No, he has left his daughter to welcome guests, and
has just gone to Somatirtha, to avert an evil fate that threatens her.
has just gone to Somatirtha, to avert an evil fate that threatens her.
Kalidasa - Shantukala, and More
One
apparent exception there is--the story of Rama and Sita in _The
Dynasty of Raghu_. In this case it must be remembered that Rama is an
incarnation of Vishnu, and the story of a mighty god incarnate is not
to be lightly tampered with.
It is perhaps an inevitable consequence of Kalidasa's subject that his
women appeal more strongly to a modern reader than his men. The man is
the more variable phenomenon, and though manly virtues are the same in
all countries and centuries, the emphasis has been variously laid. But
the true woman seems timeless, universal. I know of no poet, unless it
be Shakespeare, who has given the world a group of heroines so
individual yet so universal; heroines as true, as tender, as brave as
are Indumati, Sita, Parvati, the Yaksha's bride, and Shakuntala.
Kalidasa could not understand women without understanding children. It
would be difficult to find anywhere lovelier pictures of childhood
than those in which our poet presents the little Bharata, Ayus, Raghu,
Kumara. It is a fact worth noticing that Kalidasa's children are all
boys. Beautiful as his women are, he never does more than glance at a
little girl.
Another pervading note of Kalidasa's writing is his love of external
nature. No doubt it is easier for a Hindu, with his almost instinctive
belief in reincarnation, to feel that all life, from plant to god, is
truly one; yet none, even among the Hindus, has expressed this feeling
with such convincing beauty as has Kalidasa. It is hardly true to say
that he personifies rivers and mountains and trees; to him they have a
conscious individuality as truly and as certainly as animals or men or
gods. Fully to appreciate Kalidasa's poetry one must have spent some
weeks at least among wild mountains and forests untouched by man;
there the conviction grows that trees and flowers are indeed
individuals, fully conscious of a personal life and happy in that
life. The return to urban surroundings makes the vision fade; yet the
memory remains, like a great love or a glimpse of mystic insight, as
an intuitive conviction of a higher truth.
Kalidasa's knowledge of nature is not only sympathetic, it is also
minutely accurate. Not only are the snows and windy music of the
Himalayas, the mighty current of the sacred Ganges, his possession;
his too are smaller streams and trees and every littlest flower. It is
delightful to imagine a meeting between Kalidasa and Darwin. They
would have understood each other perfectly; for in each the same kind
of imagination worked with the same wealth of observed fact.
I have already hinted at the wonderful balance in Kalidasa's
character, by virtue of which he found himself equally at home in a
palace and in a wilderness. I know not with whom to compare him in
this; even Shakespeare, for all his magical insight into natural
beauty, is primarily a poet of the human heart. That can hardly be
said of Kalidasa, nor can it be said that he is primarily a poet of
natural beauty. The two characters unite in him, it might almost be
said, chemically. The matter which I am clumsily endeavouring to make
plain is beautifully epitomised in _The Cloud-Messenger_. The former
half is a description of external nature, yet interwoven with human
feeling; the latter half is a picture of a human heart, yet the
picture is framed in natural beauty. So exquisitely is the thing done
that none can say which half is superior. Of those who read this
perfect poem in the original text, some are more moved by the one,
some by the other. Kalidasa understood in the fifth century what
Europe did not learn until the nineteenth, and even now comprehends
only imperfectly: that the world was not made for man, that man
reaches his full stature only as he realises the dignity and worth of
life that is not human.
That Kalidasa seized this truth is a magnificent tribute to his
intellectual power, a quality quite as necessary to great poetry as
perfection of form. Poetical fluency is not rare; intellectual grasp
is not very uncommon: but the combination has not been found perhaps
more than a dozen times since the world began. Because he possessed
this harmonious combination, Kalidasa ranks not with Anacreon and
Horace and Shelley, but with Sophocles, Vergil, Milton.
He would doubtless have been somewhat bewildered by Wordsworth's
gospel of nature. "The world is too much with us," we can fancy him
repeating. "How can the world, the beautiful human world, be too much
with us? How can sympathy with one form of life do other than vivify
our sympathy with other forms of life? "
It remains to say what can be said in a foreign language of Kalidasa's
style. We have seen that he had a formal and systematic education; in
this respect he is rather to be compared with Milton and Tennyson than
with Shakespeare or Burns. He was completely master of his learning.
In an age and a country which reprobated carelessness but were
tolerant of pedantry, he held the scales with a wonderfully even hand,
never heedless and never indulging in the elaborate trifling with
Sanskrit diction which repels the reader from much of Indian
literature. It is true that some western critics have spoken of his
disfiguring conceits and puerile plays on words. One can only wonder
whether these critics have ever read Elizabethan literature; for
Kalidasa's style is far less obnoxious to such condemnation than
Shakespeare's. That he had a rich and glowing imagination, "excelling
in metaphor," as the Hindus themselves affirm, is indeed true; that he
may, both in youth and age, have written lines which would not have
passed his scrutiny in the vigour of manhood, it is not worth while to
deny: yet the total effect left by his poetry is one of extraordinary
sureness and delicacy of taste. This is scarcely a matter for
argument; a reader can do no more than state his own subjective
impression, though he is glad to find that impression confirmed by the
unanimous authority of fifty generations of Hindus, surely the most
competent judges on such a point.
Analysis of Kalidasa's writings might easily be continued, but
analysis can never explain life. The only real criticism is
subjective. We know that Kalidasa is a very great poet, because the
world has not been able to leave him alone.
ARTHUR W. RYDER.
