Hindu literature : Comprising The Book of good counsels, Nala and Damayanti, The Ramayana, and Sakoontala-19

KING [after deep thought].—My dear friend, suggest some relief for my

misery.

MÁTHAVYA.—Come, come, cheer up; why do you give way? Such weakness is

unworthy of you. Great men never surrender themselves to uncontrolled

grief. Do not mountains remain unshaken even in a gale of wind?

KING.—How can I be otherwise than inconsolable, when I call to mind the

agonized demeanor of the dear one on the occasion of my disowning her?

When cruelly I spurned her from my presence,

She fain had left me; but the young recluse,

Stern as the Sage, and with authority

As from his saintly master, in a voice

That brooked not contradiction, bade her stay.

Then through her pleading eyes, bedimmed with tears,

She cast on me one long reproachful look,

Which like a poisoned shaft torments me still.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Alas! such is the force of self-reproach following

a rash action. But his anguish only rejoices me.

MÁTHAVYA.—An idea has just struck me. I should not wonder if some

celestial being had carried her off to heaven.

KING.—Very likely. Who else would have dared to lay a

finger on a wife, the idol of her husband? It is said that Menaká, the

nymph of heaven, gave her birth. The suspicion has certainly crossed my

mind that some of her celestial companions may have taken her to their

own abode.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—His present recollection of every circumstance of

her history does not surprise me so much as his former forgetfulness.

MÁTHAVYA.—If that's the case, you will be certain to meet her before

long.

KING.—Why?

MÁTHAVYA.—No father and mother can endure to see a daughter suffering

the pain of separation from her husband.

KING.—Oh! my dear Máthavya,

Was it a dream? or did some magic dire,

Dulling my senses with a strange delusion,

Overcome my spirit? or did destiny,

Jealous of my good actions, mar their fruit,

And rob me of their guerdon? It is past,

Whatever the spell that bound me. Once again

Am I awake, but only to behold

The precipice o'er which my hopes have fallen.

MÁTHAVYA.—Do not despair in this manner. Is not this very ring a proof

that what has been lost may be unexpectedly found?

KING [gazing at the ring].—Ah! this ring, too, has fallen from a

station which it will not easily regain, and deserves all my sympathy.

O gem, deserved the punishment we suffer,

And equal is the merit of our works,

When such our common doom. Thou didst enjoy

The thrilling contact of those slender fingers,

Bright as the dawn; and now how changed thy lot!

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Had it found its way to the hand of any other

person, then indeed its fate would have been deplorable.

MÁTHAVYA.—Pray, how did the ring ever come upon her hand at all?

SÁNUMATÍ.—I myself am curious to know.

KING.—You shall hear. When I was leaving my beloved Śakoontalá that I

might return to my own capital, she said to me, with tears in her eyes,

"How long will it be ere my lord send for me to his palace and make me

his queen?"

MÁTHAVYA.—Well, what was your reply?

KING.—Then I placed the ring on her finger, and thus addressed her—

Repeat each day one letter of the name

Engraven on this gem; ere thou hast reckoned

The tale of syllables, my minister

Shall come to lead thee to thy husband's palace.

But, hard-hearted man that I was, I forgot to fulfil my promise, owing

to the infatuation that took possession of me.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—A pleasant arrangement! Fate, however, ordained

that the appointment should not be kept.

MÁTHAVYA.—But how did the ring contrive to pass into the stomach of

that carp which the fisherman caught and was cutting up?

KING.—It must have slipped from my Śakoontalá's hand, and fallen into

the stream of the Ganges, while she was offering homage to the water of

Sachí's holy pool.

MÁTHAVYA.—Very likely.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Hence it happened, I suppose, that the King, always

fearful of committing the least injustice, came to doubt his marriage

with my poor Śakoontalá. But why should affection so strong as his stand

in need of any token of recognition?

KING.—Let me now address a few words of reproof to this ring.

MÁTHAVYA [aside].—He is going stark mad, I verily believe.

KING.—Hear me, thou dull and undiscerning bauble!

For so it argues thee, that thou couldst leave

The slender fingers of her hand, to sink

Beneath the waters. Yet what marvel is it

That thou shouldst lack discernment? let me rather

Heap curses on myself, who, though endowed

With reason, yet rejected her I loved.

