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Translator’s Preface
Introduction
The winning of friends
The Story of the Jackal, Deer, and Crow
The Story of the Vulture, the Cat, and
the Birds
The Story of the Dead Game and the Jackal
The Prince and the Wife of the Merchant’s
Son
The Story of the Old Jackal and the Elephant
The parting of friends
The Story of the Lion, the Jackals, and
the Bull
The Story of the Monkey and the Wedge
The Story of the Washerman’s Jackass
The Story of the Cat who Served the Lion
The Story of the Terrible Bell
The Story of the Prince and the Procuress
The Story of the Black Snake and the Golden
Chain
The Story of the Lion and the Old Hare
The Story of the Wagtail and the Sea
War
The Battle of the Swans and Peacocks
The Story of the Weaver-Birds and the
Monkeys
The Story of the Old Hare and the Elephants
The Story of the Heron and the Crow
The Story of the Appeased Wheelwright
The Story of the Dyed Jackal
The Story of the Faithful Rajpoot
Peace
The Treaty Between the Peacocks and the
Swans
The Story of the Tortoise and the Geese
The Story of Fate and the Three Fishes
The Story of the Unabashed Wife
The Story of the Herons and the Mongoose
The Story of the Recluse and the Mouse
The Story of the Crane and the Crab
The Story of the Brahman and the Pans
The Duel of the Giants
The Story of the Brahman and the Goat
The Story of the Camel, the Lion, and
His Court
The Story of the Frogs and the Old Serpent
Introduction
Nala and Damayanti.—
Part I
Part II
Introduction
Invocation
book I.—
Canto
I.—Narad
[Cantos
II., III., IV., and V. are omitted]
VI.—The King
VII.—The Ministers
VIII.—Sumantra’s Speech
IX.—Rishyasring
X.—Rishyasring
Invited
XI.—The Sacrifice
Decreed
XII.—The Sacrifice Begun
XIII.—The Sacrifice Finished
XIV.—Ravan Doomed
XV.—The Nectar
XVI.—The Vanars
XVII.—Rishyasring’s Return
XVIII.—Rishyasring’s Departure
XIX.—The Birth of the
Princes
XX.—Visvamitra’s
Visit
XXI.—Visvamitra’s
Speech
XXII.—Dasaratha’s Speech
XXIII.—Vasishtha’s Speech
XXIV.—The Spells
XXV.—The Hermitage of
Love
XXVI.—The Forest of Tadaka
XXVII.—The Birth of Tadaka
XXVIII.—The Death of Tadaka
XXIX.—The Celestial Arms
XXX.—The Mysterious Powers
Introduction
Dramatis Personae
Rules for Pronunciation of Proper Names
Prologue
Act First
Act Second
Prelude to Act Third
Act Third
Prelude to Act Fourth
Act Fourth
Act Fifth
Prelude to Act Sixth
Act Sixth
Act Seventh
Introduction
ballads of Hindostan.—
Jogadhya Uma
Buttoo
Sindhu.—
Part I
Part II
Part III
miscellaneous poems.—
Near Hastings
France
The Tree of Life
Madame Therese
Sonnet
Sonnet
Our Casuarina-Tree
* * * * *
SELECTED FROM
[Translated from the Sanscrit by Sir Edwin Arnold]
A story-book from the Sanscrit at least possesses the minor merit of novelty. The “perfect language” has been hitherto regarded as the province of scholars, and few of these even have found time or taste to search its treasures. And yet among them is the key to the heart of modern India—as well as the splendid record of her ancient Gods and glories. The hope of Hindostan lies in the intelligent interest of England. Whatever avails to dissipate misconceptions between them, and to enlarge their intimacy, is a gain to both peoples; and to this end the present volume aspires, in an humble degree, to contribute.
The “Hitopadesa” is a work of high antiquity, and extended popularity. The prose is doubtless as old as our own era; but the intercalated verses and proverbs compose a selection from writings of an age extremely remote. The “Mahabharata” and the textual Veds are of those quoted; to the first of which Professor M. Williams (in his admirable edition of the “Nala,” 1860) assigns a date of 350 B.C., while he claims for the “Rig-Veda” an antiquity as high as B.C. 1300. The “Hitopadesa” may thus be fairly styled “The Father of all Fables”; for from its numerous translations have come AEsop and Pilpay, and in later days Reineke Fuchs. Originally compiled in Sanscrit, it was rendered, by order of Nushiravan, in the sixth century, A.D., into Persic. From the Persic it passed, A.D. 850, into the Arabic, and thence into Hebrew and
As often as an Oriental allusion, or a name in Hindoo mythology, seemed to ask some explanation for the English reader, notes have been appended, bearing reference to the page. In their compilation, and generally, acknowledgment is due to Professor Johnson’s excellent version and edition of the “Hitopadesa,” and to Mr. Muir’s “Sanscrit Texts.”
A residence in India, and close intercourse with the Hindoos, have given the author a lively desire to subserve their advancement. No one listens now to the precipitate ignorance which would set aside as “heathenish” the high civilization of this great race; but justice is not yet done to their past development and present capacities. If the wit, the morality, and the philosophy of these “beasts of India” (so faithfully rendered by Mr. Harrison Weir) surprise any vigorous mind into further exploration of her literature, and deeper sense of our responsibility in her government, the author will be repaid.
Edwin Arnold.
[1] “The Lights of Canopus,” a Persian paraphrase; as the “Khirad Afroz,” “the lamp of the Understanding,” is in Hindustani.
HONOR TO GUNESH, GOD OF WISDOM
This book of Counsel read,
and you shall see,
Fair speech and Sanscrit lore,
and Policy.
On the banks of the holy river Ganges there stood a city named Pataliputra. The King of it was a good King and a virtuous, and his name was Sudarsana. It chanced one day that he overheard a certain person reciting these verses—
“Wise men, holding wisdom
highest, scorn delights, as false as fair,
Daily live they as Death’s
fingers twined already in their hair.
Truly, richer than all riches,
better than the best of gain,
Wisdom is, unbought, secure—once
won, none loseth her again.
Bringing dark things into
daylight, solving doubts that vex the mind,
Like an open eye is Wisdom—he
that hath her not is blind.”
Hearing these the King became disquieted, knowing that his own sons were gaining no wisdom, nor reading the Sacred Writings,[2] but altogether going in the wrong way; and he repeated this verse to himself—
“Childless art thou?
dead thy children? leaving thee to want and dool?
Less thy misery than his is,
who is father to a fool.”
And again this—
“One wise son makes
glad his father, forty fools avail him not:—
One moon silvers all that
darkness which the silly stars did dot.”
“And it has been said,” reflected he—
“Ease and health, obeisant
children, wisdom, and a fair-voiced wife—
Thus, great King! are counted
up the five felicities of life.
For the son the sire is honored;
though the bow-cane bendeth true,
Let the strained string crack
in using, and what service shall it do?”
“Nevertheless,” mused the King, “I know it is urged that human efforts are useless: as, for instance—
“That which will not
be, will not be—and what is to be, will
be:—
Why not drink this easy physic,
antidote of misery?”
“But then that comes from idleness, with people who will not do what they should do. Rather,
“Nay! and faint not,
idly sighing, ‘Destiny is mightiest,’
Sesamum holds oil in plenty,
but it yieldeth none unpressed.
Ah! it is the Coward’s
babble, ‘Fortune taketh, Fortune gave;’
Fortune! rate her like a master,
and she serves thee like a slave.”
“For indeed,
“Twofold is the life
we live in—Fate and Will together run:—
Two wheels bear life’s
chariot onward—will it move on only one?”
“And
“Look! the clay dries
into iron, but the potter moulds the clay:—
Destiny to-day is master—Man
was master yesterday.”
“So verily,
“Worthy ends come not
by wishing. Wouldst thou? Up, and win it,
then!
While the hungry lion slumbers,
not a deer comes to his den.”
Having concluded his reflections, the Raja gave orders to assemble a meeting of learned men. Then said he—
“Hear now, O my Pundits! Is there one among you so wise that he will undertake to give the second birth of Wisdom to these my sons, by teaching them the Books of Policy; for they have never yet read the Sacred Writings, and are altogether going in the wrong road; and ye know that
“Silly glass, in splendid
settings, something of the gold may gain;
And in company of wise ones,
fools to wisdom may attain.”
Then uprose a great Sage, by name Vishnu-Sarman, learned in the principles of Policy as is the angel of the planet Jupiter himself, and he said—
“My Lord King, I will undertake to teach these princes Policy, seeing they are born of a great house; for—
“Labors spent on the
unworthy, of reward the laborer balk;
Like the parrot, teach the
heron twenty times, he will not talk.”
“But in this royal family the offspring are royal-minded, and in six moons I will engage to make your Majesty’s sons comprehend Policy.”
The Raja replied, with condescension:—
“On the eastern mountains
lying, common things shine in the sun,
And by learned minds enlightened,
lower minds may show as one.”
“And you, worshipful sir, are competent to teach my children the rules of Policy.”
So saying, with much graciousness, he gave the Princes into the charge of Vishnu-Sarman; and that sage, by way of introduction, spake to the Princes, as they sat at ease on the balcony of the palace, in this wise:—
“Hear now, my Princes! for the delectation of your Highnesses, I purpose to tell the tale of the Crow, the Tortoise, the Deer, and the Mouse.”
“Pray, sir,” said the King’s sons, “let us hear it.”
Vishnu-Sarman answered—
“It begins with the Winning of Friends; and this is the first verse of it:—
“Sans way or wealth,
wise friends their purpose gain—
The Mouse, Crow, Deer, and
Tortoise make this plain.”
[2] The Vedas are the holy books of India. They are four in number: The Rig-Veda, Yajur-Veda, Sama-Veda, and Atharva-Veda.
Sans way or wealth, wise friends
their purpose gain—
The Mouse, Crow, Deer, and
Tortoise make this plain.”
“However was that?” asked the Princes.
Vishnu-Sarman replied:—
“On the banks of the Godavery there stood a large silk-cotton-tree, and thither at night, from all quarters and regions, the birds came to roost. Now once, when the night was just spent, and his Radiance the Moon, Lover of the white lotus, was about to retire behind the western hills, a Crow who perched there, ‘Light o’ Leap’ by name, upon awakening, saw to his great wonder a fowler approaching—a second God of Death. The sight set him reflecting, as he flew off uneasily to follow up the man’s movements, and he began to think what mischief this ill-omened apparition foretold.
“For a thousand thoughts
of sorrow, and a hundred things of dread,
By the wise unheeded, trouble
day by day the foolish head.”
And yet in this life it must be that
“Of the day’s
impending dangers, Sickness, Death, and Misery,
One will be; the wise man
waking, ponders which that one will be.”
Presently the fowler fixed a net, scattered grains of rice about, and withdrew to hide. At this moment “Speckle-neck,” King of the Pigeons, chanced to be passing through the sky with his Court, and caught sight of the rice-grains. Thereupon the King of the Pigeons asked of his rice-loving followers, ’How can there possibly be rice-grains lying here in an unfrequented forest? We will see into it, of course, but We like not the look of it—love of rice may ruin us, as the Traveller was ruined.
“All out of longing
for a golden bangle,
The Tiger, in the mud, the
man did mangle.”
“How did that happen?” asked the Pigeons.
“Thus,” replied Speckle-neck: “I was pecking about one day in the Deccan forest, and saw an old tiger sitting newly bathed on the bank of a pool, like a Brahman, and with holy kuskus-grass[3] in his paws.
‘Ho! ho! ye travellers,’ he kept calling out, ‘take this golden bangle!’
Presently a covetous fellow passed by and heard him.
‘Ah!’ thought he, ’this is a bit of luck—but I must not risk my neck for it either.
“Good things come not
out of bad things; wisely leave a longed-for ill.
Nectar being mixed with poison
serves no purpose but to kill.”
‘But all gain is got by risk, so I will see into it at least;’ then he called out, ‘Where is thy bangle?’
The Tiger stretched forth his paw and exhibited it.
‘Hem!’ said the Traveller, ’can I trust such a fierce brute as thou art?’
‘Listen,’ replied the Tiger, ’once, in the days of my cub-hood, I know I was very wicked. I killed cows, Brahmans, and men without number—and I lost my wife and children for it—and haven’t kith or kin left. But lately I met a virtuous man who counselled me to practise the duty of almsgiving—and, as thou seest, I am strict at ablutions and alms. Besides, I am old, and my nails and fangs are gone—so who would mistrust me? and I have so far conquered selfishness, that I keep the golden bangle for whoso comes. Thou seemest poor! I will give it thee. Is it not said,
’Give to poor men, son
of Kunti—on the wealthy waste not wealth;
Good are simples for the sick
man, good for nought to him in health.’
‘Wade over the pool, therefore, and take the bangle,’
Thereupon the covetous Traveller determined to trust him, and waded into the pool, where he soon found himself plunged in mud, and unable to move.
‘Ho! ho!’ says the Tiger, ’art thou stuck in a slough? stay, I will fetch thee out!’
So saying he approached the wretched man and seized him—who meanwhile bitterly reflected—
’Be his Scripture-learning
wondrous, yet the cheat will be a cheat;
Be her pasture ne’er
so bitter, yet the cow’s milk will be sweet.’
And on that verse, too—
’Trust not water, trust not
weapons; trust not clawed nor horned
things;
Neither give thy soul to women, nor thy life to
Sons of Kings.’
And those others—
’Look! the Moon, the silver
roamer, from whose splendor darkness flies
With his starry cohorts marching, like a crowned
king through the
skies.
All the grandeur, all the glory, vanish in the
Dragon’s jaw;
What is written on the forehead, that will be,
and nothing more,’
Here his meditations were cut short by the Tiger devouring him. “And that,” said Speckle-neck, “is why we counselled caution.”
“Why, yes!” said a certain pigeon, with some presumption, “but you’ve read the verse—
’Counsel in danger; of it
Unwarned, be nothing begun.
But nobody asks a Prophet
Shall the risk of a dinner be run?’
Hearing that, the Pigeons settled at once; for we know that
“Avarice begetteth anger;
blind desires from her begin;
A right fruitful mother is
she of a countless spawn of sin.’
And again,
’Can a golden Deer have
being? yet for such the Hero pined:—
When the cloud of danger hovers,
then its shadow dims the mind.’
Presently they were caught in the net. Thereat, indeed, they all began to abuse the pigeon by whose suggestion they had been ensnared. It is the old tale!
“Be second and not first!—the
share’s the same
If all go well. If not,
the Head’s to blame.”
And we should remember that
“Passion will be Slave
or Mistress: follow her, she brings to woe;
Lead her, ’tis the way
to Fortune. Choose the path that thou wilt go.”
When King Speckle-neck heard their reproaches, he said, “No, no! it is no fault of his.
’When the time of trouble cometh, friends may ofttimes irk us most: For the calf at milking-hour the mother’s leg is tying-post.’
’And in disaster, dismay is a coward’s quality; let us rather rely on fortitude, and devise some remedy. How saith the sage?
“In good fortune not
elated, in ill-fortune not dismayed,
Ever eloquent in council,
never in the fight affrayed—
Proudly emulous of honor,
steadfastly on wisdom set;
Perfect virtues in the nature
of a noble soul are met.
Whoso hath them, gem and glory
of the three wide worlds[4] is he;
Happy mother she that bore
him, she who nursed him on her knee.”
“Let us do this now directly,” continued the King: “at one moment and with one will, rising under the net, let us fly off with it: for indeed
’Small things wax exceeding
mighty, being cunningly combined:—
Furious elephants are fastened
with a rope of grass-blades twined.’
“And it is written, you know,
’Let the household hold
together, though the house be ne’er so small;
Strip the rice-husk from the
rice-grain, and it groweth not at all.’
Having pondered this advice, the Pigeons adopted it; and flew away with the net. At first the fowler, who was at a distance, hoped to recover them, but as they passed out of sight with the snare about them he gave up the pursuit. Perceiving this, the Pigeons said,
“What is the next thing to be done, O King?”
“A friend of mine,” said Speckle-neck, “lives near in a beautiful forest on the Gundaki. Golden-skin is his name—the King of the Mice—he is the one to cut these bonds.”
Resolving to have recourse to him, they directed their flight to the hole of Golden-skin—a prudent monarch, who dreaded danger so much that he had made himself a palace with a hundred outlets, and lived always in it. Sitting there he heard the descent of the pigeons, and remained silent and alarmed.
“Friend Golden-skin,” cried the King, “have you no welcome for us?”
“Ah, my friend!” said the Mouse-king, rushing out on recognizing the voice, “is it thou art come, Speckle-neck! how delightful!—But what is this?” exclaimed he, regarding the entangled net.
“That,” said King Speckle-neck, “is the effect of some wrong-doing in a former life—
’Sickness, anguish,
bonds, and woe
Spring from wrongs wrought
long ago,’[5]
Golden-skin, without replying, ran at once to the net, and began to gnaw the strings that held Speckle-neck.
“Nay! friend, not so,” said the King, “cut me first these meshes from my followers, and afterwards thou shalt sever mine.”
“I am little,” answered Golden-skin, “and my teeth are weak—how can I gnaw so much? No! no! I will nibble your strings as long as my teeth last, and afterwards do my best for the others. To preserve dependents by sacrificing oneself is nowhere enjoined by wise moralists; on the contrary—
’Keep wealth for want,
but spend-it for thy wife,
And wife, and wealth, and
all to guard thy life,’
“Friend,” replied King Speckle-neck, “that may be the rule of policy, but I am one that can by no means bear to witness the distress of those who depend on me, for—
’Death, that must come,
comes nobly when we give
Our wealth, and life, and
all, to make men live,’
And you know the verse,
’Friend, art thou faithful?
guard mine honor so!
And let the earthy rotting
body go,’”
When King Golden-skin heard this answer his heart was charmed, and his fur bristled up for pure pleasure. “Nobly spoken, friend,” said he, “nobly spoken! with such a tenderness for those that look to thee, the Sovereignty of the Three Worlds might be fitly thine.” So saying he set himself to cut all their bonds. This done, and the pigeons extricated, the King of the Mice[6] gave them his formal welcome. “But, your Majesty,” he said, “this capture in the net was a work of destiny; you must not blame yourself as you did, and suspect a former fault. Is it not written—
’Floating on his fearless
pinions, lost amid the noon-day skies,
Even thence the Eagle’s
vision kens the carcase where it lies;
But the hour that comes to
all things comes unto the Lord of Air,
And he rushes, madly blinded,
to his ruin in the snare,’”
With this correction Golden-skin proceeded to perform the duties of hospitality, and afterwards, embracing and dismissing them, the pigeons left for such destination as they fancied, and the King of the Mice retired again into his hole.
Now Light o’ Leap, the Crow, had been a spectator of the whole transaction, and wondered at it so much that at last he called out, “Ho! Golden-skin, thou very laudable Prince, let me too be a friend of thine, and give me thy friendship.”
“Who art thou?” said Golden-skin, who heard him, but would not come out of his hole.
“I am the Crow Light o’ Leap,” replied the other.
“How can I possibly be on good terms with thee?” answered Golden-skin with a laugh; “have you never read—
’When Food is friends
with Feeder, look for Woe,
The Jackal ate the Deer, but
for the Crow,’
“No! how was that?”
“I will tell thee,” replied Golden-skin:—
“Far away in Behar there is a forest called Champak-Grove,[7] and in it had long lived in much affection a Deer and a Crow. The Deer, roaming unrestrained, happy and fat of carcase, was one day descried by a Jackal. ‘Ho! ho!’ thought the Jackal on observing him, ’if I could but get this soft meat for a meal! It might be—if I can only win his confidence,’ Thus reflecting he approached, and saluted him.
‘Health be to thee, friend Deer!’
‘Who art thou?’ said the Deer.
‘I’m Small-wit, the Jackal,’ replied the other. ’I live in the wood here, as the dead do, without a friend; but now that I have met with such a friend as thou, I feel as if I were beginning life again with plenty of relations. Consider me your faithful servant.’
‘Very well,’ said the Deer; and then, as the glorious King of Day, whose diadem is the light, had withdrawn himself, the two went together to the residence of the Deer. In that same spot, on a branch of Champak, dwelt the Crow Sharp-sense, an old friend of the Deer. Seeing them approach together, the Crow said,
‘Who is this number two, friend Deer?’
‘It is a Jackal,’ answered the Deer, ‘that desires our acquaintance.’
‘You should not become friendly to a stranger without reason,’ said Sharp-sense. ‘Don’t you know?’
“To folks by no one
known house-room deny:—
The Vulture housed the Cat,
and thence did die.”
‘No! how was that?’ said both.
‘In this wise,’ answered the Crow.
“On the banks of the Ganges there is a cliff called Vulture-Crag, and thereupon grew a great fig-tree. It was hollow, and within its shelter lived an old Vulture, named Grey-pate, whose hard fortune it was to have lost both eyes and talons. The birds that roosted in the tree made subscriptions from their own store, out of sheer pity for the poor fellow, and by that means he managed to live. One day, when the old birds were gone, Long-ear, the Cat, came there to get a meal of the nestlings; and they, alarmed at perceiving him, set up a chirruping that roused Grey-pate.
‘Who comes there?’ croaked Grey-pate.
“Now Long-ear, on espying the Vulture, thought himself undone; but as flight was impossible, he resolved to trust his destiny and approach.
‘My lord,’ said he, ‘I have the honor to salute thee.’
‘Who is it?’ said the Vulture.
‘I am a Cat,’
‘Be off, Cat, or I shall slay thee,’ said the Vulture.
‘I am ready to die if I deserve death,’ answered the Cat; ’but let what I have to say be heard,’
‘Wherefore, then, comest thou?’ said the Vulture.
‘I live,’ began Long-ear, ’on the Ganges, bathing, and eating no flesh, practising the moon-penance,[8] like a Bramacharya. The birds that resort thither constantly praise your worship to me as one wholly given to the study of morality, and worthy of all trust; and so I came here to learn law from thee, Sir, who art so deep gone in learning and in years. Dost thou, then, so read the law of strangers as to be ready to slay a guest? What say the books about the householder?—
’Bar thy door not to
the stranger, be he friend or be he foe,
For the tree will shade the
woodman while his axe doth lay it low,’
And if means fail, what there is should be given with kind words, as—
’Greeting fair, and
room to rest in; fire, and water from the well—
Simple gifts—are
given freely in the house where good men dwell,’—
and without respect of person—
’Young, or bent with
many winters; rich, or poor, whate’er thy guest,
Honor him for thine own honor—better
is he than the best,’
Else comes the rebuke—
’Pity them that ask
thy pity: who art thou to stint thy hoard,
When the holy moon shines
equal on the leper and the lord!’
And that other, too,
’When thy gate is roughly
fastened, and the asker turns away,
Thence he bears thy good deeds
with him, and his sins on thee doth lay
For verily,
’In the house the husband
ruleth, men the Brahmans “master” call;
Agni is the Twice-born Master—but
the guest is lord of all,’
“To these weighty words Grey-pate answered,
’Yes! but cats like meat, and there are young birds here, and therefore I said, go,’
‘Sir,’ said the Cat (and as he spoke he touched the ground, and then his two ears, and called on Krishna to witness to his words), ’I that have overcome passion, and practised the moon-penance, know the Scriptures; and howsoever they contend, in this primal duty of abstaining from injury they are unanimous. Which of them sayeth not—
’He who does and thinks
no wrong—
He who suffers, being strong—
He whose harmlessness men
know—
Unto Swerga such doth go.’
“And so, winning the old Vulture’s confidence, Long-ear, the Cat, entered the hollow tree and lived there. And day after day he stole away some of the nestlings, and brought them down to the hollow to devour. Meantime the parent birds, whose little ones were being eaten, made an inquiry after them in all quarters; and the Cat, discovering this fact, slipped out from the hollow, and made his escape. Afterwards, when the birds came to look closely, they found the bones of their young ones in the hollow of the tree where Grey-pate lived; and the birds at once concluded that their nestlings had been killed and eaten by the old Vulture, whom they accordingly executed. That is my story, and why I warned you against unknown acquaintances.”
“Sir,” said the Jackal, with some warmth, “on the first day of your encountering the Deer you also were of unknown family and character: how is it, then, that your friendship with him grows daily greater? True, I am only Small-wit, the Jackal, but what says the saw?—
“In the land where no
wise men are, men of little wit are lords;
And the castor-oil’s
a tree, where no tree else its shade affords.”
The Deer is my friend; condescend, sir, to be my friend also.”
‘Oh!’ broke in the Deer, ’why so much talking? We’ll all live together, and be friendly and happy—
’Foe is friend, and
friend is foe,
As our actions make them so,’
“Very good,” said Sharp-sense; “as you will;” and in the morning each started early for his own feeding-ground (returning at night). One day the Jackal drew the Deer aside, and whispered, ’Deer, in one corner of this wood there is a field full of sweet young wheat; come and let me show you.’ The Deer accompanied him, and found the field, and afterwards went every day there to eat the green corn, till at last the owner of the ground spied him and set a snare. The Deer came again very shortly, and was caught in it, and (after vainly struggling) exclaimed, ’I am fast in the net, and it will be a net of death to me if no friend comes to rescue me!’ Presently Small-wit, the Jackal, who had been lurking near, made his appearance, and standing still, he said to himself, with a chuckle, ’O ho! my scheme bears fruit! When he is cut up, his bones, and gristle, and blood, will fall to my share and make me some beautiful dinners,’ The Deer, here catching sight of him, exclaimed with rapture, ’Ah, friend, this is excellent! Do but gnaw these strings, and I shall be at liberty. How charming to realize the saying!—
’That friend only is
the true friend who is near when trouble comes;
That man only is the brave
man who can bear the battle-drums;
Words are wind; deed proveth
promise: he who helps at need is kin;
And the leal wife is loving
though the husband lose or win,’
And is it not written—
’Friend and kinsman—more
their meaning than the idle-hearted mind.
Many a friend can prove unfriendly,
many a kinsman less than kind:
He who shares his comrade’s
portion, be he beggar, be he lord,
Comes as truly, comes as duly,
to the battle as the board—
Stands before the king to
succor, follows to the pile to sigh—
He is friend, and he is kinsman—less
would make the name a lie.’
“Small-wit answered nothing, but betook himself to examining the snare very closely.
‘This will certainly hold,’ muttered he; then, turning to the Deer, he said, ’Good friend, these strings, you see, are made of sinew, and to-day is a fast-day, so that I cannot possibly bite them. To-morrow morning, if you still desire it, I shall be happy to serve you,’
When he was gone, the Crow, who had missed the Deer upon returning that evening, and had sought for him everywhere, discovered him; and seeing his sad plight, exclaimed—
‘How came this about, my friend?’
‘This came,’ replied the Deer, ‘through disregarding a friend’s advice,’
‘Where is that rascal Small-wit?’ asked the Crow.
‘He is waiting somewhere by,’ said the Deer, ‘to taste my flesh,’
‘Well,’ sighed the Crow, ’I warned you; but it is as in the true verse—
’Stars gleam, lamps flicker,
friends foretell of fate;
The fated sees, knows, hears them—all
too late.’
And then, with a deeper sigh, he exclaimed,’Ah, traitor Jackal, what an ill deed hast thou done! Smooth-tongued knave—alas!—and in the face of the monition too—
‘Absent, flatterers’
tongues are daggers—present, softer than
the
silk;
Shun them! ’tis a jar of poison hidden under
harmless milk;
Shun them when they promise little! Shun
them when they promise much!
For, enkindled, charcoal burneth—cold,
it doth defile the touch.’
When the day broke, the Crow (who was still there) saw the master of the field approaching with his club in his hand.
‘Now, friend Deer,’ said Sharp-sense on perceiving him, ’do thou cause thyself to seem like one dead: puff thy belly up with wind, stiffen thy legs out, and lie very still. I will make a show of pecking thine eyes out with my beak; and whensoever I utter a croak, then spring to thy feet and betake thee to flight.’
The Deer thereon placed himself exactly as the Crow suggested, and was very soon espied by the husbandman, whose eyes opened with joy at the sight.
‘Aha!’ said he, ‘the fellow has died of himself,’ and so speaking, he released the Deer from the snare, and proceeded to gather and lay aside his nets. At that instant Sharp-sense uttered a loud croak, and the Deer sprang up and made off. And the club which the husbandman flung after him in a rage struck Small-wit, the Jackal (who was close by), and killed him. Is it not said, indeed?—
’In years, or moons,
or half-moons three,
Or in three days—suddenly,
Knaves are shent—true
men go free,’
“Thou seest, then,” said Golden-skin, “there can be no friendship between food and feeder.”
“I should hardly,” replied the Crow, “get a large breakfast out of your worship; but as to that indeed you have nothing to fear from me. I am not often angry, and if I were, you know—
’Anger comes to noble
natures, but leaves there no strife or storm:
Plunge a lighted torch beneath
it, and the ocean grows not warm.’
“Then, also, thou art such a gad-about,” objected the King.
“Maybe,” answered Light o’ Leap; “but I am bent on winning thy friendship, and I will die at thy door of fasting if thou grantest it not. Let us be friends! for
’Noble hearts are golden
vases—close the bond true metals make;
Easily the smith may weld
them, harder far it is to break.
Evil hearts are earthen vessels—at
a touch they crack a-twain,
And what craftsman’s
ready cunning can unite the shards again?’
And then, too,
’Good men’s friendships
may be broken, yet abide they friends at heart;
Snap the stem of Luxmee’s
lotus, and its fibres will not part.’
“Good sir,” said the King of the Mice, “your conversation is as pleasing as pearl necklets or oil of sandal-wood in hot weather. Be it as you will”—and thereon King Golden-skin made a treaty with the Crow, and after gratifying him with the best of his store reentered his hole. The Crow returned to his accustomed perch:—and thenceforward the time passed in mutual presents of food, in polite inquiries, and the most unrestrained talk. One day Light o’ Leap thus accosted Golden-skin:—
“This is a poor place, your Majesty, for a Crow to get a living in. I should like to leave it and go elsewhere.”
“Whither wouldst thou go?” replied the King; they say,
’One foot goes, and
one foot stands,
When the wise man leaves his
lands.’
“And they say, too,” answered the Crow,
’Over-love of home were
weakness; wheresoever the hero come,
Stalwart arm and steadfast
spirit find or win for him a home.
Little recks the awless lion
where his hunting jungles lie—
When he enters it be certain
that a royal prey shall die,’
“I know an excellent jungle now.”
“Which is that?” asked the Mouse-king.
“In the Nerbudda woods, by Camphor-water,” replied the Crow. “There is an old and valued friend of mine lives there—Slow-toes his name is, a very virtuous Tortoise; he will regale me with fish and good things.”
“Why should I stay behind,” said Golden-skin, “if thou goest? Take me also.”
Accordingly, the two set forth together, enjoying charming converse upon the road. Slow-toes perceived Light o’ Leap a long way off, and hastened to do him the guest-rites, extending them to the Mouse upon Light o’ Leap’s introduction.
“Good Slow-toes,” said he, “this is Golden-skin, King of the Mice—pay all honor to him—he is burdened with virtues—a very jewel-mine of kindnesses. I don’t know if the Prince of all the Serpents, with his two thousand tongues, could rightly repeat them.” So speaking, he told the story of Speckle-neck. Thereupon Slow-toes made a profound obeisance to Golden-skin, and said, “How came your Majesty, may I ask, to retire to an unfrequented forest?”
“I will tell you,” said the King. “You must know that in the town of Champaka there is a college for the devotees. Unto this resorted daily a beggar-priest, named Chudakarna, whose custom was to place his begging-dish upon the shelf, with such alms in it as he had not eaten, and go to sleep by it; and I, so soon as he slept, used to jump up, and devour the meal. One day a great friend of his, named Vinakarna, also a mendicant, came to visit him; and observed that while conversing, he kept striking the ground with a split cane, to frighten me. ’Why don’t you listen?’ said Vinakarna. ‘I am listening!’ replied the other; ’but this plaguy mouse is always eating the meal out of my begging-dish,’ Vinakarna looked at the shelf and remarked, ’However can a mouse jump as high as this? There must be a reason, though there seems none. I guess the cause—the fellow is well off and fat,’ With these words Vinakarna snatched up a shovel, discovered my retreat, and took away all my hoard of provisions. After that I lost strength daily, had scarcely energy enough to get my dinner, and, in fact, crept about so wretchedly, that when Chudakarna saw me he fell to quoting—
’Very feeble folk are
poor folk; money lost takes wit away:—
All their doings fail like
runnels, wasting through the summer day.’
“Yes!” I thought, “he is right, and so are the sayings—
’Wealth is friends,
home, father, brother—title to respect and
fame;
Yea, and wealth is held
for wisdom—that it should be so is shame,’
’Home is empty to the
childless; hearts to them who friends deplore:—
Earth unto the idle-minded;
and the three worlds to the poor.’
’I can stay here no longer; and to tell my distress to another is out of the question—altogether out of the question!—
’Say the sages, nine
things name not: Age, domestic joys and woes,
Counsel, sickness, shame,
alms, penance; neither Poverty disclose.
Better for the proud of spirit,
death, than life with losses told;
Fire consents to be extinguished,
but submits not to be cold.’
’Verily he was wise, methought also, who wrote—
’As Age doth banish
beauty,
As moonlight dies
in gloom,
As Slavery’s menial
duty
Is Honor’s
certain tomb;
As Hari’s name and Hara’s
Spoken, charm
sin away,
So Poverty can surely
A hundred virtues
slay.’
‘And as to sustaining myself on another man’s bread, that,’ I mused, ’would be but a second door of death. Say not the books the same?—
’Half-known knowledge, present
pleasure purchased with a future woe,
And to taste the salt of service—greater
griefs no man can know.’
’And herein, also—
’All existence is not equal,
and all living is not life;
Sick men live; and he who, banished, pines for
children, home, and
wife;
And the craven-hearted eater of another’s
leavings lives,
And the wretched captive waiting for the word
of doom survives;
But they bear an anguished body, and they draw
a deadly breath,
And life cometh to them only on the happy day
of death.’
Yet, after all these reflections, I was covetous enough to make one more attempt on Chudakarna’s meal, and got a blow from the split cane for my pains. ‘Just so,’ I said to myself, ’the soul and organs of the discontented want keeping in subjection. I must be done with discontent:—
’Golden gift, serene Contentment! have thou that, and all is had; Thrust thy slipper on, and think thee that the earth is leather-clad.’
’All is known, digested, tested; nothing new is left to learn When the soul, serene, reliant, Hope’s delusive dreams can spurn.’
’And the sorry task of seeking favor is numbered in the miseries of life—
’Hast thou never watched, a-waiting till the great man’s door unbarred? Didst thou never linger parting, saying many a last sad word? Spak’st thou never word of folly, one light thing thou wouldst recall? Rare and noble hath thy life been! fair thy fortune did befall!’
‘No!’ exclaimed I, ’I will do none of these; but, by retiring into the quiet and untrodden forest, I will show my discernment of real good and ill. The holy Books counsel it—
’True Religion!—’tis not blindly prating what the priest may prate, But to love, as God hath loved them, all things, be they small or great; And true bliss is when a sane mind doth a healthy body fill; And true knowledge is the knowing what is good and what is ill.’
“So came I to the forest, where, by good fortune and this good friend, I met much kindness; and by the same good fortune have encountered you, Sir, whose friendliness is as Heaven to me. Ah! Sir Tortoise,
’Poisonous though the
tree of life be, two fair blossoms grow thereon:
One, the company of good men;
and sweet songs of Poet’s, one.’
“King!” said Slow-toes, “your error was getting too much, without giving. Give, says the sage—
’Give, and it shall
swell thy getting; give, and thou shalt safer keep:
Pierce the tank-wall; or it
yieldeth, when the water waxes deep.’
And he is very hard upon money-grubbing: as thus—
’When the miser hides
his treasure in the earth, he doeth well;
For he opens up a passage
that his soul may sink to hell,’
And thus—
’He whose coins are kept
for counting, not to barter nor to give,
Breathe he like a blacksmith’s bellows,
yet in truth he doth not live.’
It hath been well written, indeed,
’Gifts, bestowed with words of kindness, making giving doubly dear:—
Wisdom, deep, complete, benignant, of all arrogancy clear;
Valor, never yet forgetful of sweet Mercy’s pleading prayer;
Wealth, and scorn of wealth to spend it—oh! but these be virtues
rare!’
“Frugal one may be,” continued Slow-toes; “but not a niggard like the Jackal—
’The Jackal-knave, that starved
his spirit so,
And died of saving, by a broken bow.’
“Did he, indeed,” said Golden-skin; “and how was that?”
“I will tell you,” answered Slow-toes:—
“In a town called ‘Well-to-Dwell’ there lived a mighty hunter, whose name was ‘Grim-face,’ Feeling a desire one day for a little venison, he took his bow, and went into the woods; where he soon killed a deer. As he was carrying the deer home, he came upon a wild boar of prodigious proportions. Laying the deer upon the earth, he fixed and discharged an arrow and struck the boar, which instantly rushed upon him with a roar louder than the last thunder, and ripped the hunter up. He fell like a tree cut by the axe, and lay dead along with the boar, and a snake also, which had been crushed by the feet of the combatants. Not long afterwards, there came that way, in his prowl for food, a Jackal, named ‘Howl o’ Nights,’ and cast eyes on the hunter, the deer, the boar, and the snake lying dead together. ‘Aha!’ said he, ’what luck! Here’s a grand dinner got ready for me! Good fortune can come, I see, as well as ill fortune. Let me think:—the man will be fine pickings for a month; the deer with the boar will last two more; the snake will do for to-morrow; and, as I am very particularly hungry, I will treat myself now to this bit of meat on the bow-horn,’ So saying, he began to gnaw it asunder, and the bow-string slipping, the bow sprang back, and resolved Howl o’ Nights into the five elements by death. That is my story,” continued Slow-toes, “and its application is for the wise:—
’Sentences of studied
wisdom, nought avail they unapplied;
Though the blind man hold
a lantern, yet his footsteps stray aside.’
