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-16
In this secluded grove, whose sacred joys
All may participate, he deigns to dwell
Like one of us; and daily treasures up
A store of purest merit for himself,
By the protection of our holy rites.
In his own person wondrously are joined
Both majesty and saintlike holiness:—
And often chanted by inspired bards,
His hallowed title of "Imperial Sage"
Ascends in joyous accents to the skies.
SECOND HERMIT.—Bear in mind, Gautama, that this is the great Dushyanta,
the friend of Indra.
FIRST HERMIT.—What of that?
SECOND HERMIT.—Where is the wonder if his nervous arm,
Puissant and massive as the iron bar
That binds a castle-gateway, singly sways
The sceptre of the universal earth,
E'en to its dark-green boundary of waters?
Or if the gods, beholden to his aid
In their fierce warfare with the powers of hell,
Should blend his name with Indra's in their songs
Of victory, and gratefully accord
No lower meed of praise to his braced bow,
Than to the thunders of the god of heaven?
BOTH THE HERMITS [approaching].—Victory to the King!
KING [rising from his seat].—Hail to you both!
BOTH THE HERMITS.—Heaven bless your Majesty!
[They offer fruits.
KING [respectfully receiving the offering].—Tell me, I pray you, the
object of your visit.
BOTH THE HERMITS.—The inhabitants of the hermitage having heard of your
Majesty's sojourn in our neighborhood, make this humble petition.
KING.—What are their commands?
BOTH THE HERMITS.—In the absence of our Superior, the great Sage Kanwa,
evil demons are disturbing our sacrificial rites. Deign, therefore,
accompanied by your charioteer, to take up your abode in our hermitage
for a few days.
KING.—I am honored by your invitation.
MÁTHAVYA [aside].—Most opportune and convenient, certainly!
KING [smiling].—Ho! there, Raivataka! Tell the charioteer from me to
bring round the chariot with my bow.
WARDER.—I will, Sire.
[Exit.
BOTH THE HERMITS [joyfully].—Well it becomes the King by acts of
grace
To emulate the virtues of his race.
Such acts thy lofty destiny attest;
Thy mission is to succor the distressed.
KING [bowing to the Hermits].—Go first, reverend Sirs, I will follow
you immediately.
BOTH THE HERMITS.—May victory attend you!
[Exeunt.
KING.—My dear Máthavya, are you not full of longing to see Śakoontalá?
MÁTHAVYA.—To tell you the truth, though I was just now brimful of
desire to see her, I have not a drop left since this piece of news about
the demons.
KING.—Never fear; you shall keep close to me for protection.
MÁTHAVYA.—Well, you must be my guardian-angel, and act the part of a
very Vishnu to me.
WARDER—[entering].—Sire, the chariot is ready, and only waits to
conduct you to victory. But here is a messenger named Karabhaka, just
arrived from your capital, with a message from the Queen, your mother.
KING—[respectfully].—How say you? a messenger from the venerable
Queen?
WARDER.—Even so.
KING.—Introduce him at once.
WARDER.—I will, Sire. [Goes out, and re-ënters with Karabhaka.]
Behold the King! Approach.
KARABHAKA.—Victory to the King! The Queen-mother bids me say that in
four days from the present time she intends celebrating a solemn
ceremony for the advancement and preservation of her son. She expects
that your Majesty will honor her with your presence on that occasion.
KING.—This places me in a dilemma. Here, on the one hand, is the
commission of these holy men to be executed; and, on the other, the
command of my revered parent to be obeyed. Both duties are too sacred to
be neglected. What is to be done?
MÁTHAVYA.—You will have to take up an intermediate position between the
two, like King Triśanku, who was suspended between heaven and earth,
because the sage Viśwámitra commanded him to mount up to heaven, and the
gods ordered him down again.
KING.—I am certainly very much perplexed. For here,
Two different duties are required of me
In widely distant places; how can I
In my own person satisfy them both?
Thus is my mind distracted and impelled
In opposite directions, like a stream
That, driven back by rocks, still rushes on,
Forming two currents in its eddying course.
