Hindu literature : Comprising The Book of good counsels, Nala and Damayanti, The Ramayana, and Sakoontala
Hindu literature : Comprising The Book of good counsels, Nala and Damayanti, The Ramayana, and Sakoontala-14
CANTO XLII
SAGAR'S SACRIFICE
Then to the prince his grandson, bright
With his own fame's unborrowed light,
King Sagar thus began to say,
Marvelling at his sons' delay:—
'Thou art a warrior skilled and bold,
Match for the mighty men of old.
Now follow on thine uncles' course
And track the robber of the horse.
To guard thee take thy sword and bow,
For huge and strong are beasts below.
There to the reverend reverence pay,
And kill the foes who check thy way;
Then turn successful home and see
My sacrifice complete through thee.'
Obedient to the high-souled lord
Grasped Anśumán his bow and sword,
And hurried forth the way to trace
With youth and valor's eager pace.
On sped he by the path he found
Dug by his uncles underground.
The warder elephant he saw
Whose size and strength pass Nature's law—
Who bears the world's tremendous weight,
Whom God, fiend, giant, venerate.
Bird, serpent, and each flitting shade,
To him the honor meet he paid—
With circling steps and greeting due,
And further prayed him, if he knew,
To tell him of his uncles' weal,
And who had dared the horse to steal.
To him in war and council tried
The warder elephant replied:—
'Thou, son of Asamanj, shalt lead
In triumph back the rescued steed,'
As to each warder beast he came
And questioned all, his words the same,
The honored youth with gentle speech
Drew eloquent reply from each—
That fortune should his steps attend,
And with the horse he home should wend.
Cheered with the grateful answer, he
Passed on with step more light and free,
And reached with careless heart the place
Where lay in ashes Sagar's race.
Then sank the spirit of the chief
Beneath that shock of sudden grief—
And with a bitter cry of woe
He mourned his kinsmen fallen so.
He saw, weighed down by woe and care,
The victim charger roaming there.
Yet would the pious chieftain fain
Oblations offer to the slain:
But, needing water for the rite,
He looked and there was none in sight.
His quick eye searching all around
The uncle of his kinsmen found—
King Garud, best beyond compare
Of birds who wing the fields of air.
Then thus unto the weeping man
The son of Vinatá began:—
'Grieve not, O hero, for their fall
Who died a death approved of all.
Of mighty strength, they met their fate
By Kapil's hand whom none can mate.
Pour forth for them no earthly wave,
A holier flood their spirits crave.
If, daughter of the Lord of Snow,
Gangá would turn her stream below,
Her waves that cleanse all mortal stain
Would wash their ashes pure again.
Yea, when her flood whom all revere
Rolls o'er the dust that moulders here,
The sixty thousand, freed from sin,
A home in Indra's heaven shall win.
Go, and with ceaseless labor try
To draw the Goddess from the sky.
Return, and with thee take the steed;
So shall thy grandsire's rite succeed,'
Prince Anśumán the strong and brave
Followed the rede Suparna gave.
The glorious hero took the horse,
And homeward quickly bent his course.
Straight to the anxious King he hied,
Whom lustral rites had purified—
The mournful story to unfold
And all the King of birds had told.
The tale of woe the monarch heard,
No longer was the rite deferred:
With care and just observance he
Accomplished all, as texts decree.
The rites performed, with brighter fame,
Mighty in counsel, home he came.
He longed to bring the river down,
But found no plan his wish to crown.
He pondered long with anxious thought,
But saw no way to what he sought.
Thus thirty thousand years he spent,
And then to heaven the monarch went.
CANTO XLIII
BHAGÍRATH
"When Sagar thus had bowed to fate,
The lords and commons of the state
Approved with ready heart and will
Prince Anśumán his throne to fill.
He ruled, a mighty king, unblamed,
Sire of Dilípa justly famed.
To him, his child and worthy heir,
The King resigned his kingdom's care,
And on Himálaya's pleasant side
His task austere of penance plied.
Bright as a God in clear renown
He planned to bring pure Gangá down.
There on his fruitless hope intent
Twice sixteen thousand years he spent,
And in the grove of hermits stayed
Till bliss in heaven his rites repaid.