The secret of success, indeed, is a free, contented, and yet enterprising mind. How say the books thereon?—
’Wouldst thou know whose
happy dwelling Fortune entereth unknown?
His, who careless of her favor,
standeth fearless in his own;
His, who for the vague to-morrow
barters not the sure to-day—
Master of himself, and sternly
steadfast to the rightful way:
Very mindful of past service,
valiant, faithful, true of heart—
Unto such comes Lakshmi[9]
smiling—comes, and will not lightly part.’
“What indeed,” continued Slow-toes, “is wealth, that we should prize it, or grieve to lose it?—
’Be not haughty, being
wealthy; droop not, having lost thine all;
Fate doth play with mortal
fortunes as a girl doth toss her ball.’
It is unstable by nature. We are told—
’Worldly friendships, fair
but fleeting, shadows of the clouds at noon
Women, youth, new corn, and riches—these
be pleasures passing soon.’
And it is idle to be anxious; the Master of Life knows how to sustain it. Is it not written?—
’For thy bread be not o’er
thoughtful—God for all hath taken thought:
When the babe is born, the sweet milk to the mother’s
breast is
brought.
He who gave the swan her silver,
and the hawk her plumes of pride,
And his purples to the peacock—He will
verily provide.’
“Yes, verily,” said Slow-toes, “wealth is bad to handle, and better left alone; there is no truer saying than this—
’Though for good ends, waste
not on wealth a minute;
Mud may be wiped, but wise men plunge not in it.’
Hearing the wisdom of these monitions, Light o’ Leap broke out, ’Good Slow-toes! thou art a wise protector of those that come to thee; thy learning comforts my enlightened friend, as elephants drag elephants from the mire,’ And thus, on the best of terms, wandering where they pleased for food, the three lived there together.
One day it chanced that a Deer named Dapple-back, who had seen some cause of alarm in the forest, came suddenly upon the three in his flight. Thinking the danger imminent, Slow-toes dropped into the water, King Golden-skin slipped into his hole, and Light o’ Leap flew up into the top of a high tree. Thence he looked all round to a great distance, but could discover nothing. So they all came back again, and sat down together. Slow-toes welcomed the Deer.
‘Good Deer,’ said he, ’may grass and water never fail thee at thy need. Gratify us by residing here, and consider this forest thine own.’
‘Indeed,’ answered Dapple-back, ’I came hither for your protection, flying from a hunter; and to live with you in friendship is my greatest desire.’
‘Then the thing is settled,’ observed Golden-skin.
‘Yes! yes!’ said Light o’ Leap, ‘make yourself altogether at home!’
So the Deer, charmed at his reception, ate grass and drank water, and laid himself down in the shade of a Banyan-tree to talk. Who does not know?—
’Brunettes, and the
Banyan’s shadow,
Well-springs,
and a brick-built wall.
Are all alike cool in the
summer,
And warm in the
winter—all.’
‘What made thee alarmed, friend Deer?’ began Slow-toes. ’Do hunters ever come to this unfrequented forest?’
‘I have heard,’ replied Dapple-back, ’that the Prince of the Kalinga country, Rukmangada, is coming here. He is even now encamped on the Cheenab River, on his march to subjugate the borders; and the hunters have been heard to say that he will halt to-morrow by this very lake of “Camphor-water.” Don’t you think, as it is dangerous to stay, that we ought to resolve on something?’
‘I shall certainly go to another pool,’ exclaimed Slow-toes.
‘It would be better,’ answered the Crow and Deer together.
‘Yes!’ remarked the King of the Mice, after a minute’s thought; ’but how is Slow-toes to get across the country in time? Animals like our amphibious host are best in the water; on land he might suffer from his own design, like the merchant’s son—
’The merchant’s
son laid plans for gains,
And saw his wife kissed for
his pains.’
‘How came that about?’ asked all. “I’ll tell you,” answered Golden-skin.
“In the country of Kanouj there was a King named Virasena, and he made his son viceroy of a city called Virapoora. The Prince was rich, handsome, and in the bloom of youth. Passing through the streets of his city one day, he observed a very lovely woman, whose name was Lavanyavati—i.e., the Beautiful—the wife of a merchant’s son. On reaching his palace, full of her charms and of passionate admiration for them, he despatched a message to her, and a letter, by a female attendant:—who wonders at it?—
’Ah! the gleaming, glancing
arrows of a lovely woman’s eye!
Feathered with her jetty lashes,
perilous they pass us by:—
Loosed at venture from the
black bows of her arching brow they part,
All too penetrant and deadly
for an undefended heart.’
Now Lavanyavati, from the moment she saw the Prince, was hit with the same weapon of love that wounded him; but upon hearing the message of the attendant, she refused with dignity to receive his letter.
‘I am my husband’s,’ she said, ’and that is my honor; for—
’Beautiful the Koil[10]
seemeth for the sweetness of his song,
Beautiful the world esteemeth
pious souls for patience strong;
Homely features lack not favor
when true wisdom they reveal,
And a wife is fair and honored
while her heart is firm and leal.’
What the lord of my life enjoins, that I do.’
‘Is such my answer?’ asked the attendant.
‘It is,’ said Lavanyavati.
Upon the messenger reporting her reply to the Prince, he was in despair.
‘The God of the five shafts has hit me,’ he exclaimed, ’and only her presence will cure my wound.’
‘We must make her husband bring her, then,’ said the messenger.
‘That can never be,’ replied the Prince.
‘It can,’ replied the messenger—
’Fraud may achieve what
force would never try:—
The Jackal killed the Elephant
thereby.’
‘How was that?’ asked the Prince. The Slave related:—
“In the forest of Brahma[11] lived an Elephant, whose name was ‘White-front.’ The Jackals knew him, and said among themselves, ’If this great brute would but die, there would be four months’ food for us, and plenty, out of his carcase.’ With that an old Jackal stood up, and pledged himself to compass the death of the Elephant by his own wit. Accordingly, he sought for ‘White-front,’ and, going up to him, he made the reverential prostration of the eight members, gravely saluting him.
‘Divine creature,’ said he, ‘vouchsafe me the regard of one look.’
‘Who art thou?’ grunted the Elephant,’and whence comest thou?’
‘I am only a Jackal,’ said the other; ’but the beasts of the forest are convinced that it is not expedient to live without a king, and they have met in full council, and despatched me to acquaint your Royal Highness that on you, endowed with so many lordly qualities, their choice has fallen for a sovereign over the forest here; for—
’Who is just, and strong,
and wise?
Who is true to social ties?
He is formed for Emperies.
Let your Majesty, therefore, repair thither at once, that the moment of fortunate conjunction may not escape us.’ So saying he led the way, followed at a great pace by White-front, who was eager to commence his reign.
“Presently the Jackal brought him upon a deep slough, into which he plunged heavily before he could stop himself.
‘Good master Jackal,’ cried the Elephant,’what’s to do now? I am up to my belly in this quagmire.’
‘Perhaps your Majesty,’ said the Jackal, with an impudent laugh, ’will condescend to take hold of the tip of my brush with your trunk, and so get out.’
’Then White-front, the Elephant, knew that he had been deceived; and thus he sank in the slime, and was devoured by the Jackals. Hence,’ continued the attendant, ’is why I suggested stratagem to your Highness,’
Shortly afterwards, by the Slave’s advice, the Prince sent for the merchant’s son (whose name was Charudatta), and appointed him to be near his person; and one day, with the same design, when he was just come from the bath, and had on his jewels, he summoned Charudatta, and said—
“I have a vow to keep to Gauri—bring hither to me every evening for a month some lady of good family, that I may do honor to her, according to my vow; and begin to-day.”
Charudatta in due course brought a lady of quality, and, having introduced her, retired to watch the interview. The Prince, without even approaching his fair visitor, made her the most respectful obeisances, and dismissed her with gifts of ornaments, sandal-wood, and perfumes, under the protection of a guard. This made Charudatta confident, and longing to get some of these princely presents he brought his own wife next evening. When the Prince recognized the charming Lavanyavati—the joy of his soul—he sprang to meet her, and kissed and caressed her without the least restraint. At sight of this the miserable Charudatta stood transfixed with despair—the very picture of wretchedness’——
‘And you too, Slow-toes—but where is he gone?’ abruptly asked King Golden-skin.
Now Slow-toes had not chosen to wait the end of the story, but was gone before, and Golden-skin and the others followed him up in some anxiety. The Tortoise had been painfully travelling along, until a hunter, who was beating the wood for game, had overtaken him. The fellow, who was very hungry, picked him up, fastened him on his bow-stick, and set off for home; while the Deer, the Crow, and the Mouse, who had witnessed the capture, followed them in terrible concern. ‘Alas!’ cried the Mouse-king, ’he is gone!—and such a friend!
’Friend! gracious word!—the
heart to tell is ill able
Whence came to men this jewel
of a syllable.’
‘Let us,’ continued he to his companions, ’let us make one attempt, at least, to rescue Slow-toes before the hunter is out of the wood!’
‘Only tell us how to do it,’ replied they.
‘Do thus,’ said Golden-skin: ’let Dapple-back hasten on to the water, and lie down there and make himself appear dead; and do you, Light o’ Leap, hover over him and peck about his body. The hunter is sure to put the Tortoise down to get the venison, and I will gnaw his bonds.’
’The Deer and the Crow started at once; and the hunter, who was sitting down to rest under a tree and drinking water, soon caught sight of the Deer, apparently dead. Drawing his wood-knife, and putting the Tortoise down by the water, he hastened to secure the Deer, and Golden-skin, in the meantime, gnawed asunder the string that held Slow-toes, who instantly dropped into the pool. The Deer, of course, when the hunter got near, sprang up and made off, and when he returned to the tree the Tortoise was gone also. “I deserve this,” thought he—
’Whoso for greater quits
his gain,
Shall have his labor for his
pain;
The things unwon unwon remain,
And what was won is lost again.’
And so lamenting, he went to his village. Slow-toes and his friends, quit of all fears, repaired together to their new habitations, and there lived happily.
Then spake the King Sudarsana’s sons, “We have heard every word, and are delighted; it fell out just as we wished.”
“I rejoice thereat, my Princes,” said Vishnu-Sarman; “may it also fall out according to this my wish—
“Lakshmi give you friends
like these!
Lakshmi keep your lands in
ease!
Set, your sovereign thrones
beside,
Policy, a winsome bride!
And He, whose forehead-jewel
is the moon
Give peace to us and all—serene
and soon.”
[3] Used in many religious observances by the Hindoos.
[4] Heaven, earth, and the lower regions.
[5] The Hindoo accounts for the origin of evil by this theory of a series of existences continued until the balance is just, and the soul has purified itself. Every fault must have its expiation and every higher faculty its development; pain and misery being signs of the ordeals in the trial, which is to end in the happy re-absorption of the emancipated spirit.
[6] The mouse, as vehicle of Gunesh, is an important animal in Hindoo legend.
[7] The champak is a bushy tree, bearing a profusion of star-like blossoms with golden centres, and of the most pleasing perfume.
[8] A religious observance. The devotee commences the penance at the full moon with an allowance of fifteen mouthfuls for his food, diminishing this by one mouthful each day, till on the fifteenth it is reduced to one. As the new moon increases, his allowance ascends to its original proportion.
[9] The wife of Vishnoo, Goddess of beauty and abundance.
[10] The black or Indian cuckoo.
[11] A grove where the Vedas are read and expounded.
Then spake the Royal Princes to Vishnu-Sarman,
“Reverend Sir! we have listened to the ‘Winning of Friends,’ we would now hear how friends are parted.”
“Attend, then,” replied the Sage, “to ‘the Parting of Friends,’ the first couplet of which runs in this wise—
’The Jackal set—of
knavish cunning full—
At loggerheads the Lion and
the Bull.’
“How was that?” asked the sons of the Rajah.
Vishnu-Sarman proceeded to relate:—
“In the Deccan there is a city called Golden-town, and a wealthy merchant lived there named Well-to-do. He had abundant means, but as many of his relations were even yet richer, his mind was bent: upon outdoing them by gaining more. Enough is never what we have—
’Looking down on lives
below them, men of little store are great;
Looking up to higher fortunes,
hard to each man seems his fate.’
And is not wealth won by courage and enterprise?—
’As a bride, unwisely
wedded, shuns the cold caress of eld,
So, from coward souls and
slothful, Lakshmi’s favors turn repelled.’
’Ease, ill-health, home-keeping,
sleeping, woman-service, and content—
In the path that leads to
greatness these be six obstructions sent.’
And wealth that increases not, diminishes—a little gain is so far good—
’Seeing how the soorma
wasteth, seeing how the ant-hill grows,
Little adding unto little—live,
give, learn, as life-time goes.’
’Drops of water falling,
falling, falling, brim the chatty o’er;
Wisdom comes in little lessons—little
gains make largest store.’
Moved by these reflections Well-to-do loaded a cart with wares of all kinds, yoked two bulls to it, named Lusty-life and Roarer, and started for Kashmir to trade. He had not gone far upon his journey when in passing through a great forest called Bramble-wood, Lusty-life slipped down and broke his foreleg. At sight of this disaster Well-to-do fell a-thinking, and repeated—
’Men their cunning schemes
may spin—
God knows who shall lose or
win.’
Comforting himself with such philosophy, Well-to-do left Lusty-life there, and went on his way. The Bull watched him depart, and stood mournfully on three legs, alone in the forest. ‘Well, well,’ he thought, ’it is all destiny whether I live or die:—
’Shoot a hundred shafts,
the quarry lives and flies—not due to death;
When his hour is come, a grass-blade
hath a point to stop his breath.’
As the days passed by, and Lusty-life picked about in the tender forest grass, he grew wonderfully well, and fat of carcase, and happy, and bellowed about the wood as though it were his own. Now, the reigning monarch of the forest was King Tawny-hide the Lion, who ruled over the whole country absolutely, by right of having deposed everybody else. Is not might right?—
’Robes were none, nor oil
of unction, when the King of Beasts was
crowned:—
’Twas his own fierce roar proclaimed him,
rolling all his kingdom
round.’
One morning, his Majesty, being exceedingly thirsty, had repaired to the bank of the Jumna to drink water, and just as he was about to lap it, the bellow of Lusty-life, awful as the thunder of the last day, reached the imperial ears. Upon catching the sound the King retreated in trepidation to his own lair, without drinking a drop, and stood there in silence and alarm revolving what it could mean. In this position he was observed by the sons of his minister, two jackals named Karataka and Damanaka, who began to remark upon it.
‘Friend Karataka,’ said the last,’what makes our royal master slink away from the river when he was dying to drink?’
‘Why should we care?’ replied Karataka. ’It’s bad enough to serve him, and be neglected for our pains—
’Oh, the bitter salt
of service!—toil, frost, fire, are not so
keen:—
Half such heavy penance bearing,
tender consciences were clean.’
‘Nay, friend! never think thus,’ said Damanaka—
’What but for their
vassals,
Elephant and man—
Swing of golden tassels,
Wave of silken fan—
But for regal manner
That the “Chattra"[12]
brings,
Horse, and foot, and banner—
What would come of kings?’
‘I care not,’ replied Karataka; ’we have nothing to do with it, and matters that don’t concern us are best left alone. You know the story of the Monkey, don’t you?’—
’The Monkey drew the
sawyer’s wedge, and died:—
Let meddlers mark it, and
be edified.’
‘No!’ said Damanaka. ‘How was it?’
‘In this way,’ answered Karataka:—
“In South Behar, close by the retreat of Dhurmma, there was an open plot of ground, upon which a temple was in course of erection, under the management of a man of the Kayeth caste, named Subhadatta. A carpenter upon the works had partly sawed through a long beam of wood, and wedged it open, and was gone away, leaving the wedge fixed. Shortly afterwards a large herd of monkeys came frolicking that way, and one of their number, directed doubtless by the Angel of death, got astride the beam, and grasped the wedge, with his tail and lower parts dangling down between the pieces of the wood. Not content with this, in the mischief natural to monkeys, he began to tug at the wedge; till at last it yielded to a great effort and came out; when the wood closed upon him, and jammed him all fast. So perished the monkey, miserably crushed; and I say again—
‘Let meddlers mark it, and be edified.’
‘But surely,’ argued Damanaka, ’servants are bound to watch the movements of their masters!’
‘Let the prime minister do it, then,’ answered Karataka; ’it is his business to overlook things, and subordinates shouldn’t interfere in the department of their chief. You might get ass’s thanks for it—
’The Ass that hee-hawed,
when the dog should do it,
For his lord’s welfare,
like an ass did rue it.’
Damanaka asked how that happened, and Karataka related:—
“There was a certain Washerman at Benares, whose name was Carpurapataka, and he had an Ass and a Dog in his courtyard; the first tethered, and the last roaming loose. Once on a time, when he had been spending his morning in the society of his wife, whom he had just married, and had fallen to sleep in her arms, a robber entered the house, and began to carry off his goods. The Ass observed the occupation of the thief, and was much concerned.
‘Good Dog,’ said he, ’this is thy matter: why dost thou not bark aloud, and rouse the master?’
‘Gossip Ass,’ replied the Dog, ’leave me alone to guard the premises. I can do it, if I choose; but the truth is, this master of ours thinks himself so safe lately that he clean forgets me, and I don’t find my allowance of food nearly regular enough. Masters will do so; and a little fright will put him in mind of his defenders again.’
‘Thou scurvy cur!’ exclaimed the Ass—
‘At the work-time, asking wages—is it like a faithful herd?’
‘Thou extreme Ass!’ replied the Dog.
‘When the work’s done, grudging wages—is that acting like a lord?’
‘Mean-spirited beast,’ retorted the Ass, ’who neglectest thy master’s business! Well, then, I at least will endeavor to arouse him; it is no less than religion,
’Serve the Sun with
sweat of body; starve thy maw to feed the flame;
Stead thy lord with all thy
service; to thy death go, quit of blame.’
So saying, he put forth his very best braying. The Washerman sprang up at the noise, and missing the thief, turned in a rage upon the Ass for disturbing him, and beat it with a cudgel to such an extent that the blows resolved the poor animal into the five elements of death. ’So that,’ continued Karataka, ’is why I say, Let the prime minister look to him. The hunting for prey is our duty—let us stick to it, then. And this,’ he said, with a meditative look, ’need not trouble us to-day; for we have a capital dish of the royal leavings.’
‘What!’ said Damanaka, rough with rage, ’dost thou serve the King for the sake of thy belly? Why take any such trouble to preserve an existence like thine?—
’Many prayers for him
are uttered whereon many a life relies;
‘Tis but one poor fool
the fewer when the gulping Raven dies.’
For assisting friends, and defeating enemies also, the service of kings is desirable. To enter upon it for a mere living makes the thing low indeed. There must be dogs and elephants; but servants need not be like hungry curs, while their masters are noble. What say the books?
’Give thy Dog the merest
mouthful, and he crouches at thy feet,
Wags his tail, and fawns,
and grovels, in his eagerness to eat;
Bid the Elephant be feeding,
and the best of fodder bring;
Gravely—after much
entreaty—condescends that mighty king.’
‘Well, well!’ said Karataka; ’the books are nothing to us, who are not councillors.’
‘But we may come to be,’ replied Damanaka; ’men rise, not by chance or nature, but by exertions—
’By their own deeds
men go downward, by them men mount upward all,
Like the diggers of a well,
and like the builders of a wall.’
Advancement is slow—but that is in the nature of things—
’Rushes down the hill
the crag, which upward ’twas so hard to roll:
So to virtue slowly rises—so
to vice quick sinks the soul.’
‘Very good,’ observed Karataka; ‘but what is all this talk about?’
’Why! don’t you see our Royal Master there, and how he came home without drinking? I know he has been horribly frightened,’ said Damanaka.
‘How do you know it?’ asked the other.
‘By my perception—at a glance!’ replied Damanaka; ’and I mean to make out of this occasion that which shall put his Majesty at my disposal,’
‘Now,’ exclaimed Karataka, ’it is thou who art ignorant about service—
’Who speaks unasked,
or comes unbid,
Or counts on favor—will
be chid.’
‘I ignorant about service!’ said Damanaka; ’no, no, my friend, I know the secret of it—
’Wise, modest, constant,
ever close at hand,
Not weighing but obeying all
command,
Such servant by a Monarch’s
throne may stand.’
‘In any case, the King often rates thee,’ remarked Karataka, ’for coming to the presence unsummoned.’
‘A dependent,’ replied Damanaka, ’should nevertheless present himself; he must make himself known to the great man, at any risk—
’Pitiful, that fearing failure,
therefore no beginning makes,
Who forswears his daily dinner for the chance
of stomach-aches?’
and besides, to be near is at last to be needful;—is it not said—
’Nearest to the King is dearest,
be thy merit low or high;
Women, creeping plants, and princes, twine round
that which groweth
nigh.’
‘Well,’ inquired Karataka, ‘what wilt thou say, being come to him?’
‘First,’ replied Damanaka, ’I will discover if his Majesty is well affected to me.’
‘How do you compass that?’ asked the other.
‘Oh, easily! by a look, a word,’ answered Damanaka; ’and that ascertained, I will proceed to speak what will put him at my disposal.’
‘I can’t see how you can venture to speak,’ objected the other, ’without an opportunity—
’If Vrihaspati, the
Grave,
Spoke a sentence
out of season,
Even Vrihaspati would have
Strong rebuke
for such unreason.’
‘Pray don’t imagine I shall speak unseasonably,’ interrupted Damanaka; ‘if that is all you fear, I will start at once.’
‘Go, then,’ said Karataka; ‘and may you be as lucky as you hope.’
“Thereupon Damanaka set out for the lair of King Tawny-hide; putting on, as he approached it, the look of one greatly disconcerted. The Rajah observed him coming, and gave permission that he should draw near; of which Damanaka availing himself, made reverential prostration of the eight members and sat down upon his haunches.
‘You have come at last, then, Sir Jackal!’ growled his Majesty.
‘Great Monarch!’ humbly replied Damanaka, ’my service is not worthy of laying at your imperial feet, but a servant should attend when he can perform a service, and therefore I am come—
‘When Kings’ ears
itch, they use a straw to scratch ’em;
When Kings’ foes plot,
they get wise men to match ’em.’
‘H’m!’ growled the Lion.
‘Your Majesty suspects my intellect, I fear,’ continued the Jackal,’after so long an absence from your Majesty’s feet; but, if I may say so, it is still sound.’
‘H’m!’ growled the Lion again.
’A king, may it please your Majesty, should know how to estimate his servants, whatever their position—
’Pearls are dull in
leaden settings, but the setter is to blame;
Glass will glitter like the
ruby, dulled with dust—are they the same?
’And a fool may tread
on jewels, setting in his crown mere glass;
Yet, at selling, gems are
gems, and fardels but for fardels pass.’
’Servants, gracious liege! are good or bad as they are entertained. Is it not written?—
’Horse and weapon, lute
and volume, man and woman, gift of speech,
Have their uselessness or
uses in the One who owneth each.’
’And if I have been traduced to your Majesty as a dull fellow, that hath not made me so—
’Not disparagement nor
slander kills the spirit of the brave;
Fling a torch down, upward
ever burns the brilliant flame it gave.’
’Accept then, Sire, from the humblest of your slaves his very humble counsel—for
’Wisdom from the mouth
of children be it overpast of none;
What man scorns to walk by
lamplight in the absence of the sun?’
‘Good Damanaka,’ said King Tawny-hide, somewhat appeased, ’how is it that thou, so wise a son of our first minister, hast been absent all this while from our Court? But now speak thy mind fearlessly: what wouldst thou?’
‘Will your Majesty deign to answer one question?’ said Damanaka. ‘Wherefore came He back from the river without drinking?’
‘Hush!’ whispered the King, ’thou hast hit right upon my trouble. I knew no one unto whom I might confide it; but thou seemest a faithful fellow, and I will tell thee. Listen, then,’ continued his Majesty in an agitated whisper, ’there is some awful beast that was never seen before in this wood here; and we shall have to leave it, look you. Did you hear by chance the inconceivable great roar he gave? What a strong beast it must be to have such a voice!’
‘May it please your Majesty, I did hear the noise,’ said the Jackal, ’and there is doubtless cause for terrible apprehension therein; but take comfort, my Liege, he is no minister who bids thee prepare for either war or resignation. All will go well, and your Majesty will learn by this difficulty which be your best servants,’
‘Good Jackal,’ said Tawny-hide, ‘I am horribly frightened about it.’
‘I can see that,’ thought Damanaka; but he only said, ’Fear nothing, my liege, while thy servant survives,’
‘What shall I do?’ asked the King.
’It is well to encourage those who can avert disaster. If your Majesty condescended now to bestow some favor on Karataka and the other——’
‘It shall be done,’ said the Rajah; and, summoning the other Jackals, he gave them and Damanaka a magnificent gift of flesh, and they left the presence, undertaking to meet the threatened danger.
‘But, brother,’ began Karataka,’haven’t we eaten the King’s dinner without knowing what the danger is which we are to meet, and whether we can obviate it?’
‘Hold thy peace,’ said Damanaka, laughing; ’I know very well what the danger is! It was a bull, aha! that bellowed—a bull, my brother—whose beef you and I could pick, much more the King our master.’
‘And why not tell him so?’ asked Karataka.
’What! and quiet his Majesty’s fears! And where would our splendid dinner have been then? No, no, my friend—
’Set not your lord at
ease; for, doing that,
Might starve you as it starved
“Curd-ear” the Cat.’
‘Who was Curd-ear, the Cat?’ inquired Karataka. Damanaka related:—
“Far away in the North, on a mountain named ‘Thousand-Crags,’ there lived a lion called ‘Mighty-heart’; and he was much annoyed by a certain mouse, who made a custom of nibbling his mane while he lay asleep in his den. The Lion would wake in a great rage at finding the ends of his magnificent mane made ragged, but the little mouse ran into his hole, and he could never catch it. After much consideration he went down to a village, and got a Cat named Curd-ear to come to his cave with much persuasion. He kept the Cat royally on all kinds of dainties, and slept comfortably without having his mane nibbled, as the mouse would now never venture out. Whenever the Lion heard the mouse scratching about, that was always a signal for regaling the Cat in a most distinguished style. But one day, the wretched mouse being nearly starved, he took courage to creep timidly from his hole, and was directly pounced upon by Curd-ear and killed. After that the Lion heard no more of the mouse, and quite left off his regular entertainments of the Cat. No!” concluded Damanaka, “we will keep our mouse alive for his Majesty.”
So conversing, the Jackals went away to find Lusty-life the Bull, and upon discovering him, Karataka squatted down with great dignity at the foot of a tree, while Damanaka approached to accost him.
‘Bull,’ said Damanaka, ’I am the warder of this forest under the King Tawny-hide, and Karataka the Jackal there is his General. The General bids thee come before him, or else instantly depart from the wood. It were better for thee to obey, for his anger is terrible,’
’Thereupon Lusty-life, knowing nothing of the country customs, advanced at once to Karataka, made the respectful prostration of the eight members, and said timidly, ’My Lord General! what dost thou bid me do?—
’Strength serves Reason.
Saith the Mahout, when he beats the brazen
drum,
“Ho! ye elephants, to this work must your
mightinesses come."’
‘Bull,’ answered Karataka, ’thou canst remain in the wood no longer unless thou goest directly to lay thyself at our Royal master’s imperial feet.’
‘My Lord,’ replied the Bull, ’give me a guarantee of safety, and I will go.’
‘Bull,’ said Karataka, ’thou art foolish; fear nothing—
“When the King of Chedi cursed
him,
Krishna scorned to make reply;
Lions roar the thunder quiet,
Jackals’-yells they let go by.”
Our Lord the King will not vouchsafe his anger to thee; knowest thou not—
’Mighty natures war with
mighty: when the raging tempests blow,
O’er the green rice harmless pass they,
but they lay the palm-trees
low,’
’So the Jackals, keeping Lusty-life in the rear, went towards the palace of King Tawny-hide; where the Rajah received them with much graciousness, and bade them sit down.
‘Have you seen him?’ asked the King.
‘We have seen him, your Majesty,’ answered Damanaka; ’it is quite as your Majesty expected—the creature has enormous strength, and wishes to see your Majesty. Will you be seated, Sire, and prepare yourself—it will never do to appear alarmed at a noise.’
‘Oh, if it was only a noise,’ began the Rajah.
’Ah, but the cause, Sire! that was what had to be found out; like the secret of Swing-ear the Spirit.’
‘And who might Swing-ear be?’ asked the King.
“A goblin, your Majesty,” responded Damanaka, “it seemed so, at least, to the good people of Brahmapoora. A thief had stolen a bell from the city, and was making off with that plunder, and more, into the Sri-parvata hills, when he was killed by a tiger. The bell lay in the jungle till some monkeys picked it up, and amused themselves by constantly ringing it. The townspeople found the bones of the man, and heard the noise of the bell all about the hills; so they gave out that there was a terrible devil there, whose ears rang like bells as he swung them about, and whose delight was to devour men. Every one, accordingly, was leaving the town, when a peasant woman named Karala, who liked belief the better for a little proof, came to the Rajah.
‘Highness!’ she observed, ’for a consideration I could settle this Swing-ear.’
‘You could!’ exclaimed the Rajah.
‘I think so!’ repeated the woman.
‘Give her a consideration forthwith,’ said the Rajah.
“Karala, who had her own ideas upon the matter, took the present and set out. Being come to the hills, she made a circle, and did homage to Gunputtee,[13] without whom nothing prospers. Then, taking some fruit she had brought, such as monkeys love extremely, she scattered it up and down in the wood, and withdrew to watch. Very soon the monkeys finding the fruit, put down the bell, to do justice to it, and the woman picking it up, bore it back to the town, where she became an object of uncommon veneration. We, indeed,” concluded Damanaka, “bring you a Bull instead of a bell—your Majesty shall now see him!”
“Thereupon Lusty-life was introduced, and, the interview passing off well, he remained many days in the forest on excellent terms with the Lion.
’One day another Lion, named ‘Stiff-ears,’ the brother of King Tawny-hide, came to visit him. The King received him with all imaginable respect, bade him be seated, and rose from his throne to go and kill some beasts for his refreshment.
‘May it please your Majesty,’ interposed the Bull, ’a deer was slain to-day—where is its flesh?’
‘Damanaka and his brother know best,’ said the King.
‘Let us ascertain if there be any,’ suggested the Bull.
‘It is useless,’ said the King, laughing—’they leave none,’
‘What!’ exclaimed the Bull, ‘have those Jackals eaten a whole deer?’
‘Eaten it, spoiled it, and given it away,’ answered Tawny-hide; ’they always do so,’
‘And this without your Majesty’s sanction?’ asked the Bull.
‘Oh! certainly not with my sanction,’ said the King.
‘Then,’ exclaimed the Bull, ’it is too bad: and in Ministers too!—
’Narrow-necked to let
out little, big of belly to keep much,
As a flagon is—the
Vizir of a Sultan should be such.’
’No wealth will stand such waste, your Majesty—
’He who thinks a minute
little, like a fool misuses more;
He who counts a cowry nothing,
being wealthy, will be poor.’
‘A king’s treasury, my liege, is the king’s life.’
‘Good brother,’ observed Stiff-ears, who had heard what the Bull said, ’these Jackals are your Ministers of Home and Foreign Affairs—they should not have direction of the Treasury. They are old servants, too, and you know the saying—
’Brahmans, soldiers, these
and kinsmen—of the three set none in
charge:
For the Brahman, tho’ you rack him, yields
no treasure small or large;
And the soldier, being trusted, writes his quittance
with his sword,
And the kinsman cheats his kindred by the charter
of the word;
But a servant old in service, worse than any one
is thought,
Who, by long-tried license fearless, knows his
master’s anger nought.’
Ministers, my royal brother, are often like obstinate swellings that want squeezing, and yours must be kept in order.’
‘They are not particularly obedient, I confess,’ said Tawny-hide.
‘It is very wrong,’ replied Stiff-ears; ’and if you will be advised by me—as we have banqueted enough to-day—you will appoint this grain-eating and sagacious Bull your Superintendent of Stores.’
‘It shall be so,’ exclaimed the King.
’Lusty-life was accordingly appointed to serve out the provisions, and for many days Tawny-hide showed him favor beyond all others in the Court.
“Now the Jackals soon found that food was no longer so freely provided by this arrangement as before, and they met to consult about it.
‘It is all our own fault,’ said Damanaka, ’and people must suffer for their own mistakes. You know who said—
“I that could not leave
alone
‘Streak-o’-Gold,’
must therefore moan.
She that took the House-wife’s
place
Lost the nose from off her
face.
Take this lesson to thy heart—
Fools for folly suffer smart.”
‘No!’ said Karataka, ‘how was it?’ Damanaka related:—
“In the city of ‘Golden-Streets’ there reigned a valorous King, named Vira-vikrama, whose officer of justice was one day taking away to punishment a certain Barber, when he was stopped by a strolling mendicant, who held him by the skirts, and cried out, ’Punish not this man—punish them that do wrong of their own knowledge.’ Being asked his meaning, he recited the foregoing verses, and, being still further questioned, he told this story—
“I am Prince Kandarpa-ketu, son of the King of Ceylon. Walking one day in my summer-garden, I heard a merchant-captain narrating how that out at sea, deep under water, on the fourteenth day of the moon, he had seen what was like nothing but the famous tree of Paradise, and sitting under it a lady of most lustrous beauty, bedecked with strings of pearls like Lukshmi herself, reclining, with a lute in her hands, on what appeared to be a golden couch crusted all over with precious stones. At once I engaged the captain and his ship, and steered to the spot of which he told me. On reaching it I beheld the beautiful apparition as he had described it, and, transported with the exquisite beauty of the lady, I leapt after her into the sea. In a moment I found myself in a city of gold; and in an apartment of a golden palace, surrounded by young and beautiful girls, I found the Sea-queen. She perceived my approach, and sent an attendant with a courteous message to meet me. In reply to my questions, I learned that the lady was the Princess Ratnamanjari, daughter of the King of All the Spirits—and how she had made a vow that whoever should first come to see her golden city, with his own eyes, should marry her.
’Never tires the fire
of burning, never wearies death of slaying,
Nor the sea of drinking rivers,
nor the bright-eyed of betraying,’
Thereupon the King’s officer dismissed Kandarpa-ketu, and did justice by setting the Barber free, shaving the head of the Barber’s wife, and punishing the Cowkeeper’s.
‘That is my story,’ concluded Damanaka, ’and thence I said that we had no reason to complain.’
‘Well, but we must do something,’ said Karataka.
‘Yes! How shall we break the friendship of the King with the Bull?’ asked the other.
‘It is very strong,’ observed Karataka.
‘But we can do it,’ replied the other.
’What force would fail
to win, fraud can attain:—
The Crow despatched the Serpent
by a chain.’
‘How did that occur?’ asked Karataka.
Damanaka related:—
“A pair of Crows had their abode in a certain tree, the hollow of which was occupied by a black snake, who had often devoured their young. The Hen-bird, finding herself breeding again, thus addressed her mate: ’Husband, we must leave this tree; we shall never rear young ones while this black snake lives here! You know the saw—
’From false friends
that breed thee strife,
From a house with serpents
rife,
Saucy slaves and brawling
wife—
Get thee out, to save thy
life.’
‘My dear,’ replied the Crow, ’you need not fear; I have put up with him till I am tired. Now I will put an end to him.’
‘How can you fight with a great black snake like that?’ said the Hen-bird.
‘Doubt nothing,’ answered the other—
’He that hath sense
hath strength; the fool is weak:—
The Lion proud died by the
Hare so meek,’
‘How came that about?’ asked the Hen-Crow.
‘Thus,’ replied her mate:—
“On the Mandara mountain there lived a Lion named Fierce-of-heart, and he was perpetually making massacre of all the wild animals. The thing grew so bad that the beasts held a public meeting, and drew up a respectful remonstrance to the Lion in these words:—
“Wherefore should your Majesty thus make carnage of us all? If it may please you, we ourselves will daily furnish a beast for your Majesty’s meal.” The Lion responded, “If that arrangement is more agreeable to you, be it so.”; and from that time a beast was allotted to him daily, and daily devoured. One day it came to the turn of an old hare to supply the royal table, who reflected to himself as he walked along, “I can but die, and I will go to my death leisurely.”
“Now Fierce-of-heart, the lion, was pinched with hunger, and seeing the Hare so approaching he roared out, “How darest thou thus delay in coming?”
‘Sire,’ replied the Hare, ’I am not to blame. I was detained on the road by another lion, who exacted an oath from me to return when I should have informed your Majesty.’
‘Go,’ exclaimed King Fierce-of-heart in a rage; ’show me, instantly, where this insolent villain of a lion lives.’
“The Hare led the way accordingly till he came to a deep well, whereat he stopped, and said, ‘Let my lord the King come hither and behold him.’ The Lion approached, and beheld his own reflection in the water of the well, upon which, in his passion, he directly flung himself, and so perished.”
“I have heard your story,” said the Hen-Crow, “but what plan do you propose?”
“My dear,” replied her mate, “the Rajah’s son comes here every day to bathe in the stream. When he takes off his gold anklet, and lays it on the stone, do thou bring it in thy beak to the hollow of the tree, and drop it in there.” Shortly after the Prince came, as was his wont, and taking off his dress and ornaments, the Hen-Crow did as had been determined; and while the servants of the Prince were searching in the hollow, there they found the Black Snake, which they at once dispatched.
‘Said I not well,’ continued Damanaka, ‘that stratagem excels force?’
‘It was well said,’ replied Karataka; ’go! and may thy path be prosperous!