[Reflecting.] Friend Máthavya, as you were my playfellow in childhood,
the Queen has always received you like a second son; go you, then, back
to her and tell her of my solemn engagement to assist these holy men.
You can supply my place in the ceremony, and act the part of a son to
the Queen.
MÁTHAVYA.—With the greatest pleasure in the world; but don't suppose
that I am really coward enough to have the slightest fear of those
trumpery demons.
KING [smiling].—Oh! of course not; a great Bráhman like you could not
possibly give way to such weakness.
MÁTHAVYA.—You must let me travel in a manner suitable to the King's
younger brother.
KING.—Yes, I shall send my retinue with you, that there may be no
further disturbance in this sacred forest.
MÁTHAVYA [with a strut].—Already I feel quite like a young prince.
KING [aside].—This is a giddy fellow, and in all probability he will
let out the truth about my present pursuit to the women of the palace.
What is to be done? I must say something to deceive him. [Aloud to
Máthavya, taking him by the hand.] Dear friend, I am going to the
hermitage wholly and solely out of respect for its pious inhabitants,
and not because I have really any liking for Śakoontalá, the hermit's
daughter. Observe,
What suitable communion could there be
Between a monarch and a rustic girl?
I did but feign an idle passion, friend,
Take not in earnest what was said in jest.
MÁTHAVYA.—Don't distress yourself; I quite understand.
[Exeunt.
PRELUDE TO ACT THIRD
Scene.—The Hermitage
Enter a young Bráhman, carrying bundles of Kuśa-grass for the use of
the sacrificing priests.
YOUNG BRÁHMAN.—How wonderful is the power of King Dushyanta! No sooner
did he enter our hermitage, than we were able to proceed with our
sacrificial rites, unmolested by the evil demons.
No need to fix the arrow to the bow;
The mighty monarch sounds the quivering string,
And, by the thunder of his arms dismayed,
Our demon foes are scattered to the wind.
I must now, therefore, make haste and deliver to the sacrificing priests
these bundles of Kuśa-grass, to be strewn round the altar. [
Walking and
looking about; then addressing someone off the stage
.] Why, Priyamvadá,
for whose use are you carrying that ointment of Usíra-root and those
lotus leaves with fibres attached to them? [
Listening for her answer
.]
What say you?—that Śakoontalá is suffering from fever produced by
exposure to the sun, and that this ointment is to cool her burning
frame? Nurse her with care, then, Priyamvadá, for she is cherished by
our reverend Superior as the very breath of his nostrils. I, for my
part, will contrive that soothing waters, hallowed in the sacrifice, be
administered to her by the hands of Gautamí.
[Exit.
ACT THIRD
Scene.—The Sacred Grove
Enter King Dushyanta, with the air of one in love.
KING [
sighing thoughtfully
].—The holy sage possesses magic power
In virtue of his penance; she, his ward,
Under the shadow of his tutelage
Rests in security. I know it well;
Yet sooner shall the rushing cataract
In foaming eddies re-ascend the steep,
Than my fond heart turn back from its pursuit.
God of Love! God of the flowery shafts! we are all of us cruelly
deceived by thee, and by the Moon, however deserving of confidence you
may both appear.
For not to us do these thine arrows seem
Pointed with tender flowerets; not to us
Doth the pale moon irradiate the earth
With beams of silver fraught with cooling dews:—
But on our fevered frames the moon-beams fall
Like darts of fire, and every flower-tipped shaft
Of Káma, as it probes our throbbing hearts,
Seems to be barbed with hardest adamant.
Adorable god of love! hast thou no pity for me? [In a tone of
anguish.] How can thy arrows be so sharp when they are pointed with
flowers? Ah! I know the reason:
E'en now in thine unbodied essence lurks
The fire of Siva's anger, like the flame
That ever hidden in the secret depths
Of ocean, smoulders there unseen. How else
Couldst thou, all immaterial as thou art,
Inflame our hearts thus fiercely?—thou, whose form
Was scorched to ashes by a sudden flash
From the offended god's terrific eye.
Yet, methinks,
Welcome this anguish, welcome to my heart
These rankling wounds inflicted by the god,
Who on his scutcheon bears the monster-fish
Slain by his prowess: welcome death itself,
So that, commissioned by the lord of love,
This fair one be my executioner.
