He excuses himself as
earnestly
as a man
may when caught in such a predicament, but cannot appease the young
queen, who leaves him with words of bitter jealousy.
may when caught in such a predicament, but cannot appease the young
queen, who leaves him with words of bitter jealousy.
Kalidasa - Shantukala, and More
"
When the king heard her, although he remembered her, he said: "I do
not remember. To whom do you belong, you wicked hermit-woman? I do not
remember a union with you for virtue, love, and wealth. [1] Either go
or stay, or do whatever you wish. "
When he said this, the sweet hermit-girl half fainted from shame and
grief, and stood stiff as a pillar. Her eyes darkened with passionate
indignation; her lips quivered; she seemed to consume the king as she
gazed at him with sidelong glances. Concealing her feelings and nerved
by anger, she held in check the magic power that her ascetic life had
given her. She seemed to meditate a moment, overcome by grief and
anger. She gazed at her husband, then spoke passionately: "O shameless
king, although you know, why do you say, 'I do not know,' like any
other ordinary man? "
Dushyanta said: "I do not know the son born of you, Shakuntala. Women
are liars. Who will believe what you say? Are you not ashamed to say
these incredible things, especially in my presence? You wicked
hermit-woman, go! "
Shakuntala said: "O King, sacred is holy God, and sacred is a holy
promise. Do not break your promise, O King. Let your love be sacred.
If you cling to a lie, and will not believe, alas! I must go away;
there is no union with a man like you. For even without you,
Dushyanta, my son shall rule this foursquare earth adorned with kingly
mountains. "
When she had said so much to the king, Shakuntala started to go. But a
bodiless voice from heaven said to Dushyanta: "Care for your son,
Dushyanta. Do not despise Shakuntala. You are the boy's father.
Shakuntala tells the truth. "
When he heard the utterance of the gods, the king joyfully said to his
chaplain and his ministers: "Hear the words of this heavenly
messenger. If I had received my son simply because of her words, he
would be suspected by the world, he would not be pure. "
Then the king received his son gladly and joyfully. He kissed his head
and embraced him lovingly. His wife also Dushyanta honoured, as
justice required. And the king soothed her, and said: "This union
which I had with you was hidden from the world. Therefore I hesitated,
O Queen, in order to save your reputation. And as for the cruel words
you said to me in an excess of passion, these I pardon you, my
beautiful, great-eyed darling, because you love me. "
Then King Dushyanta gave the name Bharata to Shakuntala's son, and had
him anointed crown prince.
It is plain that this story contains the material for a good play; the
very form of the epic tale is largely dramatic. It is also plain, in a
large way, of what nature are the principal changes which a dramatist
must introduce in the original. For while Shakuntala is charming in
the epic story, the king is decidedly contemptible. Somehow or other,
his face must be saved.
To effect this, Kalidasa has changed the old story in three important
respects. In the first place, he introduces the curse of Durvasas,
clouding the king's memory, and saving him from moral responsibility
in his rejection of Shakuntala. That there may be an ultimate recovery
of memory, the curse is so modified as to last only until the king
shall see again the ring which he has given to his bride. To the
Hindu, curse and modification are matters of frequent occurrence; and
Kalidasa has so delicately managed the matter as not to shock even a
modern and Western reader with a feeling of strong improbability. Even
to us it seems a natural part of the divine cloud that envelops the
drama, in no way obscuring human passion, but rather giving to human
passion an unwonted largeness and universality.
In the second place, the poet makes Shakuntala undertake her journey
to the palace before her son is born. Obviously, the king's character
is thus made to appear in a better light, and a greater probability is
given to the whole story.
The third change is a necessary consequence of the first; for without
the curse, there could have been no separation, no ensuing remorse,
and no reunion.
But these changes do not of themselves make a drama out of the epic
tale. Large additions were also necessary, both of scenes and of
characters. We find, indeed, that only acts one and five, with a part
of act seven, rest upon the ancient text, while acts two, three, four,
and six, with most of seven, are a creation of the poet. As might have
been anticipated, the acts of the former group are more dramatic,
while those of the latter contribute more of poetical charm. It is
with these that scissors must be chiefly busy when the play--rather
too long for continuous presentation as it stands--is performed on the
stage.
In the epic there are but three characters--Dushyanta, Shakuntala,
Kanva, with the small boy running about in the background. To these
Kalidasa has added from the palace, from the hermitage, and from the
Elysian region which is represented with vague precision in the last
act.
The conventional clown plays a much smaller part in this play than in
the others which Kalidasa wrote. He has also less humour. The real
humorous relief is given by the fisherman and the three policemen in
the opening scene of the sixth act. This, it may be remarked, is the
only scene of rollicking humour in Kalidasa's writing.
The forest scenes are peopled with quiet hermit-folk. Far the most
charming of these are Shakuntala's girl friends. The two are
beautifully differentiated: Anusuya grave, sober; Priyamvada
vivacious, saucy; yet wonderfully united in friendship and in devotion
to Shakuntala, whom they feel to possess a deeper nature than theirs.
Kanva, the hermit-father, hardly required any change from the epic
Kanva. It was a happy thought to place beside him the staid, motherly
Gautami. The small boy in the last act has magically become an
individual in Kalidasa's hands. In this act too are the creatures of a
higher world, their majesty not rendered too precise.
Dushyanta has been saved by the poet from his epic shabbiness; it may
be doubted whether more has been done. There is in him, as in some
other Hindu heroes, a shade too much of the meditative to suit our
ideal of more alert and ready manhood.
But all the other characters sink into insignificance beside the
heroine. Shakuntala dominates the play. She is actually on the stage
in five of the acts, and her spirit pervades the other two, the second
and the sixth. Shakuntala has held captive the heart of India for
fifteen hundred years, and wins the love of increasing thousands in
the West; for so noble a union of sweetness with strength is one of
the miracles of art.
Though lovely women walk the world to-day
By tens of thousands, there is none so fair
In all that exhibition and display
With her most perfect beauty to compare--
because it is a most perfect beauty of soul no less than of outward
form. Her character grows under our very eyes. When we first meet her,
she is a simple maiden, knowing no greater sorrow than the death of a
favourite deer; when we bid her farewell, she has passed through happy
love, the mother's joys and pains, most cruel humiliation and
suspicion, and the reunion with her husband, proved at last not to
have been unworthy. And each of these great experiences has been met
with a courage and a sweetness to which no words can render justice.
Kalidasa has added much to the epic tale; yet his use of the original
is remarkably minute. A list of the epic suggestions incorporated in
his play is long. But it is worth making, in order to show how keen is
the eye of genius. Thus the king lays aside the insignia of royalty
upon entering the grove (Act I). Shakuntala appears in hermit garb, a
dress of bark (Act I). The quaint derivation of the heroine's name
from _shakunta_--bird--is used with wonderful skill in a passage (Act
VII) which defies translation, as it involves a play on words. The
king's anxiety to discover whether the maiden's father is of a caste
that permits her to marry him is reproduced (Act I). The marriage
without a ceremony is retained (Act IV), but robbed of all offence.
Kanva's celestial vision, which made it unnecessary for his child to
tell him of her union with the king, is introduced with great delicacy
(Act IV). The curious formation of the boy's hand which indicated
imperial birth adds to the king's suspense (Act VII). The boy's rough
play with wild animals is made convincing (Act VII) and his very
nickname All-tamer is preserved (Act VII). Kanva's worldly wisdom as
to husband and wife dwelling together is reproduced (Act IV). No small
part of the give-and-take between the king and Shakuntala is given
(Act V), but with a new dignity.
Of the construction of the play I speak with diffidence. It seems
admirable to me, the apparently undue length of some scenes hardly
constituting a blemish, as it was probably intended to give the actors
considerable latitude of choice and excision. Several versions of the
text have been preserved; it is from the longer of the two more
familiar ones that the translation in this volume has been made. In
the warm discussion over this matter, certain technical arguments of
some weight have been advanced in favour of this choice; there is also
a more general consideration which seems to me of importance. I find
it hard to believe that any lesser artist could pad such a
masterpiece, and pad it all over, without making the fraud apparent on
almost every page. The briefer version, on the other hand, might
easily grow out of the longer, either as an acting text, or as a
school-book.
We cannot take leave of Shakuntala in any better way than by quoting
the passage[2] in which Levi's imagination has conjured up "the
memorable _premiere_ when Shakuntala saw the light, in the presence of
Vikramaditya and his court. "
La fete du printemps approche; Ujjayini, la ville aux riches
marchands et la capitale intellectuelle de l'Inde, glorieuse et
prospere sous un roi victorieux et sage, se prepare a celebrer
la solennite avec une pompe digne de son opulence et de son
gout. . . . L'auteur applaudi de Malavika . . . le poete dont le
souple genie s'accommode sans effort au ton de l'epopee ou de
l'elegie, Kalidasa vient d'achever une comedie heroique
annoncee comme un chef-d'oeuvre par la voix de ses amis. . . . Le
poete a ses comediens, qu'il a eprouves et dresses a sa maniere
avec Malavika. Les comediens suivront leur poete familier,
devenu leur maitre et leur ami. . . . Leur solide instruction,
leur gout epure reconnaissent les qualites maitresses de
l'oeuvre, l'habilete de l'intrigue, le juste equilibre des
sentiments, la fraicheur de l'imagination . . .
Vikramaditya entre, suivi des courtisans, et s'asseoit sur son
trone; ses femmes restent a sa gauche; a sa droite les rois
vassaux accourus pour rendre leurs hommages, les princes, les
hauts fonctionnaires, les litterateurs et les savants, groupes
autour de Varaha-mihira l'astrologue et d'Amarasimha le
lexicographe . . .
