No More Learning

You were my comrade gay, my home, my treasure,
You were my bosom's friend, in all things true,
My best-loved pupil in the arts of pleasure:
Stern death took all I had in taking you.

Still am I king, and rich in kingly fashion,
Yet lacking you, am poor the long years through;
I cannot now be won to any passion,
For all my passions centred, dear, in you.

Aja commits the body of his beloved queen to the flames. A holy hermit
comes to tell the king that his wife had been a nymph of heaven in a
former existence, and that she has now returned to her home. But Aja
cannot be comforted. He lives eight weary years for the sake of his
young son, then is reunited with his queen in Paradise.


_Ninth canto. The hunt_. --This canto introduces us to King Dasharatha,
father of the heroic Rama. It begins with an elaborate description of
his glory, justice, prowess, and piety; then tells of the three
princesses who became his wives: Kausalya, Kaikeyi, and Sumitra. In
the beautiful springtime he takes an extended hunting-trip in the
forest, during which an accident happens, big with fate.

He left his soldiers far behind one day
In the wood, and following where deer-tracks lay,
Came with his weary horse adrip with foam
To river-banks where hermits made their home.

And in the stream he heard the water fill
A jar; he heard it ripple clear and shrill,
And shot an arrow, thinking he had found
A trumpeting elephant, toward the gurgling sound.

Such actions are forbidden to a king,
Yet Dasharatha sinned and did this thing;
For even the wise and learned man is minded
To go astray, by selfish passion blinded.

He heard the startling cry, "My father! " rise
Among the reeds; rode up; before his eyes
He saw the jar, the wounded hermit boy:
Remorse transfixed his heart and killed his joy.

He left his horse, this monarch famous far,
Asked him who drooped upon the water-jar
His name, and from the stumbling accents knew
A hermit youth, of lowly birth but true.

The arrow still undrawn, the monarch bore
Him to his parents who, afflicted sore
With blindness, could not see their only son
Dying, and told them what his hand had done.

The murderer then obeyed their sad behest
And drew the fixed arrow from his breast;
The boy lay dead; the father cursed the king,
With tear-stained hands, to equal suffering.

"In sorrow for your son you too shall die,
An old, old man," he said, "as sad as I. "
Poor, trodden snake! He used his venomous sting,
Then heard the answer of the guilty king:

"Your curse is half a blessing if I see
The longed-for son who shall be born to me:
The scorching fire that sweeps the well-ploughed field,
May burn indeed, but stimulates the yield.

The deed is done; what kindly act can I
Perform who, pitiless, deserve to die? "
"Bring wood," he begged, "and build a funeral pyre,
That we may seek our son through death by fire. "

The king fulfilled their wish; and while they burned,
In mute, sin-stricken sorrow he returned,
Hiding death's seed within him, as the sea
Hides magic fire that burns eternally.

Thus is foreshadowed in the birth of Rama, his banishment, and the
death of his father.

Cantos ten to fifteen form the kernel of the epic, for they tell the
story of Rama, the mighty hero of Raghu's line. In these cantos
Kalidasa attempts to present anew, with all the literary devices of a
more sophisticated age, the famous old epic story sung in masterly
fashion by the author of the _Ramayana_. As the poet is treading
ground familiar to all who hear him, the action of these cantos is
very compressed.


_Tenth canto. The incarnation of Rama_. --While Dasharatha, desiring a
son, is childless, the gods, oppressed by a giant adversary, betake
themselves to Vishnu, seeking aid. They sing a hymn of praise, a part
of which is given here.

O thou who didst create this All,
Who dost preserve it, lest it fall,
Who wilt destroy it and its ways--
To thee, O triune Lord, be praise.

As into heaven's water run
The tastes of earth--yet it is one,
So thou art all the things that range
The universe, yet dost not change.

Far, far removed, yet ever near;
Untouched by passion, yet austere;
Sinless, yet pitiful of heart;
Ancient, yet free from age--Thou art.

Though uncreate, thou seekest birth;
Dreaming, thou watchest heaven and earth;
Passionless, smitest low thy foes;
Who knows thy nature, Lord? Who knows?

Though many different paths, O Lord,
May lead us to some great reward,
They gather and are merged in thee
Like floods of Ganges in the sea.

The saints who give thee every thought,
Whose every act for thee is wrought,
Yearn for thine everlasting peace,
For bliss with thee, that cannot cease.

Like pearls that grow in ocean's night,
Like sunbeams radiantly bright,
Thy strange and wonder-working ways
Defeat extravagance of praise.

If songs that to thy glory tend
Should weary grow or take an end,
Our impotence must bear the blame,
And not thine unexhausted name.