’With that Damanaka repaired to the King, and having done homage, thus addressed him:—
“Your Majesty, there is a dreadful thing on my mind, and I am come to disclose it.”
‘Speak!’ said the King, with much graciousness.
‘Your Majesty,’ said the Jackal, ’this Bull has been detected of treason. To my face he has spoken contemptuously of the three prerogatives of the throne,[14] unto which he aspires.’
“At these words King Tawny-hide stood aghast.
‘Your Majesty,’ continued Damanaka, ’has placed him above us all in the Court. Sire! he must be displaced!—
’Teeth grown loose, and wicked-hearted
ministers, and poison-trees,
Pluck them by the roots together; ‘Tis the
thing that giveth ease,’
‘Good Jackal,’ said the King, after some silence; ’this is indeed dreadful; but my regard for the Bull is very great, and it is said—
’Long-tried friends are friends
to cleave to—never leave thou these
i’ the lurch:—
What man shuns the fire as sinful for that once
it burned a church?’
’That is written of discarding old servants, may it please your Majesty,’ observed Damanaka; ‘and this Bull is quite a stranger,’
‘Wondrous strange!’ replied the Lion; ’when I have advanced and protected him that he should plot against me!’
‘Your Majesty,’ said the Jackal, ’knows what has been written—
’Raise an evil soul
to honor, and his evil bents remain;
Bind a cur’s tail ne’er
so straightly, yet it curleth up again.’
’How, in sooth, should
Trust and Honor change the evil nature’s root?
Though one watered them with
nectar, poison-trees bear deadly fruit.’
I have now at least warned your Majesty: if evil comes, the fault is not mine,’
‘It will not do to condemn the Bull without inquiry,’ mused the King; then he said aloud, ‘shall we admonish him, think you, Damanaka?’
‘No, no, Sire!’ exclaimed the Jackal, eagerly; ’that would spoil all our precautions—
’Safe within the husk
of silence guard the seed of counsel so
That it break not—being
broken, then the seedling will not grow,’
What is to be done must be done with despatch. After censuring his treason, would your Majesty still trust the traitor?—
’Whoso unto ancient
fondness takes again a faithless friend,
Like she-mules that die conceiving,
in his folly finds his end,’
‘But wherein can the Bull injure me?’ asked Tawny-hide; ‘tell me that!’
‘Sire,’ replied the Jackal, how can I tell it?—
’Ask who his friends
are, ere you scorn your foe;
The Wagtail foiled the sea,
that did not so,’
‘How could that be?’ demanded King Tawny-hide.
’The Jackal related:—
“On the shore of the Southern Sea there dwelt a pair of Wagtails. The Hen-bird was about to lay, and thus addressed her mate:—
‘Husband, we must look about for a fit place to lay my eggs.’
‘My dear,’ replied the Cock-bird, ‘will not this spot do?’
‘This spot!’ exclaimed the Hen; ‘why, the tide overflows it.’
‘Good dame,’ said the Cock, ’am I so pitiful a fellow that the Sea will venture to wash the eggs out of my nest?’
‘You are my very good Lord,’ replied the Hen, with a laugh; ’but still there is a great difference between you and the Sea.’
“Afterwards, however, at the desire of her mate, she consented to lay her eggs on the sea-beach. Now the Ocean had overheard all this, and, bent upon displaying its strength, it rose and washed away the nest and eggs. Overwhelmed with grief, the Hen-bird flew to her mate, and cried:—
‘Husband, the terrible disaster has occurred! My eggs arc gone!’
‘Be of good heart! my Life,’ answered he.
“And therewith he called a meeting of fowls, and went with them into the presence of Gurud, the Lord of the birds. When the Master of the Mighty Wing had listened to their complaint, he conveyed it to the knowledge of the God Narayen, who keeps, and kills, and makes alive the world. The almighty mandate given, Gurud bound it upon his forehead, and bore it to the Ocean, which, so soon as it heard the will of Narayen, at once gave back the eggs.
‘How, indeed,’ concluded Damanaka, ’should I judge of the Bull’s power, not knowing who supports him?’
‘By what signs, then,’ asked the King, ‘may I conclude him a traitor?’
’If he comes into the presence with his horns lowered for goring, as one that expects the fight. That,’ replied the Jackal, ’will convince your Majesty,’
’Thereupon Damanaka the Jackal withdrew, and betook himself towards the Bull, upon perceiving whom he approached slowly, with all the air of one greatly distressed.
‘Good master Jackal,’ said Lusty-life, ‘what goes amiss with thee?’
‘All goes amiss with such as serve wicked masters,’ replied the Jackal.
‘But what ails thee?’ asked the Bull.
‘Alas!’ answered the Jackal, ’what can I say in such a strait!—
’Even as one who grasps
a serpent, drowning in the bitter sea,
Death to hold and death to
loosen—such is life’s perplexity.’
’And therewithal the Jackal heaved a deep sigh, and squatted down.
‘But, good friend,’ said the Bull, ’at least tell me what is in thy mind.’
‘Bull,’ began Damanaka, ’it is a King’s secret, and should not be spoken; but thou didst come here upon my safeguard, and as I hope for the life to come, I will tell thee of what touches thee so nearly. Listen!—the heart of the King is turned against thee! he hath sworn secretly that he will kill thee and feast upon thy flesh.’
’Then Lusty-life the Bull was sorely troubled, and he fell a-musing thus—
“Woman’s love
rewards the worthless—kings of knaves exalters
be;
Wealth attends the selfish
niggard, and the cloud rains on the sea.”
‘Can this be the Jackal’s doing?’ he reflected. Going with honest folk will not make one honest—
’Many a knave wins fair
opinions standing in fair company,
As the sooty soorma pleases,
lighted by a brilliant eye.’
Then he said aloud, ’wherein can I have angered the King? Do kings hate without cause? I can tell nothing, except that there is no happiness which abides long—
’Where the azure lotus[15]
blossoms, there the alligators hide;
In the sandal-tree are serpents.
Pain and pleasure live allied.’
I thought his Majesty noble as the sandal-tree; but that, indeed, is not wholly noble—
’Rich the sandal—yet
no part is but a vile thing habits there;
Snake and wasp haunt root
and blossom; on the boughs sit ape and bear.’
‘Bull,’ said Damanaka, ’I knew the King of old for one whose tongue was honey and whose heart was poison.’
‘But how very hard!’ said the Bull, ’that he, being a lion, should attack me, an innocent eater of grass!’
‘It is very hard!’ said the Jackal.
‘Who can have set him against me?’ asked the Bull.
‘Being so, it cannot be bettered,’ replied the Jackal, ’whoever did it—
’As a bracelet of crystal,
once broke, is not mended;
So the favor of princes, once
altered, is ended.’
‘Yes,’ said the Bull, ’and a king incensed is terrible—
’Wrath of kings, and
rage of lightning—both be very full of dread;
But one falls on one man only—one
strikes many victims dead,’
Still, I can but die—and I will die fighting! When death is certain, and no hope left but in battle, that is the time for war,’
‘It is so,’ said the Jackal.
’Having weighed all this, Lusty-life inquired of the Jackal by what signs he might conclude the King’s hostile intentions.
‘If he glowers upon thee,’ answered Damanaka, ’and awaits thee with ears pricked, tail stiffened, paw upraised, and muzzle agape, then thou mayest get thee to thy weapons like a Bull of spirit, for
’All men scorn the soulless
coward who his manhood doth forget:—
On a lifeless heap of ashes
fearlessly the foot is set,’
’Then Damanaka the Jackal returned to the Lion, and said to him:—
’If it please your Majesty, the traitor is now coming; let your Majesty be on your guard, with ears pricked and paw upraised.’
’The Bull meanwhile approached, and observing the hostile attitude of King Tawny-hide, he also lowered his horns, and prepared for the combat. A terrible battle ensued, and at the last King Tawny-hide slew Lusty-life the Bull. Now when the Bull was dead, the Lion was very sorrowful, and as he sat on his throne lamenting, he said—
’I repent me of this deed!—
’As when an Elephant’s
life-blood is spilt,
Another hath the spoils—mine
is the guilt.’
‘Sire,’ replied the Jackal, ’a King over-merciful is like a Brahman that eats all things equally. May all your Majesty’s enemies perish as did this Bull.’
“Thus endeth,” said the Sage Vishnu-Sarman, “the ‘Parting of Friends.’”
“We are gratified exceedingly thereby,” replied the Sons of the King.
“Let me then close it thus,” said their Preceptor—
’So be friendship
never parted,
But among the
evil-hearted;
Time’s sure
step drag, soon or later,
To his judgment,
such a Traitor;
Lady Lukshmi,
of her grace,
Grant good fortune
to this place;
And you, Royal boys! and boys
of times to be
In this fair fable-garden
wander free.’
[12] The white umbrella borne above the heads of Indian rajahs.
[13] The deity of prudence.
[14] Regal authority derives its rights from three sources: Power, Prescription or continuance, and Wisdom.
[15] The lotus resembles the water-lily, but is more varied in form and color.
When the next day of instruction was come, the King’s sons spake to the Sage, Vishnu-Sarman.
“Master,” said they, “we are Princes, and the sons of Princes, and we earnestly desire to hear thee discourse upon War.”
“I am to speak on what shall please you,” replied Vishnu-Sarman. “Hear now, therefore, of ‘War,’ whose opening is thus:—
’Between the peoples
of Peacock and Swan[16]
War raged; and evenly the
contest ran,
Until the Swans to trust the
Crows began.’
‘And how was all that?’ asked the sons of the Rajah. Vishnu-Sarman proceeded to relate—
“In the Isle of Camphor there is a lake called ‘Lotus-water,’ and therein a Swan-Royal, named ‘Silver-sides,’ had his residence. The birds of the marsh and the mere had elected him King, in full council of all the fowls—for a people with no ruler is like a ship that is without a helmsman. One day King Silver-sides, with his courtiers, was quietly reposing on a couch of well-spread lotus-blossoms, when a Crane, named ‘Long-bill,’ who had just arrived from foreign parts, entered the presence with an obeisance, and sat down.
‘What news from abroad, Long-bill?’ asked his Majesty.
‘Great news, may it please you,’ answered the Crane, ’and therefore have I hastened hither. Will your Majesty hear me?’
‘Speak!’ said King Silver-sides.
‘You must know, my Liege,’ began the Crane, ’that over all the birds of the Vindhya mountains in Jambudwipa a Peacock is King, and his name is ‘Jewel-plume,’ I was looking for food about a certain burnt jungle there, when some of his retainers discovered me, and asked my name and country. ’I am a vassal of King Silver-sides, Lord of the Island of Camphor,’ I replied, ’and I am travelling in foreign lands for my pleasure.’ Upon that the birds asked me which country, my own or theirs, and which King, appeared to me superior. ‘How can you ask?’ I replied; ’the island of Camphor is, as it were, Heaven itself, and its King a heaven-born ruler. To dwellers in a barren land like yours how can I describe them? Come for yourselves, and see the country where I live.’ Thereupon, your Majesty, the birds were exceedingly offended, as one might expect—
’Simple milk, when serpents
drink it, straightway into venom turns;
And a fool who heareth counsel
all the wisdom of it spurns.’
For, indeed, no reflecting person wastes time in admonishing blockheads—
’The birds that took
the apes to teaching,
Lost eggs and nests in pay
for preaching.’
‘How did that befall?’ asked the King.
The Crane related:—
“In a nullah that leads down to the Nerbudda river there stood a large silk-cotton tree, where a colony of weaver-birds had built their hanging nests, and lived snugly in them, whatever the weather. It was in the rainy season, when the heavens are overlaid with clouds like indigo-sheets, and a tremendous storm of water was falling. The birds looked out from their nests, and saw some monkeys, shivering and starved with the cold, standing under a tree. ‘Twit! twit! you Monkeys,’ they began to chirrup. ’Listen to us!—
’With beaks we built
these nests, of fibres scattered;
You that have hands and feet,
build, or be spattered.’
On hearing that the Monkeys were by no means pleased. ‘Ho! ho!’ said they, ’the Birds in their snug nests are jeering at us; wait till the rain is over,’ Accordingly, so soon as the weather mended, the Monkeys climbed into the tree, and broke all the birds’ eggs and demolished every nest. I ought to have known better,’ concluded the Crane, ’than to have wasted my suggestions on King Jewel-plume’s creatures.’
‘But what did they say?’ asked Silver-sides.
‘They said, Rajah,’ answered the Crane, ’who made that Swan of thine a King?’
‘And what was your reply?’ asked Silver-sides.
‘I demanded,’ replied the Crane, ’who made a King of that Peacock of theirs. Thereupon they were ready to kill me for rage; but I displayed my very best valor. Is it not written—
’A modest manner fits
a maid,
And Patience is
a man’s adorning;
But brides may kiss, nor do
amiss,
And men may draw,
at scathe and scorning.’
‘Yet a man should measure his own strength first,’ said the Rajah, smiling; ‘how did you fare against King Jewel-plume’s fellows?’
‘Very scurvily,’ replied Long-bill. “Thou rascal Crane,” they cried, “dost thou feed on his soil, and revile our Sovereign? That is past bearing!” And thereat they all pecked at me. Then they began again: “Thou thick-skulled Crane! that King of thine is a goose—a web-footed lord of littleness—and thou art but a frog in a well to bid us serve him—– him forsooth!—
’Serving narrow-minded
masters dwarfs high natures to their size:—
Seen before a convex mirror,
elephants do show as mice.’
Bad kings are only strong enough to spoil good vassals—as a fiction once was mightier than a herd of elephants. You know it, don’t you?—
’Mighty may prove things
insignificant:—
A tale of moonshine turned
an elephant.’
‘No! how was that?’ I asked.
The birds related—
“Once on a time, very little rain had fallen in the due season; and the Elephants being oppressed with thirst, thus accosted their leader:—’Master, how are we to live? The small creatures find something to wash in, but we cannot, and we are half dead in consequence; whither shall we go then, and what shall we do?’ Upon that the King of the Elephants led them away a little space; and showed them a beautiful pool of crystal water, where they took their ease. Now it chanced that a company of Hares resided on the banks of the pool, and the going and coming of the elephants trampled many of them to death, till one of their number named Hard-head grumbled out, ’This troop will be coming here to water every day, and every one of our family will be crushed.’ ‘Do not disquiet yourself,’ said an old buck named Good-speed, ’I will contrive to avert it,’ and so saying, he set off, bethinking himself on his way how he should approach and accost a herd of elephants; for,
’Elephants destroy by
touching, snakes with point of tooth beguile;
Kings by favor kill, and traitors
murder with a fatal smile.’
‘I will get on the top of a hill,’ he thought, ’and address the Elephants thence.’
“This being done, and the Lord of the herd perceiving him, it was asked of the Hare, ‘Who art thou? and whence comest thou?’
‘I am an ambassador from his Godship the Moon,’ replied Good-speed.
‘State your business,’ said the Elephant-king.
‘Sire,’ began the Hare, ’an ambassador speaks the truth safely by charter of his name. Thus saith the Moon, then: “These hares were the guardians of my pool, and thine elephants in coming thither have scared them away. This is not well. Am I not Sasanka, whose banner bears a hare, and are not these hares my votaries?"’
‘Please your worship,’ said the Elephant-king with much trepidation, ’we knew nothing of this; we will go there no more.’
‘It were well,’ said the sham ambassador, ’that you first made your apologies to the Divinity, who is quaking with rage in his pool, and then went about your business.’
‘We will do so,’ replied the Elephant with meekness; and being led by night to the pool, in the ripples of which the image of the Moon was quivering, the herd made their prostrations; the Hare explaining to the Moon that their fault was done in ignorance, and thereupon they got their dismissal.’
‘Nay,’ I said, ’my Sovereign is no fiction, but a great King and a noble, and one that might govern the Three Worlds, much more a kingdom,’
‘Thou shalt talk thy treason in the presence,’ they cried; and therewith I was dragged before King Jewel-plume.
‘Who is this?’ asked the Rajah.
‘He is a servant of King Silver-sides, of the Island of Camphor,’ they replied; ‘and he slights your Majesty, on your Majesty’s own land.’
‘Sirrah Crane!’ said the Prime Minister, a Vulture, ’who is chief officer in that court?’
‘A Brahmany Goose,’ I answered, ’named “Know-all”; and he does know every possible science.’
‘Sire,’ broke in a Parrot, ’this Camphor-isle and the rest are poor places, and belong to Jambudwipa. Your Majesty has but to plant the royal foot upon them.’
‘Oh! of course,’ said the King.
‘Nay,’ said I, ’if talking makes your Majesty King of Camphor-island, my Liege may be lord of Jambudwipa by a better title.’
‘And that?’ said the Parrot.
‘Is fighting!’ I responded.
‘Good!’ said the King, with a smile; ‘bid your people prepare for war.’
‘Not so,’ I replied; ‘but send your own ambassador.’
‘Who will bear the message?’ asked the Rajah. ’He should be loyal, dexterous, and bold.’
‘And virtuous,’ said the Vulture, ’and therefore a Brahman:—
’Better Virtue marked
a herald than that noble blood should deck;
Shiva reigns forever Shiva
while the sea-wave stains his neck.’
‘Then let the Parrot be appointed,’ said the Rajah.
‘I am your Majesty’s humble servant,’ replied the Parrot; ’but this Crane is a bad character, and with the bad I never like to travel. The ten-headed Ravana carried off the wife of Ramchundra! It does not do,
’With evil people neither
stay nor go;
The Heron died for being with
the Crow.’
‘How did that befall?’ asked the King. The Parrot related:—
’The high-road to Oogein is a very unshaded and sultry one; but there stands upon it one large Peepul-tree, and therein a Crow and a Heron had their residence together. It was in the hot weather that a tired traveller passed that way, and, for the sake of the shade, he laid his bow and arrows down, and dropped asleep under the tree. Before long the shadow of the tree shifted, and left his face exposed to the glare; which the Heron perceiving, like the kindly bird he was, perched on the Peepul-tree, and spread his wings out so as to cast a shadow on the traveller’s face. There the poor fellow, weary with his travel, continued to sleep soundly, and snored away comfortably with open mouth. The sight of his enjoyment was too much for the malevolent Crow, who, perching over him, dropped an unwelcome morsel into the sleeper’s mouth, and straightway flew off. The traveller, starting from his slumber, looked about, and, seeing no bird but the Heron, he fitted an arrow and shot him dead. No!’ concluded the Parrot, ’I like the society of honest folk.’
‘But why these words, my brother?’ I said; ’his Majesty’s herald is to me even as his Majesty.’
‘Very fine!’ replied the Parrot; ’but—
’Kindly courtesies that
issue from a smiling villain’s mouth
Serve to startle, like a flower
blossoming in time of drouth.’
Needs must that thou art a bad man; for by thy talk war will have arisen, which a little conciliation had averted:—
’Conciliation!—weapon
of the wise!
Wheedled therewith, by woman’s
quick device,
The Wheelwright let his ears
betray his eyes.’
‘How came that about?’ asked the King. The Parrot related:—
“There was a Wheelwright in Shri-nuggur, whose name was ‘Heavy-head,’ He had good reason to suspect the infidelity of his wife, but he had no absolute proof of it. One day he gave out that he should go to a neighboring town, and he started accordingly; but he went a very little way, and then returning, hid himself in his wife’s chamber. She being quite satisfied that he was really gone away, invited her gallant to pass the evening with her, and began to spend it with him in unrestrained freedom. Presently, by chance, she detected the presence of her husband, and her manner instantly changed.
‘Life of my soul! what ails you?’ said her lover; ’you are quite dull to-night.’
‘I am dull,’ she replied, ’because the lord of my life is gone. Without my husband the town is a wilderness. Who knows what may befall him, and whether he will have a nice supper?’
‘Trouble thyself no more about the quarrelsome dullard,’ said her gallant.
‘Dullard, quotha!’ exclaimed the wife. ’What matter what he is, since he is my all? Knowest thou not—
’Of the wife the lord
is jewel, though no gems upon her beam;
Lacking him, she lacks adornment,
howsoe’er her jewels gleam?’
Thou, and the like of thee, may serve a whim, as we chew a betel-leaf and trifle with a flower; but my husband is my master, and can do with me as he will. My life is wrapped up in him—and when he dies, alas! I will certainly die too. Is it not plainly said—
’Hairs three-crore,
and half-a-crore hairs, on a man so many grow—
And so many years to Swerga
shall the true wife surely go?’
And better still is promised; as herein—
’When the faithful wife,[17]
embracing tenderly her husband dead,
Mounts the blazing pile beside
him, as it were the bridal-bed;
Though his sins were twenty
thousand, twenty thousand times o’er-told,
She shall bring his soul to
splendor, for her love so large and bold.’
All this the Wheelwright heard. ‘What a lucky fellow I am,’ he thought, ‘to have a wife so virtuous,’ and rushing from his place of concealment, he exclaimed in ecstasy to his wife’s gallant, ’Sir I saw you ever truer wife than mine?’
‘When the story was concluded,’ said Long-bill, ’the King, with a gracious gift of food, sent me off before the Parrot; but he is coming after me, and it is now for your Majesty to determine as it shall please you.’
‘My Liege,’ observed the Brahmany-goose with a sneer, ’the Crane has done the King’s business in foreign parts to the best of his power, which is that of a fool.’
“Let the past pass,” replied the King, “and take thought for the present.”
“Be it in secret, then, your Majesty,” said the Brahmany-goose—
’Counsel unto six ears
spoken, unto all is notified:—
When a King holds consultation,
let it be with one beside,’
Thereupon all withdrew, but the Rajah and the Minister.
‘What think you?’ said Silver-sides.
‘That the Crane has been employed to bring this about,’ replied the other.
‘What shall we do?’ asked the King.
’Despatch two spies—the first to inform and send back the other, and make us know the enemy’s strength or weakness. They must be such as can travel by land and water, so the Crane will serve for one, and we will keep his family in pledge at the King’s gate. The other must be a very reserved character; as it is said—
’Sick men are for skilful
leeches—prodigals for prisoning—
Fools for teachers—and
the man who keeps a secret, for a King,’
‘I know such a one,’ said his Majesty, after a pause.
‘It is half the victory,’ responded the Minister.
At this juncture a chamberlain entered with a profound obeisance, and announced the arrival from Jambudwipa of the Parrot.
‘Let him be shown to a reception-room,’ commanded the Goose, in reply to a look from the King. ‘He shall presently have audience.’
‘War is pronounced, then,’ said the King, as the attendant withdrew.
‘It is offered, my Liege; but must not be rashly accepted,’ replied the other—
’With gift, craft, promise,
cause thy foe to yield;
When these have failed thee,
challenge him a-field.’
To gain time for expedients is the first point. Expedients are good for great and little matters equally, like
’The subtle wash of
waves, that smoothly pass,
But lay the tree as lowly
as the grass.’
Let his Excellency the Parrot, then, be cajoled and detained here, while we place our fort in condition to be useful. Is it not said—
’Ten true bowmen on
a rampart fifty’s onset may sustain;
Fortalices keep a country
more than armies in the plain?’
And your Majesty,’ continued the Goose, ’will recall the points of a good fortress—
’Build it strong, and
build it spacious, with an entry and retreat;
Store it well with wood and
water, fill its garners full with wheat.’
‘Whom, then, shall we entrust with this work?’ asked King Silver-sides.
‘The Paddy-bird[18] is a good bird, and a skilful,’ replied his Minister.
‘Let him be summoned!’ said the King. And upon the entrance of the Paddy-bird, the superintendence of the fortress was committed to him, and accepted with a low prostration.
‘As to the fort, Sire!’ remarked the Paddy-bird, ’it exists already in yonder large pool; the thing is to store the island in the middle of it with provisions—
’Gems will no man’s
life sustain;
Best of gold is golden grain.’
‘Good!’ said King Silver-sides; ‘let it be looked to.’ Thereupon, as the Paddy-bird was retiring, the Usher entered again, and making prostration, said: ’May it please your Majesty, the King of all the Crows, Night-cloud by name, has just arrived from Singhala-dwipa, and desires to lay his homage at your Majesty’s feet.’
‘He is a wise bird, and a far-travelled,’ said the King; ’I think we must give him audience.’
Nevertheless, Sire,’ interrupted the Goose, ’we must not forget that he is a land-bird, and therefore not to be received as a water-fowl. Your royal memory doubtless retains the story of
’The Jackal’s
fate, who being colored blue,
Leaving his party, left his
own life too.’
‘No! How was that?’ asked King Silver-sides. The Goose related—
“A Jackal once on a time, as he was prowling about the suburbs of a town, slipped into an indigo-tank; and not being able to get out he laid himself down so as to be taken for dead. The dyer presently coming and finding what seemed a dead Jackal, carried him into the jungle and then flung him away. Left to himself, the Jackal found his natural color changed to a splendid blue. ‘Really,’ he reflected, ’I am now of a most magnificent tint; why should I not make it conduce to my elevation?’ With this view, he assembled the other Jackals, and thus harangued them:—
’Good people, the Goddess of the Wood, with her own divine hand, and with every magical herb of the forest, has anointed me King. Behold the complexion of royalty!—and henceforward transact nothing without my imperial permission.”
“The Jackals, overcome by so distinguished a color, could do nothing but prostrate themselves and promise obedience. His reign, thus begun, extended in time to the lions and tigers; and with these high-born attendants he allowed himself to despise the Jackals, keeping his own kindred at a distance, as though ashamed of them. The Jackals were indignant, but an old beast of their number thus consoled them:—
“Leave the impudent fellow to me. I will contrive his ruin. These tigers and the rest think him a King, because he is colored blue; we must show them his true colors. Do this, now!—in the evening-time come close about him, and set up a great yell together—he is sure to join in, as he used to do—
’Hard it is to conquer
nature: if a dog were made a King,
Mid the coronation trumpets,
he would gnaw his sandal-string.’
And when he yells the Tigers will know him for a Jackal and fall upon him.’
‘The thing befell exactly so, and the Jackal,’ concluded the Minister, ‘met the fate of one who leaves his proper party.’
‘Still,’ said the King, ’the Crow has come a long way, and we might see him, I think.’
‘Admit the Parrot first, Sire,’ said the Goose; ’the fort has been put in order and the spy despatched.’
“Thereupon a Court was called, and the Parrot introduced, followed by Night-cloud, the Crow. A seat was offered to the parrot, who took it, and, with his beak in the air, thus delivered his mission:—
’King Silver-sides!—My master, the King Jewel-plume, Lord of Lords, bids thee, if life and lands be dear to thee, to come and make homage at his august feet; and failing this to get thee gone from Camphor-island.’
‘S’death!’ exclaimed the Rajah, ’is there none that will silence this traitor?’
‘Give the sign, your Majesty,’ said the Crow, starting up, ’and I will despatch this audacious bird.’
‘Sir,’ said the Goose, ’be calm! and Sire, deign to listen—
’’Tis no Council where
no Sage is—’tis no Sage that fears
not Law;
’Tis no Law which Truth confirms not—’tis
no Truth which Fear can
awe.’
An ambassador must speak unthreatened—
’Though base be the Herald,
nor hinder nor let,
For the mouth of a king is he;
The sword may be whet, and the battle set,
But the word of his message is free.’
Thereat the Rajah and Night-cloud resumed their composure; and the Parrot took his departure, escorted by the Minister, and presented with complimentary gifts of gold and jewels. On reaching the palace of Jewel-plume, the King demanded his tidings, and inquired of the country he had visited.
‘War must be prepared, may it please you,’ said the Parrot: ’the country is a country of Paradise.’
‘Prepare for war, then!’ said the King.
‘We must not enter on it in the face of destiny,’ interposed the Vulture-Minister, whose title was ‘Far-sight.’
’Let the Astrologer then discover a favorable conjuncture for the expedition, and let my forces be reviewed meantime,’ said the King.
‘We must not march without great circumspection,’ observed Far-sight.
‘Minister!’ exclaimed the King, ’you chafe me. Say, however, with what force we should set out.’
‘It should be well selected, rather than unwieldy,’ replied the Vulture—
’Better few and chosen
fighters than of shaven crowns a host,
For in headlong flight confounded,
with the base the brave are lost.’
And its commanders must be judiciously appointed; for it is said—
’Ever absent, harsh,
unjustly portioning the captured prey—
These, and cold or laggard
leaders make a host to melt away.’
‘Ah!’ interrupted the Rajah, ’what need of so much talk? We will go, and, if Vachaspati please, we will conquer.’
Shortly afterwards the Spy returned to Camphor-island. ’King Silver-sides,’ he cried, ’the Rajah, Jewel-plume, is on his way hither, and has reached the Ghauts. Let the fort be manned, for that Vulture is a great minister; and I have learned, too, that there is one among us who is in his pay.’
‘King!’ said the Goose, ‘that must be the Crow.’
‘But whence, then, did he show such willingness to punish the Parrot?’ objected his Majesty. ’Besides, war was declared long after the Crow came to Court.’
‘I misdoubt him,’ said the Minister, ‘because he is a stranger.’
‘But strangers surely may be well-disposed,’ replied the King. ’How say the books?—
’Kind is kin, howe’er
a stranger—kin unkind is stranger shown;
Sores hurt, though the body breeds them—drugs
relieve, though
desert-grown.’
Have you never heard of King Sudraka and the unknown Servant, who gave his son’s life for the King?
‘Never,’ answered the Goose.
“I will tell you the tale,” said the King, “as I heard it from ‘Lilyflower,’ daughter of the Flamingo ‘White-flag,’ of whom I was once very fond:—A soldier presented himself one morning at King Sudraka’s gate, and bade the porter procure an audience for ’Vira-vara, a Rajpoot,’[19] who sought employment. Being admitted to the presence, he thus addressed the King:—
‘If your Highness needs an attendant, behold one!’
‘What pay do you ask?’ inquired the King.
‘Five hundred pieces of gold a day,’ said Vira-vara.
‘And your accoutrements?’ asked the King.
‘Are these two arms, and this sabre, which serve for a third,’ said Vira-vara, rolling up his sleeve.
‘I cannot entertain you,’ rejoined his Majesty; and thereupon the Rajpoot made salaam, and withdrew. Then said the Ministers, ’If it please your Majesty, the stipend is excessive, but give him pay for four days, and see wherein he may deserve it.’ Accordingly, the Rajpoot was recalled, and received wages for four days, with the complimentary betel.—Ah! the rare betel! Truly say the wise of it—
’Betel-nut is bitter,
hot, sweet, spicy, binding, alkaline—
A demulcent—an
astringent—foe to evils intestine;
Giving to the breath a fragrance—to
the lips a crimson red;
A detergent, and a kindler
of Love’s flame that lieth dead.
Praise the gods for the good
Betel!—these be thirteen virtues given,
Hard to meet in one thing
blended, even in their happy heaven.’
’Now the King narrowly watched the spending of Vira-vara’s pay, and discovered that he bestowed half in the service of the Gods and the support of Brahmans, a fourth part in relieving the poor, and reserved a fourth for his sustenance and recreation. This daily division made, he would take his stand with his sabre at the gate of the palace; retiring only upon receiving the royal permission.
’It was on the fourteenth night of the dark half of the month that King Sudraka heard below a sound of passionate sobbing. ‘Ho! there,’ he cried, ‘who waits at the gate?’
‘I,’ replied Vira-vara, ‘may it please you.’
‘Go and learn what means this weeping,’ said the King.
‘I go, your Majesty,’ answered the Rajpoot, and therewith departed.
’No sooner was he gone than the King repented him of sending one man alone into a night so dark that a bodkin might pierce a hole in it, and girding on his scimitar, he followed his guard beyond the city gates. When Vira-vara had gone thus far he encountered a beautiful and splendidly dressed lady who was weeping bitterly; and accosting her, he requested to know her name, and why she thus lamented.
‘I am the Fortune of the King Sudraka,’ answered she; ’a long while I have lived happily in the shadow of his arm; but on the third day he will die, and I must depart, and therefore lament I.’
‘Can nothing serve, Divine Lady, to prolong thy stay?’ asked the Rajpoot.
‘It might be,’ replied the Spirit, ’if thou shouldst cut off the head of thy first-born Shaktidhar, that hath on his body the thirty-two auspicious marks of greatness. Were his head offered to the all-helpful Durga, the Rajah should live a hundred years, and I might tarry beside him.’
’So speaking, she disappeared, and Vira-vara retraced his steps to his own house and awoke his wife and son. They arose, and listened with attention until Vira-vara had repeated all the words of the vision. When he had finished, Shaktidhar exclaimed, ’I am thrice happy to be able to save the state of the King. Kill me, my father, and linger not; to give my life in such a cause is good indeed,’ ‘Yes,’ said the Mother, ’it is good, and worthy of our blood; how else should we deserve the King’s pay?’ Being thus agreed, they repaired together at once to the temple of the Goddess Durga, and having paid their devotions and entreated the favor of the deity on behalf of the King, Vira-vara struck off his son’s head, and laid it as an offering upon the shrine. That done, Vira-vara said, ’My service to the King is accomplished, and life without my boy is but a burden,’ and therewith he plunged his sword in his own breast and fell dead. Overpowered with grief for her husband and child, the mother also withdrew the twice-blooded weapon, and slew herself with it on the bodies of Vira-vara and Shaktidhar.
’All this was heard and seen by King Sudraka, and he stood aghast at the sad sight. ‘Woe is me!’ he exclaimed—
’Kings may come, and
Kings may go;
What was I, to bring these
low?
Souls so noble, slain for
me,
Were not, and will never be!’
What reck I of my realm, having lost these?’ and thereat he drew his scimitar to take his own life also. At that moment there appeared to him the Goddess, who is Mistress of all men’s fortunes. ‘Son,’ said she, staying his lifted hand, ’forbear thy rash purpose, and bethink thee of thy kingdom.’
“The Rajah fell prostrate before her, and cried—’O Goddess! I am done with life and wealth and kingdom! If thou hast compassion on me, let my death restore these faithful ones to life; anywise I follow the path they have marked,’ ‘Son,’ replied the Goddess, ’thine affection is pleasing to me: be it as thou wilt! The Rajpoot and his house shall be rendered alive to thee.’ Then the King departed, and presently saw Vira-vara return, and take up again his station as before at the palace-gate.
‘Ho! there, Vira-vara!’ cried the King, ‘what meant the weeping?’
‘Let your Majesty rest well!’ answered the Rajpoot, ’it was a woman who wept, and disappeared on my approach.’ This answer completed the Rajah’s astonishment and delight; for we know—
’He is brave whose tongue
is silent of the trophies of his sword;
He is great whose quiet bearing
marks his greatness well assured.’
So when the day was come, he called a full council, and, declaring therein all the events of the night, he invested the faithful guard with the sovereignty of the Carnatic.
“Thus, then,” concluded King Silver-sides, “in entertaining strangers a man may add to his friends.”
“It may well be,” replied the Goose; “but a Minister should advise what is expedient, and not what is pleasing in sentiment:—
’When the Priest, the
Leech, the Vizir of a King his flatterers be,
Very soon the King will part
with health, and wealth, and piety.’
‘Let it pass, then,’ said Silver-sides, ’and turn we to the matter in hand. King Jewel-plume is even now pitched under the Ghauts. What think you?’
‘That we shall vanquish him,’ replied the Goose; ’for he disregards, as I learn, the counsel of that great statesman, the Vulture Far-sight; and the wise have said—
’Merciless, or money-loving,
deaf to counsel, false of faith,
Thoughtless, spiritless, or careless, changing
course with every
breath,
Or the man who scorns his rival—if
a prince should choose a foe,
Ripe for meeting and defeating, certes he would
choose him so.
He is marching without due preparation; let us send the Paddy-bird at the head of a force and attack him on his march.”
Accordingly the Paddy-bird, setting out with a force of water-fowl, fell upon the host of the Peacock-king, and did immense execution. Disheartened thereat, King Jewel-plume summoned Far-sight, his Minister, and acknowledged to him his precipitation.
‘Wherefore do you abandon us, my father?’ he said. ’Correct for us what has been done amiss.
‘My Liege,’ replied the Vulture, ’it has been well observed—
’By the valorous and
unskilful great achievements are not wrought;
Courage, led by careful Prudence,
unto highest ends is brought.’
You have set Strength in the seat of Counsel, your Majesty, and he hath clumsily spoiled your plans. How indeed could it fall otherwise? for—
’Grief kills gladness,
winter summer, midnight-gloom the light of day,
Kindnesses ingratitude, and
pleasant friends drive pain away;
Each ends each, but none of
other surer conquerors can be
Than Impolicy of Fortune—of
Misfortune Policy.’
I have said to myself, ’My Prince’s understanding is affected—how else would he obscure the moonlight of policy with the night-vapors of talk;’ in such a mood I cannot help him—
’Wisdom answers all
who ask her, but a fool she cannot aid;
Blind men in the faithful
mirror see not their reflection made.’
And therefore I have been absent.’
‘My father!’ said the King, joining his palms in respect, ’mine is all the fault! Pardon it, and instruct me how to withdraw my army without further loss.’
Then the Vulture’s anger melted, and he reflected—
’Where the Gods are,
or thy Guru—in the face of Pain and Age,
Cattle, Brahmans, Kings, and
Children—reverently curb thy rage.’
And with a benignant smile, he answered the King thus, ’Be of good heart, my Liege; thou shalt not only bring the host back safely, but thou shalt first destroy the castle of King Silver-sides.’
‘How can that be, with my diminished forces?’ asked the Rajah.
‘It will come to pass!’ answered the Vulture. ’Break up to-day for the blockade of the fort.’
Now, when this was reported by the spies to King Silver-sides, he was greatly alarmed. ‘Good Goose!’ said he, ’what is to be done? Here is the King of the Peacocks at hand, to blockade us—by his Minister’s advice, too.’