Tout a coup, les deux jolies figurantes placees devant le
rideau de la coulisse en ecartent les plis, et Duhsanta, l'arc
et les fleches a la main, parait monte sur un char; son cocher
tient les renes; lances a la poursuite d'une gazelle
imaginaire, ils simulent par leurs gestes la rapidite de la
course; leurs stances pittoresques et descriptives suggerent a
l'imagination un decor que la peinture serait impuissante a
tracer. Ils approchent de l'ermitage; le roi descend a terre,
congedie le cocher, les chevaux et le char, entend les voix des
jeunes filles et se cache. Un mouvement de curiosite
agite les spectateurs; fille d'une Apsaras et creation de
Kalidasa, Cakuntala reunit tous les charmes; l'actrice
saura-t-elle repondre a l'attente des connaisseurs et realiser
l'ideal? Elle parait, vetue d'une simple tunique d'ecorce qui
semble cacher ses formes et par un contraste habile les
embellit encore; la ligne arrondie du visage, les yeux longs,
d'un bleu sombre, langoureux, les seins opulents mal
emprisonnes, les bras delicats laissent a deviner les beautes
que le costume ascetique derobe. Son attitude, ses gestes
ravissent a la fois les regards et les coeurs; elle parle, et sa
voix est un chant. La cour de Vikramaditya fremit d'une emotion
sereine et profonde: un chef-d'oeuvre nouveau vient d'entrer
dans l'immortalite.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The Hindu equivalent of "for better, for worse. "]
[Footnote 2: _Le Theatre Indien_, pages 368-371. This is without
competition the best work in which any part of the Sanskrit literature
has been treated, combining erudition, imagination, and taste. The
book is itself literature of a high order. The passage is
unfortunately too long to be quoted entire. ]
* * * * *
THE TWO MINOR DRAMAS
I. --"MALAVIKA AND AGNIMITRA"
_Malavika and Agnimitra_ is the earliest of Kalidasa's three dramas,
and probably his earliest work. This conclusion would be almost
certain from the character of the play, but is put beyond doubt by the
following speeches of the prologue:
_Stage-director_. The audience has asked us to present at this spring
festival a drama called _Malavika and Agnimitra_, composed by
Kalidasa. Let the music begin.
_Assistant_. No, no! Shall we neglect the works of such illustrious
authors as Bhasa, Saumilla, and Kaviputra? Can the audience feel any
respect for the work of a modern poet, a Kalidasa?
_Stage-director_. You are quite mistaken. Consider:
Not all is good that bears an ancient name,
Nor need we every modern poem blame:
Wise men approve the good, or new or old;
The foolish critic follows where he's told.
_Assistant_. The responsibility rests with you, sir.
There is irony in the fact that the works of the illustrious authors
mentioned have perished, that we should hardly know of their existence
were it not for the tribute of their modest, youthful rival. But
Kalidasa could not read the future. We can imagine his feelings of
mingled pride and fear when his early work was presented at the spring
festival before the court of King Vikramaditya, without doubt the most
polished and critical audience that could at that hour have been
gathered in any city on earth. The play which sought the approbation
of this audience shows no originality of plot, no depth of passion. It
is a light, graceful drama of court intrigue. The hero, King
Agnimitra, is an historical character of the second century before
Christ, and Kalidasa's play gives us some information about him that
history can seriously consider. The play represents Agnimitra's
father, the founder of the Sunga dynasty, as still living. As the seat
of empire was in Patna on the Ganges, and as Agnimitra's capital is
Vidisha--the modern Bhilsa--it seems that he served as regent of
certain provinces during his father's lifetime. The war with the King
of Vidarbha seems to be an historical occurrence, and the fight with
the Greek cavalry force is an echo of the struggle with Menander, in
which the Hindus were ultimately victorious. It was natural for
Kalidasa to lay the scene of his play in Bhilsa rather than in the
far-distant Patna, for it is probable that many in the audience were
acquainted with the former city. It is to Bhilsa that the poet refers
again in _The Cloud-Messenger_, where these words are addressed to the
cloud:
At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest
With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow,
With village trees alive with many a nest
Abuilding by the old familiar crow,
With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.
There shalt thou see the royal city, known
Afar, and win the lover's fee complete,
If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone
Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet,
Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.
Yet in Kalidasa's day, the glories of the Sunga dynasty were long
departed, nor can we see why the poet should have chosen his hero and
his era as he did.
There follows an analysis of the plot and some slight criticism.
In addition to the stage-director and his assistant, who appear in the
prologue, the characters of the play are these:
AGNIMITRA, _king in Vidisha_.
GAUTAMA, _a clown, his friend_.
GANADASA }
} _dancing-masters_.
HARADATTA }
DHARINI, _the senior queen_.
IRAVATI, _the junior queen_.
MALAVIKA, _maid to Queen Dharini, later discovered to be a princess_.
KAUSHIKI, _a Buddhist nun_.
BAKULAVALIKA, _a maid, friend of Malavika_.
NIPUNIKA, _maid to Queen Iravati_.
_A counsellor, a chamberlain, a humpback, two court poets, maids,
and mute attendants_.
The scene is the palace and gardens of King Agnimitra, the time a few
days.
ACT I. --After the usual prologue, the maid Bakulavalika appears with
another maid. From their conversation we learn that King Agnimitra has
seen in the palace picture-gallery a new painting of Queen Dharini
with her attendants. So beautiful is one of these, Malavika, that the
king is smitten with love, but is prevented by the jealous queen from
viewing the original. At this point the dancing-master Ganadasa
enters. From him Bakulavalika learns that Malavika is a wonderfully
proficient pupil, while he learns from her that Malavika had been sent
as a present to Queen Dharini by a general commanding a border
fortress, the queen's brother.
After this introductory scene, the king enters, and listens to a
letter sent by the king of Vidarbha. The rival monarch had imprisoned
a prince and princess, cousins of Agnimitra, and in response to
Agnimitra's demand that they be set free, he declares that the
princess has escaped, but that the prince shall not be liberated
except on certain conditions. This letter so angers Agnimitra that he
despatches an army against the king of Vidarbha.
Gautama, the clown, informs Agnimitra that he has devised a plan for
bringing Malavika into the king's presence. He has stirred an envious
rivalry in the bosoms of the two dancing-masters, who soon appear,
each abusing the other vigorously, and claiming for himself the
pre-eminence in their art. It is agreed that each shall exhibit his
best pupil before the king, Queen Dharini, and the learned Buddhist
nun, Kaushiki. The nun, who is in the secret of the king's desire, is
made mistress of ceremonies, and the queen's jealous opposition is
overborne.
ACT II. --The scene is laid in the concert-hall of the palace. The nun
determines that Ganadasa shall present his pupil first. Malavika is
thereupon introduced, dances, and sings a song which pretty plainly
indicates her own love for the king. He is in turn quite ravished,
finding her far more beautiful even than the picture. The clown
manages to detain her some little time by starting a discussion as to
her art, and when she is finally permitted to depart, both she and the
king are deeply in love. The court poet announces the noon hour, and
the exhibition of the other dancing-master is postponed.
ACT III. --The scene is laid in the palace garden. From the
conversation of two maids it appears that a favourite ashoka-tree is
late in blossoming. This kind of tree, so the belief runs, can be
induced to put forth blossoms if touched by the foot of a beautiful
woman in splendid garments.
When the girls depart, the king enters with the clown, his confidant.
The clown, after listening to the king's lovelorn confidences, reminds
him that he has agreed to meet his young Queen Iravati in the garden,
and swing with her. But before the queen's arrival, Malavika enters,
sent thither by Dharini to touch the ashoka-tree with her foot, and
thus encourage it to blossom. The king and the clown hide in a
thicket, to feast their eyes upon her. Presently the maid Bakulavalika
appears, to adorn Malavika for the ceremony, and engages her in
conversation about the king. But now a third pair enter, the young
Queen Iravati, somewhat flushed with wine, and her maid Nipunika. They
also conceal themselves to spy upon the young girls. Thus there are
three groups upon the stage: the two girls believe themselves to be
alone; the king and the clown are aware of the two girls, as are also
the queen and her maid; but neither of these two pairs knows of the
presence of the other. This situation gives rise to very entertaining
dialogue, which changes its character when the king starts forward to
express his love for Malavika. Another sudden change is brought about
when Iravati, mad with jealousy, joins the group, sends the two girls
away, and berates the king.
He excuses himself as earnestly as a man
may when caught in such a predicament, but cannot appease the young
queen, who leaves him with words of bitter jealousy.
ACT IV. --The clown informs the king that Queen Dharini has locked
Malavika and her friend in the cellar, and has given orders to the
doorkeeper that they are to be released only upon presentation of her
own signet-ring, engraved with the figure of a serpent. But he
declares that he has devised a plan to set them free. He bids the king
wait upon Queen Dharini, and presently rushes into their presence,
showing his thumb marked with two scratches, and declaring that he has
been bitten by a cobra. Imploring the king to care for his childless
mother, he awakens genuine sympathy in the queen, who readily parts
with her serpent-ring, supposed to be efficacious in charming away the
effects of snake-poison. Needless to say, he uses the ring to procure
the freedom of Malavika and her friend, and then brings about a
meeting with Agnimitra in the summer-house. The love-scene which
follows is again interrupted by Queen Iravati. This time the king is
saved by the news that his little daughter has been frightened by a
yellow monkey, and will be comforted only by him. The act ends with
the announcement that the ashoka-tree has blossomed.
ACT V. --It now appears that Queen Dharini has relented and is willing
to unite Malavika with the king; for she invites him to meet her under
the ashoka-tree, and includes Malavika among her attendants. Word is
brought that the army despatched against the king of Vidarbha has been
completely successful, and that in the spoil are included two maids
with remarkable powers of song. These maids are brought before the
company gathered at the tree, where they surprise every one by falling
on their faces before Malavika with the exclamation, "Our princess! "
Here the Buddhist nun takes up the tale. She tells how her brother,
the counsellor of the captive prince, had rescued her and Malavika
from the king of Vidarbha, and had started for Agnimitra's court.