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
On Kalidasa's life and writings may be consulted A. A. Macdonell's
_History of Sanskrit Literature_ (1900); the same author's article
"Kalidasa" in the eleventh edition of the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_
(1910); and Sylvain Levi's _Le Theatre Indien_ (1890).
The more important translations in English are the following: of the
_Shakuntala_, by Sir William Jones (1789) and Monier Williams (fifth
edition, 1887); of the _Urvashi_, by H. H. Wilson (in his _Select
Specimens of the Theatre of the Hindus_, third edition, 1871); of _The
Dynasty of Raghu_, by P. de Lacy Johnstone (1902); of _The Birth of
The War-god_ (cantos one to seven), by Ralph T. H. Griffith (second
edition, 1879); of _The Cloud-Messenger_, by H. H. Wilson (1813).
There is an inexpensive reprint of Jones's _Shakuntala_ and Wilson's
_Cloud-Messenger_ in one volume in the Camelot Series.
KALIDASA
An ancient heathen poet, loving more
God's creatures, and His women, and His flowers
Than we who boast of consecrated powers;
Still lavishing his unexhausted store
Of love's deep, simple wisdom, healing o'er
The world's old sorrows, India's griefs and ours;
That healing love he found in palace towers,
On mountain, plain, and dark, sea-belted shore,
In songs of holy Raghu's kingly line
Or sweet Shakuntala in pious grove,
In hearts that met where starry jasmines twine
Or hearts that from long, lovelorn absence strove
Together. Still his words of wisdom shine:
All's well with man, when man and woman love.
Willst du die Blute des fruhen, die
Fruchte des spateren Jahres,
Willst du, was reizt und entzuckt,
Willst du, was sattigt und nahrt,
Willst du den Hummel, die erde mit
Einem Namen begreifen,
Nenn' ich, Sakuntala, dich, und
dann ist alles gesagt.
GOETHE.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: These verses are translated on pp. 123, 124. ]
[Footnote 2: The passage will be found on pp. 190-192. ]
[Footnote 3: This matter is more fully discussed in the introduction to my
translation of _The Little Clay Cart_ (1905). ]
[Footnote 4: Levi, _Le Theatre Indien_, p. 163. ]
* * * * *
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION: KALIDASA--HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS
SHAKUNTALA
THE STORY OF SHAKUNTALA
THE TWO MINOR DRAMAS--
I. Malavika and Agnimitra
II. Urvashi
THE DYNASTY OF RAGHU
THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD
THE CLOUD-MESSENGER
THE SEASONS
* * * * *
SHAKUNTALA
A PLAY IN SEVEN ACTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
KING DUSHYANTA.
BHARATA, _nicknamed_ All-tamer, _his son_.
MADHAVYA, _a clown, his companion_.
His charioteer.
RAIVATAKA, _a door-keeper_.
BHADRASENA, _a general_.
KARABHAKA, _a servant_.
PARVATAYANA, _a chamberlain_.
SOMARATA, _a chaplain_.
KANVA, _hermit-father_.
SHARNGARAVA }
SHARADVATA } _his pupils_.
HARITA }
DURVASAS, _an irascible sage_.
The chief of police.
SUCHAKA }
} _policemen_.
JANUKA }
A fisherman.
SHAKUNTALA, _foster-child of Kanva_.
ANUSUVA }
} _her friends_.
PRIYAMVADA }
GAUTAMI, _hermit-mother_.
KASHYAPA, _father of the gods_.
ADITI, _mother of the gods_.
MATALI, _charioteer of heaven's king_.
GALAVA, _a pupil in heaven_.
MISHRAKESHI, _a heavenly nymph_.
_Stage-director and actress (in the prologue), hermits and
hermit-women, two court poets, palace attendants, invisible fairies_.
The first four acts pass in Kanva's forest hermitage; acts five and
six in the king's palace; act seven on a heavenly mountain. The time
is perhaps seven years.
SHAKUNTALA
PROLOGUE
BENEDICTION UPON THE AUDIENCE
Eight forms has Shiva, lord of all and king:
And these are water, first created thing;
And fire, which speeds the sacrifice begun;
The priest; and time's dividers, moon and sun;
The all-embracing ether, path of sound;
The earth, wherein all seeds of life are found;
And air, the breath of life: may he draw near,
Revealed in these, and bless those gathered here.
_The stage-director_. Enough of this! (_Turning toward the
dressing-room_. ) Madam, if you are ready, pray come here. (_Enter an
actress_. )
_Actress_. Here I am, sir. What am I to do?
_Director_. Our audience is very discriminating, and we are to offer
them a new play, called _Shakuntala and the ring of recognition_,
written by the famous Kalidasa. Every member of the cast must be on
his mettle.
_Actress_. Your arrangements are perfect. Nothing will go wrong.
_Director_ (_smiling_). To tell the truth, madam,
Until the wise are satisfied,
I cannot feel that skill is shown;
The best-trained mind requires support,
And does not trust itself alone.
_Actress_. True. What shall we do first?
_Director_. First, you must sing something to please the ears of the
audience.
_Actress_. What season of the year shall I sing about? _Director_.
Why, sing about the pleasant summer which has just begun. For at this
time of year
A mid-day plunge will temper heat;
The breeze is rich with forest flowers;
To slumber in the shade is sweet;
And charming are the twilight hours.
_Actress_ (_sings_).
The siris-blossoms fair,
With pollen laden,
Are plucked to deck her hair
By many a maiden,
But gently; flowers like these
Are kissed by eager bees.
_Director_. Well done! The whole theatre is captivated by your song,
and sits as if painted. What play shall we give them to keep their
good-will?
_Actress_. Why, you just told me we were to give a new play called
_Shakuntala and the ring_.