Vishnu is gratified by the praise of the gods, and asks their desire.
They inform him that they are distressed by Ravana, the giant king of
Lanka (Ceylon), whom they cannot conquer. Vishnu promises to aid them
by descending to earth in a new avatar, as son of Dasharatha. Shortly
afterwards, an angel appears before King Dasharatha, bringing in a
golden bowl a substance which contains the essence of Vishnu. The king
gives it to his three wives, who thereupon conceive and dream
wonderful dreams. Then Queen Kausalya gives birth to Rama; Queen
Kaikeyi to Bharata; Queen Sumitra to twins, Lakshmana and Shatrughna.
Heaven and earth rejoice. The four princes grow up in mutual
friendship, yet Rama and Lakshmana are peculiarly drawn to each other,
as are Bharata and Shatrughna. So beautiful and so modest are the four
boys that they seem like incarnations of the four things worth living
for--virtue, money, love, and salvation.


_Eleventh canto. The victory over Rama-with-the-axe_. --At the request
of the holy hermit Vishvamitra, the two youths Rama and Lakshmana
visit his hermitage, to protect it from evil spirits. The two lads
little suspect, on their maiden journey, how much of their lives will
be spent in wandering together in the forest. On the way they are
attacked by a giantess, whom Rama kills; the first of many giants who
are to fall at his hand. He is given magic weapons by the hermit, with
which he and his brother kill other giants, freeing the hermitage from
all annoyance. The two brothers then travel with the hermit to the
city of Mithila, attracted thither by hearing of its king, his
wonderful daughter, and his wonderful bow. The bow was given him by
the god Shiva; no man has been able to bend it; and the beautiful
princess's hand is the prize of any man who can perform the feat. On
the way thither, Rama brings to life Ahalya, a woman who in a former
age had been changed to stone for unfaithfulness to her austere
husband, and had been condemned to remain a stone until trodden by
Rama's foot. Without further adventure, they reach Mithila, where the
hermit presents Rama as a candidate for the bending of the bow.

The king beheld the boy, with beauty blest
And famous lineage; he sadly thought
How hard it was to bend the bow, distressed
Because his child must be so dearly bought.

He said: "O holy one, a mighty deed
That full-grown elephants with greatest pain
Could hardly be successful in, we need
Not ask of elephant-cubs. It would be vain.

For many splendid kings of valorous name,
Bearing the scars of many a hard-fought day,
Have tried and failed; then, covered with their shame,
Have shrugged their shoulders, cursed, and strode away. "

Yet when the bow is given to the youthful Rama, he not only bends, but
breaks it. He is immediately rewarded with the hand of the Princess
Sita, while Lakshmana marries her sister. On their journey home with
their young brides, dreadful portents appear, followed by their cause,
a strange being called Rama-with-the-axe, who is carefully to be
distinguished from Prince Rama. This Rama-with-the-axe is a Brahman
who has sworn to exterminate the entire warrior caste, and who
naturally attacks the valorous prince. He makes light of Rama's
achievement in breaking Shiva's bow, and challenges him to bend the
mightier bow which he carries. This the prince succeeds in doing, and
Rama-with-the-axe disappears, shamed and defeated. The marriage party
then continues its journey to Ayodhya.


_Twelfth canto. The killing of Ravana_. --King Dasharatha prepares to
anoint Rama crown prince, when Queen Kaikeyi interposes. On an earlier
occasion she had rendered the king a service and received his promise
that he would grant her two boons, whatever she desired. She now
demands her two boons: the banishment of Rama for fourteen years, and
the anointing of her own son Bharata as crown prince. Rama thereupon
sets out for the Dandaka forest in Southern India, accompanied by his
faithful wife Sita and his devoted brother Lakshmana. The stricken
father dies of grief, thus fulfilling the hermit's curse. Now Prince
Bharata proves himself more generous than his mother; he refuses the
kingdom, and is with great difficulty persuaded by Rama himself to act
as regent during the fourteen years. Even so, he refuses to enter the
capital city, dwelling in a village outside the walls, and preserving
Rama's slippers as a symbol of the rightful king. Meanwhile Rama's
little party penetrates the wild forests of the south, fighting as
need arises with the giants there. Unfortunately, a giantess falls in
love with Rama, and

In Sita's very presence told
Her birth--love made her overbold:
For mighty passion, as a rule,
Will change a woman to a fool.

Scorned by Rama, laughed at by Sita, she becomes furious and
threatening.

Laugh on! Your laughter's fruit shall be
Commended to you. Gaze on me!
I am a tigress, you shall know,
Insulted by a feeble doe.

Lakshmana thereupon cuts off her nose and ears, rendering her
redundantly hideous. She departs, to return presently at the head of
an army of giants, whom Rama defeats single-handed, while his brother
guards Sita. The giantess then betakes herself to her brother, the
terrible ten-headed Ravana, king of Ceylon. He succeeds in capturing
Sita by a trick, and carries her off to his fortress in Ceylon. It is
plainly necessary for Rama to seek allies before attempting to cross
the straits and attack the stronghold. He therefore renders an
important service to the monkey king Sugriva, who gratefully leads an
army of monkeys to his assistance. The most valiant of these, Hanumat,
succeeds in entering Ravana's capital, where he finds Sita, gives her
a token from Rama, and receives a token for Rama. The army thereupon
sets out and comes to the seashore, where it is reinforced by the
giant Vibhishana, who has deserted his wicked brother Ravana. The
monkeys hurl great boulders into the strait, thus forming a bridge
over which they cross into Ceylon and besiege Ravana's capital. There
ensue many battles between the giants and the monkeys, culminating in
a tremendous duel between the champions, Rama and Ravana. In this duel
Ravana is finally slain. Rama recovers his wife, and the principal
personages of the army enter the flying chariot which had belonged to
Ravana, to return to Ayodhya; for the fourteen years of exile are now
over.