MÁTHAVYA [aside].—And so, I suppose, I must stand here to be devoured

by hunger, whilst he goes on in this sentimental strain.

KING.—O forsaken one, unjustly banished from my presence, take pity on

thy slave, whose heart is consumed by the fire of remorse, and return to

my sight.

Enter Chaturiká hurriedly, with a picture in her hand.

CHATURIKÁ.—Here is the Queen's portrait. [Shows the picture.

MÁTHAVYA.—Excellent, my dear friend, excellent! The imitation of nature

is perfect, and the attitude of the figures is really charming. They

stand out in such bold relief that the eye is quite deceived.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—A most artistic performance! I admire the King's

skill, and could almost believe that Śakoontalá herself was before me.

KING.—I own 'tis not amiss, though it portrays

But feebly her angelic loveliness.

Aught less than perfect is depicted falsely,

And fancy must supply the imperfection.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—A very just remark from a modest man, whose

affection is exaggerated by the keenness of his remorse.

MÁTHAVYA.—Tell me—I see three female figures drawn on the canvas, and

all of them beautiful; which of the three is her Majesty, Śakoontalá?

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—If he cannot distinguish her from the others, the

simpleton might as well have no eyes in his head.

KING.—Which should you imagine to be intended for her?

MÁTHAVYA.—She who is leaning, apparently a little tired, against the

stem of that mango-tree, the tender leaves of which glitter with the

water she has poured upon them. Her arms are gracefully extended; her

face is somewhat flushed with the heat; and a few flowers have escaped

from her hair, which has become unfastened, and hangs in loose tresses

about her neck. That must be the queen Śakoontalá, and the others, I

presume, are her two attendants.

KING.—I congratulate you on your discernment. Behold the proof of my

passion;

My finger, burning with the glow of love,

Has left its impress on the painted tablet;

While here and there, alas! a scalding tear

Has fallen on the cheek and dimmed its brightness.

Chaturiká, the garden in the background of the picture is

only half-painted. Go, fetch the brush that I may finish it.

CHATURIKÁ.—Worthy Máthavya, have the kindness to hold the picture until

I return.

KING.—Nay, I will hold it myself.

[Takes the picture. Exit Chaturiká.

KING.—My loved one came but lately to my presence

And offered me herself, but in my folly

I spurned the gift, and now I fondly cling

To her mere image; even as a madman

Would pass the waters of the gushing stream,

And thirst for airy vapors of the desert.

MÁTHAVYA [aside].—He has been fool enough to forego the reality for

the semblance, the substance for the shadow. [Aloud.] Tell us, I pray,

what else remains to be painted.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—He longs, no doubt, to delineate some favorite spot

where my dear Śakoontalá delighted to ramble.

KING.—You shall hear———

I wish to see the Máliní portrayed,

Its tranquil course by banks of sand impeded—

Upon the brink a pair of swans: beyond,

The hills adjacent to Himálaya,

Studded with deer; and, near the spreading shade

Of some large tree, where 'mid the branches hang

The hermits' vests of bark, a tender doe,

Rubbing its downy forehead on the horn

Of a black antelope, should be depicted.

MÁTHAVYA [aside].—Pooh! if I were he, I would fill up the vacant

spaces with a lot of grizzly-bearded old hermits.

KING.—My dear Máthavya, there is still a part of Śakoontalá's dress

which I purposed to draw, but find I have omitted.

MÁTHAVYA.—What is that?

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Something suitable, I suppose, to the simple attire

of a young and beautiful girl dwelling in a forest.

KING.—A sweet Śirísha blossom should be twined

Behind her ear, its perfumed crest depending

Towards her cheek; and, resting on her bosom,

A lotus-fibre necklace, soft and bright

As an autumnal moon-beam, should be traced.

MÁTHAVYA.—Pray, why does the Queen cover her lips with the tips of her

fingers, bright as the blossom of a lily, as if she were afraid of

something? [Looking more closely.] Oh! I see; a vagabond bee, intent

on thieving the honey of flowers, has mistaken her mouth for a rose-bud,

and is trying to settle upon it.