_Director_. Thank you for reminding me. For the moment I had quite
forgotten.
Your charming song had carried me away
As the deer enticed the hero of our play.
(_Exeunt ambo_. )
ACT I
THE HUNT
(_Enter, in a chariot, pursuing a deer_, KING DUSHYANTA, _bow and
arrow in hand; and a charioteer_. )
_Charioteer_ (_Looking at the king and the deer_). Your Majesty,
I see you hunt the spotted deer
With shafts to end his race,
As though God Shiva should appear
In his immortal chase.
_King_. Charioteer, the deer has led us a long chase. And even now
His neck in beauty bends
As backward looks he sends
At my pursuing car
That threatens death from far.
Fear shrinks to half the body small;
See how he fears the arrow's fall!
The path he takes is strewed
With blades of grass half-chewed
From jaws wide with the stress
Of fevered weariness.
He leaps so often and so high,
He does not seem to run, but fly.
(_In surprise_. ) Pursue as I may, I can hardly keep him in sight.
_Charioteer_. Your Majesty, I have been holding the horses back
because the ground was rough. This checked us and gave the deer a
lead. Now we are on level ground, and you will easily overtake him.
_King_. Then let the reins hang loose.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits rapid motion_. )
Look, your Majesty!
The lines hang loose; the steeds unreined
Dart forward with a will.
Their ears are pricked; their necks are strained;
Their plumes lie straight and still.
They leave the rising dust behind;
They seem to float upon the wind.
_King_ (_joyfully_). See! The horses are gaining on the deer.
As onward and onward the chariot flies,
The small flashes large to my dizzy eyes.
What is cleft in twain, seems to blur and mate;
What is crooked in nature, seems to be straight.
Things at my side in an instant appear
Distant, and things in the distance, near.
_A voice behind the scenes_. O King, this deer belongs to the
hermitage, and must not be killed.
_Charioteer_ (_listening and looking_). Your Majesty, here are two
hermits, come to save the deer at the moment when your arrow was about
to fall.
_King_ (_hastily_). Stop the chariot.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He does so. Enter a hermit with his
pupil_. )
_Hermit_ (_lifting his hand_). O King, this deer belongs to the
hermitage.
Why should his tender form expire,
As blossoms perish in the fire?
How could that gentle life endure
The deadly arrow, sharp and sure?
Restore your arrow to the quiver;
To you were weapons lent
The broken-hearted to deliver,
Not strike the innocent.
_King_ (_bowing low_). It is done. (_He does so_. )
_Hermit_ (_joyfully_). A deed worthy of you, scion of Puru's race, and
shining example of kings. May you beget a son to rule earth and
heaven.
_King_ (_bowing low_). I am thankful for a Brahman's blessing.
_The two hermits_. O King, we are on our way to gather firewood. Here,
along the bank of the Malini, you may see the hermitage of Father
Kanva, over which Shakuntala presides, so to speak, as guardian deity.
Unless other deities prevent, pray enter here and receive a welcome.
Besides,
Beholding pious hermit-rites
Preserved from fearful harm,
Perceive the profit of the scars
On your protecting arm.
_King_. Is the hermit father there?
_The two hermits_.
No, he has left his daughter to welcome guests, and
has just gone to Somatirtha, to avert an evil fate that threatens her.
_King_. Well, I will see her. She shall feel my devotion, and report
it to the sage.
_The two hermits_. Then we will go on our way. (_Exit hermit with
pupil_. )
_King_. Charioteer, drive on. A sight of the pious hermitage will
purify us.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits motion again_. )
_King_ (_looking about_). One would know, without being told, that
this is the precinct of a pious grove.
_Charioteer_. How so? _King_. Do you not see? Why, here
Are rice-grains, dropped from bills of parrot chicks
Beneath the trees; and pounding-stones where sticks
A little almond-oil; and trustful deer
That do not run away as we draw near;
And river-paths that are besprinkled yet
From trickling hermit-garments, clean and wet.
Besides,
The roots of trees are washed by many a stream
That breezes ruffle; and the flowers' red gleam
Is dimmed by pious smoke; and fearless fawns
Move softly on the close-cropped forest lawns.
_Charioteer_. It is all true.
_King_ (_after a little_). We must not disturb the hermitage. Stop
here while I dismount.
_Charioteer_. I am holding the reins. Dismount, your Majesty.
_King_ (_dismounts and looks at himself_). One should wear modest
garments on entering a hermitage. Take these jewels and the bow. (_He
gives them to the charioteer_. ) Before I return from my visit to the
hermits, have the horses' backs wet down.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_. )
_King_ (_walking and looking about_). The hermitage! Well, I will
enter. (_As he does so, he feels a throbbing in his arm_. )
A tranquil spot! Why should I thrill?
Love cannot enter there--
Yet to inevitable things
Doors open everywhere.
_A voice behind the scenes_. This way, girls!
_King_ (_listening_). I think I hear some one to the right of the
grove. I must find out. (_He walks and looks about_. ) Ah, here are
hermit-girls, with watering-pots just big enough for them to handle.
They are coming in this direction to water the young trees. They are
charming!
The city maids, for all their pains,
Seem not so sweet and good;
Our garden blossoms yield to these
Flower-children of the wood.
I will draw back into the shade and wait for them. (_He stands, gazing
toward them. Enter_ SHAKUNTALA, _as described, and her two friends_. )
_First friend_. It seems to me, dear, that Father Kanva cares more for
the hermitage trees than he does for you. You are delicate as a
jasmine blossom, yet he tells you to fill the trenches about the
trees.
