EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY
  EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS




  POETRY AND THE DRAMA




  KALIDASA
  Translations of Shakuntala & Other Works


  BY ARTHUR W. RYDER




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

  LONDON & TORONTO
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 [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 Müller'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 détour 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, _épopée
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 Kâlidâsa domine la poésie indienne et la résume brillamment.
Le drame, l'épopée savante, l'élégie attestent aujourd'hui encore la
puissance et la souplesse de ce magnifique génie; seul entre les
disciples de Sarasvatî [the goddess of eloquence], il a eu le bonheur
de produire un chef-d'oeuvre vraiment classique, où l'Inde s'admire et
où l'humanité se reconnaît. Les applaudissements qui saluèrent la
naissance de Çakuntalâ à Ujjayinî ont après de longs siècles éclaté
d'un bout du monde à l'autre, quand William Jones l'eut révélée à
l'Occident. Kâlidâsa a marqué sa place dans cette pléiade étincelante
où chaque nom résume une période de l'esprit humain. La série de ces
noms forme l'histoire, ou plutôt elle est l'histoire même.[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 _Encyclopædia Britannica_
(1910); and Sylvain Lévi's _Le Théâtre 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 Blüte des frühen, die
    Früchte des späteren Jahres,
  Willst du, was reizt und entzückt,
    Willst du, was sättigt und nährt,
  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: Lévi, _Le Théâtre 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 PERSONÆ


  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 hornèd 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, belovèd, 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 belovèd, 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
belovèd 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 koïl-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 leaguèd 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-parents, and away she flies.

_Shakuntala_ (_angrily_). Wretch! You judge all this by your own false
heart. Would any other man do what you have done? To hide behind
virtue, like a yawning well covered over with grass!

_King_ (_to himself_). But her anger is free from coquetry, because
she has lived in the forest. See!

  Her glance is straight; her eyes are flashing red;
  Her speech is harsh, not drawlingly well-bred;
  Her whole lip quivers, seems to shake with cold;
  Her frown has straightened eyebrows arching bold.

No, she saw that I was doubtful, and her anger was feigned. Thus

  When I refused but now
  Hard-heartedly, to know
  Of love or secret vow,
  Her eyes grew red; and so,
  Bending her arching brow,
  She fiercely snapped Love's bow.

(_Aloud_.) My good girl, Dushyanta's conduct is known to the whole
kingdom, but not this action.

_Shakuntala_. Well, well. I had my way. I trusted a king, and put
myself in his hands. He had a honey face and a heart of stone. (_She
covers her face with her dress and weeps_.)

_Sharngarava_. Thus does unbridled levity burn.

  Be slow to love, but yet more slow
  With secret mate;
  With those whose hearts we do not know,
  Love turns to hate.

_King_. Why do you trust this girl, and accuse me of an imaginary
crime? _Sharngarava_ (_disdainfully_). You have learned your wisdom
upside down.

  It would be monstrous to believe
  A girl who never lies;
  Trust those who study to deceive
  And think it very wise.

_King_. Aha, my candid friend! Suppose I were to admit that I am such
a man. What would happen if I deceived the girl?

_Sharngarava_. Ruin.

_King_. It is unthinkable that ruin should fall on Puru's line.

_Sharngarava_. Why bandy words? We have fulfilled our Father's
bidding. We are ready to return.

  Leave her or take her, as you will;
  She is your wife;
  Husbands have power for good or ill
  O'er woman's life.

Gautami, lead the way. (_They start to go_.)

_Shakuntala_. He has deceived me shamelessly. And will you leave me
too? (_She starts to follow_.)

_Gautami_ (_turns around and sees her_). Sharngarava, my son,
Shakuntala is following us, lamenting piteously. What can the poor
child do with a husband base enough to reject her?

_Sharngarava_ (_turns angrily_). You self-willed girl! Do you dare
show independence? (SHAKUNTALA _shrinks in fear_.) Listen.

  If you deserve such scorn and blame,
  What will your father with your shame?
  But if you know your vows are pure,
  Obey your husband and endure.

Remain. We must go.

_King_. Hermit, why deceive this woman? Remember:

  Night-blossoms open to the moon,
  Day-blossoms to the sun;
  A man of honour ever strives
  Another's wife to shun.
_Sharngarava_. O King, suppose you had forgotten your former actions
in the midst of distractions. Should you now desert your wife--you who
fear to fail in virtue?

_King_. I ask _you_ which is the heavier sin:

  Not knowing whether I be mad
  Or falsehood be in her,
  Shall I desert a faithful wife
  Or turn adulterer?

_Chaplain_ (_considering_). Now if this were done----

_King_. Instruct me, my teacher.

_Chaplain_. Let the woman remain in my house until her child is born.

_King_. Why this?

_Chaplain_. The chief astrologers have told you that your first child
was destined to be an emperor. If the son of the hermit's daughter is
born with the imperial birthmarks, then welcome her and introduce her
into the palace. Otherwise, she must return to her father.

_King_. It is good advice, my teacher.

_Chaplain_ (_rising_). Follow me, my daughter.

_Shakuntala_. O mother earth, give me a grave! (_Exit weeping, with
the chaplain, the hermits, and_ GAUTAMI. _The king, his memory clouded
by the curse, ponders on_ SHAKUNTALA.)

_Voices behind the scenes_. A miracle! A miracle!

_King_ (_listening_). What does this mean? (_Enter the chaplain_.)

_Chaplain_ (_in amazement_). Your Majesty, a wonderful thing has
happened.

_King_. What?

_Chaplain_. When Kanva's pupils had departed,

  She tossed her arms, bemoaned her plight,
  Accused her crushing fate----

_King_. What then?

_Chaplain_.

  Before our eyes a heavenly light
  In woman's form, but shining bright,
  Seized her and vanished straight.

(_All betray astonishment_.)

_King_. My teacher, we have already settled the matter. Why speculate
in vain? Let us seek repose. _Chaplain_. Victory to your Majesty.

(_Exit_.)

_King_. Vetravati, I am bewildered. Conduct me to my apartment.

_Portress_. Follow me, your Majesty.

_King_ (_walks about. To himself_).

  With a hermit-wife I had no part,
  All memories evade me;
  And yet my sad and stricken heart
  Would more than half persuade me.

(_Exeunt omnes_.)


ACT VI


SEPARATION FROM SHAKUNTALA

SCENE I.--_In the street before the Palace_

(_Enter the chief of police, two policemen, and a man with his hands
bound behind his back_.)

_The two policemen_ (_striking the man_). Now, pickpocket, tell us
where you found this ring. It is the king's ring, with letters
engraved on it, and it has a magnificent great gem.

_Fisherman_ (_showing fright_). Be merciful, kind gentlemen. I am not
guilty of such a crime.

_First policeman_. No, I suppose the king thought you were a pious
Brahman, and made you a present of it.

_Fisherman_. Listen, please. I am a fisherman, and I live on the
Ganges, at the spot where Indra came down.

_Second policeman_. You thief, we didn't ask for your address or your
social position.

_Chief_. Let him tell a straight story, Suchaka. Don't interrupt.

_The two policemen_. Yes, chief. Talk, man, talk.

_Fisherman_. I support my family with things you catch fish
with--nets, you know, and hooks, and things.

_Chief_ (_laughing_). You have a sweet trade.

_Fisherman_. Don't say that, master.

  You can't give up a lowdown trade
  That your ancestors began;
  A butcher butchers things, and yet
  He's the tenderest-hearted man.

_Chief_. Go on. Go on.

_Fisherman_. Well, one day I was cutting up a carp. In its maw I see
this ring with the magnificent great gem. And then I was just trying
to sell it here when you kind gentlemen grabbed me. That is the only
way I got it. Now kill me, or find fault with me.

_Chief_ (_smelling the ring_). There is no doubt about it, Januka.
It has been in a fish's maw. It has the real perfume of raw meat. Now
we have to find out how he got it. We must go to the palace.

_The two policemen_ (_to the fisherman_). Move on, you cutpurse, move
on. (_They walk about_.)

_Chief_. Suchaka, wait here at the big gate until I come out of the
palace. And don't get careless.

_The two policemen_. Go in, chief. I hope the king will be nice to
you.

_Chief_. Good-bye. (_Exit_.)

_Suchaka_. Januka, the chief is taking his time.

_Januka_. You can't just drop in on a king.

_Suchaka_. Januka, my fingers are itching (_indicating the fisherman_)
to kill this cutpurse.

_Fisherman_. Don't kill a man without any reason, master.

_Januka_ (_looking ahead_). There is the chief, with a written order
from the king. (_To the fisherman_.) Now you will see your family, or
else you will feed the crows and jackals. (_Enter the chief_.)

_Chief_. Quick! Quick! (_He breaks off_.)

_Fisherman_. Oh, oh! I'm a dead man. (_He shows dejection_.)

_Chief_. Release him, you. Release the fishnet fellow. It is all
right, his getting the ring. Our king told me so himself.

_Suchaka_. All right, chief. He is a dead man come back to life. (_He
releases the fisherman_.)

_Fisherman_ (_bowing low to the chief_). Master, I owe you my life.

(_He falls at his feet_.)

_Chief_. Get up, get up! Here is a reward that the king was kind
enough to give you. It is worth as much as the ring. Take it. (_He
hands the fisherman a bracelet_.)

_Fisherman_ (_joyfully taking it_). Much obliged.

_Januka_. He _is_ much obliged to the king. Just as if he had been
taken from the stake and put on an elephant's back.

_Suchaka_. Chief, the reward shows that the king thought a lot of the
ring. The gem must be worth something.

_Chief_. No, it wasn't the fine gem that pleased the king. It was this
way.

_The two policemen_. Well?

_Chief_. I think, when the king saw it, he remembered somebody he
loves. You know how dignified he is usually. But as soon as he saw it,
he broke down for a moment.

_Suchaka_. You have done the king a good turn, chief.

_Januka_. All for the sake of this fish-killer, it seems to me. (_He
looks enviously at the fisherman_.)

_Fisherman_. Take half of it, masters, to pay for something to drink.

_Januka_. Fisherman, you are the biggest and best friend I've got. The
first thing we want, is all the brandy we can hold. Let's go where
they keep it. (_Exeunt omnes_.)


SCENE II.--_In the Palace Gardens_

(_Enter_ MISHRAKESHI, _flying through the air_.)

_Mishrakeshi_. I have taken my turn in waiting upon the nymphs. And
now I will see what this good king is doing. Shakuntala is like a
second self to me, because she is the daughter of Menaka. And it was
she who asked me to do this. (_She looks about_.) It is the day of the
spring festival. But I see no preparations for a celebration at court.
I might learn the reason by my power of divination. But I must do as
my friend asked me. Good! I will make myself invisible and stand near
these girls who take care of the garden. I shall find out that way.

(_She descends to earth. Enter a maid, gazing at a mango branch, and
behind her, a second_.)

_First maid_.

  First mango-twig, so pink, so green,
  First living breath of spring,
  You are sacrificed as soon as seen,
  A festival offering.

_Second maid_. What are you chirping about to yourself, little cuckoo?

_First maid_. Why, little bee, you know that the cuckoo goes crazy
with delight when she sees the mango-blossom.

_Second maid_ (_joyfully_). Oh, has the spring really come?

_First maid_. Yes, little bee. And this is the time when you too buzz
about in crazy joy. _Second maid_. Hold me, dear, while I stand on
tiptoe and offer this blossom to Love, the divine.

_First maid_. If I do, you must give me half the reward of the
offering.

_Second maid_. That goes without saying, dear. We two are one. (_She
leans on her friend and takes the mango-blossom_.) Oh, see! The
mango-blossom hasn't opened, but it has broken the sheath, so it is
fragrant. (_She brings her hands together_.) I worship mighty Love.

  O mango-twig I give to Love
    As arrow for his bow,
  Most sovereign of his arrows five,
    Strike maiden-targets low.

(_She throws the twig. Enter the chamberlain_.)

_Chamberlain_ (_angrily_). Stop, silly girl. The king has strictly
forbidden the spring festival. Do you dare pluck the mango-blossoms?

_The two maids_ (_frightened_). Forgive us, sir. We did not know.

_Chamberlain_. What! You have not heard the king's command, which is
obeyed even by the trees of spring and the creatures that dwell in
them. See!

  The mango branches are in bloom,
    Yet pollen does not form;
  The cuckoo's song sticks in his throat,
    Although the days are warm;

  The amaranth-bud is formed, and yet
    Its power of growth is gone;
  The love-god timidly puts by
    The arrow he has drawn.

_Mishrakeshi_. There is no doubt of it. This good king has wonderful
power.

_First maid_. A few days ago, sir, we were sent to his Majesty by his
brother-in-law Mitravasu to decorate the garden. That is why we have
heard nothing of this affair.

_Chamberlain_. You must not do so again.

_The two maids_. But we are curious. If we girls may know about it,
pray tell us, sir. Why did his Majesty forbid the spring festival?
_Mishrakeshi_. Kings are fond of celebrations. There must be some good
reason.

_Chamberlain_ (_to himself_). It is in everybody's mouth. Why should I
not tell it? (_Aloud_.) Have you heard the gossip concerning
Shakuntala's rejection?

_The two maids_. Yes, sir. The king's brother-in-law told us, up to
the point where the ring was recovered.

_Chamberlain_. There is little more to tell. When his Majesty saw the
ring, he remembered that he had indeed contracted a secret marriage
with Shakuntala, and had rejected her under a delusion. And then he
fell a prey to remorse.

  He hates the things he loved; he intermits
  The daily audience, nor in judgment sits;
  Spends sleepless nights in tossing on his bed;
  At times, when he by courtesy is led
  To address a lady, speaks another name,
  Then stands for minutes, sunk in helpless shame.

_Mishrakeshi_. I am glad to hear it.

_Chamberlain_. His Majesty's sorrow has forbidden the festival.

_The two maids_. It is only right.

_A voice behind the scenes_. Follow me.

_Chamberlain_ (_listening_). Ah, his Majesty approaches. Go, and
attend to your duties. (_Exeunt the two maids. Enter the king, wearing
a dress indicative of remorse; the clown, and the portress_.)

_Chamberlain_ (_observing the king_). A beautiful figure charms in
whatever state. Thus, his Majesty is pleasing even in his sorrow. For

  All ornament is laid aside; he wears
    One golden bracelet on his wasted arm;
  His lip is scorched by sighs; and sleepless cares
    Redden his eyes. Yet all can work no harm
  On that magnificent beauty, wasting, but
  Gaining in brilliance, like a diamond cut.

_Mishrakeshi_ (_observing the king_). No wonder Shakuntala pines for
him, even though he dishonoured her by his rejection of her.

_King_ (_walks about slowly, sunk in thought_).

  Alas! My smitten heart, that once lay sleeping,
    Heard in its dreams my fawn-eyed love's laments,
  And wakened now, awakens but to weeping,
    To bitter grief, and tears of penitence.

_Mishrakeshi_. That is the poor girl's fate.

_Clown_ (_to himself_). He has got his Shakuntala-sickness again. I
wish I knew how to cure him.

_Chamberlain (advancing)_. Victory to your Majesty. I have examined
the garden. Your Majesty may visit its retreats.

_King_. Vetravati, tell the minister Pishuna in my name that a
sleepless night prevents me from mounting the throne of judgment. He
is to investigate the citizens' business and send me a memorandum.

_Portress_. Yes, your Majesty. _(Exit.)_

_King_. And you, Parvatayana, return to your post of duty.

_Chamberlain_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_Clown_. You have got rid of the vermin. Now amuse yourself in this
garden. It is delightful with the passing of the cold weather.

_King_ (_sighing_). My friend, the proverb makes no mistake.
Misfortune finds the weak spot. See!

  No sooner did the darkness lift
    That clouded memory's power,
  Than the god of love prepared his bow
    And shot the mango-flower.

  No sooner did the ring recall
    My banished maiden dear,
  No sooner do I vainly weep
    For her, than spring is here.

_Clown_. Wait a minute, man. I will destroy Love's arrow with my
stick. (_He raises his stick and strikes at the mango branch_.)

_King_ (_smiling_). Enough! I see your pious power. My friend, where
shall I sit now to comfort my eyes with the vines? They remind me
somehow of her.

_Clown_. Well, you told one of the maids, the clever painter, that
you would spend this hour in the bower of spring-creepers. And you
asked her to bring you there the picture of the lady Shakuntala which
you painted on a tablet.

_King_. It is my only consolation. Lead the way to the bower of
spring-creepers.

_Clown_. Follow me. (_They walk about_. MISHRAKESHI _follows_.) Here
is the bower of spring-creepers, with its jewelled benches. Its
loneliness seems to bid you a silent welcome. Let us go in and sit
down. (_They do so_.)

_Mishrakeshi_. I will hide among the vines and see the dear girl's
picture. Then I shall be able to tell her how deep her husband's love
is. (_She hides_.)

_King_ (_sighing_). I remember it all now, my friend. I told you how I
first met Shakuntala. It is true, you were not with me when I rejected
her. But I had told you of her at the first. Had you forgotten, as I
did?

_Mishrakeshi_. This shows that a king should not be separated a single
moment from some intimate friend.

_Clown_. No, I didn't forget. But when you had told the whole story,
you said it was a joke and there was nothing in it. And I was fool
enough to believe you. No, this is the work of fate.

_Mishrakeshi_. It must be.

_King_ (_after meditating a moment_). Help me, my friend.

_Clown_. But, man, this isn't right at all. A good man never lets
grief get the upper hand. The mountains are calm even in a tempest.

_King_. My friend, I am quite forlorn. I keep thinking of her pitiful
state when I rejected her. Thus:

  When I denied her, then she tried
  To join her people. "Stay," one cried,
  Her father's representative.
  She stopped, she turned, she could but give
  A tear-dimmed glance to heartless me--
  That arrow burns me poisonously.

_Mishrakeshi_. How his fault distresses him!

_Clown_. Well, I don't doubt it was some heavenly being that carried
her away.

_King_. Who else would dare to touch a faithful wife? Her friends told
me that Menaka was her mother. My heart persuades me that it was
she, or companions of hers, who carried Shakuntala away.

_Mishrakeshi_. His madness was wonderful, not his awakening reason.

_Clown_. But in that case, you ought to take heart. You will meet her
again.

_King_. How so?

_Clown_. Why, a mother or a father cannot long bear to see a daughter
separated from her husband.

_King_. My friend,

  And was it phantom, madness, dream,
    Or fatal retribution stern?
  My hopes fell down a precipice
    And never, never will return.

_Clown_. Don't talk that way. Why, the ring shows that incredible
meetings do happen.

_King_ (_looking at the ring_). This ring deserves pity. It has fallen
from a heaven hard to earn.

  Your virtue, ring, like mine,
    Is proved to be but small;
  Her pink-nailed finger sweet
    You clasped. How could you fall?

_Mishrakeshi_. If it were worn on any other hand, it would deserve
pity. My dear girl, you are far away. I am the only one to hear these
delightful words.

_Clown_. Tell me how you put the ring on her finger.

_Mishrakeshi_. He speaks as if prompted by my curiosity.

_King_. Listen, my friend. When I left the pious grove for the city,
my darling wept and said: "But how long will you remember us, dear?"

_Clown_. And then you said----

_King_. Then I put this engraved ring on her finger, and said to
her----

_Clown_. Well, what?

_King_.

  Count every day one letter of my name;
    Before you reach the end, dear,
  Will come to lead you to my palace halls
    A guide whom I shall send, dear.

Then, through my madness, it fell out cruelly. _Mishrakeshi_. It was
too charming an agreement to be frustrated by fate.

_Clown_. But how did it get into a carp's mouth, as if it had been a
fish-hook?

_King_. While she was worshipping the Ganges at Shachitirtha, it fell.

_Clown_. I see.

_Mishrakeshi_. That is why the virtuous king doubted his marriage with
poor Shakuntala. Yet such love does not ask for a token. How could it
have been?

_King_. Well, I can only reproach this ring.

_Clown_ (_smiling_). And I will reproach this stick of mine. Why are
you crooked when I am straight?

_King_ (_not hearing him_).

  How could you fail to linger
  On her soft, tapering finger,
  And in the water fall?

And yet

  Things lifeless know not beauty;
  But I--I scorned my duty,
  The sweetest task of all.

_Mishrakeshi_. He has given the answer which I had ready.

_Clown_. But that is no reason why I should starve to death.

_King_ (_not heeding_). O my darling, my heart burns with repentance
because I abandoned you without reason. Take pity on me. Let me see
you again. (_Enter a maid with a tablet_.)

_Maid_. Your Majesty, here is the picture of our lady. (_She produces
the tablet_.)

_King_ (_gazing at it_). It is a beautiful picture. See!

  A graceful arch of brows above great eyes;
  Lips bathed in darting, smiling light that flies
  Reflected from white teeth; a mouth as red
  As red karkandhu-fruit; love's brightness shed
  O'er all her face in bursts of liquid charm--
  The picture speaks, with living beauty warm.

_Clown_ (_looking at it_). The sketch is full of sweet meaning. My
eyes seem to stumble over its uneven surface. What more can I say? I
expect to see it come to life, and I feel like speaking to it.

_Mishrakeshi_. The king is a clever painter. I seem to see the dear
girl before me.

_King_. My friend,

  What in the picture is not fair,
  Is badly done;
  Yet something of her beauty there,
  I feel, is won.

_Mishrakeshi_. This is natural, when love is increased by remorse.

_King_ (_sighing_).

  I treated her with scorn and loathing ever;
  Now o'er her pictured charms my heart will burst:
  A traveller I, who scorned the mighty river.
  And seeks in the mirage to quench his thirst.

_Clown_. There are three figures in the picture, and they are all
beautiful. Which one is the lady Shakuntala?

_Mishrakeshi_. The poor fellow never saw her beauty. His eyes are
useless, for she never came before them.

_King_. Which one do you think?

_Clown_ (_observing closely_). I think it is this one, leaning against
the creeper which she has just sprinkled. Her face is hot and the
flowers are dropping from her hair; for the ribbon is loosened. Her
arms droop like weary branches; she has loosened her girdle, and she
seems a little fatigued. This, I think, is the lady Shakuntala, the
others are her friends.

_King_. You are good at guessing. Besides, here are proofs of my love.

  See where discolorations faint
  Of loving handling tell;
  And here the swelling of the paint
  Shows where my sad tears fell.

Chaturika, I have not finished the background. Go, get the brushes.

_Maid_. Please hold the picture, Madhavya, while I am gone.

_King_. I will hold it. (_He does so. Exit maid_.)

_Clown_. What are you going to add?

_Mishrakeshi_. Surely, every spot that the dear girl loved.

_King_. Listen, my friend.

  The stream of Malini, and on its sands
  The swan-pairs resting; holy foot-hill lands
  Of great Himalaya's sacred ranges, where
  The yaks are seen; and under trees that bear
  Bark hermit-dresses on their branches high,
  A doe that on the buck's horn rubs her eye.

_Clown_ (_aside_). To hear him talk, I should think he was going to
fill up the picture with heavy-bearded hermits.

_King_. And another ornament that Shakuntala loved I have forgotten to
paint.

_Clown_. What?

_Mishrakeshi_. Something natural for a girl living in the forest.

_King_.

  The siris-blossom, fastened o'er her ear,
  Whose stamens brush her cheek;
  The lotus-chain like autumn moonlight soft
  Upon her bosom meek.

_Clown_. But why does she cover her face with fingers lovely as the
pink water-lily? She seems frightened. (_He looks more closely_.) I
see. Here is a bold, bad bee. He steals honey, and so he flies to her
lotus-face.

_King_. Drive him away.

_Clown_. It is your affair to punish evil-doers.

_King_. True. O welcome guest of the flowering vine, why do you waste
your time in buzzing here?

  Your faithful, loving queen,
  Perched on a flower, athirst,
  Is waiting for you still,
  Nor tastes the honey first.

_Mishrakeshi_. A gentlemanly way to drive him off!

_Clown_. This kind are obstinate, even when you warn them.

_King_ (_angrily_). Will you not obey my command? Then listen:

  'Tis sweet as virgin blossoms on a tree,
  The lip I kissed in love-feasts tenderly;
  Sting that dear lip, O bee, with cruel power,
  And you shall be imprisoned in a flower.

_Clown_. Well, he doesn't seem afraid of your dreadful punishment.
(_Laughing. To himself_.) The man is crazy, and I am just as bad, from
associating with him.

_King_. Will he not go, though I warn him?

_Mishrakeshi_. Love works a curious change even in a brave man.

_Clown_ (_aloud_). It is only a picture, man.

_King_. A picture?

_Mishrakeshi_. I too understand it now. But to him, thoughts are real
experiences.

_King_. You have done an ill-natured thing.

  When I was happy in the sight,
  And when my heart was warm,
  You brought sad memories back, and made
  My love a painted form.

(_He sheds a tear_.)

_Mishrakeshi_. Fate plays strangely with him.

_King_. My friend, how can I endure a grief that has no respite?

  I cannot sleep at night
  And meet her dreaming;
  I cannot see the sketch
  While tears are streaming.

_Mishrakeshi_. My friend, you have indeed atoned--and in her friend's
presence--for the pain you caused by rejecting dear Shakuntala.

(_Enter the maid_ CHATURIKA.)

_Maid_. Your Majesty, I was coming back with the box of
paint-brushes----

_King_. Well?

_Maid_. I met Queen Vasumati with the maid Pingalika. And the queen
snatched the box from me, saying: "I will take it to the king myself."

_Clown_. How did you escape?

_Maid_. The queen's dress caught on a vine. And while her maid was
setting her free, I excused myself in a hurry. _A voice behind the
scenes_. Follow me, your Majesty.

_Clown_ (_listening_). Man, the she-tiger of the palace is making a
spring on her prey. She means to make one mouthful of the maid.

_King_. My friend, the queen has come because she feels touched in her
honour. You had better take care of this picture.

_Clown_. "And yourself," you might add. (_He takes the picture and
rises_.) If you get out of the trap alive, call for me at the Cloud
Balcony. And I will hide the thing there so that nothing but a pigeon
could find it. (_Exit on the run_.)

_Mishrakeshi_. Though his heart is given to another, he is courteous
to his early flame. He is a constant friend.

(_Enter the portress with a document_.)

_Portress_. Victory to your Majesty.

_King_. Vetravati, did you not meet Queen Vasumati?

_Portress_. Yes, your Majesty. But she turned back when she saw that I
carried a document.

_King_. The queen knows times and seasons. She will not interrupt
business.

_Portress_. Your Majesty, the minister sends word that in the press of
various business he has attended to only one citizen's suit. This he
has reduced to writing for your Majesty's perusal.

_King_. Give me the document. (_The portress does so_.)

_King_ (_reads_). "Be it known to his Majesty. A seafaring merchant
named Dhanavriddhi has been lost in a shipwreck. He is childless, and
his property, amounting to several millions, reverts to the crown.
Will his Majesty take action?" (_Sadly_.) It is dreadful to be
childless. Vetravati, he had great riches. There must be several
wives. Let inquiry be made. There may be a wife who is with child.

_Portress_. We have this moment heard that a merchant's daughter of
Saketa is his wife. And she is soon to become a mother.

_King_. The child shall receive the inheritance. Go, inform the
minister.

_Portress_. Yes, your Majesty. (_She starts to go_.)

_King_. Wait a moment.

_Portress_ (_turning back_). Yes, your Majesty. _King_. After all,
what does it matter whether he have issue or not?

  Let King Dushyanta be proclaimed
  To every sad soul kin
  That mourns a kinsman loved and lost,
  Yet did not plunge in sin.

_Portress_. The proclamation shall be made. (_She goes out and soon
returns_.) Your Majesty, the royal proclamation was welcomed by the
populace as is a timely shower.

_King_ (_sighing deeply_). Thus, when issue fails, wealth passes, on
the death of the head of the family, to a stranger. When I die, it
will be so with the glory of Puru's line.

_Portress_. Heaven avert the omen!

_King_. Alas! I despised the happiness that offered itself to me.

_Mishrakeshi_. Without doubt, he has dear Shakuntala in mind when he
thus reproaches himself.

_King_.

  Could I forsake the virtuous wife
  Who held my best, my future life
  And cherished it for glorious birth,
  As does the seed-receiving earth?

_Mishrakeshi_. She will not long be forsaken.

_Maid_ (_to the portress_). Mistress, the minister's report has
doubled our lord's remorse. Go to the Cloud Balcony and bring Madhavya
to dispel his grief.

_Portress_. A good suggestion. (_Exit_.)

_King_. Alas! The ancestors of Dushyanta are in a doubtful case.

  For I am childless, and they do not know,
  When I am gone, what child of theirs will bring
  The scriptural oblation; and their tears
  Already mingle with my offering.

_Mishrakeshi_. He is screened from the light, and is in darkness.

_Maid_. Do not give way to grief, your Majesty. You are in the prime
of your years, and the birth of a son to one of your other wives will
make you blameless before your ancestors. (_To herself_.) He does not
heed me. The proper medicine is needed for any disease. _King_
(_betraying his sorrow_). Surely,

  The royal line that flowed
  A river pure and grand,
  Dies in the childless king,
  Like streams in desert sand.

(_He swoons_.)

_Maid_ (_in distress_). Oh, sir, come to yourself.

_Mishrakeski_. Shall I make him happy now? No, I heard the mother of
the gods consoling Shakuntala. She said that the gods, impatient for
the sacrifice, would soon cause him to welcome his true wife. I must
delay no longer. I will comfort dear Shakuntala with my tidings.

(_Exit through the air_.)

_A voice behind the scenes_. Help, help!

_King_ (_comes to himself and listens_). It sounds as if Madhavya were
in distress.

_Maid_. Your Majesty, I hope that Pingalika and the other maids did
not catch poor Madhavya with the picture in his hands.

_King_. Go, Chaturika. Reprove the queen in my name for not
controlling her servants.

_Maid_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_The voice_. Help, help!

_King_. The Brahman's voice seems really changed by fear. Who waits
without? (_Enter the chamberlain_.)

_Chamberlain_. Your Majesty commands?

_King_. See why poor Madhavya is screaming so.

_Chamberlain_. I will see. (_He goes out, and returns trembling_.)

_King_. Parvatayana, I hope it is nothing very dreadful.

_Chamberlain_. I hope not.

_King_. Then why do you tremble so? For

  Why should the trembling, born
  Of age, increasing, seize
  Your limbs and bid them shake
  Like fig-leaves in the breeze?

_Chamberlain_. Save your friend, O King!