Dilípa then, the good and great,
Soon as he learnt his kinsmen's fate,
Bowed down by woe, with troubled mind.
Pondering long no cure could find.
'How can I bring,' the mourner sighed,
'To cleanse their dust, the heavenly tide?
How can I give them rest, and save
Their spirits with the offered wave?'
Long with this thought his bosom skilled
In holy discipline was filled.
A son was born, Bhagírath named,
Above all men for virtue famed.
Dilípa many a rite ordained,
And thirty thousand seasons reigned.
But when no hope the king could see
His kinsmen from their woe to free,
The lord of men, by sickness tried,
Obeyed the law of fate, and died;
He left the kingdom to his son,
And gained the heaven his deeds had won.
The good Bhagírath, royal sage,
Had no fair son to cheer his age.
He, great in glory, pure in will,
Longing for sons was childless still.
Then on one wish, one thought intent,
Planning the heavenly stream's descent,
Leaving his ministers the care
And burden of his state to bear—
Dwelling in far Gokarna he
Engaged in long austerity.
With senses checked, with arms upraised,
Five fires around and o'er him blazed.
Each weary month the hermit passed
Breaking but once his awful fast.
In winter's chill the brook his bed,
In rain, the clouds to screen his head.
Thousands of years he thus endured
Till Brahmá's favor was assured—
And the high Lord of living things
Looked kindly on his sufferings.
With trooping Gods the Sire came near
The King who plied his task austere:—
'Blest Monarch, of a glorious race,
Thy fervent rites have won my grace.
Well hast thou wrought thine awful task,
Some boon in turn, O Hermit, ask.'
Bhagírath, rich in glory's light,
The hero with the arm of might,
Thus to the Lord of earth and sky
Raised suppliant hands and made reply:—
'If the great God his favor deigns,
And my long toil its fruit obtains,
Let Sagar's sons receive from me
Libations that they long to see.
Let Gangá with her holy wave
The ashes of the heroes lave—
That so my kinsmen may ascend
To heavenly bliss that ne'er shall end.
And give, I pray, O God, a son,
Nor let my house be all undone.
Sire of the worlds! be this the grace
Bestowed upon Ikshváku's race,'
The Sire, when thus the King had prayed,
In sweet kind words his answer made:—
'High, high thy thought and wishes are,
Bhagírath of the mighty car!
Ikshváku's line is blest in thee,
And as thou prayest it shall be.
Gangá, whose waves in Swarga flow,
Is daughter of the Lord of Snow.
Win Śiva that his aid be lent
To hold her in her mid-descent—
For earth alone will never bear
Those torrents hurled from upper air;
And none may hold her weight but He,
The Trident-wielding deity,'
Thus having said, the Lord supreme
Addressed him to the heavenly stream;
And then with Gods and Maruts went
To heaven, above the firmament."
ŚAKOONTALÁ
BY
KÁLIDÁSA
[Translation by Sir Monier Monier-Williams]
INTRODUCTION
The drama is always the latest development of a national poetry—for the
origin of poetry is in the religious rite, where the hymn or the ode is
used to celebrate the glories of some divinity, or some hero who has
been received into the circle of the gods. This at least is the case in
Sanscrit as in Greek literature, where the hymn and ballad precede the
epic. The epic poem becomes the stable form of poetry during the middle
period in the history of literature, both in India and Greece. The union
of the lyric and the epic produces the drama. The speeches uttered by
the heroes in such poems as the "Iliad" are put into the mouths of real
personages who appear in sight of the audience and represent with
fitting gestures and costumes the characters of the story. The dialogue
is interspersed with songs or odes, which reach their perfection in the
choruses of Sophocles.
The drama is undoubtedly the most intellectual, as it is the most
artificial, form of poetry. The construction of the plot, and the
arrangement of the action, give room for the most thoughtful and
deliberate display of genius. In this respect the Greek drama stands
forth as most philosophically perfect. The drama, moreover, has always
been by far the most popular form of poetry; because it aids, as much as
possible, the imagination of the auditor, and for distinctness and
clearness of impression stands preëminent above both the epic narrative
and the emotional description of the lyric.