_Shakuntala_. Oh, it isn't Father's bidding so much. I feel like a
real sister to them. (_She waters the trees_. )
_Priyamvada_. Shakuntala, we have watered the trees that blossom in
the summer-time. Now let's sprinkle those whose flowering-time is
past. That will be a better deed, because we shall not be working for
a reward.
_Shakuntala_. What a pretty idea! (_She does so_. )
_King_ (_to himself_). And this is Kanva's daughter, Shakuntala. (_In
surprise_. ) The good Father does wrong to make her wear the hermit's
dress of bark.
The sage who yokes her artless charm
With pious pain and grief,
Would try to cut the toughest vine
With a soft, blue lotus-leaf.
Well, I will step behind a tree and see how she acts with her
friends. (_He conceals himself_. )
_Shakuntala_. Oh, Anusuya! Priyamvada has fastened this bark dress so
tight that it hurts. Please loosen it. (ANUSUYA _does so_. )
_Priyamvada_ (_laughing_). You had better blame your own budding
charms for that.
_King_. She is quite right.
Beneath the barken dress
Upon the shoulder tied,
In maiden loveliness
Her young breast seems to hide,
As when a flower amid
The leaves by autumn tossed--
Pale, withered leaves--lies hid,
And half its grace is lost.
Yet in truth the bark dress is not an enemy to her beauty. It serves
as an added ornament. For
The meanest vesture glows
On beauty that enchants:
The lotus lovelier shows
Amid dull water-plants;
The moon in added splendour
Shines for its spot of dark;
Yet more the maiden slender
Charms in her dress of bark.
_Shakuntala_ (_looking ahead_). Oh, girls, that mango-tree is trying
to tell me something with his branches that move in the wind like
fingers. I must go and see him. (_She does so_. )
_Priyamvada_. There, Shakuntala, stand right where you are a minute.
_Shakuntala_. Why?
_Priyamvada_. When I see you there, it looks as if a vine were
clinging to the mango-tree.
_Shakuntala_. I see why they call you the flatterer.
_King_. But the flattery is true.
Her arms are tender shoots; her lips
Are blossoms red and warm;
Bewitching youth begins to flower
In beauty on her form.
_Anusuya_. Oh, Shakuntala! Here is the jasmine-vine that you named
Light of the Grove. She has chosen the mango-tree as her husband.
_Shakuntala_ (_approaches and looks at it, joyfully_). What a pretty
pair they make. The jasmine shows her youth in her fresh flowers, and
the mango-tree shows his strength in his ripening fruit. (_She stands
gazing at them_. )
_Priyamvada_ (_smiling_). Anusuya, do you know why Shakuntala looks so
hard at the Light of the Grove?
_Anusuya_. No. Why?
_Priyamvada_. She is thinking how the Light of the Grove has found a
good tree, and hoping that she will meet a fine lover.
_Shakuntala_. That's what you want for yourself. (_She tips her
watering-pot_. )
_Anusuya_. Look, Shakuntala! Here is the spring-creeper that Father
Kanva tended with his own hands--just as he did you. You are
forgetting her.
_Shakuntala_. I'd forget myself sooner. (_She goes to the creeper and
looks at it, joyfully_. ) Wonderful! Wonderful! Priyamvada, I have
something pleasant to tell you.
_Priyamvada_. What is it, dear?
_Shakuntala_. It is out of season, but the spring-creeper is covered
with buds down to the very root.
_The two friends_ (_running up_). Really?
_Shakuntala_. Of course. Can't you see?
_Priyamvada_ (_looking at it joyfully_). And I have something pleasant
to tell _you_. You are to be married soon.
_Shakuntala_ (_snappishly_). You know that's just what you want for
yourself.
_Priyamvada_. I'm not teasing. I really heard Father Kanva say that
this flowering vine was to be a symbol of your coming happiness.
_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, that is why Shakuntala waters the
spring-creeper so lovingly.
_Shakuntala_. She is my sister. Why shouldn't I give her water? (_She
tips her watering-pot_. )
_King_. May I hope that she is the hermit's daughter by a mother of a
different caste? But it _must_ be so.
Surely, she may become a warrior's bride;
Else, why these longings in an honest mind?
The motions of a blameless heart decide
Of right and wrong, when reason leaves us blind.
Yet I will learn the whole truth.
_Shakuntala_ (_excitedly_). Oh, oh! A bee has left the jasmine-vine
and is flying into my face. (_She shows herself annoyed by the bee_. )
_King_ (_ardently_).
As the bee about her flies,
Swiftly her bewitching eyes
Turn to watch his flight.
She is practising to-day
Coquetry and glances' play
Not from love, but fright.
(_Jealously_. )
Eager bee, you lightly skim
O'er the eyelid's trembling rim
Toward the cheek aquiver.
Gently buzzing round her cheek,
Whispering in her ear, you seek
Secrets to deliver.
While her hands that way and this
Strike at you, you steal a kiss,
Love's all, honeymaker.
I know nothing but her name,
Not her caste, nor whence she came--
You, my rival, take her.
_Shakuntala_. Oh, girls! Save me from this dreadful bee!
_The two friends_ (_smiling_). Who are we, that we should save you?
Call upon Dushyanta. For pious groves are in the protection of the
king.
_King_. A good opportunity to present myself. Have no--(_He checks
himself. Aside_. ) No, they would see that I am the king. I prefer to
appear as a guest.
_Shakuntala_. He doesn't leave me alone! I am going to run away.
(_She takes a step and looks about_. ) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! He is
following me. Please save me.
_King_ (_hastening forward_). Ah!
A king of Puru's mighty line
Chastises shameless churls;
What insolent is he who baits
These artless hermit-girls?