_Thirteenth canto. The return from the forest_. --This canto describes
the long journey through the air from Ceylon over the whole length of
India to Ayodhya. As the celestial car makes its journey, Rama points
out the objects of interest or of memory to Sita. Thus, as they fly
over the sea:

The form of ocean, infinitely changing,
Clasping the world and all its gorgeous state,
Unfathomed by the intellect's wide ranging,
Is awful like the form of God, and great.

He gives his billowy lips to many a river
That into his embrace with passion slips,
Lover of many wives, a generous giver
Of kisses, yet demanding eager lips.

Look back, my darling, with your fawn-like glances
Upon the path that from your prison leads;
See how the sight of land again entrances,
How fair the forest, as the sea recedes.

Then, as they pass over the spot where Rama searched for his stolen
wife:

There is the spot where, sorrowfully searching,
I found an anklet on the ground one day;
It could not tinkle, for it was not perching
On your dear foot, but sad and silent lay.

I learned where you were carried by the giant
From vines that showed themselves compassionate;
They could not utter words, yet with their pliant
Branches they pointed where you passed of late.

The deer were kind; for while the juicy grasses
Fell quite unheeded from each careless mouth,
They turned wide eyes that said, "'Tis there she passes
The hours as weary captive" toward the south.

There is the mountain where the peacocks' screaming,
And branches smitten fragrant by the rain,
And madder-flowers that woke at last from dreaming,
Made unendurable my lonely pain;

And mountain-caves where I could scarce dissemble
The woe I felt when thunder crashed anew,
For I remembered how you used to tremble
At thunder, seeking arms that longed for you.

Rama then points out the spots in Southern India where he and Sita had
dwelt in exile, and the pious hermitages which they had visited;
later, the holy spot where the Jumna River joins the Ganges; finally,
their distant home, unseen for fourteen years, and the well-known
river, from which spray-laden breezes come to them like cool,
welcoming hands. When they draw near, Prince Bharata comes forth to
welcome them, and the happy procession approaches the capital city.


_Fourteenth canto. Sita is put away_. --The exiles are welcomed by
Queen Kausalya and Queen Sumitra with a joy tinged with deep
melancholy. After the long-deferred anointing of Rama as king, comes
the triumphal entry into the ancestral capital, where Rama begins his
virtuous reign with his beloved queen most happily; for the very
hardships endured in the forest turn into pleasures when remembered in
the palace. To crown the king's joy, Sita becomes pregnant, and
expresses a wish to visit the forest again. At this point, where an
ordinary story would end, comes the great tragedy, the tremendous test
of Rama's character. The people begin to murmur about the queen,
believing that she could not have preserved her purity in the giant's
palace. Rama knows that she is innocent, but he also knows that he
cannot be a good king while the people feel as they do; and after a
pitiful struggle, he decides to put away his beloved wife. He bids his
brother Lakshmana take her to the forest, in accordance with her
request, but to leave her there at the hermitage of the sage Valmiki.
When this is done, and Sita hears the terrible future from Lakshmana,
she cries:

Take reverent greeting to the queens, my mothers,
And say to each with honour due her worth:
"My child is your son's child, and not another's;
Oh, pray for him, before he comes to birth. "

And tell the king from me: "You saw the matter,
How I was guiltless proved in fire divine;
Will you desert me for mere idle chatter?
Are such things done in Raghu's royal line?

Ah no! I cannot think you fickle-minded,
For you were always very kind to me;
Fate's thunderclap by which my eyes are blinded
Rewards my old, forgotten sins, I see.

Oh, I could curse my life and quickly end it,
For it is useless, lived from you apart,
But that I bear within, and must defend it,
Your life, your child and mine, beneath my heart.

When he is born, I'll scorn my queenly station,
Gaze on the sun, and live a hell on earth,
That I may know no pain of separation
From you, my husband, in another birth.

My king! Eternal duty bids you never
Forget a hermit who for sorrow faints;
Though I am exiled from your bed for ever,
I claim the care you owe to all the saints. "

So she accepts her fate with meek courage. But

When Rama's brother left her there to languish
And bore to them she loved her final word,
She loosed her throat in an excess of anguish
And screamed as madly as a frightened bird.

Trees shed their flowers, the peacock-dances ended,
The grasses dropped from mouths of feeding deer,
As if the universal forest blended
Its tears with hers, and shared her woeful fear.