The drama in India appears to have been a perfectly indigenous creation,
although it was of very late development, and could not have appeared
even so early as the Alexandrian pastorals which marked the last phase
of Greek poetry. When it did appear, it never took the perfect form of
the drama at Athens. It certainly borrowed as little from Greece as it
did from China or Japan, and the Persians and Arabians do not appear to
have produced any dramatic masterpieces. The greatest of dramatists in
the Sanscrit language is undoubtedly Kálidása, whose date is placed, by
different scholars, anywhere from the first to the fifth century of our
era. His masterpiece, and indeed the masterpiece of the Indian drama, is
the "Śakoontalá," which has all the graces as well as most of the faults
of Oriental poetry. There can be no doubt that to most Europeans the
charm of it lies in the exquisite description of natural scenery and of
that atmosphere of piety and religious calm—almost mediaeval in its
austere beauty and serenity—which invests the hermit life of India. The
abode of the ascetics is depicted with a pathetic grace that we only
find paralleled in the "Admetus" of Euripides. But at the same time the
construction of the drama is more like such a play as Milton's "Comus,"
than the closely-knit, symmetrical, and inevitable progress of such a
work of consummate skill as the "King Oedipus" of Sophocles. Emotion,
and generally the emotion of love, is the motive in the "Śakoontalá" of
Kálidása, and different phases of feeling, rather than the struggles of
energetic action, lead on to the dénouement of the play. The
introduction of supernatural agencies controlling the life of the
personages, leaves very little room for the development and description
of human character. As the fate of the hero is dependent altogether upon
the caprice of superhuman powers, the moral elements of a drama are but
faintly discernible. Thus the central action of Śakoontalá hinges on the
fact that the heroine, absorbed in thoughts of love, neglects to welcome
with due respect the great saint Durvasas—certainly a trifling and
venial fault—but he is represented as blighting her with a curse which
results in all the unhappiness of the drama, and which is only ended at
last by the intervention of a more powerful being. By this principle of
construction the characters are reduced to mere shadow creations:
beautiful as arabesques, delicate as a piece of ivory carving, tinted
like the flat profiles of an Oriental fan or the pattern of a porcelain
vase, but deficient in robustness and vigorous coloring. Humanity is
absolutely dwarfed and its powers rendered inoperative by the crowd of
supernatural creatures that control its destiny. Even in the "Tempest"
of Shakespeare, in which the supernatural plays a greater part than in
any other English drama, the strength and nobility of human character
are allowed full play—and man in his fortitude, in his intellect and
will, even more than in his emotions, keeps full possession of the
stage, and imparts a reality to every scene which makes the wildest
flight of fancy bear a real relation to the common experiences of human
life.
The "Śakoontalá" is divided into seven acts, and is a mixture of prose
and verse;—each character rising in the intensity of emotional
utterance into bursts of lyric poetry. The first act introduces the King
of India, Dushyanta, armed with bow and arrows, in a chariot with his
driver. They are passing through a forest in pursuit of a black
antelope, which they fail to overtake before the voice of some hermit
forbids them to slay the creature as it belongs to the hermitage. The
king piously desists and reaches the hermitage of the great saint Kanwa,
who has left his companions in charge of his foster-daughter,
Śakoontalá, while he is bound on a pilgrimage. Following these hermits
the king finds himself within the precincts of a sacred grove, where
rice is strewn on the ground to feed the parrots that nest in the hollow
trunks, and where the unterrified antelopes do not start at the human
voice. The king stops his chariot and alights, so as not to disturb the
dwellers in the holy wood. He feels a sudden throb in his right arm,
which augurs happy love, and sees hermit maidens approaching to sprinkle
the young shrubs, with watering-pots suited to their strength. The forms
of these hermit maidens eclipse those found in queenly halls, as the
luxuriance of forest vines excels the trim vineyards of cultivation.
Amongst these maidens the king, concealed by the trees, observes
Śakoontalá, dressed in the bark garment of a hermit—like a blooming bud
enclosed within a sheath of yellow leaves. When she stands by the
keśara-tree, the king is impressed by her beauty, and regrets that she
is, if of a purely Bráhmanic origin, forbidden to marry one of the
warrior class, even though he be a king. A very pretty description is
given of the pursuit of Śakoontalá by a bee which her sprinkling has
startled from a jasmine flower. From this bee she is rescued by the
king, and is dismayed to find that the sight of the stranger affects her
with an emotion unsuited to the holy grove. She hurries off with her two
companions, but as she goes she declares that a prickly kusa-grass has
stung her foot; a kuruvaka-bush has caught her garment, and while her
companions disentangle it, she takes a long look at the king, who
confesses that he cannot turn his mind from Śakoontalá. This is the
opening episode of their love.