‘Sire,’ replied the Goose, ’separate the efficient and the inefficient in your force; and stimulate the loyalty of the first, with a royal bounty of gold and dresses, as each may seem to merit. Now is the time for it—
’Oh, my Prince! on eight
occasions prodigality is none—
In the solemn sacrificing,
at the wedding of a son,
When the glittering treasure
given makes the proud invader bleed,
Or its lustre bringeth comfort
to the people in their need,
Or when kinsmen are to succor,
or a worthy work to end,
Or to do a mistress honor,
or to welcome back a friend.’
‘But is this expenditure needed?’ said the King.
‘It is needed, my Liege,’ said the Goose, ’and it befits a Monarch; for—
’Truth, munificence,
and valor, are the virtues of a King;
Royalty, devoid of either,
sinks to a rejected thing.’
‘Let it be incurred then!’ replied the King.
At this moment Night-cloud, the Crow, made his appearance. ’Deign me one regard, Sire,’ said he, ’the insolent enemy is at our gates; let your Majesty give the word, and I will go forth and show my valor and devotion to your Crown.’
‘It were better to keep our cover,’ said the Goose. ’Wherefore else builded we this fortalice? Is it not said?—
’Hold thy vantage!—alligators
on the land make none afraid;
And the lion’s but a
jackal that hath left his forest-shade.’
But go, your Majesty, and encourage our warriors.” Thereupon they repaired to the Gateway of the Fort, and all day the battle raged there.
It was the morning after, when King Jewel-plume spake thus to his Minister the Vulture—’Good sir, shall thy promise be kept to us?’
‘It shall be kept, your Majesty,’ replied the Vulture; ‘storm the fort!’
‘We will storm it!’ said the Peacock-king. The sun was not well-risen accordingly when the attack was made, and there arose hot fighting at all the four gates. It was then that the traitorous Crows, headed by their Monarch, Night-cloud, put fire to every dwelling in the citadel, and raised a shout of ‘The Fort is taken! it is taken!’ At this terrible sound the soldiers of the Swan-king forsook their posts, and plunged into the pool.
Not thus King Silver-sides:—retiring coolly before the foe, with his General the Paddy-bird, he was cut off and encircled by the troopers of King Jewel-plume, under the command of his Marshal, the Cock.
‘My General,’ said the King, ’thou shalt not perish for me. Fly! I can go no farther. Fly! I bid thee, and take counsel with the Goose that Crest-jewel, my son, be named King!’
‘Good my Lord,’ replied the Paddy-bird, ’speak not thus! Let your Majesty reign victorious while the sun and moon endure. I am governor of your Majesty’s fortress, and if the enemy enter it he shall but do so over my body; let me die for thee, my Master!—
‘Gentle, generous, and discerning; such a Prince the Gods do give!’
‘That shalt thou not,’ replied the Rajah—
‘Skilful, honest, and true-hearted; where doth such a Vassal live?’
‘Nay! my royal Lord, escape!’ cried the Paddy-bird; a king’s life is the life of his people—
’The people are the
lotus-leaves, their monarch is the sun—
When he doth sink beneath
the waves they vanish every one.
When he doth rise they rise
again with bud and blossom rife,
To bask awhile in his warm
smile, who is their lord and life.’
‘Think no more of me.’ At this instant the Cock rushing forward, inflicted a wound with his sharp spurs on the person of the King; but the Paddy-bird sprang in front of him, and receiving on his body the blows designed for the Rajah, forced him away into the pool. Then turning upon the Cock, he despatched him with a shower of blows from his long bill; and finally succumbed, fighting in the midst of his enemies. Thus the King of the Peacocks captured the fortress; and marched home with all the treasure in it, amid songs of victory.
Then spake the Princes: “In that army of the Swans there was no soldier like the Paddy-bird, who gave his own life for the King’s.”
“There be nowhere many such,” replied Vishnu-Sarman; “for
’All the cows bring
forth are cattle—only now and then is born
An authentic lord of pastures,
with his shoulder-scratching horn.’[20]
“It is well spoken,” said the Princes.
“But for him that dares to die so,” added the Sage, “may an eternal heaven be reserved, and may the lustrous Angels of Paradise, the Apsaras, conduct him thither! Is it not so declared, indeed?—
’When the soldier in
the battle lays his life down for his king,
Unto Swerga’s perfect
glory such a deed his soul shall bring.’
“It is so declared,” said the Rajah’s sons.
“And now, my Princes,” concluded Vishnu-Sarman, “you have listened to ‘War.’”
“We have listened, and are gratified,” replied the sons of the King.
“Let me end then,” said their Preceptor, “with this—
’If the
clouds of Battle lower
When ye come into
your power,
Durga grant the
foes that dare you
Bring no elephants
to scare you;
Nor the thunderous
rush of horses,
Nor the footmen’s
steel-fringed forces:
But overblown by Policy’s
strong breath,
Hide they in caverns from
the avenging death.’
[16] The peacock is wild in most Indian jungles. The swan is a species of flamingo of a white color. The voice and gait of a beautiful woman are likened by the Hindoo poets to those of the swan.
[17] By such a death as that alluded to, she earns the title of Sati, the “excellent.”
[18] The common Indian crane; a graceful white bird, seen everywhere in the interior of Hindoostan.
[19] A man of military caste.
[20] Large branching horns which reach backward and rub upon his shoulders.
When the time came for resuming instruction, the King’s sons said to Vishnu-Sarman, “Master, we have heard of War, we would now learn somewhat of the treaties which follow war.” “It is well asked,” replied the Sage; “listen therefore to ‘Peace,’ which hath this commencement—
’When those great Kings
their weary war did cease,
The Vulture and the Goose
concluded Peace.’
‘How came that?’ asked the Princes.
Vishnu-Sarman related:—
“So soon as King Jewel-plume had retreated, the first care of King Silver-sides was the discovery of the treason that had cost him the fort.
‘Goose,’ he said to his Minister, ’who put the fire to our citadel, think you? Was it an enemy or an inmate?’
‘Sire,’ replied the Goose, ’Night-cloud and his followers are nowhere to be seen—it must needs be his work.’
‘It must needs be,’ sighed the King, after a pause; ’but what ill-fortune!’
‘If it please your Majesty, no,’ replied the Minister; ’it is written—
“’Tis the fool
who, meeting trouble, straightway destiny reviles;
Knowing not his own misdoing
brought his own mischance the whiles.”
You have forgotten the saying—
’Who listens not, when
true friends counsel well,
Must fall, as once the foolish
Tortoise fell.’
‘I never heard it,’ said the King. ‘How was that?’ The Goose related—
“There is a pool in South Behar called the ‘Pool of the Blue Lotus,’ and two Geese had for a long time lived there. They had a friend in the pool who was a Tortoise, and he was known as ‘Shelly-neck,’ It chanced one evening that the Tortoise overheard some fishermen talking by the water. ‘We will stop here to-night,’ they said, ’and in the morning we will catch the fish, the tortoises, and such like.’ Extremely alarmed at this, the Tortoise repaired to his friends the Geese, and reported the conversation.
‘What ever am I to do, Gossips?’ he asked.
‘The first thing is to be assured of the danger,’ said the Geese.
‘I am assured,’ exclaimed the Tortoise; ’the first thing is to avoid it: don’t you know?—
‘Time-not-come’
and ‘Quick-at-peril,’ these two fishes
’scaped the net;
‘What-will-be-will-be,’
he perished, by the fishermen beset.’
‘No,’ said the Geese,’ how was it?’ Shelly-neck related:—
“It was just such a pool as this, and on the arrival at it of just such men as these fishermen, that three fishes, who had heard their designs, held consultation as to what should be done.
‘I shall go to another water,’ said “Time-not-come,” and away he went.
‘Why should we leave unless obliged?’ asked “Quick-at-peril.” ’When the thing befalls I shall do the best I can—
’Who deals with bad
dilemmas well, is wise.
The merchant’s wife,
with womanly device,
Kissed—and denied
the kiss—under his eyes.’
‘How was that?’ asked the other fish. Quick-at-peril related:—
“There was a trader in Vikrama-poora, who had a very beautiful wife, and her name was Jewel-bright. The lady was as unfaithful as she was fair, and had chosen for her last lover one of the household servants. Ah! womankind!—
’Sex, that tires of
being true,
Base and new is brave to you!
Like the jungle-cows ye range,
Changing food for sake of
change.’
Now it befell one day that as Jewel-bright was bestowing a kiss on the mouth of the servant, she was surprised by her husband; and seeing him she ran up hastily and said, ’My lord, here is an impudent varlet! he eats the camphor which I procured for you; I was actually smelling it on his lips as you entered.’ The servant catching her meaning, affected offence. ’How can a man stay in a house where the mistress is always smelling one’s lips for a little camphor?’ he said; and thereat he was for going off, and was only constrained by the good man to stay, after much entreaty. ‘Therefore,’ said Quick-at-peril, ’I mean to abide here, and make the best I can of what befalls, as she did.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said What-will-be-will-be, ’we all know
’That which will not
be will not be, and what is to be will be:—
Why not drink this easy physic,
antidote of misery?’
’When the morning came, the net was thrown, and both the fishes inclosed. Quick-at-peril, on being drawn up, feigned himself dead; and upon the fisherman’s laying him aside, he leaped off again into the water. As to What-will-be-will-be, he was seized and forthwith dispatched.—And that,’ concluded the Tortoise, ’is why I wish to devise some plan of escape.’
‘It might be compassed if you could go elsewhere,’ said the Geese, ’but how can you get across the ground?’
‘Can’t you take me through the air?’ asked the Tortoise.
‘Impossible!’ said the Geese.
‘Not at all!’ replied the Tortoise; ’you shall hold a stick across in your bills, and I will hang on to it by my mouth—and thus you can readily convey me,’
‘It is feasible,’ observed the Geese, ’but remember,
’Wise men their plans
revolve, lest ill befall;
The Herons gained a friend,
and so, lost all.’
‘How came that about?’ asked the Tortoise. The Geese related:—
“Among the mountains of the north there is one named Eagle-cliff, and near it, upon a fig-tree, a flock of Herons had their residence. At the foot of the tree, in a hollow, there lived a serpent; and he was constantly devouring the nestlings of the Herons. Loud were the complaints of the parent birds, until an old Heron thus advised them:—’You should bring some fishes from the pool, and lay them one by one in a line from the hole of yonder Mongoose to the hollow where the Serpent lives. The Mongoose will find him when it comes after the fish, and if it finds him it will kill him.’ The advice seemed good, and was acted upon; but in killing the Snake the Mongoose overheard the cry of the young Herons; and climbing the tree daily, he devoured all that the Snake had left. Therefore,’ concluded the Geese, ’do we bid you look well into your plan: if you should open your mouth, for instance, as we carry you, you will drop and be killed.’
‘Am I a fool,’ cried the Tortoise, ’to open my mouth? Not I! Come now, convey me!’
’Thereupon the Geese took up the stick; the Tortoise held fast with his mouth, and away they flew. The country people, observing this strange sight, ran after.
‘Ho! ho!’ cried one, ‘look at the flying Tortoise!’
‘When he falls we’ll cook and eat him here,’ said another.
‘No; let us take him home for dinner!’ cried a third.
‘We can light a fire by the pool, and eat him,’ said the first.
’The Tortoise heard these unkind remarks in a towering passion. ’Eat me!—eat ashes!’ he exclaimed, opening his mouth—and down he fell directly, and was caught by the countrymen.—Said I not well,’ concluded the Goose-Minister, ‘that to scorn counsel is to seek destruction?’
‘You have well said,’ replied King Silver-sides, disconsolately.
‘Yes, your Majesty,’ interposed the Crane, who was just returned, ’if the Fort had been cleared, Night-cloud could not have fired it, as he did, by the Vulture’s instigation.’
‘We see it all,’ sighed the King, ‘but too late!’
’Whoso trusts, for service
rendered, or fair words, an enemy,
Wakes from folly like one
falling in his slumber from a tree.’
‘I witnessed Night-cloud’s reception,’ continued the Crane. ’King Jewel-plume showed him great favor, and was for anointing him Rajah of Camphor-island.’
‘Hear you that, my Liege?’ asked the Goose.
‘Go on; I hear!’ said Silver-sides.
‘To that the Vulture demurred,’ continued the Crane:—’"favor to low persons,” he said, “was like writing on the sea-sand. To set the base-born in the seat of the great was long ago declared impolitic—
’Give mean men power,
and give thy throat to the knife;
The Mouse, made Tiger, sought
his master’s life.’
‘How was that?’ asked King Jewel-plume. The Vulture related—
“In the forest of the Sage Gautama there dwelt a Recluse named Mighty-at-Prayer. Once, as he sat at his frugal meal, a young mouse dropped beside him from the beak of a crow, and he took it up and fed it tenderly with rice grains. Some time after the Saint observed a cat pursuing his dependent to devour it, whereupon he changed the mouse into a stout cat. The cat was a great deal harassed by dogs, upon which the Saint again transformed it into a dog. The dog was always in danger of the tigers, and his protector at last gave him the form of a tiger—considering him all this while, and treating him withal, like nothing but a mouse. The country-folk passing by would say, ’That a tiger! not he; it is a mouse the Saint has transformed.’ And the mouse being vexed at this, reflected, ’So long as the Master lives, this shameful story of my origin will survive!’ With this thought he was about to take the Saint’s life, when he, who knew his purpose, turned the ungrateful beast by a word to his original shape. Besides, your Majesty,” continued the Vulture, “it may not be so easy to take in Camphor-island—
’Many fine fishes did
the old Crane kill,
But the Crab matched him,
maugre all his bill.’
‘How came that to pass?’ asked Jewel-plume.
’The Vulture related:—
“There was an old Crane at a mere called Lily-water, in Malwa, who stood one day in the shallows with a most dejected look and drooping bill. A Crab observed him and called out, ’Friend Crane! have you given up eating, that you stand there all day?’ ‘Nay, sir!’ replied the old Crane; ’I love my dish of fish, but I have heard the fishermen say that they mean to capture every one that swims in this water; and as that destroys my hope of subsistence, I am resigning myself to death.’ All this the fishes overheard. ‘In this matter certainly,’ they said, ’his interest is ours; we ought to consult him; for it is written—
’Fellow be with kindly
foemen, rather than with friends unkind;
Friend and foeman are distinguished
not by title but by mind.’
Thereupon they repaired to him: ‘Good Crane,’ they said, ’what course is there for safety?’
‘Course of safety there is,’ replied the Crane, ’to go elsewhere; and I will carry you one by one to another pool, if you please.’
‘Do so,’ said the trembling fishes.
“The Crane accordingly took one after another, and having eaten them returned with the report that he had safely deposited each. Last of all, the Crab requested to be taken; and the Crane, coveting his tender flesh, took him up with great apparent respect. On arriving at the spot, which was covered with fish-bones, the Crab perceived the fate reserved for him; and turning round he fastened upon the Crane’s throat and tore it so that he perished.’
‘Well, but,’ said King Jewel-plume, ’we can make Night-cloud viceroy here, to send over to Vindhya all the productions of Camphor-isle!’
’Then the Vulture Far-sight laughed a low laugh and said—
’Who, ere he makes a
gain has spent it,
Like the pot-breaker will
repent it.’
‘What was that?’ asked the King. Far-sight related:—
“There was a Brahman in the city of Vana, whose name was Deva Sarman. At the equinoctial feast of the Dussera, he obtained for his duxina-gift a dish of flour, which he took into a potter’s shed; and there lay down in the shade among the pots, staff in hand. As he thus reclined he began to meditate, ’I can sell this meal for ten cowrie-shells, and with them I can purchase some of these pots and sell them at an advance. With all that money I shall invest in betel-nuts and body-cloths and make a new profit by their sale; and so go on trafficking till I get a lakh of rupees—what’s to prevent me? Then I shall marry four wives—and one at least will be beautiful and young, and she
‘Tell me, then, my Father, what should be done,’ said the King.
’Tell me first, your Majesty, what took the fortress: strength or stratagem?’
‘It was a device of yours,’ said the King.
‘It is well,’ replied the Minister, ’and my counsel now is to return before the rainy season, while we can return; and to make peace. We have won renown and taken the enemy’s stronghold; let it suffice. I speak as a faithful adviser; and it is written—
’Whoso setting duty
highest, speaks at need unwelcome things,
Disregarding fear and favor,
such a one may succor kings.’
Oh, my Liege! war is uncertain! Nay, it may ruin victor and vanquished—
’Sunda the strong, and
giant Upasunda,
Contending, like the lightning
and the thunder,
Slew each the other.
Learn, the while you wonder.’
‘Tell me that,’ said the King of the Peacocks.
’The Vulture related—
“Long ago, my Liege, there were two Daityas named Sunda and Upasunda, the which with penance and fasting worshipped that God who wears the moon for his forehead-jewel; desiring to win his favor, and thereby the lordship of the Three Worlds. At last the God, propitiated by their devotion, spake thus unto them:—
‘I grant a boon unto ye—choose what it shall be.’
’And they, who would have asked dominion, were suddenly minded of Saraswati—who reigns over the hearts and thoughts of men—to seek a forbidden thing.
‘If,’ said they, ’we have found favor, let the Divinity give us his own cherished Parvati, the Queen of Heaven!’
’Terribly incensed was the God, but his word had passed, and the boon must be granted; and Parvati the Divine was delivered up to them. Then those two world-breakers, sick at heart, sin-blinded, and afire with the glorious beauty of the Queen of Life—began to dispute, saying one to another: ‘Mine is she! mine is she!’ At the last they called for an umpire, and the God himself appeared before them as a venerable Brahman.
‘Master,’ said they, ’tell us whose she is, for we both won her by our might.’
’Then spake that Brahman:—
’Brahmans for their
lore have honor; Kshattriyas for their bravery;
Vaisyas for their hard-earned
treasure; Sudras for humility,’
Ye are Kshattriyas—and it is yours to fight; settle, then, this question by the sword.’
’Thereupon they agreed that he spoke wisely, and drew and battled; and being of equal force, they fell at the same moment by an exchange of blows. Good my Lord,’ concluded the Minister, ’peace is a better thing than war,’
‘But why not say so before?’ asked Jewel-plume.
‘I said it at the first,’ replied the Minister. ’I knew King Silver-sides for a just King, upon whom it was ill to wage battle. How say the Scriptures?—
’Seven foemen of all
foemen, very hard to vanquish be:
The Truth-teller, the Just-dweller,
and the man from passion free,
Subtle, self-sustained, and
counting frequent well-won victories,
And the man of many kinsmen—keep
the peace with such as these.’
The Swan-king has friends and kinsmen, my Liege:—
’And the man with many
kinsmen answers with them all attacks;
As the bambu, in the bambus
safely sheltered, scorns the axe.’
‘My counsel then is that peace be concluded with him,’ said the Vulture.
’All this King Silver-sides and his Minister the Goose heard attentively from the Crane.
‘Go again!’ said the Goose to Long-bill, ’and bring us news of how the Vulture’s advice is received.’
‘Minister!’ began the King, upon the departure of the Crane, ’tell me as to this peace, who are they with whom it should not be concluded?’
‘They be twenty, namely——’
‘Tarry not to name them,’ said the King; ’and what be the qualities of a good ally?’
‘Such should be learned in Peace and War,’ replied the Goose, ’in marching and pitching, and seasonably placing an army in the field; for it is said—
’He who sets his battle
wisely, conquers the unwary foe;
As the Owl, awaiting night-time,
slew the overweening Crow.’
Counsel, my Liege, is quintuple—Commencing, providing, dividing, repelling, and completing,’
‘Good!’ said the King.
‘Power is triple,’ continued the Goose, ’being of Kings, of counsels, and of constant effort.’
‘It is so!’ said the King.
‘And expedients, my Liege,’ continued the Goose, ’are quadruple, and consist of conciliation, of gifts, of strife-stirring, and of force of arms; for thus it is written—
’Whoso hath the gift
of giving wisely, equitably, well;
Whoso, learning all men’s
secrets, unto none his own will tell;
Whoso, ever cold and courtly,
utters nothing that offends,
Such a one may rule his fellows
unto Earth’s extremest ends.’
‘Then King Jewel-plume would be a good ally,’ observed the Swan-king.
‘Doubtless!’ said the Goose, ’but elated with victory, he will hardly listen to the Vulture’s counsel; we must make him do it.’
‘How?’ asked the King.
’We will cause our dependent, the King of Ceylon, Strong-bill the Stork, to raise an insurrection in Jambudwipa.’
‘It is well-conceived,’ said the King. And forthwith a Crane, named Pied-body, was dismissed with a secret message to that Rajah.
’In course of time the first Crane, who had been sent as a spy, came back, and made his report. He related that the Vulture had advised his Sovereign to summon Night-cloud, the Crow, and learn from him regarding King Silver-sides’ intentions. Night-cloud attended accordingly.
‘Crow!’ asked King Jewel-plume, ’what sort of a Monarch is the Rajah Silver-sides?’
‘Truthful, may it please you,’ replied the Crow; ’and therewithal noble as Yudisthira himself.’
‘And his Minister, the Goose?’
‘Is a Minister unrivalled, my Liege,’ said the Crow-king.
‘But how then didst thou so easily deceive them?’
‘Ah! your Majesty,’ said the Crow, ’there was little credit in that. Is it not said?—
’Cheating them that
truly trust you, ’tis a clumsy villainy!
Any knave may slay the child
who climbs and slumbers on his knee.’
Besides, the Minister detected me immediately. It was the King whose innate goodness forbade him to suspect evil in another:—
’Believe a knave, thyself
scorning a lie,
And rue it, like the Brahman,
by and by.’
‘What Brahman was that?’ asked the King. Night-cloud replied:—
“A Brahman that lived in the forest of Gautama, your Majesty. He had purveyed a goat to make pooja, and was returning home with it on life shoulder when he was descried by three knaves. ’If we could but obtain that goat,’ said they, ‘it would be a rare trick’; and they ran on, and seated themselves at the foot of three different trees upon the Brahman’s road. Presently he came up with the first of them, who addressed him thus: ’Master! why do you carry that dog on your shoulder?’ ‘Dog!’ said the Brahman, ‘it is a goat for sacrifice!’ With that he went on a coss, and came to the second knave; who called out—’What doest thou with that dog, Master?’ The Brahman laid his goat upon the ground, looked it all over, took it up again upon his back, and walked on with his mind in a whirl; for—
’The good think evil
slowly, and they pay
A price for faith—as
witness “Crop-ear” may.’
‘Who was Crop-ear?’ asked the King of the Peacocks.
“A Camel, may it please you,” replied Night-cloud, “who strayed away from a kafila, and wandered into the forest. A Lion, named ‘Fierce-fangs,’ lived in that forest; and his three courtiers, a Tiger, a Jackal, and a Crow, met the Camel, and conducted him to their King. His account of himself was satisfactory, and the Lion took him into his service under the name of Crop-ear. Now it happened that the rainy season was very severe, and the Lion became indisposed, so that there was much difficulty in obtaining food for the Court. The courtiers resolved accordingly to prevail on the Lion to kill the Camel; ’for what interest have we,’ they said, ‘in this browser of thistles?’
‘What, indeed!’ observed the Tiger; ’but will the Rajah kill him after his promise of protection, think you?’
‘Being famished he will,’ said the Crow. ’Know you not?—
’Hunger hears not, cares
not, spares not; no boon of the starving beg;
When the snake is pinched
with craving, verily she eats her egg.’
Accordingly they repaired to the Lion.
‘Hast brought me food, fellow?’ growled the Rajah.
‘None, may it please you,’ said the Crow.
‘Must we starve, then?’ asked his Majesty.
‘Not unless you reject the food before you, Sire,’ rejoined the Crow.
‘Before me! how mean you?’
‘I mean,’ replied the Crow (and he whispered it in the Lion’s ear), ‘Crop-ear, the Camel!’
‘Now!’ said the Lion, and he touched the ground, and afterwards both ears, as he spoke, ’I have given him my pledge for his safety, and how should I slay him?’
‘Nay, Sire! I said not slay,’ replied the Crow; ’it may be that he will offer himself for food. To that your Majesty would not object?’
‘I am parlous hungry,’ muttered the Lion.
’Then the Crow went to find the Camel, and, bringing all together before the King under some pretence or other, he thus addressed him:—
’Sire! our pains are come to nothing: we can get no food, and we behold our Lord falling away,
’Of the Tree of State
the root
Kings are—feed
what brings the fruit.’
Take me, therefore, your Majesty, and break your fast upon me.”
‘Good Crow,’ said the Lion, ‘I had liefer die than do so.’
‘Will your Majesty deign to make a repast upon me?’ asked the Jackal.
‘On no account!’ replied the Lion.
‘Condescend, my Lord,’ said the Tiger, ’to appease your hunger with my poor flesh.’
‘Impossible!’ responded the Lion.
’Thereupon Crop-ear, not to be behind in what seemed safe, made offer of his own carcase, which was accepted before he had finished; the Tiger instantly tearing his flank open, and all the rest at once devouring him.
‘The Brahman,’ continued Night-cloud, ’suspected nothing more than did the Camel; and when the third knave had broken his jest upon him for bearing a dog, he threw it down, washed himself clean of the contamination, and went home; while the knaves secured and cooked his goat.’
‘But, Night-cloud,’ asked the Rajah, ’how couldst thou abide so long among enemies, and conciliate them?’
‘It is easy to play the courtier for a purpose,’ said Night-cloud—
’Courtesy may cover
malice; on their heads the woodmen bring,
Meaning all the while to burn
them, logs and fagots—oh, my King!
And the strong and subtle
river, rippling at the cedar’s foot,
While it seems to lave and
kiss it, undermines the hanging root.’
Indeed, it has been said—
’A wise man for an object’s
sake
His foe upon his back will
take,
As with the Frogs once did
the Snake.’
‘How was that?’ asked the Peacock-King. The Crow related:—
“In a deserted garden there once lived a Serpent, ‘Slow-coil’ by name; who had reached an age when he was no longer able to obtain his own food. Lying listlessly by the edge of a pond, he was descried by a certain Frog, and interrogated—
‘Have you given up caring for food, Serpent?’
‘Leave me, kindly Sir,’ replied the subtle reptile; ’the griefs of a miserable wretch like me cannot interest your lofty mind.’
‘Let me at least hear them,’ said the Frog, somewhat flattered.
‘You must know, then, gracious Sir,’ began the Serpent, ’that it is now twenty years since here, in Brahmapoora, I bit the son of Kaundinya, a holy Brahman; of which cruel bite he died. Seeing his boy dead, Kaundinya abandoned himself to despair, and grovelled in his distress upon the ground. Thereat came all his kinsmen, citizens of Brahmapoora, and sat down with him, as the manner is—
’He who shares his brother’s
portion, be he beggar, be he lord,
Comes as truly, comes as duly,
to the battle as the board;
Stands before the King to succor,
follows to the pile to sigh;
He is friend and he is kinsman—less
would make the name a lie.’
Then spoke a twice-passed Brahman,[21] Kapila by name, ’O Kaundinya! thou dost forget thyself to lament thus. Hear what is written—
’Weep not! Life the
hired nurse is, holding us a little space;
Death, the mother who doth take us back into our
proper place.’
’Gone, with all their gauds
and glories: gone, like peasants, are the
Kings,
Whereunto the world is witness, whereof all her
record rings.’
What, indeed, my friend, is this mortal frame, that we should set store by it?—
’For the body, daily wasting,
is not seen to waste away,
Until wasted, as in water set a jar of unbaked
clay.’
’And day after day man goeth
near and nearer to his fate,
As step after step the victim thither where its
slayers wait.’
Friends and kinsmen—they must all be surrendered! Is it not said—
’Like as a plank of
drift-wood
Tossed on the
watery main,
Another plank encountered,
Meets—touches—parts
again;
So tossed, and drifting ever,
On life’s
unresting sea,
Men meet, and greet, and sever,
Parting eternally.’
Thou knowest these things, let thy wisdom chide thy sorrow, saying—
‘Halt, traveller! rest
i’ the shade: then up and leave it!
Stay, Soul! take fill of love;
nor losing, grieve it!’
But in sooth a wise man would better avoid love; for—
’Each beloved object
born
Sets within the heart a thorn,
Bleeding, when they be uptorn.’
And it is well asked—
’When thine own house,
this rotting frame, doth wither,
Thinking another’s lasting—goest
thou thither?’
What will be, will be; and who knows not—
’Meeting makes a parting
sure,
Life is nothing but death’s
door.’
For truly—
’As the downward-running
rivers never turn and never stay,
So the days and nights stream
deathward, bearing human lives away.’
And though it be objected that—
’Bethinking him of darkness
grim, and death’s unshunned pain,
A man strong-souled relaxes
hold, like leather soaked in rain.’
Yet is this none the less assured, that—
’From the day, the hour,
the minute,
Each life quickens
in the womb;
Thence its march, no falter
in it,
Goes straight
forward to the tomb.’
Form, good friend, a true idea of mundane matters; and bethink thee that regret is after all but an illusion, an ignorance—
’An ’twere not
so, would sorrow cease with years?
Wisdom sees aright what want
of knowledge fears.’
’Kaundinya listened to all this with the air of a dreamer. Then rising up he said, ’Enough! the house is hell to me—I will betake me to the forest.’
‘Will that stead you?’ asked Kapila; ’nay—
’Seek not the wild,
sad heart! thy passions haunt it;
Play hermit in thine house
with heart undaunted;
A governed heart, thinking
no thought but good,
Makes crowded houses holy
solitude.’
To be master of one’s self—to eat only to prolong life—to yield to love no more than may suffice to perpetuate a family—and never to speak but in the cause of truth, this,’ said Kapila, ’is armor against grief. What wouldst thou with a hermit’s life—prayer and purification from sorrow and sin in holy streams? Hear this!—
’Away with those that
preach to us the washing off of sin—
Thine own self is the stream
for thee to make ablutions in:
In self-restraint it rises
pure—flows clear in tide of truth,
By widening banks of wisdom,
in waves of peace and ruth.
Bathe there, thou son of Pandu!
with reverence and rite,
For never yet was water wet
could wash the spirit white.’
Resign thyself to loss. Pain exists absolutely. Ease, what is it but a minute’s alleviation?’
‘It is nothing else,’ said Kaundinya: ‘I will resign myself!’ Thereupon,’ the Serpent continued, ’he cursed me with the curse that I should be a carrier of frogs, and so retired—and here remain I to do according to the Brahman’s malediction.’
’The Frog, hearing all this, went and reported it to Web-foot the Frog-King, who shortly came himself for an excursion on the Serpent. He was carried delightfully, and constantly employed the conveyance. But one day observing the Serpent to be sluggish, he asked the reason.
‘May it please you,’ explained the Serpent, ’your slave has nothing to eat.’
‘Eat a few of my frogs,’ said the King. ‘I give you leave.’
‘I thank your Majesty!’ answered the Serpent, and forthwith he began to eat the frogs, until the pond becoming clear, he finished with their monarch himself. ‘I also,’ said Night-cloud, ’stooped to conquer, but King Silver-sides is a good King, and I would your Majesty were at peace with him.’
‘Peace!’ cried King Jewel-plume, ’shall I make peace with my vassal! I have vanquished him—let him serve me!’
“At this moment the Parrot came in. ‘Sire!’ said he, breathlessly,’ the Stork Strong-bill, Rajah of Ceylon, has raised the standard of revolt in Jambudwipa, and claims the country.’
‘What! what!’ cried the King in a fury.
‘Excellent good, Goose!’ muttered the Minister. ‘This is thy work!’
‘Bid him but await me!’ exclaimed the King, ’and I will tear him up like a tree!’
‘Ah, Sire,’ said the Minister—
’Thunder for nothing,
like December’s cloud,
Passes unmarked: strike
hard, but speak not loud.’
We cannot march without making peace first; our rear will be attacked.’
‘Must it be so?’ asked the King.
‘My Liege, it must,’ replied the Vulture.
‘Make a peace then,’ said the King, ‘and make an end.’
‘It is well,’ observed the Minister, and set out for the Court of the King Silver-sides. While he was yet coming, the Crane announced his approach.
‘Ah!’ said the Swan-King, ’this will be another designing spy from the enemy.’
‘Misdoubt him not!’ answered the Goose, smiling, ’it is the Vulture Far-sight, a spirit beyond suspicion. Would your Majesty be as the Swan that took the stars reflected in the pool for lily-buds, and being deceived, would eat no lily-shoots by day, thinking them stars?’
‘Not so! but treachery breeds mistrust,’ replied the Rajah; is it not written—
’Minds deceived by evil
natures, from the good their faith withhold;
When hot conjee once has burned
them, children blow upon the cold.’
‘It is so written, my Liege,’ said the Minister. ’But this one may be trusted. Let him be received with compliments and a gift.’
’Accordingly the Vulture was conducted, with the most profound respect, from the fort to the King’s audience-hall, where a throne was placed for him.
‘Minister,’ said the Goose, ‘consider us and ours at thy disposal.’
‘So consider us,’ assented the Swan-King.
‘I thank you,’ said Far-sight; ’but—
’With a gift the miser
meet;
Proud men by obeisance greet;
Women’s silly fancies
soothe;
Give wise men their due—the
truth.’
’I am come to conclude a peace, not to claim your kingdom. By what mode shall we conclude it?’
‘How many modes be there?’ asked King Silver-sides.
‘Sixteen,’ replied the Vulture.
‘Are the alliances numbered therein?’ asked the King.
‘No! these be four,’ answered the Vulture, ’namely—of mutual help—of friendship—of blood—and of sacrifice.’
‘You are a great diplomatist!’ said the King. ’Advise us which to choose!’
’There is no Peace like the Golden “Sangata,” which is made between good men, based on friendly feeling, and preceded by the Oath of Truth,’ replied the Vulture.
‘Let us make that Peace!’ said the Goose. Far-sight accordingly, with fresh presents of robes and jewels, accompanied the Goose to the camp of the Peacock-King. The Rajah, Jewel-plume, gave the Goose a gracious audience, accepted his terms of Peace, and sent him back to the Swan-King, loaded with gifts and kind speeches. The revolt in Jambudwipa was suppressed, and the Peacock-King retired to his own kingdom.
“And now,” said Vishnu-Sarman, “I have told your Royal Highnesses all. Is there anything remaining to be told?”
“Reverend Sir!” replied the Princes, “there is nothing. Thanks to you, we have heard and comprehended the perfect cycle of kingly duty, and are content.”
“There remains but this, then,” said their Preceptor:—
’Peace and
Plenty, all fair things,
Grace the realm
where ye reign Kings;
Grief and loss
come not anigh you,
Glory guide and
magnify you;
Wisdom keep your
statesmen still
Clinging fast,
in good or ill,
Clinging, like
a bride new-wed,
Unto lips, and
breast, and head:
And day by day, that these
fair things befall,
The Lady Lukshmi give her
grace to all.’
[21] A young Brahman, being invested with the sacred thread, and having concluded his studies, becomes of the second order: a householder.
[Selected from the “Mahabharata” Translation by Sir Edwin Arnold]
The “Mahabharata” is the oldest epic in Sanscrit literature, and is sevenfold greater in bulk than the “Iliad” and “Odyssey” taken together. This remarkable poem contains almost all the history of ancient India, so far as it can be recovered, together with inexhaustible details of its political, social, and religious life—in fact, the antique Hindoo world stands epitomized in it. The Old Testament is not more interwoven with the Jewish race, nor the New Testament with the civilization of Christendom, nor even the Koran with the records and destinies of Islam, than is this great Sanscrit poem with the unchanging and teeming population of Hindostan. The stories, songs, and ballads, the genealogies, the nursery tales and religious discourses, the art, the learning, the philosophy, the creeds, the modes of thought, the very phrases and daily ideas of the Hindoo people are taken from this poem. Their children are named after its heroes; so are their cities, streets, and even cattle. It is the spiritual life of the Hindoo people. It is personified, worshipped, and cited as being something divine. To read, or even to listen, is to the devout Hindoo sufficiently meritorious to bring prosperity to the fireside in this world, and happiness in the world to come.
The western world has as yet only received the “Mahabharata” in fragments—mere specimens, bearing to those vast treasures of Sanscrit literature such small proportion as cabinet samples of ore have to the riches of a mine. Such knowledge as we have of the great Indian epics is largely due to Sir William Jones, and the host of translators who followed him.
In its present shape the “Mahabharata” contains some two hundred thousand verses. The style is forcible, often terse and nervous: the action is well sustained, and the whole effect produced is that of a poem written in commemoration of actual conflict between members of rival clans who lived somewhere southeast of the Punjab. In portrayal of character the Hindoo poem somewhat resembles its Grecian counterpart—the “Iliad”; the noble devotion and chivalric character of its chief hero, Arjuna, reminds us of Hector—and the wily, sinful Duryodhana, is a second Ulysses. The “Mahabharata” was probably begun in the third or fourth century B.C., and completed soon after the beginning of the Christian era.
The “Bharata” war is a war between rival cousins of the house of Bharata, a race of heroes mentioned in the Rig-veda collection. Duryodhana deprives his cousin Yudhisthira of his throne by inducing him to squander his fortune, kingdom, family, and self—and then banishes Yudhisthira and the latter’s four brothers for twelve years. The gambling was conducted in an unfair manner, and the cousins feel that their banishment was the result of treachery, although pretended to be mercy in lieu of death. When the twelve years are over they collect armies of sympathizers, and on the Sacred Plain of the Kurus (the Holy Land of India) the great war is fought out. The good prevails, Duryodhana is slain, and Yudhisthira recovers his kingdom. This story is told so graphically that the “Mahabharata” still has the charm that comes from plot and action, as well as that of poetic beauty.