On the way they had been overpowered by robbers, her brother killed,
and she herself separated from Malavika. She had thereupon become a
nun and made her way to Agnimitra's court, and had there found
Malavika, who had been taken from the robbers by Agnimitra's general
and sent as a present to Queen Dharini. She had not divulged the
matter sooner, because of a prophecy that Malavika should be a servant
for just one year before becoming a king's bride. This recital removes
any possible objection to a union of Malavika and Agnimitra. To
complete the king's happiness, there comes a letter announcing that
his son by Dharini has won a victory over a force of Greek cavalry,
and inviting the court to be present at the sacrifice which was to
follow the victory. Thus every one is made happy except the jealous
young Queen Iravati, now to be supplanted by Malavika; yet even she
consents, though somewhat ungraciously, to the arrangements made.
Criticism of the large outlines of this plot would be quite unjust,
for it is completely conventional. In dozens of plays we have the same
story: the king who falls in love with a maid-servant, the jealousy of
his harem, the eventual discovery that the maid is of royal birth, and
the addition of another wife to a number already sufficiently large.
In writing a play of this kind, the poet frankly accepts the
conventions; his ingenuity is shown in the minor incidents, in stanzas
of poetical description, and in giving abundant opportunity for
graceful music and dancing. When the play is approached in this way,
it is easy to see the _griffe du lion_ in this, the earliest work of
the greatest poet who ever sang repeatedly of love between man and
woman, troubled for a time but eventually happy. For though there is
in Agnimitra, as in all heroes of his type, something contemptible,
there is in Malavika a sweetness, a delicacy, a purity, that make her
no unworthy precursor of Sita, of Indumati, of the Yaksha's bride, and
of Shakuntala.
* * * * *
II. --"URVASHI"
The second of the two inferior dramas may be conveniently called
_Urvashi_, though the full title is _The Tale of Urvashi won by
Valour_. When and where the play was first produced we do not know,
for the prologue is silent as to these matters. It has been thought
that it was the last work of Kalidasa, even that it was never produced
in his lifetime. Some support is lent to this theory by the fact that
the play is filled with reminiscences of Shakuntala, in small matters
as well as in great; as if the poet's imagination had grown weary, and
he were willing to repeat himself. Yet _Urvashi_ is a much more
ambitious effort than _Malavika_, and invites a fuller criticism,
after an outline of the plot has been given.
In addition to the stage-director and his assistant, who appear in the
prologue, the characters of the play are these:
PURURAVAS, _king in Pratishthana on the Ganges_.
AYUS, _his son_.
MANAVAKA, _a clown, his friend_.
URVASHI, _a heavenly nymph_.
CHITRALEKHA, _another nymph, her friend_.
AUSHINARI, _queen of Pururavas_.
NIPUNIKA, _her maid_.
_A charioteer, a chamberlain, a hermit-woman, various nymphs and other
divine beings, and attendants_.
The scene shifts as indicated in the following analysis. The time of
the first four acts is a few days. Between acts four and five several
years elapse.
ACT I. --The prologue only tells us that we may expect a new play of
Kalidasa. A company of heavenly nymphs then appear upon Mount
Gold-peak wailing and calling for help. Their cries are answered by
King Pururavas, who rides in a chariot that flies through the air. In
response to his inquiries, the nymphs inform him that two of their
number, Urvashi and Chitralekha, have been carried into captivity by a
demon. The king darts in pursuit, and presently returns, victorious,
with the two nymphs. As soon as Urvashi recovers consciousness, and
has rejoined her joyful friends, it is made plain that she and the
king have been deeply impressed with each other's attractions. The
king is compelled to decline an invitation to visit Paradise, but he
and Urvashi exchange loving glances before they part.
ACT II. --The act opens with a comic scene in the king's palace. The
clown appears, bursting with the secret of the king's love for
Urvashi, which has been confided to him. He is joined by the maid
Nipunika, commissioned by the queen to discover what it is that
occupies the king's mind. She discovers the secret ingeniously, but
without much difficulty, and gleefully departs.
The king and the clown then appear in the garden, and the king
expresses at some length the depth and seeming hopelessness of his
passion. The latter part of his lament is overheard by Urvashi
herself, who, impelled by love for the king, has come down to earth
with her friend Chitralekha, and now stands near, listening but
invisible. When she has heard enough to satisfy her of the king's
passion, she writes a love-stanza on a birch-leaf, and lets it fall
before him. His reception of this token is such that Urvashi throws
aside the magic veil that renders her invisible, but as soon as she
has greeted the king, she and her friend are called away to take their
parts in a play that is being presented in Paradise.
The king and the clown hunt for Urvashi's love-letter, which has been
neglected during the past few minutes. But the leaf has blown away,
only to be picked up and read by Nipunika, who at that moment enters
with the queen. The queen can hardly be deceived by the lame excuses
which the king makes, and after offering her ironical congratulations,
jealously leaves him.
ACT III. --The act opens with a conversation between two minor
personages in Paradise. It appears that Urvashi had taken the
heroine's part in the drama just presented there, and when asked, "On
whom is your heart set? " had absentmindedly replied, "On Pururavas. "
Heaven's stage-director had thereupon cursed her to fall from
Paradise, but this curse had been thus modified: that she was to live
on earth with Pururavas until he should see a child born of her, and
was then to return.
The scene shifts to Pururavas' palace. In the early evening, the
chamberlain brings the king a message, inviting him to meet the queen
on a balcony bathed in the light of the rising moon. The king betakes
himself thither with his friend, the clown. In the midst of a dialogue
concerning moonlight and love, Urvashi and Chitralekha enter from
Paradise, wearing as before veils of invisibility. Presently the queen
appears and with humble dignity asks pardon of the king for her
rudeness, adding that she will welcome any new queen whom he genuinely
loves and who genuinely returns his love. When the queen departs,
Urvashi creeps up behind the king and puts her hands over his eyes.
Chitralekha departs after begging the king to make her friend forget
Paradise.
ACT IV. --From a short dialogue in Paradise between Chitralekha and
another nymph, we learn that a misfortune has befallen Pururavas and
Urvashi. During their honeymoon in a delightful Himalayan forest,
Urvashi, in a fit of jealousy, had left her husband, and had
inadvertently entered a grove forbidden by an austere god to women.
She was straightway transformed into a vine, while Pururavas is
wandering through the forest in desolate anguish.
The scene of what follows is laid in the Himalayan forest. Pururavas
enters, and in a long poetical soliloquy bewails his loss and seeks
for traces of Urvashi. He vainly asks help of the creatures whom he
meets: a peacock, a cuckoo, a swan, a ruddy goose, a bee, an elephant,
a mountain-echo, a river, and an antelope. At last he finds a
brilliant ruby in a cleft of the rocks, and when about to throw it
away, is told by a hermit to preserve it: for this is the gem of
reunion, and one who possesses it will soon be reunited with his love.
With the gem in his hand, Pururavas comes to a vine which mysteriously
reminds him of Urvashi, and when he embraces it, he finds his beloved
in his arms. After she has explained to him the reason of her
transformation, they determine to return to the king's capital.
ACT V. --The scene of the concluding act is the king's palace. Several
years have passed in happy love, and Pururavas has only one
sorrow--that he is childless.
One day a vulture snatches from a maid's hand the treasured gem of
reunion, which he takes to be a bit of bloody meat, and flies off with
it, escaping before he can be killed. While the king and his
companions lament the gem's loss, the chamberlain enters, bringing the
gem and an arrow with which the bird had been shot. On the arrow is
written a verse declaring it to be the property of Ayus, son of
Pururavas and Urvashi. A hermit-woman is then ushered in, who brings a
lad with her. She explains that the lad had been entrusted to her as
soon as born by Urvashi, and that it was he who had just shot the bird
and recovered the gem. When Urvashi is summoned to explain why she had
concealed her child, she reminds the king of heaven's decree that she
should return as soon as Pururavas should see the child to be born to
them. She had therefore sacrificed maternal love to conjugal
affection. Upon this, the king's new-found joy gives way to gloom. He
determines to give up his kingdom and spend the remainder of his life
as a hermit in the forest. But the situation is saved by a messenger
from Paradise, bearing heaven's decree that Urvashi shall live with
the king until his death. A troop of nymphs then enter and assist in
the solemn consecration of Ayus as crown prince.
The tale of Pururavas and Urvashi, which Kalidasa has treated
dramatically, is first made known to us in the Rigveda. It is thus one
of the few tales that so caught the Hindu imagination as to survive
the profound change which came over Indian thinking in the passage
from Vedic to classical times. As might be expected from its history,
it is told in many widely differing forms, of which the oldest and
best may be summarised thus.
Pururavas, a mortal, sees and loves the nymph Urvashi. She consents to
live with him on earth so long as he shall not break certain trivial
conditions. Some time after the birth of a son, these conditions are
broken, through no fault of the man, and she leaves him. He wanders
disconsolate, finds her, and pleads with her, by her duty as a wife,
by her love for her child, even by a threat of suicide. She rejects
his entreaties, declaring that there can be no lasting love between
mortal and immortal, even adding: "There are no friendships with
women. Their hearts are the hearts of hyenas. " Though at last she
comforts him with vague hopes of a future happiness, the story
remains, as indeed it must remain, a tragedy--the tragedy of love
between human and divine.
This splendid tragic story Kalidasa has ruined. He has made of it an
ordinary tale of domestic intrigue, has changed the nymph of heaven
into a member of an earthly harem. The more important changes made by
Kalidasa in the traditional story, all have the tendency to remove the
massive, godlike, austere features of the tale, and to substitute
something graceful or even pretty. These principal changes are: the
introduction of the queen, the clown, and the whole human
paraphernalia of a court; the curse pronounced on Urvashi for her
carelessness in the heavenly drama, and its modification; the
invention of the gem of reunion; and the final removal of the curse,
even as modified. It is true that the Indian theatre permits no
tragedy, and we may well believe that no successor of Kalidasa could
hope to present a tragedy on the stage. But might not Kalidasa, far
overtopping his predecessors, have put on the stage a drama the story
of which was already familiar to his audience as a tragic story?