KING.—A bee! drive off the impudent insect, will you?

MÁTHAVYA.—That's your business. Your royal prerogative gives you power

over all offenders.

KING.—Very true. Listen to me, thou favorite guest of flowering plants;

why give thyself the trouble of hovering here? See where thy partner

sits on yonder flower, And waits for thee ere she will sip its dew.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—A most polite way of warning him off!

MÁTHAVYA.—You'll find the obstinate creature is not to be sent about

his business so easily as you think.

KING.—Dost thou presume to disobey? Now hear me—

An thou but touch the lips of my beloved,

Sweet as the opening blossom, whence I quaffed

In happier days love's nectar, I will place thee

Within the hollow of yon lotus cup,

And there imprison thee for thy presumption.

MÁTHAVYA.—He must be bold indeed not to show any fear when you threaten

him with such an awful punishment. [Smiling, aside.] He is stark mad,

that's clear; and I believe, by keeping him company, I am beginning to

talk almost as wildly. [Aloud.] Look, it is only a painted bee.

KING.—Painted? impossible!

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Even I did not perceive it; how much less should

he?

KING.—Oh! my dear friend, why were you so ill-natured as to tell me the

truth?

While, all entranced, I gazed upon her picture,

My loved one seemed to live before my eyes,

Till every fibre of my being thrilled

With rapturous emotion. Oh! 'twas cruel

To dissipate the day-dream, and transform

The blissful vision to a lifeless image.

[Sheds tears.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Separated lovers are very difficult to please; but

he seems more difficult than usual.

KING.—Alas! my dear Máthavya, why am I doomed to be the victim of

perpetual disappointment?

Vain is the hope of meeting her in dreams,

For slumber night by night forsakes my couch:

And now that I would fain assuage my grief

By gazing on her portrait here before me,

Tears of despairing love obscure my sight.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside],—You have made ample amends for the wrong you did

Śakoontalá in disowning her.

CHATURIKÁ [entering].—Victory to the King! I was coming along with

the box of colors in my hand———

KING.—What now?

CHATURIKÁ.—When I met the Queen Vasumatí, attended by Taraliká. She

insisted on taking it from me, and declared she would herself deliver it

into your Majesty's hands.

MÁTHAVYA.—By what luck did you contrive to escape her?

CHATURIKÁ.—While her maid was disengaging her mantle, which had caught

in the branch of a shrub, I ran away.

KING.—Here, my good friend, take the picture and conceal it. My

attentions to the Queen have made her presumptuous. She will be here in

a minute.

MÁTHAVYA.—Conceal the picture! conceal myself, you mean. [Getting up

and taking the picture.] The Queen has a bitter draught in store for

you, which you will have to swallow as Siva did the poison at the

Deluge. When you are well quit of her, you may send and call me from the

Palace of Clouds, where I shall take refuge.

[Exit, running.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Although the King's affections are transferred to

another object, yet he respects his previous attachments. I fear his

love must be somewhat fickle.

VETRAVATÍ [entering with a despatch in her hand].—Victory to the

King!

KING.—-Vetravatí, did you observe the Queen Vasumatí coming in this

direction?

VETRAVATÍ.—I did; but when she saw that I had a despatch in my hand for

your Majesty, she turned back.

KING.—The Queen has too much regard for propriety to interrupt me when

I am engaged with state-affairs.

VETRAVATÍ.—So please your Majesty, your Prime Minister begs

respectfully to inform you that he has devoted much time to the

settlement of financial calculations, and only one case of importance

has been submitted by the citizens for his consideration. He has made a

written report of the facts, and requests your Majesty to cast your eyes

over it.

KING.—Hand me the paper.

[Vetravatí delivers it.

KING [reading].—What have we here? "A merchant named Dhanamitra,

trading by sea, was lost in a late shipwreck. Though a wealthy trader,

he was childless; and the whole of his immense property becomes by law

forfeited to the King." So writes the minister. Alas! alas! for his

childlessness. But surely, if he was wealthy, he must have had many

wives. Let an inquiry be made whether any one of them is expecting to

give birth to a child.

VETRAVATÍ.—They say that his wife, the daughter of the foreman of a

guild belonging to Ayodhyá, has just completed the ceremonies usual upon

such expectations.