Adorable divinity! Can I by no reproaches excite your commiseration?
Have I not daily offered at thy shrine
Innumerable vows, the only food
Of thine ethereal essence? Are my prayers
Thus to be slighted? Is it meet that thou
Shouldst aim thy shafts at thy true votary's heart,
Drawing thy bow-string even to thy ear?
[Pacing up and down in a melancholy manner.] Now that the holy men
have completed their rites, and have no more need of my services, how
shall I dispel my melancholy? [Sighing. I have but one resource. Oh
for another sight of the idol of my soul! I will seek her. [Glancing at
the sun.] In all probability, as the sun's heat is now at its height,
Śakoontalá is passing her time under the shade of the bowers on the
banks of the Máliní, attended by her maidens. I will go and look for her
there. [Walking and looking about.] I suspect the fair one has but
just passed by this avenue of young-trees.
Here, as she tripped along, her fingers plucked
The opening buds: these lacerated plants,
Shorn of their fairest blossoms by her hand,
Seem like dismembered trunks, whose recent wounds
Are still unclosed; while from the bleeding socket
Of many a severed stalk, the milky juice
Still slowly trickles, and betrays her path.
[Feeling a breeze.] What a delicious breeze meets me in this spot!
Here may the zephyr, fragrant with the scent
Of lotuses, and laden with the spray
Caught from the waters of the rippling stream,
Fold in its close embrace my fevered limbs.
[Walking and looking about.] She must be somewhere in the neighborhood
of this arbor of overhanging creepers, enclosed by plantations of cane.
[Looking down.]
For at the entrance here I plainly see
A line of footsteps printed in the sand.
Here are the fresh impressions of her feet;
Their well-known outline faintly marked in front,
More deeply towards the heel; betokening
The graceful undulation of her gait.
I will peep through those branches. [Walking and looking. With
transport.] Ah! now my eyes are gratified by an entrancing sight.
Yonder is the beloved of my heart reclining on a rock strewn with
flowers, and attended by her two friends. How fortunate! Concealed
behind the leaves, I will listen to their conversation, without raising
their suspicions. [Stands concealed, and gazes at them.]
Śakoontalá and her two attendants, holding fans in their hands are
discovered as described.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ [fanning her. In a tone of affection.]—Dearest
Śakoontalá, is the breeze raised by these broad lotus leaves refreshing
to you?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Dear friends, why should you trouble yourselves to fan me?
[Priyamvadá and Anasúyá look sorrowfully at one another.]
KING.—Śakoontalá seems indeed to be seriously ill. [Thoughtfully.]Can
it be the intensity of the heat that has affected her? or does my heart
suggest the true cause of her malady? [Gazing at her passionately.]
Why should I doubt it?
The maiden's spotless bosom is o'erspread
With cooling balsam; on her slender arm
Her only bracelet, twined with lotus stalks,
Hangs loose and withered; her recumbent form
Expresses languor. Ne'er could noon-day sun
Inflict such fair disorder on a maid—
No, love, and love alone, is hereto blame.
PRIYAMVADÁ [aside to Anasúyá.]—I have observed, Anasúyá, that
Śakoontalá has been indisposed ever since her first interview with King
Dushyanta. Depend upon it, her ailment is to be traced to this source.
ANASÚYÁ.—The same suspicion, dear Priyamvadá, has crossed my mind. But
I will at once ask her and ascertain the truth. [Aloud.] Dear
Śakoontalá, I am about to put a question to you. Your indisposition is
really very serious.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [half-rising from her couch].—What were you going to ask?
ANASÚYÁ.—We know very little about love-matters, dear Śakoontalá; but
for all that, I cannot help suspecting your present state to be
something similar to that of the lovers we have read about in romances.
Tell us frankly what is the cause of your disorder. It is useless to
apply a remedy, until the disease be understood.
KING.—Anasúyá bears me out in my suspicion.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—I am, indeed, deeply in love; but cannot rashly
disclose my passion to these young girls.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—What Anasúyá says, dear Śakoontalá, is very just. Why give
so little heed to your ailment? Every day you are becoming thinner;
though I must confess your complexion is still as beautiful as ever.