While she laments thus piteously, she is discovered by the poet-sage
Valmiki, who consoles her with tender and beautiful words, and
conducts her to his hermitage, where she awaits the time of her
confinement. Meanwhile Rama leads a dreary life, finding duty but a
cold comforter. He makes a golden statue of his wife, and will not
look at other women.


_Fifteenth canto. Rama goes to heaven_. --The canto opens with a rather
long description of a fight between Rama's youngest brother and a
giant. On the journey to meet the giant, Shatrughna spends a night in
Valmiki's hermitage, and that very night Sita gives birth to twin
sons. Valmiki gives them the names Kusha and Lava, and when they grow
out of childhood he teaches them his own composition, the _Ramayana_,
"the sweet story of Rama," "the first path shown to poets. " At this
time the young son of a Brahman dies in the capital, and the father
laments at the king's gate, for he believes that the king is unworthy,
else heaven would not send death prematurely. Rama is roused to stamp
out evil-doing in the kingdom, whereupon the dead boy comes to life.
The king then feels that his task on earth is nearly done, and
prepares to celebrate the great horse-sacrifice. [4]

At this sacrifice appear the two youths Kusha and Lava, who sing the
epic of Rama's deeds in the presence of Rama himself. The father
perceives their likeness to himself, then learns that they are indeed
his children, whom he has never seen. Thereupon Sita is brought
forward by the poet-sage Valmiki and in the presence of her husband
and her detractors establishes her constant purity in a terrible
fashion.

"If I am faithful to my lord
In thought, in action, and in word,
I pray that Earth who bears us all
May bid me in her bosom fall. "

The faithful wife no sooner spoke
Than earth divided, and there broke
From deep within a flashing light
That flamed like lightning, blinding-bright.

And, seated on a splendid throne
Upheld by serpents' hoods alone,
The goddess Earth rose visibly,
And she was girded with the sea.

Sita was clasped in her embrace,
While still she gazed on Rama's face:
He cried aloud in wild despair;
She sank, and left him standing there.

Rama then establishes his brothers, sons, and nephews in different
cities of the kingdom, buries the three queens of his father, and
awaits death. He has not long to wait; Death comes, wearing a hermit's
garb, asks for a private interview, and threatens any who shall
disturb their conference. Lakshmana disturbs them, and so dies before
Rama. Then Rama is translated.

Cantos sixteen to nineteen form the third division of the epic, and
treat of Rama's descendants. The interest wanes, for the great hero is
gone.


_Sixteenth canto. Kumudvati's wedding_. --As Kusha lies awake one
night, a female figure appears in his chamber; and in answer to his
question, declares that she is the presiding goddess of the ancient
capital Ayodhya, which has been deserted since Rama's departure to
heaven. She pictures the sad state of the city thus:

I have no king; my towers and terraces
Crumble and fall; my walls are overthrown;
As when the ugly winds of evening seize
The rack of clouds in helpless darkness blown.

In streets where maidens gaily passed at night,
Where once was known the tinkle and the shine
Of anklets, jackals slink, and by the light
Of flashing fangs, seek carrion, snarl, and whine.

The water of the pools that used to splash
With drumlike music, under maidens' hands,
Groans now when bisons from the jungle lash
It with their clumsy horns, and roil its sands.

The peacock-pets are wild that once were tame;
They roost on trees, not perches; lose desire
For dancing to the drums; and feel no shame
For fans singed close by sparks of forest-fire.

On stairways where the women once were glad
To leave their pink and graceful footprints, here
Unwelcome, blood-stained paws of tigers pad,
Fresh-smeared from slaughter of the forest deer.

Wall-painted elephants in lotus-brooks,
Receiving each a lily from his mate,
Are torn and gashed, as if by cruel hooks,
By claws of lions, showing furious hate.

I see my pillared caryatides
Neglected, weathered, stained by passing time,
Wearing in place of garments that should please,
The skins of sloughing cobras, foul with slime.

The balconies grow black with long neglect,
And grass-blades sprout through floors no longer tight;
They still receive but cannot now reflect
The old, familiar moonbeams, pearly white.

The vines that blossomed in my garden bowers,
That used to show their graceful beauty, when
Girls gently bent their twigs and plucked their flowers,
Are broken by wild apes and wilder men.

The windows are not lit by lamps at night,
Nor by fair faces shining in the day,
But webs of spiders dim the delicate, light
Smoke-tracery with one mere daub of grey.

The river is deserted; on the shore
No gaily bathing men and maidens leave
Food for the swans; its reedy bowers no more
Are vocal: seeing this, I can but grieve.

The goddess therefore begs Kusha to return with his court to the old
capital, and when he assents, she smiles and vanishes. The next
morning Kusha announces the vision of the night, and immediately sets
out for Ayodhya with his whole army. Arrived there, King Kusha quickly
restores the city to its former splendour. Then when the hot summer
comes, the king goes down to the river to bathe with the ladies of the
court. While in the water he loses a great gem which his father had
given him. The divers are unable to find it, and declare their belief
that it has been stolen by the serpent Kumuda who lives in the river.
The king threatens to shoot an arrow into the river, whereupon the
waters divide, and the serpent appears with the gem. He is accompanied
by a beautiful maiden, whom he introduces as his sister Kumudvati, and
whom he offers in marriage to Kusha. The offer is accepted, and the
wedding celebrated with great pomp.


