The real
scarcity
is of time, and not of food.
Tagore - Creative Unity
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? The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cycle of Spring, by Rabindranath Tagore
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Title: The Cycle of Spring
Author: Rabindranath Tagore
Release Date: February 13, 2008 [EBook #24607]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CYCLE OF SPRING ***
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Thierry Alberto, Henry
Craig, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www. pgdp. net
Transcriber's Note:
The Table of Contents is not part of the original book.
THE
CYCLE OF SPRING
BY
SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE
MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1919
COPYRIGHT
_First Edition February 1917_
_Reprinted March 1917, 1919_
* * * * *
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
ACT IV
* * * * *
The greater part of the introductory portion of this drama
was translated from the original Bengali by Mr. C. F. Andrews
and Prof. Nishikanta Sen, and revised by the Author.
* * * * *
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
TO MY BOYS OF THE SHANTINIKETAN
WHO HAVE FREED
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
HIDDEN IN THE HEART OF THIS OLD POET
AND TO DINENDRANATH
WHO IS
THE GUIDE OF THESE BOYS IN THEIR FESTIVALS
AND TREASURE-HOUSE OF ALL MY SONGS
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION
_Characters of the Prelude_
KING, VIZIER, GENERAL (BIJOY VARMA)
CHINESE AMBASSADOR, PUNDIT (SRUTI-BHUSHAN)
POET (KABI-SHEKHAR), GUARDS, COURTIERS, HERALD
_The stage is on two levels: the higher, at the back, for the
Song-preludes alone, concealed by a purple curtain; the lower
only being discovered when the drop goes up. Diagonally across
the extreme left of the lower stage, is arranged the king's
court, with various platforms, for the various dignitaries
ascending to the canopied throne. The body of the stage is left
free for the "Play" when that develops. _
(_Enter some_ COURTIERS. )
[The names of the speakers are not given in the margin, as they
can easily be guessed. ]
Hush! Hush!
What is the matter?
The King is in great distress.
How dreadful!
Who is that over there, playing on his flute?
Why? What's the matter?
The King is greatly disturbed.
How dreadful!
What are those wild children doing, making so much noise?
They are the Mandal family.
Then tell the Mandal family to keep their children quiet.
Where can that Vizier have gone to?
Here I am. What's the matter?
Haven't you heard the news?
No, what?
The King is greatly troubled in his mind.
Well, I've got some very important news about the frontier war.
War we may have, but not the news.
Then the Chinese Ambassador is waiting to see His Majesty.
Let him wait. Anyhow he can't see the King.
Can't see the King? --Ah, here is the King at last. Look at him
coming this way, with a mirror in his hand. "Long live the King.
Long live the King. "
If it please Your Majesty, it is time to go to the Court.
Time to go? Yes, time to go, but not to the Court.
What does Your Majesty mean?
Haven't you heard? The bell has just been rung to dismiss the
Court.
When? What bell? We haven't heard any bell.
How could you hear? They have rung it in my ears alone.
Oh, Sire. No one can have had the impertinence to do that.
Vizier! They are ringing it now.
Pardon me, Sire, if I am very stupid; but I cannot understand.
Look at this, Vizier, look at this.
Your Majesty's hair----
Can't you see there's a bell-ringer there?
Oh, Your Majesty. Are you playing a joke?
The joke is not mine, but His, who has got the whole world by the
ear, and is having His jest. Last night, when the Queen was
putting a garland of jasmines round my neck, she cried out with
alarm, "King, what is this? Here are two grey hairs behind your
ear. "
Oh, please, Sire, don't worry so much about a little thing like
that. Why! The royal physician----
Vizier! The founder of our dynasty had his royal physician, too.
But what could he do? Death has left his card of invitation
behind my ear. The Queen wanted, then and there, to pluck out the
grey hairs. But I said, "Queen, what's the use? You may remove
Death's invitation, but can you remove Death, the Inviter? " So,
for the present----
Yes, Sire, for the present, let us attend to business.
Business, Vizier! I have no time for business. Send for the
Pundit. Send for Sruti-bhushan.
But, Sire, the General----
The General? --No, no, not the General. Send for the Pundit.
But, the news from the frontier----
Vizier, the news has come to me from the last great frontier of
all, the frontier of Death. Send for the Pundit.