KING.—Priyamvadá speaks most truly.
Sunk is her velvet cheek; her wasted bosom
Loses its fulness; e'en her slender waist
Grows more attenuate; her face is wan,
Her shoulders droop;—as when the vernal blasts
Sear the young blossoms of the Mádhaví,
Blighting their bloom; so mournful is the change,
Yet in its sadness, fascinating still,
Inflicted by the mighty lord of love
On the fair figure of the hermit's daughter.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Dear friends, to no one would I rather reveal the nature of
my malady than to you; but I should only be troubling you.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—Nay, this is the very point about which we are
so solicitous. Sorrow shared with affectionate friends is relieved of
half its poignancy.
KING.—Pressed by the partners of her joys and griefs, Her much beloved
companions, to reveal The cherished secret locked within her breast,
She needs must utter it; although her looks Encourage me to hope, my
bosom throbs As anxiously I listen for her answer.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Know then, dear friends, that from the first moment the
illustrious Prince, who is the guardian of our sacred grove, presented
himself to my sight—
[Stops short, and appears confused.]
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—Say on, dear Śakoontalá, say on.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Ever since that happy moment, my heart's affections have
been fixed upon him, and my energies of mind and body have all deserted
me, as you see.
KING [with rapture].—Her own lips have uttered the words I most
longed to hear.
Love lit the flame, and Love himself allays
My burning fever, as when gathering clouds
Rise o'er the earth in summer's dazzling noon,
And grateful showers dispel the morning heat.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—You must consent, then, dear friends, to contrive some
means by which I may find favor with the King, or you will have ere long
to assist at my funeral.
KING [with rapture].—Enough! These words remove all my doubts.
PRIYAMVADÁ [aside to Anasúyá].—She is far gone in love, dear Anasúyá,
and no time ought to be lost. Since she has fixed her affections on a
monarch who is the ornament of Puru's line, we need not hesitate for a
moment to express our approval.
ANASÚYÁ.—I quite agree with you.
PRIYAMVADÁ [aloud].—We wish you joy, dear Śakoontalá. Your affections
are fixed on an object in every respect worthy of you. The noblest river
will unite itself to the ocean, and the lovely Mádhaví-creeper clings
naturally to the Mango, the only tree capable of supporting it.
KING.—Why need we wonder if the beautiful constellation Viśákhá pines
to be united with the Moon.
ANASÚYÁ.—By what stratagem can we best secure to our friend the
accomplishment of her heart's desire, both speedily and secretly?
PRIYAMVADÁ.—The latter point is all we have to think about. As to
"speedily," I look upon the whole affair as already settled.
ANASÚYÁ.—How so?
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Did you not observe how the King betrayed his liking by the
tender manner in which he gazed upon her, and how thin he has become the
last few days, as if he had been lying awake thinking of her?
KING [looking at himself].—Quite true! I certainly am becoming thin
from want of sleep:—
As night by night in anxious thought I raise
This wasted arm to rest my sleepless head,
My jewelled bracelet, sullied by the tears
That trickle from my eyes in scalding streams,
Slips towards my elbow from my shrivelled wrist.
Oft I replace the bauble, but in vain;
So easily it spans the fleshless limb
That e'en the rough and corrugated skin,
Scarred by the bow-string, will not check its fall.
PRIYAMVADÁ [thoughtfully].—An idea strikes me, Anasúyá. Let
Śakoontalá write a love-letter; I will conceal it in a flower, and
contrive to drop it in the King's path. He will surely mistake it for
the remains of some sacred offering, and will, in all probability, pick
it up.
ANASÚYÁ.—A very ingenious device! It has my entire approval; but what
says Śakoontalá?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—I must consider before I can consent to it.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Could you not, dear Śakoontalá, think of some pretty
composition in verse, containing a delicate declaration of your love?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Well, I will do my best; but my heart trembles when I think
of the chances of a refusal.
KING [
with rapture
].—Too timid maid, here stands the man from whom
Thou fearest a repulse; supremely blessed
To call thee all his own. Well might he doubt
His title to thy love; but how couldst thou
Believe thy beauty powerless to subdue him?