_Seventeenth canto. King Atithi_. --To the king and queen is born a
son, who is named Atithi. When he has grown into manhood, his father
Kusha engages in a struggle with a demon, in which the king is killed
in the act of killing his adversary. He goes to heaven, followed by
his faithful queen, and Atithi is anointed king. The remainder of the
canto describes King Atithi's glorious reign.


_Eighteenth canto. The later princes_. --This canto gives a brief,
impressionistic sketch of the twenty-one kings who in their order
succeeded Atithi.


_Nineteenth canto. The loves of Agnivarna_. --After the twenty-one
kings just mentioned, there succeeds a king named Agnivarna, who gives
himself to dissipation. He shuts himself up in the palace; even when
duty requires him to appear before his subjects, he does so merely by
hanging one foot out of a window. He trains dancing-girls himself, and
has so many mistresses that he cannot always call them by their right
names. It is not wonderful that this kind of life leads before long to
a consuming disease; and as Agnivarna is even then unable to resist
the pleasures of the senses, he dies. His queen is pregnant, and she
mounts the throne as regent in behalf of her unborn son. With this
strange scene, half tragic, half vulgar, the epic, in the form in
which it has come down to us, abruptly ends.

If we now endeavour to form some critical estimate of the poem, we are
met at the outset by this strangely unnatural termination. We cannot
avoid wondering whether the poem as we have it is complete.
And we
shall find that there are good reasons for believing that Kalidasa did
not let the glorious solar line end in the person of the voluptuous
Agnivarna and his unborn child. In the first place, there is a
constant tradition which affirms that _The Dynasty of Raghu_
originally consisted of twenty-five cantos. A similar tradition
concerning Kalidasa's second epic has justified itself; for some time
only seven cantos were known; then more were discovered, and we now
have seventeen. Again, there is a rhetorical rule, almost never
disregarded, which requires a literary work to end with an epilogue in
the form of a little prayer for the welfare of readers or auditors.
Kalidasa himself complies with this rule, certainly in five of his
other six books. Once again, Kalidasa has nothing of the tragedian in
his soul; his works, without exception, end happily. In the drama
_Urvashi_ he seriously injures a splendid old tragic story for the
sake of a happy ending. These facts all point to the probability that
the conclusion of the epic has been lost. We may even assign a
natural, though conjectural, reason for this. _The Dynasty of Raghu_
has been used for centuries as a text-book in India, so that
manuscripts abound, and commentaries are very numerous. Now if the
concluding cantos were unfitted for use as a text-book, they might
very easily be lost during the centuries before the introduction of
printing-presses into India. Indeed, this very unfitness for use as a
school text seems to be the explanation of the temporary loss of
several cantos of Kalidasa's second epic.

On the other hand, we are met by the fact that numerous commentators,
living in different parts of India, know the text of only nineteen
cantos. Furthermore, it is unlikely that Kalidasa left the poem
incomplete at his death; for it was, without serious question, one of
his earlier works. Apart from evidences of style, there is the
subject-matter of the introductory stanzas, in which the poet presents
himself as an aspirant for literary fame. No writer of established
reputation would be likely to say:

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.

In only one other of his writings, in the drama which was undoubtedly
written earlier than the other two dramas, does the poet thus present
his feeling of diffidence to his auditors.

It is of course possible that Kalidasa wrote the first nineteen cantos
when a young man, intending to add more, then turned to other matters,
and never afterwards cared to take up the rather thankless task of
ending a youthful work.

The question does not admit of final solution. Yet whoever reads and
re-reads _The Dynasty of Raghu_, and the other works of its author,
finds the conviction growing ever stronger that our poem in nineteen
cantos is mutilated. We are thus enabled to clear the author of the
charge of a lame and impotent conclusion.

Another adverse criticism cannot so readily be disposed of; that of a
lack of unity in the plot. As the poem treats of a kingly dynasty, we
frequently meet the cry: The king is dead. Long live the king! The
story of Rama himself occupies only six cantos; he is not born until
the tenth canto, he is in heaven after the fifteenth. There are in
truth six heroes, each of whom has to die to make room for his
successor. One may go farther and say that it is not possible to give
a brief and accurate title to the poem. It is not a _Ramayana_, or
epic of Rama's deeds, for Rama is on the stage during only a third of
the poem. It is not properly an epic of Raghu's line, for many kings
of this line are unmentioned. Not merely kings who escape notice by
their obscurity, but also several who fill a large place in Indian
story, whose deeds and adventures are splendidly worthy of epic
treatment. _The Dynasty of Raghu_ is rather an epic poem in which Rama
is the central figure, giving it such unity as it possesses, but which
provides Rama with a most generous background in the shape of selected
episodes concerning his ancestors and his descendants.