_King_. From what?

_Chamberlain_. From great danger.

_King_. Speak plainly, man.

_Chamberlain_. On the Cloud Balcony, open to the four winds of
heaven--

_King_. What has happened there?

_Chamberlain_.

  While he was resting on its height,
  Which palace peacocks in their flight
  Can hardly reach, he seemed to be
  Snatched up--by what, we could not see.

_King_ (_rising quickly_). My very palace is invaded by evil
creatures. To be a king, is to be a disappointed man.

  The moral stumblings of mine own,
  The daily slips, are scarcely known;
  Who then that rules a kingdom, can
  Guide every deed of every man?

_The voice_. Hurry, hurry!

_King_ (_hears the voice and quickens his steps_). Have no fear, my
friend.

_The voice_. Have no fear! When something has got me by the back of
the neck, and is trying to break my bones like a piece of sugar-cane!

_King_ (_looks about_). A bow! a bow! (_Enter a Greek woman with a
bow_.)

_Greek woman_. A bow and arrows, your Majesty. And here are the
finger-guards. (_The king takes the bow and arrows_.)

_Another voice behind the scenes_.

  Writhe, while I drink the red blood flowing clear
  And kill you, as a tiger kills a deer;
  Let King Dushyanta grasp his bow; but how
  Can all his kingly valour save you now?

_King_ (_angrily_). He scorns me, too! In one moment, miserable demon,
you shall die. (_Stringing his bow_.) Where is the stairway,
Parvatayana?

_Chamberlain_. Here, your Majesty. (_All make haste_.)

_King_ (_Looking about_). There is no one here.

_The Clown's voice_. Save me, save me! I see you, if you can't see me.
I am a mouse in the claws of the cat. I am done for. _King_. You are
proud of your invisibility. But shall not my arrow see you? Stand
still. Do not hope to escape by clinging to my friend.

  My arrow, flying when the bow is bent,
  Shall slay the wretch and spare the innocent;
  When milk is mixed with water in a cup,
  Swans leave the water, and the milk drink up.

(_He takes aim. Enter_ MATALI _and the clown_.)

_Matali_. O King, as Indra, king of the gods, commands,

  Seek foes among the evil powers alone;
  For them your bow should bend;
  Not cruel shafts, but glances soft and kind
  Should fall upon a friend.

_King_ (_hastily withdrawing the arrow_). It is Matali. Welcome to the
charioteer of heaven's king.

_Clown_. Well! He came within an inch of butchering me. And you
welcome him.

_Matali_ (_smiling_). Hear, O King, for what purpose Indra sends me to
you.

_King_. I am all attention.

_Matali_. There is a host of demons who call themselves
Invincible--the brood of Kalanemi.

_King_. So Narada has told me.

_Matali_.

  Heaven's king is powerless; you shall smite
  His foes in battle soon;
  Darkness that overcomes the day,
  Is scattered by the moon.

Take your bow at once, enter my heavenly chariot, and set forth for
victory.

_King_. I am grateful for the honour which Indra shows me. But why did
you act thus toward Madhavya?

_Matali_. I will tell you. I saw that you were overpowered by some
inner sorrow, and acted thus to rouse you. For

  The spurnèd snake will swell his hood;
  Fire blazes when 'tis stirred;
  Brave men are roused to fighting mood
  By some insulting word.
_King_. Friend Madhavya, I must obey the bidding of heaven's king. Go,
acquaint the minister Pishuna with the matter, and add these words of
mine:

  Your wisdom only shall control
    The kingdom for a time;
  My bow is strung; a distant goal
    Calls me, and tasks sublime.

_Clown_. Very well. (_Exit_.)

_Matali_. Enter the chariot. (_The king does so. Exeunt omnes_.)


ACT VII


(_Enter, in a chariot that flies through the air, the king and_
MATALI.)

_King_. Matali, though I have done what Indra commanded, I think
myself an unprofitable servant, when I remember his most gracious
welcome.

_Matali_. O King, know that each considers himself the other's debtor.
For

  You count the service given
    Small by the welcome paid,
  Which to the king of heaven
    Seems mean for such brave aid.

_King_. Ah, no! For the honour given me at parting went far beyond
imagination. Before the gods, he seated me beside him on his throne.
And then

  He smiled, because his son Jayanta's heart
    Beat quicker, by the self-same wish oppressed,
  And placed about my neck the heavenly wreath
    Still fragrant from the sandal on his breast.

_Matali_. But what do you not deserve from heaven's king? Remember:

  Twice, from peace-loving Indra's sway
  The demon-thorn was plucked away:
    First, by Man-lion's crooked claws;
  Again, by your smooth shafts to-day.

_King_. This merely proves Indra's majesty. Remember:

  All servants owe success in enterprise
    To honour paid before the great deed's done;
  Could dawn defeat the darkness otherwise
    Than resting on the chariot of the sun?

_Matali_. The feeling becomes you. (_After a little_.) See, O King!
Your glory has the happiness of being published abroad in heaven.

  With colours used by nymphs of heaven
    To make their beauty shine,
  Gods write upon the surface given
    Of many a magic vine,
  As worth their song, the simple story
  Of those brave deeds that made your glory.

_King_. Matali, when I passed before, I was intent on fighting the
demons, and did not observe this region. Tell me. In which path of the
winds are we?

_Matali_.

  It is the windpath sanctified
  By holy Vishnu's second stride;
  Which, freed from dust of passion, ever
  Upholds the threefold heavenly river;
  And, driving them with reins of light,
  Guides the stars in wheeling flight.

_King_. That is why serenity pervades me, body and soul. (_He observes
the path taken by the chariot_.) It seems that we have descended into
the region of the clouds.

_Matali_. How do you perceive it?

_King_.

  Plovers that fly from mountain-caves,
  Steeds that quick-flashing lightning laves,
  And chariot-wheels that drip with spray--
  A path o'er pregnant clouds betray.

_Matali_. You are right. And in a moment you will be in the world over
which you bear rule.

_King_ (_looking down_). Matali, our quick descent gives the world of
men a mysterious look. For

  The plains appear to melt and fall
  From mountain peaks that grow more tall;
  The trunks of trees no longer hide
  Nor in their leafy nests abide;
  The river network now is clear,
  For smaller streams at last appear:
  It seems as if some being threw
  The world to me, for clearer view.

_Matali_. You are a good observer, O King. (_He looks down,
awe-struck_.) There is a noble loveliness in the earth. _King_.
Matali, what mountain is this, its flanks sinking into the eastern and
into the western sea? It drips liquid gold like a cloud at sunset.

_Matali_. O King, this is Gold Peak, the mountain of the fairy
centaurs. Here it is that ascetics most fully attain to magic powers.
See!

  The ancient sage, Marichi's son,
  Child of the Uncreated One,
  Father of superhuman life,
  Dwells here austerely with his wife.

_King_ (_reverently_). I must not neglect the happy chance. I cannot
go farther until I have walked humbly about the holy one.

_Matali_. It is a worthy thought, O King. (_The chariot descends_.) We
have come down to earth.

_King_ (_astonished_). Matali,

  The wheels are mute on whirling rim;
    Unstirred, the dust is lying there;
  We do not bump the earth, but skim:
    Still, still we seem to fly through air.

_Matali_. Such is the glory of the chariot which obeys you and Indra.

_King_. In which direction lies the hermitage of Marichi's son?

_Matali_ (_pointing_). See!

  Where stands the hermit, horridly austere,
  Whom clinging vines are choking, tough and sore;
  Half-buried in an ant-hill that has grown
  About him, standing post-like and alone;
  Sun-staring with dim eyes that know no rest,
  The dead skin of a serpent on his breast:
  So long he stood unmoved, insensate there
  That birds build nests within his mat of hair.

_King_ (_gazing_). All honour to one who mortifies the flesh so
terribly.

_Matali_ (_checking the chariot_). We have entered the hermitage of
the ancient sage, whose wife Aditi tends the coral-trees. _King_.
Here is deeper contentment than in heaven. I seem plunged in a pool of
nectar.

_Matali_ (_stopping the chariot_). Descend, O King.

_King_ (_descending_). But how will you fare?

_Matali_. The chariot obeys the word of command. I too will descend.
(_He does so_.) Before you, O King, are the groves where the holiest
hermits lead their self-denying life.

_King_. I look with amazement both at their simplicity and at what
they might enjoy.

  Their appetites are fed with air
  Where grows whatever is most fair;
  They bathe religiously in pools
  Which golden lily-pollen cools;
  They pray within a jewelled home,
  Are chaste where nymphs of heaven roam:
  They mortify desire and sin
  With things that others fast to win.

_Matali_. The desires of the great aspire high. (_He walks about and
speaks to some one not visible_.) Ancient Shakalya, how is Marichi's
holy son occupied? (_He listens_.) What do you say? That he is
explaining to Aditi, in answer to her question, the duties of a
faithful wife? My matter must await a fitter time. (_He turns to the
king_.) Wait here, O King, in the shade of the ashoka tree, till I
have announced your coming to the sire of Indra.

_King_. Very well. (_Exit_ MATALI. _The king's arm throbs, a happy
omen_.)

  I dare not hope for what I pray;
    Why thrill--in vain?
  For heavenly bliss once thrown away
    Turns into pain.

_A voice behind the scenes_. Don't! You mustn't be so foolhardy. Oh,
you are always the same.

_King_ (_listening_). No naughtiness could feel at home in this spot.
Who draws such a rebuke upon himself? (_He looks towards the sound. In
surprise_.) It is a child, but no child in strength. And two
hermit-women are trying to control him.

  He drags a struggling lion cub,
  The lioness' milk half-sucked, half-missed,
  Towzles his mane, and tries to drub
  Him tame with small, imperious fist.

(_Enter a small boy, as described, and two hermit-women_.)

_Boy_. Open your mouth, cub. I want to count your teeth.

_First woman_. Naughty boy, why do you torment our pets? They are like
children to us. Your energy seems to take the form of striking
something. No wonder the hermits call you All-tamer.

_King_. Why should my heart go out to this boy as if he were my own
son? (_He reflects_.) No doubt my childless state makes me
sentimental.

_Second woman_. The lioness will spring at you if you don't let her
baby go.

_Boy_ (_smiling_). Oh, I'm dreadfully scared. (_He bites his lip_.)

_King_ (_in surprise_).

  The boy is seed of fire
  Which, when it grows, will burn;
  A tiny spark that soon
  To awful flame may turn.

_First woman_. Let the little lion go, dear. I will give you another
plaything.

_Boy_. Where is it? Give it to me. (_He stretches out his hand_.)

_King_ (_looking at the hand_.) He has one of the imperial birthmarks!
For

  Between the eager fingers grow
  The close-knit webs together drawn,
  Like some lone lily opening slow
  To meet the kindling blush of dawn.

_Second woman_. Suvrata, we can't make him stop by talking. Go. In my
cottage you will find a painted clay peacock that belongs to the
hermit-boy Mankanaka. Bring him that.

_First woman_. I will. (_Exit_.) _Boy_. Meanwhile I'll play with
this one.

_Hermit-woman_ (_looks and laughs_). Let him go.

_King_. My heart goes out to this wilful child. (_Sighing_.)

  They show their little buds of teeth
  In peals of causeless laughter;
  They hide their trustful heads beneath
  Your heart. And stumbling after
  Come sweet, unmeaning sounds that sing
  To you. The father warms
  And loves the very dirt they bring
  Upon their little forms.

_Hermit-woman_ (_shaking her finger_). Won't you mind me? (_She looks
about_.) Which one of the hermit-boys is here? (_She sees the king_.)
Oh, sir, please come here and free this lion cub. The little rascal is
tormenting him, and I can't make him let go.

_King_. Very well. (_He approaches, smiling_.) O little son of a great
sage!

  Your conduct in this place apart,
  Is most unfit;
  'Twould grieve your father's pious heart
  And trouble it.

  To animals he is as good
  As good can be;
  You spoil it, like a black snake's brood
  In sandal tree.

_Hermit-woman_. But, sir, he is not the son of a hermit.

_King_. So it would seem, both from his looks and his actions. But in
this spot, I had no suspicion of anything else. (_He loosens the boy's
hold on the cub, and touching him, says to himself_.)

  It makes me thrill to touch the boy,
  The stranger's son, to me unknown;
  What measureless content must fill
  The man who calls the child his own!

_Hermit-woman_ (_looking at the two_). Wonderful! wonderful!

_King_. Why do you say that, mother?

_Hermit-woman_. I am astonished to see how much the boy looks like
you, sir. You are not related. Besides, he is a perverse little
creature and he does not know you. Yet he takes no dislike to
you.

_King_ (_caressing the boy_). Mother, if he is not the son of a
hermit, what is his family?

_Hermit-woman_. The family of Puru.

_King_ (_to himself_). He is of one family with me! Then could my
thought be true? (_Aloud_.) But this is the custom of Puru's line:

  In glittering palaces they dwell
  While men, and rule the country well;
  Then make the grove their home in age,
  And die in austere hermitage.

But how could human beings, of their own mere motion, attain this
spot?

_Hermit-woman_. You are quite right, sir. But the boy's mother was
related to a nymph, and she bore her son in the pious grove of the
father of the gods.

_King_ (_to himself_). Ah, a second ground for hope. (_Aloud_.) What
was the name of the good king whose wife she was?

_Hermit-woman_. Who would speak his name? He rejected his true wife.

_King_ (_to himself_). This story points at me. Suppose I ask the boy
for his mother's name. (_He reflects_.) No, it is wrong to concern
myself with one who may be another's wife.

(_Enter the first woman, with the clay peacock_.)

_First woman_. Look, All-tamer. Here is the bird, the _shakunta_.
Isn't the _shakunta_ lovely?

_Boy_ (_looks about_). Where is my mamma? (_The two women burst out
laughing_.)

_First woman_. It sounded like her name, and deceived him. He loves
his mother.

_Second woman_. She said: "See how pretty the peacock is." That is
all.

_King_ (_to himself_). His mother's name is Shakuntala! But names are
alike. I trust this hope may not prove a disappointment in the end,
like a mirage.

_Boy_. I like this little peacock, sister. Can it fly? (_He seizes the
toy_.) _First woman_ (_looks at the boy. Anxiously_), Oh, the amulet
is not on his wrist.

_King_. Do not be anxious, mother. It fell while he was struggling
with the lion cub. (_He starts to pick it up_.)

_The two women_. Oh, don't, don't! (_They look at him_.) He has
touched it! (_Astonished, they lay their hands on their bosoms, and
look at each other_.)

_King_. Why did you try to prevent me?

_First woman_. Listen, your Majesty. This is a divine and most potent
charm, called the Invincible. Marichi's holy son gave it to the baby
when the birth-ceremony was performed. If it falls on the ground, no
one may touch it except the boy's parents or the boy himself.

_King_. And if another touch it?

_First woman_. It becomes a serpent and stings him.

_King_. Did you ever see this happen to any one else?

_Both women_. More than once.

_King_ (_joyfully_). Then why may I not welcome my hopes fulfilled at
last? (_He embraces the boy_.)

_Second woman_. Come, Suvrata. Shakuntala is busy with her religious
duties. We must go and tell her what has happened. (_Exeunt ambo_.)

_Boy_. Let me go. I want to see my mother.

_King_. My son, you shall go with me to greet your mother.

_Boy_. Dushyanta is my father, not you.

_King_ (_smiling_). You show I am right by contradicting me. (_Enter_
SHAKUNTALA, _wearing her hair in a single braid_.)

_Shakuntala_ (_doubtfully_). I have heard that All-tamer's amulet did
not change when it should have done so. But I do not trust my own
happiness. Yet perhaps it is as Mishrakeshi told me. (_She walks
about_.)

_King_ (_looking at_ SHAKUNTALA. _With plaintive joy_). It is she. It
is Shakuntala.

  The pale, worn face, the careless dress,
  The single braid,
  Show her still true, me pitiless,
  The long vow paid.

_Shakuntala_ (_seeing the king pale with remorse. Doubtfully_). It is
not my husband. Who is the man that soils my boy with his caresses?
The amulet should protect him. _Boy_ (_running to his mother_).
Mother, he is a man that belongs to other people. And he calls me his
son.

_King_. My darling, the cruelty I showed you has turned to happiness.
Will you not recognise me?

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Oh, my heart, believe it. Fate struck
hard, but its envy is gone and pity takes its place. It is my husband.

_King_.

  Black madness flies;
  Comes memory;
  Before my eyes
  My love I see.

  Eclipse flees far;
  Light follows soon;
  The loving star
  Draws to the moon.

_Shakuntala_. Victory, victo--(_Tears choke her utterance_.)

_King_.

  The tears would choke you, sweet, in vain;
  My soul with victory is fed,
  Because I see your face again--
  No jewels, but the lips are red.

_Boy_. Who is he, mother?

_Shakuntala_. Ask fate, my child. (_She weeps_.)

_King_.

  Dear, graceful wife, forget;
  Let the sin vanish;
  Strangely did madness strive
  Reason to banish.

  Thus blindness works in men,
  Love's joy to shake;
  Spurning a garland, lest
  It prove a snake. (_He falls at her feet_.)

_Shakuntala_. Rise, my dear husband. Surely, it was some old sin of
mine that broke my happiness--though it has turned again to happiness.
Otherwise, how could you, dear, have acted so? You are so kind. (_The
king rises_.) But what brought back the memory of your suffering
wife? _King_. I will tell you when I have plucked out the dart of
sorrow.

  'Twas madness, sweet, that could let slip
  A tear to burden your dear lip;
  On graceful lashes seen to-day,
  I wipe it, and our grief, away.   (_He does so_.)

_Shakuntala_ (_sees more clearly and discovers the ring_). My husband,
it is the ring!

_King_. Yes. And when a miracle recovered it, my memory returned.

_Shakuntala_. That was why it was so impossible for me to win your
confidence.

_King_. Then let the vine receive her flower, as earnest of her union
with spring.

_Shakuntala_. I do not trust it. I would rather you wore it.

(_Enter_ MATALI)

_Matali_. I congratulate you, O King, on reunion with your wife and on
seeing the face of your son.

_King_. My desires bear sweeter fruit because fulfilled through a
friend. Matali, was not this matter known to Indra?

_Matali_ (_smiling_.) What is hidden from the gods? Come. Marichi's
holy son, Kashyapa, wishes to see you.

_King_. My dear wife, bring our son. I could not appear without you
before the holy one.

_Shakuntala_. I am ashamed to go before such parents with my husband.

_King_. It is the custom in times of festival. Come. (_They walk
about_. KASHYAPA _appears seated, with_ ADITI.)

_Kashyapa_ (_looking at the king_). Aditi,

  'Tis King Dushyanta, he who goes before
  Your son in battle, and who rules the earth,
  Whose bow makes Indra's weapon seem no more
  Than a fine plaything, lacking sterner worth.

_Aditi_. His valour might be inferred from his appearance.

_Matali_. O King, the parents of the gods look upon you with a glance
that betrays parental fondness. Approach them. _King_. Matali,

  Sprung from the Creator's children, do I see
  Great Kashyapa and Mother Aditi?
  The pair that did produce the sun in heaven,
  To which each year twelve changing forms are given;
  That brought the king of all the gods to birth,
  Who rules in heaven, in hell, and on the earth;
  That Vishnu, than the Uncreated higher,
  Chose as his parents with a fond desire.

_Matali_. It is indeed they.

_King_ (_falling before them_). Dushyanta, servant of Indra, does
reverence to you both.

_Kashyapa_. My son, rule the earth long.

_Aditi_. And be invincible. (SHAKUNTALA _and her son fall at their
feet_.)

_Kashyapa_. My daughter,

  Your husband equals Indra, king
  Of gods; your son is like his son;
  No further blessing need I bring:
  Win bliss such as his wife has won.

_Aditi_. My child, keep the favour of your husband. And may this fine
boy be an honour to the families of both parents. Come, let us be
seated. (_All seat themselves_.)

_Kashyapa_ (_indicating one after the other_).

  Faithful Shakuntala, the boy,
  And you, O King, I see
  A trinity to bless the world--
  Faith, Treasure, Piety.

_King_. Holy one, your favour shown to us is without parallel. You
granted the fulfilment of our wishes before you called us to your
presence. For, holy one,

  The flower comes first, and then the fruit;
  The clouds appear before the rain;
  Effect comes after cause; but you
  First helped, then made your favour plain.

_Matali_. O King, such is the favour shown by the parents of the
world. _King_. Holy one, I married this your maid-servant by the
voluntary ceremony. When after a time her relatives brought her to me,
my memory failed and I rejected her. In so doing, I sinned against
Kanva, who is kin to you. But afterwards, when I saw the ring, I
perceived that I had married her. And this seems very wonderful to me.

  Like one who doubts an elephant,
  Though seeing him stride by,
  And yet believes when he has seen
  The footprints left; so I.

_Kashyapa_. My son, do not accuse yourself of sin. Your infatuation
was inevitable. Listen.

_King_. I am all attention.

_Kashyapa_. When the nymph Menaka descended to earth and received
Shakuntala, afflicted at her rejection, she came to Aditi. Then I
perceived the matter by my divine insight. I saw that the unfortunate
girl had been rejected by her rightful husband because of Durvasas'
curse. And that the curse would end when the ring came to light.

_King_ (_with a sigh of relief. To himself_). Then I am free from
blame.

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Thank heaven! My husband did not reject
me of his own accord. He really did not remember me. I suppose I did
not hear the curse in my absent-minded state, for my friends warned me
most earnestly to show my husband the ring.

_Kashyapa_. My daughter, you know the truth. Do not now give way to
anger against your rightful husband. Remember:

  The curse it was that brought defeat and pain;
  The darkness flies; you are his queen again.
  Reflections are not seen in dusty glass,
  Which, cleaned, will mirror all the things that pass.

_King_. It is most true, holy one.

_Kashyapa_. My son, I hope you have greeted as he deserves the son
whom Shakuntala has borne you, for whom I myself have performed the
birth-rite and the other ceremonies.

_King_. Holy one, the hope of my race centres in him.

_Kashyapa_. Know then that his courage will make him emperor.

  Journeying over every sea,
  His car will travel easily;
  The seven islands of the earth
  Will bow before his matchless worth;
  Because wild beasts to him were tame,
  All-tamer was his common name;
  As Bharata he shall be known,
  For he will bear the world alone.

_King_. I anticipate everything from him, since you have performed the
rites for him.

_Aditi_. Kanva also should be informed that his daughter's wishes are
fulfilled. But Menaka is waiting upon me here and cannot be spared.

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). The holy one has expressed my own desire.

_Kashyapa_. Kanva knows the whole matter through his divine insight.
(_He reflects_.) Yet he should hear from us the pleasant tidings, how
his daughter and her son have been received by her husband. Who waits
without? (_Enter a pupil_.)

_Pupil_. I am here, holy one.

_Kashyapa_. Galava, fly through the air at once, carrying pleasant
tidings from me to holy Kanva. Tell him how Durvasas' curse has come
to an end, how Dushyanta recovered his memory, and has taken
Shakuntala with her child to himself.

_Pupil_. Yes, holy one. (_Exit_.)

_Kashyapa_ (_to the king_). My son, enter with child and wife the
chariot of your friend Indra, and set out for your capital.

_King_. Yes, holy one.

_Kashyapa_. For now

  May Indra send abundant rain,
  Repaid by sacrificial gain;
  With aid long mutually given,
  Rule you on earth, and he in heaven.

_King_. Holy one, I will do my best.

_Kashyapa_. What more, my son, shall I do for you?

_King_. Can there be more than this? Yet may this prayer be fulfilled.

  May kingship benefit the land,
  And wisdom grow in scholars' band;
  May Shiva see my faith on earth
  And make me free of all rebirth.

(_Exeunt omnes_.)

       *       *       *       *       *




THE STORY OF SHAKUNTALA


In the first book of the vast epic poem _Mahabharata_, Kalidasa found
the story of Shakuntala. The story has a natural place there, for
Bharata, Shakuntala's son, is the eponymous ancestor of the princes
who play the leading part in the epic.

With no little abbreviation of its epic breadth, the story runs as
follows:--

THE EPIC TALE

Once that strong-armed king, with a mighty host of men and chariots,
entered a thick wood. Then when the king had slain thousands of wild
creatures, he entered another wood with his troops and his chariots,
intent on pursuing a deer. And the king beheld a wonderful, beautiful
hermitage on the bank of the sacred river Malini; on its bank was the
beautiful hermitage of blessèd, high-souled Kanva, whither the great
sages resorted. Then the king determined to enter, that he might see
the great sage Kanva, rich in holiness. He laid aside the insignia of
royalty and went on alone, but did not see the austere sage in the
hermitage. Then, when he did not see the sage, and perceived that the
hermitage was deserted, he cried aloud, "Who is here?" until the
forest seemed to shriek. Hearing his cry, a maiden, lovely as Shri,
came from the hermitage, wearing a hermit garb. "Welcome!" she said at
once, greeting him, and smilingly added: "What may be done for you?"
Then the king said to the sweet-voiced maid: "I have come to pay
reverence to the holy sage Kanva. Where has the blessèd one gone,
sweet girl? Tell me this, lovely maid." Shakuntala said: "My blessèd
father has gone from the hermitage to gather fruits. Wait a moment.
You shall see him when he returns."

The king did not see the sage, but when the lovely girl of the fair
hips and charming smile spoke to him, he saw that{} she was radiant in
her beauty, yes, in her hard vows and self-restraint all youth and
beauty, and he said to her:

"Who are you? Whose are you, lovely maiden? Why did you come to the
forest? Whence are you, sweet girl, so lovely and so good? Your beauty
stole my heart at the first glance. I wish to know you better. Answer
me, sweet maid."

The maiden laughed when thus questioned by the king in the hermitage,
and the words she spoke were very sweet: "O Dushyanta, I am known as
blessed Kanva's daughter, and he is austere, steadfast, wise, and of a
lofty soul."

Dushyanta said: "But he is chaste, glorious maid, holy, honoured by
the world. Though virtue should swerve from its course, he would not
swerve from the hardness of his vow. How were you born his daughter,
for you are beautiful? I am in great perplexity about this. Pray
remove it."

[Shakuntala here explains how she is the child of a sage and a nymph,
deserted at birth, cared for by birds (_shakuntas_), found and reared
by Kanva, who gave her the name Shakuntala.]

Dushyanta said: "You are clearly a king's daughter, sweet maiden, as
you say. Become my lovely wife. Tell me, what shall I do for you? Let
all my kingdom be yours to-day. Become my wife, sweet maid."

Shakuntala said: "Promise me truly what I say to you in secret. The
son that is born to me must be your heir. If you promise, Dushyanta, I
will marry you."

"So be it," said the king without thinking, and added: "I will bring
you too to my city, sweet-smiling girl."

So the king took the faultlessly graceful maiden by the hand and dwelt
with her. And when he had bidden her be of good courage, he went
forth, saying again and again: "I will send a complete army for you,
and tell them to bring my sweet-smiling bride to my palace." When he
had made this promise, the king went thoughtfully to find Kanva. "What
will he do when he hears it, this holy, austere man?" he wondered, and
still thinking, he went back to his capital.

Now the moment he was gone, Kanva came to the hermitage. And
Shakuntala was ashamed and did not come to meet her father. But
blessed, austere Kanva had divine discernment. He discovered her, and
seeing the matter with celestial vision, he was pleased and said:
"What you have done, dear, to-day, forgetting me and meeting a man,
this does not break the law. A man who loves may marry secretly the
woman who loves him without a ceremony; and Dushyanta is virtuous and
noble, the best of men. Since you have found a loving husband,
Shakuntala, a noble son shall be born to you, mighty in the world."

Sweet Shakuntala gave birth to a boy of unmeasured prowess. His hands
were marked with the wheel, and he quickly grew to be a glorious boy.
As a six years' child in Kanva's hermitage he rode on the backs of
lions, tigers, and boars near the hermitage, and tamed them, and ran
about playing with them. Then those who lived in Kanva's hermitage
gave him a name. "Let him be called All-tamer," they said: "for he
tames everything."

But when the sage saw the boy and his more than human deeds, he said
to Shakuntala: "It is time for him to be anointed crown prince." When
he saw how strong the boy was, Kanva said to his pupils: "Quickly
bring my Shakuntala and her son from my house to her husband's palace.
A long abiding with their relatives is not proper for married women.
It destroys their reputation, and their character, and their virtue;
so take her without delay." "We will," said all the mighty men, and
they set out with Shakuntala and her son for Gajasahvaya.

When Shakuntala drew near, she was recognised and invited to enter,
and she said to the king: "This is your son, O King. You must anoint
him crown prince, just as you promised before, when we met."

When the king heard her, although he remembered her, he said: "I do
not remember. To whom do you belong, you wicked hermit-woman? I do not
remember a union with you for virtue, love, and wealth.[1] Either go
or stay, or do whatever you wish."

When he said this, the sweet hermit-girl half fainted from shame and
grief, and stood stiff as a pillar. Her eyes darkened with passionate
indignation; her lips quivered; she seemed to consume the king as she
gazed at him with sidelong glances. Concealing her feelings and nerved
by anger, she held in check the magic power that her ascetic life had
given her. She seemed to meditate a moment, overcome by grief and
anger. She gazed at her husband, then spoke passionately: "O shameless
king, although you know, why do you say, 'I do not know,' like any
other ordinary man?"

Dushyanta said: "I do not know the son born of you, Shakuntala. Women
are liars. Who will believe what you say? Are you not ashamed to say
these incredible things, especially in my presence? You wicked
hermit-woman, go!"

Shakuntala said: "O King, sacred is holy God, and sacred is a holy
promise. Do not break your promise, O King. Let your love be sacred.
If you cling to a lie, and will not believe, alas! I must go away;
there is no union with a man like you. For even without you,
Dushyanta, my son shall rule this foursquare earth adorned with kingly
mountains."

When she had said so much to the king, Shakuntala started to go. But a
bodiless voice from heaven said to Dushyanta: "Care for your son,
Dushyanta. Do not despise Shakuntala. You are the boy's father.
Shakuntala tells the truth."

When he heard the utterance of the gods, the king joyfully said to his
chaplain and his ministers: "Hear the words of this heavenly
messenger. If I had received my son simply because of her words, he
would be suspected by the world, he would not be pure."