But if Your Majesty will give me one moment, the Ambassador from
the great Emperor of China----
Vizier, a greater Emperor has sent his embassy to me. Call
Sruti-bhushan.
Very well, Sire. But your father-in-law----
It is not my father-in-law whom I want now. Send for the Pundit.
But, if it please you to hear me this once. The poet,
Kabi-shekhar, is waiting with his new book called the _Garden of
Poesy_.
Let your poet disport himself, jumping about on the topmost
branches of his Garden of Poesy, but send for the Pundit.
Very well, Sire. I will send for him at once.
Tell him to bring his book of devotions with him, called the
_Ocean of Renunciation_.
Yes, Sire.
But, Vizier. Who are those outside making all that noise? Go out
and stop them at once. I must have peace.
If it please Your Majesty, there is a famine in Nagapatam and the
headmen of the villages are praying to be allowed to see your
face.
My time is short, Vizier. I must have peace.
They say their time is shorter. They are at death's door. They,
too, want peace,--peace from the burning of hunger.
Vizier! The burning of hunger is quenched at last on the funeral
pyre.
Then these wretched people----
Wretched! --Listen to the advice of a wretched King to his
wretched subjects. It is futile to be impatient, and try to break
through the net of the inexorable Fisherman. Sooner or later,
Death the Fisherman will have his haul.
Well then?
Let me have the Pundit, and his _Book of Renunciation_.
And in this scarcity----
Vizier!
The real scarcity is of time, and not of food. We are all
suffering from starvation of time. None of us has enough of it,
neither the King, nor his people.
Then----
Then know, that our petitions for more time will all go to the
last fire of doom. So why strain our voice in prayer? --Ah, here
is Sruti-bhushan at last. My reverence to you.
Pundit, do tell the King that the Goddess of Fortune deserts him
who gives way to melancholy.
Sruti-bhushan, what is my Vizier whispering to you?
He tells me, King, to instruct you in the ways of fortune.
What instruction can you give?
There is a verse in my book of devotions which runs as follows:
_Fortune, as fickle as lotus-flower,
Closes her favours when comes the hour.
Oh, foolish man, how can you trust her,
Who comes of a sudden, and goes in a fluster? _
Ah, Pundit. One breath of your teaching blows out the false flame
of ambition. Our teacher has said:
"Teeth fall out, hair grows grey;
Yet man clings to hope that plays him false. "
Well, King, now that you have introduced the subject of hope, let
me give you another verse from the _Ocean of Renunciation_. It
runs as follows:
_That fetters are binding, all are aware;
But fetters of hope are strange, I declare.
Hope's captive is tossed in the whirlpool's wake,
And only grows still when the fetters break. _
Ah, Pundit. Your words are priceless. Vizier, give him a hundred
gold sequins at once. What's that noise outside?
It is the famine-stricken people.
Tell them to hold their peace.
Let Sruti-bhushan, with his book of devotions, go and try to
bring them peace; and, in the meanwhile, Your Majesty might
discuss war matters----
No, no. Let the war matters come later. I can't let Sruti-bhushan
go yet.
King, you said something to me, a moment ago, about a gift of
gold. Now mere gold, by itself, does not confer any permanent
benefit. It is said in my book of devotions, called the _Ocean of
Renunciation_:
_He who gives gold, gives only pain;
When the gold is spent grief comes again.
When a lakh, or crore, of gold is spent,
Grief only remains in the empty tent. _
Ah, Pundit. How exquisite. So you don't want any gold, my Master?
No, King, I don't want gold, but something more permanent, which
would make your merit permanent also. I should be quite content,
if you gave me the living of Kanchanpur. For it is said in the
_Renunciation_----
No, Pundit, I quite understand. You needn't quote scripture to
support your claim. I understand quite well--Vizier!
Yes, Your Majesty.
See that the rich province of Kanchanpur is settled on the
Pundit. --What's the matter now outside there? What are they
crying for?
If it please Your Majesty, it is the people.
Why do they cry so repeatedly?
Their cry is repeated, I admit, but the reason remains most
monotonously the same. They are starving.
But, King, I must tell you before I forget it. It is the one
desire of my wife to make her whole body jingle, from head to
foot, in praise of your munificence; but, alas, the sound is too
feeble for want of proper ornaments.