Perhaps not. If not, one can but wish that he had chosen another
subject.
This violent twisting of an essentially tragic story has had a further
ill consequence in weakening the individual characters. Pururavas is a
mere conventional hero, in no way different from fifty others, in
spite of his divine lineage and his successful wooing of a goddess.
Urvashi is too much of a nymph to be a woman, and too much of a woman
to be a nymph. The other characters are mere types.
Yet, in spite of these obvious objections, Hindu critical opinion has
always rated the _Urvashi_ very high, and I have long hesitated to
make adverse comments upon it, for it is surely true that every nation
is the best judge of its own literature. And indeed, if one could but
forget plot and characters, he would find in _Urvashi_ much to attract
and charm. There is no lack of humour in the clever maid who worms the
clown's secret out of him. There is no lack of a certain shrewdness in
the clown, as when he observes:
"Who wants heaven? It is nothing to eat or drink. It is just a place
where they never shut their eyes--like fishes! "
Again, the play offers an opportunity for charming scenic display. The
terrified nymphs gathered on the mountain, the palace balcony bathed
in moonlight, the forest through which the king wanders in search of
his lost darling, the concluding solemn consecration of the crown
prince by heavenly beings--these scenes show that Kalidasa was no
closet dramatist. And finally, there is here and there such poetry as
only Kalidasa could write. The fourth act particularly, undramatic as
it is, is full of a delicate beauty that defies transcription. It was
a new and daring thought--to present on the stage a long lyrical
monologue addressed to the creatures of the forest and inspired by
despairing passion. Nor must it be forgotten that this play, like all
Indian plays, is an opera. The music and the dancing are lost. We
judge it perforce unfairly, for we judge it by the text alone. If, in
spite of all, the _Urvashi_ is a failure, it is a failure possible
only to a serene and mighty poet.
* * * * *
THE DYNASTY OF RAGHU
_The Dynasty of Raghu_ is an epic poem in nineteen cantos. It consists
of 1564 stanzas, or something over six thousand lines of verse. The
subject is that great line of kings who traced their origin to the
sun, the famous "solar line" of Indian story. The bright particular
star of the solar line is Rama, the knight without fear and without
reproach, the Indian ideal of a gentleman. His story had been told
long before Kalidasa's time in the _Ramayana_, an epic which does not
need to shun comparison with the foremost epic poems of Europe. In
_The Dynasty of Raghu_, too, Rama is the central figure; yet in
Kalidasa's poem there is much detail concerning other princes of the
line. The poem thus naturally falls into three great parts: first, the
four immediate ancestors of Rama (cantos 1-9); second, Rama (cantos
10-15); third, certain descendants of Rama (cantos 16-19). A somewhat
detailed account of the matter of the poem may well precede criticism
and comment.
_First canto. The journey to the hermitage_. --The poem begins with the
customary brief prayer for Shiva's favour:
God Shiva and his mountain bride,
Like word and meaning unified,
The world's great parents, I beseech
To join fit meaning to my speech.
Then follow nine stanzas in which Kalidasa speaks more directly of
himself than elsewhere in his works:
How great is Raghu's solar line!
How feebly small are powers of mine!
As if upon the ocean's swell
I launched a puny cockle-shell.
The fool who seeks a poet's fame
Must look for ridicule and blame,
Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would try
To pluck the fruit for giants high.
Yet I may enter through the door
That mightier poets pierced of yore;
A thread may pierce a jewel, but
Must follow where the diamond cut.
Of kings who lived as saints from birth,
Who ruled to ocean-shore on earth,
Who toiled until success was given,
Whose chariots stormed the gates of heaven,
Whose pious offerings were blest,
Who gave his wish to every guest,
Whose punishments were as the crimes,
Who woke to guard the world betimes,
Who sought, that they might lavish, pelf,
Whose measured speech was truth itself,
Who fought victorious wars for fame,
Who loved in wives the mother's name,
Who studied all good arts as boys,
Who loved, in manhood, manhood's joys,
Whose age was free from worldly care,
Who breathed their lives away in prayer,
Of these I sing, of Raghu's line,
Though weak mine art, and wisdom mine.
Forgive these idle stammerings
And think: For virtue's sake he sings.
The good who hear me will be glad
To pluck the good from out the bad;
When ore is proved by fire, the loss
Is not of purest gold, but dross.
After the briefest glance at the origin of the solar line, the poet
tells of Rama's great-great-grandfather, King Dilipa. The detailed
description of Dilipa's virtues has interest as showing Kalidasa's
ideal of an aristocrat; a brief sample must suffice here:
He practised virtue, though in health;
Won riches, with no greed for wealth;
Guarded his life, though not from fear;
Prized joys of earth, but not too dear.
His virtuous foes he could esteem
Like bitter drugs that healing seem;
The friends who sinned he could forsake
Like fingers bitten by a snake.
Yet King Dilipa has one deep-seated grief: he has no son. He therefore
journeys with his queen to the hermitage of the sage Vasishtha, in
order to learn what they must do to propitiate an offended fate. Their
chariot rolls over country roads past fragrant lotus-ponds and
screaming peacocks and trustful deer, under archways formed without
supporting pillars by the cranes, through villages where they receive
the blessings of the people. At sunset they reach the peaceful forest
hermitage, and are welcomed by the sage. In response to Vasishtha's
benevolent inquiries, the king declares that all goes well in the
kingdom, and yet:
Until from this dear wife there springs
A son as great as former kings,
The seven islands of the earth
And all their gems, are nothing worth.
The final debt, most holy one,
Which still I owe to life--a son--
Galls me as galls the cutting chain
An elephant housed in dirt and pain.
Vasishtha tells the king that on a former occasion he had offended the
divine cow Fragrant, and had been cursed by the cow to lack children
until he had propitiated her own offspring. While the sage is
speaking, Fragrant's daughter approaches, and is entrusted to the care
of the king and queen.
_Second canto. The holy cow's gift_. --During twenty-one days the king
accompanies the cow during her wanderings in the forest, and each
night the queen welcomes their return to the hermitage. On the
twenty-second day the cow is attacked by a lion, and when the king
hastens to draw an arrow, his arm is magically numbed, so that he
stands helpless. To increase his horror, the lion speaks with a human
voice, saying that he is a servant of the god Shiva, set on guard
there and eating as his appointed food any animals that may appear.
Dilipa perceives that a struggle with earthly weapons is useless, and
begs the lion to accept his own body as the price of the cow's
release. The lion tries sophistry, using the old, hollow arguments:
Great beauty and fresh youth are yours; on earth
As sole, unrivalled emperor you rule;
Should you redeem a thing of little worth
At such a price, you would appear a fool.
If pity moves you, think that one mere cow
Would be the gainer, should you choose to die;
Live rather for the world! Remember how
The father-king can bid all dangers fly.
And if the fiery sage's wrath, aglow
At loss of one sole cow, should make you shudder,
Appease his anger; for you can bestow
Cows by the million, each with pot-like udder.
Save life and youth; for to the dead are given
No long, unbroken years of joyous mirth;
But riches and imperial power are heaven--
The gods have nothing that you lack on earth.
The lion spoke and ceased; but echo rolled
Forth from the caves wherein the sound was pent,
As if the hills applauded manifold,
Repeating once again the argument.
Dilipa has no trouble in piercing this sophistical argument, and again
offers his own life, begging the lion to spare the body of his fame
rather than the body of his flesh. The lion consents, but when the
king resolutely presents himself to be eaten, the illusion vanishes,
and the holy cow grants the king his desire. The king returns to his
capital with the queen, who shortly becomes pregnant.
_Third canto. Raghu's consecration_. --The queen gives birth to a
glorious boy, whom the joyful father names Raghu. There follows a
description of the happy family, of which a few stanzas are given
here:
The king drank pleasure from him late and soon
With eyes that stared like windless lotus-flowers;
Unselfish joy expanded all his powers
As swells the sea responsive to the moon.
The rooted love that filled each parent's soul
For the other, deep as bird's love for the mate,
Was now divided with the boy; and straight
The remaining half proved greater than the whole.
He learned the reverence that befits a boy;
Following the nurse's words, began to talk;
And clinging to her finger, learned to walk:
These childish lessons stretched his father's joy,
Who clasped the baby to his breast, and thrilled
To feel the nectar-touch upon his skin,
Half closed his eyes, the father's bliss to win
Which, more for long delay, his being filled.
The baby hair must needs be clipped; yet he
Retained two dangling locks, his cheeks to fret;
And down the river of the alphabet
He swam, with other boys, to learning's sea.
Religion's rites, and what good learning suits
A prince, he had from teachers old and wise;
Not theirs the pain of barren enterprise,
For effort spent on good material, fruits.
This happy childhood is followed by a youth equally happy. Raghu is
married and made crown prince. He is entrusted with the care of the
horse of sacrifice,[1] and when Indra, king of the gods, steals the
horse, Raghu fights him. He cannot overcome the king of heaven, yet he
acquits himself so creditably that he wins Indra's friendship. In
consequence of this proof of his manhood, the empire is bestowed upon
Raghu by his father, who retires with his queen to the forest, to
spend his last days and prepare for death.
_Fourth canto. Raghu conquers the world_. --The canto opens with
several stanzas descriptive of the glory of youthful King Raghu.
He manifested royal worth
By even justice toward the earth,
Beloved as is the southern breeze,
Too cool to burn, too warm to freeze.
The people loved his father, yet
For greater virtues could forget;
The beauty of the blossoms fair
Is lost when mango-fruits are there.