A concluding passage of this great poem says: “The reading of this ‘Mahabharata’ destroys all sin and produces virtue, so much so that the pronunciation of a single shloka is sufficient to wipe away much guilt. It has bound human beings in a chain, of which one end is life and the other death. If a man reads the ‘Mahabharata’ and has faith in its doctrines, he is free from all sin and ascends to heaven after his death.”
The present selection is the episode of Nala and Damayanti. It is one of the most charming of the “Mahabharata” stories, and its Oriental flavor and delicacy have been well preserved by the translator, Sir Edwin Arnold.
L.F.C.
NALA AND DAMAYANTI
Part I
A prince there was, named
Nala, Virasen’s noble breed,
Goodly to see, and virtuous;
a tamer of the steed;
As Indra ’midst the
gods, so he of kings was kingliest one,
Sovereign of men, and splendid
as the golden, glittering sun;
Pure, knowing scripture, gallant;
ruling nobly Nishadh’s lands;
Dice-loving, but a proud,
true chief of her embattled bands;
By lovely ladies lauded; free,
trained in self-control;
A shield and bow; a Manu on
earth; a royal soul!
And in Vidarbha’s city
the Raja Bhima dwelled;
Save offspring, from his perfect
bliss no blessing was withheld;
For offspring, many a pious
rite full patiently he wrought,
Till Damana the Brahman unto
his house was brought.
Him Bhima, ever reverent,
did courteously entreat,
Within the Queen’s pavilion
led him, to rest and eat;
Whereby that sage, grown grateful,
gave her—for joy of joys—
A girl, the gem of girlhood,
and three brave lusty boys—
Damana, Dama, Danta, their
names:—Damayanti she;
No daughter more delightful,
no sons could goodlier be.
Stately and bright and beautiful
did Damayanti grow;
No land there was which did
not the Slender-waisted know;
A hundred slaves her fair
form decked with robe and ornament—
Like Sachi’s self to
serve her a hundred virgins bent;
And ’midst them Bhima’s
daughter, in peerless glory dight,
Gleamed as the lightning glitters
against the murk of night;
Having the eyes of Lakshmi,
long-lidded, black, and bright—
Nay—never Gods,
nor Yakshas, nor mortal men among
Was one so rare and radiant
e’er seen, or sued, or sung
As she, the heart-consuming,
in heaven itself desired.
And Nala, too, of princes
the Tiger-Prince, admired
Like Kama was; in beauty an
embodied lord of love:
And ofttimes Nala praised
they all other chiefs above
In Damayanti’s hearing;
and oftentimes to him,
With worship and with wonder,
her beauty they would limn;
So that, unmet, unknowing,
unseen, in each for each
A tender thought of longing
grew up from seed of speech;
And love (thou son of Kunti!)
those gentle hearts did reach.
Thus Nala—hardly
bearing in his heart
Such longing—wandered
in his palace-woods,
And marked some water-birds,
with painted plumes,
Disporting. One, by stealthy
steps, he seized;
But the sky-traveller spake
to Nala this:—
“Kill me not, Prince,
and I will serve thee well.
For I, in Damayanti’s
ear, will say
Such good of Nishadh’s
lord, that nevermore
Shall thought of man possess
her, save of thee.”
Thereat the Prince
gladly gave liberty
To his soft prisoner, and
all the swans
Flew, clanging, to Vidarbha—a
bright flock—
Straight to Vidarbha, where
the Princess walked;
Not long (O Maharaja!) was
Nala fled
From Damayanti, when, in midmost
gloom
Of the thick wood a flaming
fire he spied,
And from the fire’s
heart heard proceed a voice
Of one imperilled, crying
many times:—
“Haste hither, Punyashloka,
Nala, haste!”
“Fear not,” the
Prince replied; “I come!” and sprang
Across the burning bushes,
where he saw
A snake—a king
of serpents—lying curled
In a great ring, which reared
its dancing crest
Saluting, and in human accents
spoke:—
“Maharaja, kindly lord,
I am the snake
Karkotaka; by me was once
betrayed
The famous Rishi Narada; his
wrath
Doomed me, thou Chief of men!
to bear this spell—
‘Coil thy false folds,’
said he, ’forever here,
A serpent, motionless upon
this spot,
Till it shall chance that
Nala passeth by
And bears thee hence; then
only from my curse
Canst thou be freed,’
And prisoned by that curse
I have no power to stir, though
the wood burns;
Nay, not a coil! good fellowship
I’ll show
If thou wilt succor me.
I’ll be to thee
A faithful friend, as no snake
ever yet.
Lift me, and quickly from
the flames bear forth:
For thee I shall grow light.”
Thereat shrank up
That monstrous reptile to
a finger’s length;
And grasping this, unto a
place secure
From burning, Nala bore it,
where the air
Breathed freshly, and the
fire’s black path was stayed.
Then made the
Prince to lay the serpent down,
But yet again it speaks:
“Nishadha’s Lord,
Grasp me and slowly go, counting
thy steps;
For, Raja, thou shalt have
good fortune hence.”
So Nala slowly went, counting
his steps;
And when the tenth pace came,
the serpent turned
And bit the Prince. No
sooner pierced that tooth
Than all the likeness of Nishadha
changed;
And, wonder-struck, he gazed
upon himself;
While from the dust he saw
the snake arise
A man, and, speaking as Karkotaka,
Comfort him thus:—
“Thou
art by me transformed
That no man know thee:
and that evil one
(Possessing, and undoing thee,
with grief)
Shall so within thee by my
venom smart,
Shall through thy blood so
ache, that—till he quit—
He shall endure the woe he
did impart.
Thus by my potent spell, most
noble Prince!
(Who sufferest too long) thou
wilt be freed
From him that haunts thee.
Then Bhima, hearing, called
his Brahmanas
Patient and wise, and issued
hest to go
Into all regions, seeking
for the Prince.
But first, by mandate of the
Maharaja,
To Damayanti all those twice-born
came,
Saying: “Now we
depart!” Then Bhima’s child
Gave ordinance: “To
whatsoever lands
Ye wend, say this—wherever
gather men,
Say this—in every
place these verses speak:—
Whither art thou
departed, cruel lover,
Who
stole the half of thy beloved’s cloth,
And left her to
awaken, and discover
The
wrong thou wroughtest to the love of both?
She, as thou didst
command, a sad watch keepeth,
With
woful heart wearing the rended dress.
Prince, hear her
cry who thus forever weepeth;
Be
mindful, hero; comfort her distress!
And, furthermore,” the
Princess said, “since fire
Leaps into flame when the
wind fans the spark,
Be this too spoken, that his
heart may burn:—
By every husband
nourished and protected
Should
every wife be. Think upon the wood!
Why these thy
duties hast thou so neglected,
Prince,
that was called noble and true and good?
Art then become
compassionate no longer,
Shunning,
perchance, my fortune’s broken way?
Ah, husband, love
is most! let love be stronger;
Ahimsa
paro dharma,[25] thou didst say.
These verses while ye speak,”
quoth the Princess,
“Should any man make
answer, note him well
In any place; and who he is,
and where
He dwells. And if one
listens to these words
Intently, and shall so reply
to them,
Good Brahmans, hold ye fast
his speech, and bring,
Breath by breath, all of it
unto me here;
But so that he shall know
not whence ye speak,
If ye go back. Do this
unweariedly;
And if one answer—be
he high or low,
Wealthy or poor—learn
all he was and is,
And what he would.”
Hereby
enjoined, they went,
Those twice-born, into all
the lands to seek
Prince Nala in his loneliness.
Through towns,
Cities and villages, hamlets
and camps,
By shepherds’ huts and
hermits’ caves, they passed,
Searching for Nala; yet they
found him not;
Albeit in every region (O
my king!)
The words of Damayanti, as
she taught,
Spake they again in hearing
of all men.
Suddenly—after
many days—there came
A Brahman back, Parnada he
was called,
Who unto Bhima’s child
in this wise spake:—
“O Damayanti, seeking
Nala still,
Ayodhya’s streets I
entered, where I saw
The Maharaja; he—noble-minded
one!—
Heard me thy verses say, as
thou hadst said;
Great Rituparna heard those
very words,
Excellent Princess; but he
answered nought;
And no man answered, out of
all the throng
Ofttimes addressed. But
when I had my leave
And was withdrawn, a man accosted
me
Privately—one of
Rituparna’s train,
Vahuka named, the Raja’s
charioteer
(Something misshapen, with
a shrunken arm,
But skilled in driving, very
dexterous
In cookery and sweetmeats).
He—with groans,
And tears which rolled and
rolled—asked of my health,
And then these verses spake
full wistfully:—
’Even when
their loss is largest, noble ladies
Keep
the true treasure of their hearts unspent,
Attaining heaven
through faith, which undismayed is
By
wrong, unaltered by abandonment;
Such an one guards
with virtue’s golden shield
Her
name from harm; pious and pure and tender;
And, though her
lord forsook her, will not yield
To
wrath, even against that vile offender—
Even against the
ruined, rash, ungrateful,
Faithless,
fond Prince from whom the birds did steal
His only cloth,
whom now a penance fateful
Dooms
to sad days, that dark-eyed will not feel
Anger; for if
she saw him she should see
A
man consumed with grief and loss and shame;
Ill or well lodged,
ever in misery,
Her
unthroned lord, a slave without a name.’
Such words I heard him speak,”
Parnada said,
“And, hastening thence,
I tell them to thee, here;
Thou knowest; thou wilt judge;
make the King know.”
But Damayanti listened, with
great eyes
Welling quick tears, while
thus Parnada spake,
And afterwards crept secretly
and said
Unto her mother: “Breathe
no word hereof,
Dear mother, to the King,
but let me speak
With wise Sudeva in thy presence
here;
Nothing should Bhima know
of what I plan,
But, if thou lovest me, by
thee and me
This shall be wrought.
As I was safely led
By good Sudeva home, so let
him go—
With not less happy fortune—to
bring back,
Ere many days, my Nala; let
him seek
Ayodhya, mother dear, and
fetch my Prince!”
But first Parnada,
resting from his road—
That best of twice-borns—did
the Princess thank
With honorable words and gifts:
“If home
My Nala cometh, Brahman!”
so she spake,
“Great guerdon will
I give. Thou hast well done
For me herein—–
better than any man;
Helping me find again my wandered
lord.”
To which fair words made soft
reply, and prayers
For “peace and fortune,”
that high-minded one,
And so passed home, his service
being wrought.
Next to Sudeva
spake the sad Princess
This (O my King!), her mother
standing by:—
“Good Brahman, to Ayodhya’s
city go.
Say in the ears of Raja Rituparna,
As though thou cam’st
a simple traveller,
’The daughter of King
Bhima once again
Maketh to hold her high Swayamvara.
The kings and princes from
all lands repair
Thither; the time draws nigh;
to-morrow’s dawn
Shall bring the day.
If thou wouldst be of it,
Speed quickly, conquering
King! at sunsetting
Another lord she chooseth
for herself;
Since whether Nala liveth
or is dead,
None knoweth.’”
These
the words which he should say;
And, learning them, he sped,
and thither came—
That Brahmana Sudeva—and
he spake
To Maharaja Rituparna so.
Now when the Raja
Rituparna heard
Sudeva’s words, quoth
he to Vahuka
Full pleasantly: “Much
mind I have to go
Where Damayanti holds Swayamvara,
If to Vidarbha, in a single
day,
Thou deemest we might drive,
my charioteer!”
Of Nala, by his
Raja thus addressed,
Torn was the heart with anguish;
for he thought:—
“Can Damayanti purpose
this? Could grief
So change her? Is it
not some fine device
For my sake schemed?
Or doth my Princess seek,
All holy as she was, this
guilty joy,
Being so wronged of me, her
rash weak lord?
Frail is a woman’s heart,
and my fault great!
Thus might she do it, being
far from home,
Bereft of friends, desolate
with long woes
’Whither
art thou departed, cruel lover,
Who
stole the half of thy beloved’s cloth,
And left her to
awaken and discover
The
wrong thou wroughtest to the love of both?
She, as thou didst
command, a sad watch keepeth,
With
woful heart wearing the rended dress.
Prince, hear her
cry who thus forever weepeth;
Be
mindful, hero; comfort her distress!’
What was it thou didst utter,
hearing this?
Some gentle speech! Say
it again—the Queen,
My peerless mistress, fain
would know from me.
Nay, on thy faith, when thou
didst hear that man,
What was it thou replied?
She would know.”
(Descendant of
the Kurus!) Nala’s heart,
While so the maid spoke, well-nigh
burst with grief,
And from his eyes fast flowed
the rolling tears;
But, mastering his anguish,
holding down
The passion of his pain, with
voice which strove
To speak through sobs, the
Prince repeated this:—
“Even against
the ruined, rash, ungrateful,
Faithless,
fond Prince, from whom the birds did steal
His only cloth,
whom now a penance fateful
Dooms
to sad days, that dark-eyed will not feel
Anger; for if
she saw him she should see
A
man consumed with grief and loss and shame;
Ill or well lodged,
ever in misery,
Her
unthroned lord, a slave without a name.”
Speaking these
verses, woful Nala moaned,
And, overcome by thought,
restrained no more
His trickling tears; fast
broke they forth (O King!).
But Keshini, returning, told
his words
To Damayanti, and the grief
of him.
When Damayanti
heard, sore-troubled still,
Yet in her heart supposing
him her Prince,
Again she spake: “Go,
Kashini, and watch
Whatever this man doeth; near
him stand,
Holding thy peace, and mark
the ways of him
And all his acts, going and
coming; note
If aught there be of strange
in any deed.
Let them not give him fire,
my girl—not though
This hindereth sore; nor water,
though he ask
Even with beseeching.
Afterwards observe,
And bring me what befalls,
and every sign
Of earthly or unearthly power
he shows;
And whatsoever else Vahuka
doth,
See it, and say.”
Thereon
Keshini sped,
Obeying Damayanti and—at
hand—
Whatever by that horse-tamer
was wrought,
The damsel watched, and all
his ways; and came
Back to the Princess, unto
whom she told
Each thing Vahuka did, as
it befell,
And what the signs were, and
the wondrous works
Of earthly and unearthly gifts
in him.
“Subhe!"[27]
quoth she, “the man is magical,
But high and holy mannered;
never yet
Saw I another such, nor heard
of him.
Passing the low door of the
inner court,
Where one must stoop, he did
not bow his head,
But as he came the lintel
lifted up
And gave him space. Bhima
the King had sent
Many and diverse meats for
Rituparna,
Of beast and bird and fish—great
store of food—
The which to cleanse some
chatties stood hard by,
All empty; yet he did but
look on them,
Wishful, and lo! the water
[22] Jhillikas are the large wood-crickets
[23] A caravan.
[24] This is a secretion which flows by a small orifice from the elephant’s temples at certain seasons. It is sweet-smelling, and constantly alluded to in Hindoo poetry.
[25] “Gentleness is chief of virtues.”
[26] These “curls” are the “Arvathas,” or marks of good blood and high-breeding.
[27] “O Beautiful One!”
[28] This raining down of heavenly flowers on auspicious occasions is a frequent incident in ancient Indian poetry.
[29] A short; broad-bladed sword.
[30] Nandana is the Paradise of Indra.
[31] Ancient name of India: “The Land of the Rose-apple Tree.”
BY
[Metrical translation by R.T.H. Griffiths]
The ideas of the human family are few, as is apparent from the study of the literature of widely different nations. Thus the “Ramayana” ranks in Hindoo with the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey” in Greek literature. The character of Rama corresponds with that of Menelaus, for both the European and the Asiatic heroes have had their wives carried off from them—although Sita, the bride of Rama, is chaste as an icicle from Diana’s temple, while Helen is the infamous type of wanton wives, ancient and modern. The Hindoo Lanka is Troy, and Ayodhya is Sparta. The material civilization of the cities in the Hindoo epic is more luxurious and gorgeous than that which Homer attributes to Greece in the heroic age. Such splendor and refinement as invests social life at Lanka and Ayodhya never appear amid the severe simplicity of Argos or Troy. The moral tone seems perhaps higher in India than in Greece during the periods described in their several epics—at least as far as mutual love and forbearance go—and the ideas of marriage and conjugal fidelity are equally exalted.
As to the literary quality of the Hindoo epic in comparison with Homer’s work, we are at once impressed with the immense superiority of the Greek poem in artistic proportion, point, and precision. The Hindoo poet flounders along, amid a maze of prolix description and wearisome simile. Trifles are amplified and repeated, and the whole poem resembles a wild forest abounding in rich tropical vegetation, palms and flowers, but without paths, roads, or limits. Or rather, we are reminded of one of the highly painted and richly decorated idols of India, with their many heads and many hands: but when we turn to the Greek epic we stand before a statue of pure outline, flawless proportions, and more than human beauty.
It is difficult to fix the date of the “Ramayana.” Scholars generally agree that it belongs to the third century before Christ, in its original form, but that some recent portions were added even during the Christian era. It is reckoned as one of the sacred books, and the study of it is supposed to bring forgiveness of sin, and prosperity. Its author is thought to have been the famous poet Valmiki, but the work has evidently been rehandled several times, and there are three versions of the poems still extant. The poem consists of twenty-four thousand verses, and the story of it—now overlaid as it is with extravagant and fabulous accretions—is evidently founded on fact. The scene of the poem is laid in the city of Ayodhya, the modern Oudh, which is described in glowing colors as a place of health, beauty, and prosperity—
“In by-gone ages built
and planned
By sainted Manu’s princely
hand.”
In the splendid palace of the Rajah, at Oudh, lives Dasaratha, mourning in childlessness. He is one of the princes descended from the sun, and his line now threatens to become extinct. He determines to appeal to the Gods by the Asva-medha, the great sacrifice in which a horse is the victim. The rites accordingly are performed with unparalleled magnificence, and, at the close of the ceremony, the high priest declares to the king—
“Four sons, O Monarch,
shall be thine,
Upholders of the royal line.”
Among the offspring duly granted to Dasaratha is Rama, who is a typical Hindoo of the heroic type. His fair wife, Sita, is carried off by the demon Ravana, who had assumed the form of a humble priest, or ascetic, in order to gain access to her. He carries her in his chariot to Lanka, the fair city built on an island of the sea. By the assistance of a large army of monkeys, Rama marches against Lanka, and when they stand helpless—for the water separates them from Ceylon—he then invokes the goddess of the sea, as Achilles did Thetis, and she comes in radiant beauty, telling them how to bridge the waves. The monkeys bring timber and stones, the bridge is built, Lanka reached, and the battle begins. Indra sends his own chariot down from heaven to Rama, who mounts it, and vanquishes Ravana in single combat, upon which Sita is restored to her husband. E.W.
INVOCATION
Praise to Valmiki, bird of
charming song,
Who mounts on Poesy’s
sublimest spray,
And sweetly sings with accent
clear and strong
Rama, aye Rama, in his deathless
lay.
Where breathes the man can
listen to the strain
That flows in music from Valmiki’s
tongue,
Nor feel his feet the path
of bliss attain
When Rama’s glory by
the saint is sung?
The stream Ramayan leaves
its sacred fount
The whole wide world from
sin and stain to free.
The Prince of Hermits is the
parent mount,
The lordly Rama is the darling
sea.
Glory to him whose fame is
ever bright!
Glory to him, Prachet’s
holy son!
Whose pure lips quaff with
ever-new delight
The nectar-sea of deeds by
Rama done.
Hail, arch-ascetic, pious,
good, and kind!
Hail, Saint Valmiki, lord
of every lore!
Hail, holy Hermit, calm and
pure of mind!
Hail, First of Bards, Valmiki,
hail once more!
CANTO I
Om.
To sainted Narad, prince of
those
Whose lore in words of wisdom
flows,
Whose constant care and chief
delight
Were Scripture and ascetic
rite,
The good Valmiki, first and
best
Of hermit saints, these words
addressed:—
“In all this world,
I pray thee, who
Is virtuous, heroic, true?
Firm in his vows, of grateful
mind,
To every creature good and
kind?
Bounteous, and holy, just,
and wise,
Alone most fair to all men’s
eyes?
Devoid of envy, firm, and
sage,
Whose tranquil soul ne’er
yields to rage?
Whom, when his warrior wrath
is high,
Do Gods embattled fear and
fly?
Then Narad, clear before whose
eye
The present, past, and future
lie,
Made ready answer: “Hermit,
where
Are graces found so high and
rare?
Yet listen, and my tongue
shall tell
In whom alone these virtues
dwell.
From old Ikshvaku’s
line he came,
Known to the world by Rama’s
name:—
With soul subdued, a chief
of might,
In Scripture versed, in glory
bright.
His steps in virtue’s
paths are bent,
Obedient, pure, and eloquent.
In each emprise he wins success,
And dying foes his power confess.
Tall and broad-shouldered,
strong of limb,
Fortune has set her mark on
him.
Graced with a conch-shell’s
triple line,
His throat displays the auspicious
sign.
High destiny is clear impressed
On massive jaw and ample chest.
His mighty shafts he truly
aims,
And foemen in the battle tames.
Deep in the muscle, scarcely
shown,
Embedded lies his collar-bone.
His lordly steps are firm
and free,
His strong arms reach below
his knee;
All fairest graces join to
deck
His head, his brow, his stately
neck,
And limbs in fair proportion
set:—
The manliest form e’er
fashioned yet.
Graced with each high imperial
mark,
His skin is soft and lustrous
dark.
Large are his eyes that sweetly
shine
With majesty almost divine.
His plighted word he ne’er
forgets;
On erring sense a watch he
sets.
By nature wise, his teacher’s
skill
Has trained him to subdue
his will.
Good, resolute and pure, and
strong,
He guards mankind from scathe
and wrong,
And lends his aid, and ne’er
in vain,
The cause of justice to maintain.
Well has he studied o’er
and o’er
The Vedas and their kindred
lore.
Well skilled is he the bow
to draw,
Well trained in arts and versed
in law;
High-souled and meet for happy
fate,
Most tender and compassionate;
The noblest of all lordly
givers,
Whom good men follow, as the
rivers
Follow the King of Floods,
the sea:—
So liberal, so just is he.
The joy of Queen Kausalya’s
heart,
In every virtue he has part;
Firm as Himalaya’s snowy
By chains of duty firmly tied,
The wretched King perforce
complied.
Rama, to please Kaikeyi went
Obedient forth, to banishment.
Then Lakshman’s truth
was nobly shown,
Then were his love and courage
known,
When for his brother’s
sake he dared
All perils, and his exile
shared.
And Sita, Rama’s darling
wife,
Loved even as he loved his
life,
Whom happy marks combined
to bless,
A miracle of loveliness,
Of Janak’s royal lineage
sprung,
Most excellent of women, clung
To her dear lord, like Rohini
Rejoicing with the Moon to
be.
The King and people, sad of
mood,
The hero’s car awhile
pursued.
But when Prince Rama lighted
down
At Sringavera’s pleasant
town,
Where Ganga’s holy waters
flow,
He bade his driver turn and
go.
Guha, Nishadas’ King,
he met,
And on the farther bank was
set.
Then on from wood to wood
they strayed,
O’er many a stream,
through constant shade,
As Bharadvaja bade them, till
They came to Chitrakuta’s
hill.
And Rama there, with Lakshman’s
aid,
A pleasant little cottage
made,
And spent his days with Sita,
dressed
In coat of bark and deerskin
vest.
And Chitrakuta grew to be
As bright with those illustrious
three
As Meru’s sacred peaks
that shine
With glory, when the Gods
recline
Beneath them: Siva’s
self between
The Lord of Gold and Beauty’s
Queen.
The aged King for Rama pined,
And for the skies the earth
resigned.
Bharat, his son, refused to
reign,
Though urged by all the twice-born
train.
Forth to the woods he fared
to meet
His brother, fell before his
feet,
And cried “Thy claim
all men allow:—
O come, our lord and King
be thou.”
But Rama nobly chose to be
Observant of his sire’s
decree.
He placed his sandals in his
hand,
A pledge that he would rule
the land:—
And bade his brother turn
again.
Then Bharat, finding prayer
Then lest the people should
repeat
Their visit to his calm retreat,
Away from Chitrakuta’s
hill
Fared Rama, ever onward till
Beneath the shady trees he
stood
Of Dandaka’s primeval
wood.
Viradha, giant fiend, he slew,
And then Agastya’s friendship
knew.
Counselled by him he gained
the sword
And bow of Indra, heavenly
lord:—
A pair of quivers too, that
bore
Of arrows an exhaustless store.
While there he dwelt in greenwood
shade,
The trembling hermits sought
his aid,
And bade him with his sword
and bow
Destroy the fiends who worked
them woe:—
To come like Indra strong
and brave,
A guardian God to help and
save.
And Rama’s falchion
left its trace
Deep cut on Surpanakha’s
face:—
A hideous giantess who came
Burning for him with lawless
flame.
Their sister’s cries
the giants heard,
And vengeance in each bosom
stirred;
The monster of the triple
head,
And Dushan to the contest
sped.
But they and myriad fiends
beside
Beneath the might of Rama
died.
When Ravan, dreaded warrior,
knew
The slaughter of his giant
crew—
Ravan, the King, whose name
of fear
Earth, hell, and heaven all
shook to hear—
He bade the fiend Maricha
aid
The vengeful plot his fury
laid.
In vain the wise Maricha tried
To turn him from his course
aside:—
Not Ravan’s self, he
said, might hope
With Rama and his strength
to cope.
Impelled by fate and blind
with rage
He came to Rama’s hermitage.
There, by Maricha’s
magic art,
He wiled the princely youths
apart,
The vulture slew, and bore
away
The wife of Rama as his prey.
The son of Raghu came and
found
Jatayu slain upon the ground.
He rushed within his leafy
cot;
He sought his wife, but found
her not.
Then, then the hero’s
senses failed;
In mad despair he wept and
wailed.
Upon the pile that bird he
laid,
And still in quest of Sita
strayed.
A hideous giant then he saw,
Kabandha named, a shape of
awe.
The monstrous fiend he smote
and slew,
And in the flame the body
threw;
When straight from out the
funeral flame
In lovely form Kabandha came,
And bade him seek in his distress
A wise and holy hermitess.
By counsel of this saintly
dame
To Pampa’s pleasant
flood he came,
And there the steadfast friendship
won
Of Hanuman the Wind-God’s
son.
Counselled by him he told
Then with Sugriva for his
guide,
Came Rama to the ocean side.
He smote the sea with shafts
as bright
As sunbeams in their summer
height,
And quick appeared the River’s
King
Obedient to the summoning.
A bridge was thrown by Nala
o’er
The narrow sea from shore
to shore.
They crossed to Lanka’s
golden town,
Where Rama’s hand smote
Whoe’er this noble poem
reads
That tells the tale of Rama’s
deeds,
Good as the Scriptures, he
shall be
From every sin and blemish
free.
Whoever reads the saving strain,
With all his kin the heavens
shall gain.
Brahmans who read shall gather
hence
The highest praise for eloquence.
The warrior, o’er the
land shall reign,
The merchant, luck in trade
obtain;
And Sudras, listening, ne’er
shall fail
To reap advantage from the
tale.
[Cantos II., III., IV., and V. are omitted.]
[32] Ceylon.
THE KING
There reigned a King of name
revered,
To country and to town endeared,
Great Dasaratha, good and
sage,
Well read in Scripture’s
holy page:
Upon his kingdom’s weal
intent,
Mighty and brave and provident;
The pride of old Ikshvaku’s
seed
For lofty thought and righteous
THE MINISTERS
Two sages, holy saints, had
he,
His ministers and priests
to be:—
Vasishtha, faithful to advise,
And Vamadeva, Scripture-wise.
Eight other lords around him
stood,
All skilled to counsel, wise
and good:—
Jayanta, Vijay, Dhrishti bold
In fight, affairs of war controlled;
Siddharth and Arthasadhak
true
Watched o’er expense
and revenue,
And Dharmapal and wise Asok
Of right and law and justice
spoke.
With these the sage Sumantra,
skilled
To urge the car, high station
filled.
All these in knowledge duly
trained
Each passion and each sense
restrained:—
With modest manners, nobly
bred,
Each plan and nod and look
they read,
Upon their neighbors’
good intent,
Most active and benevolent;
As sits the Vasus round their
King,
They sate around him counselling.
They ne’er in virtue’s
loftier pride
Another’s lowly gifts
decried.
In fair and seemly garb arrayed,
No weak uncertain plans they
made.
Well skilled in business,
fair and just,
They gained the people’s
love and trust,
And thus without oppression
stored
The swelling treasury of their
lord.
Bound in sweet friendship
each to each,
They spoke kind thoughts in
SUMANTRA’S SPEECH
But splendid, just, and great
of mind,
The childless King for offspring
pined.
No son had he his name to
grace,
Transmitter of his royal race.
Long had his anxious bosom
wrought,
And as he pondered rose the
thought:—
“A votive steed ’twere
good to slay,
So might a son the gift repay.”
Before his lords his plans
he laid,
And bade them with their wisdom
aid;
Then with these words Sumantra,
best
Of royal counsellors, addressed:—
“Hither, Vasishtha at
their head,
Let all my priestly guides
be led.”
To him Sumantra made reply:—
“Hear, sire, a tale
of days gone by.
To many a sage in time of
old,
Sanatkumar, the saint, foretold
How from thine ancient line,
O King,
A son, when years came round,
should spring
‘Here dwells,’
’twas thus the seer began,
’Of Kasyap’s race,
a holy man,
Vibhandak named: to him
shall spring
A son, the famous Rishyasring.
Bred with the deer that round
him roam,
The wood shall be that hermit’s
home.
To him no mortal shall be
known
Except his holy sire alone.
Still by those laws shall
he abide
Which lives of youthful Brahmans
guide,
Obedient to the strictest
rule
That forms the young ascetic’s
school:
And all the wondering world
shall hear
Of his stern life and penance
drear;
His care to nurse the holy
fire
And do the bidding of his
sire.
Then, seated on the Angas’
throne,
Shall Lomapad to fame be known.
But folly wrought by that
great King
A plague upon the land shall
bring;
No rain for many a year shall
fall
And grievous drought shall
ruin all.
The troubled King with many
a prayer
Shall bid the priests some
cure declare:—
“The lore of Heaven
’tis yours to know,
Nor are ye blind to things
below:—
Declare, O holy men, the way
This plague to expiate and
stay.”
Those best of Brahmans shall
reply:—
“By every art, O Monarch,
try,
Hither to bring Vibhandak’s
child,
Persuaded, captured, or beguiled.
And when the boy is hither
led
To him thy daughter duly wed.”
But how to bring that wondrous
boy
His troubled thoughts will
long employ,
And hopeless to achieve the
task
He counsel of his lords will
ask,
And bid his priests and servants
bring
With honor saintly Rishyasring.
But when they hear the monarch’s
speech,
All these their master will
beseech,
With trembling hearts and
looks of woe,
To spare them, for they fear
to go.
And many a plan will they
declare
And crafty plots will frame,
And promise fair to show him
there,
Unforced, with none to blame.
On every word his lords shall
say,
The King will meditate,
And on the third returning
day
Recall them to debate.
Then this shall be the plan
agreed,
That damsels shall be sent
Attired in holy hermits’
weed,
And skilled in blandishment,
That they the hermit may beguile
With every art and amorous
wile
Whose use they know so well,
And by their witcheries seduce
The unsuspecting young recluse
To leave his father’s
cell.
Then when the boy with willing
feet
Shall wander from his calm
retreat
And in that city stand,
RISHYASRING
The wise Sumantra, thus addressed,
Unfolded at the King’s
behest
The plan the lords in council
laid
To draw the hermit from the
shade.
The priest, amid the lordly
crowd,
To Lomapad thus spoke aloud:—
“Hear, King, the plot
our thoughts have framed,
A harmless trick by all unblamed.
Far from the world that hermit’s
child
Lives lonely in the distant
wild:
A stranger to the joys of
sense,
His bliss is pain and abstinence;
And all unknown are women
yet
To him, a holy anchoret.
The gentle passions we will
wake
That with resistless influence
shake
The hearts of men; and he
Drawn by enchantment strong
and sweet
Shall follow from his lone
retreat,
And come and visit thee.
Let ships be formed with utmost
care
That artificial trees may
bear,
And sweet fruit deftly made;
Let goodly raiment, rich and
rare,
And flowers, and many a bird
be there
Beneath the leafy shade.
Upon the ships thus decked
a band
Of young and lovely girls
shall stand,
Rich in each charm that wakes
desire,
And eyes that burn with amorous
fire;
Well skilled to sing, and
play, and dance,
And ply their trade with smile
and glance.
Let these, attired in hermits’
dress,
Betake them to the wilderness,
And bring the boy of life
austere
A voluntary captive here,”
He ended; and the King agreed,
By the priest’s counsel
won,
And all the ministers took
heed
To see his bidding done.
In ships with wondrous art
prepared
Away the lovely women fared,
And soon beneath the shade
they stood
Of the wild, lonely, dreary
wood.
And there the leafy cot they
found
Where dwelt the devotee.
And looked with eager eyes
around
The hermit’s son to
see.
Still, of Vibhandak sore afraid,
They hid behind the creeper’s
shade.
But when by careful watch
they knew
The elder saint was far from
They heard his speech, and
gave consent,
And gladly to his cottage
went.
Vibhandak’s son received
them well
Beneath the shelter of his
cell—
With guest-gift, water for
their feet,
And woodland fruit and roots
to eat.
They smiled and spoke sweet
words like these.
Delighted with his courtesies:—
“We too have goodly
fruit in store,
Grown on the trees that shade
our door;
Come, if thou wilt, kind Hermit,
haste
The produce of our grove to
taste;
And let, O good Ascetic, first
This holy water quench thy
thirst.”
They spoke, and gave him comfits
sweet
Prepared ripe fruits to counterfeit;
And many a dainty cate beside,
And luscious mead their stores
supplied.
The seeming fruits, in taste
and look,
The unsuspecting hermit took,
For, strange to him, their
form beguiled
The dweller in the lonely
wild.
Then round his neck fair arms
were flung,
And there the laughing damsels
clung,
And pressing nearer and more
near
With sweet lips whispered
at his ear;
While rounded limb and swelling
breast
The youthful hermit softly
pressed.
The pleasing charm of that
strange bowl,
The touch of a tender limb,
Over his yielding spirit stole
And sweetly vanquished him—
But vows, they said, must
now be paid;
They bade the boy farewell,
And of the aged saint afraid,
Prepared to leave the dell.
With ready guile they told
him where
Their hermit dwelling lay;
Then, lest the sire should
find them there,
Sped by wild paths away.
They fled and left him there
alone
By longing love possessed;
And with a heart no more his
own
He roamed about distressed.
The aged saint came home,
to find
The hermit boy distraught,
Revolving in his troubled
mind
One solitary thought.
“Why dost thou not,
my son,” he cried,
“Thy due obeisance pay?
Why do I see thee in the tide
Of whelming thought to-day?
A devotee should never wear
A mien so sad and strange.
Come, quickly, dearest child,
declare
The reason of the change.”
And Rishyasring, when questioned
thus,
Made answer in this wise:—
“O sire, there came
to visit us
Some men with lovely eyes.
About my neck soft arms they
wound
And kept me tightly held
To tender breasts so soft
and round,
That strangely heaved and
swelled.
They sing more sweetly as
they dance
Than e’er I heard till
now,
And play with many a sidelong
glance
And arching of the brow.”
“My son,” said
he, “thus giants roam
Where holy hermits are,
And wander round their peaceful
home
Their rites austere to mar.
But Rishyasring with eager
pace
Sped forth and hurried to
the place
Where he those visitants had
seen
Of dainty waist and charming
mien.
When from afar they saw the
son
Of Saint Vibhandak toward
them run,
To meet the hermit boy they
hied,
And hailed him with a smile,
and cried:—
“O come, we pray, dear
lord, behold
Our lovely home of which we
told:—
Due honor there to thee we’ll
pay,
And speed thee on thy homeward
way.”
Pleased with the gracious
words they said
He followed where the damsels
led.
As with his guides his steps
he bent,
That Brahman high of worth,
A flood of rain from heaven
sent
That gladdened all the earth.
Vibhandak took his homeward
road,
And wearied by the heavy load
Of roots and woodland fruit
he bore
Entered at last his cottage
door.
Fain for his son he looked
around,
But desolate the cell he found.
He stayed not then to bathe
his feet,
Though fainting with the toil
and heat,
But hurried forth and roamed
about
Calling the boy with cry and
shout.
He searched the wood, but
all in vain;
Nor tidings of his son could
gain.
One day beyond the forest’s
bound
The wandering saint a village
found,
And asked the swains and neatherds
there
Who owned the land so rich
and fair,
With all the hamlets of the
plain,
And herds of kine and fields
of grain.
They listened to the hermit’s
words,
And all the guardians of the
herds,
With suppliant hands together
pressed,
This answer to the saint addressed:—
“The Angas’ lord
who bears the name
Of Lomapad, renowned by fame,
Bestowed these hamlets with
their kine
And all their riches, as a
sign
Of grace, on Rishyasring;
and he
Vibhandak’s son is said
to be.”
The hermit with exulting breast
The mighty will of fate confessed,
By meditation’s eye
discerned;
And cheerful to his home returned.
A stately ship, at early morn,
The hermit’s son away
had borne.
Loud roared the clouds, as
on he sped,
The sky grew blacker overhead;
Till, as he reached the royal
town,
A mighty flood of rain came
down.
By the great rain the monarch’s
mind
The coming of his guest divined.
To meet the honored youth
he went,
And low to earth his head
he bent.
With his own priest to lead
the train,
He gave the gift high guests
Thus loved and honored by
the King,
The glorious Brahman Rishyasring
Passed in that royal town
his life
With Santa his beloved wife.
RISHYASRING INVITED
“Again, O best of Kings,
give ear:—
My saving words attentive
hear,
And listen to the tale of
old
By that illustrious Brahman
told.