I understand you, Pundit. Vizier! Order ornaments from the Court
Jeweller for Sruti-bhushan's wife immediately.
And, King, while he is about it, would you tell the Vizier, that
we are both of us distracted in our devotions by house-repairs.
Let him ask the royal masons to put up a thoroughly well-built
house, where we can practise our devotions in peace.
Very well, Pundit. --Vizier!
Yes, Your Majesty.
Give the order at once.
Sire, your treasury is empty. Funds are wanting.
Pooh! That's an old story. I hear that every year. It is your
business to increase the funds, and mine to increase the wants.
What do you say, Sruti-bhushan?
King, I cannot blame the Vizier. He is looking after your
treasures in this world. We are looking after your treasures in
the next. So where he sees want, we see wealth. Now, if you
would only let me dive deep once more into the _Ocean of
Renunciation_ you will find it written as follows:
_That King's coffers are well stored,
Where wealth alone on worth is poured. _
Pundit, your company is most valuable.
Your Majesty, Sruti-bhushan knows its value to a farthing. Come,
Sruti-bhushan, make haste. Let us collect all the wealth you need
for your Treasury of Devotion. For wealth has the ugly habit of
diminishing fast. If we are not quick about it, little will
remain to enable us to observe our renunciation with all
splendour.
Yes, Vizier, let us go at once. (_To the King. _) When he is
making such a fuss about a tiny matter like this, it is best to
pacify him first and then return to you afterwards.
Pundit, I am afraid that, some day, you will leave my royal
protection altogether, and retire to the forest.
King, so long as I find contentment in a King's palace, it is as
good as a hermitage for my peace of mind. I must now leave you,
King. Vizier, let us go.
[_The Vizier and Pundit go out. _
Oh, dear me! Whatever shall I do? Here's the Poet coming. I am
afraid he'll make me break all my good resolutions. --Oh, my grey
hairs, cover my ears, so that the Poet's allurements may not
enter.
Why, King, what's the matter? I hear you want to send away your
Poet.
What have I to do with poets, when poetry brings me this parting
message?
What parting message?
Look at this behind my ear. Don't you see it?
See what? Grey hairs? Why, King, don't you worry about that.
Poet, Nature is trying to rub out the green of youth, and to
paint everything white.
No, no, King. You haven't understood the artist. On that white
ground, Nature will paint new colours.
I don't see any sign of colours yet.
They are all within. In the heart of the white dwell all the
colours of the rainbow.
Oh, Poet, do be quiet. You disturb me when you talk like that.
King, if this youth fades, let it fade. Another Queen of Youth is
coming. And she is putting a garland of pure white jasmines round
your head, in order to be your bride. The wedding festival is
being made ready, behind the scene.
Oh, dear, Poet. You will undo everything. Do go away. Ho there,
Guard. Go at once and call Sruti-bhushan.
What will you do with him, King, when he comes?
I will compose my mind, and practise my renunciation.
Ah, King, when I heard that news, I came at once. For I can be
your companion in this practice of renunciation.
You?
Yes, I, King. We Poets exist for this very purpose. We set men
free from their desires.
I don't understand you. You talk in riddles.
What? You don't understand me? And yet you have been reading my
poems all this while! --There is renunciation in our words,
renunciation in the metre, renunciation in our music. That is why
fortune always forsakes us; and we, in turn always forsake
fortune. We go about, all day long, initiating the youths in the
sacred cult of fortune-forsaking.
What does it say to us?
It says:
_"Ah, brothers, don't cling to your goods and chattels,
And sit ever in the corner of your room.
Come out, come out into the open world.
Come out into the highways of life.
Come out, ye youthful Renouncers. "_
But, Poet, do you really mean to say that the highway of the open
world is the pathway of renunciation?
Why not, King? In the open world all is change, all is life, all
is movement. And he who ever moves and journeys with this
life-movement, dancing and playing on his flute as he goes, he is
the true Renouncer. He is the true disciple of the minstrel Poet.
But how then can I get peace? I must have peace.
Oh, King, we haven't the least desire for peace. We are the
Renouncers.
But ought we not to get that treasure, which is said to be
never-changing?