(_The girls are a little flurried on seeing the king_. )
_Anusuya_.
apparent exception there is--the story of Rama and Sita in _The
Dynasty of Raghu_. In this case it must be remembered that Rama is an
incarnation of Vishnu, and the story of a mighty god incarnate is not
to be lightly tampered with.
It is perhaps an inevitable consequence of Kalidasa's subject that his
women appeal more strongly to a modern reader than his men. The man is
the more variable phenomenon, and though manly virtues are the same in
all countries and centuries, the emphasis has been variously laid. But
the true woman seems timeless, universal. I know of no poet, unless it
be Shakespeare, who has given the world a group of heroines so
individual yet so universal; heroines as true, as tender, as brave as
are Indumati, Sita, Parvati, the Yaksha's bride, and Shakuntala.
Kalidasa could not understand women without understanding children. It
would be difficult to find anywhere lovelier pictures of childhood
than those in which our poet presents the little Bharata, Ayus, Raghu,
Kumara. It is a fact worth noticing that Kalidasa's children are all
boys. Beautiful as his women are, he never does more than glance at a
little girl.
Another pervading note of Kalidasa's writing is his love of external
nature. No doubt it is easier for a Hindu, with his almost instinctive
belief in reincarnation, to feel that all life, from plant to god, is
truly one; yet none, even among the Hindus, has expressed this feeling
with such convincing beauty as has Kalidasa. It is hardly true to say
that he personifies rivers and mountains and trees; to him they have a
conscious individuality as truly and as certainly as animals or men or
gods. Fully to appreciate Kalidasa's poetry one must have spent some
weeks at least among wild mountains and forests untouched by man;
there the conviction grows that trees and flowers are indeed
individuals, fully conscious of a personal life and happy in that
life. The return to urban surroundings makes the vision fade; yet the
memory remains, like a great love or a glimpse of mystic insight, as
an intuitive conviction of a higher truth.
Kalidasa's knowledge of nature is not only sympathetic, it is also
minutely accurate. Not only are the snows and windy music of the
Himalayas, the mighty current of the sacred Ganges, his possession;
his too are smaller streams and trees and every littlest flower. It is
delightful to imagine a meeting between Kalidasa and Darwin. They
would have understood each other perfectly; for in each the same kind
of imagination worked with the same wealth of observed fact.
I have already hinted at the wonderful balance in Kalidasa's
character, by virtue of which he found himself equally at home in a
palace and in a wilderness. I know not with whom to compare him in
this; even Shakespeare, for all his magical insight into natural
beauty, is primarily a poet of the human heart. That can hardly be
said of Kalidasa, nor can it be said that he is primarily a poet of
natural beauty. The two characters unite in him, it might almost be
said, chemically. The matter which I am clumsily endeavouring to make
plain is beautifully epitomised in _The Cloud-Messenger_. The former
half is a description of external nature, yet interwoven with human
feeling; the latter half is a picture of a human heart, yet the
picture is framed in natural beauty. So exquisitely is the thing done
that none can say which half is superior. Of those who read this
perfect poem in the original text, some are more moved by the one,
some by the other. Kalidasa understood in the fifth century what
Europe did not learn until the nineteenth, and even now comprehends
only imperfectly: that the world was not made for man, that man
reaches his full stature only as he realises the dignity and worth of
life that is not human.
That Kalidasa seized this truth is a magnificent tribute to his
intellectual power, a quality quite as necessary to great poetry as
perfection of form. Poetical fluency is not rare; intellectual grasp
is not very uncommon: but the combination has not been found perhaps
more than a dozen times since the world began. Because he possessed
this harmonious combination, Kalidasa ranks not with Anacreon and
Horace and Shelley, but with Sophocles, Vergil, Milton.
He would doubtless have been somewhat bewildered by Wordsworth's
gospel of nature. "The world is too much with us," we can fancy him
repeating. "How can the world, the beautiful human world, be too much
with us? How can sympathy with one form of life do other than vivify
our sympathy with other forms of life? "
It remains to say what can be said in a foreign language of Kalidasa's
style. We have seen that he had a formal and systematic education; in
this respect he is rather to be compared with Milton and Tennyson than
with Shakespeare or Burns. He was completely master of his learning.
In an age and a country which reprobated carelessness but were
tolerant of pedantry, he held the scales with a wonderfully even hand,
never heedless and never indulging in the elaborate trifling with
Sanskrit diction which repels the reader from much of Indian
literature. It is true that some western critics have spoken of his
disfiguring conceits and puerile plays on words. One can only wonder
whether these critics have ever read Elizabethan literature; for
Kalidasa's style is far less obnoxious to such condemnation than
Shakespeare's. That he had a rich and glowing imagination, "excelling
in metaphor," as the Hindus themselves affirm, is indeed true; that he
may, both in youth and age, have written lines which would not have
passed his scrutiny in the vigour of manhood, it is not worth while to
deny: yet the total effect left by his poetry is one of extraordinary
sureness and delicacy of taste. This is scarcely a matter for
argument; a reader can do no more than state his own subjective
impression, though he is glad to find that impression confirmed by the
unanimous authority of fifty generations of Hindus, surely the most
competent judges on such a point.
Analysis of Kalidasa's writings might easily be continued, but
analysis can never explain life. The only real criticism is
subjective. We know that Kalidasa is a very great poet, because the
world has not been able to leave him alone.
ARTHUR W. RYDER.
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
On Kalidasa's life and writings may be consulted A. A. Macdonell's
_History of Sanskrit Literature_ (1900); the same author's article
"Kalidasa" in the eleventh edition of the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_
(1910); and Sylvain Levi's _Le Theatre Indien_ (1890).
