would never leave you willingly.

_Shakuntala_. My dear, why should you follow me when I am going away
from home? Your mother died when you were born and I brought you up.
Now I am leaving you, and Father Kanva will take care of you. Go back,
dear! Go back! (_She walks away, weeping_.)

_Kanva_. Do not weep, my child. Be brave. Look at the path before you.

  Be brave, and check the rising tears
  That dim your lovely eyes;
  Your feet are stumbling on the path
  That so uneven lies.

_Sharngarava_. Holy Father, the Scripture declares that one should
accompany a departing loved one only to the first water. Pray give us
your commands on the bank of this pond, and then return.

_Kanva_. Then let us rest in the shade of this fig-tree. (_All do
so_.) What commands would it be fitting for me to lay on King
Dushyanta? (_He reflects_.)

_Anusuya_. My dear, there is not a living thing in the whole
hermitage that is not grieving to-day at saying good-bye to you. Look!

  The sheldrake does not heed his mate
    Who calls behind the lotus-leaf;
  He drops the lily from his bill
    And turns on you a glance of grief.

_Kanva_. Son Sharngarava, when you present Shakuntala to the king,
give him this message from me.

  Remembering my religious worth,
  Your own high race, the love poured forth
  By her, forgetful of her friends,
  Pay her what honour custom lends
  To all your wives. And what fate gives
  Beyond, will please her relatives.

_Sharngarava_. I will not forget your message, Father.

_Kanva_ (_turning to_ SHAKUNTALA). My child, I must now give you my
counsel. Though I live in the forest, I have some knowledge of the
world.

_Sharngarava_. True wisdom, Father, gives insight into everything.

_Kanva_. My child, when you have entered your husband's home,

  Obey your elders; and be very kind
  To rivals; never be perversely blind
  And angry with your husband, even though he
  Should prove less faithful than a man might be;
  Be as courteous to servants as you may,
  Not puffed with pride in this your happy day:
  Thus does a maiden grow into a wife;
  But self-willed women are the curse of life.

But what does Gautami say?

_Gautami_. This is advice sufficient for a bride. (_To_ SHAKUNTALA.)
You will not forget, my child.

_Kanva_. Come, my daughter, embrace me and your friends.

_Shakuntala_. Oh, Father! Must my friends turn back too?

_Kanva_. My daughter, they too must some day be given in marriage.
Therefore they may not go to court. Gautami will go with you.

_Shakuntala_ (_throwing her arms about her father_). I am torn from
my father's breast like a vine stripped from a sandal-tree on the
Malabar hills. How can I live in another soil? (_She weeps_.)

_Kanva_. My daughter, why distress yourself so?

  A noble husband's honourable wife,
  You are to spend a busy, useful life
  In the world's eye; and soon, as eastern skies
  Bring forth the sun, from you there shall arise
  A child, a blessing and a comfort strong--
  You will not miss me, dearest daughter, long.

_Shakuntala_ (_falling at his feet_). Farewell, Father.

_Kanva_. My daughter, may all that come to you which I desire for you.

_Shakuntala_ (_going to her two friends_). Come, girls! Embrace me,
both of you together.

_The two friends_ (_do so_). Dear, if the good king should perhaps be
slow to recognise you, show him the ring with his own name engraved on
it.

_Shakuntala_. Your doubts make my heart beat faster.

_The two friends_. Do not be afraid, dear. Love is timid.

_Sharngarava_ (_looking about_). Father, the sun is in mid-heaven. She
must hasten.

_Shakuntala_ (_embracing_ KANVA _once more_). Father, when shall I see
the pious grove again?

_Kanva_. My daughter,

  When you have shared for many years
    The king's thoughts with the earth,
  When to a son who knows no fears
    You shall have given birth,

  When, trusted to the son you love,
    Your royal labours cease,
  Come with your husband to the grove
    And end your days in peace.

_Gautami_. My child, the hour of your departure is slipping by. Bid
your father turn back. No, she would never do that. Pray turn back,
sir.

_Kanva_. Child, you interrupt my duties in the pious grove.

_Shakuntala_. Yes, Father. You will be busy in the grove. You will not
miss me. But oh! I miss you. _Kanva_. How can you think me so
indifferent? (_He sighs_.)

  My lonely sorrow will not go,
  For seeds you scattered here
  Before the cottage door, will grow;
  And I shall see them, dear.

Go. And peace go with you. (_Exit_ SHAKUNTALA, _with_ GAUTAMI,
SHARNGARAVA, _and_ SHARADVATA.)