The second act introduces the king's jester, a Bráhman on confidential
terms with his master, who, while Dushyanta is thinking of love, is
longing to get back to the city. He is tired of the hot jungle, the
nauseating water of bitter mountain streams, the racket of fowlers at
early dawn, and the eternal galloping, by which his joints are bruised.
The king is equally tired of hunting, and confesses that he cannot bend
his bow against those fawns which dwell near Śakoontalá's abode, and
have taught their tender glance to her. He calls back the beaters sent
out to surround the forest, takes off his hunting-suit, and talks to the
jester about the charms of Śakoontalá—whom the Creator, he says, has
formed by gathering in his mind all lovely shapes, so as to make a
peerless woman-gem. He recalls the glance which she shot at him as she
cried, "a kusha-grass has stung my foot." Meanwhile two hermits
approach him with the news that the demons have taken advantage of
Kanwa's absence to disturb the sacrifices. They request him to take up
his abode in the grove for a few days, in order to vanquish the enemies.
A messenger arrives to tell him that his mother, in four days, will be
offering a solemn sacrifice for her son's welfare, and invites his
presence at the rite. But he cannot leave Śakoontalá, and sends the
jester Máthavya in his stead, telling him to say nothing about his love
for Śakoontalá.
In the third act the love of the king and the hermit girl reaches its
climax. The king is found walking in the hermitage, invoking the God of
Love, whose shafts are flowers, though the flowery darts are hard as
steel. "Mighty God of Love, hast Thou no pity on me?" What better
relief, he asks, than the sight of my beloved? He traces Śakoontalá, by
the broken tubes which bore the blossoms she had culled, to the arbor,
enclosed by the plantation of canes, and shaded by vines, at whose
entrance he observes in the sand the track of recent footsteps. Peering
through the branches, he perceives her reclining on a stone seat strewn
with flowers. Her two companions are with her, and she is sick unto
death. The king notices that her cheeks are wasted, her breasts less
swelling, her slender waist more slender, her roseate hue has grown
pale, and she seems like some poor madhave creeper touched by winds
that have scorched its leaves. Her companions anxiously inquire the
cause of her sickness, and, after much hesitation, she reveals her love
by inscribing a poem, with her fingernail, on a lotus leaf smooth as a
parrot's breast. The king hears the avowal of her love, rushes in to
her, and declares his passion: adding that daughters of a royal saint
have often been wedded by Gandharva rites, without ceremonies or
parental consent, yet have not forfeited the father's blessing. He thus
overcomes her scruples. Gautamí, the matron of the hermitage, afterwards
enters, and asks, "My child, is your fever allayed?" "Venerable mother,"
is the reply, "I feel a grateful change." As the king sits in solitude
that evening in the deserted arbor, he hears a voice outside, uttering
the verses—"The evening rites have begun; but, dark as the clouds of
night, the demons are swarming round the altar fires." With these words
of ill-omen the third act comes to an end.
The fourth act describes the fulfilment of this evil omen. The king has
now returned to the city, and has given Śakoontalá a signet ring, with
an inscription on it, pronouncing that after there have elapsed as many
days as there are letters in this inscription he will return. As the two
maiden companions of Śakoontalá are culling flowers in the garden of the
hermitage, they hear a voice exclaiming, "It is I! give heed!" This is
the great Durvasas, whom Śakoontalá, lost in thoughts of her absent
husband, has neglected at once to go forth to welcome. The voice from
behind the scenes is soon after heard uttering a curse—"Woe unto her
who is thus neglectful of a guest," and declaring that Dushyanta, of
whom alone she is thinking, regardless of the presence of a pious saint,
shall forget her in spite of all his love, as the wine-bibber forgets
his delirium. The Hindoo saint is here described in all his arrogance
and cruelty. One of the maidens says that he who had uttered the curse
is now retiring with great strides, quivering with rage—for his wrath
is like a consuming fire. A pretty picture is given of Śakoontalá, who
carries on her finger the signet ring, which has the virtue of restoring
the king's love, if ever he should forget her. "There sits our beloved
friend," cries one of the maidens: "motionless as a picture; her cheek
supported by her left hand, so absorbed in thoughts of her absent lover
that she is unconscious of her own self—how much more of a passing
stranger?"