Rama is the central figure. Take him away and the poem falls to pieces
like a pearl necklace with a broken string. Yet it may well be doubted
whether the cantos dealing with Rama are the most successful. They are
too compressed, too briefly allusive. Kalidasa attempts to tell the
story in about one-thirtieth of the space given to it by his great
predecessor Valmiki. The result is much loss by omission and much loss
by compression. Many of the best episodes of the _Ramayana_ are quite
omitted by Kalidasa: for example, the story of the jealous humpback
who eggs on Queen Kaikeyi to demand her two boons; the beautiful scene
in which Sita insists on following Rama into the forest; the account
of the somnolent giant Pot-ear, a character quite as good as
Polyphemus. Other fine episodes are so briefly alluded to as to lose
all their charm: for example, the story of the golden deer that
attracts the attention of Rama while Ravana is stealing his wife; the
journey of the monkey Hanumat to Ravana's fortress and his interview
with Sita.

The Rama-story, as told by Valmiki, is one of the great epic stories
of the world. It has been for two thousand years and more the story
_par excellence_ of the Hindus; and the Hindus may fairly claim to be
the best story-tellers of the world. There is therefore real matter
for regret in the fact that so great a poet as Kalidasa should have
treated it in a way not quite worthy of it and of himself. The reason
is not far to seek, nor can there be any reasonable doubt as to its
truth. Kalidasa did not care to put himself into direct competition
with Valmiki. The younger poet's admiration of his mighty predecessor
is clearly expressed. It is with especial reference to Valmiki that he
says in his introduction:

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.

He introduces Valmiki into his own epic, making him compose the
_Ramayana_ in Rama's lifetime. Kalidasa speaks of Valmiki as "the
poet," and the great epic he calls "the sweet story of Rama," "the
first path shown to poets," which, when sung by the two boys, was
heard with motionless delight by the deer, and, when sung before a
gathering of learned men, made them heedless of the tears that rolled
down their cheeks.

Bearing these matters in mind, we can see the course of Kalidasa's
thoughts almost as clearly as if he had expressed them directly. He
was irresistibly driven to write the wonderful story of Rama, as any
poet would be who became familiar with it. At the same time, his
modesty prevented him from challenging the old epic directly. He
therefore writes a poem which shall appeal to the hallowed association
that cluster round the great name of Rama, but devotes two-thirds of
it to themes that permit him greater freedom. The result is a formless
plot.

This is a real weakness, yet not a fatal weakness. In general,
literary critics lay far too much emphasis on plot. Of the elements
that make a great book, two, style and presentation of character,
hardly permit critical analysis. The third, plot, does permit such
analysis. Therefore the analyst overrates its importance. It is fatal
to all claim of greatness in a narrative if it is shown to have a bad
style or to be without interesting characters. It is not fatal if it
is shown that the plot is rambling. In recent literature it is easy to
find truly great narratives in which the plot leaves much to be
desired. We may cite the _Pickwick Papers, Les Miserables, War and
Peace_.

We must then regard _The Dynasty of Raghu_ as a poem in which single
episodes take a stronger hold upon the reader than does the unfolding
of an ingenious plot. In some degree, this is true of all long poems.
The _AEneid_ itself, the most perfect long poem ever written, has dull
passages. And when this allowance is made, what wonderful passages we
have in Kalidasa's poem! One hardly knows which of them makes the
strongest appeal, so many are they and so varied. There is the
description of the small boy Raghu in the third canto, the choice of
the princess in the sixth, the lament of King Aja in the eighth, the
story of Dasharatha and the hermit youth in the ninth, the account of
the ruined city in the sixteenth. Besides these, the Rama cantos, ten
to fifteen, make an epic within an epic. And if Kalidasa is not seen
at his very best here, yet his second best is of a higher quality than
the best of others. Also, the Rama story is so moving that a mere
allusion to it stirs like a sentimental memory of childhood. It has
the usual qualities of a good epic story: abundance of travel and
fighting and adventure and magic interweaving of human with
superhuman, but it has more than this. In both hero and heroine there
is real development of character. Odysseus and AEneas do not grow; they
go through adventures. But King Rama, torn between love for his wife
and duty to his subjects, is almost a different person from the
handsome, light-hearted prince who won his bride by breaking Shiva's
bow. Sita, faithful to the husband who rejects her, has made a long,
character-forming journey since the day when she left her father's
palace, a youthful bride. Herein lies the unique beauty of the tale of
Rama, that it unites romantic love and moral conflict with a splendid
story of wild adventure. No wonder that the Hindus, connoisseurs of
story-telling, have loved the tale of Rama's deeds better than any
other story.