The more important translations in English are the following: of the
_Shakuntala_, by Sir William Jones (1789) and Monier Williams (fifth
edition, 1887); of the _Urvashi_, by H. H. Wilson (in his _Select
Specimens of the Theatre of the Hindus_, third edition, 1871); of _The
Dynasty of Raghu_, by P. de Lacy Johnstone (1902); of _The Birth of
The War-god_ (cantos one to seven), by Ralph T. H. Griffith (second
edition, 1879); of _The Cloud-Messenger_, by H. H. Wilson (1813).
There is an inexpensive reprint of Jones's _Shakuntala_ and Wilson's
_Cloud-Messenger_ in one volume in the Camelot Series.
KALIDASA
An ancient heathen poet, loving more
God's creatures, and His women, and His flowers
Than we who boast of consecrated powers;
Still lavishing his unexhausted store
Of love's deep, simple wisdom, healing o'er
The world's old sorrows, India's griefs and ours;
That healing love he found in palace towers,
On mountain, plain, and dark, sea-belted shore,
In songs of holy Raghu's kingly line
Or sweet Shakuntala in pious grove,
In hearts that met where starry jasmines twine
Or hearts that from long, lovelorn absence strove
Together. Still his words of wisdom shine:
All's well with man, when man and woman love.
Willst du die Blute des fruhen, die
Fruchte des spateren Jahres,
Willst du, was reizt und entzuckt,
Willst du, was sattigt und nahrt,
Willst du den Hummel, die erde mit
Einem Namen begreifen,
Nenn' ich, Sakuntala, dich, und
dann ist alles gesagt.
GOETHE.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: These verses are translated on pp. 123, 124. ]
[Footnote 2: The passage will be found on pp. 190-192. ]
[Footnote 3: This matter is more fully discussed in the introduction to my
translation of _The Little Clay Cart_ (1905). ]
[Footnote 4: Levi, _Le Theatre Indien_, p. 163. ]
* * * * *
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION: KALIDASA--HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS
SHAKUNTALA
THE STORY OF SHAKUNTALA
THE TWO MINOR DRAMAS--
I. Malavika and Agnimitra
II. Urvashi
THE DYNASTY OF RAGHU
THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD
THE CLOUD-MESSENGER
THE SEASONS
* * * * *
SHAKUNTALA
A PLAY IN SEVEN ACTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
KING DUSHYANTA.
BHARATA, _nicknamed_ All-tamer, _his son_.
MADHAVYA, _a clown, his companion_.
His charioteer.
RAIVATAKA, _a door-keeper_.
BHADRASENA, _a general_.
KARABHAKA, _a servant_.
PARVATAYANA, _a chamberlain_.
SOMARATA, _a chaplain_.
KANVA, _hermit-father_.
SHARNGARAVA }
SHARADVATA } _his pupils_.
HARITA }
DURVASAS, _an irascible sage_.
The chief of police.
SUCHAKA }
} _policemen_.
JANUKA }
A fisherman.
SHAKUNTALA, _foster-child of Kanva_.
ANUSUVA }
} _her friends_.
PRIYAMVADA }
GAUTAMI, _hermit-mother_.
KASHYAPA, _father of the gods_.
ADITI, _mother of the gods_.
MATALI, _charioteer of heaven's king_.
GALAVA, _a pupil in heaven_.
MISHRAKESHI, _a heavenly nymph_.
_Stage-director and actress (in the prologue), hermits and
hermit-women, two court poets, palace attendants, invisible fairies_.
The first four acts pass in Kanva's forest hermitage; acts five and
six in the king's palace; act seven on a heavenly mountain. The time
is perhaps seven years.
SHAKUNTALA
PROLOGUE
BENEDICTION UPON THE AUDIENCE
Eight forms has Shiva, lord of all and king:
And these are water, first created thing;
And fire, which speeds the sacrifice begun;
The priest; and time's dividers, moon and sun;
The all-embracing ether, path of sound;
The earth, wherein all seeds of life are found;
And air, the breath of life: may he draw near,
Revealed in these, and bless those gathered here.
_The stage-director_. Enough of this! (_Turning toward the
dressing-room_. ) Madam, if you are ready, pray come here. (_Enter an
actress_. )
_Actress_. Here I am, sir. What am I to do?
_Director_. Our audience is very discriminating, and we are to offer
them a new play, called _Shakuntala and the ring of recognition_,
written by the famous Kalidasa. Every member of the cast must be on
his mettle.
_Actress_. Your arrangements are perfect. Nothing will go wrong.
_Director_ (_smiling_). To tell the truth, madam,
Until the wise are satisfied,
I cannot feel that skill is shown;
The best-trained mind requires support,
And does not trust itself alone.
_Actress_. True. What shall we do first?
_Director_. First, you must sing something to please the ears of the
audience.
_Actress_. What season of the year shall I sing about? _Director_.
Why, sing about the pleasant summer which has just begun. For at this
time of year
A mid-day plunge will temper heat;
The breeze is rich with forest flowers;
To slumber in the shade is sweet;
And charming are the twilight hours.
_Actress_ (_sings_).
The siris-blossoms fair,
With pollen laden,
Are plucked to deck her hair
By many a maiden,
But gently; flowers like these
Are kissed by eager bees.
_Director_. Well done! The whole theatre is captivated by your song,
and sits as if painted. What play shall we give them to keep their
good-will?
_Actress_. Why, you just told me we were to give a new play called
_Shakuntala and the ring_.
_Director_. Thank you for reminding me. For the moment I had quite
forgotten.