KING.—The unborn child has a title to his father's property. Such is my

decree. Go, bid my minister proclaim it so.

VETRAVATÍ.—I will, my liege. [Going.

KING.—Stay a moment.

VETRAVATÍ.—I am at your Majesty's service.

KING.—Let there be no question whether he may or may not have left

offspring;

Rather be it proclaimed that whosoe'er

Of King Dushyanta's subjects be bereaved

Of any loved relation, an it be not

That his estates are forfeited for crimes,

Dushyanta will himself to them supply

That kinsman's place in tenderest affection.

VETRAVATÍ.—It shall be so proclaimed.

[Exit Vetravatí, and reënter after an interval.

VETRAVATÍ.—Your Majesty's proclamation was received with acclamations

of joy, like grateful rain at the right season.

KING [drawing a deep sigh].—So then, the property of rich men, who

have no lineal descendants, passes over to a stranger at their decease.

And such, alas! must be the fate of the fortunes of the race of Puru at

my death; even as when fertile soil is sown with seed at the wrong

season.

VETRAVATÍ.—Heaven forbid!

KING.—Fool that I was to reject such happiness when it offered itself

for my acceptance!

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—He may well blame his own folly when he calls to

mind his treatment of my beloved Śakoontalá.

KING.—Ah! woe is me? when I forsook my wife—

My lawful wife—concealed within her breast

There lay my second self, a child unborn,

Hope of my race, e'en as the choicest fruit

Lies hidden in the bosom of the earth.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—There is no fear of your race being cut off for

want of a son.

CHATURIKÁ [aside to Vetravatí].—The affair of the merchant's death

has quite upset our royal master, and caused him sad distress. Had you

not better fetch the worthy Máthavya from the Palace of Clouds to

comfort him?

VETRAVATÍ.—A very good idea. [Exit.

KING.—Alas! the shades of my forefathers are even now beginning to be

alarmed, lest at my death they may be deprived of their funeral

libations.

No son remains in King Dushyanta's place

To offer sacred homage to the dead

Of Puru's noble line: my ancestors

Must drink these glistening tears, the last libation

A childless man can ever hope to make them.

[Falls down in an agony of grief.

CHATURIKÁ [looking at him in consternation].—Great King, compose

yourself.

SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Alas! alas! though a bright light is shining near

him, he is involved in the blackest darkness, by reason of the veil that

obscures his sight. I will now reveal all, and put an end to his misery.

But no; I heard the mother of the great Indra, when she was consoling

Śakoontalá, say, that the gods will soon bring about a joyful union

between husband and wife, being eager for the sacrifice which will be

celebrated in their honor on the occasion. I must not anticipate the

happy moment, but will return at once to my dear friend and cheer her

with an account of what I have seen and heard.

[Rises aloft and disappears.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Help! help! to the rescue!

KING [recovering himself. Listening].—Ha! I heard a cry of distress,

and in Máthavya's voice. What ho there!

VETRAVATÍ [entering].—Your friend is in danger; save him, great King.

KING.—Who dares insult the worthy Máthavya?

VETRAVATÍ.—Some evil demon, invisible to human eyes, has seized him,

and carried him to one of the turrets of the Palace of Clouds.

KING [rising].—Impossible! Have evil spirits power over my subjects,

even in my private apartments? Well, well—

Daily I seem less able to avert

Misfortune from myself, and o'er my actions

Less competent to exercise control;

How can I then direct my subjects' ways,

Or shelter them from tyranny and wrong?

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Halloo there! my dear friend; help!

help!

KING [advancing with rapid strides].—Fear nothing—

THE SAME VOICE [behind the scenes].—Fear nothing, indeed! How can I

help fearing when some monster is twisting back my neck, and is about to

snap it as he would a sugarcane?

KING [looking round].—What ho there! my bow.

SLAVE [entering with a bow].—Behold your bow, Sire, and your

arm-guard.

[The king snatches up the bow and arrows.

ANOTHER VOICE [behind the scenes].—Here, thirsting for thy

life-blood, will I slay thee, As a fierce tiger rends his struggling

prey. Call now thy friend Dushyanta to thy aid; His bow is mighty to

defend the weak; Yet all its vaunted power shall be as nought.