If we compare _The Dynasty of Raghu_ with Kalidasa's other books, we
find it inferior to _The Birth of the War-god_ in unity of plot,
inferior to _Shakuntala_ in sustained interest, inferior to _The
Cloud-Messenger_ in perfection of every detail. Yet passages in it are
as high and sweet as anything in these works. And over it is shed the
magic charm of Kalidasa's style. Of that it is vain to speak. It can
be had only at first hand. The final proof that _The Dynasty of Raghu_
is a very great poem, is this: no one who once reads it can leave it
alone thereafter. {}


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: If a king aspired to the title of emperor, or king of
kings, he was at liberty to celebrate the horse-sacrifice. A horse was
set free to wander at will for a year, and was escorted by a band of
noble youths who were not permitted to interfere with his movements.
If the horse wandered into the territory of another king, such king
must either submit to be the vassal of the horse's owner, or must
fight him. If the owner of the horse received the submission, with or
without fighting, of all the kings into whose territories the horse
wandered during the year of freedom, he offered the horse in sacrifice
and assumed the imperial title. ]

[Footnote 2: This is not the place to discuss the many interesting
questions of geography and ethnology suggested by the fourth canto.
But it is important to notice that Kalidasa had at least superficial
knowledge of the entire Indian peninsula and of certain outlying
regions. ]

[Footnote 3: A girl of the warrior caste had the privilege of choosing
her husband. The procedure was this. All the eligible youths of the
neighbourhood were invited to her house, and were lavishly
entertained. On the appointed day, they assembled in a hall of the
palace, and the maiden entered with a garland in her hand. The suitors
were presented to her with some account of their claims upon her
attention, after which she threw the garland around the neck of him
whom she preferred. ]

[Footnote 4: See footnote, p. 128. ]

* * * * *




THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD


_The Birth of the War-god_ is an epic poem in seventeen cantos. It
consists of 1096 stanzas, or about 4400 lines of verse. The subject is
the marriage of the god Shiva, the birth of his son, and the victory
of this son over a powerful demon. The story was not invented by
Kalidasa, but taken from old mythology. Yet it had never been told in
so masterly a fashion as had been the story of Rama's deeds by
Valmiki. Kalidasa is therefore under less constraint in writing this
epic than in writing _The Dynasty of Raghu_. I give first a somewhat
detailed analysis of the matter of the poem.

_First canto. The birth of Parvati_. --The poem begins with a
description of the great Himalaya mountain-range.

God of the distant north, the Snowy Range
O'er other mountains towers imperially;
Earth's measuring-rod, being great and free from change,
Sinks to the eastern and the western sea.

Whose countless wealth of natural gems is not
Too deeply blemished by the cruel snow;
One fault for many virtues is forgot,
The moon's one stain for beams that endless flow.

Where demigods enjoy the shade of clouds
Girding his lower crests, but often seek,
When startled by the sudden rain that shrouds
His waist, some loftier, ever sunlit peak.

Where bark of birch-trees makes, when torn in strips
And streaked with mountain minerals that blend
To written words 'neath dainty finger-tips,
Such dear love-letters as the fairies send.

Whose organ-pipes are stems of bamboo, which
Are filled from cavern-winds that know no rest,
As if the mountain strove to set the pitch
For songs that angels sing upon his crest.

Where magic herbs that glitter in the night
Are lamps that need no oil within them, when
They fill cave-dwellings with their shimmering light
And shine upon the loves of mountain men.

Who offers roof and refuge in his caves
To timid darkness shrinking from the day;
A lofty soul is generous; he saves
Such honest cowards as for protection pray,

Who brings to birth the plants of sacrifice;
Who steadies earth, so strong is he and broad.
The great Creator, for this service' price,
Made him the king of mountains, and a god.

Himalaya marries a wife, to whom in course of time a daughter is born,
as wealth is born when ambition pairs with character. The child is
named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain. Her father takes
infinite delight in her, as well he may; for

She brought him purity and beauty too,
As white flames to the lamp that burns at night;
Or Ganges to the path whereby the true
Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.

She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and
little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.

As pictures waken to the painter's brush,
Or lilies open to the morning sun,
Her perfect beauty answered to the flush
Of womanhood when childish days were done.

Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray;
Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid:
Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay,
That round her red, red lips for ever played.

And when she spoke, the music of her tale
Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit,
Till listeners felt as if the nightingale
Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.

It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the
wife of the god Shiva. This prediction awakens her father's pride, and
also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances. For the destined
bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and
self-denial upon a mountain peak. Himalaya therefore bids his daughter
wait upon Shiva. She does so, but without being able to divert him
from his austerities.


_Second canto. Brahma's self-revelation_. --At this time, the gods
betake themselves to Brahma, the Creator, and sing a hymn of praise, a
part of which is given here.

Before creation, thou art one;
Three, when creation's work is done:
All praise and honour unto thee
In this thy mystic trinity.

Three various forms and functions three
Proclaim thy living majesty;
Thou dost create, and then maintain,
And last, destroyest all again.

Thy slow recurrent day and night
Bring death to all, or living light.
We live beneath thy waking eye;
Thou sleepest, and thy creatures die.