In the fourth act there is an exquisite description of the return of
Kanwa from his pilgrimage, and the preparations for the start of
Śakoontalá for her husband's palace, in the city. The delicate pathos of
the scene is worthy of Euripides. "Alas! Alas!" exclaim the two maidens,
"Now Śakoontalá has disappeared behind the trees of the forest. Tell us,
master, how shall we enter again the sacred grove made desolate by her
departure?" But the holy calm, broken for a moment by the excitement of
his child's departure, is soon restored to Kanwa's mind. "Now that my
child is dismissed to her husband's home, tranquillity regains my soul."
The closing reflection is worthy of a Greek dramatist: "Our maids we
rear for the happiness of others; and now that I have sent her to her
husband I feel the satisfaction that comes from restoring a trust."
In the fifth act, the scene is laid in Dushyanta's palace, where the
king is living, under the curse of Durvasas, in complete oblivion of
Śakoontalá. The life of the court is happily suggested, with its
intrigues and its business. The king has yet a vague impression of
restlessness, which, on hearing a song sung behind the scenes, prompts
him to say, "Why has this strain flung over me so deep a melancholy, as
though I was separated from some loved one; can this be the faint
remembrance of affections in some previous existence?" It is here that
the hermits, with Gautamí, arrive, bringing Śakoontalá, soon to be made
a mother, into the presence of the king; but she has been utterly
forgotten by him. He angrily denies his marriage; and when she proposes
to bring forth the ring, she finds she has lost it from her finger. "It
must have slipped off," suggested Gautamí, "when thou wast offering
homage to Śachí's holy lake." The king smiles derisively. Śakoontalá
tries to quicken his memory:—"Do you remember how, in the jasmine
bower, you poured water from the lotus cup into the hollow of my hand?
Do you remember how you said to my little fawn, Drink first, but she
shrunk from you—and drank water from my hand, and you said, with a
smile, 'Like trusts Like,' for you are two sisters in the same grove."
The king calls her words "honeyed falsehoods." Śakoontalá buries her
face in her mantle and bursts into tears.
The tenderness of this scene, its grace and delicacy, are quite idyllic,
and worthy of the best ages of the pastoral drama. The ring is at
length restored to Dushyanta, having been found by a fisherman in the
belly of a carp. On its being restored to the king's finger, he is
overcome with a flood of recollection: he gives himself over to mourning
and forbids the celebration of the Spring festival. He admits that his
palsied heart had been slumbering, and that, now it is roused by
memories of his fawn-eyed love, he only wakes to agonies of remorse.
Meanwhile Śakoontalá had been carried away like a celestial nymph to the
sacred grove of Kaśyapa, far removed from earth in the upper air. The
king, being summoned by Indra to destroy the brood of giants,
descendants of Kalamemi, the monster of a hundred arms and heads,
reaches in the celestial car Indra, the grove where dwell his wife and
child, an heroic boy whom the hermits call Sarva-damana—the all-tamer.
The recognition and reconciliation of husband and wife are delineated
with the most delicate skill, and the play concludes with a prayer to
Shiva.
E.W.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
DUSHYANTA, King of India.
MÁTHAVYA, the Jester, friend and companion of the King.
KANWA, chief of the Hermits, foster-father of Śakoontalá.
SÁRNGARAVA, SÁRADWATA, two Bráhmans, belonging to the hermitage of
Kanwa.
MITRÁVASU, brother-in-law of the King, and Superintendent of the city
police.
JÁNUKA, SÚCHAKA, two constables.
VÁTÁYANA, the Chamberlain or attendant on the women's apartments.
SOMARÁTA, the domestic Priest.
KARABHAKA, a messenger of the Queen-mother.
RAIVATAKA, the warder or door-keeper.