KING [with fury].—What! dares he defy me to my face? Hold there,

monster! Prepare to die, for your time is come. [Stringing his bow.]

Vetravatí, lead the way to the terrace.

VETRAVATÍ.—This way, Sire. [They advance in haste.

KING [looking on every side].—How's this? there is nothing to be

seen.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Help! Save me! I can see you, though you

cannot see me. I am like a mouse in the claws of a cat; my life is not

worth a moment's purchase.

KING.—Avaunt, monster! You may pride yourself on the magic that renders

you invisible, but my arrow shall find you out. Thus do I fix a shaft

That shall discern between an impious demon

And a good Bráhman; bearing death to thee,

To him deliverance—even as the swan

Distinguishes the milk from worthless water.

[Takes aim.

Enter Mátali, holding Máthavya, whom he releases.

MÁTALI.—Turn thou thy deadly arrows on the demons;

Such is the will of Indra; let thy bow

Be drawn against the enemies of the gods;

But on thy friends cast only looks of favor.

KING [putting back his arrow].—What, Mátali! Welcome, most noble

charioteer of the mighty Indra.

MÁTHAVYA.—So, here is a monster who thought as little about

slaughtering me as if I had been a bullock for sacrifice, and you must

e'en greet him with a welcome.

MÁTALI [smiling].—Great Prince, hear on what errand Indra sent me

into your presence.

KING.—I am all attention.

MÁTALI.—There is a race of giants, the descendants of Kálanemi, whom

the gods find difficult to subdue.

KING.—So I have already heard from Nárada.

MÁTALI.—Heaven's mighty lord, who deigns to call thee "friend,"

Appoints thee to the post of highest honor,

As leader of his armies; and commits

The subjugation of this giant brood

To thy resistless arms, e'en as the sun

Leaves the pale moon to dissipate the darkness.

Let your Majesty, therefore, ascend at once the celestial car of Indra;

and, grasping your arms, advance to victory.

KING.—The mighty Indra honors me too highly by such a mark of

distinction. But tell me, what made you act thus towards my poor friend

Máthavya?

MÁTALI.—I will tell you. Perceiving that your Majesty's spirit was

completely broken by some distress of mind under which you were

laboring, I determined to rouse your energies by moving you to anger.

Because

To light a flame, we need but stir the embers;

The cobra, when incensed, extends his head

And springs upon his foe; the bravest men

Display their courage only when provoked.

KING [aside to Máthavya].—My dear Máthavya, the commands of the great

Indra must not be left unfulfilled. Go you and acquaint my minister,

Piśuna, with what has happened, and say to him from me, Dushyanta to thy

care confides his realm—

Protect with all the vigor of thy mind

The interests of my people; while my bow

Is braced against the enemies of heaven.

MÁTHAVYA.—I obey. [Exit.

MÁTALI.—Ascend, illustrious Prince.

[The King ascends the car. Exeunt.

ACT SEVENTH

Scene.—The Sky

Enter King Dushyanta and Mátali in the car of Indra, moving in the

air.

KING.—My good Mátali, it appears to me incredible that I can merit such

a mark of distinction for having simply fulfilled the behests of the

great Indra.

MÁTALI [smiling].—Great Prince, it seems to me that neither of you is

satisfied with himself—

You underrate the service you have rendered,

And think too highly of the god's reward:

He deems it scarce sufficient recompense

For your heroic deeds on his behalf.

KING.—Nay, Mátali, say not so. My most ambitious expectations were more

than realized by the honor conferred on me at the moment when I took my

leave. For,

Tinged with celestial sandal, from the breast

Of the great Indra, where before it hung,

A garland of the ever-blooming tree

Of Nandana was cast about my neck

By his own hand: while, in the very presence

Of the assembled gods, I was enthroned

Beside their mighty lord, who smiled to see

His son Jayanta envious of the honor.

MÁTALI.—There is no mark of distinction which your Majesty does not

deserve at the hands of the immortals. See,

Heaven's hosts acknowledge thee their second saviour;

For now thy bow's unerring shafts (as erst

The lion-man's terrific claws) have purged

The empyreal sphere from taint of demons foul.