No, we don't covet any never-changing treasures. We are the
Renouncers.
What do you mean? Oh, dear, Poet, you will undo everything, if
you talk like that. You are destroying my peace of mind. Call
Sruti-bhushan. Let some one call the Pundit.
What I mean, King, is this. We are the true Renouncers, because
change is our very secret. We lose, in order to find. We have no
faith in the never-changing.
What do you mean?
Haven't you noticed the detachment of the rushing river, as it
runs splashing from its mountain cave? It gives itself away so
swiftly, and only thus it finds itself. What is never-changing,
for the river, is the desert sand, where it loses its course.
Ah, but listen, Poet--listen to those cries there outside. That
is your world. How do you deal with that?
King, they are your starving people.
My people, Poet? Why do you call them that? They are the world's
people, not mine. Have I created their miseries? What can your
youthful Poet Renouncers do to relieve sufferings like theirs?
Tell me that.
King, it is we alone who can truly bear those sufferings, because
we are like the river that flows on in gladness, thus lightening
our burden, and the burden of the world. But the hard, metalled
road is fixed and never-changing. And so it makes the burden more
burdensome. The heavy loads groan and creak along it, and cut
deep gashes in its breast. We Poets call to every one to carry
all their joys and sorrows lightly, in a rhythmic measure. Our
call is the Renouncers' call.
Ah, Poet, now I don't care a straw for Sruti-bhushan. Let the
Pundit go hang. But, do you know what my trouble is now? Though I
can't, for the life of me, understand your words, the music
haunts me. Now, it's just the other way round with the Pundit.
His words are clear enough, and they obey the rules of syntax
quite correctly. But the tune! --No, it's no use telling you any
further.
King, our words don't speak, they sing.
Well, Poet, what do you want to do now?
King, I'm going to have a race through those cries, which are
rising outside your gate.
What do you mean? Famine relief is for men of business. Poets
oughtn't to have anything to do with things like that.
King, business men always make their business so out of tune.
That is why we Poets hasten to tune it.
Now come, my dear Poet, do speak in plainer language.
King, they work, because they must. We work, because we are in
love with life. That is why they condemn us as unpractical, and
we condemn them as lifeless.
But who is right, Poet? Who wins?
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Title: The Cycle of Spring
Author: Rabindranath Tagore
Release Date: February 13, 2008 [EBook #24607]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CYCLE OF SPRING ***
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Thierry Alberto, Henry
Craig, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www. pgdp. net
Transcriber's Note:
The Table of Contents is not part of the original book.
THE
CYCLE OF SPRING
BY
SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE
MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1919
COPYRIGHT
_First Edition February 1917_
_Reprinted March 1917, 1919_
* * * * *
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
ACT IV
* * * * *
The greater part of the introductory portion of this drama
was translated from the original Bengali by Mr. C. F. Andrews
and Prof. Nishikanta Sen, and revised by the Author.
* * * * *
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
TO MY BOYS OF THE SHANTINIKETAN
WHO HAVE FREED
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
HIDDEN IN THE HEART OF THIS OLD POET
AND TO DINENDRANATH
WHO IS
THE GUIDE OF THESE BOYS IN THEIR FESTIVALS
AND TREASURE-HOUSE OF ALL MY SONGS
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION
_Characters of the Prelude_
KING, VIZIER, GENERAL (BIJOY VARMA)
CHINESE AMBASSADOR, PUNDIT (SRUTI-BHUSHAN)
POET (KABI-SHEKHAR), GUARDS, COURTIERS, HERALD
_The stage is on two levels: the higher, at the back, for the
Song-preludes alone, concealed by a purple curtain; the lower
only being discovered when the drop goes up. Diagonally across
the extreme left of the lower stage, is arranged the king's
court, with various platforms, for the various dignitaries
ascending to the canopied throne. The body of the stage is left
free for the "Play" when that develops. _
(_Enter some_ COURTIERS. )
[The names of the speakers are not given in the margin, as they
can easily be guessed. ]
Hush! Hush!
What is the matter?
The King is in great distress.
How dreadful!
Who is that over there, playing on his flute?
Why? What's the matter?
The King is greatly disturbed.
How dreadful!
What are those wild children doing, making so much noise?
They are the Mandal family.
Then tell the Mandal family to keep their children quiet.