Then the king received his son gladly and joyfully. He kissed his head
and embraced him lovingly. His wife also Dushyanta honoured, as
justice required. And the king soothed her, and said: "This union
which I had with you was hidden from the world. Therefore I hesitated,
O Queen, in order to save your reputation. And as for the cruel words
you said to me in an excess of passion, these I pardon you, my
beautiful, great-eyed darling, because you love me."

Then King Dushyanta gave the name Bharata to Shakuntala's son, and had
him anointed crown prince.

It is plain that this story contains the material for a good play; the
very form of the epic tale is largely dramatic. It is also plain, in a
large way, of what nature are the principal changes which a dramatist
must introduce in the original. For while Shakuntala is charming in
the epic story, the king is decidedly contemptible. Somehow or other,
his face must be saved.

To effect this, Kalidasa has changed the old story in three important
respects. In the first place, he introduces the curse of Durvasas,
clouding the king's memory, and saving him from moral responsibility
in his rejection of Shakuntala. That there may be an ultimate recovery
of memory, the curse is so modified as to last only until the king
shall see again the ring which he has given to his bride. To the
Hindu, curse and modification are matters of frequent occurrence; and
Kalidasa has so delicately managed the matter as not to shock even a
modern and Western reader with a feeling of strong improbability. Even
to us it seems a natural part of the divine cloud that envelops the
drama, in no way obscuring human passion, but rather giving to human
passion an unwonted largeness and universality.

In the second place, the poet makes Shakuntala undertake her journey
to the palace before her son is born. Obviously, the king's character
is thus made to appear in a better light, and a greater probability is
given to the whole story.

The third change is a necessary consequence of the first; for without
the curse, there could have been no separation, no ensuing remorse,
and no reunion.

But these changes do not of themselves make a drama out of the epic
tale. Large additions were also necessary, both of scenes and of
characters. We find, indeed, that only acts one and five, with a part
of act seven, rest upon the ancient text, while acts two, three, four,
and six, with most of seven, are a creation of the poet. As might have
been anticipated, the acts of the former group are more dramatic,
while those of the latter contribute more of poetical charm. It is
with these that scissors must be chiefly busy when the play--rather
too long for continuous presentation as it stands--is performed on the
stage.

In the epic there are but three characters--Dushyanta, Shakuntala,
Kanva, with the small boy running about in the background. To these
Kalidasa has added from the palace, from the hermitage, and from the
Elysian region which is represented with vague precision in the last
act.

The conventional clown plays a much smaller part in this play than in
the others which Kalidasa wrote. He has also less humour. The real
humorous relief is given by the fisherman and the three policemen in
the opening scene of the sixth act. This, it may be remarked, is the
only scene of rollicking humour in Kalidasa's writing.

The forest scenes are peopled with quiet hermit-folk. Far the most
charming of these are Shakuntala's girl friends. The two are
beautifully differentiated: Anusuya grave, sober; Priyamvada
vivacious, saucy; yet wonderfully united in friendship and in devotion
to Shakuntala, whom they feel to possess a deeper nature than theirs.

Kanva, the hermit-father, hardly required any change from the epic
Kanva. It was a happy thought to place beside him the staid, motherly
Gautami. The small boy in the last act has magically become an
individual in Kalidasa's hands. In this act too are the creatures of a
higher world, their majesty not rendered too precise.

Dushyanta has been saved by the poet from his epic shabbiness; it may
be doubted whether more has been done. There is in him, as in some
other Hindu heroes, a shade too much of the meditative to suit our
ideal of more alert and ready manhood.

But all the other characters sink into insignificance beside the
heroine. Shakuntala dominates the play. She is actually on the stage
in five of the acts, and her spirit pervades the other two, the second
and the sixth. Shakuntala has held captive the heart of India for
fifteen hundred years, and wins the love of increasing thousands in
the West; for so noble a union of sweetness with strength is one of
the miracles of art.

  Though lovely women walk the world to-day
    By tens of thousands, there is none so fair
  In all that exhibition and display
    With her most perfect beauty to compare--

because it is a most perfect beauty of soul no less than of outward
form. Her character grows under our very eyes. When we first meet her,
she is a simple maiden, knowing no greater sorrow than the death of a
favourite deer; when we bid her farewell, she has passed through happy
love, the mother's joys and pains, most cruel humiliation and
suspicion, and the reunion with her husband, proved at last not to
have been unworthy. And each of these great experiences has been met
with a courage and a sweetness to which no words can render justice.

Kalidasa has added much to the epic tale; yet his use of the original
is remarkably minute. A list of the epic suggestions incorporated in
his play is long. But it is worth making, in order to show how keen is
the eye of genius. Thus the king lays aside the insignia of royalty
upon entering the grove (Act I). Shakuntala appears in hermit garb, a
dress of bark (Act I). The quaint derivation of the heroine's name
from _shakunta_--bird--is used with wonderful skill in a passage (Act
VII) which defies translation, as it involves a play on words. The
king's anxiety to discover whether the maiden's father is of a caste
that permits her to marry him is reproduced (Act I). The marriage
without a ceremony is retained (Act IV), but robbed of all offence.
Kanva's celestial vision, which made it unnecessary for his child to
tell him of her union with the king, is introduced with great delicacy
(Act IV). The curious formation of the boy's hand which indicated
imperial birth adds to the king's suspense (Act VII). The boy's rough
play with wild animals is made convincing (Act VII) and his very
nickname All-tamer is preserved (Act VII). Kanva's worldly wisdom as
to husband and wife dwelling together is reproduced (Act IV). No small
part of the give-and-take between the king and Shakuntala is given
(Act V), but with a new dignity.

Of the construction of the play I speak with diffidence. It seems
admirable to me, the apparently undue length of some scenes hardly
constituting a blemish, as it was probably intended to give the actors
considerable latitude of choice and excision. Several versions of the
text have been preserved; it is from the longer of the two more
familiar ones that the translation in this volume has been made. In
the warm discussion over this matter, certain technical arguments of
some weight have been advanced in favour of this choice; there is also
a more general consideration which seems to me of importance. I find
it hard to believe that any lesser artist could pad such a
masterpiece, and pad it all over, without making the fraud apparent on
almost every page. The briefer version, on the other hand, might
easily grow out of the longer, either as an acting text, or as a
school-book.

We cannot take leave of Shakuntala in any better way than by quoting
the passage[2] in which Lévi's imagination has conjured up "the
memorable _première_ when Shakuntala saw the light, in the presence of
Vikramaditya and his court."

  La fête du printemps approche; Ujjayinî, la ville aux riches
  marchands et la capitale intellectuelle de l'Inde, glorieuse et
  prospère sous un roi victorieux et sage, se prépare à célébrer
  la solennité avec une pompe digne de son opulence et de son
  goût.... L'auteur applaudi de Mâlavikâ ... le poète dont le
  souple génie s'accommode sans effort au ton de l'épopée ou de
  l'élégie, Kâlidâsa vient d'achever une comédie héroïque
  annoncée comme un chef-d'oeuvre par la voix de ses amis.... Le
  poète a ses comédiens, qu'il a éprouvés et dressés à sa manière
  avec Mâlavikâ. Les comédiens suivront leur poète familier,
  devenu leur maître et leur ami.... Leur solide instruction,
  leur goût épuré reconnaissent les qualités maîtresses de
  l'oeuvre, l'habileté de l'intrigue, le juste équilibre des
  sentiments, la fraîcheur de l'imagination ...

  Vikramâditya entre, suivi des courtisans, et s'asseoit sur son
  trône; ses femmes restent à sa gauche; à sa droite les rois
  vassaux accourus pour rendre leurs hommages, les princes, les
  hauts fonctionnaires, les littérateurs et les savants, groupés
  autour de Varâha-mihira l'astrologue et d'Amarasimha le
  lexicographe ...

  Tout à coup, les deux jolies figurantes placées devant le
  rideau de la coulisse en écartent les plis, et Duhsanta, l'arc
  et les flèches à la main, paraît monté sur un char; son cocher
  tient les rênes; lancés à la poursuite d'une gazelle
  imaginaire, ils simulent par leurs gestes la rapidité de la
  course; leurs stances pittoresques et descriptives suggèrent à
  l'imagination un décor que la peinture serait impuissante à
  tracer. Ils approchent de l'ermitage; le roi descend à terre,
  congédie le cocher, les chevaux et le char, entend les voix des
  jeunes filles et se cache. Un mouvement de curiosité
  agite les spectateurs; fille d'une Apsaras et création de
  Kâlidâsa, Çakuntalâ réunit tous les charmes; l'actrice
  saura-t-elle répondre à l'attente des connaisseurs et réaliser
  l'idéal? Elle paraît, vêtue d'une simple tunique d'écorce qui
  semble cacher ses formes et par un contraste habile les
  embellit encore; la ligne arrondie du visage, les yeux longs,
  d'un bleu sombre, langoureux, les seins opulents mal
  emprisonnés, les bras délicats laissent à deviner les beautés
  que le costume ascétique dérobe. Son attitude, ses gestes
  ravissent à la fois les regards et les coeurs; elle parle, et sa
  voix est un chant. La cour de Vikrâmaditya frémit d'une émotion
  sereine et profonde: un chef-d'oeuvre nouveau vient d'entrer
  dans l'immortalité.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The Hindu equivalent of "for better, for worse."]

[Footnote 2: _Le Théâtre Indien_, pages 368-371. This is without
competition the best work in which any part of the Sanskrit literature
has been treated, combining erudition, imagination, and taste. The
book is itself literature of a high order. The passage is
unfortunately too long to be quoted entire.]

       *       *       *       *       *




THE TWO MINOR DRAMAS


I.--"MALAVIKA AND AGNIMITRA"

_Malavika and Agnimitra_ is the earliest of Kalidasa's three dramas,
and probably his earliest work. This conclusion would be almost
certain from the character of the play, but is put beyond doubt by the
following speeches of the prologue:

_Stage-director_. The audience has asked us to present at this spring
festival a drama called _Malavika and Agnimitra_, composed by
Kalidasa. Let the music begin.

_Assistant_. No, no! Shall we neglect the works of such illustrious
authors as Bhasa, Saumilla, and Kaviputra? Can the audience feel any
respect for the work of a modern poet, a Kalidasa?

_Stage-director_. You are quite mistaken. Consider:

  Not all is good that bears an ancient name,
  Nor need we every modern poem blame:
  Wise men approve the good, or new or old;
  The foolish critic follows where he's told.

_Assistant_. The responsibility rests with you, sir.

There is irony in the fact that the works of the illustrious authors
mentioned have perished, that we should hardly know of their existence
were it not for the tribute of their modest, youthful rival. But
Kalidasa could not read the future. We can imagine his feelings of
mingled pride and fear when his early work was presented at the spring
festival before the court of King Vikramaditya, without doubt the most
polished and critical audience that could at that hour have been
gathered in any city on earth. The play which sought the approbation
of this audience shows no originality of plot, no depth of passion. It
is a light, graceful drama of court intrigue. The hero, King
Agnimitra, is an historical character of the second century before
Christ, and Kalidasa's play gives us some information about him that
history can seriously consider. The play represents Agnimitra's
father, the founder of the Sunga dynasty, as still living. As the seat
of empire was in Patna on the Ganges, and as Agnimitra's capital is
Vidisha--the modern Bhilsa--it seems that he served as regent of
certain provinces during his father's lifetime. The war with the King
of Vidarbha seems to be an historical occurrence, and the fight with
the Greek cavalry force is an echo of the struggle with Menander, in
which the Hindus were ultimately victorious. It was natural for
Kalidasa to lay the scene of his play in Bhilsa rather than in the
far-distant Patna, for it is probable that many in the audience were
acquainted with the former city. It is to Bhilsa that the poet refers
again in _The Cloud-Messenger_, where these words are addressed to the
cloud:

    At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest
  With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow,
    With village trees alive with many a nest
  Abuilding by the old familiar crow,
  With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.

    There shalt thou see the royal city, known
  Afar, and win the lover's fee complete,
    If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone
  Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet,
  Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.

Yet in Kalidasa's day, the glories of the Sunga dynasty were long
departed, nor can we see why the poet should have chosen his hero and
his era as he did.

There follows an analysis of the plot and some slight criticism.

In addition to the stage-director and his assistant, who appear in the
prologue, the characters of the play are these:


  AGNIMITRA, _king in Vidisha_.

  GAUTAMA, _a clown, his friend_.


  GANADASA   }
             }  _dancing-masters_.
  HARADATTA  }


  DHARINI, _the senior queen_.

  IRAVATI, _the junior queen_.

  MALAVIKA, _maid to Queen Dharini, later discovered to be a princess_.

  KAUSHIKI, _a Buddhist nun_.

  BAKULAVALIKA, _a maid, friend of Malavika_.

  NIPUNIKA, _maid to Queen Iravati_.

  _A counsellor, a chamberlain, a humpback, two court poets, maids,
  and mute attendants_.

The scene is the palace and gardens of King Agnimitra, the time a few
days.


ACT I.--After the usual prologue, the maid Bakulavalika appears with
another maid. From their conversation we learn that King Agnimitra has
seen in the palace picture-gallery a new painting of Queen Dharini
with her attendants. So beautiful is one of these, Malavika, that the
king is smitten with love, but is prevented by the jealous queen from
viewing the original. At this point the dancing-master Ganadasa
enters. From him Bakulavalika learns that Malavika is a wonderfully
proficient pupil, while he learns from her that Malavika had been sent
as a present to Queen Dharini by a general commanding a border
fortress, the queen's brother.

After this introductory scene, the king enters, and listens to a
letter sent by the king of Vidarbha. The rival monarch had imprisoned
a prince and princess, cousins of Agnimitra, and in response to
Agnimitra's demand that they be set free, he declares that the
princess has escaped, but that the prince shall not be liberated
except on certain conditions. This letter so angers Agnimitra that he
despatches an army against the king of Vidarbha.

Gautama, the clown, informs Agnimitra that he has devised a plan for
bringing Malavika into the king's presence. He has stirred an envious
rivalry in the bosoms of the two dancing-masters, who soon appear,
each abusing the other vigorously, and claiming for himself the
pre-eminence in their art. It is agreed that each shall exhibit his
best pupil before the king, Queen Dharini, and the learned Buddhist
nun, Kaushiki. The nun, who is in the secret of the king's desire, is
made mistress of ceremonies, and the queen's jealous opposition is
overborne.


ACT II.--The scene is laid in the concert-hall of the palace. The nun
determines that Ganadasa shall present his pupil first. Malavika is
thereupon introduced, dances, and sings a song which pretty plainly
indicates her own love for the king. He is in turn quite ravished,
finding her far more beautiful even than the picture. The clown
manages to detain her some little time by starting a discussion as to
her art, and when she is finally permitted to depart, both she and the
king are deeply in love. The court poet announces the noon hour, and
the exhibition of the other dancing-master is postponed.


ACT III.--The scene is laid in the palace garden. From the
conversation of two maids it appears that a favourite ashoka-tree is
late in blossoming. This kind of tree, so the belief runs, can be
induced to put forth blossoms if touched by the foot of a beautiful
woman in splendid garments.

When the girls depart, the king enters with the clown, his confidant.
The clown, after listening to the king's lovelorn confidences, reminds
him that he has agreed to meet his young Queen Iravati in the garden,
and swing with her. But before the queen's arrival, Malavika enters,
sent thither by Dharini to touch the ashoka-tree with her foot, and
thus encourage it to blossom. The king and the clown hide in a
thicket, to feast their eyes upon her. Presently the maid Bakulavalika
appears, to adorn Malavika for the ceremony, and engages her in
conversation about the king. But now a third pair enter, the young
Queen Iravati, somewhat flushed with wine, and her maid Nipunika. They
also conceal themselves to spy upon the young girls. Thus there are
three groups upon the stage: the two girls believe themselves to be
alone; the king and the clown are aware of the two girls, as are also
the queen and her maid; but neither of these two pairs knows of the
presence of the other. This situation gives rise to very entertaining
dialogue, which changes its character when the king starts forward to
express his love for Malavika. Another sudden change is brought about
when Iravati, mad with jealousy, joins the group, sends the two girls
away, and berates the king. He excuses himself as earnestly as a man
may when caught in such a predicament, but cannot appease the young
queen, who leaves him with words of bitter jealousy.


ACT IV.--The clown informs the king that Queen Dharini has locked
Malavika and her friend in the cellar, and has given orders to the
doorkeeper that they are to be released only upon presentation of her
own signet-ring, engraved with the figure of a serpent. But he
declares that he has devised a plan to set them free. He bids the king
wait upon Queen Dharini, and presently rushes into their presence,
showing his thumb marked with two scratches, and declaring that he has
been bitten by a cobra. Imploring the king to care for his childless
mother, he awakens genuine sympathy in the queen, who readily parts
with her serpent-ring, supposed to be efficacious in charming away the
effects of snake-poison. Needless to say, he uses the ring to procure
the freedom of Malavika and her friend, and then brings about a
meeting with Agnimitra in the summer-house. The love-scene which
follows is again interrupted by Queen Iravati. This time the king is
saved by the news that his little daughter has been frightened by a
yellow monkey, and will be comforted only by him. The act ends with
the announcement that the ashoka-tree has blossomed.


ACT V.--It now appears that Queen Dharini has relented and is willing
to unite Malavika with the king; for she invites him to meet her under
the ashoka-tree, and includes Malavika among her attendants. Word is
brought that the army despatched against the king of Vidarbha has been
completely successful, and that in the spoil are included two maids
with remarkable powers of song. These maids are brought before the
company gathered at the tree, where they surprise every one by falling
on their faces before Malavika with the exclamation, "Our princess!"
Here the Buddhist nun takes up the tale. She tells how her brother,
the counsellor of the captive prince, had rescued her and Malavika
from the king of Vidarbha, and had started for Agnimitra's court.

On the way they had been overpowered by robbers, her brother killed,
and she herself separated from Malavika. She had thereupon become a
nun and made her way to Agnimitra's court, and had there found
Malavika, who had been taken from the robbers by Agnimitra's general
and sent as a present to Queen Dharini. She had not divulged the
matter sooner, because of a prophecy that Malavika should be a servant
for just one year before becoming a king's bride. This recital removes
any possible objection to a union of Malavika and Agnimitra. To
complete the king's happiness, there comes a letter announcing that
his son by Dharini has won a victory over a force of Greek cavalry,
and inviting the court to be present at the sacrifice which was to
follow the victory. Thus every one is made happy except the jealous
young Queen Iravati, now to be supplanted by Malavika; yet even she
consents, though somewhat ungraciously, to the arrangements made.

Criticism of the large outlines of this plot would be quite unjust,
for it is completely conventional. In dozens of plays we have the same
story: the king who falls in love with a maid-servant, the jealousy of
his harem, the eventual discovery that the maid is of royal birth, and
the addition of another wife to a number already sufficiently large.
In writing a play of this kind, the poet frankly accepts the
conventions; his ingenuity is shown in the minor incidents, in stanzas
of poetical description, and in giving abundant opportunity for
graceful music and dancing. When the play is approached in this way,
it is easy to see the _griffe du lion_ in this, the earliest work of
the greatest poet who ever sang repeatedly of love between man and
woman, troubled for a time but eventually happy. For though there is
in Agnimitra, as in all heroes of his type, something contemptible,
there is in Malavika a sweetness, a delicacy, a purity, that make her
no unworthy precursor of Sita, of Indumati, of the Yaksha's bride, and
of Shakuntala.

       *       *       *       *       *



II.--"URVASHI"


The second of the two inferior dramas may be conveniently called
_Urvashi_, though the full title is _The Tale of Urvashi won by
Valour_. When and where the play was first produced we do not know,
for the prologue is silent as to these matters. It has been thought
that it was the last work of Kalidasa, even that it was never produced
in his lifetime. Some support is lent to this theory by the fact that
the play is filled with reminiscences of Shakuntala, in small matters
as well as in great; as if the poet's imagination had grown weary, and
he were willing to repeat himself. Yet _Urvashi_ is a much more
ambitious effort than _Malavika_, and invites a fuller criticism,
after an outline of the plot has been given.

In addition to the stage-director and his assistant, who appear in the
prologue, the characters of the play are these:


  PURURAVAS, _king in Pratishthana on the Ganges_.

  AYUS, _his son_.

  MANAVAKA, _a clown, his friend_.

  URVASHI, _a heavenly nymph_.

  CHITRALEKHA, _another nymph, her friend_.

  AUSHINARI, _queen of Pururavas_.

  NIPUNIKA, _her maid_.

_A charioteer, a chamberlain, a hermit-woman, various nymphs and other
divine beings, and attendants_.

The scene shifts as indicated in the following analysis. The time of
the first four acts is a few days. Between acts four and five several
years elapse.


ACT I.--The prologue only tells us that we may expect a new play of
Kalidasa. A company of heavenly nymphs then appear upon Mount
Gold-peak wailing and calling for help. Their cries are answered by
King Pururavas, who rides in a chariot that flies through the air. In
response to his inquiries, the nymphs inform him that two of their
number, Urvashi and Chitralekha, have been carried into captivity by a
demon. The king darts in pursuit, and presently returns, victorious,
with the two nymphs. As soon as Urvashi recovers consciousness, and
has rejoined her joyful friends, it is made plain that she and the
king have been deeply impressed with each other's attractions. The
king is compelled to decline an invitation to visit Paradise, but he
and Urvashi exchange loving glances before they part.


ACT II.--The act opens with a comic scene in the king's palace. The
clown appears, bursting with the secret of the king's love for
Urvashi, which has been confided to him. He is joined by the maid
Nipunika, commissioned by the queen to discover what it is that
occupies the king's mind. She discovers the secret ingeniously, but
without much difficulty, and gleefully departs.

The king and the clown then appear in the garden, and the king
expresses at some length the depth and seeming hopelessness of his
passion. The latter part of his lament is overheard by Urvashi
herself, who, impelled by love for the king, has come down to earth
with her friend Chitralekha, and now stands near, listening but
invisible. When she has heard enough to satisfy her of the king's
passion, she writes a love-stanza on a birch-leaf, and lets it fall
before him. His reception of this token is such that Urvashi throws
aside the magic veil that renders her invisible, but as soon as she
has greeted the king, she and her friend are called away to take their
parts in a play that is being presented in Paradise.

The king and the clown hunt for Urvashi's love-letter, which has been
neglected during the past few minutes. But the leaf has blown away,
only to be picked up and read by Nipunika, who at that moment enters
with the queen. The queen can hardly be deceived by the lame excuses
which the king makes, and after offering her ironical congratulations,
jealously leaves him.


ACT III.--The act opens with a conversation between two minor
personages in Paradise. It appears that Urvashi had taken the
heroine's part in the drama just presented there, and when asked, "On
whom is your heart set?" had absentmindedly replied, "On Pururavas."
Heaven's stage-director had thereupon cursed her to fall from
Paradise, but this curse had been thus modified: that she was to live
on earth with Pururavas until he should see a child born of her, and
was then to return.

The scene shifts to Pururavas' palace. In the early evening, the
chamberlain brings the king a message, inviting him to meet the queen
on a balcony bathed in the light of the rising moon. The king betakes
himself thither with his friend, the clown. In the midst of a dialogue
concerning moonlight and love, Urvashi and Chitralekha enter from
Paradise, wearing as before veils of invisibility. Presently the queen
appears and with humble dignity asks pardon of the king for her
rudeness, adding that she will welcome any new queen whom he genuinely
loves and who genuinely returns his love. When the queen departs,
Urvashi creeps up behind the king and puts her hands over his eyes.
Chitralekha departs after begging the king to make her friend forget
Paradise.


ACT IV.--From a short dialogue in Paradise between Chitralekha and
another nymph, we learn that a misfortune has befallen Pururavas and
Urvashi. During their honeymoon in a delightful Himalayan forest,
Urvashi, in a fit of jealousy, had left her husband, and had
inadvertently entered a grove forbidden by an austere god to women.
She was straightway transformed into a vine, while Pururavas is
wandering through the forest in desolate anguish.

The scene of what follows is laid in the Himalayan forest. Pururavas
enters, and in a long poetical soliloquy bewails his loss and seeks
for traces of Urvashi. He vainly asks help of the creatures whom he
meets: a peacock, a cuckoo, a swan, a ruddy goose, a bee, an elephant,
a mountain-echo, a river, and an antelope. At last he finds a
brilliant ruby in a cleft of the rocks, and when about to throw it
away, is told by a hermit to preserve it: for this is the gem of
reunion, and one who possesses it will soon be reunited with his love.
With the gem in his hand, Pururavas comes to a vine which mysteriously
reminds him of Urvashi, and when he embraces it, he finds his beloved
in his arms. After she has explained to him the reason of her
transformation, they determine to return to the king's capital.


ACT V.--The scene of the concluding act is the king's palace. Several
years have passed in happy love, and Pururavas has only one
sorrow--that he is childless.

One day a vulture snatches from a maid's hand the treasured gem of
reunion, which he takes to be a bit of bloody meat, and flies off with
it, escaping before he can be killed. While the king and his
companions lament the gem's loss, the chamberlain enters, bringing the
gem and an arrow with which the bird had been shot. On the arrow is
written a verse declaring it to be the property of Ayus, son of
Pururavas and Urvashi. A hermit-woman is then ushered in, who brings a
lad with her. She explains that the lad had been entrusted to her as
soon as born by Urvashi, and that it was he who had just shot the bird
and recovered the gem. When Urvashi is summoned to explain why she had
concealed her child, she reminds the king of heaven's decree that she
should return as soon as Pururavas should see the child to be born to
them. She had therefore sacrificed maternal love to conjugal
affection. Upon this, the king's new-found joy gives way to gloom. He
determines to give up his kingdom and spend the remainder of his life
as a hermit in the forest. But the situation is saved by a messenger
from Paradise, bearing heaven's decree that Urvashi shall live with
the king until his death. A troop of nymphs then enter and assist in
the solemn consecration of Ayus as crown prince.

The tale of Pururavas and Urvashi, which Kalidasa has treated
dramatically, is first made known to us in the Rigveda. It is thus one
of the few tales that so caught the Hindu imagination as to survive
the profound change which came over Indian thinking in the passage
from Vedic to classical times. As might be expected from its history,
it is told in many widely differing forms, of which the oldest and
best may be summarised thus.

Pururavas, a mortal, sees and loves the nymph Urvashi. She consents to
live with him on earth so long as he shall not break certain trivial
conditions. Some time after the birth of a son, these conditions are
broken, through no fault of the man, and she leaves him. He wanders
disconsolate, finds her, and pleads with her, by her duty as a wife,
by her love for her child, even by a threat of suicide. She rejects
his entreaties, declaring that there can be no lasting love between
mortal and immortal, even adding: "There are no friendships with
women. Their hearts are the hearts of hyenas." Though at last she
comforts him with vague hopes of a future happiness, the story
remains, as indeed it must remain, a tragedy--the tragedy of love
between human and divine.

This splendid tragic story Kalidasa has ruined. He has made of it an
ordinary tale of domestic intrigue, has changed the nymph of heaven
into a member of an earthly harem. The more important changes made by
Kalidasa in the traditional story, all have the tendency to remove the
massive, godlike, austere features of the tale, and to substitute
something graceful or even pretty. These principal changes are: the
introduction of the queen, the clown, and the whole human
paraphernalia of a court; the curse pronounced on Urvashi for her
carelessness in the heavenly drama, and its modification; the
invention of the gem of reunion; and the final removal of the curse,
even as modified. It is true that the Indian theatre permits no
tragedy, and we may well believe that no successor of Kalidasa could
hope to present a tragedy on the stage. But might not Kalidasa, far
overtopping his predecessors, have put on the stage a drama the story
of which was already familiar to his audience as a tragic story?
Perhaps not. If not, one can but wish that he had chosen another
subject.

This violent twisting of an essentially tragic story has had a further
ill consequence in weakening the individual characters. Pururavas is a
mere conventional hero, in no way different from fifty others, in
spite of his divine lineage and his successful wooing of a goddess.
Urvashi is too much of a nymph to be a woman, and too much of a woman
to be a nymph. The other characters are mere types.

Yet, in spite of these obvious objections, Hindu critical opinion has
always rated the _Urvashi_ very high, and I have long hesitated to
make adverse comments upon it, for it is surely true that every nation
is the best judge of its own literature. And indeed, if one could but
forget plot and characters, he would find in _Urvashi_ much to attract
and charm. There is no lack of humour in the clever maid who worms the
clown's secret out of him. There is no lack of a certain shrewdness in
the clown, as when he observes:

"Who wants heaven? It is nothing to eat or drink. It is just a place
where they never shut their eyes--like fishes!"

Again, the play offers an opportunity for charming scenic display. The
terrified nymphs gathered on the mountain, the palace balcony bathed
in moonlight, the forest through which the king wanders in search of
his lost darling, the concluding solemn consecration of the crown
prince by heavenly beings--these scenes show that Kalidasa was no
closet dramatist. And finally, there is here and there such poetry as
only Kalidasa could write. The fourth act particularly, undramatic as
it is, is full of a delicate beauty that defies transcription. It was
a new and daring thought--to present on the stage a long lyrical
monologue addressed to the creatures of the forest and inspired by
despairing passion. Nor must it be forgotten that this play, like all
Indian plays, is an opera. The music and the dancing are lost. We
judge it perforce unfairly, for we judge it by the text alone. If, in
spite of all, the _Urvashi_ is a failure, it is a failure possible
only to a serene and mighty poet.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE DYNASTY OF RAGHU


_The Dynasty of Raghu_ is an epic poem in nineteen cantos. It consists
of 1564 stanzas, or something over six thousand lines of verse. The
subject is that great line of kings who traced their origin to the
sun, the famous "solar line" of Indian story. The bright particular
star of the solar line is Rama, the knight without fear and without
reproach, the Indian ideal of a gentleman. His story had been told
long before Kalidasa's time in the _Ramayana_, an epic which does not
need to shun comparison with the foremost epic poems of Europe. In
_The Dynasty of Raghu_, too, Rama is the central figure; yet in
Kalidasa's poem there is much detail concerning other princes of the
line. The poem thus naturally falls into three great parts: first, the
four immediate ancestors of Rama (cantos 1-9); second, Rama (cantos
10-15); third, certain descendants of Rama (cantos 16-19). A somewhat
detailed account of the matter of the poem may well precede criticism
and comment.


_First canto. The journey to the hermitage_.--The poem begins with the
customary brief prayer for Shiva's favour:

  God Shiva and his mountain bride,
  Like word and meaning unified,
  The world's great parents, I beseech
  To join fit meaning to my speech.