MÁTALI, charioteer of Indra.
SARVA-DAMANA, afterwards Bharata, a little boy, son of Dushyanta by
Śakoontalá.
KAŚYAPA, a divine sage, progenitor of men and gods, son of Maríchi and
grandson of Brahmá.
ŚAKOONTALÁ, daughter of the sage Viśwámitra and the nymph Menaká,
foster-child of the hermit Kanwa.
PRIYAMVADÁ and ANASÚYÁ, female attendants, companions of Śakoontalá.
GAUTAMÍ, a holy matron, Superior of the female inhabitants of the
hermitage.
VASUMATÍ, the Queen of Dushyanta.
SÁNUMATÍ, a nymph, friend of Śakoontalá.
TARALIKÁ, personal attendant of the King.
CHATURIKÁ, personal attendant of the Queen.
VETRAVATÍ, female warder, or door-keeper.
PARABARITIKÁ and MADHUKARIKÁ, maidens in charge of the royal gardens.
SUVRATÁ, a nurse.
ADITI, wife of Kaśyapa; grand-daughter of Brahmá, through her father,
Daksha.
Charioteer, Fisherman, Officers, and Hermits.
RULES FOR PRONUNCIATION OF PROPER NAMES
Observe, that in order to secure the correct pronunciation of the title
of this Drama, "Śakuntalá" has been spelt "Śa-koontalá," the u being
pronounced like the u in the English word rule.
The vowel a must invariably be pronounced with a dull sound, like the
a in organ, or the u in fun, sun. Dushyanta must therefore be
pronounced as if written Dooshyunta. The long vowel a is pronounced
like the a in last, cart; i like the i in pin, sin; í like the
i in marine; e like the e in prey; o like the o in so; ai
like the ai in aisle; au like au in the German word baum, or
like the ou in our.
The consonants are generally pronounced as in English, but g has
always the sound of g in gun, give, never of g in gin. S with
the accent over it (ś) has the sound of s in sure, or of the last
s in session.
ŚAKOONTALÁ
PROLOGUE
Benediction
Iśa preserve you! he who is revealed
In these eight forms by man perceptible—
Water, of all creation's works the first;
The fire that bears on high the sacrifice
Presented with solemnity to heaven;
The Priest, the holy offerer of gifts;
The Sun and Moon, those two majestic orbs,
Eternal marshallers of day and night;
The subtle Ether, vehicle of sound,
Diffused throughout the boundless universe;
The Earth, by sages called "The place of birth
Of all material essences and things";
And Air, which giveth life to all that breathe.
STAGE-MANAGER [after the recitation of the benediction, looking towards
the tiring-room.]—Lady, when you have finished attiring yourself, come
this way.
ACTRESS [entering.]—Here I am, Sir; what are your commands?
STAGE-MANAGER.—We are here before the eyes of an audience of educated
and discerning men; and have to represent in their presence a new drama
composed by Kálidása, called "Śakoontalá, or the Lost Ring." Let the
whole company exert themselves to do justice to their several parts.
ACTRESS,—You, Sir, have so judiciously managed the cast of the
characters, that nothing will be defective in the acting.
STAGE-MANAGER.—Lady, I will tell you the exact state of the case.
No skill in acting can I deem complete,
Till from the wise the actor gain applause:
Know that the heart e'en of the truly skilful,
Shrinks from too boastful confidence in self.
ACTRESS [modestly].—You judge correctly. And now, what are your
commands?
STAGE-MANAGER.—What can you do better than engage the attention of the
audience by some captivating melody?
ACTRESS.—Which among the seasons shall I select as the subject of my
song?
STAGE-MANAGER.—You surely ought to give the preference to the present
Summer season that has but recently commenced, a season so rich in
enjoyment. For now
Unceasing are the charms of halcyon days,
When the cool bath exhilarates the frame;
When sylvan gales are laden with the scent
Of fragrant Pátalas; when soothing sleep
Creeps softly on beneath the deepening shade;
And when, at last, the dulcet calm of eve
Entrancing steals o'er every yielding sense.
ACTRESS.—I will.
[Sings.
Fond maids, the chosen of their hearts to please,
Entwine their ears with sweet Śirísha flowers,
Whose fragrant lips attract the kiss of bees
That softly murmur through the summer hours.