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—You undervalue your own merits, dear
Śakoontalá. What man in his senses would intercept with the skirt of his
robe the bright rays of the autumnal moon, which alone can allay the
fever of his body?
ŚAKOONTALÁ [smiling].—Then it seems I must do as I am bid.
[Sits down and appears to be thinking.]
KING.—How charming she looks! My very eyes forget to wink, jealous of
losing even for an instant a sight so enchanting.
How beautiful the movement of her brow,
As through her mind love's tender fancies flow!
And, as she weighs her thoughts, how sweet to trace
The ardent passion mantling in her face!
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Dear girls, I have thought of a verse, but I have no
writing-materials at hand.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Write the letters with your nail on this lotus leaf, which
is smooth as a parrot's breast.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [after writing the verse].—Listen, dear friends, and tell
me whether the ideas are appropriately expressed.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—We are all attention.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [reads].—
I know not the secret thy bosom conceals,
Thy form is not near me to gladden my sight;
But sad is the tale that my fever reveals,
Of the love that consumes me by day and by night.
KING [advancing hastily towards her].—
Nay, Love does but warm thee, fair maiden—thy frame
Only droops like the bud in the glare of the noon;
But me he consumes with a pitiless flame,
As the beams of the day-star destroy the pale moon.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ [looking at him joyfully, and rising to salute
him].—Welcome, the desire of our hearts, that so speedily presents
itself!
[Śakoontalá makes an effort to rise.]
KING.—Nay, trouble not thyself, dear maiden,
Move not to do me homage; let thy limbs
Still softly rest upon their flowery couch,
And gather fragrance from the lotus stalks
Bruised by the fevered contact of thy frame.
ANASÚYÁ.—Deign, gentle Sir, to seat yourself on the rock on which our
friend is reposing.
[The King sits down. Śakoontalá is confused.]
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Anyone may see at a glance that you are deeply attached to
each other. But the affection I have for my friend prompts me to say
something of which you hardly require to be informed.
KING.—Do not hesitate to speak out, my good girl. If you omit to say
what is in your mind, you may be sorry for it afterwards.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Is it not your special office as a King to remove the
suffering of your subjects who are in trouble?
KING.—Such is my duty, most assuredly.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Know, then, that our dear friend has been brought to her
present state of suffering entirely through love for you. Her life is in
your hands; take pity on her and restore her to health.
KING.—Excellent maiden, our attachment is mutual. It is I who am the
most honored by it.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [looking at Priyamvadá].—What do you mean by detaining the
King, who must be anxious to return to his royal consorts after so long
a separation?
KING.—Sweet maiden, banish from thy mind the thought
That I could love another. Thou dost reign
Supreme, without a rival, in my heart,
And I am thine alone: disown me not,
Else must I die a second deadlier death—
Killed by thy words, as erst by Káma's shafts.
ANASÚYÁ.—Kind Sir, we have heard it said that kings have many favorite
consorts. You must not, then, by your behavior towards our dear friend,
give her relations cause to sorrow for her.
KING.—Listen, gentle maiden, while in a few words I quiet your anxiety.
Though many beauteous forms my palace grace,
Henceforth two things alone will I esteem
The glory of my royal dynasty;—
My sea-girt realm, and this most lovely maid.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—We are satisfied by your assurances.
PRIYAMVADÁ [glancing on one side],—See, Anasúyá, there is our
favorite little fawn running about in great distress, and turning its
eyes in every direction as if looking for its mother; come, let us help
the little thing to find her.
[Both move away.]
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Dear friends, dear friends, leave me not alone and
unprotected. Why need you both go?
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—Unprotected! when the Protector of the world is
at your side.
[Exeunt.]
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—What! have they both really left me?
KING.—Distress not thyself, sweet maiden. Thy adorer is at hand to wait
upon thee.
Oh, let me tend thee, fair one, in the place
Of thy dear friends; and, with broad lotus fans,
Raise cooling breezes to refresh thy frame;
Or shall I rather, with caressing touch,
Allay the fever of thy limbs, and soothe
Thy aching feet, beauteous as blushing lilies?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Nay, touch me not. I will not incur the censure of those
whom I am bound to respect.