Then follow nine stanzas in which Kalidasa speaks more directly of
himself than elsewhere in his works:

  How great is Raghu's solar line!
  How feebly small are powers of mine!
  As if upon the ocean's swell
  I launched a puny cockle-shell.

  The fool who seeks a poet's fame
  Must look for ridicule and blame,
  Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would try
  To pluck the fruit for giants high.

  Yet I may enter through the door
  That mightier poets pierced of yore;
  A thread may pierce a jewel, but
  Must follow where the diamond cut.

  Of kings who lived as saints from birth,
  Who ruled to ocean-shore on earth,
  Who toiled until success was given,
  Whose chariots stormed the gates of heaven,

  Whose pious offerings were blest,
  Who gave his wish to every guest,
  Whose punishments were as the crimes,
  Who woke to guard the world betimes,

  Who sought, that they might lavish, pelf,
  Whose measured speech was truth itself,
  Who fought victorious wars for fame,
  Who loved in wives the mother's name,

  Who studied all good arts as boys,
  Who loved, in manhood, manhood's joys,
  Whose age was free from worldly care,
  Who breathed their lives away in prayer,

  Of these I sing, of Raghu's line,
  Though weak mine art, and wisdom mine.
  Forgive these idle stammerings
  And think: For virtue's sake he sings.

  The good who hear me will be glad
  To pluck the good from out the bad;
  When ore is proved by fire, the loss
  Is not of purest gold, but dross.

After the briefest glance at the origin of the solar line, the poet
tells of Rama's great-great-grandfather, King Dilipa. The detailed
description of Dilipa's virtues has interest as showing Kalidasa's
ideal of an aristocrat; a brief sample must suffice here:

  He practised virtue, though in health;
  Won riches, with no greed for wealth;
  Guarded his life, though not from fear;
  Prized joys of earth, but not too dear.

  His virtuous foes he could esteem
  Like bitter drugs that healing seem;
  The friends who sinned he could forsake
  Like fingers bitten by a snake.

Yet King Dilipa has one deep-seated grief: he has no son. He therefore
journeys with his queen to the hermitage of the sage Vasishtha, in
order to learn what they must do to propitiate an offended fate. Their
chariot rolls over country roads past fragrant lotus-ponds and
screaming peacocks and trustful deer, under archways formed without
supporting pillars by the cranes, through villages where they receive
the blessings of the people. At sunset they reach the peaceful forest
hermitage, and are welcomed by the sage. In response to Vasishtha's
benevolent inquiries, the king declares that all goes well in the
kingdom, and yet:

  Until from this dear wife there springs
  A son as great as former kings,
  The seven islands of the earth
  And all their gems, are nothing worth.

  The final debt, most holy one,
  Which still I owe to life--a son--
  Galls me as galls the cutting chain
  An elephant housed in dirt and pain.

Vasishtha tells the king that on a former occasion he had offended the
divine cow Fragrant, and had been cursed by the cow to lack children
until he had propitiated her own offspring. While the sage is
speaking, Fragrant's daughter approaches, and is entrusted to the care
of the king and queen.


_Second canto. The holy cow's gift_.--During twenty-one days the king
accompanies the cow during her wanderings in the forest, and each
night the queen welcomes their return to the hermitage. On the
twenty-second day the cow is attacked by a lion, and when the king
hastens to draw an arrow, his arm is magically numbed, so that he
stands helpless. To increase his horror, the lion speaks with a human
voice, saying that he is a servant of the god Shiva, set on guard
there and eating as his appointed food any animals that may appear.
Dilipa perceives that a struggle with earthly weapons is useless, and
begs the lion to accept his own body as the price of the cow's
release. The lion tries sophistry, using the old, hollow arguments:

  Great beauty and fresh youth are yours; on earth
    As sole, unrivalled emperor you rule;
  Should you redeem a thing of little worth
    At such a price, you would appear a fool.

  If pity moves you, think that one mere cow
    Would be the gainer, should you choose to die;
  Live rather for the world! Remember how
    The father-king can bid all dangers fly.

  And if the fiery sage's wrath, aglow
    At loss of one sole cow, should make you shudder,
  Appease his anger; for you can bestow
    Cows by the million, each with pot-like udder.

  Save life and youth; for to the dead are given
    No long, unbroken years of joyous mirth;
  But riches and imperial power are heaven--
    The gods have nothing that you lack on earth.

  The lion spoke and ceased; but echo rolled
    Forth from the caves wherein the sound was pent,
  As if the hills applauded manifold,
    Repeating once again the argument.

Dilipa has no trouble in piercing this sophistical argument, and again
offers his own life, begging the lion to spare the body of his fame
rather than the body of his flesh. The lion consents, but when the
king resolutely presents himself to be eaten, the illusion vanishes,
and the holy cow grants the king his desire. The king returns to his
capital with the queen, who shortly becomes pregnant.


_Third canto. Raghu's consecration_.--The queen gives birth to a
glorious boy, whom the joyful father names Raghu. There follows a
description of the happy family, of which a few stanzas are given
here:

  The king drank pleasure from him late and soon
    With eyes that stared like windless lotus-flowers;
    Unselfish joy expanded all his powers
  As swells the sea responsive to the moon.

  The rooted love that filled each parent's soul
    For the other, deep as bird's love for the mate,
    Was now divided with the boy; and straight
  The remaining half proved greater than the whole.

  He learned the reverence that befits a boy;
    Following the nurse's words, began to talk;
    And clinging to her finger, learned to walk:
  These childish lessons stretched his father's joy,

  Who clasped the baby to his breast, and thrilled
    To feel the nectar-touch upon his skin,
    Half closed his eyes, the father's bliss to win
  Which, more for long delay, his being filled.

  The baby hair must needs be clipped; yet he
    Retained two dangling locks, his cheeks to fret;
    And down the river of the alphabet
  He swam, with other boys, to learning's sea.

  Religion's rites, and what good learning suits
    A prince, he had from teachers old and wise;
    Not theirs the pain of barren enterprise,
  For effort spent on good material, fruits.

This happy childhood is followed by a youth equally happy. Raghu is
married and made crown prince. He is entrusted with the care of the
horse of sacrifice,[1] and when Indra, king of the gods, steals the
horse, Raghu fights him. He cannot overcome the king of heaven, yet he
acquits himself so creditably that he wins Indra's friendship. In
consequence of this proof of his manhood, the empire is bestowed upon
Raghu by his father, who retires with his queen to the forest, to
spend his last days and prepare for death.


_Fourth canto. Raghu conquers the world_.--The canto opens with
several stanzas descriptive of the glory of youthful King Raghu.

  He manifested royal worth
  By even justice toward the earth,
  Beloved as is the southern breeze,
  Too cool to burn, too warm to freeze.

  The people loved his father, yet
  For greater virtues could forget;
  The beauty of the blossoms fair
  Is lost when mango-fruits are there.

But the vassal kings are restless

  For when they knew the king was gone
  And power was wielded by his son,
  The wrath of subject kings awoke,
  Which had been damped in sullen smoke.

Raghu therefore determines to make a warlike progress through all
India. He marches eastward with his army from his capital Ayodhya (the
name is preserved in the modern Oudh) to the Bay of Bengal, then south
along the eastern shore of India to Cape Comorin, then north along the
western shore until he comes to the region drained by the Indus,
finally east through the tremendous Himalaya range into Assam, and
thence home. The various nations whom he encounters, Hindus, Persians,
Greeks, and White Huns, all submit either with or without fighting. On
his safe return, Raghu offers a great sacrifice and gives away all his
wealth.[2]


_Fifth canto. Aja goes wooing_.--While King Raghu is penniless, a
young sage comes to him, desiring a huge sum of money to give to the
teacher with whom he has just finished his education. The king,
unwilling that any suppliant should go away unsatisfied, prepares to
assail the god of wealth in his Himalayan stronghold, and the god,
rather than risk the combat, sends a rain of gold into the king's
treasury. This gold King Raghu bestows upon the sage, who gratefully
uses his spiritual power to cause a son to be born to his benefactor.
In course of time, the son is born and the name Aja is given to him.
We are here introduced to Prince Aja, who is a kind of secondary hero
in the poem, inferior only to his mighty grandson, Rama. To Aja are
devoted the remainder of this fifth canto and the following three
cantos; and these Aja-cantos are among the loveliest in the epic. When
the prince has grown into young manhood, he journeys to a neighbouring
court to participate in the marriage reception of Princess
Indumati.[3]

One evening he camps by a river, from which a wild elephant issues and
attacks his party. When wounded by Aja, the elephant strangely changes
his form, becoming a demigod, gives the prince a magic weapon, and
departs to heaven. Aja proceeds without further adventure to the
country and the palace of Princess Indumati, where he is made welcome
and luxuriously lodged for the night. In the morning, he is awakened
by the song of the court poets outside his chamber. He rises and
betakes himself to the hall where the suitors are gathering.


_Sixth canto. The princess chooses_.--The princely suitors assemble in
the hall; then, to the sound of music, the princess enters in a
litter, robed as a bride, and creates a profound sensation.

  For when they saw God's masterpiece, the maid
    Who smote their eyes to other objects blind,
  Their glances, wishes, hearts, in homage paid,
    Flew forth to her; mere flesh remained behind.

  The princes could not but betray their yearning
    By sending messengers, their love to bring,
  In many a quick, involuntary turning,
    As flowering twigs of trees announce the spring.

Then a maid-servant conducts the princess from one suitor to another,
and explains the claim which each has upon her affection. First is
presented the King of Magadha, recommended in four stanzas, one of
which runs:

  Though other kings by thousands numbered be,
    He seems the one, sole governor of earth;
  Stars, constellations, planets, fade and flee
    When to the moon the night has given birth.

But the princess is not attracted.

  The slender maiden glanced at him; she glanced
    And uttered not a word, nor heeded how
  The grass-twined blossoms of her garland danced
    When she dismissed him with a formal bow.

They pass to the next candidate, the king of the Anga country, in
whose behalf this, and more, is said:

  Learning and wealth by nature are at strife,
    Yet dwell at peace in him; and for the two
  You would be fit companion as his wife,
    Like wealth enticing, and like learning true.

Him too the princess rejects, "not that he was unworthy of love, or
she lacking in discernment, but tastes differ." She is then conducted
to the King of Avanti:

  And if this youthful prince your fancy pleases,
    Bewitching maiden, you and he may play
  In those unmeasured gardens that the breezes
    From Sipra's billows ruffle, cool with spray.

The inducement is insufficient, and a new candidate is presented, the
King of Anupa,

  A prince whose fathers' glories cannot fade,
    By whom the love of learned men is wooed,
  Who proves that Fortune is no fickle jade
    When he she chooses is not fickly good.

But alas!

  She saw that he was brave to look upon,
    Yet could not feel his love would make her gay;
  Full moons of autumn nights, when clouds are gone,
    Tempt not the lotus-flowers that bloom by day.

The King of Shurasena has no better fortune, in spite of his virtues
and his wealth. As a river hurrying to the sea passes by a mountain
that would detain her, so the princess passes him by. She is next
introduced to the king of the Kalinga country;

  His palace overlooks the ocean dark
    With windows gazing on the unresting deep,
  Whose gentle thunders drown the drums that mark
    The hours of night, and wake him from his sleep.

But the maiden can no more feel at home with him than the goddess of
fortune can with a good but unlucky man. She therefore turns her
attention to the king of the Pandya country in far southern India. But
she is unmoved by hearing of the magic charm of the south, and rejects
him too.

  And every prince rejected while she sought
    A husband, darkly frowned, as turrets, bright
  One moment with the flame from torches caught,
    Frown gloomily again and sink in night.

The princess then approaches Aja, who trembles lest she pass him by,
as she has passed by the other suitors. The maid who accompanies
Indumati sees that Aja awakens a deeper feeling, and she therefore
gives a longer account of his kingly line, ending with the
recommendation:

  High lineage is his, fresh beauty, youth,
    And virtue shaped in kingly breeding's mould;
  Choose him, for he is worth your love; in truth,
    A gem is ever fitly set in gold.

The princess looks lovingly at the handsome youth, but cannot speak
for modesty. She is made to understand her own feelings when the maid
invites her to pass on to the next candidate. Then the wreath is
placed round Aja's neck, the people of the city shout their approval,
and the disappointed suitors feel like night-blooming lotuses at
daybreak.


_Seventh canto. Aja's marriage_.--While the suitors retire to the
camps where they have left their retainers, Aja conducts Indumati into
the decorated and festive city. The windows are filled with the faces
of eager and excited women, who admire the beauty of the young prince
and the wisdom of the princess's choice. When the marriage ceremony
has been happily celebrated, the disappointed suitors say farewell
with pleasant faces and jealous hearts, like peaceful pools concealing
crocodiles. They lie in ambush on the road which he must take, and
when he passes with his young bride, they fall upon him. Aja provides
for the safety of Indumati, marshals his attendants, and greatly
distinguishes himself in the battle which follows. Finally he uses the
magic weapon, given him by the demigod, to benumb his adversaries, and
leaving them in this helpless condition, returns home. He and his
young bride are joyfully welcomed by King Raghu, who resigns the
kingdom in favour of Aja.


_Eighth canto. Aja's lament_.--As soon as King Aja is firmly
established on his throne, Raghu retires to a hermitage to prepare for
the death of his mortal part. After some years of religious meditation
he is released, attaining union with the eternal spirit which is
beyond all darkness. His obsequies are performed by his dutiful son.
Indumati gives birth to a splendid boy, who is named Dasharatha. One
day, as the queen is playing with her husband in the garden, a wreath
of magic flowers falls upon her from heaven, and she dies. The
stricken king clasps the body of his dead beloved, and laments over
her.

  If flowers that hardly touch the body, slay it,
    The simplest instruments of fate may bring
  Destruction, and we have no power to stay it;
    Then must we live in fear of everything?

  No! Death was right. He spared the sterner anguish;
    Through gentle flowers your gentle life was lost
  As I have seen the lotus fade and languish
    When smitten by the slow and silent frost.

  Yet God is hard. With unforgiving rigour
    He forged a bolt to crush this heart of mine;
  He left the sturdy tree its living vigour,
    But stripped away and slew the clinging vine.

  Through all the years, dear, you would not reprove me,
    Though I offended. Can you go away
  Sudden, without a word? I know you love me,
    And I have not offended you to-day.

  You surely thought me faithless, to be banished
    As light-of-love and gambler, from your life,
  Because without a farewell word, you vanished
    And never will return, sweet-smiling wife.

  The warmth and blush that followed after kisses
    Is still upon her face, to madden me;
  For life is gone, 'tis only life she misses.
    A curse upon such life's uncertainty!

  I never wronged you with a thought unspoken,
    Still less with actions. Whither are you flown?
  Though king in name, I am a man heartbroken,
    For power and love took root in you alone.

  Your bee-black hair from which the flowers are peeping,
    Dear, wavy hair that I have loved so well,
  Stirs in the wind until I think you sleeping,
    Soon to return and make my glad heart swell.

  Awake, my love! Let only life be given,
    And choking griefs that stifle now, will flee
  As darkness from the mountain-cave is driven
    By magic herbs that glitter brilliantly.

  The silent face, round which the curls are keeping
    Their scattered watch, is sad to look upon
  As in the night some lonely lily, sleeping
    When musically humming bees are gone.

  The girdle that from girlhood has befriended
    You, in love-secrets wise, discreet, and true,
  No longer tinkles, now your dance is ended,
    Faithful in life, in dying faithful too.

  Your low, sweet voice to nightingales was given;
    Your idly graceful movement to the swans;
  Your grace to fluttering vines, dear wife in heaven;
    Your trustful, wide-eyed glances to the fawns:

  You left your charms on earth, that I, reminded
    By them, might be consoled though you depart;
  But vainly! Far from you, by sorrow blinded,
    I find no prop of comfort for my heart.

  Remember how you planned to make a wedding,
    Giving the vine-bride to her mango-tree;
  Before that happy day, dear, you are treading
    The path with no return. It should not be.

  And this ashoka-tree that you have tended
    With eager longing for the blossoms red--
  How can I twine the flowers that should have blended
    With living curls, in garlands for the dead?

  The tree remembers how the anklets, tinkling
    On graceful feet, delighted other years;
  Sad now he droops, your form with sorrow sprinkling,
    And sheds his blossoms in a rain of tears.

  Joy's sun is down, all love is fallen and perished,
    The song of life is sung, the spring is dead,
  Gone is the use of gems that once you cherished,
    And empty, ever empty, is my bed.

  You were my comrade gay, my home, my treasure,
    You were my bosom's friend, in all things true,
  My best-loved pupil in the arts of pleasure:
    Stern death took all I had in taking you.

  Still am I king, and rich in kingly fashion,
    Yet lacking you, am poor the long years through;
  I cannot now be won to any passion,
    For all my passions centred, dear, in you.

Aja commits the body of his beloved queen to the flames. A holy hermit
comes to tell the king that his wife had been a nymph of heaven in a
former existence, and that she has now returned to her home. But Aja
cannot be comforted. He lives eight weary years for the sake of his
young son, then is reunited with his queen in Paradise.


_Ninth canto. The hunt_.--This canto introduces us to King Dasharatha,
father of the heroic Rama. It begins with an elaborate description of
his glory, justice, prowess, and piety; then tells of the three
princesses who became his wives: Kausalya, Kaikeyi, and Sumitra. In
the beautiful springtime he takes an extended hunting-trip in the
forest, during which an accident happens, big with fate.

  He left his soldiers far behind one day
  In the wood, and following where deer-tracks lay,
  Came with his weary horse adrip with foam
  To river-banks where hermits made their home.

  And in the stream he heard the water fill
  A jar; he heard it ripple clear and shrill,
  And shot an arrow, thinking he had found
  A trumpeting elephant, toward the gurgling sound.

  Such actions are forbidden to a king,
  Yet Dasharatha sinned and did this thing;
  For even the wise and learned man is minded
  To go astray, by selfish passion blinded.

  He heard the startling cry, "My father!" rise
  Among the reeds; rode up; before his eyes
  He saw the jar, the wounded hermit boy:
  Remorse transfixed his heart and killed his joy.

  He left his horse, this monarch famous far,
  Asked him who drooped upon the water-jar
  His name, and from the stumbling accents knew
  A hermit youth, of lowly birth but true.

  The arrow still undrawn, the monarch bore
  Him to his parents who, afflicted sore
  With blindness, could not see their only son
  Dying, and told them what his hand had done.

  The murderer then obeyed their sad behest
  And drew the fixèd arrow from his breast;
  The boy lay dead; the father cursed the king,
  With tear-stained hands, to equal suffering.

  "In sorrow for your son you too shall die,
  An old, old man," he said, "as sad as I."
  Poor, trodden snake! He used his venomous sting,
  Then heard the answer of the guilty king:

  "Your curse is half a blessing if I see
  The longed-for son who shall be born to me:
  The scorching fire that sweeps the well-ploughed field,
  May burn indeed, but stimulates the yield.

  The deed is done; what kindly act can I
  Perform who, pitiless, deserve to die?"
  "Bring wood," he begged, "and build a funeral pyre,
  That we may seek our son through death by fire."

  The king fulfilled their wish; and while they burned,
  In mute, sin-stricken sorrow he returned,
  Hiding death's seed within him, as the sea
  Hides magic fire that burns eternally.

Thus is foreshadowed in the birth of Rama, his banishment, and the
death of his father.

Cantos ten to fifteen form the kernel of the epic, for they tell the
story of Rama, the mighty hero of Raghu's line. In these cantos
Kalidasa attempts to present anew, with all the literary devices of a
more sophisticated age, the famous old epic story sung in masterly
fashion by the author of the _Ramayana_. As the poet is treading
ground familiar to all who hear him, the action of these cantos is
very compressed.


_Tenth canto. The incarnation of Rama_.--While Dasharatha, desiring a
son, is childless, the gods, oppressed by a giant adversary, betake
themselves to Vishnu, seeking aid. They sing a hymn of praise, a part
of which is given here.

  O thou who didst create this All,
  Who dost preserve it, lest it fall,
  Who wilt destroy it and its ways--
  To thee, O triune Lord, be praise.

  As into heaven's water run
  The tastes of earth--yet it is one,
  So thou art all the things that range
  The universe, yet dost not change.

  Far, far removed, yet ever near;
  Untouched by passion, yet austere;
  Sinless, yet pitiful of heart;
  Ancient, yet free from age--Thou art.

  Though uncreate, thou seekest birth;
  Dreaming, thou watchest heaven and earth;
  Passionless, smitest low thy foes;
  Who knows thy nature, Lord? Who knows?

  Though many different paths, O Lord,
  May lead us to some great reward,
  They gather and are merged in thee
  Like floods of Ganges in the sea.

  The saints who give thee every thought,
  Whose every act for thee is wrought,
  Yearn for thine everlasting peace,
  For bliss with thee, that cannot cease.

  Like pearls that grow in ocean's night,
  Like sunbeams radiantly bright,
  Thy strange and wonder-working ways
  Defeat extravagance of praise.

  If songs that to thy glory tend
  Should weary grow or take an end,
  Our impotence must bear the blame,
  And not thine unexhausted name.

Vishnu is gratified by the praise of the gods, and asks their desire.
They inform him that they are distressed by Ravana, the giant king of
Lanka (Ceylon), whom they cannot conquer. Vishnu promises to aid them
by descending to earth in a new avatar, as son of Dasharatha. Shortly
afterwards, an angel appears before King Dasharatha, bringing in a
golden bowl a substance which contains the essence of Vishnu. The king
gives it to his three wives, who thereupon conceive and dream
wonderful dreams. Then Queen Kausalya gives birth to Rama; Queen
Kaikeyi to Bharata; Queen Sumitra to twins, Lakshmana and Shatrughna.
Heaven and earth rejoice. The four princes grow up in mutual
friendship, yet Rama and Lakshmana are peculiarly drawn to each other,
as are Bharata and Shatrughna. So beautiful and so modest are the four
boys that they seem like incarnations of the four things worth living
for--virtue, money, love, and salvation.


_Eleventh canto. The victory over Rama-with-the-axe_.--At the request
of the holy hermit Vishvamitra, the two youths Rama and Lakshmana
visit his hermitage, to protect it from evil spirits. The two lads
little suspect, on their maiden journey, how much of their lives will
be spent in wandering together in the forest. On the way they are
attacked by a giantess, whom Rama kills; the first of many giants who
are to fall at his hand. He is given magic weapons by the hermit, with
which he and his brother kill other giants, freeing the hermitage from
all annoyance. The two brothers then travel with the hermit to the
city of Mithila, attracted thither by hearing of its king, his
wonderful daughter, and his wonderful bow. The bow was given him by
the god Shiva; no man has been able to bend it; and the beautiful
princess's hand is the prize of any man who can perform the feat. On
the way thither, Rama brings to life Ahalya, a woman who in a former
age had been changed to stone for unfaithfulness to her austere
husband, and had been condemned to remain a stone until trodden by
Rama's foot. Without further adventure, they reach Mithila, where the
hermit presents Rama as a candidate for the bending of the bow.

  The king beheld the boy, with beauty blest
    And famous lineage; he sadly thought
  How hard it was to bend the bow, distressed
    Because his child must be so dearly bought.

  He said: "O holy one, a mighty deed
    That full-grown elephants with greatest pain
  Could hardly be successful in, we need
    Not ask of elephant-cubs. It would be vain.

  For many splendid kings of valorous name,
    Bearing the scars of many a hard-fought day,
  Have tried and failed; then, covered with their shame,
    Have shrugged their shoulders, cursed, and strode away."

Yet when the bow is given to the youthful Rama, he not only bends, but
breaks it. He is immediately rewarded with the hand of the Princess
Sita, while Lakshmana marries her sister. On their journey home with
their young brides, dreadful portents appear, followed by their cause,
a strange being called Rama-with-the-axe, who is carefully to be
distinguished from Prince Rama. This Rama-with-the-axe is a Brahman
who has sworn to exterminate the entire warrior caste, and who
naturally attacks the valorous prince. He makes light of Rama's
achievement in breaking Shiva's bow, and challenges him to bend the
mightier bow which he carries. This the prince succeeds in doing, and
Rama-with-the-axe disappears, shamed and defeated. The marriage party
then continues its journey to Ayodhya.


_Twelfth canto. The killing of Ravana_.--King Dasharatha prepares to
anoint Rama crown prince, when Queen Kaikeyi interposes. On an earlier
occasion she had rendered the king a service and received his promise
that he would grant her two boons, whatever she desired. She now
demands her two boons: the banishment of Rama for fourteen years, and
the anointing of her own son Bharata as crown prince. Rama thereupon
sets out for the Dandaka forest in Southern India, accompanied by his
faithful wife Sita and his devoted brother Lakshmana. The stricken
father dies of grief, thus fulfilling the hermit's curse. Now Prince
Bharata proves himself more generous than his mother; he refuses the
kingdom, and is with great difficulty persuaded by Rama himself to act
as regent during the fourteen years. Even so, he refuses to enter the
capital city, dwelling in a village outside the walls, and preserving
Rama's slippers as a symbol of the rightful king. Meanwhile Rama's
little party penetrates the wild forests of the south, fighting as
need arises with the giants there. Unfortunately, a giantess falls in
love with Rama, and

  In Sita's very presence told
  Her birth--love made her overbold:
  For mighty passion, as a rule,
  Will change a woman to a fool.

Scorned by Rama, laughed at by Sita, she becomes furious and
threatening.

  Laugh on! Your laughter's fruit shall be
  Commended to you. Gaze on me!
  I am a tigress, you shall know,
  Insulted by a feeble doe.

Lakshmana thereupon cuts off her nose and ears, rendering her
redundantly hideous. She departs, to return presently at the head of
an army of giants, whom Rama defeats single-handed, while his brother
guards Sita. The giantess then betakes herself to her brother, the
terrible ten-headed Ravana, king of Ceylon. He succeeds in capturing
Sita by a trick, and carries her off to his fortress in Ceylon. It is
plainly necessary for Rama to seek allies before attempting to cross
the straits and attack the stronghold. He therefore renders an
important service to the monkey king Sugriva, who gratefully leads an
army of monkeys to his assistance. The most valiant of these, Hanumat,
succeeds in entering Ravana's capital, where he finds Sita, gives her
a token from Rama, and receives a token for Rama. The army thereupon
sets out and comes to the seashore, where it is reinforced by the
giant Vibhishana, who has deserted his wicked brother Ravana. The
monkeys hurl great boulders into the strait, thus forming a bridge
over which they cross into Ceylon and besiege Ravana's capital. There
ensue many battles between the giants and the monkeys, culminating in
a tremendous duel between the champions, Rama and Ravana. In this duel
Ravana is finally slain. Rama recovers his wife, and the principal
personages of the army enter the flying chariot which had belonged to
Ravana, to return to Ayodhya; for the fourteen years of exile are now
over.


_Thirteenth canto. The return from the forest_.--This canto describes
the long journey through the air from Ceylon over the whole length of
India to Ayodhya. As the celestial car makes its journey, Rama points
out the objects of interest or of memory to Sita. Thus, as they fly
over the sea:

  The form of ocean, infinitely changing,
    Clasping the world and all its gorgeous state,
  Unfathomed by the intellect's wide ranging,
    Is awful like the form of God, and great.

  He gives his billowy lips to many a river
    That into his embrace with passion slips,
  Lover of many wives, a generous giver
    Of kisses, yet demanding eager lips.

  Look back, my darling, with your fawn-like glances
    Upon the path that from your prison leads;
  See how the sight of land again entrances,
    How fair the forest, as the sea recedes.

Then, as they pass over the spot where Rama searched for his stolen
wife:

  There is the spot where, sorrowfully searching,
    I found an anklet on the ground one day;
  It could not tinkle, for it was not perching
    On your dear foot, but sad and silent lay.

  I learned where you were carried by the giant
    From vines that showed themselves compassionate;
  They could not utter words, yet with their pliant
    Branches they pointed where you passed of late.

  The deer were kind; for while the juicy grasses
    Fell quite unheeded from each careless mouth,
  They turned wide eyes that said, "'Tis there she passes
    The hours as weary captive" toward the south.

  There is the mountain where the peacocks' screaming,
    And branches smitten fragrant by the rain,
  And madder-flowers that woke at last from dreaming,
    Made unendurable my lonely pain;

  And mountain-caves where I could scarce dissemble
    The woe I felt when thunder crashed anew,
  For I remembered how you used to tremble
    At thunder, seeking arms that longed for you.

Rama then points out the spots in Southern India where he and Sita had
dwelt in exile, and the pious hermitages which they had visited;
later, the holy spot where the Jumna River joins the Ganges; finally,
their distant home, unseen for fourteen years, and the well-known
river, from which spray-laden breezes come to them like cool,
welcoming hands. When they draw near, Prince Bharata comes forth to
welcome them, and the happy procession approaches the capital city.


_Fourteenth canto. Sita is put away_.--The exiles are welcomed by
Queen Kausalya and Queen Sumitra with a joy tinged with deep
melancholy. After the long-deferred anointing of Rama as king, comes
the triumphal entry into the ancestral capital, where Rama begins his
virtuous reign with his beloved queen most happily; for the very
hardships endured in the forest turn into pleasures when remembered in
the palace. To crown the king's joy, Sita becomes pregnant, and
expresses a wish to visit the forest again. At this point, where an
ordinary story would end, comes the great tragedy, the tremendous test
of Rama's character. The people begin to murmur about the queen,
believing that she could not have preserved her purity in the giant's
palace. Rama knows that she is innocent, but he also knows that he
cannot be a good king while the people feel as they do; and after a
pitiful struggle, he decides to put away his beloved wife. He bids his
brother Lakshmana take her to the forest, in accordance with her
request, but to leave her there at the hermitage of the sage Valmiki.
When this is done, and Sita hears the terrible future from Lakshmana,
she cries:

  Take reverent greeting to the queens, my mothers,
    And say to each with honour due her worth:
  "My child is your son's child, and not another's;
    Oh, pray for him, before he comes to birth."

  And tell the king from me: "You saw the matter,
    How I was guiltless proved in fire divine;
  Will you desert me for mere idle chatter?
    Are such things done in Raghu's royal line?

  Ah no! I cannot think you fickle-minded,
    For you were always very kind to me;
  Fate's thunderclap by which my eyes are blinded
    Rewards my old, forgotten sins, I see.

  Oh, I could curse my life and quickly end it,
    For it is useless, lived from you apart,
  But that I bear within, and must defend it,
    Your life, your child and mine, beneath my heart.