STAGE-MANAGER.—Charmingly sung! The audience are motionless as statues,
their souls riveted by the enchanting strain. What subject shall we
select for representation, that we may insure a continuance of their
favor?
ACTRESS.—Why not the same, Sir, announced by you at first? Let the
drama called "Śakoontalá, or the Lost Ring," be the subject of our
dramatic performance.
STAGE-MANAGER.—Rightly reminded! For the moment I had forgotten it.
Your song's transporting melody decoyed
My thoughts, and rapt with ecstasy my soul;
As now the bounding antelope allures
The King Dushyanta on the chase intent. [Exeunt.
ACT FIRST
Scene.—A Forest
Enter King Dushyanta, armed with a bow and arrow, in a chariot, chasing
an antelope, attended by his Charioteer.
CHARIOTEER [looking at the deer, and then at the King].—
Great Prince,
When on the antelope I bend my gaze,
And on your Majesty, whose mighty bow
Has its string firmly braced; before my eyes
The god that wields the trident seems revealed,
Chasing the deer that flies from him in vain.
KING.—Charioteer, this fleet antelope has drawn us far from my
attendants. See! there he runs:—
Aye and anon his graceful neck he bends
To cast a glance at the pursuing car;
And dreading now the swift-descending shaft,
Contracts into itself his slender frame:
About his path, in scattered fragments strewn,
The half-chewed grass falls from his panting mouth;
See! in his airy bounds he seems to fly,
And leaves no trace upon th'elastic turf.
[With astonishment.
How now! swift as is our pursuit, I scarce can see him.
CHARIOTEER.—Sire, the ground here is full of hollows; I have therefore
drawn in the reins and checked the speed of the chariot. Hence the deer
has somewhat gained upon us. Now that we are passing over level ground,
we shall have no difficulty in overtaking him.
KING.—Loosen the reins, then.
CHARIOTEER.—The King is obeyed. [Drives the chariot at full speed.]
Great Prince, see! see!
Responsive to the slackened rein, the steeds
Chafing with eager rivalry, career
With emulative fleetness o'er the plain;
Their necks outstretched, their waving plumes, that late
Fluttered above their brows, are motionless;
Their sprightly ears, but now erect, bent low;
Themselves unsullied by the circling dust,
That vainly follows on their rapid course.
KING [joyously].—In good sooth, the horses seem as if they would
outstrip the steeds of Indra and the Sun.
That which but now showed to my view minute
Quickly assumes dimension; that which seemed
A moment since disjoined in diverse parts,
Looks suddenly like one compacted whole;
That which is really crooked in its shape
In the far distance left, grows regular;
Wondrous the chariot's speed, that in a breath,
Makes the near distant and the distant near.
Now, Charioteer, see me kill the deer.
[Takes aim.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Hold, O King! this deer belongs to our
hermitage. Kill it not! kill it not!
CHARIOTEER [listening and looking].—Great King, some hermits have
stationed themselves so as to screen the antelope at the very moment of
its coming within range of your arrow.
KING [hastily].—Then stop the horses.
CHARIOTEER.—I obey.[Stops the chariot.
Enter a Hermit, and two others with him.
HERMIT [raising his hand].—This deer, O King, belongs to our
hermitage. Kill it not! kill it not!
Now heaven forbid this barbèd shaft descend
Upon the fragile body of a fawn,
Like fire upon a heap of tender flowers!
Can thy steel bolts no meeter quarry find
Than the warm life-blood of a harmless deer?
Restore, great Prince, thy weapon to its quiver;
More it becomes thy arms to shield the weak,
Than to bring anguish on the innocent.
KING.—'Tis done. [Replaces the arrow in its quiver.
HERMIT.—Worthy is this action of a Prince, the light of Puru's race.
Well does this act befit a Prince like thee,
Right worthy is it of thine ancestry.
Thy guerdon be a son of peerless worth,
Whose wide dominion shall embrace the earth.
BOTH THE OTHER HERMITS [raising their hands].—May heaven indeed grant
thee a son, a sovereign of the earth from sea to sea!
KING [bowing.]—I accept with gratitude a Bráhman's benediction.