But the vassal kings are restless
For when they knew the king was gone
And power was wielded by his son,
The wrath of subject kings awoke,
Which had been damped in sullen smoke.
When the king heard her, although he remembered her, he said: "I do
not remember. To whom do you belong, you wicked hermit-woman? I do not
remember a union with you for virtue, love, and wealth. [1] Either go
or stay, or do whatever you wish. "
When he said this, the sweet hermit-girl half fainted from shame and
grief, and stood stiff as a pillar. Her eyes darkened with passionate
indignation; her lips quivered; she seemed to consume the king as she
gazed at him with sidelong glances. Concealing her feelings and nerved
by anger, she held in check the magic power that her ascetic life had
given her. She seemed to meditate a moment, overcome by grief and
anger. She gazed at her husband, then spoke passionately: "O shameless
king, although you know, why do you say, 'I do not know,' like any
other ordinary man? "
Dushyanta said: "I do not know the son born of you, Shakuntala. Women
are liars. Who will believe what you say? Are you not ashamed to say
these incredible things, especially in my presence? You wicked
hermit-woman, go! "
Shakuntala said: "O King, sacred is holy God, and sacred is a holy
promise. Do not break your promise, O King. Let your love be sacred.
If you cling to a lie, and will not believe, alas! I must go away;
there is no union with a man like you. For even without you,
Dushyanta, my son shall rule this foursquare earth adorned with kingly
mountains. "
When she had said so much to the king, Shakuntala started to go. But a
bodiless voice from heaven said to Dushyanta: "Care for your son,
Dushyanta. Do not despise Shakuntala. You are the boy's father.
Shakuntala tells the truth. "
When he heard the utterance of the gods, the king joyfully said to his
chaplain and his ministers: "Hear the words of this heavenly
messenger. If I had received my son simply because of her words, he
would be suspected by the world, he would not be pure. "
Then the king received his son gladly and joyfully. He kissed his head
and embraced him lovingly. His wife also Dushyanta honoured, as
justice required. And the king soothed her, and said: "This union
which I had with you was hidden from the world. Therefore I hesitated,
O Queen, in order to save your reputation. And as for the cruel words
you said to me in an excess of passion, these I pardon you, my
beautiful, great-eyed darling, because you love me. "
Then King Dushyanta gave the name Bharata to Shakuntala's son, and had
him anointed crown prince.
It is plain that this story contains the material for a good play; the
very form of the epic tale is largely dramatic. It is also plain, in a
large way, of what nature are the principal changes which a dramatist
must introduce in the original. For while Shakuntala is charming in
the epic story, the king is decidedly contemptible. Somehow or other,
his face must be saved.
To effect this, Kalidasa has changed the old story in three important
respects. In the first place, he introduces the curse of Durvasas,
clouding the king's memory, and saving him from moral responsibility
in his rejection of Shakuntala. That there may be an ultimate recovery
of memory, the curse is so modified as to last only until the king
shall see again the ring which he has given to his bride. To the
Hindu, curse and modification are matters of frequent occurrence; and
Kalidasa has so delicately managed the matter as not to shock even a
modern and Western reader with a feeling of strong improbability. Even
to us it seems a natural part of the divine cloud that envelops the
drama, in no way obscuring human passion, but rather giving to human
passion an unwonted largeness and universality.
In the second place, the poet makes Shakuntala undertake her journey
to the palace before her son is born. Obviously, the king's character
is thus made to appear in a better light, and a greater probability is
given to the whole story.
The third change is a necessary consequence of the first; for without
the curse, there could have been no separation, no ensuing remorse,
and no reunion.
But these changes do not of themselves make a drama out of the epic
tale. Large additions were also necessary, both of scenes and of
characters. We find, indeed, that only acts one and five, with a part
of act seven, rest upon the ancient text, while acts two, three, four,
and six, with most of seven, are a creation of the poet. As might have
been anticipated, the acts of the former group are more dramatic,
while those of the latter contribute more of poetical charm. It is
with these that scissors must be chiefly busy when the play--rather
too long for continuous presentation as it stands--is performed on the
stage.
In the epic there are but three characters--Dushyanta, Shakuntala,
Kanva, with the small boy running about in the background. To these
Kalidasa has added from the palace, from the hermitage, and from the
Elysian region which is represented with vague precision in the last
act.
The conventional clown plays a much smaller part in this play than in
the others which Kalidasa wrote. He has also less humour. The real
humorous relief is given by the fisherman and the three policemen in
the opening scene of the sixth act. This, it may be remarked, is the
only scene of rollicking humour in Kalidasa's writing.
The forest scenes are peopled with quiet hermit-folk. Far the most
charming of these are Shakuntala's girl friends. The two are
beautifully differentiated: Anusuya grave, sober; Priyamvada
vivacious, saucy; yet wonderfully united in friendship and in devotion
to Shakuntala, whom they feel to possess a deeper nature than theirs.
Kanva, the hermit-father, hardly required any change from the epic
Kanva. It was a happy thought to place beside him the staid, motherly
Gautami. The small boy in the last act has magically become an
individual in Kalidasa's hands. In this act too are the creatures of a
higher world, their majesty not rendered too precise.
Dushyanta has been saved by the poet from his epic shabbiness; it may
be doubted whether more has been done. There is in him, as in some
other Hindu heroes, a shade too much of the meditative to suit our
ideal of more alert and ready manhood.
But all the other characters sink into insignificance beside the
heroine. Shakuntala dominates the play. She is actually on the stage
in five of the acts, and her spirit pervades the other two, the second
and the sixth. Shakuntala has held captive the heart of India for
fifteen hundred years, and wins the love of increasing thousands in
the West; for so noble a union of sweetness with strength is one of
the miracles of art.
Though lovely women walk the world to-day
By tens of thousands, there is none so fair
In all that exhibition and display
With her most perfect beauty to compare--
because it is a most perfect beauty of soul no less than of outward
form. Her character grows under our very eyes. When we first meet her,
she is a simple maiden, knowing no greater sorrow than the death of a
favourite deer; when we bid her farewell, she has passed through happy
love, the mother's joys and pains, most cruel humiliation and
suspicion, and the reunion with her husband, proved at last not to
have been unworthy. And each of these great experiences has been met
with a courage and a sweetness to which no words can render justice.
Kalidasa has added much to the epic tale; yet his use of the original
is remarkably minute. A list of the epic suggestions incorporated in
his play is long. But it is worth making, in order to show how keen is
the eye of genius. Thus the king lays aside the insignia of royalty
upon entering the grove (Act I). Shakuntala appears in hermit garb, a
dress of bark (Act I). The quaint derivation of the heroine's name
from _shakunta_--bird--is used with wonderful skill in a passage (Act
VII) which defies translation, as it involves a play on words. The
king's anxiety to discover whether the maiden's father is of a caste
that permits her to marry him is reproduced (Act I). The marriage
without a ceremony is retained (Act IV), but robbed of all offence.
Kanva's celestial vision, which made it unnecessary for his child to
tell him of her union with the king, is introduced with great delicacy
(Act IV). The curious formation of the boy's hand which indicated
imperial birth adds to the king's suspense (Act VII). The boy's rough
play with wild animals is made convincing (Act VII) and his very
nickname All-tamer is preserved (Act VII). Kanva's worldly wisdom as
to husband and wife dwelling together is reproduced (Act IV). No small
part of the give-and-take between the king and Shakuntala is given
(Act V), but with a new dignity.
Of the construction of the play I speak with diffidence. It seems
admirable to me, the apparently undue length of some scenes hardly
constituting a blemish, as it was probably intended to give the actors
considerable latitude of choice and excision. Several versions of the
text have been preserved; it is from the longer of the two more
familiar ones that the translation in this volume has been made. In
the warm discussion over this matter, certain technical arguments of
some weight have been advanced in favour of this choice; there is also
a more general consideration which seems to me of importance. I find
it hard to believe that any lesser artist could pad such a
masterpiece, and pad it all over, without making the fraud apparent on
almost every page. The briefer version, on the other hand, might
easily grow out of the longer, either as an acting text, or as a
school-book.
We cannot take leave of Shakuntala in any better way than by quoting
the passage[2] in which Levi's imagination has conjured up "the
memorable _premiere_ when Shakuntala saw the light, in the presence of
Vikramaditya and his court. "
La fete du printemps approche; Ujjayini, la ville aux riches
marchands et la capitale intellectuelle de l'Inde, glorieuse et
prospere sous un roi victorieux et sage, se prepare a celebrer
la solennite avec une pompe digne de son opulence et de son
gout. . . . L'auteur applaudi de Malavika . . . le poete dont le
souple genie s'accommode sans effort au ton de l'epopee ou de
l'elegie, Kalidasa vient d'achever une comedie heroique
annoncee comme un chef-d'oeuvre par la voix de ses amis. . . . Le
poete a ses comediens, qu'il a eprouves et dresses a sa maniere
avec Malavika. Les comediens suivront leur poete familier,
devenu leur maitre et leur ami. . . . Leur solide instruction,
leur gout epure reconnaissent les qualites maitresses de
l'oeuvre, l'habilete de l'intrigue, le juste equilibre des
sentiments, la fraicheur de l'imagination . . .
Vikramaditya entre, suivi des courtisans, et s'asseoit sur son
trone; ses femmes restent a sa gauche; a sa droite les rois
vassaux accourus pour rendre leurs hommages, les princes, les
hauts fonctionnaires, les litterateurs et les savants, groupes
autour de Varaha-mihira l'astrologue et d'Amarasimha le
lexicographe . . .