KING.—The praise of my victory must be ascribed to the majesty of

Indra.

When mighty gods make men their delegates

In martial enterprise, to them belongs

The palm of victory; and not to mortals.

Could the pale Dawn dispel the shades of night,

Did not the god of day, whose diadem

Is jewelled with a thousand beams of light,

Place him in front of his effulgent car?

MÁTALI.—A very just comparison. [Driving on.] Great King, behold! the

glory of thy fame has reached even to the vault of heaven.

Hark! yonder inmates of the starry sphere

Sing anthems worthy of thy martial deeds,

While with celestial colors they depict

The story of thy victories on scrolls

Formed of the leaves of heaven's immortal trees.

KING.—My good Mátali, yesterday, when I ascended the sky, I was so

eager to do battle with the demons, that the road by which we were

travelling towards Indra's heaven escaped my observation. Tell me, in

which path of the seven winds are we now moving?

MÁTALI.—We journey in the path of Parivaha;

The wind that bears along the triple Ganges,

And causes Ursa's seven stars to roll

In their appointed orbits, scattering

Their several rays with equal distribution.

'Tis the same path that once was sanctified

By the divine impression of the foot

Of Vishnu, when, to conquer haughty Bali,

He spanned the heavens in his second stride.

KING.—This is the reason, I suppose, that a sensation of calm repose

pervades all my senses. [Looking down at the wheels.] Ah! Mátali, we

are descending towards the earth's atmosphere.

MÁTALI.—What makes you think so?

KING.—The car itself instructs me; we are moving

O'er pregnant clouds, surcharged with rain; below us

I see the moisture-loving Chátakas

In sportive flight dart through the spokes; the steeds

Of Indra glisten with the lightning's flash;

And a thick mist bedews the circling wheels.

MÁTALI.—You are right; in a little while the chariot will touch the

ground, and you will be in your own dominions.

KING [looking down],—How wonderful is the appearance of the earth as

we rapidly descend!

Stupendous prospect! yonder lofty hills

Do suddenly uprear their towering heads

Amid the plain, while from beneath their crests

The ground receding sinks; the trees, whose stems

Seemed lately hid within their leafy tresses,

Rise into elevation, and display

Their branching shoulders; yonder streams, whose waters,

Like silver threads, but now were scarcely seen,

Grow into mighty rivers; lo! the earth

Seems upward hurled by some gigantic power.

MÁTALI.—Well described! [Looking with awe.] Grand, indeed, and lovely

is the spectacle presented by the earth.

KING.—Tell me, Mátali, what is that range of mountains which, like a

bank of clouds illumined by the setting sun, pours down a stream of

gold? On one side its base dips into the eastern ocean, and on the other

side into the western.

MÁTALI.—Great Prince, it is called "Golden-peak," and is the abode

of the attendants of the god of Wealth. In this spot the highest forms

of penance are wrought out.

There Kaśyapa, the great progenitor

Of demons and of gods, himself the offspring

Of the divine Maríchi, Brahmá's son,

With Aditi, his wife, in calm seclusion,

Does holy penance for the good of mortals.

KING.—Then I must not neglect so good an opportunity of obtaining his

blessing. I should much like to visit this venerable personage and offer

him my homage.

MÁTALI.—By all means! An excellent idea. [Guides the car to the

earth.]

KING [in a tone of wonder].—How's this?

Our chariot wheels move noiselessly. Around

No clouds of dust arise; no shock betokened

Our contact with the earth; we seem to glide

Above the ground, so lightly do we touch it.

MÁTALI.—Such is the difference between the car of Indra and that of

your Majesty.

KING.—In which direction, Mátali, is Kaśyapa's sacred retreat?

MÁTALI [pointing].—Where stands yon anchorite, towards the orb

Of the meridian sun, immovable

As a tree's stem, his body half-concealed

By a huge ant-hill. Round about his breast

No sacred cord is twined, but in its stead

A hideous serpent's skin. In place of necklace,

The tendrils of a withered creeper chafe

His wasted neck. His matted hair depends

In thick entanglement about his shoulders,

And birds construct their nests within its folds.

KING.—I salute thee, thou man of austere devotion.