’Of famed Ikshvaku’s
line shall spring
(’Twas thus he spoke)
a pious king,
Named Dasaratha, good and
great,
True to his word and fortunate.
He with the Angas’ mighty
lord
Shall ever live in sweet accord,
And his a daughter fair shall
be,
Santa of happy destiny.
But Lomapad, the Angas’
chief,
Still pining in his childless
grief,
To Dasaratha thus shall say:—
“Give me thy daughter,
friend, I pray,
Thy Santa of the tranquil
mind,
The noblest one of womankind.”
The father, swift to feel
for woe,
Shall on his friend his child
bestow;
And he shall take her and
depart
To his own town with joyous
heart.
The maiden home in triumph
led,
To Rishyasring the King shall
wed.
And he with loving joy and
pride
Shall take her for his honored
bride.
And Dasaratha to a rite
That best of Brahmans shall
invite
With supplicating prayer
To celebrate the sacrifice
To win him sons and Paradise,
That he will fain prepare.
From him the lord of men at
length
The boon he seeks shall gain,
And see four sons of boundless
strength
His royal line maintain,
Thus did the godlike saint
of old
The will of fate declare,
And all that should befall
unfold
Amid the sages there.
O Prince, supreme of men,
go thou,
Consult thy holy guide,
And win, to aid thee in thy
vow,
This Brahman to thy side.”
Sumantra’s counsel,
wise and good,
King Dasaratha heard,
Then by Vasishtha’s
side he stood
And thus with him conferred:—
“Sumantra counsels thus:—do
thou
My priestly guide, the plan
allow.”
Vasishtha gave his glad consent,
And forth the happy monarch
went
With lords and servants on
the road
That led to Rishyasring’s
abode.
Forests and rivers duly past,
He reached the distant town
at last—
Of Lomapad the Angas’
King,
And entered it with welcoming.
“O King of men, mine
ancient friend,
(Thus Dasaratha prayed),
Thy Santa with her husband
send
My sacrifice to aid.”
Said he who ruled the Angas,
“Yea,”
And his consent was won:—
And then at once he turned
away
To warn the hermit’s
son.
He told him of their ties
beyond
Their old affection’s
faithful bond:—
“This King,” he
said, “from days of old
A well beloved friend I hold.
To me this pearl of dames
he gave
From childless woe mine age
to save,
The daughter whom he loved
so much,
Moved by compassion’s
gentle touch.
In him thy Santa’s father
see:—
As I am, even so is he.
For sons the childless monarch
yearns,
To thee alone for help he
turns.
Go thou, the sacred rite ordain
To win the sons he prays to
gain:—
Go, with thy wife thy succor
lend,
And give his vows a blissful
end.”
The hermit’s son with
quick accord
Obeyed the Angas’ mighty
lord,
And with fair Santa at his
side
To Dasaratha’s city
hied.
Each king, with suppliant
hands upheld,
Gazed on the other’s
face:—
And then by mutual love impelled
Met in a close embrace.
Then Dasaratha’s thoughtful
care,
Before he parted thence,
Bade trusty servants homeward
bear
The glad intelligence:—
“Let all the town be
bright and gay,
With burning incense sweet;
Let banners wave, and water
lay
The dust in every street.”
Glad were the citizens to
learn
The tidings of their lord’s
return,
And through the city every
man
Obediently his task began.
And fair and bright Ayodhya
showed,
As following his guest he
rode
Through the full streets,
where shell and drum
Proclaimed aloud the King
was come.
And all the people with delight
Kept gazing on their king,
Attended by that youth so
bright,
The glorious Rishyasring.
When to his home the King
had brought
The hermit’s saintly
son,
He deemed that all his task
was wrought,
And all he prayed for won.
And lords who saw the stranger
dame
So beautiful to view,
Rejoiced within their hearts,
and came
And paid her honor, too.
There Rishyasring passed blissful
days,
Graced like the King with
love and praise,
And shone in glorious light
with her,
Sweet Santa for his minister,
As Brahma’s son Vasishtha,
he
Who wedded Saint Arundhati.
THE SACRIFICE DECREED
The Dewy Season came and went;
The spring returned again—
Then would the King, with
mind intent,
His sacrifice ordain.
He came to Rishyasring, and
bowed
To him of look divine,
And bade him aid his offering
vowed
For heirs, to save his line.
Nor would the youth his aid
deny,
He spake the monarch fair,
And prayed him for that rite
so high
All requisites prepare.
The King to wise Sumantra
cried
Who stood aye ready near;
“Go summon quick, each
holy guide,
To counsel and to hear,”
Obedient to his lord’s
behest
Away Sumantra sped,
And brought Vasishtha and
the rest,
In Scripture deeply read.
Suyajna, Vamadeva came,
Javali, Kasyap’s son,
And old Vasishtha, dear to
fame,
Obedient, every one.
King Dasaratha met them there
And duly honored each,
And spoke in pleasant words
his fair
And salutary speech:—
“In childless longing
doomed to pine,
No happiness, O lords, is
mine.
So have I for this cause decreed
To slay the sacrificial steed.
Fain would I pay that offering
high
Wherein the horse is doomed
to die,
With Rishyasring his aid to
lend,
And with your glory to befriend.”
With loud applause each holy
man
Received his speech, approved
the plan,
And, by the wise Vasishtha
led,
Gave praises to the King,
and said:—
“The sons thou cravest
shalt thou see,
Of fairest glory, born to
thee,
Whose holy feelings bid thee
take
This righteous course for
offspring’s sake.”
Cheered by the ready praise
of those
Whose aid he sought, his spirits
rose—
And thus the King his speech
renewed
With looks of joy and gratitude:—
“Let what the coming
rites require
Be ready, as the priests desire,
And let the horse, ordained
to bleed,
With fitting guard and priest,
be freed.
Yonder on Sarju’s northern
side
The sacrificial ground provide;
And let the saving rites,
that nought
Ill-omened may occur, be wrought.
The offering I announce to-day
Each lord of earth may claim
to pay,
Provided that his care can
guard
The holy rite by flaws unmarred.
For wandering fiends, whose
watchful spite
Waits eagerly to spoil each
rite—
Hunting with keenest eye detect
The slightest slip, the least
neglect;
And when the sacred work is
crossed
The workman is that moment
lost.
Let preparation due be made,
Your powers the charge can
meet,
That so the noble rite be
paid
In every point complete.”
And all the Brahmans answered,
THE SACRIFICE BEGUN
Again the spring with genial
heat
Returning made the year complete.
To win him sons, without delay
His vow the King resolved
to pay—
And to Vasishtha, saintly
man,
In modest words this speech
began:—
“Prepare the rite with
all things fit
As is ordained in Holy Writ,
And keep with utmost care
afar
Whate’er its sacred
forms might mar.
Thou art, my lord, my trustiest
guide,
Kind-hearted, and my friend
beside;
So is it meet thou undertake
This heavy task for duty’s
sake.”
Then he, of twice-born men
the best,
His glad assent at once expressed:—
“Fain will I do whatever
may be
Desired, O honored King, by
thee.”
To ancient priests he spoke,
who, trained
In holy rites, deep skill
had gained:—
“Here guards be stationed,
good and sage,
Religious men of trusted age.
And various workmen send and
call,
Who frame the door and build
the wall—
With men of every art and
trade,
Who read the stars and ply
the spade,
And mimes and minstrels hither
bring,
And damsels trained to dance
and sing.”
Then to the learned men he
said,
In many a page of Scripture
read:—
“Be yours each rite
performed to see
According to the King’s
decree.
And stranger Brahmans quickly
call
To this great rite that welcomes
all.
Pavilions for the princes,
decked
With art and ornament, erect,
And handsome booths by thousands
made
The Brahman visitors to shade—
Arranged in order side by
side,
With meat and drink and all
supplied.
And ample stables we shall
need
For many an elephant and steed—
And chambers where the men
may lie,
And vast apartments, broad
and high,
Fit to receive the countless
bands
Of warriors come from distant
lands.
For our own people too provide
Sufficient tents, extended
wide,
And stores of meat and drink
prepare,
And all that can be needed
there.
And food in plenty must be
found
They answered: “As
thou seest fit
So will we do and nought omit.”
The sage Vasishtha then addressed
Sumantra, called at his behest:—
“The princes of the
earth invite,
And famous lords who guard
the rite,
Priest, Warrior, Merchant,
lowly thrall,
In countless thousands summon
all.
Where’er their home
be, far or near,
Gather the good with honor
here.
And Janak, whose imperial
sway
The men of Mithila obey,
The firm of vow, the dread
of foes,
Who all the lore of Scripture
knows,
Invite him here with honor
high,
King Dasaratha’s old
ally.
And Kasi’s lord of gentle
speech,
Who finds a pleasant word
for each—
In length of days our monarch’s
peer,
Illustrious King, invite him
here.
The father of our ruler’s
bride,
Known for his virtues far
and wide,
The King whom Kekaya’s
realms obey,
Him with his son invite, I
pray.
And Lomapad, the Angas King,
True to his vows and godlike,
bring.
Far be thine invitations sent
To west and south and orient.
Call those who rule Surashtra’s
land,
Suvira’s realm and Sindhu’s
strand,
And all the kings of earth
beside
In friendship’s bonds
with us allied:—
Invite them all to hasten
in
With retinue and kith and
kin.”
Vasishtha’s speech without
delay
Sumantra bent him to obey,
And sent his trusty envoys
forth
Eastward and westward, south
and north.
Obedient to the saint’s
request
Himself he hurried forth,
and pressed
Each nobler chief and lord
and king
To hasten to the gathering.
Before the saint Vasishtha
stood
All those who wrought with
stone and wood,
And showed the work which
every one
In furtherance of the rite
had done.
Rejoiced their ready zeal
to see,
Thus to the craftsmen all
said he:—
“I charge ye, masters,
see to this,
That there be nothing done
amiss.
And this, I pray, in mind
be borne,
That not one gift ye give
in scorn;
Whenever scorn a gift attends
Great sin is his who thus
offends.”
And now some days and nights
had passed,
And Kings began to gather
fast,
And precious gems in liberal
store
As gifts to Dasaratha bore.
Then joy thrilled through
Vasishtha’s breast
As thus the monarch he addressed:—
“Obedient to thy high
decree
The Kings, my lord, are come
to thee.
And it has been my care to
greet
And honor all with reverence
meet.
Thy servants’ task is
ended quite,
And all is ready for the rite.
Come forth then to the sacred
ground
Where all in order will be
found.”
Then Rishyasring confirmed
the tale:—
Nor did their words to move
him fail.
The stars propitious influence
lent
When forth the world’s
great ruler went.
Then by the sage Vasishtha
led,
The priest began to speed
Those glorious rites wherein
is shed
The lifeblood of the steed.
THE SACRIFICE FINISHED
The circling year had filled
its course,
And back was brought the wandering
horse:—
Then upon Sarju’s northern
strand
Began the rite the King had
planned.
With Rishyasring the forms
to guide,
The Brahmans to their task
applied,
At that great offering of
the steed
Their lofty-minded King decreed.
The priests, who all the Scripture
knew,
Performed their part in order
due,
And circled round in solemn
train
As precepts of the law ordain.
Pravargya rites were duly
sped:—
For Upasads the flames were
fed.
Then from the plant the juice
was squeezed,
And those high saints, with
minds well pleased,
Performed the mystic rites
begun
With bathing ere the rise
of sun.
They gave the portion, Indra’s
claim,
And hymned the King whom none
can blame.
The mid-day bathing followed
next,
Observed as bids the holy
text.
Then the good priests with
utmost care,
In form that Scripture’s
rules declare,
For the third time pure water
shed
On high-souled Dasaratha’s
head.
Then Rishyasring and all the
rest
To Indra and the Gods addressed
Their sweet-toned hymn of
praise and prayer,
And called them in the rite
to share.
With sweetest song and hymn
intoned
They gave the Gods in heaven
enthroned,
As duty bids, the gifts they
claim,
The holy oil that feeds the
flame.
And many an offering there
was paid,
And not one slip in all was
made.
For with most careful heed
they saw
That all was done by Veda
law.
None, all those days, was
seen oppressed
By hunger or by toil distressed.
Why speak of human kind?
No beast
Was there that lacked an ample
feast.
For there was store for all
who came,
Urged by these cries on every
side
Unweariedly their task they
plied,
And heaps of food like hills
in size
In boundless plenty met the
eyes:—
And lakes of sauce, each day
renewed,
Refreshed the weary multitude.
And strangers there from distant
lands,
And women folk in crowded
bands
The best of food and drink
obtained
At the great rite the King
ordained.
Apart from all, the Brahmans
there,
Thousands on thousands, took
their share
Of various dainties sweet
to taste,
On plates of gold and silver
placed—
All ready set, as, when they
willed,
The twice-born men their places
filled.
And servants in fair garments
dressed
Waited upon each Brahman guest.
Of cheerful mind and mien
were they,
With gold and jewelled ear-rings
gay.
The best of Brahmans praised
the fare
Of countless sorts, of flavor
rare—
And thus to Raghu’s
son they cried:—
“We bless thee, and
are satisfied.”
Between the rites some Brahmans
spent
The time in learned argument,
With ready flow of speech,
sedate,
And keen to vanquish in debate.
There day by day the holy
train
Performed all rites as rules
ordain.
No priest in all that host
was found
But kept the vows that held
him bound;
None, but the holy Vedas knew,
And all their sixfold science
too.
No Brahman there was found
unfit
To speak with eloquence and
wit.
And now the appointed time
came near
The sacrificial posts to rear.
They brought them, and prepared
to fix
Of Bel and Khadir six and
six;
Six, made of the Palasa-tree,
Of Fig-wood one, apart to
be—
Of Sleshmat and of Devadar
One column each, the mightiest
far:—
So thick the two the arms
of man
Their ample girth would fail
to span.
All these with utmost care
were wrought
By hand of priests in Scripture
taught,
And all with gold were gilded
bright
To add new splendor to the
rite;
Twenty-and-one those stakes
in all,
Each one-and-twenty cubits
tall:—
And one-and-twenty ribbons
there
Hung on the pillars bright
and fair.
Firm in the earth they stood
at last,
Where cunning craftsmen fixed
them fast;
And there unshaken each remained,
Octagonal and smoothly planed.
Then ribbons over all were
hung,
And flowers and scent around
them flung.
Thus decked they cast a glory
forth
Like the great saints who
star the north.
The sacrificial altar then
Was raised by skilful twice-born
men—
In shape and figure to behold
An eagle with his wings of
gold,
With twice nine pits and formed
threefold.
Each for some special God,
beside
The pillars were the victims
tied;
The birds that roam the wood,
the air,
The water, and the land were
there,
And snakes and things of reptile
birth,
And healing herbs that spring
from earth:—
As texts prescribe, in Scripture
found,
Three hundred victims there
were bound.
The steed devoted to the host
Of Gods, the gem they honor
most,
Was duly sprinkled. Then
the Queen
Kausalya, with delighted mien,
With reverent steps around
him paced,
And with sweet wreaths the
victim graced;
Then with three swords in
order due
She smote the steed with joy,
and slew.
That night the queen, a son
to gain,
With calm and steady heart
was fain
By the dead charger’s
side to stay
From evening till the break
of day.
Then came three priests, their
care to lead
The other queens to touch
the steed—
Upon Kausalya to attend,
Their company and aid to lend.
As by the horse she still
reclined,
With happy mien and cheerful
mind,
With Rishyasring the twice-born
came
And praised and blessed the
royal dame.
The priest who well his duty
knew,
And every sense could well
subdue,
From out the bony chambers
freed
And boiled the marrow of the
steed.
Above the steam the monarch
bent,
And, as he smelt the fragrant
scent,
In time and order drove afar
All error, that his hopes
could mar.
Then sixteen priests together
came,
And cast into the sacred flame
The severed members of the
horse,
Made ready all in ordered
course.
On piles of holy Fig-tree
raised
The meaner victims’
bodies blazed:—
The steed, of all the creatures
slain,
Alone required a pile of cane.
Three days, as is by law decreed,
Lasted that Offering of the
Steed.
The Chatushtom began the rite,
And when the sun renewed his
light,
The Ukthya followed—after
came
The Atiratra’s holy
flame.
These were the rites, and
many more,
Arranged by light of holy
lore,
The Aptoryam of mighty power,
And, each performed in proper
hour,
The Abhijit and Visvajit
With every form and service
fit;
And with the sacrifice at
night
The Jyotishtom and Ayus rite.
The task was done, as laws
prescribe:—
The monarch, glory of his
tribe,
Bestowed the land in liberal
grants
Upon the sacred ministrants.
He gave the region of the
east,
His conquest, to the Hotri
priest.
The west the celebrant obtained,
The south the priest presiding
gained—
The northern region was the
share
Of him who chanted forth the
prayer.
Thus did each priest obtain
his meed
At the great Slaughter of
the Steed,
Ordained, the best of all
to be,
By self-existent deity.
Ikshvaku’s son, with
joyful mind,
This noble fee to each assigned—
But all the priests with one
accord
Addressed that unpolluted
lord:—
“’Tis thine alone
to keep the whole
Of this broad earth in firm
control.
No gift of lands from thee
we seek,
To guard these realms our
hands were weak.
On sacred lore our days are
spent,
Let other gifts our wants
content.”
The chief of old Ikshvaku’s
line
Gave them ten hundred thousand
kine,
A hundred millions of fine
gold,
The same in silver four times
told.
But every priest in presence
there
With one accord resigned his
share.
To Saint Vasishtha, high of
soul,
And Rishyasring they gave
the whole.
That largess pleased those
Brahmans well,
Who bade the prince his wishes
tell.
Then Dasaratha, mighty King,
Made answer thus to Rishyasring:—
“O holy Hermit, of thy
grace,
Vouchsafe the increase of
my race.”
He spoke; nor was his prayer
denied—
The best of Brahmans thus
replied:—
“Four sons, O Monarch,
shall be thine,
Upholders of thy royal line.”
RAVAN DOOMED
The saint, well-read in holy
lore,
Pondered awhile his answer
o’er,
And thus again addressed the
King,
His wandering thoughts regathering:—
“Another rite will I
begin
Which shall the sons thou
cravest win,
Where all things shall be
duly sped
And first Atharva texts be
read.”
Then by Vibhandak’s
gentle son
Was that high sacrifice begun,
The King’s advantage
seeking still
And zealous to perform his
will.
Now all the Gods had gathered
there,
Each one for his allotted
share—
Brahma, the ruler of the sky,
Sthanu, Narayan, Lord most
high,
And holy Indra men might view
With Maruts for his retinue;
The heavenly chorister, and
saint,
And spirit pure from earthly
taint,
With one accord had sought
the place
The high-souled monarch’s
rite to grace,
Then to the Gods who came
to take
Their proper share, the hermit
spake:—
“For you has Dasaratha
These words the Gods in answer
said,
And vanished thence, by Indra
led.
Thus to the Lord, the worlds
who made,
The Immortals all assembled
prayed:—
“O Brahma, mighty by
thy grace,
Ravan, who rules the giant
race,
Torments us in his senseless
pride,
And penance-loving saints
beside.
For thou well pleased in days
of old
Gavest the boon that makes
him bold,
That God nor demon e’er
should kill
His charmed life, for so thy
will.
We, honoring that high behest,
Bear all his rage though sore
distressed.
That lord of giants fierce
and fell
Scourges the earth and heaven
and hell.
Mad with thy boon, his impious
rage
Smites saint and bard and
God and sage.
The sun himself withholds
his glow,
The wind in fear forbears
to blow;
The fire restrains his wonted
heat
Where stand the dreaded Ravan’s
feet,
And, necklaced with the wandering
wave,
The sea before him fears to
rave.
Kuvera’s self in sad
defeat
Is driven from his blissful
seat.
We see, we feel the giant’s
might,
And woe comes o’er us
and affright.
To thee, O Lord, thy suppliants
pray
To find some cure this plague
to stay.”
Thus by the gathered Gods
addressed
He pondered in his secret
breast,
And said: “One
only way I find
To slay this fiend of evil
mind.
He prayed me once his life
to guard
From demon, God, and heavenly
bard,
And spirits of the earth and
air,
And I consenting heard his
prayer.
But the proud giant in his
scorn
Recked not of man of woman
born.
None else may take his life
away,
But only man the fiend may
slay.”
The Gods, with Indra at their
head,
Rejoiced to hear the words
he said.
Then, crowned with glory like
a flame,
Lord Vishnu to the council
came;
His hands shell, mace, and
discus bore,
And saffron were the robes
he wore.
Riding his eagle through the
crowd,
As the sun rides upon a cloud,
With bracelets of fine gold,
he came,
Loud welcomed by the Gods’
acclaim.
His praise they sang with
one consent,
“King Dasaratha,”
thus cried they,
“Fervent in penance
many a day,
The sacrificial steed has
slain,
Longing for sons, but all
in vain.
Now, at the cry of us forlorn,
Incarnate as his seed be born.
Three queens has he—each
lovely dame
Like Beauty, Modesty, or Fame.
Divide thyself in four, and
be
His offspring by these noble
three.
Man’s nature take, and
slay in fight
Ravan who laughs at heavenly
might—
This common scourge, this
rankling thorn
Whom the three worlds too
long have borne.
For Ravan, in the senseless
pride
Of might unequalled, has defied
The host of heaven, and plagues
with woe
Angel and bard and saint below,
Crushing each spirit and each
maid
Who plays in Nandan’s
heavenly shade.
O conquering Lord, to thee
we bow;
Our surest hope and trust
art thou.
Regard the world of men below,
And slay the God’s tremendous
foe.”
When thus the suppliant Gods
had prayed,
His wise reply Narayan made:—
“What task demands my
presence there,
And when this dread, ye Gods
declare.”
The Gods replied: “We
fear, O Lord,
Fierce Ravan, ravener abhorred.
Be thine the glorious task,
we pray,
In human form this fiend to
slay.
By thee of all the Blest alone
This sinner may be overthrown.
He gained by penance long
and dire
The favor of the mighty Sire.
Then He who every gift bestows
Guarded the fiend from heavenly
foes,
And gave a pledge his life
that kept
From all things living, man
except.
On him thus armed no other
foe
Than man may deal the deadly
blow.
Assume, O King, a mortal birth,
And strike the demon to the
earth.”
Then Vishnu, God of Gods,
the Lord
Supreme by all the worlds
adored,
To Brahma and the suppliants
spake:—
“Dismiss your fear:
for your dear sake
In battle will I smite him
dead,
The cruel fiend, the Immortal’s
dread.
And lords and ministers and
all
His kith and kin with him
shall fall.
Then, in the world of mortal
men,
Ten thousand years and hundreds
ten
I as a human King will reign,
And guard the earth as my
domain.”
God, saint, and nymph, and
minstrel throng
With heavenly voices raised
their song
In hymns of triumph to the
God
Whose conquering feet on Madhu
trod:—–
“Champion of Gods, as
man appear,
This cruel Ravan slay,
The thorn that saints and
hermits fear,
The plague that none can stay.
In savage fury uncontrolled
His pride forever grows—
He dares the Lord of Gods
to hold
Among his deadly foes.”
THE NECTAR
When wisest Vishnu thus had
given
His promise to the Gods of
heaven,
He pondered in his secret
mind
A suited place of birth to
find.
Then he decreed, the lotus-eyed,
In four his being to divide,
And Dasaratha, gracious King,
He chose as sire from whom
to spring.
That childless prince, of
high renown,
Who smote in war his foemen
down,
At that same time with utmost
care
Prepared the rite that wins
an heir.
Then Vishnu, fain on earth
to dwell,
Bade the Almighty Sire farewell,
And vanished while a reverent
crowd
Of Gods and saints in worship
bowed.
The monarch watched the sacred
rite,
When a vast form of awful
might,
Of matchless splendor, strength
and size
Was manifest before his eyes.
From forth the sacrificial
flame,
Dark, robed in red, the being
came.
His voice was drumlike, loud
and low,
His face suffused with rosy
glow.
Like a huge lion’s mane
appeared
The long locks of his hair
and beard.
He shone with many a lucky
sign,
And many an ornament divine;
A towering mountain in his
height,
A tiger in his gait and might.
No precious mine more rich
could be,
No burning flame more bright
than he.
His arms embraced in loving
hold,
Like a dear wife, a vase of
gold
Whose silver lining held a
draught
Of nectar as in heaven is
quaffed—
A vase so vast, so bright
to view,
They scarce could count the
vision true.
Upon the King his eyes he
bent,
And said: “The
Lord of life has sent
His servant down, O Prince,
to be
A messenger from heaven to
thee.”
The King with all his nobles
by
Raised reverent hands and
made reply:—
“Welcome, O glorious
being! Say
How can my care thy grace
repay,”
Envoy of Him whom all adore,
Thus to the King he spake
once more:—
“The Gods accept thy
worship—they
Give thee the blessed fruit
to-day.
Approach and take, O glorious
King,
This heavenly nectar which
I bring,
For it shall give thee sons
and wealth,
And bless thee with a store
of health.
Give it to those fair queens
of thine,
And bid them quaff the drink
divine—
And they the princely sons
shall bear
Long sought by sacrifice and
prayer.”
“Yea, O my lord,”
the monarch said,
And took the vase upon his
head,
The gift of Gods, of fine
gold wrought,
With store of heavenly liquor
fraught.
He honored, filled with transport
new,
That wondrous being, fair
to view,
As round the envoy of the
God
With reverential steps he
trod.
His errand done, that form
of light
Arose and vanished from the
sight.
High rapture filled the monarch’s
soul,
Possessed of that celestial
bowl,
As when a man by want distressed
With unexpected wealth is
blest.
And rays of transport seemed
to fall
Illuminating bower and hall,
As when the autumn moon rides
high,
And floods with lovely light
the sky.
Quick to the ladies’
bower he sped,
And thus to Queen Kausalya
said:—
“This genial nectar
take and quaff,”
He spoke, and gave the lady
half.
Part of the nectar that remained
Sumitra from his hand obtained.
He gave, to make her fruitful
too,
Kaikeyi half the residue.
A portion yet remaining there,
He paused awhile to think,
Then gave Sumitra, with her
share,
The remnant of the drink.
Thus on each queen of those
fair three
A part the King bestowed,
And with sweet hope a child
to see
Their yearning bosoms glowed.
The heavenly bowl the King
supplied
Their longing souls relieved,
And soon, with rapture and
with pride,
Each royal dame conceived.
He gazed upon each lady’s
face,
And triumphed as he gazed.
As Indra in his royal place
By Gods and spirits praised.
THE VANARS
When Vishnu thus had gone
on earth,
From the great King to take
his birth,
The self-existent Lord of
all
Addressed the Gods who heard
his call:—
“For Vishnu’s
sake, the strong and true,
Who seeks the good of all
of you,
Make helps, in war to lend
him aid,
In forms that change at will,
arrayed,
Of wizard skill and hero might,
Outstrippers of the wind in
flight,
Skilled in the arts of counsel,
wise,
And Vishnu’s peers in
bold emprise;
With heavenly arts and prudence
fraught,
By no devices to be caught;
Skilled in all weapons’
lore and use
As they who drink the immortal
juice.
And let the nymphs supreme
in grace,
And maidens of the minstrel
race,
Monkeys and snakes, and those
who rove
Free spirits of the hill and
grove,
And wandering Daughters of
the Air,
In monkey form brave children
bear.
So erst the lord of bears
I shaped,
Born from my mouth as wide
I gaped.”
Thus by the mighty Sire addressed
They all obeyed his high behest,
And thus begot in countless
swarms
Brave sons disguised in sylvan
forms.
Each God, each sage became
a sire,
Each minstrel of the heavenly
choir.
Each faun, of children strong
and good
Whose feet should roam the
hill and wood.
Snakes, bards, and spirits,
serpents bold
Had sons too numerous to be
told.
Bali, the woodland hosts who
led,
High as Mahendra’s lofty
head,
Was Indra’s child.
That noblest fire,
The Sun, was great Sugriva’s
sire.
Tara, the mighty monkey, he
Was offspring of Vrihaspati—
Tara the matchless chieftain,
boast
For wisdom of the Vanar host.
Of Gandhamadan brave and bold
The father was the Lord of
Gold.
Nala the mighty, dear to fame,
Of skilful Visvakarma came.
From Agni, Nila bright as
flame,
Who in his splendor, might,
and worth,
Surpassed the sire who gave
him birth.
The heavenly Asvins, swift
and fair,
Were fathers of a noble pair,
Who, Dwivida and Mainda named,
For beauty like their sires
were famed.
Varun was father of Sushen,
Of Sarabh, he who sends the
rain.
Hanuman, best of monkey kind,
Was son of him who breathes
the wind—
Like thunderbolt in frame
was he,
And swift as Garud’s
self could flee.
These thousands did the Gods
create
Endowed with might that none
could mate,
In monkey forms that changed
at will—
So strong their wish the fiend
to kill.
In mountain size, like lions
thewed,
Up-sprang the wondrous multitude,
Auxiliar hosts in every shape,
Monkey and bear and highland
ape.
In each the strength, the
might, the mien
Of his own parent God were
seen.
Some chiefs of Vanar mothers
came,
Some of she-bear and minstrel
dame,
Skilled in all arms in battle’s
shock,
The brandished tree, the loosened
rock;
And prompt, should other weapons
fail,
To fight and slay with tooth
and nail.
Their strength could shake
the hills amain.
And rend the rooted trees
in twain,
Disturb with their impetuous
sweep
The Rivers’ Lord, the
Ocean deep,
Rend with their feet the seated
ground,
And pass wide floods with
airy bound—
Or forcing through the sky
their way
The very clouds by force could
stay.
Mad elephants that wander
through
The forest wilds, could they
subdue,
And with their furious shout
could scare
Dead upon earth the birds
of air.
So were the sylvan chieftains
formed;
Thousands on thousands still
they swarmed.
These were the leaders honored
most,
The captains of the Vanar
host,
And to each lord and chief
and guide
RISHYASRING’S RETURN
Now when the high-souled monarch’s
rite,
The Asvamedh, was finished
quite,
Their sacrificial dues obtained,
The Gods their heavenly homes
regained.
The lofty-minded saints withdrew,
Each to his place, with honor
due,
And kings and chieftains,
one and all,
Who came to grace the festival.
And Dasaratha, ere they went,
Addressed them thus benevolent:—
“Now may you, each with
joyful heart,
To your own realms, O Kings,
depart.
Peace and good luck attend
you there,
And blessing, is my friendly
prayer;
Let cares of state each mind
engage
To guard his royal heritage.
A monarch from his throne
expelled
No better than the dead is
held.
So he who cares for power
and might
Must guard his realm and royal
right.
Such care a meed in heaven
will bring
Better than rites and offering.
Such care a king his country
owes
As man upon himself bestows,
When for his body he provides
Raiment and every need besides.
For future days should kings
foresee,
And keep the present error-free.”
Thus did the King the kings
exhort—
They heard, and turned them
from the court,
And, each to each in friendship
bound,
Went forth to all the realms
around.
The rites were o’er,
the guests were sped,
The train the best of Brahmans
led—
In which the King with joyful
soul,
With his dear wives, and with
the whole
Of his imperial host and train
Of cars and servants turned
again,
And, as a monarch dear to
fame,
Within his royal city came.
Next, Rishyasring, well-honored
sage,
And Santa, sought their hermitage.
The King himself, of prudent
mind,
Attended him, with troops
behind,
And all her men the town outpoured
With Saint Vasishtha and their
lord.
High mounted on a car of state,
O’ercanopied fair Santa
sate,
Drawn by white oxen, while
a band
Of servants marched on either
hand.
Great gifts of countless price
she bore,
With sheep and goats and gems
in store.
Like Beauty’s self the
lady shone
With all the jewels she had
on,
As, happy in her sweet content,
Peerless amid the fair she
went.
Not Queen Paulomi’s
self could be
More loving to her lord than
she.
She who had lived in happy
ease,
Honored with all her heart
could please,
While dames and kinsfolk ever
vied
To see her wishes gratified—
Soon as she knew her husband’s
will
Again to seek the forest,
still
Was ready for the hermit’s
cot,
Nor murmured at her altered
lot.
The King attended to the wild
That hermit and his own dear
child,
And in the centre of a throng
Of noble courtiers rode along.
The sage’s son had let
prepare
A lodge within the wood, and
there
Awhile they lingered blithe
and gay,
Then, duly honored, went their
way.
The glorious hermit Rishyasring
Drew near and thus besought
the King:—
“Return, my honored
lord, I pray,
Return, upon thy homeward
way.”
The monarch, with the waiting
crowd,
Lifted his voice and wept
aloud,
And with eyes dripping still
to each
Of his good queens he spake
this speech:—
“Kausalya and Sumitra
dear,
And thou, my sweet Kaikeyi,
hear—
All upon Santa feast your
gaze,
The last time for a length
of days.”
To ’Santa’s side
the ladies leapt,
And hung about her neck and
wept,
And cried, “O, happy
be the life
Of this great Brahman and
his wife.
The Wind, the Fire, the Moon
on high,
The Earth, the Streams, the
circling Sky,
Preserve thee in the wood,
true spouse,
Devoted to thy husband’s
vows.
And O dear Santa, ne’er
neglect
To pay the dues of meek respect
To the great saint, thy husband’s
sire,
With all observance and with
fire.
And, sweet one, pure of spot
and blame.
Forget not thou thy husband’s
claim;
In every change, in good and
ill,
Let thy sweet words delight
him still,
And let thy worship constant
be—
Her lord is woman’s
deity.
To learn thy welfare, dearest
friend,
The King will many a Brahman
send.
Let happy thoughts thy spirit
cheer,
And be not troubled, daughter
dear.”
These soothing words the ladies
said,
And pressed their lips upon
her head,
Each gave with sighs her last
adieu,
Then at the King’s command
withdrew.
The King around the hermit
went
With circling footsteps reverent,
And placed at Rishyasring’s
command
Some soldiers of his royal
band.
The Brahman bowed in turn
and cried,
“May fortune never leave
thy side.
O mighty King, with justice
reign,
And still thy people’s
love retain.”
He spoke, and turned away
his face,
And, as the hermit went,
The monarch, rooted to the
place,
Pursued with eyes intent.
But when the sage had passed
from view
King Dasaratha turned him
too,
Still fixing on his friend
each thought,
With such deep love his breast
was fraught.
Amid his people’s loud
acclaim
Home to his royal seat he
came,
And lived delighted there—
Expecting when each queenly
dame,
Upholder of his ancient fame,
Her promised son should bear.
The glorious sage his way
pursued
Till close before his eyes
he viewed
Sweet Champa, Lomapad’s
fair town,
Wreathed with her Champac’s
leafy crown.
Soon as the saint’s
approach he knew,
The King, to yield him honor
due,
Went forth to meet him with
a band
Of priests and nobles of the
land:—
“Hail, Sage,”
he cried, “O joy to me!
What bliss it is, my lord,
to see
Thee with thy wife and all
thy train
Returning to my town again.
Thy father, honored Sage,
is well,
Who hither from his woodland
cell
Has sent full many a messenger
For tidings both of thee and
her.”
Then joyfully, for due respect,
The monarch bade the town
be decked.
The King and Rishyasring elate
Entered the royal city’s
gate—
In front the chaplain rode.
Then, loved and honored with
all care
By monarch and by courtier,
there
The glorious saint abode.
RISHYASRING’S DEPARTURE
The monarch called a Brahman
near
And said, “Now speed
away
To Kasyap’s son, the
mighty seer,
And with all reverence say—
The holy child he holds so
dear,
The hermit of the noble mind,
Whose equal it were hard to
find,
Returned, is dwelling here.
Go, and instead of me do thou
Before that best of hermits
bow,
That still he may for his
dear son,
Show me the favor I have won.”
Soon as the King these words
had said,
To Kasyap’s son the
Brahman sped.
Before the hermit low he bent
And did obeisance, reverent;
Then with meek words his grace
to crave
The message of his lord he
gave:—
“The high-souled father
With joy the saintly hermit
heard
Each pleasant and delightful
word,
And poured a benediction down
On King and ministers and
town.
Glad at the words of that
high saint
Some servants hastened to
acquaint
Their King, rejoicing to impart
The tidings that would cheer
his heart.
Soon as the joyful tale he
knew
To meet the saint the monarch
flew,
The guest-gift in his hand
he brought,
And bowed before him and besought:—
“This day by seeing
thee I gain
Not to have lived my life
in vain.
Now be not wroth with me,
I pray,
Because I wiled thy son away.”
The best of Brahmans answer
made:—
“Be not, great lord
of Kings, afraid.
Thy virtues have not failed
to win
My favor, O thou pure of sin.”
Then in the front the saint
was placed,
The King came next in joyous
haste,
And with him entered his abode,
’Mid glad acclaim as
on they rode.
To greet the sage the reverent
crowd
Raised suppliant hands and
humbly bowed.
Then from the palace many
a dame
Following well-dressed Santa
came,
Stood by the mighty saint
and cried:—
“See, honor’s
source, thy son’s dear bride.”
The saint, who every virtue
knew,
His arms around his daughter
threw,
And with a father’s
rapture pressed
The lady to his wondering
breast.
Arising from the saint’s
embrace
She bowed her low before his
face,
And then, with palm to palm
applied,
Stood by her hermit father’s
side.
He for his son, as laws ordain,
Performed the rite that frees
from stain,
And, honored by the wise and
good,
With him departed to the wood.
THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCES
The seasons six, in rapid
flight,
Had circled since that glorious
rite.
Eleven months had passed away—
’Twas Chaitra’s
ninth returning day.
The moon within that mansion
shone
Which Aditi looks so kindly
on.
Raised to their apex in the
sky
Five brilliant planets beamed
on high.
Shone with the moon, in Cancer’s
sign,
Vrihaspati with light divine.