  When he is born, I'll scorn my queenly station,
    Gaze on the sun, and live a hell on earth,
  That I may know no pain of separation
    From you, my husband, in another birth.

  My king! Eternal duty bids you never
    Forget a hermit who for sorrow faints;
  Though I am exiled from your bed for ever,
    I claim the care you owe to all the saints."

So she accepts her fate with meek courage. But

  When Rama's brother left her there to languish
    And bore to them she loved her final word,
  She loosed her throat in an excess of anguish
    And screamed as madly as a frightened bird.

  Trees shed their flowers, the peacock-dances ended,
    The grasses dropped from mouths of feeding deer,
  As if the universal forest blended
    Its tears with hers, and shared her woeful fear.

While she laments thus piteously, she is discovered by the poet-sage
Valmiki, who consoles her with tender and beautiful words, and
conducts her to his hermitage, where she awaits the time of her
confinement. Meanwhile Rama leads a dreary life, finding duty but a
cold comforter. He makes a golden statue of his wife, and will not
look at other women.


_Fifteenth canto. Rama goes to heaven_.--The canto opens with a rather
long description of a fight between Rama's youngest brother and a
giant. On the journey to meet the giant, Shatrughna spends a night in
Valmiki's hermitage, and that very night Sita gives birth to twin
sons. Valmiki gives them the names Kusha and Lava, and when they grow
out of childhood he teaches them his own composition, the _Ramayana_,
"the sweet story of Rama," "the first path shown to poets." At this
time the young son of a Brahman dies in the capital, and the father
laments at the king's gate, for he believes that the king is unworthy,
else heaven would not send death prematurely. Rama is roused to stamp
out evil-doing in the kingdom, whereupon the dead boy comes to life.
The king then feels that his task on earth is nearly done, and
prepares to celebrate the great horse-sacrifice.[4]

At this sacrifice appear the two youths Kusha and Lava, who sing the
epic of Rama's deeds in the presence of Rama himself. The father
perceives their likeness to himself, then learns that they are indeed
his children, whom he has never seen. Thereupon Sita is brought
forward by the poet-sage Valmiki and in the presence of her husband
and her detractors establishes her constant purity in a terrible
fashion.

  "If I am faithful to my lord
  In thought, in action, and in word,
  I pray that Earth who bears us all
  May bid me in her bosom fall."

  The faithful wife no sooner spoke
  Than earth divided, and there broke
  From deep within a flashing light
  That flamed like lightning, blinding-bright.

  And, seated on a splendid throne
  Upheld by serpents' hoods alone,
  The goddess Earth rose visibly,
  And she was girded with the sea.

  Sita was clasped in her embrace,
  While still she gazed on Rama's face:
  He cried aloud in wild despair;
  She sank, and left him standing there.

Rama then establishes his brothers, sons, and nephews in different
cities of the kingdom, buries the three queens of his father, and
awaits death. He has not long to wait; Death comes, wearing a hermit's
garb, asks for a private interview, and threatens any who shall
disturb their conference. Lakshmana disturbs them, and so dies before
Rama. Then Rama is translated.

Cantos sixteen to nineteen form the third division of the epic, and
treat of Rama's descendants. The interest wanes, for the great hero is
gone.


_Sixteenth canto. Kumudvati's wedding_.--As Kusha lies awake one
night, a female figure appears in his chamber; and in answer to his
question, declares that she is the presiding goddess of the ancient
capital Ayodhya, which has been deserted since Rama's departure to
heaven. She pictures the sad state of the city thus:

  I have no king; my towers and terraces
    Crumble and fall; my walls are overthrown;
  As when the ugly winds of evening seize
    The rack of clouds in helpless darkness blown.

  In streets where maidens gaily passed at night,
    Where once was known the tinkle and the shine
  Of anklets, jackals slink, and by the light
    Of flashing fangs, seek carrion, snarl, and whine.

  The water of the pools that used to splash
    With drumlike music, under maidens' hands,
  Groans now when bisons from the jungle lash
    It with their clumsy horns, and roil its sands.

  The peacock-pets are wild that once were tame;
    They roost on trees, not perches; lose desire
  For dancing to the drums; and feel no shame
    For fans singed close by sparks of forest-fire.

  On stairways where the women once were glad
    To leave their pink and graceful footprints, here
  Unwelcome, blood-stained paws of tigers pad,
    Fresh-smeared from slaughter of the forest deer.

  Wall-painted elephants in lotus-brooks,
    Receiving each a lily from his mate,
  Are torn and gashed, as if by cruel hooks,
    By claws of lions, showing furious hate.

  I see my pillared caryatides
    Neglected, weathered, stained by passing time,
  Wearing in place of garments that should please,
    The skins of sloughing cobras, foul with slime.

  The balconies grow black with long neglect,
    And grass-blades sprout through floors no longer tight;
  They still receive but cannot now reflect
    The old, familiar moonbeams, pearly white.

  The vines that blossomed in my garden bowers,
    That used to show their graceful beauty, when
  Girls gently bent their twigs and plucked their flowers,
    Are broken by wild apes and wilder men.

  The windows are not lit by lamps at night,
    Nor by fair faces shining in the day,
  But webs of spiders dim the delicate, light
    Smoke-tracery with one mere daub of grey.

  The river is deserted; on the shore
    No gaily bathing men and maidens leave
  Food for the swans; its reedy bowers no more
    Are vocal: seeing this, I can but grieve.

The goddess therefore begs Kusha to return with his court to the old
capital, and when he assents, she smiles and vanishes. The next
morning Kusha announces the vision of the night, and immediately sets
out for Ayodhya with his whole army. Arrived there, King Kusha quickly
restores the city to its former splendour. Then when the hot summer
comes, the king goes down to the river to bathe with the ladies of the
court. While in the water he loses a great gem which his father had
given him. The divers are unable to find it, and declare their belief
that it has been stolen by the serpent Kumuda who lives in the river.
The king threatens to shoot an arrow into the river, whereupon the
waters divide, and the serpent appears with the gem. He is accompanied
by a beautiful maiden, whom he introduces as his sister Kumudvati, and
whom he offers in marriage to Kusha. The offer is accepted, and the
wedding celebrated with great pomp.


_Seventeenth canto. King Atithi_.--To the king and queen is born a
son, who is named Atithi. When he has grown into manhood, his father
Kusha engages in a struggle with a demon, in which the king is killed
in the act of killing his adversary. He goes to heaven, followed by
his faithful queen, and Atithi is anointed king. The remainder of the
canto describes King Atithi's glorious reign.


_Eighteenth canto. The later princes_.--This canto gives a brief,
impressionistic sketch of the twenty-one kings who in their order
succeeded Atithi.


_Nineteenth canto. The loves of Agnivarna_.--After the twenty-one
kings just mentioned, there succeeds a king named Agnivarna, who gives
himself to dissipation. He shuts himself up in the palace; even when
duty requires him to appear before his subjects, he does so merely by
hanging one foot out of a window. He trains dancing-girls himself, and
has so many mistresses that he cannot always call them by their right
names. It is not wonderful that this kind of life leads before long to
a consuming disease; and as Agnivarna is even then unable to resist
the pleasures of the senses, he dies. His queen is pregnant, and she
mounts the throne as regent in behalf of her unborn son. With this
strange scene, half tragic, half vulgar, the epic, in the form in
which it has come down to us, abruptly ends.

If we now endeavour to form some critical estimate of the poem, we are
met at the outset by this strangely unnatural termination. We cannot
avoid wondering whether the poem as we have it is complete. And we
shall find that there are good reasons for believing that Kalidasa did
not let the glorious solar line end in the person of the voluptuous
Agnivarna and his unborn child. In the first place, there is a
constant tradition which affirms that _The Dynasty of Raghu_
originally consisted of twenty-five cantos. A similar tradition
concerning Kalidasa's second epic has justified itself; for some time
only seven cantos were known; then more were discovered, and we now
have seventeen. Again, there is a rhetorical rule, almost never
disregarded, which requires a literary work to end with an epilogue in
the form of a little prayer for the welfare of readers or auditors.
Kalidasa himself complies with this rule, certainly in five of his
other six books. Once again, Kalidasa has nothing of the tragedian in
his soul; his works, without exception, end happily. In the drama
_Urvashi_ he seriously injures a splendid old tragic story for the
sake of a happy ending. These facts all point to the probability that
the conclusion of the epic has been lost. We may even assign a
natural, though conjectural, reason for this. _The Dynasty of Raghu_
has been used for centuries as a text-book in India, so that
manuscripts abound, and commentaries are very numerous. Now if the
concluding cantos were unfitted for use as a text-book, they might
very easily be lost during the centuries before the introduction of
printing-presses into India. Indeed, this very unfitness for use as a
school text seems to be the explanation of the temporary loss of
several cantos of Kalidasa's second epic.

On the other hand, we are met by the fact that numerous commentators,
living in different parts of India, know the text of only nineteen
cantos. Furthermore, it is unlikely that Kalidasa left the poem
incomplete at his death; for it was, without serious question, one of
his earlier works. Apart from evidences of style, there is the
subject-matter of the introductory stanzas, in which the poet presents
himself as an aspirant for literary fame. No writer of established
reputation would be likely to say:

  The fool who seeks a poet's fame,
  Must look for ridicule and blame,
  Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would try
  To pluck the fruit for giants high.

In only one other of his writings, in the drama which was undoubtedly
written earlier than the other two dramas, does the poet thus present
his feeling of diffidence to his auditors.

It is of course possible that Kalidasa wrote the first nineteen cantos
when a young man, intending to add more, then turned to other matters,
and never afterwards cared to take up the rather thankless task of
ending a youthful work.

The question does not admit of final solution. Yet whoever reads and
re-reads _The Dynasty of Raghu_, and the other works of its author,
finds the conviction growing ever stronger that our poem in nineteen
cantos is mutilated. We are thus enabled to clear the author of the
charge of a lame and impotent conclusion.

Another adverse criticism cannot so readily be disposed of; that of a
lack of unity in the plot. As the poem treats of a kingly dynasty, we
frequently meet the cry: The king is dead. Long live the king! The
story of Rama himself occupies only six cantos; he is not born until
the tenth canto, he is in heaven after the fifteenth. There are in
truth six heroes, each of whom has to die to make room for his
successor. One may go farther and say that it is not possible to give
a brief and accurate title to the poem. It is not a _Ramayana_, or
epic of Rama's deeds, for Rama is on the stage during only a third of
the poem. It is not properly an epic of Raghu's line, for many kings
of this line are unmentioned. Not merely kings who escape notice by
their obscurity, but also several who fill a large place in Indian
story, whose deeds and adventures are splendidly worthy of epic
treatment. _The Dynasty of Raghu_ is rather an epic poem in which Rama
is the central figure, giving it such unity as it possesses, but which
provides Rama with a most generous background in the shape of selected
episodes concerning his ancestors and his descendants.

Rama is the central figure. Take him away and the poem falls to pieces
like a pearl necklace with a broken string. Yet it may well be doubted
whether the cantos dealing with Rama are the most successful. They are
too compressed, too briefly allusive. Kalidasa attempts to tell the
story in about one-thirtieth of the space given to it by his great
predecessor Valmiki. The result is much loss by omission and much loss
by compression. Many of the best episodes of the _Ramayana_ are quite
omitted by Kalidasa: for example, the story of the jealous humpback
who eggs on Queen Kaikeyi to demand her two boons; the beautiful scene
in which Sita insists on following Rama into the forest; the account
of the somnolent giant Pot-ear, a character quite as good as
Polyphemus. Other fine episodes are so briefly alluded to as to lose
all their charm: for example, the story of the golden deer that
attracts the attention of Rama while Ravana is stealing his wife; the
journey of the monkey Hanumat to Ravana's fortress and his interview
with Sita.

The Rama-story, as told by Valmiki, is one of the great epic stories
of the world. It has been for two thousand years and more the story
_par excellence_ of the Hindus; and the Hindus may fairly claim to be
the best story-tellers of the world. There is therefore real matter
for regret in the fact that so great a poet as Kalidasa should have
treated it in a way not quite worthy of it and of himself. The reason
is not far to seek, nor can there be any reasonable doubt as to its
truth. Kalidasa did not care to put himself into direct competition
with Valmiki. The younger poet's admiration of his mighty predecessor
is clearly expressed. It is with especial reference to Valmiki that he
says in his introduction:

  Yet I may enter through the door
  That mightier poets pierced of yore;
  A thread may pierce a jewel, but
  Must follow where the diamond cut.

He introduces Valmiki into his own epic, making him compose the
_Ramayana_ in Rama's lifetime. Kalidasa speaks of Valmiki as "the
poet," and the great epic he calls "the sweet story of Rama," "the
first path shown to poets," which, when sung by the two boys, was
heard with motionless delight by the deer, and, when sung before a
gathering of learned men, made them heedless of the tears that rolled
down their cheeks.

Bearing these matters in mind, we can see the course of Kalidasa's
thoughts almost as clearly as if he had expressed them directly. He
was irresistibly driven to write the wonderful story of Rama, as any
poet would be who became familiar with it. At the same time, his
modesty prevented him from challenging the old epic directly. He
therefore writes a poem which shall appeal to the hallowed association
that cluster round the great name of Rama, but devotes two-thirds of
it to themes that permit him greater freedom. The result is a formless
plot.

This is a real weakness, yet not a fatal weakness. In general,
literary critics lay far too much emphasis on plot. Of the elements
that make a great book, two, style and presentation of character,
hardly permit critical analysis. The third, plot, does permit such
analysis. Therefore the analyst overrates its importance. It is fatal
to all claim of greatness in a narrative if it is shown to have a bad
style or to be without interesting characters. It is not fatal if it
is shown that the plot is rambling. In recent literature it is easy to
find truly great narratives in which the plot leaves much to be
desired. We may cite the _Pickwick Papers, Les Misérables, War and
Peace_.

We must then regard _The Dynasty of Raghu_ as a poem in which single
episodes take a stronger hold upon the reader than does the unfolding
of an ingenious plot. In some degree, this is true of all long poems.
The _Æneid_ itself, the most perfect long poem ever written, has dull
passages. And when this allowance is made, what wonderful passages we
have in Kalidasa's poem! One hardly knows which of them makes the
strongest appeal, so many are they and so varied. There is the
description of the small boy Raghu in the third canto, the choice of
the princess in the sixth, the lament of King Aja in the eighth, the
story of Dasharatha and the hermit youth in the ninth, the account of
the ruined city in the sixteenth. Besides these, the Rama cantos, ten
to fifteen, make an epic within an epic. And if Kalidasa is not seen
at his very best here, yet his second best is of a higher quality than
the best of others. Also, the Rama story is so moving that a mere
allusion to it stirs like a sentimental memory of childhood. It has
the usual qualities of a good epic story: abundance of travel and
fighting and adventure and magic interweaving of human with
superhuman, but it has more than this. In both hero and heroine there
is real development of character. Odysseus and Æneas do not grow; they
go through adventures. But King Rama, torn between love for his wife
and duty to his subjects, is almost a different person from the
handsome, light-hearted prince who won his bride by breaking Shiva's
bow. Sita, faithful to the husband who rejects her, has made a long,
character-forming journey since the day when she left her father's
palace, a youthful bride. Herein lies the unique beauty of the tale of
Rama, that it unites romantic love and moral conflict with a splendid
story of wild adventure. No wonder that the Hindus, connoisseurs of
story-telling, have loved the tale of Rama's deeds better than any
other story.

If we compare _The Dynasty of Raghu_ with Kalidasa's other books, we
find it inferior to _The Birth of the War-god_ in unity of plot,
inferior to _Shakuntala_ in sustained interest, inferior to _The
Cloud-Messenger_ in perfection of every detail. Yet passages in it are
as high and sweet as anything in these works. And over it is shed the
magic charm of Kalidasa's style. Of that it is vain to speak. It can
be had only at first hand. The final proof that _The Dynasty of Raghu_
is a very great poem, is this: no one who once reads it can leave it
alone thereafter.{}


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: If a king aspired to the title of emperor, or king of
kings, he was at liberty to celebrate the horse-sacrifice. A horse was
set free to wander at will for a year, and was escorted by a band of
noble youths who were not permitted to interfere with his movements.
If the horse wandered into the territory of another king, such king
must either submit to be the vassal of the horse's owner, or must
fight him. If the owner of the horse received the submission, with or
without fighting, of all the kings into whose territories the horse
wandered during the year of freedom, he offered the horse in sacrifice
and assumed the imperial title.]

[Footnote 2: This is not the place to discuss the many interesting
questions of geography and ethnology suggested by the fourth canto.
But it is important to notice that Kalidasa had at least superficial
knowledge of the entire Indian peninsula and of certain outlying
regions.]

[Footnote 3: A girl of the warrior caste had the privilege of choosing
her husband. The procedure was this. All the eligible youths of the
neighbourhood were invited to her house, and were lavishly
entertained. On the appointed day, they assembled in a hall of the
palace, and the maiden entered with a garland in her hand. The suitors
were presented to her with some account of their claims upon her
attention, after which she threw the garland around the neck of him
whom she preferred.]

[Footnote 4: See footnote, p. 128.]

       *       *       *       *       *




THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD


_The Birth of the War-god_ is an epic poem in seventeen cantos. It
consists of 1096 stanzas, or about 4400 lines of verse. The subject is
the marriage of the god Shiva, the birth of his son, and the victory
of this son over a powerful demon. The story was not invented by
Kalidasa, but taken from old mythology. Yet it had never been told in
so masterly a fashion as had been the story of Rama's deeds by
Valmiki. Kalidasa is therefore under less constraint in writing this
epic than in writing _The Dynasty of Raghu_. I give first a somewhat
detailed analysis of the matter of the poem.

_First canto. The birth of Parvati_.--The poem begins with a
description of the great Himalaya mountain-range.

  God of the distant north, the Snowy Range
    O'er other mountains towers imperially;
  Earth's measuring-rod, being great and free from change,
    Sinks to the eastern and the western sea.

  Whose countless wealth of natural gems is not
    Too deeply blemished by the cruel snow;
  One fault for many virtues is forgot,
    The moon's one stain for beams that endless flow.

  Where demigods enjoy the shade of clouds
    Girding his lower crests, but often seek,
  When startled by the sudden rain that shrouds
    His waist, some loftier, ever sunlit peak.

  Where bark of birch-trees makes, when torn in strips
    And streaked with mountain minerals that blend
  To written words 'neath dainty finger-tips,
    Such dear love-letters as the fairies send.

  Whose organ-pipes are stems of bamboo, which
    Are filled from cavern-winds that know no rest,
  As if the mountain strove to set the pitch
    For songs that angels sing upon his crest.

  Where magic herbs that glitter in the night
    Are lamps that need no oil within them, when
  They fill cave-dwellings with their shimmering light
    And shine upon the loves of mountain men.

  Who offers roof and refuge in his caves
    To timid darkness shrinking from the day;
  A lofty soul is generous; he saves
    Such honest cowards as for protection pray,

  Who brings to birth the plants of sacrifice;
    Who steadies earth, so strong is he and broad.
  The great Creator, for this service' price,
    Made him the king of mountains, and a god.

Himalaya marries a wife, to whom in course of time a daughter is born,
as wealth is born when ambition pairs with character. The child is
named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain. Her father takes
infinite delight in her, as well he may; for

  She brought him purity and beauty too,
    As white flames to the lamp that burns at night;
  Or Ganges to the path whereby the true
    Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.

She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and
little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.

  As pictures waken to the painter's brush,
    Or lilies open to the morning sun,
  Her perfect beauty answered to the flush
    Of womanhood when childish days were done.

  Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray;
    Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid:
  Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay,
    That round her red, red lips for ever played.

  And when she spoke, the music of her tale
    Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit,
  Till listeners felt as if the nightingale
    Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.

It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the
wife of the god Shiva. This prediction awakens her father's pride, and
also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances. For the destined
bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and
self-denial upon a mountain peak. Himalaya therefore bids his daughter
wait upon Shiva. She does so, but without being able to divert him
from his austerities.


_Second canto. Brahma's self-revelation_.--At this time, the gods
betake themselves to Brahma, the Creator, and sing a hymn of praise, a
part of which is given here.

  Before creation, thou art one;
  Three, when creation's work is done:
  All praise and honour unto thee
  In this thy mystic trinity.

  Three various forms and functions three
  Proclaim thy living majesty;
  Thou dost create, and then maintain,
  And last, destroyest all again.

  Thy slow recurrent day and night
  Bring death to all, or living light.
  We live beneath thy waking eye;
  Thou sleepest, and thy creatures die.

  Solid and fluid, great and small,
  And light and heavy--Thou art all;
  Matter and form are both in thee:
  Thy powers are past discovery.[]

  Thou art the objects that unroll
  Their drama for the passive soul;
  Thou art the soul that views the play
  Indifferently, day by day.

  Thou art the knower and the known;
  Eater and food art thou alone;
  The priest and his oblation fair;
  The prayerful suppliant and the prayer.

Brahma receives their worship graciously, and asks the reason of their
coming. The spokesman of the gods explains to Brahma how a great demon
named Taraka is troubling the world, and how helpless they are in
opposing him. They have tried the most extravagant propitiation, and
found it useless.

  The sun in heaven dare not glow
  With undiminished heat, but so
  As that the lilies may awake
  Which blossom in his pleasure-lake.

  The wind blows gently as it can
  To serve him as a soothing fan,
  And dare not manifest its power,
  Lest it should steal a garden flower.

  The seasons have forgotten how
  To follow one another now;
  They simultaneously bring
  Him flowers of autumn, summer, spring.

  Such adoration makes him worse;
  He troubles all the universe:
  Kindness inflames a rascal's mind;
  He should be recompensed in kind.

  And all the means that we have tried
  Against the rogue, are brushed aside,
  As potent herbs have no avail
  When bodily powers begin to fail.

  We seek a leader, O our Lord,
  To bring him to his just reward--
  As saints seek evermore to win
  Virtue, to end life's woe and sin--

  That he may guide the heavenly host,
  And guard us to the uttermost,
  And from our foe lead captive back
  The victory which still we lack.

Brahma answers that the demon's power comes from him, and he does not
feel at liberty to proceed against it; "for it is not fitting to cut
down even a poison-tree that one's own hand has planted." But he
promises that a son shall be born to Shiva and Parvati, who shall lead
the gods to victory. With this answer the gods are perforce content,
and their king, Indra, waits upon the god of love, to secure his
necessary co-operation.


_Third canto. The burning of Love_.--Indra waits upon Love, who asks
for his commands. Indra explains the matter, and asks Love to inflame
Shiva with passion for Parvati. Love thereupon sets out, accompanied
by his wife Charm and his friend Spring. When they reach the mountain
where Shiva dwells, Spring shows his power. The snow disappears; the
trees put forth blossoms; bees, deer, and birds waken to new life. The
only living being that is not influenced by the sudden change of
season is Shiva, who continues his meditation, unmoved. Love himself
is discouraged, until he sees the beauty of Parvati, when he takes
heart again. At this moment, Shiva chances to relax his meditation,
and Parvati approaches to do him homage. Love seizes the lucky moment,
and prepares to shoot his bewildering arrow at Shiva. But the great
god sees him, and before the arrow is discharged, darts fire from his
eye, whereby Love is consumed. Charm falls in a swoon, Shiva vanishes,
and the wretched Parvati is carried away by her father.


_Fourth canto. The lament of Charm_.--This canto is given entire.

  The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon,
    Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting
  Was preparation of herself full soon
    To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.

  Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought
    On every spot where he might be, in vain,
  Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought,
    The lover she should never see again.

  She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live,
    Lord of my life?" And at the last she found
  Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive,
    Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.

  With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained
    By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair,
  She wept and to the forest world complained,
    As if the forest in her grief might share.

  "Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish;
    Perfect its loveliness in every part;
  I saw that beauty fade away and perish,
    Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!

  Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only
    Endured, and I for ever need its power;
  Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely,
    When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.

  Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish;
    I never did a thing to work thee harm;
  Why should I thus in vain affliction languish?
    Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?

  Of playful chastisements art thou reminded,
    Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands,
  Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded,
    Held for thy meet correction in these hands?

  I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often
    'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true,
  But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften:
    Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.

  Think not that on the journey thou hast taken
    So newly, I should fail to find thy track;
  Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken,
    For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.

  Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden
    Through veils of midnight darkness in the town
  To the eager heart with loving fancies laden,
    And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?

  The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances,
    That bids the love-word trippingly to glide,
  Is now deception; for if flashing glances
    Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.

  And when he knows thy life is a remembrance,
    Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain,
  Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance,
    And even in his waxing time, will wane.

  Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding
    On twigs where pink is struggling with the green,
  Greeted by koïl-birds sweet concert holding--
    Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?

  Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention,
    To speed the missile when the bow is bent?
  They buzz about me now with kind intention,
    And mortify the grief which they lament.

  Arise! Assume again thy radiant beauty!
    Rebuke the koïl-bird, whom nature taught
  Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty
    As messenger to bosoms passion-fraught.

  Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion,
    Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest
  By fervent, self-surrendering devotion--
    And memories like these deny me rest.

  Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland,
    Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm!
  Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land
    Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.

  Thy service by the cruel gods demanded,
    Meant service to thy wife left incomplete,
  My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded--
    Return to end the adorning of my feet.

  No, straight to thee I fly, my body given,
    A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire,
  Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven,
    Awake in thee an answering desire.

  Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated
    For evermore a deep reproach to prove,
  A stain that may not be obliterated,
    If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.

  And how can I perform the last adorning
    Of thy poor body, as befits a wife?
  So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning
    Thy body followed still the spirit's life.

  I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow,
    The bow slung careless on thy breast the while,
  Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow,
    Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.

  But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fashion
    The flowery arrow for thee? Has the wrath
  Of dreadful Shiva, in excess of passion,
    Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path?"

  Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief
    Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm,
  Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief
    As friendship can, to sore-lamenting Charm.

  And at the sight of him, she wept the more,
    And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast;
  For lamentation finds an open door
    In the presence of the friends we love the best.

  Stifling, she cried: "Behold the mournful matter!
    In place of him thou seekest, what is found?
  A something that the winds of heaven scatter,
    A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.

  Arise, O Love! For Spring knows no estranging,
    Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot;
  Man's love for wife is ever doubtful, changing;
    Man's love for man abides and changes not.

  With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion
    Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string,
  Reduced men, giants, gods to thy dominion--
    The triple world has felt that arrow sting.

  But Love is gone, far gone beyond returning,
    A candle snuffed by wandering breezes vain;
  And see! I am his wick, with Love once burning,
    Now blackened by the smoke of nameless pain.

  In slaying Love, fate wrought but half a slaughter,
    For I am left. And yet the clinging vine
  Must fall, when falls the sturdy tree that taught her
    Round him in loving tenderness to twine.

  So then, fulfil for me the final mission
    Of him who undertakes a kinsman's part;
  Commit me to the flames (my last petition)
    And speed the widow to her husband's heart.

  The moonlight wanders not, the moon forsaking;
    Where sails the cloud, the lightning is not far;
  Wife follows mate, is law of nature's making,
    Yes, even among such things as lifeless are.

  My breast is stained; I lay among the ashes
    Of him I loved with all a woman's powers;
  Now let me lie where death-fire flames and flashes,
    As glad as on a bed of budding flowers.

  Sweet Spring, thou camest oft where we lay sleeping
    On blossoms, I and he whose life is sped;
  Unto the end thy friendly office keeping,
    Prepare for me the last, the fiery bed.

  And fan the flame to which I am committed
    With southern winds; I would no longer stay;
  Thou knowest well how slow the moments flitted
    For Love, my love, when I was far away.

  And sprinkle some few drops of water, given
    In friendship, on his ashes and on me;
  That Love and I may quench our thirst in heaven
    As once on earth, in heavenly unity.

  And sometimes seek the grave where Love is lying;
    Pause there a moment, gentle Spring, and shower
  Sweet mango-clusters to the winds replying;
    For he thou lovedst, loved the mango-flower."

  As Charm prepared to end her mortal pain
    In fire, she heard a voice from heaven cry,
  That showed her mercy, as the early rain
    Shows mercy to the fish, when lakes go dry:

  "O wife of Love! Thy lover is not lost
    For evermore. This voice shall tell thee why
  He perished like the moth, when he had crossed
    The dreadful god, in fire from Shiva's eye.

  When darts of Love set Brahma in a flame,
    To shame his daughter with impure desire,
  He checked the horrid sin without a name,
    And cursed the god of love to die by fire.

  But Virtue interceded in behalf
    Of Love, and won a softening of the doom:
  'Upon the day when Shiva's heart shall laugh
    In wedding joy, for mercy finding room,

  He shall unite Love's body with the soul,
    A marriage-present to his mountain bride.'
  As clouds hold fire and water in control,
    Gods are the fount of wrath, and grace beside.

  So, gentle Charm, preserve thy body sweet
    For dear reunion after present pain;
  The stream that dwindles in the summer heat,
    Is reunited with the autumn rain."

  Invisibly and thus mysteriously
    The thoughts of Charm were turned away from death;
  And Spring, believing where he might not see,
    Comforted her with words of sweetest breath.

  The wife of Love awaited thus the day,
    Though racked by grief, when fate should show its power,
  As the waning moon laments her darkened ray
    And waits impatient for the twilight hour.


_Fifth canto. The reward of self-denial_.--Parvati reproaches her own
beauty, for "loveliness is fruitless if it does not bind a lover." She
therefore resolves to lead a life of religious self-denial, hoping
that the merit thus acquired will procure her Shiva's love. Her mother
tries in vain to dissuade her; her father directs her to a fit
mountain peak, and she retires to her devotions. She lays aside all
ornaments, lets her hair hang unkempt, and assumes the hermit's dress
of bark. While she is spending her days in self-denial, she is visited
by a Brahman youth, who compliments her highly upon her rigid
devotion, and declares that her conduct proves the truth of the
proverb: Beauty can do no wrong. Yet he confesses himself bewildered,
for she seems to have everything that heart can desire. He therefore
asks her purpose in performing these austerities, and is told how her
desires are fixed upon the highest of all objects, upon the god Shiva
himself, and how, since Love is dead, she sees no way to win him
except by ascetic religion. The youth tries to dissuade Parvati by
recounting all the dreadful legends that are current about Shiva: how
he wears a coiling snake on his wrist, a bloody elephant-hide upon his
back, how he dwells in a graveyard, how he rides upon an undignified
bull, how poor he is and of unknown birth. Parvati's anger is awakened
by this recital. She frowns and her lip quivers as she defends herself
and the object of her love.