Where can that Vizier have gone to?
Here I am. What's the matter?
Haven't you heard the news?
No, what?
The King is greatly troubled in his mind.
Well, I've got some very important news about the frontier war.
War we may have, but not the news.
Then the Chinese Ambassador is waiting to see His Majesty.
Let him wait. Anyhow he can't see the King.
Can't see the King? --Ah, here is the King at last. Look at him
coming this way, with a mirror in his hand. "Long live the King.
Long live the King. "
If it please Your Majesty, it is time to go to the Court.
Time to go? Yes, time to go, but not to the Court.
What does Your Majesty mean?
Haven't you heard? The bell has just been rung to dismiss the
Court.
When? What bell? We haven't heard any bell.
How could you hear? They have rung it in my ears alone.
Oh, Sire. No one can have had the impertinence to do that.
Vizier! They are ringing it now.
Pardon me, Sire, if I am very stupid; but I cannot understand.
Look at this, Vizier, look at this.
Your Majesty's hair----
Can't you see there's a bell-ringer there?
Oh, Your Majesty. Are you playing a joke?
The joke is not mine, but His, who has got the whole world by the
ear, and is having His jest. Last night, when the Queen was
putting a garland of jasmines round my neck, she cried out with
alarm, "King, what is this? Here are two grey hairs behind your
ear. "
Oh, please, Sire, don't worry so much about a little thing like
that. Why! The royal physician----
Vizier! The founder of our dynasty had his royal physician, too.
But what could he do? Death has left his card of invitation
behind my ear. The Queen wanted, then and there, to pluck out the
grey hairs. But I said, "Queen, what's the use? You may remove
Death's invitation, but can you remove Death, the Inviter? " So,
for the present----
Yes, Sire, for the present, let us attend to business.
Business, Vizier! I have no time for business. Send for the
Pundit. Send for Sruti-bhushan.
But, Sire, the General----
The General? --No, no, not the General. Send for the Pundit.
But, the news from the frontier----
Vizier, the news has come to me from the last great frontier of
all, the frontier of Death. Send for the Pundit.
But if Your Majesty will give me one moment, the Ambassador from
the great Emperor of China----
Vizier, a greater Emperor has sent his embassy to me. Call
Sruti-bhushan.
Very well, Sire. But your father-in-law----
It is not my father-in-law whom I want now. Send for the Pundit.
But, if it please you to hear me this once. The poet,
Kabi-shekhar, is waiting with his new book called the _Garden of
Poesy_.
Let your poet disport himself, jumping about on the topmost
branches of his Garden of Poesy, but send for the Pundit.
Very well, Sire. I will send for him at once.
Tell him to bring his book of devotions with him, called the
_Ocean of Renunciation_.
Yes, Sire.
But, Vizier. Who are those outside making all that noise? Go out
and stop them at once. I must have peace.
If it please Your Majesty, there is a famine in Nagapatam and the
headmen of the villages are praying to be allowed to see your
face.
My time is short, Vizier. I must have peace.
They say their time is shorter. They are at death's door. They,
too, want peace,--peace from the burning of hunger.
Vizier! The burning of hunger is quenched at last on the funeral
pyre.
Then these wretched people----
Wretched! --Listen to the advice of a wretched King to his
wretched subjects. It is futile to be impatient, and try to break
through the net of the inexorable Fisherman. Sooner or later,
Death the Fisherman will have his haul.
Well then?
Let me have the Pundit, and his _Book of Renunciation_.
And in this scarcity----
Vizier!
The real scarcity is of time, and not of food. We are all
suffering from starvation of time. None of us has enough of it,
neither the King, nor his people.
Then----
Then know, that our petitions for more time will all go to the
last fire of doom. So why strain our voice in prayer? --Ah, here
is Sruti-bhushan at last. My reverence to you.
Pundit, do tell the King that the Goddess of Fortune deserts him
who gives way to melancholy.
Sruti-bhushan, what is my Vizier whispering to you?
He tells me, King, to instruct you in the ways of fortune.
What instruction can you give?
There is a verse in my book of devotions which runs as follows:
_Fortune, as fickle as lotus-flower,
Closes her favours when comes the hour.