Kausalya bore an infant blest
With heavenly marks of grace
impressed;
Rama, the universe’s
lord,
A prince by all the worlds
adored.
New glory Queen Kausalya won
Reflected from her splendid
son.
So Aditi shone more and more,
The Mother of the Gods, when
she
The King of the Immortals
bore,
The thunder-wielding deity.
The lotus-eyed, the beauteous
boy,
He came fierce Ravan to destroy;
From half of Vishnu’s
vigor born,
He came to help the worlds
forlorn.
And Queen Kaikeyi bore a child
Of truest valor, Bharat styled,
With every princely virtue
blest,
One-fourth of Vishnu manifest.
Sumitra too a noble pair,
Called Lakshman and Satrughna,
bare,
Of high emprise, devoted,
true,
Sharers in Vishnu’s
essence too.
’Neath Pushya’s
mansion, Mina’s sign,
Was Bharat born, of soul benign.
The sun had reached the Crab
at morn
When Queen Sumitra’s
babes were born,
What time the moon had gone
to make
His nightly dwelling with
the Snake.
The high-souled monarch’s
consorts bore
At different times those glorious
four,
Like to himself and virtuous,
bright
As Proshthapada’s fourfold
light.
Then danced the nymphs’
celestial throng,
The minstrels raised their
strain;
The drums of heaven pealed
loud and long,
And flowers came down in rain.
Within Ayodhya, blithe and
gay,
All kept the joyous holiday.
The spacious square, the ample
road
With mimes and dancers overflowed,
And with the voice of music
rang
Where minstrels played and
singers sang—
And shone, a wonder to behold,
With dazzling show of gems
and gold.
Nor did the King his largess
spare,
For minstrel, driver, bard,
to share;
Much wealth the Brahmans bore
away,
And many thousand kine that
day.
Soon as each babe was twelve
days old
Twas time the naming rite
to hold,
When Saint Vasishtha, rapt
with joy,
Assigned a name to every boy.
Rama, to him the high-souled
heir,
Bharat, to him Kaikeyi bare—
Of Queen Sumitra one fair
son
Was Lakshman, and Satrughna
one.
Rama, his sire’s supreme
delight,
Like some proud banner cheered
his sight,
And to all creatures seemed
to be
The self-existent deity.
All heroes, versed in holy
VISVAMITRA’S VISIT
NOW Dasaratha’s pious
mind
Meet wedlock for his sons
designed;
With priests and friends the
King began
To counsel and prepare his
plan.
Such thoughts engaged his
bosom, when,
To see Ayodhya’s lord
of men,
A mighty saint of glorious
fame,
The hermit Visvamitra came.
For evil fiends that roam
by night
Disturbed him in each holy
rite,
And in their strength and
frantic rage
Assailed with witcheries the
sage.
He came to seek the monarch’s
aid
To guard the rites the demons
stayed,
Unable to a close to bring
One unpolluted offering.
Seeking the King in this dire
strait
He said to those who kept
the gate:—
“Haste, warders, to
your master run,
And say that here stands Gadhi’s
son.”
Soon as they heard the holy
man,
To the King’s chamber
swift they ran
With minds disordered all,
and spurred
To wildest zeal by what they
heard.
On to the royal hall they
sped,
There stood and lowly bowed
the head,
And made the lord of men aware
That the great saint was waiting
there.
The King with priest and peer
arose
VISVAMITRA’S SPEECH
The hermit heard with high
content
That speech so wondrous eloquent,
And while each hair with joy
arose,
He thus made answer at the
close:—
“Good is thy speech,
O noble King,
And like thyself in everything.
So should their lips be wisdom-fraught
Whom kings begot, Vasishtha
taught.
The favor which I came to
seek
Thou grantest ere my tongue
can speak.
But let my tale attention
claim,
And hear the need for which
I came.
O King, as Scripture texts
allow,
A holy rite employs me now.
Two fiends who change their
forms at will
Impede that rite with cursed
skill.
Oft when the task is nigh
complete,
These worst of fiends my toil
defeat,
Throw bits of bleeding flesh,
and o’er
The altar shed a stream of
gore.
When thus the rite is mocked
and stayed.
And all my pious hopes delayed,
Cast down in heart the spot
I leave,
And spent with fruitless labor
grieve.
Nor can I, checked by prudence,
dare
Let loose my fury on them
there—
The muttered curse, the threatening
word,
In such a rite must ne’er
be heard.
Thy grace the rite from check
can free,
And yield the fruit I long
to see.
Thy duty bids thee, King,
defend
The suffering guest, the suppliant
friend.
Give me thy son, thine eldest
born,
Whom locks like raven’s
wings adorn.
That hero youth, the truly
brave,
Of thee, O glorious King,
I crave.
For he can lay those demons
low
Who mar my rites and work
me woe:
My power shall shield the
youth from harm,
And heavenly might shall nerve
his arm.
And on my champion will I
shower
Unnumbered gifts of varied
power—
Such gifts as shall ensure
his fame
And spread through all the
worlds his name.
Be sure those fiends can never
stand
Before the might of Rama’s
hand,
And mid the best and bravest
none
Can slay that pair but Raghu’s
son.
Entangled in the toils of
Fate
Those sinners, proud and obstinate,
Are, in their fury overbold,
No match for Rama, mighty-souled.
Nor let a father’s breast
give way
Too far to fond affection’s
sway.
Count thou the fiends already
slain:
My word is pledged, nor pledged
in vain.
I know the hero Rama well
In whom high thoughts and
valor dwell;
So does Vasishtha, so do these
Engaged in long austerities.
If thou would do the righteous
deed,
And win high fame, thy virtue’s
meed,
Fame that on earth shall last
and live,
To me, great King, thy Rama
give.
If to the words that I have
said,
With Saint Vasishtha at their
head
Thy holy men, O King, agree,
Then let thy Rama go with
me.
Ten nights my sacrifice will
Thus in fair words with virtue
fraught,
The pious glorious saint besought.
But the good speech with poignant
sting
Pierced ear and bosom of the
King,
Who, stabbed with pangs too
sharp to bear,
Fell prostrate and lay fainting
there.
DASARATHA’S SPEECH
His tortured senses all astray,
Awhile the hapless monarch
lay,
Then slowly gathering thought
and strength
To Visvamitra spoke at length:—
“My son is but a child,
I ween;
This year he will be just
sixteen.
How is he fit for such emprise,
My darling with the lotus
eyes?
A mighty army will I bring
That calls me master, lord,
and King,
And with its countless squadrons
fight
Against these rovers of the
night.
My faithful heroes skilled
to wield
The arms of war will take
the field;
Their skill the demons’
might may break:
Rama, my child, thou must
not take.
I, even I, my bow in hand,
Will in the van of battle
stand,
And, while my soul is left
alive,
With the night-roaming demons
strive.
Thy guarded sacrifice shall
be
Completed, from all hindrance
free.
Thither will I my journey
make:
Rama, my child, thou must
not take.
A boy unskilled, he knows
not yet
The bounds to strength and
weakness set.
No match is he for demon foes
Who magic arts to arms oppose.
O chief of saints, I have
no power,
Of Rama reft, to live one
hour—
Mine aged heart at once would
break:
Rama, my child, thou must
not take.
Nine thousand circling years
have fled
With all their seasons o’er
my head,
And as a hard-won boon, O
Sage,
These sons have come to cheer
mine age.
My dearest love amid the four
Is he whom first his mother
bore,
Still dearer for his virtue’s
sake;
Rama, my child, thou must
not take.
But if, unmoved by all I say,
Thou needs must bear my son
away,
Let me lead with him, I entreat,
A fourfold army all complete.
What is the demons’
might, O Sage?
Who are they? What their
parentage?
What is their size? What
beings lend
Their power to guard them
and befriend?
How can my son their arts
withstand?
Or I or all my armed band?
Tell me the whole that I may
know
To met in war each evil foe
Whom conscious might inspires
with pride.”
And Visvamitra thus replied:—
“Sprung from Pulastya’s
race there came
A giant known by Ravan’s
name.
Once favored by the Eternal
Sire
He plagues the worlds in ceaseless
ire,
For peerless power and might
renowned,
By giant bands encompassed
round.
Visravas for his sire they
hold,
His brother is the Lord of
Gold.
King of the giant hosts is
he,
And worst of all in cruelty.
This Ravan’s dread commands
impel
Two demons who in might excel,
Maricha and Suvahu Light,
To trouble and impede the
rite.”
Then thus the King addressed
the sage:—
“No power have I, my
lord, to wage
War with this evil-minded
foe;
Now pity on my darling show,
And upon me of hapless fate,
For thee as God I venerate.
Gods, spirits, bards of heavenly
birth,
The birds of air, the snakes
of earth
Before the might of Ravan
quail,
Much less can mortal man avail.
He draws, I hear, from out
the breast,
The valor of the mightiest.
No, ne’er can I with
him contend,
Or with the forces he may
send.
How can I then my darling
lend,
Godlike, unskilled in battle?
No,
I will not let my young child
go.
Foes of thy rite, those mighty
ones,
Sunda and Upasunda’s
sons,
Are fierce as Fate to overthrow:
I will not let my young child
go.
Maricha and Suvahu fell
Are valiant and instructed
well.
One of the twain I might attack
With all my friends their
lord to back.”
VASISHTHA’S SPEECH
While thus the hapless monarch
spoke,
Paternal love his utterance
broke.
Then words like these the
saint returned,
And fury in his bosom burned:—
“Didst thou, O King,
a promise make,
And wishest now thy word to
break?
A son of Raghu’s line
should scorn
To fail in faith, a man forsworn.
But if thy soul can bear the
shame
I will return e’en as
I came.
Live with thy sons, and joy
be thine,
False scion of Kakutstha’s
line.”
As Visvamitra, mighty sage,
Was moved with this tempestuous
rage,
Earth rocked and reeled throughout
her frame,
And fear upon the Immortals
came.
But Saint Vasishtha, wisest
seer,
Observant of his vows austere,
Saw the whole world convulsed
with dread,
And thus unto the monarch
said:—
“Thou, born of old Ikshvaku’s
seed,
Art Justice’ self in
mortal weed.
Constant and pious, blest
by fate,
The right thou must not violate.
Thou, Raghu’s son, so
famous through
The triple world as just and
true,
Perform thy bounden duty still,
Nor stain thy race by deed
of ill.
THE SPELLS
Vasishtha thus was speaking
still:
The monarch, of his own free
will,
Bade with quick zeal and joyful
cheer
Rama and Lakshman hasten near.
Mother and sire in loving
care
Sped their dear son with rite
and prayer;
Vasishtha blessed him ere
he went,
O’er his loved head
the father bent—
And then to Kusik’s
son resigned
Rama with Lakshman close behind.
Standing by Visvamitra’s
side,
The youthful hero, lotus-eyed,
The Wind-God saw, and sent
a breeze
Whose sweet pure touch just
waved the trees.
There fell from heaven a flowery
rain,
And with the song and dance
the strain
Of shell and tambour sweetly
blent
As forth the son of Raghu
went.
The hermit led: behind
him came
The bow-armed Rama, dear to
fame,
Whose locks were like the
raven’s wing:—
Then Lakshman, closely following.
The Gods and Indra, filled
with joy,
Looked down upon the royal
boy,
And much they longed the death
to see
Of their ten-headed enemy.
THE HERMITAGE OF LOVE
Soon as appeared the morning
light
Up rose the mighty anchorite,
And thus to youthful Rama
said,
Who lay upon his leafy bed:—
“High fate is hers who
calls thee son:
Arise, ’tis break of
day;
Rise, Chief, and let those
rites be done
Due at the morning’s
ray.”
At that great sage’s
high behest
Up sprang the princely pair,
THE FOREST OF TADAKA
When the fair light of morning
rose
The princely tamers of their
foes
Followed, his morning worship
o’er,
The hermit to the river’s
shore.
The high-souled men with thoughtful
care
A pretty barge had stationed
there.
All cried, “O lord,
this barge ascend,
And with thy princely followers
bend
To yonder side thy prosperous
way—
With nought to check thee
or delay.”
Nor did the saint their rede
reject:
He bade farewell with due
respect,
And crossed, attended by the
twain,
That river rushing to the
main.
When now the bark was half-way
o’er,
Rama and Lakshman heard the
roar,
That louder grew and louder
yet,
Of waves by dashing waters
met.
Then Rama asked the mighty
seer:—
“What is the tumult
that I hear
Of waters cleft in mid-career?”
Soon as the speech of Rama,
stirred
By deep desire to know, he
heard,
The pious saint began to tell
What caused the waters’
roar and swell:—
“On high Kailasa’s
distant hill
There lies a noble lake
Whose waters, born from Brahma’s
will,
The name of Manas take.
Thence, hallowing where’er
they flow,
The streams of Sarju fall,
And wandering through the
plains below
Embrace Ayodhya’s wall.
Still, still preserved in
Sarju’s name
Sarovar’s fame we trace,
The flood of Brahma whence
she came
To run her holy race.
To meet great Ganga here she
hies
With tributary wave—
Hence the loud roar ye hear
arise,
Of floods that swell and rave.
Here, pride of Raghu’s
line, do thou
In humble adoration bow.”
He spoke. The princes
both obeyed,
And reverence to each river
paid.
They reached the southern
shore at last,
And gayly on their journey
passed.
A little space beyond there
stood
A gloomy awe-inspiring wood.
The monarch’s noble
son began
To question thus the holy
man:—
“Whose gloomy forest
meets mine eye,
Like some vast cloud that
fills the sky?
Pathless and dark it seems
to be,
Where birds in thousands wander
free;
Where shrill cicadas’
cries resound,
And fowl of dismal note abound.
Lion, rhinoceros, and bear,
Boar, tiger, elephant, are
there,
There shrubs and thorns run
wild:
Dhao, Sal, Bignonia, Bel,
are found,
And every tree that grows
on ground:
How is the forest styled?”
The glorious saint this answer
made:—
“Dear child of Raghu,
hear
Who dwells within the horrid
shade
That looks so dark and drear.
Where now is wood, long ere
this day
Two broad and fertile lands,
Malaja and Karusha lay,
Adorned by heavenly hands.
Here, mourning friendship’s
THE BIRTH OF TADAKA
When thus the sage without
a peer
Had closed that story strange
to hear,
Rama again the saint addressed,
To set one lingering doubt
at rest:—
“O holy man, ’tis
said by all
That spirits’ strength
is weak and small,
How can she match, of power
so slight,
A thousand elephants in might?”
And Visvamitra thus replied
To Raghu’s son, the
glorified:—
“Listen, and I will
tell thee how
She gained the strength that
arms her now.
A mighty spirit lived of yore;
Suketu was the name he bore.
Childless was he, and free
THE DEATH OF TADAKA
Thus spoke the saint.
Each vigorous word
The noble monarch’s
offspring heard—
And, reverent hands together
laid,
His answer to the hermit made:—
“My sire and mother
bade me aye
Thy word, O mighty Saint,
obey.
So will I, O most glorious,
kill
He spoke; and all the heavenly
train
Rejoicing sought their homes
again,
While honor to the saint they
paid—
Then came the evening’s
twilight shade.
The best of hermits overjoyed
To know the monstrous fiend
destroyed,
His lips on Rama’s forehead
pressed,
And thus the conquering chief
addressed:—
“O Rama, gracious to
the sight,
Here will we pass the present
night,
And with the morrow’s
earliest ray
Bend to my hermitage our way.”
The son of Dasaratha heard,
Delighted, Visvamitra’s
word—
And as he bade, that night
he spent
In Tadaka’s wild wood,
content.
And the grove shone that happy
day,
Freed from the curse that
on it lay—
Like Chaitraratha fair and
gay.
THE CELESTIAL ARMS
That night they slept and
took their rest;
And then the mighty saint
addressed,
With pleasant smile and accents
mild
These words to Raghu’s
princely child:—
“Well pleased am I.
High fate be thine,
Thou scion of a royal line.
Now will I, for I love thee
so,
All heavenly arms on thee
bestow.
Victor with these, whoe’er
oppose,
Thy hand shall conquer all
thy foes—
THE MYSTERIOUS POWERS
Pure, with glad cheer and
joyful breast,
Of those mysterious arms possessed,
Rama, now passing on his way,
Thus to the saint began to
say:—
“Lord of these mighty
weapons, I
Can scarce be harmed by Gods
on high;
Now, best of saints, I long
to gain
The powers that can these
arms restrain.”
Thus spoke the prince.
The sage austere,
True to his vows, from evil
clear,
Called forth the names of
those great charms
Whose powers restrain the
deadly arms.
“Receive thou True and
Truly-famed,
And Bold and Fleet: the
weapons named
Warder and Progress, swift
of pace,
Averted-head and Drooping-face;
The Seen, and that which Secret
flies—
The weapon of the thousand
eyes;
Ten-headed, and the Hundred-faced,
Star-gazer and the Layer-waste;
The Omen-bird, the Pure-from-spot,
The pair that wake and slumber
not;
The Fiendish, that which shakes
amain,
The Strong-of-Hand, the Rich-in-Gain;
The Guardian, and the Close-allied,
The Gaper, Love, and Golden-side:—
O Raghu’s son receive
all these,
Bright ones that wear what
forms they please;
Krisasva’s mystic sons
are they,
And worthy thou their might
to sway.”
With joy the pride of Raghu’s
race
Received the hermit’s
proffered grace—
Mysterious arms, to check
and stay,
Or smite the foeman in the
fray.
Then, all with heavenly forms
endued,
Nigh came the wondrous multitude.
Celestial in their bright
attire
Some shone like coals of burning
fire—
Some were like clouds of dusky
smoke;
And suppliant thus they sweetly
spoke:—
“Thy thralls, O Rama,
here we stand—
Command, we pray, thy faithful
band.”
“Depart,” he cried,
“where each may list,
But when I call you to assist,
Be present to my mind with
speed,
And aid me in the hour of
need.”
To Rama then they lowly bent,
And round him in due reverence
went—
To his command they answered,
“Yea,”
And as they came so went away.
When thus the arms had homeward
flown,
With pleasant words and modest
tone,
E’en as he walked, the
prince began
To question thus the holy
man:—
“What cloudlike wood
is that which near
The mountain’s side
I see appear?
O tell me, for I long to know:
Its pleasant aspect charms
me so.
Its glades are full of deer
at play,
And sweet birds sing on every
spray.
Passed is the hideous wild—I
feel
So sweet a tremor o’er
me steal—
And hail with transport fresh
and new
A land that is so fair to
view.
Then tell me all, thou holy
Sage,
And whose this pleasant hermitage
In which those wicked ones
delight
To mar and kill each holy
rite—
And with foul heart and evil
deed
Thy sacrifice, great Saint,
impede.
To whom, O Sage, belongs this
land
In which thine altars ready
stand?
’Tis mine to guard them,
and to slay
The giants who the rites would
stay.
All this, O best of saints,
I burn
From thine own lips, my lord,
to learn.”
THE PERFECT HERMITAGE
Thus spoke the prince of boundless
might,
And thus replied the anchorite:—
“Chief of the mighty
arm, of yore
Lord Vishnu, whom the Gods
adore
For holy thought and rites
austere,
Of penance made his dwelling
here.
This ancient wood was called
of old
Grove of the Dwarf, the mighty-souled—
And when perfection he attained
The grove the name of Perfect
gained.
Bali of yore, Virochan’s
son,
Dominion over Indra won—
And when with power his proud
heart swelled,
O’er the three worlds
his empire held.
When Bali then began a rite,
The Gods and Indra in affright
Sought Vishnu in this place
of rest,
And thus with prayers the
God addressed:—
’Bali, Virochan’s
mighty son,
His sacrifice has now begun:
Of boundless wealth, that
demon king
Is bounteous to each living
thing.
Though suppliants flock from
every side
The suit of none is e’er
denied.
Whate’er, where’er,
howe’er the call,
He hears the suit and gives
to all.
Now with thine own illusive
art
Perform, O Lord, the helper’s
part:
Assume a dwarfish form, and
thus
From fear and danger rescue
us.’
Thus in their dread the Immortals
sued
The God, a dwarfish shape
indued:—
Before Virochan’s son
he came,
Three steps of land his only
claim.
The boon obtained, in wondrous
wise
Lord Vishnu’s form increased
in size;
Through all the worlds, tremendous,
Then, thus addressed, the
holy man,
The very glorious sage, began
The high preliminary rite,
Restraining sense and appetite.
Calmly the youths that night
reposed,
And rose when morn her light
disclosed—
Their morning worship paid,
and took
Of lustral water from the
brook.
Thus purified they breathed
the prayer,
Then greeted Visvamitra where
As celebrant he sate beside
The flame with sacred oil
supplied.
VISVAMITRA’S SACRIFICE
That conquering pair, of royal
race,
Skilled to observe due time
and place—
To Kusik’s hermit son
addressed,
In timely words, their meet
request:—
“When must we, lord,
we pray thee tell,
Those Rovers of the Night
repel?
Speak, lest we let the moment
fly,
And pass the due occasion
by.”
Thus longing for the strife,
they prayed,
And thus the hermit’s
answer made:—
“Till the fifth day
be come and past,
O Raghu’s sons, your
watch must last.
The saint his Diksha has begun,
And all that time will speak
to none.”
THE SONE
Their task achieved, the princes
spent
That night with joy and full
content.
Ere yet the dawn was well
displayed
Their morning rites they duly
paid—
And sought, while yet the
light was faint,
The hermits and the mighty
saint.
They greeted first that holy
sire
Resplendent like the burning
fire,
And then with noble words
began
Their sweet speech to the
sainted man:—
“Here stand, O lord,
thy servants true—
Command what thou wouldst
have us do.”
The saints, by Visvamitra
led,
To Rama thus in answer said:—
“Janak, the king who
rules the land
Of fertile Mithila, has planned
A noble sacrifice, and we
Will thither go the rite to
see.
Thou, Prince of men, with
us shalt go,
And there behold the wondrous
bow—
Terrific, vast, of matchless
might,
Which, splendid at the famous
rite,
The Gods assembled gave the
King.
No giant, fiend, or God can
string
That gem of bows, no heavenly
bard;
Then, sure, for man the task
were hard.
When lords of earth have longed
to know
The virtue of that wondrous
bow,
The strongest sons of kings
in vain
Have tried the mighty cord
to strain.
This famous bow thou there
shalt view,
And wondrous rites shalt witness
too.
The high-souled king who lords
it o’er
The realm of Mithila, of yore
Gained from the Gods this
bow, the price
Of his imperial sacrifice.
Won by the rite the glorious
prize
Still in his royal palace
lies—
Laid up in oil of precious
scent
With aloes-wood and incense
blent.”
Then Rama answering, “Be
it so,”
Made ready with the rest to
go.
The saint himself was now
prepared,
But ere beyond the grove he
fared,
He turned him and in words
like these
Addressed the sylvan deities:—
“Farewell! each holy
rite complete,
I leave the hermits’
perfect seat:
To Ganga’s northern
shore I go
Beneath Himalaya’s peaks
of snow.”
With reverent steps he paced
around
The limits of the holy ground—
And then the mighty saint
set forth
And took his journey to the
north.
His pupils, deep in Scripture’s
page,
Followed behind the holy sage,
BRAHMADATTA
A king of Brahma’s seed
who bore
The name of Kusa reigned of
yore.
Just, faithful to his vows,
and true,
He held the good in honor
due.
His bride, a queen of noble
name,
Of old Vidarbha’s monarchs
came.
Like their own father, children
four,
All valiant boys, the lady
bore.
In glorious deeds each nerve
they strained,
And well their Warrior part
sustained.
To them most just, and true,
and brave,
Their father thus his counsel
gave:—
“Beloved children, ne’er
forget
Protection is a prince’s
debt:
The noble work at once begin,
High virtue and her fruits
to win.”
The youths, to all the people
dear,
Received his speech with willing
ear;
And each went forth his several
way,
Foundations of a town to lay.
Kusamba, prince of high renown,
Was builder of Kausambi’s
town,
And Kusanabha, just and wise,
Bade high Mahodaya’s
towers arise.
Amurtarajas chose to dwell
In Dharmaranya’s citadel,
And Vasu bade his city fair
The name of Girivraja bear.
This fertile spot whereon
we stand
Was once the high-souled Vasu’s
land.
Behold! as round we turn our
eyes,
Five lofty mountain peaks
arise.
See! bursting from her parent
hill,
Sumagadhi, a lovely rill,
Bright gleaming as she flows
between
The mountains, like a wreath
is seen—
And then through Magadh’s
plains and groves
With many a fair meander roves.
And this was Vasu’s
old domain,
The fertile Magadh’s
broad champaign,
Which smiling fields of tilth
adorn
And diadem with golden corn.
He heard the answer they returned,
And mighty rage within him
burned.
On each fair maid a blast
he sent—
Each stately form he bowed
and bent.
Bent double by the Wind-God’s
ire
They sought the palace of
their sire,
There fell upon the ground
with sighs,
While tears and shame were
in their eyes.
The King himself, with, troubled
brow,
Saw his dear girls so fair
but now,
A mournful sight all bent
and bowed—
And grieving, thus he cried
aloud:—
“What fate is this,
and what the cause?
What wretch has scorned all
heavenly laws?
Who thus your forms could
curve and break?
You struggle, but no answer
make.”
They heard the speech of that
wise king
Of their misfortune questioning.
Again the hundred maidens
sighed,
Touched with their heads his
feet, and cried:—
“The God of Wind, pervading
space,
Would bring on us a foul disgrace,
And choosing folly’s
evil way
From virtue’s path in
scorn would stray.
But we in words like these
reproved
The God of Wind whom passion
There lived a sage called
Chuli then,
Devoutest of the sons of men;
His days in penance rites
he spent,
A glorious saint, most continent.
To him absorbed in tasks austere
The child of Urmila draw near—
Sweet Somada, the heavenly
maid,
And lent the saint her pious
aid.
Long time near him the maiden
spent,
And served him meek and reverent,
Till the great hermit, pleased
with her,
Thus spoke unto his minister:—
“Grateful am I for all
thy care—
Blest maiden, speak, thy wish
declare.”
The sweet-voiced nymph rejoiced
to see
The favor of the devotee,
And to that excellent old
man,
Most eloquent she thus began:—
“Thou hast, by heavenly
grace sustained,
Close union with the Godhead
gained.
I long, O Saint, to see a
son
By force of holy penance won.
Unwed, a maiden life I live:
A son to me, thy suppliant,
give.”
The saint with favor heard
her prayer,
And gave a son exceeding fair.
Him, Chuli’s spiritual
child,
His mother Brahmadatta styled.
King Brahmadatta, rich and
great,
In Kampili maintained his
state—
Ruling, like Indra in his
bliss,
His fortunate metropolis.
King Kusanabha planned that
he
His hundred daughters’
lord should be.
VISVAMITRA’S LINEAGE
The rites were o’er,
the maids were wed,
The bridegroom to his home
was sped.
The sonless monarch bade prepare
A sacrifice to gain an heir.
Then Kusa, Brahma’s
son, appeared,
And thus King Kusanabha cheered:—
’Thou shalt, my child,
obtain a son
Like thine own self, O holy
one.
Through him forever, Gadhi
named,
Shalt thou in all the worlds
be famed.’
He spoke and vanished from
the sight
To Brahma’s world of
endless light.
Time fled, and, as the saint
foretold,
Gadhi was born, the holy-souled.
My sire was he; through him
I trace
My line from royal Kusa’s
race.
My sister—elder-born
was she—
The pure and good Satyavati,
Was to the great Richika wed.
Still faithful to her husband
dead,
She followed him, most noble
dame,
And, raised to heaven in human
frame,
A pure celestial stream became.
Down from Himalaya’s
snowy height,
In floods forever fair and
bright,
My sister’s holy waves
are hurled
To purify and glad the world.
Now on Himalaya’s side
I dwell
Because I love my sister well.
She, for her faith and truth
renowned,
Most loving to her husband
found,
High-fated, firm in each pure
vow,
Is queen of all the rivers
now.
Bound by a vow I left her
side
And to the Perfect convent
hied.
There, by the aid ’twas
thine to lend,
Made perfect, all my labors
end.
Thus, mighty Prince, I now
have told
My race and lineage, high
and old,
And local tales of long ago
Which thou, O Rama, fain wouldst
know.
As I have sate rehearsing
thus
The midnight hour is come
on us.
Now, Rama, sleep, that nothing
may
Our journey of to-morrow stay.
No leaf on any tree is stirred—
Hushed in repose are beast
and bird:
Where’er you turn, on
every side,
The mighty hermit’s
tale was o’er,
He closed his lips and spoke
no more.
The holy men on every side,
“Well done! well done,”
with reverence cried,
“The mighty men of Kusa’s
seed
Were ever famed for righteous
deed.
Like Brahma’s self in
glory shine
The high-souled lords of Kusa’s
line.
And thy great name is sounded
most,
O Saint, amid the noble host.
And thy dear sister—fairest
she
Of streams, the high-born
Kausiki—
Diffusing virtue where she
flows,
New splendor on thy lineage
throws.”
Thus by the chief of saints
addressed
The son of Gadhi turned to
rest;
So, when his daily course
is done,
Sinks to his rest the beaming
sun.
Rama, with Lakshman, somewhat
stirred
To marvel by the tales they
heard,
Turned also to his couch,
to close
His eyelids in desired repose.
THE BIRTH OF GANGA
The hours of night now waning
fast
On Sona’s pleasant shore
they passed.
Then, when the dawn began
to break.
To Rama thus the hermit spake:—
“The light of dawn is
breaking clear,
The hour of morning rites
is near.
Rise, Rama, rise, dear son,
I pray,
And make thee ready for the
way.”
Then Rama rose, and finished
all
His duties at the hermit’s
call—
Prepared with joy the road
to take,
And thus again in question
spake:—
“Here fair and deep
the Sona flows,
And many an isle its bosom
shows:
What way, O Saint, will lead
us o’er
And land us on the farther
shore?”
The saint replied: “The
way I choose
Is that which pious hermits
use.”
For many a league they journeyed
on
Till, when the sun of mid-day
shone,
The hermit-haunted flood was
seen
Of Jahnavi, the Rivers’
Queen.
Soon as the holy stream they
viewed,
Thronged with a white-winged
multitude
Of sarases and swans, delight
Possessed them at the lovely
sight;
And then prepared the hermit
band
To halt upon that holy strand.
They bathed as Scripture bids,
and paid
Oblations due to God and shade.
To Fire they burnt the offerings
Thus urged, the sage recounted
both
The birth of Ganga and her
growth:—
“The mighty hill with
metals stored,
Himalaya, is the mountains’
lord,
The father of a lovely pair
Of daughters fairest of the
fair—
Their mother, offspring of
the will
Of Meru, everlasting hill,
Mena, Himalaya’s darling,
graced
With beauty of her dainty
waist.
Ganga was elder-born:—then
came
The fair one known by Uma’s
name.
Then all the Gods of heaven,
in need
Of Ganga’s help their
vows to speed,
To great Himalaya came and
prayed
The Mountain King to yield
the maid.
He, not regardless of the
weal
Of the three worlds, with
holy zeal
His daughter to the Immortals
gave,
Ganga whose waters cleanse
and save—
Who roams at pleasure, fair
and free,
Purging all sinners, to the
sea.
The three-pathed Ganga thus
obtained,
The Gods their heavenly homes
regained.
Long time the sister Uma passed
In vows austere and rigid
fast,
And the King gave the devotee
Immortal Rudra’s bride
to be—
Matching with that unequalled
Lord
His Uma through the worlds
adored.
So now a glorious station
fills
Each daughter of the King
of Hills—
One honored as the noblest
stream,
One mid the Goddesses supreme.
Thus Ganga, King Himalaya’s
child,
The heavenly river, undefiled,
Rose bearing with her to the
sky
Her waves that bless and purify.”
[Cantos XXXVII and XXXVIII are omitted.]
THE SONS OF SAGAR
The saint in accents sweet
and clear
Thus told his tale for Rama’s
ear—
And thus anew the holy man
A legend to the prince began:—
“There reigned a pious
monarch o’er
Ayodhya in the days of yore:
Sagar his name:—no
child had he,
And children much he longed
to see.
His honored consort, fair
of face,
Sprang from Vidarbha’s
royal race—
Kesini, famed from early youth
For piety and love of truth.
Arishtanemi’s daughter
fair,
With whom no maiden might
compare
In beauty, though the earth
is wide,
Sumati, was his second bride.
With his two queens afar he
went,
And weary days in penance
spent,
Fervent, upon Himalaya’s
hill
Where springs the stream called
THE CLEAVING OF THE EARTH
The hermit ceased—the
tale was done:—
Then in a transport Raghu’s
son
Again addressed the ancient
sire
Resplendent as a burning fire:—
“O holy man, I fain
would hear
The tale repeated full and
clear
How he from whom my sires
descend
Brought the great rite to
happy end,”
The hermit answered with a
smile:—
“Then listen, son of
Raghu, while
My legendary tale proceeds
To tell of high-souled Sagar’s
deeds.
Within the spacious plain
that lies
From where Himalaya’s
heights arise
To where proud Vindhya’s
rival chain
Looks down upon the subject
plain—
A land the best for rites
declared—
His sacrifice the king prepared.
And Ansuman the prince—for
so
Sagar advised—with
ready bow
Was borne upon a mighty car
To watch the steed who roamed
afar.
But Indra, monarch of the
skies,
Veiling his form in demon
guise,
Came down upon the appointed
day
And drove the victim horse
away.
Reft of the steed the priests,
distressed,
The master of the rite addressed:—
’Upon the sacred day
by force
A robber takes the victim
horse.
Haste, King! now let the thief
be slain;
Bring thou the charger back
again:
The sacred rite prevented
thus
Brings scathe and woe to all
of us.
Rise, Monarch, and provide
with speed
That nought its happy course
impede.’
King Sagar in his crowded
court
Gave ear unto the priests’
report.
He summoned straightway to
his side
His sixty thousand sons, and
cried:—
’Brave sons of mine,
I know not how
These demons are so mighty
now—
The priests began the rite
so well
All sanctified with prayer
and spell.
If in the depths of earth
he hide,
Or lurk beneath the ocean’s
tide,
Pursue, dear sons, the robber’s
track;
Slay him and bring the charger
back.
The whole of this broad earth
explore,
Sea-garlanded, from shore
to shore:
Yea, dig her up with might
and main
Until you see the horse again.
Deep let your searching labor
reach,
A league in depth dug out
by each.
The robber of our horse pursue,
And please your sire who orders
you.
My grandson, I, this priestly
train,
Till the steed comes, will
here remain.’
Their eager hearts with transport
burned
As to their task the heroes
turned.
Obedient to their father,
they
Through earth’s recesses
forced their way.
With iron arms’ unflinching
toil
Each dug a league beneath
the soil.
Earth, cleft asunder, groaned
in pain,
As emulous they plied amain—
Sharp-pointed coulter, pick,
and bar,
Hard as the bolts of Indra
KAPIL
“The Father lent a gracious
ear
And listened to their tale
of fear,
And kindly to the Gods replied
Whom woe and death had terrified:—
’The wisest Vasudeva,
who
The Immortals’ foe,
fierce Madhu, slew,
Regards broad Earth with love
and pride,
And guards, in Kapil’s
form, his bride.
His kindled wrath will quickly
fall
On the King’s sons and
burn them all.
This cleaving of the earth
his eye
Foresaw in ages long gone
by:
He knew with prescient soul
the fate
That Sagar’s children
should await.’
The Three-and-thirty, freed
from fear,
Sought their bright homes
with hopeful cheer.
Still rose the great tempestuous
sound
As Sagar’s children
pierced the ground.
When thus the whole broad
earth was cleft,
And not a spot unsearched
was left,
Back to their home the princes
sped,
And thus unto their father
said:—
’We searched the earth
from side to side,
While countless hosts of creatures
died.
Our conquering feet in triumph
trod
On snake and demon, fiend
and God;
But yet we failed, with all
our toil,
To find the robber and the
spoil.
What can we more? If
more we can,
Devise, O King, and tell thy
plan,’
His children’s speech
King Sagar heard,
And answered thus, to anger
stirred:—
’Dig on, and ne’er
your labor stay
Till through earth’s
depths you force your way.
Then smite the robber dead,
and bring
The charger back with triumphing.’
The sixty thousand chiefs
obeyed—
Deep through the earth their
way they made.
Deep as they dug and deeper
yet
The immortal elephant they
met—
Famed Virupaksha vast of size,
Upon whose head the broad
earth lies:
The mighty beast who earth
sustains
With shaggy hills and wooded
plains.
When, with the changing moon,
distressed,
And longing for a moment’s
rest,
His mighty head the monster
shakes,
Earth to the bottom reels
and quakes.
Around that warder strong
and vast
With reverential steps they
passed—
Nor, when the honor due was
paid,
Their downward search through
earth delayed.
But turning from the east
aside
Southward again their task
they plied.
There Mahapadma held his place,
The best of all his mighty
race—
Like some huge hill, of monstrous
girth,
Upholding on his head the
earth.
When the vast beast the princes
saw,
They marvelled and were filled
with awe.
The sons of high-souled Sagar
round
That elephant in reverence
wound.
Then in the western region
they
With might unwearied cleft
their way.
There saw they with astonished
eyes
Saumanas, beast of mountain
size.
Round him with circling steps
they went
With greetings kind and reverent.
On, on—no thought
of rest or stay—
They reached the seat of Soma’s
sway.
There saw they Bhadra, white
as snow,
With lucky marks that fortune
show,
Bearing the earth upon his
head.
Round him they paced with
solemn tread,
And honored him with greetings
kind;
Then downward yet their way
they mined.
They gained the tract ’twixt
east and north
Whose fame is ever blazoned
forth,
And by a storm of rage impelled,
Digging through earth their
course they held.