_The two friends_ (_gazing long after her. Mournfully_). Oh, oh!
Shakuntala is lost among the trees.

_Kanva_. Anusuya! Priyamvada! Your companion is gone. Choke down your
grief and follow me. (_They start to go back_.)

_The two friends_. Father, the grove seems empty without Shakuntala.

_Kanva_. So love interprets. (_He walks about, sunk in thought_.) Ah!
I have sent Shakuntala away, and now I am myself again. For

  A girl is held in trust, another's treasure;
  To arms of love my child to-day is given;
  And now I feel a calm and sacred pleasure;
  I have restored the pledge that came from heaven.

(_Exeunt omnes_.)


ACT V


SHAKUNTALA'S REJECTION

(_Enter a chamberlain_.)

_Chamberlain_ (_sighing_). Alas! To what a state am I reduced!

  I once assumed the staff of reed
  For custom's sake alone,
  As officer to guard at need.
  The ladies round the throne.
  But years have passed away and made
  It serve, my tottering steps to aid.

The king is within. I will tell him of the urgent business which
demands his attention. (_He takes a few steps_.) But what is the
business? (_He recalls it_.) Yes, I remember. Certain hermits, pupils
of Kanva, desire to see his Majesty. Strange, strange!

  The mind of age is like a lamp
  Whose oil is running thin;
  One moment it is shining bright,
  Then darkness closes in.

(_He walks and looks about_.) Here is his Majesty.

  He does not seek--until a father's care
  Is shown his subjects--rest in solitude;
  As a great elephant recks not of the sun
  Until his herd is sheltered in the wood.

In truth, I hesitate to announce the coming of Kanva's pupils to the
king. For he has this moment risen from the throne of justice. But
kings are never weary. For

  The sun unyokes his horses never;
  Blows night and day the breeze;
  Shesha upholds the world forever:
  And kings are like to these.

(_He walks about. Enter the king, the clown, and retinue according to
rank_.) _King_ (_betraying the cares of office_). Every one is happy
on attaining his desire--except a king. His difficulties increase with
his power. Thus:

  Security slays nothing but ambition;
    With great possessions, troubles gather thick;
  Pain grows, not lessens, with a king's position,
    As when one's hand must hold the sunshade's stick.

_Two court poets behind the scenes_. Victory to your Majesty.

_First poet_.

  The world you daily guard and bless,
  Not heeding pain or weariness;
    Thus is your nature made.
  A tree will brave the noonday, when
  The sun is fierce, that weary men
  May rest beneath its shade.

_Second poet_.

  Vice bows before the royal rod;
  Strife ceases at your kingly nod;
    You are our strong defender.
  Friends come to all whose wealth is sure,
  But you, alike to rich and poor,
    Are friend both strong and tender.

_King_ (_listening_). Strange! I was wearied by the demands of my
office, but this renews my spirit.

_Clown_. Does a bull forget that he is tired when you call him the
leader of the herd?

_King_ (_smiling_). Well, let us sit down. (_They seat themselves, and
the retinue arranges itself. A lute is heard behind the scenes_.)

_Clown_ (_listening_). My friend, listen to what is going on in the
music-room. Some one is playing a lute, and keeping good time. I
suppose Lady Hansavati is practising.

_King_. Be quiet. I wish to listen.

_Chamberlain_ (_looks at the king_). Ah, the king is occupied. I must
await his leisure. (_He stands aside_.)

_A song behind the scenes_.

  You who kissed the mango-flower,
    Honey-loving bee,
  Gave her all your passion's power,
    Ah, so tenderly!

  How can you be tempted so
  By the lily, pet?
  Fresher honey's sweet, I know;
  But can you forget?

_King_. What an entrancing song!

_Clown_. But, man, don't you understand what the words mean?

_King_ (_smiling_). I was once devoted to Queen Hansavati. And the
rebuke comes from her. Friend Madhavya, tell Queen Hansavati in my
name that the rebuke is a very pretty one.

_Clown_. Yes, sir. (_He rises_.) But, man, you are using another
fellow's fingers to grab a bear's tail-feathers with. I have about as
much chance of salvation as a monk who hasn't forgotten his passions.

_King_. Go. Soothe her like a gentleman.

_Clown_. I suppose I must. (_Exit_.)

_King_ (_to himself_). Why am I filled with wistfulness on hearing
such a song? I am not separated from one I love. And yet

  In face of sweet presentment
  Or harmonies of sound,
  Man e'er forgets contentment,
  By wistful longings bound.