Oh, foolish man, how can you trust her,
Who comes of a sudden, and goes in a fluster? _
Ah, Pundit. One breath of your teaching blows out the false flame
of ambition. Our teacher has said:
"Teeth fall out, hair grows grey;
Yet man clings to hope that plays him false. "
Well, King, now that you have introduced the subject of hope, let
me give you another verse from the _Ocean of Renunciation_. It
runs as follows:
_That fetters are binding, all are aware;
But fetters of hope are strange, I declare.
Hope's captive is tossed in the whirlpool's wake,
And only grows still when the fetters break. _
Ah, Pundit. Your words are priceless. Vizier, give him a hundred
gold sequins at once. What's that noise outside?
It is the famine-stricken people.
Tell them to hold their peace.
Let Sruti-bhushan, with his book of devotions, go and try to
bring them peace; and, in the meanwhile, Your Majesty might
discuss war matters----
No, no. Let the war matters come later. I can't let Sruti-bhushan
go yet.
King, you said something to me, a moment ago, about a gift of
gold. Now mere gold, by itself, does not confer any permanent
benefit. It is said in my book of devotions, called the _Ocean of
Renunciation_:
_He who gives gold, gives only pain;
When the gold is spent grief comes again.
When a lakh, or crore, of gold is spent,
Grief only remains in the empty tent. _
Ah, Pundit. How exquisite. So you don't want any gold, my Master?
No, King, I don't want gold, but something more permanent, which
would make your merit permanent also. I should be quite content,
if you gave me the living of Kanchanpur. For it is said in the
_Renunciation_----
No, Pundit, I quite understand. You needn't quote scripture to
support your claim. I understand quite well--Vizier!
Yes, Your Majesty.
See that the rich province of Kanchanpur is settled on the
Pundit. --What's the matter now outside there? What are they
crying for?
If it please Your Majesty, it is the people.
Why do they cry so repeatedly?
Their cry is repeated, I admit, but the reason remains most
monotonously the same. They are starving.
But, King, I must tell you before I forget it. It is the one
desire of my wife to make her whole body jingle, from head to
foot, in praise of your munificence; but, alas, the sound is too
feeble for want of proper ornaments.
I understand you, Pundit. Vizier! Order ornaments from the Court
Jeweller for Sruti-bhushan's wife immediately.
And, King, while he is about it, would you tell the Vizier, that
we are both of us distracted in our devotions by house-repairs.
Let him ask the royal masons to put up a thoroughly well-built
house, where we can practise our devotions in peace.
Very well, Pundit. --Vizier!
Yes, Your Majesty.
Give the order at once.
Sire, your treasury is empty. Funds are wanting.
Pooh! That's an old story. I hear that every year. It is your
business to increase the funds, and mine to increase the wants.
What do you say, Sruti-bhushan?
King, I cannot blame the Vizier. He is looking after your
treasures in this world. We are looking after your treasures in
the next. So where he sees want, we see wealth. Now, if you
would only let me dive deep once more into the _Ocean of
Renunciation_ you will find it written as follows:
_That King's coffers are well stored,
Where wealth alone on worth is poured. _
Pundit, your company is most valuable.
Your Majesty, Sruti-bhushan knows its value to a farthing. Come,
Sruti-bhushan, make haste. Let us collect all the wealth you need
for your Treasury of Devotion. For wealth has the ugly habit of
diminishing fast. If we are not quick about it, little will
remain to enable us to observe our renunciation with all
splendour.
Yes, Vizier, let us go at once. (_To the King. _) When he is
making such a fuss about a tiny matter like this, it is best to
pacify him first and then return to you afterwards.
Pundit, I am afraid that, some day, you will leave my royal
protection altogether, and retire to the forest.
King, so long as I find contentment in a King's palace, it is as
good as a hermitage for my peace of mind. I must now leave you,
King. Vizier, let us go.
[_The Vizier and Pundit go out. _
Oh, dear me! Whatever shall I do? Here's the Poet coming. I am
afraid he'll make me break all my good resolutions. --Oh, my grey
hairs, cover my ears, so that the Poet's allurements may not
enter.
Why, King, what's the matter? I hear you want to send away your
Poet.
What have I to do with poets, when poetry brings me this parting
message?
What parting message?
Look at this behind my ear. Don't you see it?