Solid and fluid, great and small,
And light and heavy--Thou art all;
Matter and form are both in thee:
Thy powers are past discovery. []

Thou art the objects that unroll
Their drama for the passive soul;
Thou art the soul that views the play
Indifferently, day by day.

Thou art the knower and the known;
Eater and food art thou alone;
The priest and his oblation fair;
The prayerful suppliant and the prayer.

Brahma receives their worship graciously, and asks the reason of their
coming. The spokesman of the gods explains to Brahma how a great demon
named Taraka is troubling the world, and how helpless they are in
opposing him. They have tried the most extravagant propitiation, and
found it useless.

The sun in heaven dare not glow
With undiminished heat, but so
As that the lilies may awake
Which blossom in his pleasure-lake.

The wind blows gently as it can
To serve him as a soothing fan,
And dare not manifest its power,
Lest it should steal a garden flower.

The seasons have forgotten how
To follow one another now;
They simultaneously bring
Him flowers of autumn, summer, spring.

Such adoration makes him worse;
He troubles all the universe:
Kindness inflames a rascal's mind;
He should be recompensed in kind.

And all the means that we have tried
Against the rogue, are brushed aside,
As potent herbs have no avail
When bodily powers begin to fail.

We seek a leader, O our Lord,
To bring him to his just reward--
As saints seek evermore to win
Virtue, to end life's woe and sin--

That he may guide the heavenly host,
And guard us to the uttermost,
And from our foe lead captive back
The victory which still we lack.

Brahma answers that the demon's power comes from him, and he does not
feel at liberty to proceed against it; "for it is not fitting to cut
down even a poison-tree that one's own hand has planted. " But he
promises that a son shall be born to Shiva and Parvati, who shall lead
the gods to victory. With this answer the gods are perforce content,
and their king, Indra, waits upon the god of love, to secure his
necessary co-operation.


_Third canto. The burning of Love_. --Indra waits upon Love, who asks
for his commands. Indra explains the matter, and asks Love to inflame
Shiva with passion for Parvati. Love thereupon sets out, accompanied
by his wife Charm and his friend Spring. When they reach the mountain
where Shiva dwells, Spring shows his power. The snow disappears; the
trees put forth blossoms; bees, deer, and birds waken to new life. The
only living being that is not influenced by the sudden change of
season is Shiva, who continues his meditation, unmoved. Love himself
is discouraged, until he sees the beauty of Parvati, when he takes
heart again. At this moment, Shiva chances to relax his meditation,
and Parvati approaches to do him homage. Love seizes the lucky moment,
and prepares to shoot his bewildering arrow at Shiva. But the great
god sees him, and before the arrow is discharged, darts fire from his
eye, whereby Love is consumed. Charm falls in a swoon, Shiva vanishes,
and the wretched Parvati is carried away by her father.


_Fourth canto. The lament of Charm_. --This canto is given entire.

The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon,
Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting
Was preparation of herself full soon
To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.

Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought
On every spot where he might be, in vain,
Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought,
The lover she should never see again.

She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live,
Lord of my life? " And at the last she found
Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive,
Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.

With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained
By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair,
She wept and to the forest world complained,
As if the forest in her grief might share.

"Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish;
Perfect its loveliness in every part;
I saw that beauty fade away and perish,
Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!

Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only
Endured, and I for ever need its power;
Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely,
When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.

Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish;
I never did a thing to work thee harm;
Why should I thus in vain affliction languish?
Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?

Of playful chastisements art thou reminded,
Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands,
Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded,
Held for thy meet correction in these hands?

I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often
'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true,
But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften:
Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.

Think not that on the journey thou hast taken
So newly, I should fail to find thy track;
Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken,
For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.

Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden
Through veils of midnight darkness in the town
To the eager heart with loving fancies laden,
And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?

The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances,
That bids the love-word trippingly to glide,
Is now deception; for if flashing glances
Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.

And when he knows thy life is a remembrance,
Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain,
Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance,
And even in his waxing time, will wane.

Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding
On twigs where pink is struggling with the green,
Greeted by koil-birds sweet concert holding--
Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?

Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention,
To speed the missile when the bow is bent?
They buzz about me now with kind intention,
And mortify the grief which they lament.

Arise! Assume again thy radiant beauty!
Rebuke the koil-bird, whom nature taught
Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty
As messenger to bosoms passion-fraught.

Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion,
Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest
By fervent, self-surrendering devotion--
And memories like these deny me rest.

Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland,
Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm!
Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land
Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.

Thy service by the cruel gods demanded,
Meant service to thy wife left incomplete,
My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded--
Return to end the adorning of my feet.

No, straight to thee I fly, my body given,
A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire,
Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven,
Awake in thee an answering desire.

Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated
For evermore a deep reproach to prove,
A stain that may not be obliterated,
If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.

And how can I perform the last adorning
Of thy poor body, as befits a wife?
So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning
Thy body followed still the spirit's life.

I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow,
The bow slung careless on thy breast the while,
Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow,
Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.

But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fashion
The flowery arrow for thee?