  Shiva, she said, is far beyond the thought
    Of such as you: then speak no more to me.
  Dull crawlers hate the splendid wonders wrought
    By lofty souls untouched by rivalry.

  They search for wealth, whom dreaded evil nears,
    Or they who fain would rise a little higher;
  The world's sole refuge neither hopes nor fears
    Nor seeks the objects of a small desire.

  Yes, he is poor, yet he is riches' source;
    This graveyard-haunter rules the world alone;
  Dreadful is he, yet all beneficent force:
    Think you his inmost nature can be known?

  All forms are his; and he may take or leave
    At will, the snake, or gem with lustre white;
  The bloody skin, or silk of softest weave;
    Dead skulls, or moonbeams radiantly bright.

  For poverty he rides upon a bull,
    While Indra, king of heaven, elephant-borne,
  Bows low to strew his feet with beautiful,
    Unfading blossoms in his chaplet worn.

  Yet in the slander spoken in pure hate
    One thing you uttered worthy of his worth:
  How could the author of the uncreate
    Be born? How could we understand his birth?

  Enough of this! Though every word that you
    Have said, be faithful, yet would Shiva please
  My eager heart all made of passion true
    For him alone. Love sees no blemishes.

In response to this eloquence, the youth throws off his disguise,
appearing as the god Shiva himself, and declares his love for her.
Parvati immediately discontinues her religious asceticism; for
"successful effort regenerates."


_Sixth canto. Parvati is given in marriage_.--While Parvati departs to
inform her father of what has happened, Shiva summons the seven sages,
who are to make the formal proposal of marriage to the bride's
parents. The seven sages appear, flying through the air, and with them
Arundhati, the heavenly model of wifely faith and devotion. On seeing
her, Shiva feels his eagerness for marriage increase, realising that

  All actions of a holy life
  Are rooted in a virtuous wife.

Shiva then explains his purpose, and sends the seven sages to make the
formal request for Parvati's hand. The seven sages fly to the
brilliant city of Himalaya, where they are received by the mountain
god. After a rather portentous interchange of compliments, the seven
sages announce their errand, requesting Parvati's hand in behalf of
Shiva. The father joyfully assents, and it is agreed that the marriage
shall be celebrated after three days. These three days are spent by
Shiva in impatient longing.


_Seventh canto. Parvati's wedding_.--The three days are spent in
preparations for the wedding. So great is Parvati's unadorned beauty
that the waiting-women can hardly take their eyes from her to inspect
the wedding-dress. But the preparations are complete at last; and the
bride is beautiful indeed.

  As when the flowers are budding on a vine,
    Or white swans rest upon a river's shore,
  Or when at night the stars in heaven shine,
    Her lovely beauty grew with gems she wore.

  When wide-eyed glances gave her back the same
    Bright beauty--and the mirror never lies--
  She waited with impatience till he came:
    For women dress to please their lovers' eyes.

Meanwhile Shiva finishes his preparations, and sets out on his wedding
journey, accompanied by Brahma, Vishnu, and lesser gods. At his
journey's end, he is received by his bride's father, and led through
streets ankle-deep in flowers, where the windows are filled with the
faces of eager and excited women, who gossip together thus:

  For his sake it was well that Parvati
    Should mortify her body delicate;
  Thrice happy might his serving-woman be,
    And infinitely blest his bosom's mate.

Shiva and his retinue then enter the palace, where he is received with
bashful love by Parvati, and the wedding is celebrated with due pomp.
The nymphs of heaven entertain the company with a play, and Shiva
restores the body of Love.


_Eighth canto. The honeymoon_.--The first month of marital bliss is
spent in Himalaya's palace. After this the happy pair wander for a
time among the famous mountain-peaks. One of these they reach at
sunset, and Shiva describes the evening glow to his bride. A few
stanzas are given here.

  See, my belovèd, how the sun
    With beams that o'er the water shake
  From western skies has now begun
    A bridge of gold across the lake.

  Upon the very tree-tops sway
    The peacocks; even yet they hold
  And drink the dying light of day,
    Until their fans are molten gold.

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

  The steeds that draw the sun's bright car,
    With bended neck and falling plume
  And drooping mane, are seen afar
    To bury day in ocean's gloom.

  The sun is down, and heaven sleeps:
    Thus every path of glory ends;
  As high as are the scaled steeps,
    The downward way as low descends.

Shiva then retires for meditation. On his return, he finds that his
bride is peevish at being left alone even for a little time, and to
soothe her, he describes the night which is now advancing. A few
stanzas of this description run as follows.

  The twilight glow is fading far
    And stains the west with blood-red light,
  As when a reeking scimitar
    Slants upward on a field of fight.

  And vision fails above, below,
    Around, before us, at our back;
  The womb of night envelops slow
    The world with darkness vast and black.

  Mute while the world is dazed with light,
    The smiling moon begins to rise
  And, being teased by eager night,
    Betrays the secrets of the skies.

  Moon-fingers move the black, black hair
    Of night into its proper place,
  Who shuts her eyes, the lilies fair,
    As he sets kisses on her face.

Shiva and Parvati then drink wine brought them by the guardian goddess
of the grove, and in this lovely spot they dwell happily for many
years.


_Ninth canto. The journey to Mount Kailasa_.--One day the god of fire
appears as a messenger from the gods before Shiva, to remonstrate with
him for not begetting the son upon whom heaven's welfare depends.
Shiva deposits his seed in Fire, who departs, bent low with the
burden. Shortly afterwards the gods wait upon Shiva and Parvati, who
journey with them to Mount Kailasa, the splendid dwelling-place of the
god of wealth. Here also Shiva and Parvati spend happy days.


_Tenth canto. The birth of Kumara_.--To Indra, king of the gods, Fire
betakes himself, tells his story, and begs to be relieved of his
burden. Indra advises him to deposit it in the Ganges. Fire therefore
travels to the Ganges, leaves Shiva's seed in the river, and departs
much relieved. But now it is the turn of Ganges to be distressed,
until at dawn the six Pleiades come to bathe in the river. They find
Shiva's seed and lay it in a nest of reeds, where it becomes a child,
Kumara, the future god of war.


_Eleventh canto. The birth of Kumara, continued_.--Ganges suckles the
beautiful infant. But there arises a dispute for the possession of the
child between Fire, Ganges, and the Pleiades. At this point Shiva and
Parvati arrive, and Parvati, wondering at the beauty of the infant and
at the strange quarrel, asks Shiva to whom the child belongs. When
Shiva tells her that Kumara is their own child, her joy is unbounded.

  Because her eyes with happy tears were dim,
    'Twas but by snatches that she saw the boy;
  Yet, with her blossom-hand caressing him,
    She felt a strange, an unimagined joy.

  The vision of the infant made her seem
    A flower unfolding in mysterious bliss;
  Or, billowy with her joyful tears, a stream;
    Or pure affection, perfect in a kiss.

Shiva conducts Parvati and the boy back to Mount Kailasa, where gods
and fairies welcome them with music and dancing. Here the divine child
spends the days of a happy infancy, not very different from human
infancy; for he learns to walk, gets dirty in the courtyard, laughs a
good deal, pulls the scanty hair of an old servant, and learns to
count: "One, nine, two, ten, five, seven." These evidences of healthy
development cause Shiva and Parvati the most exquisite joy.


_Twelfth canto. Kumara is made general_.--Indra, with the other gods,
waits upon Shiva, to ask that Kumara, now a youth, may be lent to them
as their leader in the campaign against Taraka. The gods are
graciously received by Shiva, who asks their errand. Indra prefers
their request, whereupon Shiva bids his son assume command of the
gods, and slay Taraka. Great is the joy of Kumara himself, of his
mother Parvati, and of Indra.


_Thirteenth canto. Kumara is consecrated general_.--Kumara takes an
affectionate farewell of his parents, and sets out with the gods. When
they come to Indra's paradise, the gods are afraid to enter, lest they
find their enemy there. There is an amusing scene in which each
courteously invites the others to precede him, until Kumara ends their
embarrassment by leading the way. Here for the first time Kumara sees
with deep respect the heavenly Ganges, Indra's garden and palace, and
the heavenly city. But he becomes red-eyed with anger on beholding the
devastation wrought by Taraka.

  He saw departed glory, saw the state
    Neglected, ruined, sad, of Indra's city,
  As of a woman with a cowardly mate:
    And all his inmost heart dissolved in pity.

  He saw how crystal floors were gashed and torn
    By wanton tusks of elephants, were strewed
  With skins that sloughing cobras once had worn:
    And sadness overcame him as he viewed.

  He saw beside the bathing-pools the bowers
    Defiled by elephants grown overbold,
  Strewn with uprooted golden lotus-flowers,
    No longer bright with plumage of pure gold,

  Rough with great, jewelled columns overthrown,
    Rank with invasion of the untrimmed grass:
  Shame strove with sorrow at the ruin shown,
    For heaven's foe had brought these things to pass.

Amid these sorrowful surroundings the gods gather and anoint Kumara,
thus consecrating him as their general.


_Fourteenth canto. The march_.--Kumara prepares for battle, and
marshals his army. He is followed by Indra riding on an elephant, Agni
on a ram, Yama on a buffalo, a giant on a ghost, Varuna on a dolphin,
and many other lesser gods. When all is ready, the army sets out on
its dusty march.


_Fifteenth canto. The two armies clash_.--The demon Taraka is informed
that the hostile army is approaching, but scorns the often-conquered
Indra and the boy Kumara. Nevertheless, he prepares for battle,
marshals his army, and sets forth to meet the gods. But he is beset by
dreadful omens of evil.

  For foul birds came, a horrid flock to see,
    Above the army of the foes of heaven,
  And dimmed the sun, awaiting ravenously
    The feast of demon corpses to be given.

  And monstrous snakes, as black as powdered soot,
    Spitting hot poison high into the air,
  Brought terror to the army underfoot,
    And crept and coiled and crawled before them there.

  The sun a sickly halo round him had;
    Coiling within it frightened eyes could see
  Great, writhing serpents, enviously glad
    Because the demon's death so soon should be.

  And in the very circle of the sun
    Were phantom jackals, snarling to be fed;
  And with impatient haste they seemed to run
    To drink the demon's blood in battle shed.

  There fell, with darting flame and blinding flash
    Lighting the farthest heavens, from on high
  A thunderbolt whose agonising crash
    Brought fear and shuddering from a cloudless sky.

  There came a pelting rain of blazing coals
    With blood and bones of dead men mingled in;
  Smoke and weird flashes horrified their souls;
    The sky was dusty grey like asses' skin.

  The elephants stumbled and the horses fell,
    The footmen jostled, leaving each his post,
  The ground beneath them trembled at the swell
    Of ocean, when an earthquake shook the host.

  And dogs before them lifted muzzles foul
    To see the sun that lit that awful day,
  And pierced the ears of listeners with a howl
    Dreadful yet pitiful, then slunk away.

Taraka's counsellors endeavour to persuade him to turn back, but he
refuses; for timidity is not numbered among his faults. As he advances
even worse portents appear, and finally warning voices from heaven
call upon him to desist from his undertaking. The voices assure him of
Kumara's prowess and inevitable victory; they advise him to make his
peace while there is yet time. But Taraka's only answer is a defiance.

  "You mighty gods that flit about in heaven
    And take my foeman's part, what would you say?
  Have you forgot so soon the torture given
    By shafts of mine that never miss their way?

  Why should I fear before a six-days child?
    Why should you prowl in heaven and gibber shrill,
  Like dogs that in an autumn night run wild,
    Like deer that sneak through forests, trembling still?

  The boy whom you have chosen as your chief
    In vain upon his hermit-sire shall cry;
  The upright die, if taken with a thief:
    First you shall perish, then he too shall die."

And as Taraka emphasises his meaning by brandishing his great sword,
the warning spirits flee, their knees knocking together. Taraka laughs
horribly, then mounts his chariot, and advances against the army of
the gods. On the other side the gods advance, and the two armies
clash.


_Sixteenth canto. The battle between gods and demons_.--This canto is
entirely taken up with the struggle between the two armies. A few
stanzas are given here.

  As pairs of champions stood forth
  To test each other's fighting worth,
  The bards who knew the family fame
  Proclaimed aloud each mighty name.

  As ruthless weapons cut their way
  Through quilted armour in the fray,
  White tufts of cotton flew on high
  Like hoary hairs upon the sky.

  Blood-dripping swords reflected bright
  The sunbeams in that awful fight;
  Fire-darting like the lightning-flash,
  They showed how mighty heroes clash.

  The archers' arrows flew so fast,
  As through a hostile breast they passed,
  That they were buried in the ground,
  No stain of blood upon them found.

  The swords that sheaths no longer clasped,
  That hands of heroes firmly grasped,
  Flashed out in glory through the fight,
  As if they laughed in mad delight.

  And many a warrior's eager lance
  Shone radiant in the eerie dance,
  A curling, lapping tongue of death
  To lick away the soldier's breath.

  Some, panting with a bloody thirst,
  Fought toward the victim chosen first,
  But had a reeking path to hew
  Before they had him full in view.

  Great elephants, their drivers gone
  And pierced with arrows, struggled on,
  But sank at every step in mud
  Made liquid by the streams of blood.

  The warriors falling in the fray,
  Whose heads the sword had lopped away,
  Were able still to fetch a blow
  That slew the loud-exulting foe.

  The footmen thrown to Paradise
  By elephants of monstrous size,
  Were seized upon by nymphs above,
  Exchanging battle-scenes for love.

  The lancer, charging at his foe,
  Would pierce him through and bring him low,
  And would not heed the hostile dart
  That found a lodgment in his heart.

  The war-horse, though unguided, stopped
  The moment that his rider dropped,
  And wept above the lifeless head,
  Still faithful to his master dead.

  Two lancers fell with mortal wound
  And still they struggled on the ground;
  With bristling hair, with brandished knife,
  Each strove to end the other's life.

  Two slew each other in the fight;
  To Paradise they took their flight;
  There with a nymph they fell in love,
  And still they fought in heaven above.

  Two souls there were that reached the sky;
  From heights of heaven they could spy
  Two writhing corpses on the plain,
  And knew their headless forms again.

As the struggle comes to no decisive issue, Taraka seeks out the chief
gods, and charges upon them.

_Seventeenth canto. Taraka is slain_.--Taraka engages the principal
gods and defeats them with magic weapons. When they are relieved by
Kumara, the demon turns to the youthful god of war, and advises him to
retire from the battle.

  Stripling, you are the only son
    Of Shiva and of Parvati.
  Go safe and live! Why should you run
    On certain death? Why fight with me?
  Withdraw! Let sire and mother blest
  Clasp living son to joyful breast.

  Flee, son of Shiva, flee the host
    Of Indra drowning in the sea
  That soon shall close upon his boast
    In choking waves of misery.
  For Indra is a ship of stone;
  Withdraw, and let him sink alone.

Kumara answers with modest firmness.

  The words you utter in your pride,
    O demon-prince, are only fit;
  Yet I am minded to abide
    The fight, and see the end of it.
  The tight-strung bow and brandished sword
  Decide, and not the spoken word.

And with this the duel begins. When Taraka finds his arrows parried by
Kumara, he employs the magic weapon of the god of wind. When this too
is parried, he uses the magic weapon of the god of fire, which Kumara
neutralises with the weapon of the god of water. As they fight on,
Kumara finds an opening, and slays Taraka with his lance, to the
unbounded delight of the universe.

Here the poem ends, in the form in which it has come down to us. It
has been sometimes thought that we have less than Kalidasa wrote,
partly because of a vague tradition that there were once twenty-three
cantos, partly because the customary prayer is lacking at the end.
These arguments are not very cogent. Though the concluding prayer is
not given in form, yet the stanzas which describe the joy of the
universe fairly fill its place. And one does not see with what matter
further cantos would be concerned. The action promised in the earlier
part is completed in the seventeenth canto.

It has been somewhat more formidably argued that the concluding cantos
are spurious, that Kalidasa wrote only the first seven or perhaps the
first eight cantos. Yet, after all, what do these arguments amount to?
Hardly more than this, that the first eight cantos are better poetry
than the last nine. As if a poet were always at his best, even when
writing on a kind of subject not calculated to call out his best.
Fighting is not Kalidasa's _forte_; love is. Even so, there is great
vigour in the journey of Taraka, the battle, and the duel. It may not
be the highest kind of poetry, but it is wonderfully vigorous poetry
of its kind. And if we reject the last nine cantos, we fall into a
very much greater difficulty. The poem would be glaringly incomplete,
its early promise obviously disregarded. We should have a _Birth of
the War-god_ in which the poet stopped before the war-god was born.

There seems then no good reason to doubt that we have the epic
substantially as Kalidasa wrote it. Plainly, it has a unity which is
lacking in Kalidasa's other epic, _The Dynasty_ _of Raghu_, though in
this epic, too, the interest shifts. Parvati's love-affair is the
matter of the first half, Kumara's fight with the demon the matter of
the second half. Further, it must be admitted that the interest runs a
little thin. Even in India, where the world of gods runs insensibly
into the world of men, human beings take more interest in the
adventures of men than of gods. The gods, indeed, can hardly have
adventures; they must be victorious. _The Birth of the War-god_ pays
for its greater unity by a poverty of adventure.

It would be interesting if we could know whether this epic was written
before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_. But we have no data for
deciding the question, hardly any for even arguing it. The
introduction to _The Dynasty of Raghu_ seems, indeed, to have been
written by a poet who yet had his spurs to win. But this is all.

As to the comparative excellence of the two epics, opinions differ. My
own preference is for _The Dynasty of Raghu_, yet there are passages
in _The Birth of the War-god_ of a piercing beauty which the world can
never let die.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE CLOUD-MESSENGER


In _The Cloud-Messenger_ Kalidasa created a new _genre_ in Sanskrit
literature. Hindu critics class the poem with _The Dynasty of Raghu_
and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a _kavya_, or learned epic. This it
obviously is not. It is fair enough to call it an elegiac poem, though
a precisian might object to the term.

We have already seen, in speaking of _The Dynasty of Raghu_, what
admiration Kalidasa felt for his great predecessor Valmiki, the author
of the _Ramayana_; and it is quite possible that an episode of the
early epic suggested to him the idea which he has exquisitely treated
in _The Cloud-Messenger_. In the _Ramayana_, after the defeat and
death of Ravana, Rama returns with his wife and certain heroes of the
struggle from Ceylon to his home in Northern India. The journey, made
in an aërial car, gives the author an opportunity to describe the
country over which the car must pass in travelling from one end of
India to the other. The hint thus given him was taken by Kalidasa; a
whole canto of _The Dynasty of Raghu_ (the thirteenth) is concerned
with the aërial journey. Now if, as seems not improbable, _The Dynasty
of Raghu_ was the earliest of Kalidasa's more ambitious works, it is
perhaps legitimate to imagine him, as he wrote this canto, suddenly
inspired with the plan of _The Cloud-Messenger_.

This plan is slight and fanciful. A demigod, in consequence of some
transgression against his master, the god of wealth, is condemned to
leave his home in the Himalayas, and spend a year of exile on a peak
in the Vindhya Mountains, which divide the Deccan from the Ganges
basin. He wishes to comfort and encourage his wife, but has no
messenger to send her. In his despair, he begs a passing cloud to
carry his words. He finds it necessary to describe the long journey
which the cloud must take, and, as the two termini are skilfully
chosen, the journey involves a visit to many of the spots famous in
Indian story. The description of these spots fills the first half of
the poem. The second half is filled with a more minute description of
the heavenly city, of the home and bride of the demigod, and with the
message proper. The proportions of the poem may appear unfortunate to
the Western reader, in whom the proper names of the first half will
wake scanty associations. Indeed, it is no longer possible to identify
all the places mentioned, though the general route followed by the
cloud can be easily traced. The peak from which he starts is probably
one near the modern Nagpore. From this peak he flies a little west of
north to the Nerbudda River, and the city of Ujjain; thence pretty
straight north to the upper Ganges and the Himalaya. The geography of
the magic city of Alaka is quite mythical.

_The Cloud-Messenger_ contains one hundred and fifteen four-line
stanzas, in a majestic metre called the "slow-stepper." The English
stanza which has been chosen for the translation gives perhaps as fair
a representation of the original movement as may be, where direct
imitation is out of the question. Though the stanza of the translation
has five lines to four for the slow-stepper, it contains fewer
syllables; a constant check on the temptation to padding.

The analysis which accompanies the poem, and which is inserted in
Italics at the beginning of each stanza, has more than one object. It
saves footnotes; it is intended as a real help to comprehension; and
it is an eminently Hindu device. Indeed, it was my first intention to
translate literally portions of Mallinatha's famous commentary; and
though this did not prove everywhere feasible, there is nothing in the
analysis except matter suggested by the commentary.

One minor point calls for notice. The word Himálaya has been accented
on the second syllable wherever it occurs. This accent is historically
correct, and has some foothold in English usage; besides, it is more
euphonious and better adapted to the needs of the metre.


FORMER CLOUD

  I

_A Yaksha, or divine attendant on Kubera, god of wealth, is exiled for
a year from his home in the Himalayas. As he dwells on a peak in the
Vindhya range, half India separates him from his young bride_.

    On Rama's shady peak where hermits roam,
  Mid streams by Sita's bathing sanctified,
    An erring Yaksha made his hapless home,
  Doomed by his master humbly to abide,
  And spend a long, long year of absence from his bride.

  II

_After eight months of growing emaciation, the first cloud warns him
of the approach of the rainy season, when neglected brides are wont to
pine and die_.

    Some months were gone; the lonely lover's pain
  Had loosed his golden bracelet day by day
    Ere he beheld the harbinger of rain,
  A cloud that charged the peak in mimic fray,
  As an elephant attacks a bank of earth in play.

  III

    Before this cause of lovers' hopes and fears
  Long time Kubera's bondman sadly bowed
    In meditation, choking down his tears--
  Even happy hearts thrill strangely to the cloud;
  To him, poor wretch, the loved embrace was disallowed.

  IV

_Unable to send tidings otherwise of his health and unchanging love,
he resolves to make the cloud his messenger_.

    Longing to save his darling's life, unblest
  With joyous tidings, through the rainy days,
    He plucked fresh blossoms for his cloudy guest,
  Such homage as a welcoming comrade pays,
  And bravely spoke brave words of greeting and of praise.

  V

    Nor did it pass the lovelorn Yaksha's mind
  How all unfitly might his message mate
    With a cloud, mere fire and water, smoke and wind--
  Ne'er yet was lover could discriminate
  'Twixt life and lifeless things, in his love-blinded state.

  VI

_He prefers his request_,

    I know, he said, thy far-famed princely line,
  Thy state, in heaven's imperial council chief,
    Thy changing forms; to thee, such fate is mine,
  I come a suppliant in my widowed grief--
  Better thy lordly "no" than meaner souls' relief.

  VII

    O cloud, the parching spirit stirs thy pity;
  My bride is far, through royal wrath and might;
    Bring her my message to the Yaksha city,
  Rich-gardened Alaka, where radiance bright
  From Shiva's crescent bathes the palaces in light.

  VIII

_hinting at the same time that the' cloud will find his kindly labour
rewarded by pleasures on the road_,

    When thou art risen to airy paths of heaven,
  Through lifted curls the wanderer's love shall peep
    And bless the sight of thee for comfort given;
  Who leaves his bride through cloudy days to weep
  Except he be like me, whom chains of bondage keep?

  IX

_and by happy omens_.

    While favouring breezes waft thee gently forth,
  And while upon thy left the plover sings
    His proud, sweet song, the cranes who know thy worth
  Will meet thee in the sky on joyful wings
  And for delights anticipated join their rings.

  X

_He assures the cloud that his bride is neither dead nor faithless_;

    Yet hasten, O my brother, till thou see--
  Counting the days that bring the lonely smart--
    The faithful wife who only lives for me:
  A drooping flower is woman's loving heart,
  Upheld by the stem of hope when two true lovers part.

  XI

_further, that there will be no lack of travelling companions_.

    And when they hear thy welcome thunders break,
  When mushrooms sprout to greet thy fertile weeks,
    The swans who long for the Himalayan lake
  Will be thy comrades to Kailasa's peaks,
  With juicy bits of lotus-fibre in their beaks.

  XII

    One last embrace upon this mount bestow
  Whose flanks were pressed by Rama's holy feet,
    Who yearly strives his love for thee to show,
  Warmly his well-beloved friend to greet
  With the tear of welcome shed when two long-parted meet.

  XIII

_He then describes the long journey_,

    Learn first, O cloud, the road that thou must go,
  Then hear my message ere thou speed away;
    Before thee mountains rise and rivers flow:
  When thou art weary, on the mountains stay,
  And when exhausted, drink the rivers' driven spray.

  XIV

_beginning with the departure from Rama's peak, where dwells a company
of Siddhas, divine beings of extraordinary sanctity_.

    Elude the heavenly elephants' clumsy spite;
  Fly from this peak in richest jungle drest;
    And Siddha maids who view thy northward flight
  Will upward gaze in simple terror, lest
  The wind be carrying quite away the mountain crest.

  XV

    Bright as a heap of flashing gems, there shines
  Before thee on the ant-hill, Indra's bow;
    Matched with that dazzling rainbow's glittering lines,
  Thy sombre form shall find its beauties grow,
  Like the dark herdsman Vishnu, with peacock-plumes aglow.

  XVI

  _The Mala plateau_.

    The farmers' wives on Mala's lofty lea,
  Though innocent of all coquettish art,
    Will give thee loving glances; for on thee
  Depends the fragrant furrow's fruitful part;
  Thence, barely westering, with lightened burden start.

  XVII

  _The Mango Peak_.

    The Mango Peak whose forest fires were laid
  By streams of thine, will soothe thy weariness;
    In memory of a former service paid,
  Even meaner souls spurn not in time of stress
  A suppliant friend; a soul so lofty, much the less.

  XVIII

    With ripened mango-fruits his margins teem;
  And thou, like wetted braids, art blackness quite;
    When resting on the mountain, thou wilt seem
  Like the dark nipple on Earth's bosom white,
  For mating gods and goddesses a thrilling sight.

  XIX

  _The Reva, or Nerbudda River, foaming
  against the mountain side_,

    His bowers are sweet to forest maidens ever;
  Do thou upon his crest a moment bide,
    Then fly, rain-quickened, to the Reva river
  Which gaily breaks on Vindhya's rocky side,
  Like painted streaks upon an elephant's dingy hide.

  XX

_and flavoured with the ichor which exudes from the temples of
elephants during the mating season_.

  Refresh thyself from thine exhausted state
    With ichor-pungent drops that fragrant flow;
  Thou shalt not then to every wind vibrate--
  Empty means ever light, and full means added weight.

  XXI

   Spying the madder on the banks, half brown,
  Half green with shoots that struggle to the birth,
    Nibbling where early plantain-buds hang down,
  Scenting the sweet, sweet smell of forest earth,
  The deer will trace thy misty track that ends the dearth.

  XXII

    Though thou be pledged to ease my darling's pain,
  Yet I foresee delay on every hill
    Where jasmines blow, and where the peacock-train
  Cries forth with joyful tears a welcome shrill;
  Thy sacrifice is great, but haste thy journey still.

  XXIII

_The Dasharna country_,

    At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest
  With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow,
    With village trees alive with many a nest
  Abuilding by the old familiar crow,
  With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.

  XXIV

_and its capital Vidisha, on the banks of Reed River_.

    There shalt thou see the royal city, known
  Afar, and win the lover's fee complete,
    If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone
  Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet,
  Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.

  XXV

    A moment rest on Nichais' mountain then,
  Where madder-bushes don their blossom coat
    As thrilling to thy touch; where city men
  O'er youth's unbridled pleasures fondly gloat
  In caverns whence the perfumes of gay women float.

  XXVI

    Fly on refreshed; and sprinkle buds that fade
  On jasmine-vines in gardens wild and rare
    By forest rivers; and with loving shade
  Caress the flower-girls' heated faces fair,
  Whereon the lotuses droop withering from their hair.

  XXVII

_The famous old city of Ujjain, the home of the poet, and dearly
beloved by him_;

    Swerve from thy northern path; for westward rise
  The palace balconies thou mayst not slight
    In fair Ujjain; and if bewitching eyes
  That flutter at thy gleams, should not delight
  Thine amorous bosom, useless were thy gift of sight.

  XXVIII

_and the river, personified as a loving woman, whom the cloud will
meet just before he reaches the city_.

    The neighbouring mountain stream that gliding grants
  A glimpse of charms in whirling eddies pursed,
    While noisy swans accompany her dance
  Like a tinkling zone, will slake thy loving thirst--
  A woman always tells her love in gestures first.

  XXIX

    Thou only, happy lover! canst repair
  The desolation that thine absence made:
    Her shrinking current seems the careless hair
  That brides deserted wear in single braid,
  And dead leaves falling give her face a paler shade.

  XXX

_The city of Ujjain is fully described_,

  Sufficed, though fallen from heaven, to bring down heaven on earth!

  XXXI

    Where the river-breeze at dawn, with fragrant gain
  From friendly lotus-blossoms, lengthens out
    The clear, sweet passion-warbling of the crane,
  To cure the women's languishing, and flout
  With a lover's coaxing all their hesitating doubt.

  XXXII

    Enriched with odours through the windows drifting
  From perfumed hair, and greeted as a friend
    By peacock pets their wings in dances lifting,
  On flower-sweet balconies thy labour end,
  Where prints of dear pink feet an added glory lend.

  XXXIII

_especially its famous shrine to Shiva, called Mahakala_;

    Black as the neck of Shiva, very God,
  Dear therefore to his hosts, thou mayest go
    To his dread shrine, round which the gardens nod
  When breezes rich with lotus-pollen blow
  And ointments that the gaily bathing maidens know.

  XXXIV

    Reaching that temple at another time,
  Wait till the sun is lost to human eyes;
    For if thou mayest play the part sublime
  Of Shiva's drum at evening sacrifice,
  Then hast thou in thy thunders grave a priceless prize.

  XXXV

    The women there, whose girdles long have tinkled
  In answer to the dance, whose hands yet seize
    And wave their fans with lustrous gems besprinkled,
  Will feel thine early drops that soothe and please,
  And recompense thee from black eyes like clustering bees.

  XXXVI

_and the black cloud, painted with twilight red, is bidden to serve as
a robe for the god, instead of the bloody elephant hide which he
commonly wears in his wild dance_.