  There must be recollections
  Of things not seen on earth,
  Deep nature's predilections,
  Loves earlier than birth.

(_He shows the wistfulness that comes from unremembered things_.)

_Chamberlain_ (_approaching_). Victory to your Majesty. Here are
hermits who dwell in the forest at the foot of the Himalayas. They
bring women with them, and they carry a message from Kanva. What is
your pleasure with regard to them?

_King_ (_astonished_). Hermits? Accompanied by women? From Kanva?

_Chamberlain_. Yes.

_King_. Request my chaplain Somarata in my name to receive these
hermits in the manner prescribed by Scripture, and to conduct them
himself before me. I will await them in a place fit for their
reception.

_Chamberlain_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_King_ (_rising_). Vetravati, conduct me to the fire-sanctuary.

_Portress_. Follow me, your Majesty. (_She walks about_) Your Majesty,
here is the terrace of the fire-sanctuary. It is beautiful, for it has
just been swept, and near at hand is the cow that yields the milk of
sacrifice. Pray ascend it.

_King_ (_ascends and stands leaning on the shoulder of an attendant_.)
Vetravati, with what purpose does Father Kanva send these hermits to
me?

  Do leagued powers of sin conspire
  To balk religion's pure desire?
  Has wrong been done to beasts that roam
  Contented round the hermits' home?
  Do plants no longer bud and flower,
  To warn me of abuse of power?
  These doubts and more assail my mind,
  But leave me puzzled, lost, and blind.

_Portress_. How could these things be in a hermitage that rests in the
fame of the king's arm? No, I imagine they have come to pay homage to
their king, and to congratulate him on his pious rule.

(_Enter the chaplain and the chamberlain, conducting the two pupils
of_ KANVA, _with_ GAUTAMI _and_ SHAKUNTALA.)

_Chamberlain_. Follow me, if you please.

_Sharngarava_. Friend Sharadvata,

  The king is noble and to virtue true;
  None dwelling here commit the deed of shame;
  Yet we ascetics view the worldly crew
  As in a house all lapped about with flame.

_Sharadvata_. Sharngarava, your emotion on entering the city is quite
just. As for me,

  Free from the world and all its ways,
  I see them spending worldly days
  As clean men view men smeared with oil,
  As pure men, those whom passions soil,
  As waking men view men asleep,
  As free men, those in bondage deep.
_Chaplain_. That is why men like you are great.

_Shakuntala_ (_observing an evil omen_). Oh, why does my right eye
throb?

_Gautami_. Heaven avert the omen, my child. May happiness wait upon
you. (_They walk about_.)

_Chaplain_ (_indicating the king_). O hermits, here is he who protects
those of every station and of every age. He has already risen, and
awaits you. Behold him.

_Sharngarava_. Yes, it is admirable, but not surprising. For

  Fruit-laden trees bend down to earth;
    The water-pregnant clouds hang low;
  Good men are not puffed up by power--
    The unselfish are by nature so.

_Portress_. Your Majesty, the hermits seem to be happy. They give you
gracious looks.

_King_ (_observing_ SHAKUNTALA). Ah!

  Who is she, shrouded in the veil
    That dims her beauty's lustre,
  Among the hermits like a flower
    Round which the dead leaves cluster?

_Portress_. Your Majesty, she is well worth looking at.

_King_. Enough! I must not gaze upon another's wife.

_Shakuntala_ (_laying her hand on her breast. Aside_). Oh, my heart,
why tremble so? Remember his constant love and be brave.

_Chaplain_ (_advancing_). Hail, your Majesty. The hermits have been
received as Scripture enjoins. They have a message from their teacher.
May you be pleased to hear it.

_King_ (_respectfully_). I am all attention.

_The two pupils_ (_raising their right hands_). Victory, O King.

_King_ (_bowing low_). I salute you all.

_The two pupils_. All hail.

_King_. Does your pious life proceed without disturbance?

_The two pupils_.

  How could the pious duties fail
    While you defend the right?
  Or how could darkness' power prevail
    O'er sunbeams shining bright?
_King_ (_to himself_). Indeed, my royal title is no empty one.
(_Aloud_.) Is holy Kanva in health?

_Sharngarava_. O King, those who have religious power can command
health. He asks after your welfare and sends this message.

_King_. What are his commands?

_Sharngarava_. He says: "Since you have met this my daughter and have
married her, I give you my glad consent. For

  You are the best of worthy men, they say;
  And she, I know, Good Works personified;
  The Creator wrought for ever and a day,
  In wedding such a virtuous groom and bride.