Tout a coup, les deux jolies figurantes placees devant le
rideau de la coulisse en ecartent les plis, et Duhsanta, l'arc
et les fleches a la main, parait monte sur un char; son cocher
tient les renes; lances a la poursuite d'une gazelle
imaginaire, ils simulent par leurs gestes la rapidite de la
course; leurs stances pittoresques et descriptives suggerent a
l'imagination un decor que la peinture serait impuissante a
tracer. Ils approchent de l'ermitage; le roi descend a terre,
congedie le cocher, les chevaux et le char, entend les voix des
jeunes filles et se cache. Un mouvement de curiosite
agite les spectateurs; fille d'une Apsaras et creation de
Kalidasa, Cakuntala reunit tous les charmes; l'actrice
saura-t-elle repondre a l'attente des connaisseurs et realiser
l'ideal? Elle parait, vetue d'une simple tunique d'ecorce qui
semble cacher ses formes et par un contraste habile les
embellit encore; la ligne arrondie du visage, les yeux longs,
d'un bleu sombre, langoureux, les seins opulents mal
emprisonnes, les bras delicats laissent a deviner les beautes
que le costume ascetique derobe. Son attitude, ses gestes
ravissent a la fois les regards et les coeurs; elle parle, et sa
voix est un chant. La cour de Vikramaditya fremit d'une emotion
sereine et profonde: un chef-d'oeuvre nouveau vient d'entrer
dans l'immortalite.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The Hindu equivalent of "for better, for worse. "]
[Footnote 2: _Le Theatre Indien_, pages 368-371. This is without
competition the best work in which any part of the Sanskrit literature
has been treated, combining erudition, imagination, and taste. The
book is itself literature of a high order. The passage is
unfortunately too long to be quoted entire. ]
* * * * *
THE TWO MINOR DRAMAS
I. --"MALAVIKA AND AGNIMITRA"
_Malavika and Agnimitra_ is the earliest of Kalidasa's three dramas,
and probably his earliest work. This conclusion would be almost
certain from the character of the play, but is put beyond doubt by the
following speeches of the prologue:
_Stage-director_. The audience has asked us to present at this spring
festival a drama called _Malavika and Agnimitra_, composed by
Kalidasa. Let the music begin.
_Assistant_. No, no! Shall we neglect the works of such illustrious
authors as Bhasa, Saumilla, and Kaviputra? Can the audience feel any
respect for the work of a modern poet, a Kalidasa?
_Stage-director_. You are quite mistaken. Consider:
Not all is good that bears an ancient name,
Nor need we every modern poem blame:
Wise men approve the good, or new or old;
The foolish critic follows where he's told.
_Assistant_. The responsibility rests with you, sir.
There is irony in the fact that the works of the illustrious authors
mentioned have perished, that we should hardly know of their existence
were it not for the tribute of their modest, youthful rival. But
Kalidasa could not read the future. We can imagine his feelings of
mingled pride and fear when his early work was presented at the spring
festival before the court of King Vikramaditya, without doubt the most
polished and critical audience that could at that hour have been
gathered in any city on earth. The play which sought the approbation
of this audience shows no originality of plot, no depth of passion. It
is a light, graceful drama of court intrigue. The hero, King
Agnimitra, is an historical character of the second century before
Christ, and Kalidasa's play gives us some information about him that
history can seriously consider. The play represents Agnimitra's
father, the founder of the Sunga dynasty, as still living. As the seat
of empire was in Patna on the Ganges, and as Agnimitra's capital is
Vidisha--the modern Bhilsa--it seems that he served as regent of
certain provinces during his father's lifetime. The war with the King
of Vidarbha seems to be an historical occurrence, and the fight with
the Greek cavalry force is an echo of the struggle with Menander, in
which the Hindus were ultimately victorious. It was natural for
Kalidasa to lay the scene of his play in Bhilsa rather than in the
far-distant Patna, for it is probable that many in the audience were
acquainted with the former city. It is to Bhilsa that the poet refers
again in _The Cloud-Messenger_, where these words are addressed to the
cloud:
At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest
With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow,
With village trees alive with many a nest
Abuilding by the old familiar crow,
With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.
There shalt thou see the royal city, known
Afar, and win the lover's fee complete,
If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone
Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet,
Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.
Yet in Kalidasa's day, the glories of the Sunga dynasty were long
departed, nor can we see why the poet should have chosen his hero and
his era as he did.
There follows an analysis of the plot and some slight criticism.
In addition to the stage-director and his assistant, who appear in the
prologue, the characters of the play are these:
AGNIMITRA, _king in Vidisha_.
GAUTAMA, _a clown, his friend_.
GANADASA }
} _dancing-masters_.
HARADATTA }
DHARINI, _the senior queen_.
IRAVATI, _the junior queen_.
MALAVIKA, _maid to Queen Dharini, later discovered to be a princess_.
KAUSHIKI, _a Buddhist nun_.
BAKULAVALIKA, _a maid, friend of Malavika_.
NIPUNIKA, _maid to Queen Iravati_.
_A counsellor, a chamberlain, a humpback, two court poets, maids,
and mute attendants_.
The scene is the palace and gardens of King Agnimitra, the time a few
days.
ACT I. --After the usual prologue, the maid Bakulavalika appears with
another maid. From their conversation we learn that King Agnimitra has
seen in the palace picture-gallery a new painting of Queen Dharini
with her attendants. So beautiful is one of these, Malavika, that the
king is smitten with love, but is prevented by the jealous queen from
viewing the original. At this point the dancing-master Ganadasa
enters. From him Bakulavalika learns that Malavika is a wonderfully
proficient pupil, while he learns from her that Malavika had been sent
as a present to Queen Dharini by a general commanding a border
fortress, the queen's brother.
After this introductory scene, the king enters, and listens to a
letter sent by the king of Vidarbha. The rival monarch had imprisoned
a prince and princess, cousins of Agnimitra, and in response to
Agnimitra's demand that they be set free, he declares that the
princess has escaped, but that the prince shall not be liberated
except on certain conditions. This letter so angers Agnimitra that he
despatches an army against the king of Vidarbha.
Gautama, the clown, informs Agnimitra that he has devised a plan for
bringing Malavika into the king's presence. He has stirred an envious
rivalry in the bosoms of the two dancing-masters, who soon appear,
each abusing the other vigorously, and claiming for himself the
pre-eminence in their art. It is agreed that each shall exhibit his
best pupil before the king, Queen Dharini, and the learned Buddhist
nun, Kaushiki. The nun, who is in the secret of the king's desire, is
made mistress of ceremonies, and the queen's jealous opposition is
overborne.
ACT II. --The scene is laid in the concert-hall of the palace. The nun
determines that Ganadasa shall present his pupil first. Malavika is
thereupon introduced, dances, and sings a song which pretty plainly
indicates her own love for the king. He is in turn quite ravished,
finding her far more beautiful even than the picture. The clown
manages to detain her some little time by starting a discussion as to
her art, and when she is finally permitted to depart, both she and the
king are deeply in love. The court poet announces the noon hour, and
the exhibition of the other dancing-master is postponed.
ACT III. --The scene is laid in the palace garden. From the
conversation of two maids it appears that a favourite ashoka-tree is
late in blossoming. This kind of tree, so the belief runs, can be
induced to put forth blossoms if touched by the foot of a beautiful
woman in splendid garments.
When the girls depart, the king enters with the clown, his confidant.
The clown, after listening to the king's lovelorn confidences, reminds
him that he has agreed to meet his young Queen Iravati in the garden,
and swing with her. But before the queen's arrival, Malavika enters,
sent thither by Dharini to touch the ashoka-tree with her foot, and
thus encourage it to blossom. The king and the clown hide in a
thicket, to feast their eyes upon her. Presently the maid Bakulavalika
appears, to adorn Malavika for the ceremony, and engages her in
conversation about the king. But now a third pair enter, the young
Queen Iravati, somewhat flushed with wine, and her maid Nipunika. They
also conceal themselves to spy upon the young girls. Thus there are
three groups upon the stage: the two girls believe themselves to be
alone; the king and the clown are aware of the two girls, as are also
the queen and her maid; but neither of these two pairs knows of the
presence of the other. This situation gives rise to very entertaining
dialogue, which changes its character when the king starts forward to
express his love for Malavika. Another sudden change is brought about
when Iravati, mad with jealousy, joins the group, sends the two girls
away, and berates the king.
He excuses himself as earnestly as a man
may when caught in such a predicament, but cannot appease the young
queen, who leaves him with words of bitter jealousy.
ACT IV. --The clown informs the king that Queen Dharini has locked
Malavika and her friend in the cellar, and has given orders to the
doorkeeper that they are to be released only upon presentation of her
own signet-ring, engraved with the figure of a serpent. But he
declares that he has devised a plan to set them free. He bids the king
wait upon Queen Dharini, and presently rushes into their presence,
showing his thumb marked with two scratches, and declaring that he has
been bitten by a cobra. Imploring the king to care for his childless
mother, he awakens genuine sympathy in the queen, who readily parts
with her serpent-ring, supposed to be efficacious in charming away the
effects of snake-poison. Needless to say, he uses the ring to procure
the freedom of Malavika and her friend, and then brings about a
meeting with Agnimitra in the summer-house. The love-scene which
follows is again interrupted by Queen Iravati. This time the king is
saved by the news that his little daughter has been frightened by a
yellow monkey, and will be comforted only by him. The act ends with
the announcement that the ashoka-tree has blossomed.
ACT V. --It now appears that Queen Dharini has relented and is willing
to unite Malavika with the king; for she invites him to meet her under
the ashoka-tree, and includes Malavika among her attendants. Word is
brought that the army despatched against the king of Vidarbha has been
completely successful, and that in the spoil are included two maids
with remarkable powers of song. These maids are brought before the
company gathered at the tree, where they surprise every one by falling
on their faces before Malavika with the exclamation, "Our princess! "
Here the Buddhist nun takes up the tale. She tells how her brother,
the counsellor of the captive prince, had rescued her and Malavika
from the king of Vidarbha, and had started for Agnimitra's court.