[Rises and attempts to go.]
KING.—Fair one, the heat of noon has not yet subsided, and thy body is
still feeble.
How canst thou quit thy fragrant couch of flowers,
And from thy throbbing bosom cast aside
Its covering of lotus leaves, to brave
With weak and fainting limbs the noon-day heat?
[Forces her to turn back.]
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Infringe not the rules of decorum, mighty descendant of
Puru. Remember, though I love you, I have no power to dispose of myself.
KING.—Why this fear of offending your relations, timid maid? When your
venerable foster-father hears of it, he will not find fault with you. He
knows that the law permits us to be united without consulting him.
In Indra's heaven, so at least 'tis said,
No nuptial rites prevail, nor is the bride
Led to the altar by her future spouse;
But all in secret does the bridegroom plight
His troth, and each unto the other vow
Mutual allegiance. Such espousals, too,
Are authorized on earth, and many daughters
Of royal saints thus wedded to their lords,
Have still received their father's benison.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Leave me, leave me; I must take counsel with my female
friends.
KING.—I will leave thee when———
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—When?
KING.—When I have gently stolen from thy lips
Their yet untasted nectar, to allay
The raging of my thirst, e'en as the bee
Sips the fresh honey from the opening bud.
[Attempts to raise her face. Śakoontalá tries to prevent him.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—The loving birds, doomed by fate to
nightly separation, must bid farewell to each other, for evening is at
hand.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [in confusion].—Great Prince, I hear the voice of the
matron Gautamí. She is coming this way, to inquire after my health.
Hasten and conceal yourself behind the branches.
KING.—I will.
[Conceals himself.
Enter Gautamí with a vase in her hand, preceded by two attendants.
ATTENDANTS.—This way, most venerable Gautamí.
GAUTAMÍ [approaching Śakoontalá].—My child, is the fever of thy limbs
allayed?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Venerable mother, there is certainly a change for the
better.
GAUTAMÍ.—Let me sprinkle you with this holy water, and all your
ailments will depart. [Sprinkling Śakoontalá on the head.] The day is
closing, my child; come, let us go to the cottage.
[They all move away.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—Oh my heart! thou didst fear to taste of
happiness when it was within thy reach. Now that the object of thy
desires is torn from thee, how bitter will be thy remorse, how
distracting thine anguish! [Moving on a few steps and stopping.
Aloud.] Farewell! bower of creepers, sweet soother of my sufferings,
farewell! may I soon again be happy under thy shade.
[Exit reluctantly with the others.
KING [returning to his former seat in the arbor. Sighing].—Alas! how
many are the obstacles to the accomplishment of our wishes!
Albeit she did coyly turn away
Her glowing cheek, and with her fingers guard
Her pouting lips, that murmured a denial
In faltering accents, she did yield herself
A sweet reluctant captive to my will,
As eagerly I raised her lovely face:
But ere with gentle force I stole the kiss,
Too envious Fate did mar my daring purpose.
Whither now shall I betake myself? I will tarry for a brief space in
this bower of creepers, so endeared to me by the presence of my beloved
Śakoontalá.
[Looking round.
Here printed on the flowery couch I see
The fair impression of her slender limbs;
Here is the sweet confession of her love,
Traced with her nail upon the lotus leaf—
And yonder are the withered lily stalks
That graced her wrist. While all around I view
Things that recall her image, can I quit
This bower, e'en though its living charm be fled?
A VOICE [in the air].—Great King,
Scarce is our evening sacrifice begun,
When evil demons, lurid as the clouds
That gather round the dying orb of day,
Cluster in hideous troops, obscene and dread,
About our altars, casting far and near
Terrific shadows, while the sacred fire
Sheds a pale lustre o'er their ghostly shapes.
KING.—I come to the rescue, I come.
[Exit.
PRELUDE TO ACT FOURTH
Scene.—The Garden of the Hermitage
Enter Priyamvadá and Anasúyá in the act of gathering flowers.
