Chapter 9

(_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.