She is with child. Take her and live with her in virtue."

_Gautami_. Bless you, sir. I should like to say that no one invites me
to speak.

_King_. Speak, mother.

_Gautami_.

  Did she with father speak or mother?
  Did you engage her friends in speech?
  Your faith was plighted each to other;
  Let each be faithful now to each.

_Shakuntala_. What will my husband say?

_King_ (_listening with anxious suspicion_). What is this insinuation?

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Oh, oh! So haughty and so slanderous!

_Sharngarava_. "What is this insinuation?" What is your question?
Surely you know the world's ways well enough.

  Because the world suspects a wife
  Who does not share her husband's lot,
  Her kinsmen wish her to abide
  With him, although he love her not.

_King_. You cannot mean that this young woman is my wife.

_Shakuntala_ (_sadly to herself_). Oh, my heart, you feared it, and
now it has come. _Sharngarava_. O King,

  A king, and shrink when love is done,
  Turn coward's back on truth, and flee!

_King_. What means this dreadful accusation?

_Sharngarava_ (_furiously_).

  O drunk with power! We might have known
  That you were steeped in treachery.

_King_. A stinging rebuke!

_Gautami_ (_to_ SHAKUNTALA). Forget your shame, my child. I will
remove your veil. Then your husband will recognise you. (_She does
so_.)

_King_ (_observing_ SHAKUNTALA. _To himself_).

  As my heart ponders whether I could ever
  Have wed this woman that has come to me
  In tortured loveliness, as I endeavour
  To bring it back to mind, then like a bee

  That hovers round a jasmine flower at dawn,
  While frosty dews of morning still o'erweave it,
  And hesitates to sip ere they be gone,
  I cannot taste the sweet, and cannot leave it.

_Portress_ (_to herself_). What a virtuous king he is! Would any other
man hesitate when he saw such a pearl of a woman coming of her own
accord?

_Sharngarava_. Have you nothing to say, O King?

_King_. Hermit, I have taken thought. I cannot believe that this woman
is my wife. She is plainly with child. How can I take her, confessing
myself an adulterer?

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Oh, oh, oh! He even casts doubt on our
marriage. The vine of my hope climbed high, but it is broken now.

_Sharngarava_. Not so.

  You scorn the sage who rendered whole
  His child befouled, and choked his grief,
  Who freely gave you what you stole
  And added honour to a thief!

_Sharadvata_. Enough, Sharngarava. Shakuntala, we have said what we
were sent to say. You hear his words. Answer him.

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). He loved me so. He is so changed. Why
remind him? Ah, but I must clear my own character. Well, I will try.
(_Aloud_.) My dear husband--(_She stops_.) No, he doubts my right to
call him that. Your Majesty, it was pure love that opened my poor
heart to you in the hermitage. Then you were kind to me and gave me
your promise. Is it right for you to speak so now, and to reject me?

_King_ (_stopping his ears_). Peace, peace!

  A stream that eats away the bank,
  Grows foul, and undermines the tree.
  So you would stain your honour, while
  You plunge me into misery.

_Shakuntala_. Very well. If you have acted so because you really fear
to touch another man's wife, I will remove your doubts with a token
you gave me.

_King_. An excellent idea!

_Shakuntala_ (_touching her finger_). Oh, oh! The ring is lost. (_She
looks sadly at_ GAUTAMI.)

_Gautami_. My child, you worshipped the holy Ganges at the spot where
Indra descended. The ring must have fallen there.

_King_. Ready wit, ready wit!

_Shakuntala_. Fate is too strong for me there. I will tell you
something else.

_King_. Let me hear what you have to say.

_Shakuntala_. One day, in the bower of reeds, you were holding a
lotus-leaf cup full of water.

_King_. I hear you.

_Shakuntala_. At that moment the fawn came up, my adopted son. Then
you took pity on him and coaxed him. "Let him drink first," you said.
But he did not know you, and he would not come to drink water from
your hand. But he liked it afterwards, when I held the very same
water. Then you smiled and said: "It is true. Every one trusts his own
sort. You both belong to the forest."

_King_. It is just such women, selfish, sweet, false, that entice
fools. _Gautami_. You have no right to say that. She grew up in the
pious grove. She does not know how to deceive.

_King_. Old hermit woman,

  The female's untaught cunning may be seen
  In beasts, far more in women selfish-wise;
  The cuckoo's eggs are left to hatch and rear
  By foster-parent