ANASÚYÁ.—Although, dear Priyamvadá, it rejoices my heart to think that
Śakoontalá has been happily united to a husband in every respect worthy
of her, by the form of marriage prevalent among Indra's celestial
musicians, nevertheless, I cannot help feeling somewhat uneasy in my
mind.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—How so?
ANASÚYÁ.—You know that the pious King was gratefully dismissed by the
hermits on the successful termination of their sacrificial rites. He has
now returned to his capital, leaving Śakoontalá under our care; and it
may be doubted whether, in the society of his royal consorts, he will
not forget all that has taken place in this hermitage of ours.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—On that score be at ease. Persons of his noble nature are
not so destitute of all honorable feeling. I confess, however, that
there is one point about which I am rather anxious. What, think you,
will father Kanwa say when he hears what has occurred?
ANASÚYÁ.—In my opinion, he will approve the marriage.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—What makes you think so?
ANASÚYÁ.—From the first, it was always his fixed purpose to bestow the
maiden on a husband worthy of her; and since heaven has given her such a
husband, his wishes have been realized without any trouble to himself.
PRIYAMVADÁ [looking at the flower-basket].—We have gathered flowers
enough for the sacred offering, dear Anasúyá.
ANASÚYÁ.—Well, then, let us now gather more, that we may have wherewith
to propitiate the guardian-deity of our dear Śakoontalá.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—By all means.
[They continue gathering.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Ho there! See you not that I am here?
ANASÚYÁ [listening].—That must be the voice of a guest announcing his
arrival.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Surely, Śakoontalá is not absent from the cottage.
[Aside.] Her heart at least is absent, I fear.
ANASÚYÁ.—Come along, come along; we have gathered flowers enough.
[They move away.
THE SAME VOICE [behind the scenes].—Woe to thee, maiden, for daring
to slight a guest like me!
Shall I stand here unwelcomed; even I,
A very mine of penitential merit,
Worthy of all respect? Shalt thou, rash maid,
Thus set at nought the ever sacred ties
Of hospitality? and fix thy thoughts
Upon the cherished object of thy love,
While I am present? Thus I curse thee, then—
He, even he of whom thou thinkest, he
Shall think no more of thee; nor in his heart
Retain thine image. Vainly shalt thou strive
To waken his remembrance of the past;
He shall disown thee, even as the sot,
Roused from his midnight drunkenness, denies
The words he uttered in his revellings.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Alas! alas! I fear a terrible misfortune has occurred.
Śakoontalá, from absence of mind, must have offended some guest whom she
was bound to treat with respect. [Looking behind the scenes.] Ah! yes;
I see, and no less a person than the great sage Durvasas, who is known
to be most irascible. He it is that has just cursed her, and is now
retiring with hasty strides, trembling with passion, and looking as if
nothing could turn him. His wrath is like a consuming fire.
ANASÚYÁ.—Go quickly, dear Priyamvadá, throw yourself at his feet, and
persuade him to come back, while I prepare a propitiatory offering for
him, with water and refreshments.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—I will.
[Exit.
ANASÚYÁ [advancing hastily a few steps and stumbling].—Alas! alas!
this comes of being in a hurry. My foot has slipped and my basket of
flowers has fallen from my hand.
[Stays to gather them up.
PRIYAMVADÁ [reëntering].—Well, dear Anasúyá, I have done my best; but
what living being could succeed in pacifying such a cross-grained,
ill-tempered old fellow? However, I managed to mollify him a little.
ANASÚYÁ [smiling].—Even a little was much for him. Say on.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—When he refused to turn back, I implored his forgiveness in
these words: "Most venerable sage, pardon, I beseech you, this first
offence of a young and inexperienced girl, who was ignorant of the
respect due to your saintly character and exalted rank."
ANASÚYÁ.—And what did he reply?
PRIYAMVADÁ.—"My word must not be falsified; but at the sight of the
ring of recognition the spell shall cease." So saying, he disappeared.
ANASÚYÁ.—Oh! then we may breathe again; for now I think of it, the King
himself, at his departure, fastened on Śakoontalá's finger, as a token
of remembrance, a ring on which his own name was engraved. She has,
therefore, a remedy for her misfortune at her own command.