HERMIT.—We came hither, mighty Prince, to collect sacrificial wood.
Here on the banks of the Máliní you may perceive the hermitage of the
great sage Kanwa. If other duties require not your presence, deign to
enter and accept our hospitality.
When you behold our penitential rites
Performed without impediment by Saints
Rich only in devotion, then with pride
Will you reflect, Such are the holy men
Who call me Guardian; such the men for whom
To wield the bow I bare my nervous arm,
Scarred by the motion of the glancing string.
KING.—Is the Chief of your Society now at home?
HERMIT.—No; he has gone to Soma-tírtha to propitiate Destiny, which
threatens his daughter Śakoontalá with some calamity; but he has
commissioned her in his absence to entertain all guests with
hospitality.
KING.—Good! I will pay her a visit. She will make me acquainted with
the mighty sage's acts of penance and devotion.
HERMIT.—And we will depart on our errand.
[Exit with his companions.
KING.—Charioteer, urge on the horses. We will at least purify our souls
by a sight of this hallowed retreat.
CHARIOTEER.—Your Majesty is obeyed.
[Drives the chariot with great velocity.
KING [looking all about him].—Charioteer, even without being told, I
should have known that these were the precincts of a grove consecrated
to penitential rites.
CHARIOTEER.—How so?
KING.—Do not you observe?
Beneath the trees, whose hollow trunks afford
Secure retreat to many a nestling brood
Of parrots, scattered grains of rice lie strewn.
Lo! here and there are seen the polished slabs
That serve to bruise the fruit of Ingudí.
The gentle roe-deer, taught to trust in man,
Unstartled hear our voices. On the paths
Appear the traces of bark-woven vests
Borne dripping from the limpid fount of waters.
And mark! Laved are the roots of trees by deep canals,
Whose glassy waters tremble in the breeze;
The sprouting verdure of the leaves is dimmed
By dusky wreaths of upward curling smoke
From burnt oblations; and on new-mown lawns
Around our car graze leisurely the fawns.
CHARIOTEER.—I observe it all.
KING [advancing a little further].—The inhabitants of this sacred
retreat must not be disturbed. Stay the chariot, that I may alight.
CHARIOTEER.—The reins are held in. Your Majesty may descend.
KING [alighting].—Charioteer, groves devoted to penance must be
entered in humble attire. Take these ornaments.
[Delivers his ornaments and bow to the Charioteer.]
Charioteer, see that the horses are watered, and attend to them until I
return from visiting the inhabitants of the hermitage.
CHARIOTEER.—I will. [Exit.
KING [walking and looking about].—Here is the entrance to the
hermitage. I will now go in.
[Entering he feels a throbbing sensation in his arm
Serenest peace is in this calm retreat,
By passion's breath unruffled; what portends
My throbbing arm? Why should it whisper here
Of happy love? Yet everywhere around us
Stand the closed portals of events unknown.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—This way, my dear companions; this way.
KING [listening].—Hark! I hear voices to the right of yonder grove of
trees. I will walk in that direction. [Walking and looking about.] Ah!
here are the maidens of the hermitage coming this way to water the
shrubs, carrying watering-pots proportioned to their strength. [Gazing
at them.] How graceful they look!
In palaces such charms are rarely ours;
The woodland plants outshine the garden flowers.
I will conceal myself in this shade and watch them.
[Stands gazing at them.
Enter Śakoontalá, with her two female companions, employed in the
manner described.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—This way, my dear companions; this way.
ANASÚYÁ.—Dear Śakoontalá, one would think that father Kanwa had more
affection for the shrubs of the hermitage even than for you, seeing he
assigns to you who are yourself as delicate as the fresh-blown jasmine,
the task of filling with water the trenches which encircle their roots.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Dear Anasúyá, although I am charged by my good father with
this duty, yet I cannot regard it as a task. I really feel a sisterly
love for these plants.
[Continues watering the shrubs.
KING.—Can this be the daughter of Kanwa? The saintly man, though
descended from the great Kaśyapa, must be very deficient in judgment to
habituate such a maiden to the life of a recluse.
The sage who would this form of artless grace
Inure to penance—thoughtlessly attempts
To cleave in twain the hard acacia's stem
With the soft edge of a blue lotus leaf.