Your charming song had carried me away
As the deer enticed the hero of our play.
(_Exeunt ambo_. )
ACT I
THE HUNT
(_Enter, in a chariot, pursuing a deer_, KING DUSHYANTA, _bow and
arrow in hand; and a charioteer_. )
_Charioteer_ (_Looking at the king and the deer_). Your Majesty,
I see you hunt the spotted deer
With shafts to end his race,
As though God Shiva should appear
In his immortal chase.
_King_. Charioteer, the deer has led us a long chase. And even now
His neck in beauty bends
As backward looks he sends
At my pursuing car
That threatens death from far.
Fear shrinks to half the body small;
See how he fears the arrow's fall!
The path he takes is strewed
With blades of grass half-chewed
From jaws wide with the stress
Of fevered weariness.
He leaps so often and so high,
He does not seem to run, but fly.
(_In surprise_. ) Pursue as I may, I can hardly keep him in sight.
_Charioteer_. Your Majesty, I have been holding the horses back
because the ground was rough. This checked us and gave the deer a
lead. Now we are on level ground, and you will easily overtake him.
_King_. Then let the reins hang loose.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits rapid motion_. )
Look, your Majesty!
The lines hang loose; the steeds unreined
Dart forward with a will.
Their ears are pricked; their necks are strained;
Their plumes lie straight and still.
They leave the rising dust behind;
They seem to float upon the wind.
_King_ (_joyfully_). See! The horses are gaining on the deer.
As onward and onward the chariot flies,
The small flashes large to my dizzy eyes.
What is cleft in twain, seems to blur and mate;
What is crooked in nature, seems to be straight.
Things at my side in an instant appear
Distant, and things in the distance, near.
_A voice behind the scenes_. O King, this deer belongs to the
hermitage, and must not be killed.
_Charioteer_ (_listening and looking_). Your Majesty, here are two
hermits, come to save the deer at the moment when your arrow was about
to fall.
_King_ (_hastily_). Stop the chariot.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He does so. Enter a hermit with his
pupil_. )
_Hermit_ (_lifting his hand_). O King, this deer belongs to the
hermitage.
Why should his tender form expire,
As blossoms perish in the fire?
How could that gentle life endure
The deadly arrow, sharp and sure?
Restore your arrow to the quiver;
To you were weapons lent
The broken-hearted to deliver,
Not strike the innocent.
_King_ (_bowing low_). It is done. (_He does so_. )
_Hermit_ (_joyfully_). A deed worthy of you, scion of Puru's race, and
shining example of kings. May you beget a son to rule earth and
heaven.
_King_ (_bowing low_). I am thankful for a Brahman's blessing.
_The two hermits_. O King, we are on our way to gather firewood. Here,
along the bank of the Malini, you may see the hermitage of Father
Kanva, over which Shakuntala presides, so to speak, as guardian deity.
Unless other deities prevent, pray enter here and receive a welcome.
Besides,
Beholding pious hermit-rites
Preserved from fearful harm,
Perceive the profit of the scars
On your protecting arm.
_King_. Is the hermit father there?
_The two hermits_.
No, he has left his daughter to welcome guests, and
has just gone to Somatirtha, to avert an evil fate that threatens her.
_King_. Well, I will see her. She shall feel my devotion, and report
it to the sage.
_The two hermits_. Then we will go on our way. (_Exit hermit with
pupil_. )
_King_. Charioteer, drive on. A sight of the pious hermitage will
purify us.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits motion again_. )
_King_ (_looking about_). One would know, without being told, that
this is the precinct of a pious grove.
_Charioteer_. How so? _King_. Do you not see? Why, here
Are rice-grains, dropped from bills of parrot chicks
Beneath the trees; and pounding-stones where sticks
A little almond-oil; and trustful deer
That do not run away as we draw near;
And river-paths that are besprinkled yet
From trickling hermit-garments, clean and wet.
Besides,
The roots of trees are washed by many a stream
That breezes ruffle; and the flowers' red gleam
Is dimmed by pious smoke; and fearless fawns
Move softly on the close-cropped forest lawns.
_Charioteer_. It is all true.
_King_ (_after a little_). We must not disturb the hermitage. Stop
here while I dismount.
_Charioteer_. I am holding the reins. Dismount, your Majesty.
_King_ (_dismounts and looks at himself_). One should wear modest
garments on entering a hermitage. Take these jewels and the bow. (_He
gives them to the charioteer_. ) Before I return from my visit to the
hermits, have the horses' backs wet down.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_. )
_King_ (_walking and looking about_). The hermitage! Well, I will
enter. (_As he does so, he feels a throbbing in his arm_. )
A tranquil spot! Why should I thrill?
Love cannot enter there--
Yet to inevitable things
Doors open everywhere.
_A voice behind the scenes_. This way, girls!
_King_ (_listening_). I think I hear some one to the right of the
grove. I must find out. (_He walks and looks about_. ) Ah, here are
hermit-girls, with watering-pots just big enough for them to handle.
They are coming in this direction to water the young trees. They are
charming!
The city maids, for all their pains,
Seem not so sweet and good;
Our garden blossoms yield to these
Flower-children of the wood.
I will draw back into the shade and wait for them. (_He stands, gazing
toward them. Enter_ SHAKUNTALA, _as described, and her two friends_. )
_First friend_. It seems to me, dear, that Father Kanva cares more for
the hermitage trees than he does for you. You are delicate as a
jasmine blossom, yet he tells you to fill the trenches about the
trees.