On the way they had been overpowered by robbers, her brother killed,
and she herself separated from Malavika. She had thereupon become a
nun and made her way to Agnimitra's court, and had there found
Malavika, who had been taken from the robbers by Agnimitra's general
and sent as a present to Queen Dharini. She had not divulged the
matter sooner, because of a prophecy that Malavika should be a servant
for just one year before becoming a king's bride. This recital removes
any possible objection to a union of Malavika and Agnimitra. To
complete the king's happiness, there comes a letter announcing that
his son by Dharini has won a victory over a force of Greek cavalry,
and inviting the court to be present at the sacrifice which was to
follow the victory. Thus every one is made happy except the jealous
young Queen Iravati, now to be supplanted by Malavika; yet even she
consents, though somewhat ungraciously, to the arrangements made.
Criticism of the large outlines of this plot would be quite unjust,
for it is completely conventional. In dozens of plays we have the same
story: the king who falls in love with a maid-servant, the jealousy of
his harem, the eventual discovery that the maid is of royal birth, and
the addition of another wife to a number already sufficiently large.
In writing a play of this kind, the poet frankly accepts the
conventions; his ingenuity is shown in the minor incidents, in stanzas
of poetical description, and in giving abundant opportunity for
graceful music and dancing. When the play is approached in this way,
it is easy to see the _griffe du lion_ in this, the earliest work of
the greatest poet who ever sang repeatedly of love between man and
woman, troubled for a time but eventually happy. For though there is
in Agnimitra, as in all heroes of his type, something contemptible,
there is in Malavika a sweetness, a delicacy, a purity, that make her
no unworthy precursor of Sita, of Indumati, of the Yaksha's bride, and
of Shakuntala.
* * * * *
II. --"URVASHI"
The second of the two inferior dramas may be conveniently called
_Urvashi_, though the full title is _The Tale of Urvashi won by
Valour_. When and where the play was first produced we do not know,
for the prologue is silent as to these matters. It has been thought
that it was the last work of Kalidasa, even that it was never produced
in his lifetime. Some support is lent to this theory by the fact that
the play is filled with reminiscences of Shakuntala, in small matters
as well as in great; as if the poet's imagination had grown weary, and
he were willing to repeat himself. Yet _Urvashi_ is a much more
ambitious effort than _Malavika_, and invites a fuller criticism,
after an outline of the plot has been given.
In addition to the stage-director and his assistant, who appear in the
prologue, the characters of the play are these:
PURURAVAS, _king in Pratishthana on the Ganges_.
AYUS, _his son_.
MANAVAKA, _a clown, his friend_.
URVASHI, _a heavenly nymph_.
CHITRALEKHA, _another nymph, her friend_.
AUSHINARI, _queen of Pururavas_.
NIPUNIKA, _her maid_.
_A charioteer, a chamberlain, a hermit-woman, various nymphs and other
divine beings, and attendants_.
The scene shifts as indicated in the following analysis. The time of
the first four acts is a few days. Between acts four and five several
years elapse.
ACT I. --The prologue only tells us that we may expect a new play of
Kalidasa. A company of heavenly nymphs then appear upon Mount
Gold-peak wailing and calling for help. Their cries are answered by
King Pururavas, who rides in a chariot that flies through the air. In
response to his inquiries, the nymphs inform him that two of their
number, Urvashi and Chitralekha, have been carried into captivity by a
demon. The king darts in pursuit, and presently returns, victorious,
with the two nymphs. As soon as Urvashi recovers consciousness, and
has rejoined her joyful friends, it is made plain that she and the
king have been deeply impressed with each other's attractions. The
king is compelled to decline an invitation to visit Paradise, but he
and Urvashi exchange loving glances before they part.
ACT II. --The act opens with a comic scene in the king's palace. The
clown appears, bursting with the secret of the king's love for
Urvashi, which has been confided to him. He is joined by the maid
Nipunika, commissioned by the queen to discover what it is that
occupies the king's mind. She discovers the secret ingeniously, but
without much difficulty, and gleefully departs.
The king and the clown then appear in the garden, and the king
expresses at some length the depth and seeming hopelessness of his
passion. The latter part of his lament is overheard by Urvashi
herself, who, impelled by love for the king, has come down to earth
with her friend Chitralekha, and now stands near, listening but
invisible. When she has heard enough to satisfy her of the king's
passion, she writes a love-stanza on a birch-leaf, and lets it fall
before him. His reception of this token is such that Urvashi throws
aside the magic veil that renders her invisible, but as soon as she
has greeted the king, she and her friend are called away to take their
parts in a play that is being presented in Paradise.
The king and the clown hunt for Urvashi's love-letter, which has been
neglected during the past few minutes. But the leaf has blown away,
only to be picked up and read by Nipunika, who at that moment enters
with the queen. The queen can hardly be deceived by the lame excuses
which the king makes, and after offering her ironical congratulations,
jealously leaves him.
ACT III. --The act opens with a conversation between two minor
personages in Paradise. It appears that Urvashi had taken the
heroine's part in the drama just presented there, and when asked, "On
whom is your heart set? " had absentmindedly replied, "On Pururavas. "
Heaven's stage-director had thereupon cursed her to fall from
Paradise, but this curse had been thus modified: that she was to live
on earth with Pururavas until he should see a child born of her, and
was then to return.
The scene shifts to Pururavas' palace. In the early evening, the
chamberlain brings the king a message, inviting him to meet the queen
on a balcony bathed in the light of the rising moon. The king betakes
himself thither with his friend, the clown. In the midst of a dialogue
concerning moonlight and love, Urvashi and Chitralekha enter from
Paradise, wearing as before veils of invisibility. Presently the queen
appears and with humble dignity asks pardon of the king for her
rudeness, adding that she will welcome any new queen whom he genuinely
loves and who genuinely returns his love. When the queen departs,
Urvashi creeps up behind the king and puts her hands over his eyes.
Chitralekha departs after begging the king to make her friend forget
Paradise.
ACT IV. --From a short dialogue in Paradise between Chitralekha and
another nymph, we learn that a misfortune has befallen Pururavas and
Urvashi. During their honeymoon in a delightful Himalayan forest,
Urvashi, in a fit of jealousy, had left her husband, and had
inadvertently entered a grove forbidden by an austere god to women.
She was straightway transformed into a vine, while Pururavas is
wandering through the forest in desolate anguish.
The scene of what follows is laid in the Himalayan forest. Pururavas
enters, and in a long poetical soliloquy bewails his loss and seeks
for traces of Urvashi. He vainly asks help of the creatures whom he
meets: a peacock, a cuckoo, a swan, a ruddy goose, a bee, an elephant,
a mountain-echo, a river, and an antelope. At last he finds a
brilliant ruby in a cleft of the rocks, and when about to throw it
away, is told by a hermit to preserve it: for this is the gem of
reunion, and one who possesses it will soon be reunited with his love.
With the gem in his hand, Pururavas comes to a vine which mysteriously
reminds him of Urvashi, and when he embraces it, he finds his beloved
in his arms. After she has explained to him the reason of her
transformation, they determine to return to the king's capital.
ACT V. --The scene of the concluding act is the king's palace. Several
years have passed in happy love, and Pururavas has only one
sorrow--that he is childless.
One day a vulture snatches from a maid's hand the treasured gem of
reunion, which he takes to be a bit of bloody meat, and flies off with
it, escaping before he can be killed. While the king and his
companions lament the gem's loss, the chamberlain enters, bringing the
gem and an arrow with which the bird had been shot. On the arrow is
written a verse declaring it to be the property of Ayus, son of
Pururavas and Urvashi. A hermit-woman is then ushered in, who brings a
lad with her. She explains that the lad had been entrusted to her as
soon as born by Urvashi, and that it was he who had just shot the bird
and recovered the gem. When Urvashi is summoned to explain why she had
concealed her child, she reminds the king of heaven's decree that she
should return as soon as Pururavas should see the child to be born to
them. She had therefore sacrificed maternal love to conjugal
affection. Upon this, the king's new-found joy gives way to gloom. He
determines to give up his kingdom and spend the remainder of his life
as a hermit in the forest. But the situation is saved by a messenger
from Paradise, bearing heaven's decree that Urvashi shall live with
the king until his death. A troop of nymphs then enter and assist in
the solemn consecration of Ayus as crown prince.
The tale of Pururavas and Urvashi, which Kalidasa has treated
dramatically, is first made known to us in the Rigveda. It is thus one
of the few tales that so caught the Hindu imagination as to survive
the profound change which came over Indian thinking in the passage
from Vedic to classical times. As might be expected from its history,
it is told in many widely differing forms, of which the oldest and
best may be summarised thus.
Pururavas, a mortal, sees and loves the nymph Urvashi. She consents to
live with him on earth so long as he shall not break certain trivial
conditions. Some time after the birth of a son, these conditions are
broken, through no fault of the man, and she leaves him. He wanders
disconsolate, finds her, and pleads with her, by her duty as a wife,
by her love for her child, even by a threat of suicide. She rejects
his entreaties, declaring that there can be no lasting love between
mortal and immortal, even adding: "There are no friendships with
women. Their hearts are the hearts of hyenas. " Though at last she
comforts him with vague hopes of a future happiness, the story
remains, as indeed it must remain, a tragedy--the tragedy of love
between human and divine.
This splendid tragic story Kalidasa has ruined. He has made of it an
ordinary tale of domestic intrigue, has changed the nymph of heaven
into a member of an earthly harem. The more important changes made by
Kalidasa in the traditional story, all have the tendency to remove the
massive, godlike, austere features of the tale, and to substitute
something graceful or even pretty. These principal changes are: the
introduction of the queen, the clown, and the whole human
paraphernalia of a court; the curse pronounced on Urvashi for her
carelessness in the heavenly drama, and its modification; the
invention of the gem of reunion; and the final removal of the curse,
even as modified. It is true that the Indian theatre permits no
tragedy, and we may well believe that no successor of Kalidasa could
hope to present a tragedy on the stage. But might not Kalidasa, far
overtopping his predecessors, have put on the stage a drama the story
of which was already familiar to his audience as a tragic story?