MÁTALI [holding in the reins of the car].—Great Prince, we are now in

the sacred grove of the holy Kaśyapa—the grove that boasts as its

ornament one of the five trees of Indra's heaven, reared by Aditi.

KING.—This sacred retreat is more delightful than heaven itself. I

could almost fancy myself bathing in a pool of nectar.

MÁTALI [stopping the chariot].—Descend, mighty Prince.

KING [descending].—And what will you do, Mátali?

MÁTALI.—The chariot will remain where I have stopped it. We may both

descend. [Doing so.] This way, great King, [Walking on.] You see

around you the celebrated region where the holiest sages devote

themselves to penitential rites.

KING.—I am filled with awe and wonder as I gaze.

In such a place as this do saints of earth

Long to complete their acts of penance; here,

Beneath the shade of everlasting trees,

Transplanted from the groves of Paradise,

May they inhale the balmy air, and need

No other nourishment; here may they bathe

In fountains sparkling with the golden dust

Of lilies; here, on jewelled slabs of marble,

In meditation rapt, may they recline;

Here, in the presence of celestial nymphs,

E'en passion's voice is powerless to move them.

MÁTALI.—So true is it that the aspirations of the good and great are

ever soaring upwards. [Turning round and speaking off the stage.] Tell

me, Vriddha-śákalya, how is the divine son of Maríchi now engaged? What

sayest thou? that he is conversing with Aditi and some of the wives of

the great sages, and that they are questioning him respecting the duties

of a faithful wife?

KING [listening].—Then we must await the holy father's leisure.

MÁTALI [looking at the King].—If your Majesty will rest under the

shade, at the foot of this Aśoka-tree, I will seek an opportunity of

announcing your arrival to Indra's reputed father.

KING.—As you think proper. [Remains under the tree.

MÁTALI.—Great King, I go. [Exit.

KING [feeling his arm throb].—Wherefore this causeless throbbing, O

mine arm?

All hope has fled forever; mock me not

With presages of good, when happiness

Is lost, and nought but misery remains.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Be not so naughty. Do you begin already

to show a refractory spirit?

KING [listening].—This is no place for petulance. Who can it be whose

behavior calls for such a rebuke? [Looking in the direction of the

sound and smiling.] A child, is it? closely attended by two holy women.

His disposition seems anything but childlike. See,

He braves the fury of yon lioness

Suckling its savage offspring, and compels

The angry whelp to leave the half-sucked dug,

Tearing its tender mane in boisterous sport.

Enter a child, attended by two women of the hermitage, in the manner

described.

CHILD.—Open your mouth, my young lion, I want to count your teeth.

FIRST ATTENDANT.—You naughty child, why do you tease the animals? Know

you not that we cherish them in this hermitage as if they were our own

children? In good sooth, you have a high spirit of your own, and are

beginning already to do justice to the name Sarva-damana (All-taming),

given you by the hermits.

KING.—Strange! My heart inclines towards the boy with almost as much

affection as if he were my own child. What can be the reason? I suppose

my own childlessness makes me yearn towards the sons of others.

SECOND ATTENDANT.—This lioness will certainly attack you if you do not

release her whelp.

CHILD [laughing].—Oh! indeed! let her come. Much I fear her, to be

sure. [Pouts his under-lip in defiance.

KING.—The germ of mighty courage lies concealed

Within this noble infant, like a spark

Beneath the fuel, waiting but a breath

To fan the flame and raise a conflagration.

FIRST ATTENDANT.—Let the young lion go, like a dear child, and I will

give you something else to play with.

CHILD.—Where is it? Give it me first.

[Stretches out his hand.

KING [looking at his hand].—How's this? His hand exhibits one of

those mystic marks which are the sure prognostic of universal empire.

See!

His fingers stretched in eager expectation

To grasp the wished-for toy, and knit together

By a close-woven web, in shape resemble

A lotus-blossom, whose expanding petals

The early dawn has only half unfolded.

SECOND ATTENDANT.—We shall never pacify him by mere words, dear

Suvratá. Be kind enough to go to my cottage, and you will find there a

plaything belonging to Márkándeya, one of the hermit's children. It is a

peacock made of China-ware, painted in many colors. Bring it here for

the child.