See what? Grey hairs? Why, King, don't you worry about that.
Poet, Nature is trying to rub out the green of youth, and to
paint everything white.
No, no, King. You haven't understood the artist. On that white
ground, Nature will paint new colours.
I don't see any sign of colours yet.
They are all within. In the heart of the white dwell all the
colours of the rainbow.
Oh, Poet, do be quiet. You disturb me when you talk like that.
King, if this youth fades, let it fade. Another Queen of Youth is
coming. And she is putting a garland of pure white jasmines round
your head, in order to be your bride. The wedding festival is
being made ready, behind the scene.
Oh, dear, Poet. You will undo everything. Do go away. Ho there,
Guard. Go at once and call Sruti-bhushan.
What will you do with him, King, when he comes?
I will compose my mind, and practise my renunciation.
Ah, King, when I heard that news, I came at once. For I can be
your companion in this practice of renunciation.
You?
Yes, I, King. We Poets exist for this very purpose. We set men
free from their desires.
I don't understand you. You talk in riddles.
What? You don't understand me? And yet you have been reading my
poems all this while! --There is renunciation in our words,
renunciation in the metre, renunciation in our music. That is why
fortune always forsakes us; and we, in turn always forsake
fortune. We go about, all day long, initiating the youths in the
sacred cult of fortune-forsaking.
What does it say to us?
It says:
_"Ah, brothers, don't cling to your goods and chattels,
And sit ever in the corner of your room.
Come out, come out into the open world.
Come out into the highways of life.
Come out, ye youthful Renouncers. "_
But, Poet, do you really mean to say that the highway of the open
world is the pathway of renunciation?
Why not, King? In the open world all is change, all is life, all
is movement. And he who ever moves and journeys with this
life-movement, dancing and playing on his flute as he goes, he is
the true Renouncer. He is the true disciple of the minstrel Poet.
But how then can I get peace? I must have peace.
Oh, King, we haven't the least desire for peace. We are the
Renouncers.
But ought we not to get that treasure, which is said to be
never-changing?
No, we don't covet any never-changing treasures. We are the
Renouncers.
What do you mean? Oh, dear, Poet, you will undo everything, if
you talk like that. You are destroying my peace of mind. Call
Sruti-bhushan. Let some one call the Pundit.
What I mean, King, is this. We are the true Renouncers, because
change is our very secret. We lose, in order to find. We have no
faith in the never-changing.
What do you mean?
Haven't you noticed the detachment of the rushing river, as it
runs splashing from its mountain cave? It gives itself away so
swiftly, and only thus it finds itself. What is never-changing,
for the river, is the desert sand, where it loses its course.
Ah, but listen, Poet--listen to those cries there outside. That
is your world. How do you deal with that?
King, they are your starving people.
My people, Poet? Why do you call them that? They are the world's
people, not mine. Have I created their miseries? What can your
youthful Poet Renouncers do to relieve sufferings like theirs?
Tell me that.
King, it is we alone who can truly bear those sufferings, because
we are like the river that flows on in gladness, thus lightening
our burden, and the burden of the world. But the hard, metalled
road is fixed and never-changing. And so it makes the burden more
burdensome. The heavy loads groan and creak along it, and cut
deep gashes in its breast. We Poets call to every one to carry
all their joys and sorrows lightly, in a rhythmic measure. Our
call is the Renouncers' call.
Ah, Poet, now I don't care a straw for Sruti-bhushan. Let the
Pundit go hang. But, do you know what my trouble is now? Though I
can't, for the life of me, understand your words, the music
haunts me. Now, it's just the other way round with the Pundit.
His words are clear enough, and they obey the rules of syntax
quite correctly. But the tune! --No, it's no use telling you any
further.
King, our words don't speak, they sing.
Well, Poet, what do you want to do now?
King, I'm going to have a race through those cries, which are
rising outside your gate.
What do you mean? Famine relief is for men of business. Poets
oughtn't to have anything to do with things like that.
King, business men always make their business so out of tune.
That is why we Poets hasten to tune it.
Now come, my dear Poet, do speak in plainer language.
King, they work, because they must. We work, because we are in
love with life. That is why they condemn us as unpractical, and
we condemn them as lifeless.
But who is right, Poet? Who wins?