Perhaps not. If not, one can but wish that he had chosen another
subject.
This violent twisting of an essentially tragic story has had a further
ill consequence in weakening the individual characters. Pururavas is a
mere conventional hero, in no way different from fifty others, in
spite of his divine lineage and his successful wooing of a goddess.
Urvashi is too much of a nymph to be a woman, and too much of a woman
to be a nymph. The other characters are mere types.
Yet, in spite of these obvious objections, Hindu critical opinion has
always rated the _Urvashi_ very high, and I have long hesitated to
make adverse comments upon it, for it is surely true that every nation
is the best judge of its own literature. And indeed, if one could but
forget plot and characters, he would find in _Urvashi_ much to attract
and charm. There is no lack of humour in the clever maid who worms the
clown's secret out of him. There is no lack of a certain shrewdness in
the clown, as when he observes:
"Who wants heaven? It is nothing to eat or drink. It is just a place
where they never shut their eyes--like fishes! "
Again, the play offers an opportunity for charming scenic display. The
terrified nymphs gathered on the mountain, the palace balcony bathed
in moonlight, the forest through which the king wanders in search of
his lost darling, the concluding solemn consecration of the crown
prince by heavenly beings--these scenes show that Kalidasa was no
closet dramatist. And finally, there is here and there such poetry as
only Kalidasa could write. The fourth act particularly, undramatic as
it is, is full of a delicate beauty that defies transcription. It was
a new and daring thought--to present on the stage a long lyrical
monologue addressed to the creatures of the forest and inspired by
despairing passion. Nor must it be forgotten that this play, like all
Indian plays, is an opera. The music and the dancing are lost. We
judge it perforce unfairly, for we judge it by the text alone. If, in
spite of all, the _Urvashi_ is a failure, it is a failure possible
only to a serene and mighty poet.
* * * * *
THE DYNASTY OF RAGHU
_The Dynasty of Raghu_ is an epic poem in nineteen cantos. It consists
of 1564 stanzas, or something over six thousand lines of verse. The
subject is that great line of kings who traced their origin to the
sun, the famous "solar line" of Indian story. The bright particular
star of the solar line is Rama, the knight without fear and without
reproach, the Indian ideal of a gentleman. His story had been told
long before Kalidasa's time in the _Ramayana_, an epic which does not
need to shun comparison with the foremost epic poems of Europe. In
_The Dynasty of Raghu_, too, Rama is the central figure; yet in
Kalidasa's poem there is much detail concerning other princes of the
line. The poem thus naturally falls into three great parts: first, the
four immediate ancestors of Rama (cantos 1-9); second, Rama (cantos
10-15); third, certain descendants of Rama (cantos 16-19). A somewhat
detailed account of the matter of the poem may well precede criticism
and comment.
_First canto. The journey to the hermitage_. --The poem begins with the
customary brief prayer for Shiva's favour:
God Shiva and his mountain bride,
Like word and meaning unified,
The world's great parents, I beseech
To join fit meaning to my speech.
Then follow nine stanzas in which Kalidasa speaks more directly of
himself than elsewhere in his works:
How great is Raghu's solar line!
How feebly small are powers of mine!
As if upon the ocean's swell
I launched a puny cockle-shell.
The fool who seeks a poet's fame
Must look for ridicule and blame,
Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would try
To pluck the fruit for giants high.
Yet I may enter through the door
That mightier poets pierced of yore;
A thread may pierce a jewel, but
Must follow where the diamond cut.
Of kings who lived as saints from birth,
Who ruled to ocean-shore on earth,
Who toiled until success was given,
Whose chariots stormed the gates of heaven,
Whose pious offerings were blest,
Who gave his wish to every guest,
Whose punishments were as the crimes,
Who woke to guard the world betimes,
Who sought, that they might lavish, pelf,
Whose measured speech was truth itself,
Who fought victorious wars for fame,
Who loved in wives the mother's name,
Who studied all good arts as boys,
Who loved, in manhood, manhood's joys,
Whose age was free from worldly care,
Who breathed their lives away in prayer,
Of these I sing, of Raghu's line,
Though weak mine art, and wisdom mine.
Forgive these idle stammerings
And think: For virtue's sake he sings.
The good who hear me will be glad
To pluck the good from out the bad;
When ore is proved by fire, the loss
Is not of purest gold, but dross.
After the briefest glance at the origin of the solar line, the poet
tells of Rama's great-great-grandfather, King Dilipa. The detailed
description of Dilipa's virtues has interest as showing Kalidasa's
ideal of an aristocrat; a brief sample must suffice here:
He practised virtue, though in health;
Won riches, with no greed for wealth;
Guarded his life, though not from fear;
Prized joys of earth, but not too dear.
His virtuous foes he could esteem
Like bitter drugs that healing seem;
The friends who sinned he could forsake
Like fingers bitten by a snake.
Yet King Dilipa has one deep-seated grief: he has no son. He therefore
journeys with his queen to the hermitage of the sage Vasishtha, in
order to learn what they must do to propitiate an offended fate. Their
chariot rolls over country roads past fragrant lotus-ponds and
screaming peacocks and trustful deer, under archways formed without
supporting pillars by the cranes, through villages where they receive
the blessings of the people. At sunset they reach the peaceful forest
hermitage, and are welcomed by the sage. In response to Vasishtha's
benevolent inquiries, the king declares that all goes well in the
kingdom, and yet:
Until from this dear wife there springs
A son as great as former kings,
The seven islands of the earth
And all their gems, are nothing worth.
The final debt, most holy one,
Which still I owe to life--a son--
Galls me as galls the cutting chain
An elephant housed in dirt and pain.
Vasishtha tells the king that on a former occasion he had offended the
divine cow Fragrant, and had been cursed by the cow to lack children
until he had propitiated her own offspring. While the sage is
speaking, Fragrant's daughter approaches, and is entrusted to the care
of the king and queen.
_Second canto. The holy cow's gift_. --During twenty-one days the king
accompanies the cow during her wanderings in the forest, and each
night the queen welcomes their return to the hermitage. On the
twenty-second day the cow is attacked by a lion, and when the king
hastens to draw an arrow, his arm is magically numbed, so that he
stands helpless. To increase his horror, the lion speaks with a human
voice, saying that he is a servant of the god Shiva, set on guard
there and eating as his appointed food any animals that may appear.
Dilipa perceives that a struggle with earthly weapons is useless, and
begs the lion to accept his own body as the price of the cow's
release. The lion tries sophistry, using the old, hollow arguments:
Great beauty and fresh youth are yours; on earth
As sole, unrivalled emperor you rule;
Should you redeem a thing of little worth
At such a price, you would appear a fool.
If pity moves you, think that one mere cow
Would be the gainer, should you choose to die;
Live rather for the world! Remember how
The father-king can bid all dangers fly.
And if the fiery sage's wrath, aglow
At loss of one sole cow, should make you shudder,
Appease his anger; for you can bestow
Cows by the million, each with pot-like udder.
Save life and youth; for to the dead are given
No long, unbroken years of joyous mirth;
But riches and imperial power are heaven--
The gods have nothing that you lack on earth.
The lion spoke and ceased; but echo rolled
Forth from the caves wherein the sound was pent,
As if the hills applauded manifold,
Repeating once again the argument.
Dilipa has no trouble in piercing this sophistical argument, and again
offers his own life, begging the lion to spare the body of his fame
rather than the body of his flesh. The lion consents, but when the
king resolutely presents himself to be eaten, the illusion vanishes,
and the holy cow grants the king his desire. The king returns to his
capital with the queen, who shortly becomes pregnant.
_Third canto. Raghu's consecration_. --The queen gives birth to a
glorious boy, whom the joyful father names Raghu. There follows a
description of the happy family, of which a few stanzas are given
here:
The king drank pleasure from him late and soon
With eyes that stared like windless lotus-flowers;
Unselfish joy expanded all his powers
As swells the sea responsive to the moon.
The rooted love that filled each parent's soul
For the other, deep as bird's love for the mate,
Was now divided with the boy; and straight
The remaining half proved greater than the whole.
He learned the reverence that befits a boy;
Following the nurse's words, began to talk;
And clinging to her finger, learned to walk:
These childish lessons stretched his father's joy,
Who clasped the baby to his breast, and thrilled
To feel the nectar-touch upon his skin,
Half closed his eyes, the father's bliss to win
Which, more for long delay, his being filled.
The baby hair must needs be clipped; yet he
Retained two dangling locks, his cheeks to fret;
And down the river of the alphabet
He swam, with other boys, to learning's sea.
Religion's rites, and what good learning suits
A prince, he had from teachers old and wise;
Not theirs the pain of barren enterprise,
For effort spent on good material, fruits.
This happy childhood is followed by a youth equally happy. Raghu is
married and made crown prince. He is entrusted with the care of the
horse of sacrifice,[1] and when Indra, king of the gods, steals the
horse, Raghu fights him. He cannot overcome the king of heaven, yet he
acquits himself so creditably that he wins Indra's friendship. In
consequence of this proof of his manhood, the empire is bestowed upon
Raghu by his father, who retires with his queen to the forest, to
spend his last days and prepare for death.
_Fourth canto. Raghu conquers the world_. --The canto opens with
several stanzas descriptive of the glory of youthful King Raghu.
He manifested royal worth
By even justice toward the earth,
Beloved as is the southern breeze,
Too cool to burn, too warm to freeze.
The people loved his father, yet
For greater virtues could forget;
The beauty of the blossoms fair
Is lost when mango-fruits are there.
But the vassal kings are restless
For when they knew the king was gone
And power was wielded by his son,
The wrath of subject kings awoke,
Which had been damped in sullen smoke.