_Shakuntala_. Oh, it isn't Father's bidding so much. I feel like a
real sister to them. (_She waters the trees_. )
_Priyamvada_. Shakuntala, we have watered the trees that blossom in
the summer-time. Now let's sprinkle those whose flowering-time is
past. That will be a better deed, because we shall not be working for
a reward.
_Shakuntala_. What a pretty idea! (_She does so_. )
_King_ (_to himself_). And this is Kanva's daughter, Shakuntala. (_In
surprise_. ) The good Father does wrong to make her wear the hermit's
dress of bark.
The sage who yokes her artless charm
With pious pain and grief,
Would try to cut the toughest vine
With a soft, blue lotus-leaf.
Well, I will step behind a tree and see how she acts with her
friends. (_He conceals himself_. )
_Shakuntala_. Oh, Anusuya! Priyamvada has fastened this bark dress so
tight that it hurts. Please loosen it. (ANUSUYA _does so_. )
_Priyamvada_ (_laughing_). You had better blame your own budding
charms for that.
_King_. She is quite right.
Beneath the barken dress
Upon the shoulder tied,
In maiden loveliness
Her young breast seems to hide,
As when a flower amid
The leaves by autumn tossed--
Pale, withered leaves--lies hid,
And half its grace is lost.
Yet in truth the bark dress is not an enemy to her beauty. It serves
as an added ornament. For
The meanest vesture glows
On beauty that enchants:
The lotus lovelier shows
Amid dull water-plants;
The moon in added splendour
Shines for its spot of dark;
Yet more the maiden slender
Charms in her dress of bark.
_Shakuntala_ (_looking ahead_). Oh, girls, that mango-tree is trying
to tell me something with his branches that move in the wind like
fingers. I must go and see him. (_She does so_. )
_Priyamvada_. There, Shakuntala, stand right where you are a minute.
_Shakuntala_. Why?
_Priyamvada_. When I see you there, it looks as if a vine were
clinging to the mango-tree.
_Shakuntala_. I see why they call you the flatterer.
_King_. But the flattery is true.
Her arms are tender shoots; her lips
Are blossoms red and warm;
Bewitching youth begins to flower
In beauty on her form.
_Anusuya_. Oh, Shakuntala! Here is the jasmine-vine that you named
Light of the Grove. She has chosen the mango-tree as her husband.
_Shakuntala_ (_approaches and looks at it, joyfully_). What a pretty
pair they make. The jasmine shows her youth in her fresh flowers, and
the mango-tree shows his strength in his ripening fruit. (_She stands
gazing at them_. )
_Priyamvada_ (_smiling_). Anusuya, do you know why Shakuntala looks so
hard at the Light of the Grove?
_Anusuya_. No. Why?
_Priyamvada_. She is thinking how the Light of the Grove has found a
good tree, and hoping that she will meet a fine lover.
_Shakuntala_. That's what you want for yourself. (_She tips her
watering-pot_. )
_Anusuya_. Look, Shakuntala! Here is the spring-creeper that Father
Kanva tended with his own hands--just as he did you. You are
forgetting her.
_Shakuntala_. I'd forget myself sooner. (_She goes to the creeper and
looks at it, joyfully_. ) Wonderful! Wonderful! Priyamvada, I have
something pleasant to tell you.
_Priyamvada_. What is it, dear?
_Shakuntala_. It is out of season, but the spring-creeper is covered
with buds down to the very root.
_The two friends_ (_running up_). Really?
_Shakuntala_. Of course. Can't you see?
_Priyamvada_ (_looking at it joyfully_). And I have something pleasant
to tell _you_. You are to be married soon.
_Shakuntala_ (_snappishly_). You know that's just what you want for
yourself.
_Priyamvada_. I'm not teasing. I really heard Father Kanva say that
this flowering vine was to be a symbol of your coming happiness.
_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, that is why Shakuntala waters the
spring-creeper so lovingly.
_Shakuntala_. She is my sister. Why shouldn't I give her water? (_She
tips her watering-pot_. )
_King_. May I hope that she is the hermit's daughter by a mother of a
different caste? But it _must_ be so.
Surely, she may become a warrior's bride;
Else, why these longings in an honest mind?
The motions of a blameless heart decide
Of right and wrong, when reason leaves us blind.
Yet I will learn the whole truth.
_Shakuntala_ (_excitedly_). Oh, oh! A bee has left the jasmine-vine
and is flying into my face. (_She shows herself annoyed by the bee_. )
_King_ (_ardently_).
As the bee about her flies,
Swiftly her bewitching eyes
Turn to watch his flight.
She is practising to-day
Coquetry and glances' play
Not from love, but fright.
(_Jealously_. )
Eager bee, you lightly skim
O'er the eyelid's trembling rim
Toward the cheek aquiver.
Gently buzzing round her cheek,
Whispering in her ear, you seek
Secrets to deliver.
While her hands that way and this
Strike at you, you steal a kiss,
Love's all, honeymaker.
I know nothing but her name,
Not her caste, nor whence she came--
You, my rival, take her.
_Shakuntala_. Oh, girls! Save me from this dreadful bee!
_The two friends_ (_smiling_). Who are we, that we should save you?
Call upon Dushyanta. For pious groves are in the protection of the
king.
_King_. A good opportunity to present myself. Have no--(_He checks
himself. Aside_. ) No, they would see that I am the king. I prefer to
appear as a guest.
_Shakuntala_. He doesn't leave me alone! I am going to run away.
(_She takes a step and looks about_. ) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! He is
following me. Please save me.
_King_ (_hastening forward_). Ah!
A king of Puru's mighty line
Chastises shameless churls;
What insolent is he who baits
These artless hermit-girls?
(_The girls are a little flurried on seeing the king_. )
_Anusuya_.