    Clothing thyself in twilight's rose-red glory,
  Embrace the dancing Shiva's tree-like arm;
    He will prefer thee to his mantle gory
  And spare his grateful goddess-bride's alarm,
  Whose eager gaze will manifest no fear of harm.

  XXXVII

_After one night of repose in the city_

    Where women steal to rendezvous by night
  Through darkness that a needle might divide,
    Show them the road with lightning-flashes bright
  As golden streaks upon the touchstone's side--
  But rain and thunder not, lest they be terrified.

  XXXVIII

    On some rich balcony where sleep the doves,
  Through the dark night with thy beloved stay,
    The lightning weary with the sport she loves;
  But with the sunrise journey on thy way--
  For they that labour for a friend do not delay.

  XXXIX

    The gallant dries his mistress' tears that stream
  When he returns at dawn to her embrace--
    Prevent thou not the sun's bright-fingered beam
  That wipes the tear-dew from the lotus' face;
  His anger else were great, and great were thy disgrace.

  XL

  _the cloud is besought to travel to Deep River_.

    Thy winsome shadow-soul will surely find
  An entrance in Deep River's current bright,
    As thoughts find entrance in a placid mind;
  Then let no rudeness of thine own affright
  The darting fish that seem her glances lotus-white.

  XLI

    But steal her sombre veil of mist away,
  Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dress
    To hide her charms; thou hast no time to stay,
  Yet who that once has known a dear caress
  Could bear to leave a woman's unveiled loveliness?

  XLII

_Thence to Holy Peak_,

    The breeze 'neath which the breathing acre grants
  New odours, and the forest figs hang sleek,
    With pleasant whistlings drunk by elephants
  Through long and hollow trunks, will gently seek
  To waft thee onward fragrantly to Holy Peak.

  XLIII

  _the dwelling-place of Skanda, god of war, the
  child of Shiva and Gauri, concerning whose
  birth more than one quaint tale is told_.

    There change thy form; become a cloud of flowers
  With heavenly moisture wet, and pay the meed
    Of praise to Skanda with thy blossom showers;
  That sun-outshining god is Shiva's seed,
  Fire-born to save the heavenly hosts in direst need.

  XLIV

    God Skanda's peacock--he whose eyeballs shine
  By Shiva's moon, whose flashing fallen plume
    The god's fond mother wears, a gleaming line
  Over her ear beside the lotus bloom--
  Will dance to thunders echoing in the caverns' room.

  XLV

_Thence to Skin River, so called because it flowed forth from a
mountain of cattle carcasses, offered in sacrifice by the pious
emperor Rantideva_.

    Adore the reed-born god and speed away,
  While Siddhas flee, lest rain should put to shame
    The lutes which they devoutly love to play;
  But pause to glorify the stream whose name
  Recalls the sacrificing emperor's blessed fame.

  XLVI

    Narrow the river seems from heaven's blue;
  And gods above, who see her dainty line
    Matched, when thou drinkest, with thy darker hue,
  Will think they see a pearly necklace twine
  Round Earth, with one great sapphire in its midst ashine.

  XLVII

_The province of the Ten Cities_.

    Beyond, the province of Ten Cities lies
  Whose women, charming with their glances rash,
    Will view thine image with bright, eager eyes,
  Dark eyes that dance beneath the lifted lash,
  As when black bees round nodding jasmine-blossoms flash.

  XLVIII

_The Hallowed Land, where were fought the awful battles of the ancient
epic time_.

    Then veil the Hallowed Land in cloudy shade;
  Visit the field where to this very hour
    Lie bones that sank beneath the soldier's blade,
  Where Arjuna discharged his arrowy shower
  On men, as thou thy rain-jets on the lotus-flower.

  XLIX

_In these battles, the hero Balarama, whose weapon was a plough-share,
would take no part, because kinsmen of his were fighting in each army.
He preferred to spend the time in drinking from the holy river
Sarasvati, though little accustomed to any other drink than wine_.

    Sweet friend, drink where those holy waters shine
  Which the plough-bearing hero--loath to fight
    His kinsmen--rather drank than sweetest wine
  With a loving bride's reflected eyes alight;
  Then, though thy form be black, thine inner soul is bright.

  L

  _The Ganges River, which originates in heaven.
  Its fall is broken by the head of Shiva, who
  stands on the Himalaya Mountains;
  otherwise the shock would be too great for
  the earth. But Shiva's goddess-bride is
  displeased_.

    Fly then where Ganges o'er the king of mountains
  Falls like a flight of stairs from heaven let down
    For the sons of men; she hurls her billowy fountains
  Like hands to grasp the moon on Shiva's crown
  And laughs her foamy laugh at Gauri's jealous frown.

  LI

_The dark cloud is permitted to mingle with the clear stream of
Ganges, as the muddy Jumna River does near the city now called
Allahabad_.

    If thou, like some great elephant of the sky,
  Shouldst wish from heaven's eminence to bend
    And taste the crystal stream, her beauties high--
  As thy dark shadows with her whiteness blend--
  Would be what Jumna's waters at Prayaga lend.

  LII

_The magnificent Himalaya range_.

    Her birth-place is Himalaya's rocky crest
  Whereon the scent of musk is never lost,
    For deer rest ever there where thou wilt rest
  Sombre against the peak with whiteness glossed,
  Like dark earth by the snow-white bull of Shiva tossed.

  LIII

    If, born from friction of the deodars,
  A scudding fire should prove the mountain's bane,
    Singeing the tails of yaks with fiery stars,
  Quench thou the flame with countless streams of rain--
  The great have power that they may soothe distress and pain.

  LIV

    If mountain monsters should assail thy path
  With angry leaps that of their object fail,
    Only to hurt themselves in helpless wrath,
  Scatter the creatures with thy pelting hail--
  For who is not despised that strives without avail?

  LV

    Bend lowly down and move in reverent state
  Round Shiva's foot-print on the rocky plate
    With offerings laden by the saintly great;
  The sight means heaven as their eternal fate
  When death and sin are past, for them that faithful wait.

  LVI

    The breeze is piping on the bamboo-tree;
  And choirs of heaven sing in union sweet
    O'er demon foe of Shiva's victory;
  If thunders in the caverns drumlike beat,
  Then surely Shiva's symphony will be complete.

  LVII

_The mountain pass called the Swan-gate_.

    Pass by the wonders of the snowy slope;
  Through the Swan-gate, through mountain masses rent
    To make his fame a path by Bhrigu's hope
  In long, dark beauty fly, still northward bent,
  Like Vishnu's foot, when he sought the demon's chastisement.

  LVIII

_And at Mount Kailasa, the long journey is ended_;

    Seek then Kailasa's hospitable care,
  With peaks by magic arms asunder riven,
    To whom, as mirror, goddesses repair,
  So lotus-bright his summits cloud the heaven,
  Like form and substance to God's daily laughter given.

  LIX

    Like powder black and soft I seem to see
  Thine outline on the mountain slope as bright
    As new-sawn tusks of stainless ivory;
  No eye could wink before as fair a sight
  As dark-blue robes upon the Ploughman's shoulder white.

  LX

    Should Shiva throw his serpent-ring aside
  And give Gauri his hand, go thou before
    Upon the mount of joy to be their guide;
  Conceal within thee all thy watery store
  And seem a terraced stairway to the jewelled floor.

  LXI

    I doubt not that celestial maidens sweet
  With pointed bracelet gems will prick thee there
    To make of thee a shower-bath in the heat;
  Frighten the playful girls if they should dare
  To keep thee longer, friend, with thunder's harshest blare.

  LXII

    Drink where the golden lotus dots the lake;
  Serve Indra's elephant as a veil to hide
    His drinking; then the tree of wishing shake,
  Whose branches like silk garments flutter wide:
  With sports like these, O cloud, enjoy the mountain side.

  LXIII

_for on this mountain is the city of the Yakshas_.

    Then, in familiar Alaka find rest,
  Down whom the Ganges' silken river swirls,
    Whose towers cling to her mountain lover's breast,
  While clouds adorn her face like glossy curls
  And streams of rain like strings of close-inwoven pearls.


LATTER CLOUD

  I

  _The splendid heavenly city Alaka_,

  Where palaces in much may rival thee--
  Their ladies gay, thy lightning's dazzling powers--
  Symphonic drums, thy thunder's melody--
  Their bright mosaic floors, thy silver showers--
  Thy rainbow, paintings, and thy height, cloud-licking towers.

  II

_where the flowers which on earth blossom at different seasons, are
all found in bloom the year round_.

    Where the autumn lotus in dear fingers shines,
  And lodh-flowers' April dust on faces rare,
    Spring amaranth with winter jasmine twines
  In women's braids, and summer siris fair,
  The rainy madder in the parting of their hair.

  III

_Here grows the magic tree which yields whatever is desired_.

      Where men with maids whose charm no blemish mars
    Climb to the open crystal balcony
      Inlaid with flower-like sparkling of the stars,
    And drink the love-wine from the wishing-tree,
    And listen to the drums' deep-thundering dignity.

  IV

    Where maidens whom the gods would gladly wed
  Are fanned by breezes cool with Ganges' spray
    In shadows that the trees of heaven spread;
  In golden sands at hunt-the-pearl they play,
  Bury their little fists, and draw them void away.

  V

    Where lovers' passion-trembling fingers cling
  To silken robes whose sashes flutter wide,
    The knots undone; and red-lipped women fling,
  Silly with shame, their rouge from side to side.
  Hoping in vain the flash of jewelled lamps to hide.

  VI

    Where, brought to balconies' palatial tops
  By ever-blowing guides, were clouds before
    Like thee who spotted paintings with their drops;
  Then, touched with guilty fear, were seen no more,
  But scattered smoke-like through the lattice' grated door.

  VII

  _Here are the stones from which drops of water
  ooze when the moon shines on them_.

    Where from the moonstones hung in nets of thread
  Great drops of water trickle in the night--
    When the moon shines clear and thou, O cloud, art fled--
  To ease the languors of the women's plight
  Who lie relaxed and tired in love's embraces tight.

  VIII

  _Here are the magic gardens of heaven_.

    Where lovers, rich with hidden wealth untold,
  Wander each day with nymphs for ever young,
    Enjoy the wonders that the gardens hold,
  The Shining Gardens, where the praise is sung
  Of the god of wealth by choirs with love-impassioned tongue.

  IX

    Where sweet nocturnal journeys are betrayed
  At sunrise by the fallen flowers from curls
    That fluttered as they stole along afraid,
  By leaves, by golden lotuses, by pearls,
  By broken necklaces that slipped from winsome girls.

  X

  _Here the god of love is not seen, because of
  the presence of his great enemy, Shiva.
  Yet his absence is not severely felt_.

    Where the god of love neglects his bee-strung bow,
  Since Shiva's friendship decks Kubera's reign;
    His task is done by clever maids, for lo!
  Their frowning missile glances, darting plain
  At lover-targets, never pass the mark in vain.

  XI

  _Here the goddesses have all needful ornaments.
  For the Mine of Sentiment declares:
  "Women everywhere have four kinds of
  ornaments--hair-ornaments, jewels, clothes,
  cosmetics; anything else is local_."

    Where the wishing-tree yields all that might enhance
  The loveliness of maidens young and sweet:
    Bright garments, wine that teaches eyes to dance,
  And flowering twigs, and rarest gems discrete,
  And lac-dye fit to stain their pretty lotus-feet.

  XII

  _And here is the home of the unhappy Yaksha_,

    There, northward from the master's palace, see
  Our home, whose rainbow-gateway shines afar;
    And near it grows a little coral-tree,
  Bending 'neath many a blossom's clustered star,
  Loved by my bride as children of adoption are.

  XIII

  _with its artificial pool_;

    A pool is near, to which an emerald stair
  Leads down, with blooming lotuses of gold
    Whose stalks are polished beryl; resting there,
  The wistful swans are glad when they behold
  Thine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.

  XIV

  _its hill of sport, girdled by bright hedges, like
  the dark cloud girdled by the lightening_;

    And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hill
  Round which the golden plantain-hedges fit;
    She loves the spot; and while I marvel still
  At thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flit
  About thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.

  XV

  _its two favourite trees, which will not blossom
  while their mistress is grieving_;

    The ashoka-tree, with sweetly dancing lines,
  The favourite bakul-tree, are near the bower
    Of amaranth-engirdled jasmine-vines;
  Like me, they wait to feel the winning power
  Of her persuasion, ere they blossom into flower.

  XVI

  _its tame peacock_;

    A golden pole is set between the pair,
  With crystal perch above its emerald bands
    As green as young bamboo; at sunset there
  Thy friend, the blue-necked peacock, rises, stands,
  And dances when she claps her bracelet-tinkling hands.

  XVII

  _and its painted emblems of the god
  of wealth_.

    These are the signs--recall them o'er and o'er,
  My clever friend--by which the house is known,
    And the Conch and Lotus painted by the door:
  Alas! when I am far, the charm is gone--
  The lotus' loveliness is lost with set of sun.

  XVIII

    Small as the elephant cub thou must become
  For easy entrance; rest where gems enhance
    The glory of the hill beside my home,
  And peep into the house with lightning-glance,
  But make its brightness dim as fireflies' twinkling dance.

  XIX

  _The Yaksha's bride_.

    The supremest woman from God's workshop gone--
  Young, slender; little teeth and red, red lips,
    Slight waist and gentle eyes of timid fawn,
  An idly graceful movement, generous hips,
  Fair bosom into which the sloping shoulder slips--

  XX

    Like a bird that mourns her absent mate anew
  Passing these heavy days in longings keen,
    My girlish wife whose words are sweet and few,
  My second life, shall there of thee be seen--
  But changed like winter-blighted lotus-blooms, I ween.

  XXI

    Her eyes are swol'n with tears that stream unchidden;
  Her lips turn pale with sorrow's burning sighs;
    The face that rests upon her hand is hidden
  By hanging curls, as when the glory dies
  Of the suffering moon pursued by thee through nightly skies.

  XXII

  _The passion of love passes through ten stages,
  eight of which are suggested in this stanza
  and the stanzas which follow. The first
  stage is not indicated; it is called Exchange
  of Glances_.

    Thou first wilt see her when she seeks relief
  In worship; or, half fancying, half recalling,
    She draws mine image worn by absent grief;
  Or asks the caged, sweetly-singing starling:
  "Do you remember, dear, our lord? You were his darling."

  XXIII

  _In this stanza and the preceding one is
  suggested the second stage: Wistfulness_.

    Or holds a lute on her neglected skirt,
  And tries to sing of me, and tries in vain;
    For she dries the tear-wet string with hands inert,
  And e'er begins, and e'er forgets again,
  Though she herself composed it once, the loving strain.

  XXIV

  _Here is suggested the third stage: Desire_.

    Or counts the months of absence yet remaining
  With flowers laid near the threshold on the floor,
    Or tastes the bliss of hours when love was gaining
  The memories recollected o'er and o'er--
  woman's comforts when her lonely heart is sore.

  XXV

  _Here is suggested the fourth stage: Wakefulness_.

    Such daytime labours doubtless ease the ache
  Which doubly hurts her in the helpless dark;
    With news from me a keener joy to wake,
  Stand by her window in the night, and mark
  My sleepless darling on her pallet hard and stark.

  XXVI

  _Here is suggested the fifth stage: Emaciation_.

    Resting one side upon that widowed bed,
  Like the slender moon upon the Eastern height,
    So slender she, now worn with anguish dread,
  Passing with stifling tears the long, sad night
  Which, spent in love with me, seemed but a moment's flight.

  XXVII

  _Here is suggested the sixth stage: Loss of
  Interest in Ordinary Pleasures_.

    On the cool, sweet moon that through the lattice flashes
  She looks with the old delight, then turns away
    And veils her eyes with water-weighted lashes,
  Sad as the flower that blooms in sunlight gay,
  But cannot wake nor slumber on a cloudy day.

  XXVIII

  _Here is suggested the seventh stage: Loss of
  Youthful Bashfulness_.

    One unanointed curl still frets her cheek
  When tossed by sighs that burn her blossom-lip;
    And still she yearns, and still her yearnings seek
  That we might be united though in sleep--
  Ah! Happy dreams come not to brides that ever weep.

  XXIX

  _Here is suggested the eighth stage: Absent-mindedness.
  For if she were not absent-minded,
  she would arrange the braid so
  as not to be annoyed by it_.

    Her single tight-bound braid she pushes oft--
  With a hand uncared for in her lonely madness--
    So rough it seems, from the cheek that is so soft:
  That braid ungarlanded since the first day's sadness,
  Which I shall loose again when troubles end in gladness.

  XXX

  _Here is suggested the ninth stage: Prostration.
  The tenth stage, Death, is not suggested_.

    The delicate body, weak and suffering,
  Quite unadorned and tossing to and fro
    In oft-renewing wretchedness, will wring
  Even from thee a raindrop-tear, I know--
  Soft breasts like thine are pitiful to others' woe.

  XXXI

    I know her bosom full of love for me,
  And therefore fancy how her soul doth grieve
    In this our first divorce; it cannot be
  Self-flattery that idle boastings weave--
  Soon shalt thou see it all, and seeing, shalt believe.

  XXXII

  _Quivering of the eyelids_

    Her hanging hair prevents the twinkling shine
  Of fawn-eyes that forget their glances sly,
    Lost to the friendly aid of rouge and wine--
  Yet the eyelids quiver when thou drawest nigh
  As water-lilies do when fish go scurrying by.

  XXXIII

  _and trembling of the limbs are omens of
  speedy union with the beloved_.

    And limbs that thrill to thee thy welcome prove,
  Limbs fair as stems in some rich plantain-bower,
    No longer showing marks of my rough love,
  Robbed of their cooling pearls by fatal power,
  The limbs which I was wont to soothe in passion's hour.

  XXXIV

    But if she should be lost in happy sleep,
  Wait, bear with her, grant her but three hours' grace,
    And thunder not, O cloud, but let her keep
  The dreaming vision of her lover's face--
  Loose not too soon the imagined knot of that embrace.

  XXXV

    As thou wouldst wake the jasmine's budding wonder,
  Wake her with breezes blowing mistily;
    Conceal thy lightnings, and with words of thunder
  Speak boldly, though she answer haughtily
  With eyes that fasten on the lattice and on thee.

  XXXVI

  _The cloud is instructed how to announce himself_

    "Thou art no widow; for thy husband's friend
  Is come to tell thee what himself did say--
    A cloud with low, sweet thunder-tones that send
  All weary wanderers hastening on their way,
  Eager to loose the braids of wives that lonely stay."

  XXXVII

  _in such a way as to win the favour of his auditor_.

    Say this, and she will welcome thee indeed,
  Sweet friend, with a yearning heart's tumultuous beating
    And joy-uplifted eyes; and she will heed
  The after message: such a friendly greeting
  Is hardly less to woman's heart than lovers' meeting.

  XXXVIII

  _The message itself_.

    Thus too, my king, I pray of thee to speak,
  Remembering kindness is its own reward;
    "Thy lover lives, and from the holy peak
  Asks if these absent days good health afford--
  Those born to pain must ever use this opening word.

  XXXIX

    With body worn as thine, with pain as deep,
  With tears and ceaseless longings answering thine,
    With sighs more burning than the sighs that keep
  Thy lips ascorch--doomed far from thee to pine,
  He too doth weave the fancies that thy soul entwine.

  XL

    He used to love, when women friends were near,
  To whisper things he might have said aloud
    That he might touch thy face and kiss thine ear;
  Unheard and even unseen, no longer proud,
  He now must send this yearning message by a cloud.

  XLI

  _According to the treatise called "Virtues
  Banner," a lover has four solaces in separation:
  first, looking at objects that remind
  him of her he loves_;

    'I see thy limbs in graceful-creeping vines,
  Thy glances in the eyes of gentle deer,
    Thine eyebrows in the ripple's dancing lines,
  Thy locks in plumes, thy face in moonlight clear--
  Ah, jealous! But the whole sweet image is not here.

  XLII

  _second, painting a picture of her_;

    And when I paint that loving jealousy
  With chalk upon the rock, and my caress
    As at thy feet I lie, I cannot see
  Through tears that to mine eyes unbidden press--
  So stern a fate denies a painted happiness.

  XLIII

  _third, dreaming of her_;

    And when I toss mine arms to clasp thee tight,
  Mine own though but in visions of a dream--
    They who behold the oft-repeated sight,
  The kind divinities of wood and stream,
  Let fall great pearly tears that on the blossoms gleam.

  XLIV

  _fourth, touching something which she
  has touched_.

    Himalaya's breeze blows gently from the north,
  Unsheathing twigs upon the deodar
    And sweet with sap that it entices forth--
  I embrace it lovingly; it came so far,
  Perhaps it touched thee first, my life's unchanging star!

  XLV

    Oh, might the long, long night seem short to me!
  Oh, might the day his hourly tortures hide!
    Such longings for the things that cannot be,
  Consume my helpless heart, sweet-glancing bride,
  In burning agonies of absence from thy side.

  XLVI

  _The bride is besought not to lose heart at
  hearing of her lover's wretchedness_,

    Yet much reflection, dearest, makes me strong,
  Strong with an inner strength; nor shouldst thou feel
    Despair at what has come to us of wrong;
  Who has unending woe or lasting weal?
  Our fates move up and down upon a circling wheel.

  XLVII

  _and to remember that the curse has its
  appointed end, when the rainy season is
  over and the year of exile fulfilled. Vishnu
  spends the rainy months in sleep upon the
  back of the cosmic serpent Shesha_.

    When Vishnu rises from his serpent bed
  The curse is ended; close thine eyelids tight
    And wait till only four months more are sped;
  Then we shall taste each long-desired delight
  Through nights that the full autumn moon illumines bright.

  XLVIII

  _Then is added a secret which, as it could not
  possibly be known to a third person,
  assures her that the cloud is a true
  messenger_.

    And one thing more: thou layest once asleep,
  Clasping my neck, then wakening with a scream;
    And when I wondered why, thou couldst but weep
  A while, and then a smile began to beam:
  "Rogue! Rogue! I saw thee with another girl in dream."

  XLIX

    This memory shows me cheerful, gentle wife;
  Then let no gossip thy suspicions move:
    They say the affections strangely forfeit life
  In separation, but in truth they prove
  Toward the absent dear, a growing bulk of tenderest love.'"

  L

  _The Yaksha then begs the cloud to return
  with a message of comfort_.

    Console her patient heart, to breaking full
  In our first separation; having spoken,
    Fly from the mountain ploughed by Shiva's bull;
  Make strong with message and with tender token
  My life, so easily, like morning jasmines, broken.

  LI

    I hope, sweet friend, thou grantest all my suit,
  Nor read refusal in thy solemn air;
    When thirsty birds complain, thou givest mute
  The rain from heaven: such simple hearts are rare,
  Whose only answer is fulfilment of the prayer.

  LII

  _and dismisses him, with a prayer for his
  welfare_.

    Thus, though I pray unworthy, answer me
  For friendship's sake, or pity's, magnified
    By the sight of my distress; then wander free
  In rainy loveliness, and ne'er abide
  One moment's separation from thy lightning bride.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE SEASONS


_The Seasons_ is an unpretentious poem, describing in six short cantos
the six seasons into which the Hindus divide the year. The title is
perhaps a little misleading, as the description is not objective, but
deals with the feelings awakened by each season in a pair of young
lovers. Indeed, the poem might be called a Lover's Calendar.
Kalidasa's authorship has been doubted, without very cogent argument.
The question is not of much interest, as _The Seasons_ would neither
add greatly to his reputation nor subtract from it.

The whole poem contains one hundred and forty-four stanzas, or
something less than six hundred lines of verse. There follow a few
stanzas selected from each canto.

  SUMMER

  Pitiless heat from heaven pours
    By day, but nights are cool;
  Continual bathing gently lowers
    The water in the pool;
  The evening brings a charming peace:
    For summer-time is here
  When love that never knows surcease,
    Is less imperious, dear.

  Yet love can never fall asleep;
    For he is waked to-day
  By songs that all their sweetness keep
    And lutes that softly play,
  By fans with sandal-water wet
    That bring us drowsy rest,
  By strings of pearls that gently fret
    Full many a lovely breast.

  The sunbeams like the fires are hot
    That on the altar wake;
  The enmity is quite forgot
    Of peacock and of snake;
  The peacock spares his ancient foe,
    For pluck and hunger fail;
  He hides his burning head below
    The shadow of his tail.

  Beneath the garland of the rays
    That leave no corner cool,
  The water vanishes in haze
    And leaves a muddy pool;
  The cobra does not hunt for food
    Nor heed the frog at all
  Who finds beneath the serpent's hood
    A sheltering parasol.

  Dear maiden of the graceful song,
    To you may summer's power
  Bring moonbeams clear and garlands long
    And breath of trumpet-flower,
  Bring lakes that countless lilies dot,
    Refreshing water-sprays,
  Sweet friends at evening, and a spot
    Cool after burning days.


  THE RAINS

  The rain advances like a king
    In awful majesty;
  Hear, dearest, how his thunders ring
    Like royal drums, and see
  His lightning-banners wave; a cloud
    For elephant he rides,
  And finds his welcome from the crowd
    Of lovers and of brides.

  The clouds, a mighty army, march
    With drumlike thundering
  And stretch upon the rainbow's arch
    The lightning's flashing string;
  The cruel arrows of the rain
    Smite them who love, apart
  From whom they love, with stinging pain,
    And pierce them to the heart.

  The forest seems to show its glee
    In flowering nipa plants;
  In waving twigs of many a tree
    Wind-swept, it seems to dance;
  Its ketak-blossom's opening sheath
    Is like a smile put on
  To greet the rain's reviving breath,
    Now pain and heat are gone.

  To you, dear, may the cloudy time
    Bring all that you desire,
  Bring every pleasure, perfect, prime,
    To set a bride on fire;
  May rain whereby life wakes and shines
    Where there is power of life,
  The unchanging friend of clinging vines,
    Shower blessings on my wife.


  AUTUMN

  The autumn comes, a maiden fair
    In slenderness and grace,
  With nodding rice-stems in her hair
    And lilies in her face.
  In flowers of grasses she is clad;
    And as she moves along,
  Birds greet her with their cooing glad
    Like bracelets' tinkling song.

  A diadem adorns the night
    Of multitudinous stars;
  Her silken robe is white moonlight,
    Set free from cloudy bars;
  And on her face (the radiant moon)
    Bewitching smiles are shown:
  She seems a slender maid, who soon
    Will be a woman grown.

  Over the rice-fields, laden plants
    Are shivering to the breeze;
  While in his brisk caresses dance
    The blossom-burdened trees;
  He ruffles every lily-pond
    Where blossoms kiss and part,
  And stirs with lover's fancies fond
    The young man's eager heart.


  WINTER

  The bloom of tenderer flowers is past
    And lilies droop forlorn,
  For winter-time is come at last,
    Rich with its ripened corn;
  Yet for the wealth of blossoms lost
    Some hardier flowers appear
  That bid defiance to the frost
    Of sterner days, my dear.

  The vines, remembering summer, shiver
    In frosty winds, and gain
  A fuller life from mere endeavour
    To live through all that pain;
  Yet in the struggle and acquist
    They turn as pale and wan
  As lonely women who have missed
    Known love, now lost and gone.

  Then may these winter days show forth
    To you each known delight,
  Bring all that women count as worth
    Pure happiness and bright;
  While villages, with bustling cry,
    Bring home the ripened corn,
  And herons wheel through wintry sky,
    Forget sad thoughts forlorn.


  EARLY SPRING

  Now, dearest, lend a heedful ear
    And listen while I sing
  Delights to every maiden dear,
    The charms of early spring:
  When earth is dotted with the heaps
    Of corn, when heron-scream
  Is rare but sweet, when passion leaps
    And paints a livelier dream.

  When all must cheerfully applaud
    A blazing open fire;
  Or if they needs must go abroad,
    The sun is their desire;
  When everybody hopes to find
    The frosty chill allayed
  By garments warm, a window-blind
    Shut, and a sweet young maid.

  Then may the days of early spring
    For you be rich and full
  With love's proud, soft philandering
    And many a candy-pull,
  With sweetest rice and sugar-cane:
    And may you float above
  The absent grieving and the pain
    Of separated love.


  SPRING

  A stalwart soldier comes, the spring,
    Who bears the bow of Love;
  And on that bow, the lustrous string
    Is made of bees, that move
  With malice as they speed the shaft
    Of blossoming mango-flower
  At us, dear, who have never laughed
    At love, nor scorned his power.

  Their blossom-burden weights the trees;
    The winds in fragrance move;
  The lakes are bright with lotuses,
    The women bright with love;
  The days are soft, the evenings clear
    And charming; everything
  That moves and lives and blossoms, dear,
    Is sweeter in the spring.

  The groves are beautifully bright
    For many and many a mile
  With jasmine-flowers that are as white
    As loving woman's smile:
  The resolution of a saint
    Might well be tried by this;
  Far more, young hearts that fancies paint
    With dreams of loving bliss.

       *       *       *       *       *



EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY

By Ernest Rhys

MADE AT THE TEMPLE

PRESS LETCHWORTH IN GREAT BRITAIN





Victor Hugo said a Library was "an act of faith," and some unknown
essayist spoke of one so beautiful, so perfect, so harmonious in all
its parts, that he who made it was smitten with a passion. In that
faith the promoters of Everyman's Library planned it out originally on
a large scale; and their idea in so doing was to make it conform as
far as possible to a perfect scheme. However, perfection is a thing to
be aimed at and not to be achieved in this difficult world; and since
the first volumes appeared, now several years ago, there have been
many interruptions. A great war has come and gone; and even the City
of Books has felt something like a world commotion. Only in recent
years is the series getting back into its old stride and looking
forward to complete its original scheme of a Thousand Volumes. One of
the practical expedients in that original plan was to divide the
volumes into sections, as Biography, Fiction, History, Belles Lettres,
Poetry, Romance, and so forth; with a compartment for young people,
and last, and not least, one of Reference Books. Beside the
dictionaries and encyclopædias to be expected in that section, there
was a special set of literary and historical atlases. One of these
atlases dealing with Europe, we may recall, was directly affected by
the disturbance of frontiers during the war; and the maps had to be
completely revised in consequence, so as to chart the New Europe which
we hope will now preserve its peace under the auspices of the League
of Nations set up at Geneva. That is only one small item, however, in
a library list which runs already to the final centuries of the
Thousand. The largest slice of this huge provision is, as a matter of
course, given to the tyrannous demands of fiction. But in carrying out
the scheme, publishers and editors contrived to keep in mind that
books, like men and women, have their elective affinities. The present
volume, for instance, will be found to have its companion books, both
in the same section and even more significantly in other sections.
With that idea too, novels like Walter Scott's _Ivanhoe_ and _Fortunes
of Nigel_, Lytton's _Harold_ and Dickens's _Tale of Two Cities_, have
been used as pioneers of history and treated as a sort of holiday
history books. For in our day history is tending to grow more
documentary and less literary; and "the historian who is a stylist,"
as one of our contributors, the late Thomas Seccombe, said, "will soon
be regarded as a kind of Phoenix." But in this special department of
Everyman's Library we have been eclectic enough to choose our history
men from every school in turn. We have Grote, Gibbon, Finlay,
Macaulay, Motley, Frescott. We have among earlier books the Venerable
Bede and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, have completed a Livy in an
admirable new translation by Canon Roberts, while Cæsar, Tacitus,
Thucydides and Herodotus are not forgotten. "You only, O Books," said
Richard de Bury, "are liberal and independent; you give to all who
ask." The delightful variety, the wisdom and the wit which are at the
disposal of Everyman in his own library may well, at times, seem to
him a little embarrassing. He may turn to Dick Steele in _The
Spectator_ and learn how Cleomira dances, when the elegance of her
motion is unimaginable and "her eyes are chastised with the simplicity
and innocence of her thoughts." He may turn to Plato's Phædrus and
read how every soul is divided into three parts (like Cæsar's Gaul).
He may turn to the finest critic of Victorian times, Matthew Arnold,
and find in his essay on Maurice de Guerin the perfect key to what is
there called the "magical power of poetry." It is Shakespeare, with
his

  "daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take
  The winds of March with beauty;"

it is Wordsworth, with his

  "voice ... heard
  In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
  Breaking the silence of the seas
  Among the farthest Hebrides;"

or Keats, with his

  ".... moving waters at their priest-like task
  Of cold ablution round Earth's human shores."

William Hazlitt's "Table Talk," among the volumes of Essays, may help
to show the relationship of one author to another, which is another
form of the Friendship of Books. His incomparable essay in that
volume, "On Going a Journey," forms a capital prelude to Coleridge's
"Biographia Literaria" and to his and Wordsworth's poems. In the same
way one may turn to the review of Moore's Life of Byron in Macaulay's
_Essays_ as a prelude to the three volumes of Byron's own poems,
remembering that the poet whom Europe loved more than England did was
as Macaulay said: "the beginning, the middle and the end of all his
own poetry." This brings us to the provoking reflection that it is the
obvious authors and the books most easy to reprint which have been the
signal successes out of the many hundreds in the series, for Everyman
is distinctly proverbial in his tastes. He likes best of all an old
author who has worn well or a comparatively new author who has gained
something like newspaper notoriety. In attempting to lead him on from
the good books that are known to those that are less known, the
publishers may have at times been too adventurous. The late _Chief_
himself was much more than an ordinary book-producer in this critical
enterprise. He threw himself into it with the zeal of a book-lover and
indeed of one who, like Milton, thought that books might be as alive
and productive as dragons' teeth, which, being "sown up and down the
land, might chance to spring up armed men." Mr. Pepys in his _Diary_
writes about some of his books, "which are come home gilt on the
backs, very handsome to the eye." The pleasure he took in them is that
which Everyman may take in the gilt backs of his favourite books in
his own Library, which after all he has helped to make good and
lasting.

       *       *       *       *       *

 Abbott's Rollo at Work, etc., 275

 Addison's Spectator, 164-167

 Æschylus' Lyrical Dramas, 62

 Æsop's and Other Fables, 657

 Aimard's The Indian Scout, 428

 Ainsworth's Tower of London, 400
 " Old St. Paul's, 522
 " Windsor Castle, 709
 " The Admirable Crichton, 804

 A'Kempis' Imitation of Christ, 484

 Alcott's Little Women, and Good Wives, 248
 " Little Men, 512

 Alpine Club. Peaks, Passes and Glaciers, 778

 Andersen's Fairy Tales, 4

 Anglo-Saxon Poetry, 794

 Anson's Voyages, 510

 Aristophanes' The Acharnians, etc., 344
 " The Frogs, etc., 516

 Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, 547
 " Politics, 605

 Arnold's (Matthew) Essays, 115
 " Poems, 334
 " Study of Celtic Literature, etc., 458

 Augustine's (Saint) Confessions, 200

 Aurelius' (Marcus) Golden Book, 9

 Austen's (Jane) Sense and Sensibility, 21
 " Pride and Prejudice, 22
 " Mansfield Park, 23
 " Emma, 24
 " Northanger Abbey, and Persuasion, 25


 Bacon's Essays, 10
 " Advancement of Learning, 719

 Bagehot's Literary Studies, 520, 521

 Baker's (Sir S.W.) Cast up by the Sea, 539

 Ballantyne's Coral Island, 245
 " Martin Rattler, 246
 " Ungava, 276

 Balzac's Wild Ass's Skin, 26
 " Eugénie Grandet, 169
 " Old Goriot, 170
 " Atheist's Mass, etc., 229
 " Christ in Flanders, etc., 284
 " The Chouans, 285
 " Quest of the Absolute, 286
 " Cat and Racket, etc., 349
 " Catherine de Medici, 419
 " Cousin Pons, 463
 " The Country Doctor, 530
 " Rise and Fall of César Birotteau, 596
 " Lost Illusions, 656
 " The Country Parson, 686
 " Ursule Mirouët, 733

 Barbusse's Under Fire, 798

 Barca's (Mme. C. de la) Life in Mexico, 664

 Bates' Naturalist on the Amazons, 446

 Beaumont and Fletcher's Select Plays, 506

 Beaumont's (Mary) Joan Seaton, 597

 Bede's Ecclesiastical History, etc., 479

 Belt's The Naturalist in Nicaragua, 561

 Berkeley's (Bishop) Principles of Human Knowledge, New Theory of
 Vision, etc., 483

 Berlioz (Hector), Life of, 602

 Binns' Life of Abraham Lincoln, 783

 Björnson's Plays, 625, 696

 Blackmore's Lorna Doone, 304
 " Springhaven, 350

 Blackwell's Pioneer Work for Women, 667

 Blake's Poems and Prophecies, 792


 Boehme's The Signature of All Things, etc., 569

 Bonaventura's The Little Flowers,
   The Life of St. Francis, etc., 485

 Borrow's Wild Wales, 49
 " Lavengro, 119
 " Romany Rye, 120
 " Bible in Spain, 151
 " Gypsies in Spain, 697

 Boswell's Life of Johnson, 1, 2
 " Tour in the Hebrides, etc., 387

 Boult's Asgard and Norse Heroes, 689

 Boyle's The Sceptical Chymist, 559

 Bright's (John) Speeches, 252

 Brontë's (A.) The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, 685

 Brontë's (C.) Jane Eyre, 287
 " Shirley, 288
 " Villette, 351
 " The Professor, 417

 Brontë's (E.) Wuthering Heights, 243

 Brooke's (Stopford A.) Theology in the English Poets, 493

 Brown's (Dr. John) Rab and His Friends, etc., 116

 Browne's (Frances) Grannie's Wonderful Chair, 112

 Browne's (Sir Thos.) Religio Medici, etc., 92

 Browning's Poems, 1833-1844, 41
 " " 1844-1864, 42
 " The Ring and the Book, 502

 Buchanan's Life and Adventures of Audubon, 601

 Bulfinch's The Age of Fable, 472
 " Legends of Charlemagne, 556

 Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 204

 Burke's American Speeches and Letters, 340
 " Reflections on the French Revolution, etc., 460

 Burnet's History of His Own Times, 85

 Burney's Evelina, 352

 Burns' Poems and Songs, 94

 Burrell's Volume of Heroic Verse, 574

 Burton's East Africa, 500

 Butler's Analogy of Religion, 90

 Buxton's Memoirs, 773

 Byron's Complete Poetical and Dramatic Works, 486-488


 Cæsar's Gallic War, etc., 702

 Canton's Child's Book of Saints, 61
 " Invisible Playmate, etc., 566

 Carlyle's French Revolution, 31, 32
 " Letters, etc., of Cromwell, 266-268
 " Sartor Resartus, 278
 " Past and Present, 608
 " Essays, 703, 704

 Cellini's Autobiography, 51

 Cervantes' Don Quixote, 385, 386

 Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, 307

 Chrétien de Troyes' Eric and Enid, 698

 Cibber's Apology for his Life, 668

 Cicero's Select Letters and Orations, 345

 Clarke's Tales from Chaucer, 537
 " Shakespeare's Heroines, 109-111

 Cobbett's Rural Rides, 638, 639

 Coleridge's Biographia, 11
 " Golden Book, 43
 " Lectures on Shakespeare, 162

 Collins' Woman in White, 464

 Collodi's Pinocchio, 538

 Converse's Long Will, 328

 Cook's Voyages, 99

 Cooper's The Deerslayer, 77
 " The Pathfinder, 78
 " Last of the Mohicans, 79
 " The Pioneer, 171
 " The Prairie, 172

 Cousin's Biographical Dictionary of English Literature, 449

 Cowper's Letters, 774

 Cox's Tales of Ancient Greece, 721

 Craik's Manual of English Literature, 346

 Craik (Mrs.). _See_ Mulock.

 Creasy's Fifteen Decisive Battles, 300

 Crèvecoeur's Letters from an American Farmer, 640

 Curtis's Prue and I, and Lotus, 418


 Dana's Two Years Before the Mast, 588

 Dante's Divine Comedy, 308

 Darwin's Voyage of the Beagle, 104

 Dasent's The Story of Burnt Njal, 558

 Daudet's Tartarin of Tarascon, 423

 Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, 59
 " Captain Singleton, 74
 " Memoirs of a Cavalier, 283
 " Journal of Plague, 289

 De Joinville's Memoirs of the Crusades, 333

 Demosthenes' Select Orations, 546

 Dennis' Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria, 183, 184

 De Quincey's Lake Poets, 163
 " Opium-Eater, 223
 " English Mail Coach, etc., 609

 De Retz (Cardinal), Memoirs of, 735, 736

 Descartes' Discourse on Method, 570

 Dickens' Barnaby Rudge, 76
 " Tale of Two Cities, 102
 " Old Curiosity Shop, 173
 " Oliver Twist, 233
 " Great Expectations, 234
 " Pickwick Papers, 235
 " Bleak House, 236
 " Sketches by Boz, 237
 " Nicholas Nickleby, 238
 " Christmas Books, 239
 " Dombey & Son, 240
 " Martin Chuzzlewit, 241
 " David Copperfield, 242
 " American Notes, 290
 " Child's History of England, 291
 " Hard Times, 292
 " Little Dorrit, 293
 " Our Mutual Friend, 294
 " Christmas Stories, 414
 " Uncommercial Traveller, 536
 " Edwin Drood, 725
 " Reprinted Pieces, 744

 Disraeli's Coningsby, 635

 Dixon's Fairy Tales from Arabian Nights, 249

 Dodge's Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates, 620

 Dostoieffsky's Crime and Punishment, 501
 " The House of the Dead, or Prison Life in Siberia, 533
 " Letters from the Underworld, etc., 654
 " The Idiot, 682
 " Poor Folk, and The Gambler, 711
 " The Brothers Karamazov, 802, 803

 Dowden's Life of R. Browning, 701

 Dryden's Dramatic Essays, 568

 Dufferin's Letters from High Latitudes, 499

 Dumas' The Three Musketeers, 81
 " The Black Tulip, 174

 Dumas' Twenty Years After, 175
 " Marguerite de Valois, 326
 " The Count of Monte Cristo, 393, 394
 " The Forty-Five, 420
 " Chicot the Jester, 421
 " Vicomte de Bragelonne, 593-595
 " Le Chevalier de Maison Rouge, 614

 Duruy's History of France, 737, 738

 Edgar's Cressy and Poictiers, 17
 " Runnymede and Lincoln Fair, 320
 " Heroes of England, 471

 Edgeworth's Castle Rackrent, etc., 410

 Edwardes' Dictionary of Non-Classical Mythology, 632

 Eliot's Adam Bede, 27
 " Silas Marner, 121
 " Romola, 231
 " Mill on the Floss, 325
 " Felix Holt, 353
 " Scenes of Clerical Life, 468

 Elyot's Governour, 227

 Emerson's Essays, 12
 " Representative Men, 279
 " Nature, Conduct of Life, etc., 322
 " Society and Solitude, etc., 567
 " Poems, 715

 Epictetus' Moral Discourses, etc., 404

 Erckmann--Chatrian's The Conscript and Waterloo, 354
 " Story of a Peasant, 706, 707

 Euripides' Plays, 63, 271

 Evelyn's Diary, 220, 221

 Ewing's (Mrs.) Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances, and other Stories, 730
 " Jackanapes, Daddy Darwin's Dovecot, and The Story of a Short Life,
 731

 Faraday's Experimental Researches in Electricity, 576

 Fielding's Tom Jones, 355, 356
 " Joseph Andrews, 467

 Finlay's Byzantine Empire, 33
 " Greece under the Romans, 185

 Fletcher's (Beaumont and) Select Plays, 506

 Ford's Gatherings from Spain, 152

 Forster's Life of Dickens, 781, 782

 Fox's Journal, 754

 Fox's Selected Speeches, 759

 Franklin's Journey to Polar Sea, 447

 Freeman's Old English History for Children, 540

 Froissart's Chronicles, 57

 Fronde's Short Studies, 13, 705
 " Henry VIII., 372-374
 " Edward VI., 375
 " Mary Tudor, 477
 " History of Queen Elizabeth's Reign, 583-587
 " Life of Benjamin Disraeli, Lord Beaconsfield, 666

 Gait's Annals of the Parish, 427

 Galton's Inquiries into Human Faculty, 263

 Gaskell's Cranford, 83
 " Charlotte Brontë, 318
 " Sylvia's Lovers, 524
 " Mary Barton, 598
 " Cousin Phillis, etc., 615
 " North and South, 680

 Gatty's Parables from Nature, 158

 Geoffrey of Monmouth's Histories of the Kings of Britain, 577

 George's Progress and Poverty, 560

 Gibbon's Roman Empire, 434-436, 474-476
 " Autobiography, 511

 Gilfillian's Literary Portraits, 348

 Giraldus Cambrensis, 272

 Gleig's Life of Wellington, 341
 " The Subaltern, 708

 Goethe's Faust (Parts I. and II.), 335
 " Wilhelm Meister, 599, 600

 Gogol's Dead Souls, 726
 " Taras Bulba, 740

 Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield, 295
 " Poems and Plays, 415

 Gorki's Through Russia, 741

 Gosse's Restoration Plays, 604

 Gotthelf's Ulric the Farm Servant, 228

 Gray's Poems and Letters, 628

 Green's Short History of the English People, 727, 728 The cloth
 edition is in 2 vols. or 1 vol. All other editions are in 1 vol.

 Grimms' Fairy Tales, 56

 Grote's History of Greece, 186-197

 Guest's (Lady) Mabinogion, 97


 Hahnemann's The Organon of the Rational Art of Healing, 663

 Hakluyt's Voyages, 264, 265, 313, 314, 338, 339, 388, 389

 Hallam's Constitutional History, 621-623

 Hamilton's The Federalist, 519

 Harte's Luck of Roaring Camp, 681

 Harvey's Circulation of Blood, 262

 Hawthorne's Wonder Book, 5
 " The Scarlet Letter, 122
 " House of Seven Gables, 176
 " The Marble Faun, 424
 " Twice Told Tales, 531
 " Blithedale Romance, 592

 Hazlitt's Shakespeare's Characters, 65
 " Table Talk, 321
 " Lectures, 411
 " Spirit of the Age and Lectures on English Poets, 459

 Hebbel's Plays, 694

 Helps' (Sir Arthur) Life of Columbus, 332

 Herbert's Temple, 309

 Herodotus (Rawlinson's), 405, 406

 Herrick's Hesperides, 310

 Hobbes' Leviathan, 691

 Holinshed's Chronicle, 800

 Holmes' Life of Mozart, 564

 Holmes' (O.W.) Autocrat, 66
 " Professor, 67
 " Poet, 68

 Homer's Iliad, 453 " Odyssey, 454

 Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, 201, 202

 Horace's Complete Poetical Works, 515

 Houghton's Life and Letters of Keats, 801

 Hughes' Tom Brown's Schooldays, 58

 Hugo's (Victor) Les Misérables, 363, 364
 " Notre Dame, 422
 " Toilers of the Sea, 509

 Hume's Treatise of Human Nature, etc., 548, 549

 Hutchinson's (Col.) Memoirs, 317

 Hutchinson's (W.M.L.) Muses' Pageant, 581, 606, 671

 Huxley's Man's Place in Nature, 47
 " Select Lectures and Lay Sermons, 498


 Ibsen's The Doll's House, etc., 494
 " Ghosts, etc., 552
 " Pretenders, Pillars of Society, etc., 659
 " Brand, 716 " Lady Inger, etc., 729
 " Peer Gynt, 747

 Ingelow's Mopsa the Fairy, 619

 Ingram's Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 624

 Irving's Sketch Book, 117
 " Conquest of Granada, 478
 " Life of Mahomet, 513


 James' (G.P.R.) Richelieu, 357

 James (Wm.), Selections from, 739

 Johnson's (Dr.) Lives of the Poets, 770-771

 Johnson's (R.B.) Book of English Ballads, 572

 Jonson's (Ben) Plays, 489, 490

 Josephus' Wars of the Jews, 712


 Kalidasa's Shakuntala, 629

 Keats' Poems, 101

 Keble's Christian Year, 690

 King's Life of Mazzini, 562

 Kinglake's Eothen, 337

 Kingsley's (Chas.) Westward Ho! 20
 " Heroes, 113 " Hypatia, 230
 " Water Babies and Glaucus, 277
 " Hereward the Wake, 296
 " Alton Locke, 462
 " Yeast, 611
 " Madam How and Lady Why, 777
 " Poems, 793

 Kingsley's (Henry) Ravenshoe, 28
 " Geoffrey Hamlyn, 416

 Kingston's Peter the Whaler, 6
 " Three Midshipmen, 7


 Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, 8
 " Essays of Elia, 14
 " Letters, 342, 343

 Lane's Modern Egyptians, 315

 Langland's Piers Plowman, 571

 Latimer's Sermons, 40

 Law's Serious Call, 91

 Layamon's (Wace and) Arthurian Chronicles, 578

 Lear (and others), A Book of Nonsense, 806

 Le Sage's Gil Blas, 437, 438

 Leslie's Memoirs of John Constable, 563

 Lever's Harry Lorrequer, 177

 Lewes' Life of Goethe, 269

 Lincoln's Speeches, etc., 206

 Livy's History of Rome, 603, 669, 670, 749, 755, 756

 Locke's Civil Government, 751

 Lockhart's Life of Napoleon, 3
 " Life of Scott, 55 " Burns, 156

 Longfellow's Poems, 382

 Lönnrott's Kalevala, 259, 260

 Lover's Handy Andy, 178

 Lowell's Among My Books, 607

 Lucretius: Of the Nature of Things, 750

 Lützow's History of Bohemia, 432

 Lyell's Antiquity of Man, 700

 Lytton's Harold, 15
 " Last of the Barons, 18
 " Last Days of Pompeii, 80
 " Pilgrims of the Rhine, 390
 " Rienzi, 532


 Macaulay's England, 34-36
 " Essays, 225, 226
 " Speeches on Politics, etc., 399
 " Miscellaneous Essays, 439

 MacDonald's Sir Gibbie, 678
 " Phantastes, 732

 Machiavelli's Prince, 280 " Florence, 376

 Maine's Ancient Law, 734

 Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur, 45, 46

 Malthus on the Principles of Population, 692, 693

 Manning's Sir Thomas More, 19
 " Mary Powell, and Deborah's Diary, 324

 Marcus Aurelius' Golden Book, 9

 Marlowe's Plays and Poems, 383

 Marryat's Mr. Midshipman Easy, 82
 " Little Savage, 159
 " Masterman Ready, 160
 " Peter Simple, 232
 " Children of New Forest, 247
 " Percival Keene, 358
 " Settlers in Canada, 370
 " King's Own, 580
 " Jacob Faithful, 618

 Martineau's Feats on the Fjords, 429

 Martinengo-Cesaresco's Folk-Lore and Other Essays, 673

 Maurice's Kingdom of Christ, 146, 147

 Mazzini's Duties of Man, etc., 224

 Melville's Moby Dick, 179
 " Typee, 180
 " Omoo, 297

 Merivale's History of Rome, 433

 Mignet's French Revolution, 713

 Mill's Utilitarianism, Liberty, Representative Government, 482

 Miller's Old Red Sandstone, 103

 Milman's History of the Jews, 377, 378

 Milton's Areopagitica and other Prose Works, 795

 Milton's Poems, 384

 Mommsen's History of Rome, 542-545

 Montagu's (Lady) Letters, 69

 Montaigne, Florio's, 440-442

 More's Utopia, and Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation, 461

 Morier's Hajji Baba, 679

 Morris' (Wm.) Early Romances, 261 " Life and Death of Jason, 575

 Motley's Dutch Republic, 86-88

 Mulock's John Halifax, 123


 Neale's Fall of Constantinople, 655

 Newcastle's (Margaret, Duchess of) Life of the First Duke of
 Newcastle, etc., 722

 Newman's Apologia Pro Vita Sua, 636
 " On the Scope and Nature of University Education, and
 a Paper on Christianity and Scientific Investigation, 723


 Oliphant's Salem Chapel, 244

 Osborne (Dorothy), Letters of, 674

 Owen's A New View of Society, etc., 799


 Paine's Rights of Man, 718

 Palgrave's Golden Treasury, 96

 Paltock's Peter Wilkins, 676

 Park (Mungo), Travels of, 205

 Parkman's Conspiracy of Pontiac, 302, 303

 Parry's Letters of Dorothy Osborne, 674

 Paston's Letters, 752, 753

 Paton's Two Morte D'Arthur Romances, 634

 Peacock's Headlong Hall, 327

 Penn's The Peace of Europe, Some Fruits of Solitude, etc., 724

 Pepys' Diary, 53, 54

 Percy's Reliques, 148, 149

 Pitt's Orations, 145

 Plato's Republic, 64 " Dialogues, 456, 457

 Plutarch's Lives, 407-409
 " Moralia, 565

 Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination, 336
 " Poems and Essays, 791

 Polo's (Marco) Travels, 306

 Pope's Complete Poetical Works, 760

 Prelude to Poetry, 789

 Prescott's Conquest of Peru, 301
 Conquest of Mexico, 397, 398

 Procter's Legends and Lyrics, 150


 Rawlinson's Herodotus, 405, 406

 Reade's The Cloister and the Hearth, 29
 " Peg Woffington, 299

 Reid's (Mayne) Boy Hunters of the Mississippi, 582

 Reid's (Mayne) The Boy Slaves, 797

 Renan's Life of Jesus, 805

 Reynolds' Discourses, 118

 Rhys' Fairy Gold, 157
 " New Golden Treasury, 695
 " Anthology of British Hitstorical Speeches and Orations, 714
 " Political Liberty, 745
 " Golden Treasury of Longer Poems, 746

 Ricardo's Principles of Political Economy and Taxation, 590

 Richardson's Pamela, 683, 684

 Roberts' (Morley) Western Avernus, 762

 Robertson's Religion and Life, 37
 " Christian Doctrine, 38
 " Bible Subjects, 39

 Robinson's (Wade) Sermons, 637

 Roget's Thesaurus, 630, 631

 Rossetti's (D.G.) Poems, 627

 Rousseau's Emile, on Education, 518
 " Social Contract and Other Essays, 660

 Ruskin's Seven Lamps of Architecture, 207
 " Modern Painters, 208-212
 " Stones of Venice, 213-215
 " Unto this Last, etc., 216
 " Elements of Drawing, etc., 217
 " Pre-Raphaelitism, etc., 218
 " Sesame and Lilies, 219

 Ruskin's Ethics of the Dust, 282
 " Crown of Wild Olive, and Cestus of Aglaia, 323
 " Time and Tide, with other Essays, 450
 " The Two Boyhoods, 688

 Russell's Life of Gladstone, 661

 Russian Short Stories, 758


 Sand's (George) The Devil's Pool, and François the Waif, 534

 Scheffel's Ekkehard: A Tale of the 10th Century, 529

 Scott's (M.) Tom Cringle's Log, 710

 Scott's (Sir W.) Ivanhoe, 16
 " Fortunes of Nigel, 71
 " Woodstock, 72
 " Waverley, 75
 " The Abbot, 124
 " Anne of Geierstein, 125
 " The Antiquary, 126
 " Highland Widow, and Betrothed, 127
 " Black Dwarf, Legend of Montrose, 123
 " Bride of Lammermoor, 129
 " Castle Dangerous, Surgeon's Daughter, 130
 " Robert of Paris, 131
 " Fair Maid of Perth, 132
 " Guy Mannering, 133
 " Heart of Midlothian, 134
 " Kenilworth, 135
 " The Monastery, 136
 " Old Mortality, 137
 " Peveril of the Peak, 138
 " The Pirate, 139
 " Quentin Durward, 140
 " Redgauntlet, 141
 " Rob Roy, 142
 " St. Ronan's Well, 143
 " The Talisman, 144
 " Lives of the Novelists, 331
 " Poems and Plays, 550, 551

 Seebohm's Oxford Reformers, 665

 Seeley's Ecce Homo, 305

 Sewell's (Anna) Black Beauty, 748

 Shakespeare's Comedies, 153
 " Histories, etc., 154
 " Tragedies, 155

 Shelley's Poetical Works, 257, 258

 Shelley's (Mrs.) Frankenstein, 616

 Sheppard's Charles Auchester, 505

 Sheridan's Plays, 95

 Sismondi's Italian Republics, 250

 Smeaton's Life of Shakespeare, 514

 Smith's A Dictionary of Dates, 554

 Smith's Wealth of Nations, 412, 413

 Smith's (George) Life of Wm. Carey, 395

 Smith's (Sir Wm.) Smaller Classical Dictionary, 495

 Smollett's Roderick Random, 790

 Sophocles, Young's, 114

 Southey's Life of Nelson, 52

 Speke's Source of the Nile, 50

 Spence's Dictionary of Non-Classical Mythology, 632

 Spencer's (Herbert) Essays on Education, 504

 Spenser's Faerie Queene, 443, 444

 Spinoza's Ethics, etc., 481

 Spyri's Heidi, 431

 Stanley's Memorials of Canterbury, 89
 " Eastern Church, 251

 Steele's The Spectator, 164-167

 Sterne's Tristram Shandy, 617
 " Sentimental Journey and Journal to Eliza, 796

 Stevenson's Treasure Island and Kidnapped, 763
 " Master of Ballantrae and the Black Arrow, 764
 " Virginibus Puerisque and Familiar Studies of Men and Books, 765
 " An Inland Voyage, Travels with a Donkey, and Silverado Squatters, 766
 " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Merry Men, etc., 767
 " Poems, 768
 " In the South Seas and Island Nights' Entertainments, 769

 St. Francis, The Little Flowers of, etc., 485

 Stopford Brooke's Theology in the English Poets, 493

 Stow's Survey of London, 589

 Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin, 371

 Strickland's Queen Elizabeth, 100

 Swedenborg's Heaven and Hell, 379
 " Divine Love and Wisdom, 635
 " Divine Providence, 658

 Swift's Gulliver's Travels, 60
 " Journal to Stella, 757
 " Tale of a Tub, etc., 347


 Tacitus' Annals, 273
 " Agricola and Germania, 274

 Taylor's Words and Places, 517

 Tennyson's Poems, 44, 626

 Thackeray's Esmond, 73
 " Vanity Fair, 298
 " Christmas Books, 359
 " Pendennis, 425, 426
 " Newcomes, 465, 466
 " The Virginians, 507, 508
 " English Humorists, and The Four Georges, 610
 " Roundabout Papers, 687

 Thierry's Norman Conquest, 198, 199

 Thoreau's Walden, 281

 Thucydides' Peloponnesian War, 455

 Tolstoy's Master and Man, and Other Parables and Tales, 469
 " War and Peace, 525-527
 " Childhood, Boyhood and Youth, 591
 " Anna Karenina, 612, 613

 Trench's On the Study of Words and English Past and Present, 788

 Trollope's Barchester Towers, 30
 " Framley Parsonage, 181
 " Golden Lion of Granpere, 761
 " The Warden, 182
 " Dr. Thorne, 360
 " Small House at Allington, 361
 " Last Chronicles of Barset, 391, 392

 Trotter's The Bayard of India, 396
 " Hodson, of Hodson's Horse, 401
 " Warren Hastings, 452

 Turgeniev's Virgin Soil, 528
 " Liza, 677
 " Fathers and Sons, 742

 Tyndall's Glaciers of the Alps, 98

 Tytler's Principles of Translation, 168


 Vasari's Lives of the Painters, 784-7

 Verne's (Jules) Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, 319
 " Dropped from the Clouds, 367
 " Abandoned, 368
 " The Secret of the Island, 369
 " Five Weeks in a Balloon and Around the World in Eighty Days, 779

 Virgil's Aeneid, 161
 " Eclogues and Georgics, 222

 Voltaire's Life of Charles XII., 270
 " Age of Louis XIV., 780


 Wace and Layamon's Arthurian Chronicles, 578

 Walpole's Letters, 775

 Walton's Compleat Angler, 70

 Waterton's Wanderings in South America, 772

 Wesley's Journal, 105-108

 White's Selborne, 48

 Whitman's Leaves of Grass (I.) and Democratic Vistas, etc., 573

 Whyte-Melville's Gladiators, 523

 Wood's (Mrs. Henry) The Channings, 84

 Woolman's Journal, etc., 402

 Wordsworth's Shorter Poems, 203
 " Longer Poems, 311

 Wright's An Encyclopædia of Gardening, 555


 Xenophon's Cyropaedia, 672


 Yonge's The Dove in the Eagle's Nest, 329
 " The Book of Golden Deeds, 330
 " The Heir of Redclyffe, 362
 " The Little Duke, 470
 " The Lances of Lynwood, 579

 Young's (Arthur) Travels in France and Italy, 720

 Young's (Sir George) Sophocles, 114

 The New Testament, 93.

 Ancient Hebrew Literature, 4 vols., 253-256.

 English Short Stories. An Anthology, 143.

 Everyman's English Dictionary, 776