Then all the princes, lofty-souled,
Of wondrous vigor, strong
and bold,
Saw Vasudeva standing there
In Kapil’s form he loved
to wear,
And near the everlasting God
The victim charger cropped
the sod.
They saw with joy and eager
eyes
The fancied robber and the
prize,
And on him rushed the furious
band
Crying aloud, ‘Stand,
villain! stand!’
‘Avaunt! avaunt!’
great Kapil cried,
His bosom flushed with passion’s
tide;
Then by his might that proud
array
All scorched to heaps of ashes
lay.
SAGAR’S SACRIFICE
Then to the prince his grandson,
bright
With his own fame’s
unborrowed light,
King Sagar thus began to say,
Marvelling at his sons’
delay:—
’Thou art a warrior
skilled and bold,
Match for the mighty men of
old.
Now follow on thine uncles’
course
Obedient to the high-souled
lord
Grasped Ansuman his bow and
sword,
And hurried forth the way
to trace
With youth and valor’s
eager pace.
On sped he by the path he
found
Dug by his uncles underground.
The warder elephant he saw
Whose size and strength pass
Nature’s law—
Who bears the world’s
tremendous weight,
Whom God, fiend, giant, venerate.
Bird, serpent, and each flitting
shade,
To him the honor meet he paid—
With circling steps and greeting
due,
And further prayed him, if
he knew,
To tell him of his uncles’
weal,
And who had dared the horse
to steal.
To him in war and council
tried
The warder elephant replied:—
’Thou, son of Asamanj,
shalt lead
In triumph back the rescued
steed,’
As to each warder beast he
came
And questioned all, his words
the same,
The honored youth with gentle
speech
Drew eloquent reply from each—
That fortune should his steps
attend,
And with the horse he home
should wend.
Cheered with the grateful
answer, he
Passed on with step more light
and free,
And reached with careless
heart the place
Where lay in ashes Sagar’s
race.
Then sank the spirit of the
chief
Beneath that shock of sudden
grief—
And with a bitter cry of woe
He mourned his kinsmen fallen
so.
He saw, weighed down by woe
and care,
The victim charger roaming
there.
Yet would the pious chieftain
fain
Oblations offer to the slain:
But, needing water for the
rite,
He looked and there was none
in sight.
His quick eye searching all
around
The uncle of his kinsmen found—
King Garud, best beyond compare
Of birds who wing the fields
of air.
Then thus unto the weeping
man
The son of Vinata began:—
’Grieve not, O hero,
for their fall
Who died a death approved
of all.
Of mighty strength, they met
their fate
By Kapil’s hand whom
none can mate.
Pour forth for them no earthly
wave,
A holier flood their spirits
crave.
If, daughter of the Lord of
Snow,
Ganga would turn her stream
below,
Her waves that cleanse all
mortal stain
Would wash their ashes pure
again.
Yea, when her flood whom all
revere
Rolls o’er the dust
that moulders here,
The sixty thousand, freed
from sin,
A home in Indra’s heaven
shall win.
Go, and with ceaseless labor
try
To draw the Goddess from the
sky.
Return, and with thee take
the steed;
So shall thy grandsire’s
rite succeed,’
Prince Ansuman the strong
and brave
Followed the rede Suparna
gave.
The glorious hero took the
horse,
And homeward quickly bent
his course.
Straight to the anxious King
he hied,
Whom lustral rites had purified—
The mournful story to unfold
And all the King of birds
had told.
The tale of woe the monarch
heard,
No longer was the rite deferred:
With care and just observance
he
Accomplished all, as texts
decree.
The rites performed, with
brighter fame,
Mighty in counsel, home he
came.
He longed to bring the river
down,
But found no plan his wish
to crown.
He pondered long with anxious
thought,
But saw no way to what he
sought.
Thus thirty thousand years
he spent,
And then to heaven the monarch
went.
BHAGIRATH
“When Sagar thus had
bowed to fate,
The lords and commons of the
state
Approved with ready heart
and will
Prince Ansuman his throne
to fill.
He ruled, a mighty king, unblamed,
Sire of Dilipa justly famed.
To him, his child and worthy
heir,
The King resigned his kingdom’s
care,
And on Himalaya’s pleasant
side
His task austere of penance
plied.
Bright as a God in clear renown
He planned to bring pure Ganga
down.
There on his fruitless hope
intent
Twice sixteen thousand years
he spent,
And in the grove of hermits
stayed
Till bliss in heaven his rites
repaid.
Dilipa then, the good and
great,
Soon as he learnt his kinsmen’s
fate,
Bowed down by woe, with troubled
mind.
Pondering long no cure could
find.
‘How can I bring,’
the mourner sighed,
’To cleanse their dust,
the heavenly tide?
How can I give them rest,
and save
Their spirits with the offered
wave?’
Long with this thought his
bosom skilled
In holy discipline was filled.
A son was born, Bhagirath
named,
Above all men for virtue famed.
Dilipa many a rite ordained,
And thirty thousand seasons
reigned.
But when no hope the king
could see
His kinsmen from their woe
to free,
The lord of men, by sickness
tried,
Obeyed the law of fate, and
died;
He left the kingdom to his
son,
And gained the heaven his
deeds had won.
The good Bhagirath, royal
sage,
Had no fair son to cheer his
age.
He, great in glory, pure in
will,
Longing for sons was childless
still.
Then on one wish, one thought
intent,
Planning the heavenly stream’s
descent,
Leaving his ministers the
care
And burden of his state to
bear—
Dwelling in far Gokarna he
Engaged in long austerity.
With senses checked, with
Bhagirath, rich in glory’s
light,
The hero with the arm of might,
Thus to the Lord of earth
and sky
Raised suppliant hands and
made reply:—
’If the great God his
favor deigns,
And my long toil its fruit
obtains,
Let Sagar’s sons receive
from me
Libations that they long to
see.
Let Ganga with her holy wave
The ashes of the heroes lave—
That so my kinsmen may ascend
To heavenly bliss that ne’er
shall end.
And give, I pray, O God, a
son,
Nor let my house be all undone.
Sire of the worlds! be this
the grace
Bestowed upon Ikshvaku’s
race,’
The Sire, when thus the King
had prayed,
In sweet kind words his answer
made:—
’High, high thy thought
and wishes are,
Bhagirath of the mighty car!
Ikshvaku’s line is blest
in thee,
And as thou prayest it shall
be.
Ganga, whose waves in Swarga
flow,
Is daughter of the Lord of
Snow.
Win Siva that his aid be lent
To hold her in her mid-descent—
For earth alone will never
bear
Those torrents hurled from
upper air;
And none may hold her weight
but He,
The Trident-wielding deity,’
Thus having said, the Lord
supreme
Addressed him to the heavenly
stream;
And then with Gods and Maruts
went
To heaven, above the firmament.”
BY
[Translation by Sir Monier Monier-Williams]
The drama is always the latest development of a national poetry—for the origin of poetry is in the religious rite, where the hymn or the ode is used to celebrate the glories of some divinity, or some hero who has been received into the circle of the gods. This at least is the case in Sanscrit as in Greek literature, where the hymn and ballad precede the epic. The epic poem becomes the stable form of poetry during the middle period in the history of literature, both in India and Greece. The union of the lyric and the epic produces the drama. The speeches uttered by the heroes in such poems as the “Iliad” are put into the mouths of real personages who appear in sight of the audience and represent with fitting gestures and costumes the characters of the story. The dialogue is interspersed with songs or odes, which reach their perfection in the choruses of Sophocles.
The drama is undoubtedly the most intellectual, as it is the most artificial, form of poetry. The construction of the plot, and the arrangement of the action, give room for the most thoughtful and deliberate display of genius. In this respect the Greek drama stands forth as most philosophically perfect. The drama, moreover, has always been by far the most popular form of poetry; because it aids, as much as possible, the imagination of the auditor, and for distinctness and clearness of impression stands preeminent above both the epic narrative and the emotional description of the lyric.
The drama in India appears to have been a perfectly indigenous creation, although it was of very late development, and could not have appeared even so early as the Alexandrian pastorals which marked the last phase of Greek poetry. When it did appear, it never took the perfect form of the drama at Athens. It certainly borrowed as little from Greece as it did from China or Japan, and the Persians and Arabians do not appear to have produced any dramatic masterpieces. The greatest of dramatists in the Sanscrit language is undoubtedly Kalidasa, whose date is placed, by different scholars, anywhere from the first to the fifth century of our era. His masterpiece, and indeed the masterpiece of the Indian drama, is the “Sakoontala,” which has all the graces as well as most of the faults of Oriental poetry. There can be no doubt that to most Europeans the charm of it lies in the exquisite description of natural scenery and of that atmosphere of piety and religious calm—almost mediaeval in its austere beauty and serenity—which invests the hermit life of India. The abode of the ascetics is depicted with a pathetic grace that we only find paralleled in the “Admetus” of Euripides. But at the same time the construction of the drama is more like such a play as Milton’s “Comus,” than the closely-knit, symmetrical, and inevitable progress of such a work of consummate skill as the “King Oedipus” of Sophocles. Emotion, and generally the emotion of love, is the motive in the “Sakoontala” of Kalidasa, and different phases of feeling, rather than the struggles of energetic action, lead on to the denouement of the play. The introduction of supernatural agencies controlling the life of the personages, leaves very little room for the development and description of human character. As the fate of the hero is dependent altogether upon the caprice of superhuman powers, the moral elements of a drama are but faintly discernible. Thus the central action of Sakoontala hinges on the fact that the heroine, absorbed in thoughts of love, neglects to welcome with due respect the great saint Durvasas—certainly a trifling and venial fault—but he is represented as blighting her with a curse which results in all the unhappiness of the drama, and which is only ended at last by the intervention of a more powerful being. By this principle of construction the characters are
The “Sakoontala” is divided into seven acts, and is a mixture of prose and verse;—each character rising in the intensity of emotional utterance into bursts of lyric poetry. The first act introduces the King of India, Dushyanta, armed with bow and arrows, in a chariot with his driver. They are passing through a forest in pursuit of a black antelope, which they fail to overtake before the voice of some hermit forbids them to slay the creature as it belongs to the hermitage. The king piously desists and reaches the hermitage of the great saint Kanwa, who has left his companions in charge of his foster-daughter, Sakoontala, while he is bound on a pilgrimage. Following these hermits the king finds himself within the precincts of a sacred grove, where rice is strewn on the ground to feed the parrots that nest in the hollow trunks, and where the unterrified antelopes do not start at the human voice. The king stops his chariot and alights, so as not to disturb the dwellers in the holy wood. He feels a sudden throb in his right arm, which augurs happy love, and sees hermit maidens approaching to sprinkle the young shrubs, with watering-pots suited to their strength. The forms of these hermit maidens eclipse those found in queenly halls, as the luxuriance of forest vines excels the trim vineyards of cultivation. Amongst these maidens the king, concealed by the trees, observes Sakoontala, dressed in the bark garment of a hermit—like a blooming bud enclosed within a sheath of yellow leaves. When she stands by the kesara-tree, the king is impressed by her beauty, and regrets that she is, if of a purely Brahmanic origin, forbidden to marry one of the warrior class, even though he be a king. A very pretty description is given of the pursuit of Sakoontala by a bee which her sprinkling has startled from a jasmine flower. From this bee she is rescued by the king, and is dismayed to find that the sight of the stranger affects her with an emotion unsuited to the holy grove. She hurries off with her two companions, but as she goes she declares that a prickly kusa-grass has stung her foot; a kuruvaka-bush has caught her garment, and while her companions disentangle it, she takes a long look at the king, who confesses that he cannot turn his mind from Sakoontala. This is the opening episode of their love.
The second act introduces the king’s jester, a Brahman on confidential terms with his master, who, while Dushyanta is thinking of love, is longing to get back to the city. He is tired of the hot jungle, the nauseating water of bitter mountain streams, the racket of fowlers at early dawn, and the eternal galloping, by which his joints are bruised. The king is equally tired of hunting, and confesses that he cannot bend his bow against those fawns which dwell near Sakoontala’s abode, and have taught their tender glance to her. He calls back the beaters sent out to surround the forest, takes off his hunting-suit, and talks to the jester about the charms of Sakoontala—whom the Creator, he says, has formed by gathering in his mind all lovely shapes, so as to make a peerless woman-gem. He recalls the glance which she shot at him as she cried, “a kusha-grass has stung my foot.” Meanwhile two hermits approach him with the news that the demons have taken advantage of Kanwa’s absence to disturb the sacrifices. They request him to take up his abode in the grove for a few days, in order to vanquish the enemies. A messenger arrives to tell him that his mother, in four days, will be offering a solemn sacrifice for her son’s welfare, and invites his presence at the rite. But he cannot leave Sakoontala, and sends the jester Mathavya in his stead, telling him to say nothing about his love for Sakoontala.
In the third act the love of the king and the hermit girl reaches its climax. The king is found walking in the hermitage, invoking the God of Love, whose shafts are flowers, though the flowery darts are hard as steel. “Mighty God of Love, hast Thou no pity on me?” What better relief, he asks, than the sight of my beloved? He traces Sakoontala, by the broken tubes which bore the blossoms she had culled, to the arbor, enclosed by the plantation of canes, and shaded by vines, at whose entrance he observes in the sand the track of recent footsteps. Peering through the branches, he perceives her reclining on a stone seat strewn with flowers. Her two companions are with her, and she is sick unto death. The king notices that her cheeks are wasted, her breasts less swelling, her slender waist more slender, her roseate hue has grown pale, and she seems like some poor madhave creeper touched by winds that have scorched its leaves. Her companions anxiously inquire the cause of her sickness, and, after much hesitation, she reveals her love by inscribing a poem, with her fingernail, on a lotus leaf smooth as a parrot’s breast. The king hears the avowal of her love, rushes in to her, and declares his passion: adding that daughters of a royal saint have often been wedded by Gandharva rites, without ceremonies or parental consent, yet have not forfeited the father’s blessing. He thus overcomes her scruples. Gautami, the matron of the hermitage, afterwards enters, and asks, “My child, is your fever allayed?” “Venerable mother,” is the reply, “I feel a grateful change.” As the king sits in solitude that evening in the deserted arbor, he hears a voice outside, uttering the verses—“The evening rites have begun; but, dark as the clouds of night, the demons are swarming round the altar fires.” With these words of ill-omen the third act comes to an end.
The fourth act describes the fulfilment of this evil omen. The king has now returned to the city, and has given Sakoontala a signet ring, with an inscription on it, pronouncing that after there have elapsed as many days as there are letters in this inscription he will return. As the two maiden companions of Sakoontala are culling flowers in the garden of the hermitage, they hear a voice exclaiming, “It is I! give heed!” This is the great Durvasas, whom Sakoontala, lost in thoughts of her absent husband, has neglected at once to go forth to welcome. The voice from behind the scenes is soon after heard uttering a curse—“Woe unto her who is thus neglectful of a guest,” and declaring that Dushyanta, of whom alone she is thinking, regardless of the presence of a pious saint, shall forget her in spite of all his love, as the wine-bibber forgets his delirium. The Hindoo saint is here described in all his arrogance and cruelty. One of the maidens says that he who had uttered the curse is now retiring with great strides, quivering with rage—for his wrath is like a consuming fire. A pretty picture is given of Sakoontala, who carries on her finger the signet ring, which has the virtue of restoring the king’s love, if ever he should forget her. “There sits our beloved friend,” cries one of the maidens: “motionless as a picture; her cheek supported by her left hand, so absorbed in thoughts of her absent lover that she is unconscious of her own self—how much more of a passing stranger?”
In the fourth act there is an exquisite description of the return of Kanwa from his pilgrimage, and the preparations for the start of Sakoontala for her husband’s palace, in the city. The delicate pathos of the scene is worthy of Euripides. “Alas! Alas!” exclaim the two maidens, “Now Sakoontala has disappeared behind the trees of the forest. Tell us, master, how shall we enter again the sacred grove made desolate by her departure?” But the holy calm, broken for a moment by the excitement of his child’s departure, is soon restored to Kanwa’s mind. “Now that my child is dismissed to her husband’s home, tranquillity regains my soul.” The closing reflection is worthy of a Greek dramatist: “Our maids we rear for the happiness of others; and now that I have sent her to her husband I feel the satisfaction that comes from restoring a trust.”
In the fifth act, the scene is laid in Dushyanta’s palace, where the king is living, under the curse of Durvasas, in complete oblivion of Sakoontala. The life of the court is happily suggested, with its intrigues and its business. The king has yet a vague impression of restlessness, which, on hearing a song sung behind the scenes, prompts him to say, “Why has this strain flung over me so deep a melancholy, as though I was separated from some loved one; can this be the faint remembrance of affections in some previous existence?” It is here that the hermits, with Gautami, arrive, bringing Sakoontala, soon to be made a mother, into the presence of the
The tenderness of this scene, its grace and delicacy, are quite idyllic, and worthy of the best ages of the pastoral drama. The ring is at length restored to Dushyanta, having been found by a fisherman in the belly of a carp. On its being restored to the king’s finger, he is overcome with a flood of recollection: he gives himself over to mourning and forbids the celebration of the Spring festival. He admits that his palsied heart had been slumbering, and that, now it is roused by memories of his fawn-eyed love, he only wakes to agonies of remorse. Meanwhile Sakoontala had been carried away like a celestial nymph to the sacred grove of Kasyapa, far removed from earth in the upper air. The king, being summoned by Indra to destroy the brood of giants, descendants of Kalamemi, the monster of a hundred arms and heads, reaches in the celestial car Indra, the grove where dwell his wife and child, an heroic boy whom the hermits call Sarva-damana—the all-tamer. The recognition and reconciliation of husband and wife are delineated with the most delicate skill, and the play concludes with a prayer to Shiva.
E.W.
DUSHYANTA, King of India.
MATHAVYA, the Jester, friend and companion of the King.
KANWA, chief of the Hermits, foster-father of Sakoontala.
SARNGARAVA, SARADWATA, two Brahmans, belonging to
the hermitage of
Kanwa.
MITRAVASU, brother-in-law of the King, and Superintendent of the city police.
JANUKA, SUCHAKA, two constables.
VATAYANA, the Chamberlain or attendant on the women’s apartments.
SOMARATA, the domestic Priest.
KARABHAKA, a messenger of the Queen-mother.
RAIVATAKA, the warder or door-keeper.
MATALI, charioteer of Indra.
SARVA-DAMANA, afterwards Bharata, a little boy, son
of Dushyanta by
Sakoontala.
KASYAPA, a divine sage, progenitor of men and gods, son of Marichi and grandson of Brahma.
SAKOONTALA, daughter of the sage Viswamitra and the nymph Menaka, foster-child of the hermit Kanwa.
PRIYAMVADA and ANASUYA, female attendants, companions of Sakoontala.
GAUTAMI, a holy matron, Superior of the female inhabitants of the hermitage.
VASUMATI, the Queen of Dushyanta.
SANUMATI, a nymph, friend of Sakoontala.
TARALIKA, personal attendant of the King.
CHATURIKA, personal attendant of the Queen.
VETRAVATI, female warder, or door-keeper.
PARABARITIKA and MADHUKARIKA, maidens in charge of the royal gardens.
SUVRATA, a nurse.
ADITI, wife of Kasyapa; grand-daughter of Brahma,
through her father,
Daksha.
Charioteer, Fisherman, Officers, and Hermits.
Observe, that in order to secure the correct pronunciation of the title of this Drama, “Sakuntala” has been spelt “Sa-koontala,” the u being pronounced like the u in the English word rule.
The vowel a must invariably be pronounced with a dull sound, like the a in organ, or the u in fun, sun. Dushyanta must therefore be pronounced as if written Dooshyunta. The long vowel a is pronounced like the a in last, cart; i like the i in pin, sin; i like the i in marine; e like the e in prey; o like the o in so; ai like the ai in aisle; au like au in the German word baum, or like the ou in our.
The consonants are generally pronounced as in English, but g has always the sound of g in gun, give, never of g in gin. S with the accent over it (s) has the sound of s in sure, or of the last s in session.
Benediction
Isa preserve you! he who is
revealed
In these eight forms by man
perceptible—
Water, of all creation’s
works the first;
The fire that bears on high
the sacrifice
Presented with solemnity to
heaven;
The Priest, the holy offerer
of gifts;
The Sun and Moon, those two
majestic orbs,
Eternal marshallers of day
and night;
The subtle Ether, vehicle
of sound,
Diffused throughout the boundless
universe;
The Earth, by sages called
“The place of birth
Of all material essences and
things”;
And Air, which giveth life
to all that breathe.
STAGE-MANAGER [after the recitation of the benediction, looking towards the tiring-room.]—Lady, when you have finished attiring yourself, come this way.
ACTRESS [entering.]—Here I am, Sir; what are your commands?
STAGE-MANAGER.—We are here before the eyes of an audience of educated and discerning men; and have to represent in their presence a new drama composed by Kalidasa, called “Sakoontala, or the Lost Ring.” Let the whole company exert themselves to do justice to their several parts.
ACTRESS,—You, Sir, have so judiciously managed the cast of the characters, that nothing will be defective in the acting.
STAGE-MANAGER.—Lady, I will tell you the
exact state of the case.
No skill in acting can I deem
complete,
Till from the wise the actor
gain applause:
Know that the heart e’en
of the truly skilful,
Shrinks from too boastful
confidence in self.
ACTRESS [modestly].—You judge correctly. And now, what are your commands?
STAGE-MANAGER.—What can you do better than engage the attention of the audience by some captivating melody?
ACTRESS.—Which among the seasons shall I select as the subject of my song?
STAGE-MANAGER.—You surely ought to give
the preference to the present
Summer season that has but recently commenced, a season
so rich in
enjoyment. For now
Unceasing are the charms of
halcyon days,
When the cool bath exhilarates
the frame;
When sylvan gales are laden
with the scent
Of fragrant Patalas; when
soothing sleep
Creeps softly on beneath the
deepening shade;
And when, at last, the dulcet
calm of eve
Entrancing steals o’er
every yielding sense.
ACTRESS.—I will. [Sings.
Fond maids, the chosen of
their hearts to please,
Entwine their
ears with sweet Sirisha flowers,
Whose fragrant lips attract
the kiss of bees
That softly murmur
through the summer hours.
STAGE-MANAGER.—Charmingly sung! The audience are motionless as statues, their souls riveted by the enchanting strain. What subject shall we select for representation, that we may insure a continuance of their favor?
ACTRESS.—Why not the same, Sir, announced by you at first? Let the drama called “Sakoontala, or the Lost Ring,” be the subject of our dramatic performance.
STAGE-MANAGER.—Rightly reminded! For
the moment I had forgotten it.
Your song’s transporting
melody decoyed
My thoughts, and rapt with
ecstasy my soul;
As now the bounding antelope
allures
The King Dushyanta on the
chase intent. [Exeunt.
Scene.—A Forest
Enter King Dushyanta, armed with a bow and arrow, in a chariot, chasing an antelope, attended by his Charioteer.
CHARIOTEER [looking at the deer, and then at the
King].—
Great Prince,
When on the antelope I bend
my gaze,
And on your Majesty, whose
mighty bow
Has its string firmly braced;
before my eyes
The god that wields the trident
seems revealed,
Chasing the deer that flies
from him in vain.
KING.—Charioteer, this fleet antelope has
drawn us far from my
attendants. See! there he runs:—
Aye and anon his graceful
neck he bends
To cast a glance at the pursuing
car;
And dreading now the swift-descending
shaft,
Contracts into itself his
slender frame:
About his path, in scattered
fragments strewn,
The half-chewed grass falls
from his panting mouth;
See! in his airy bounds he
seems to fly,
And leaves no trace upon th’elastic
turf.
[With
astonishment.
How now! swift as is our pursuit, I scarce can see
him.
CHARIOTEER.—Sire, the ground here is full of hollows; I have therefore drawn in the reins and checked the speed of the chariot. Hence the deer has somewhat gained upon us. Now that we are passing over level ground, we shall have no difficulty in overtaking him.
KING.—Loosen the reins, then.
CHARIOTEER.—The King is obeyed. [Drives
the chariot at full speed.]
Great Prince, see! see!
Responsive to the slackened
rein, the steeds
Chafing with eager rivalry,
career
With emulative fleetness o’er
the plain;
Their necks outstretched,
their waving plumes, that late
Fluttered above their brows,
are motionless;
Their sprightly ears, but
now erect, bent low;
Themselves unsullied by the
circling dust,
That vainly follows on their
rapid course.
KING [joyously].—In good sooth,
the horses seem as if they would
outstrip the steeds of Indra and the Sun.[33]
That which but now showed
to my view minute
Quickly assumes dimension;
that which seemed
A moment since disjoined in
diverse parts,
Looks suddenly like one compacted
whole;
That which is really crooked
in its shape
In the far distance left,
grows regular;
Wondrous the chariot’s
speed, that in a breath,
Makes the near distant and
the distant near.
Now, Charioteer, see me kill the deer. [Takes aim.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Hold, O King! this deer belongs to our hermitage. Kill it not! kill it not!
CHARIOTEER [listening and looking].—Great King, some hermits have stationed themselves so as to screen the antelope at the very moment of its coming within range of your arrow.
KING [hastily].—Then stop the horses.
CHARIOTEER.—I obey. [Stops the chariot.
Enter a Hermit, and two others with him.
HERMIT [raising his hand].—This
deer, O King, belongs to our
hermitage. Kill it not! kill it not!
Now heaven forbid this barbed
shaft descend
Upon the fragile body of a
fawn,
Like fire upon a heap of tender
flowers!
Can thy steel bolts no meeter
quarry find
Than the warm life-blood of
a harmless deer?
Restore, great Prince, thy
weapon to its quiver;
More it becomes thy arms to
shield the weak,
Than to bring anguish on the
innocent.
KING.—’Tis done. [Replaces the arrow in its quiver.
HERMIT.—Worthy is this action of a Prince,
the light of Puru’s race.
Well does this act befit a
Prince like thee,
Right worthy is it of thine
ancestry.
Thy guerdon be a son of peerless
worth,
Whose wide dominion shall
embrace the earth.
BOTH THE OTHER HERMITS [raising their hands].—May heaven indeed grant thee a son, a sovereign of the earth from sea to sea!
KING [bowing.]—I accept with gratitude a Brahman’s benediction.
HERMIT.—We came hither, mighty Prince,
to collect sacrificial wood.
Here on the banks of the Malini you may perceive the
hermitage of the
great sage Kanwa. If other duties require not
your presence, deign to
enter and accept our hospitality.
When you behold our penitential
rites
Performed without impediment
by Saints
Rich only in devotion, then
with pride
Will you reflect, Such are
the holy men
Who call me Guardian; such
the men for whom
To wield the bow I bare my
nervous arm,
Scarred by the motion of the
glancing string.
KING.—Is the Chief of your Society now at home?
HERMIT.—No; he has gone to Soma-tirtha to propitiate Destiny, which threatens his daughter Sakoontala with some calamity; but he has commissioned her in his absence to entertain all guests with hospitality.
KING.—Good! I will pay her a visit. She will make me acquainted with the mighty sage’s acts of penance and devotion.
HERMIT.—And we will depart on our errand.
[Exit
with his companions.
KING.—Charioteer, urge on the horses. We will at least purify our souls by a sight of this hallowed retreat.
CHARIOTEER.—Your Majesty is obeyed.
[Drives
the chariot with great velocity.
KING [looking all about him].—Charioteer, even without being told, I should have known that these were the precincts of a grove consecrated to penitential rites.
CHARIOTEER.—How so?
KING.—Do not you observe?
Beneath the trees, whose hollow
trunks afford
Secure retreat to many a nestling
brood
Of parrots, scattered grains
of rice lie strewn.
Lo! here and there are seen
the polished slabs
That serve to bruise the fruit
of Ingudi.
The gentle roe-deer, taught
to trust in man,
Unstartled hear our voices.
On the paths
Appear the traces of bark-woven
vests
Borne dripping from the limpid
fount of waters.
And mark! Laved are the
roots of trees by deep canals,
Whose glassy waters tremble
in the breeze;
The sprouting verdure of the
leaves is dimmed
By dusky wreaths of upward
curling smoke
From burnt oblations; and
on new-mown lawns
Around our car graze leisurely
the fawns.
CHARIOTEER.—I observe it all.
KING [advancing a little further].—The inhabitants of this sacred retreat must not be disturbed. Stay the chariot, that I may alight.
CHARIOTEER.—The reins are held in. Your Majesty may descend.
KING [alighting].—Charioteer, groves devoted to penance must be entered in humble attire. Take these ornaments. [Delivers his ornaments and bow to the Charioteer.] Charioteer, see that the horses are watered, and attend to them until I return from visiting the inhabitants of the hermitage.
CHARIOTEER.—I will. [Exit.
KING [walking and looking about].—Here
is the entrance to the
hermitage. I will now go in.
[Entering
he feels a throbbing sensation in his arm
Serenest peace is in this
calm retreat,
By passion’s breath
unruffled; what portends
My throbbing arm? Why
should it whisper here
Of happy love? Yet everywhere
around us
Stand the closed portals of
events unknown.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—This way, my dear companions; this way.
KING [listening].—Hark! I hear
voices to the right of yonder grove of
trees. I will walk in that direction. [Walking
and looking about.] Ah!
here are the maidens of the hermitage coming this
way to water the
shrubs, carrying watering-pots proportioned to their
strength. [Gazing
at them.] How graceful they look!
In palaces such charms are
rarely ours;
The woodland plants outshine
the garden flowers.
I will conceal myself in this shade and watch them.
[Stands
gazing at them.
Enter Sakoontala, with her two female companions, employed in the manner described.
SAKOONTALA.—This way, my dear companions; this way.
ANASUYA.—Dear Sakoontala, one would think that father Kanwa had more affection for the shrubs of the hermitage even than for you, seeing he assigns to you who are yourself as delicate as the fresh-blown jasmine, the task of filling with water the trenches which encircle their roots.
SAKOONTALA.—Dear Anasuya, although I am
charged by my good father with this duty, yet I cannot
regard it as a task. I really feel a sisterly
love for these plants.
[Continues
watering the shrubs.
KING.—Can this be the daughter of Kanwa?
The saintly man, though
descended from the great Kasyapa, must be very deficient
in judgment to
habituate such a maiden to the life of a recluse.
The sage who would this form
of artless grace
Inure to penance—thoughtlessly
attempts
To cleave in twain the hard
acacia’s stem
With the soft edge of a blue
lotus leaf.
Well! concealed behind this tree, I will watch her
without raising her
suspicions. [Conceals himself.
SAKOONTALA.—Good Anasuya, Priyamvada has drawn this bark-dress too tightly about my chest. I pray thee, loosen it a little.
ANASUYA.—I will. [Loosens it.
PRIYAMVADA [smiling].—Why do you lay the blame on me? Blame rather your own blooming youthfulness which imparts fulness to your bosom.
KING.—A most just observation!
This youthful form, whose
bosom’s swelling charms
By the bark’s knotted
tissue are concealed,
Like some fair bud close folded
in its sheath,
Gives not to view the blooming
of its beauty.
But what am I saying? In real truth, this bark-dress,
though ill-suited
to her figure, sets it off like an ornament.
The lotus with the Saivala
entwined
Is not a whit less brilliant:
dusky spots
Heighten the lustre of the
cold-rayed moon:
This lovely maiden in her
dress of bark
Seems all the lovelier.
E’en the meanest garb
Gives to true beauty fresh
attractiveness.
SAKOONTALA [looking before her].—Yon Kesara-tree beckons to me with its young shoots, which, as the breeze waves them to and fro, appear like slender fingers. I will go and attend to it. [Walks towards it.
PRIYAMVADA.—Dear Sakoontala, prithee, rest in that attitude one moment.
SAKOONTALA.—Why so?
PRIYAMVADA.—The Kesara-tree, whilst your graceful form bends about its stem, appears as if it were wedded to some lovely twining creeper.
SAKOONTALA.—Ah! saucy girl, you are most appropriately named Priyamvada ("Speaker of flattering things").
KING.—What Priyamvada says, though complimentary,
is nevertheless true.
Verily,
Her ruddy lip vies with the
opening bud;
Her graceful arms are as the
twining stalks;
And her whole form is radiant
with the glow
Of youthful beauty, as the
tree with bloom.
ANASUYA.—See, dear Sakoontala, here is the young jasmine, which you named “the Moonlight of the Grove,” the self-elected wife of the mango-tree. Have you forgotten it?
SAKOONTALA.—Rather will I forget myself. [Approaching the plant and looking at it.] How delightful is the season when the jasmine-creeper and the mango-tree seem thus to unite in mutual embraces! The fresh blossoms of the jasmine resemble the bloom of a young bride, and the newly-formed shoots of the mango appear to make it her natural protector. [Continues gazing at it.
PRIYAMVADA [smiling].—Do you know, my Anasuya, why Sakoontala gazes so intently at the jasmine?
ANASUYA.—No, indeed, I cannot imagine. I pray thee tell me.
PRIYAMVADA.—She is wishing that as the jasmine is united to a suitable tree, so, in like manner, she may obtain a husband worthy of her.
SAKOONTALA.—Speak for yourself, girl; this is the thought in your own mind. [Continues watering the flowers.
KING.—Would that my union with her were
permissible! and yet I hardly
dare hope that the maiden is sprung from a caste different
from that of
the Head of the hermitage. But away with doubt:—
That she is free to wed a
warrior-king
My heart attests. For,
in conflicting doubts,
The secret promptings of the
good man’s soul
Are an unerring index of the
truth.
However, come what may, I will ascertain the fact.
SAKOONTALA [in a flurry].—Ah! a bee, disturbed by the sprinkling of the water, has left the young jasmine, and is trying to settle on my face. [Attempts to drive it away.
KING [gazing at her ardently].—Beautiful!
there is something charming
even in her repulse.
Where’er the bee his
eager onset plies,
Now here, now there, she darts
her kindling eyes:
What love hath yet to teach,
fear teaches now,
The furtive glances and the
frowning brow.
[In
a tone of envy.
Ah happy bee! how boldly dost
thou try
To steal the lustre from her
sparkling eye;
And in thy circling movements
hover near,
To murmur tender secrets in
her ear;
Or, as she coyly waves her
hand, to sip
Voluptuous nectar from her
lower lip!
While rising doubts my heart’s
fond hopes destroy,
Thou dost the fulness of her
charms enjoy.
SAKOONTALA.—This impertinent bee will not rest quiet. I must move elsewhere. [Moving a few steps off, and casting a glance around.] How now! he is following me here. Help! my dear friends, help! deliver me from the attacks of this troublesome insect.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—How can we deliver you? Call Dushyanta to your aid. The sacred groves are under the king’s special protection.
KING.—An excellent opportunity for me to show myself. Fear not—[Checks himself when the words are half-uttered. Aside.] But stay, if I introduce myself in this manner, they will know me to be the King. Be it so, I will accost them, nevertheless.
SAKOONTALA [moving a step or two further off].—What! it still persists in following me.
KING [advancing hastily].—When mighty
Puru’s offspring sways the
earth,
And o’er the wayward
holds his threatening rod,
Who dares molest the gentle
maids that keep
Their holy vigils here in
Kanwa’s grove?
[All look at the King, and are embarrassed.
ANASUYA.—Kind Sir, no outrage has been
committed; only our dear friend here was teased by
the attacks of a troublesome bee.
[Points
to Sakoontala.
KING [turning to Sakoontala].—I trust all is well with your devotional rites?
[Sakoontala stands confused and silent.
ANASUYA.—All is well, indeed, now that we are honored by the reception of a distinguished guest. Dear Sakoontala, go, bring from the hermitage an offering of flowers, rice, and fruit. This water that we have brought with us will serve to bathe our guest’s feet.
KING.—The rites of hospitality are already performed; your truly kind words are the best offering I can receive.
PRIYAMVADA.—At least be good enough, gentle Sir, to sit down awhile, and rest yourself on this seat shaded by the leaves of the Sapta-parna tree.
KING.—You, too, must all be fatigued by your employment.
ANASUYA.—Dear Sakoontala, there is no impropriety in our sitting by the side of our guest: come, let us sit down here.
[All sit down together.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—How is it that the sight of this man has made me sensible of emotions inconsistent with religious vows?
KING [gazing at them all by turns].—How charmingly your friendship is in keeping with the equality of your ages and appearance!
PRIYAMVADA [aside to Anasuya].—Who can this person be, whose lively yet dignified manner, and polite conversation, bespeak him a man of high rank?
ANASUYA.—I, too, my dear, am very curious to know. I will ask him myself. [Aloud]. Your kind words, noble Sir, fill me with confidence, and prompt me to inquire of what regal family our noble guest is the ornament? what country is now mourning his absence? and what induced a person so delicately nurtured to expose himself to the fatigue of visiting this grove of penance?
SAKOONTALA [aside].—Be not troubled, O my heart, Anasuya is giving utterance to thy thoughts.
KING [aside].—How now shall I reply? shall I make myself known, or shall I still disguise my real rank? I have it; I will answer her thus. [Aloud]. I am the person charged by his majesty, the descendant of Puru, with the administration of justice and religion; and am come to this sacred grove to satisfy myself that the rites of the hermits are free from obstruction.
ANASUYA.—The hermits, then, and all the members of our religious society have now a guardian.
[Sakoontala gazes bashfully at the King.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [perceiving the state of her feelings, and of the King’s. Aside to Sakoontala].—Dear Sakoontala, if father Kanwa were but at home to-day------
SAKOONTALA [angrily].—What if he were?
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—He would honor this our distinguished guest with an offering of the most precious of his possessions.
SAKOONTALA.—Go to! you have some silly idea in your minds. I will not listen to such remarks.
KING.—May I be allowed, in my turn, to ask you maidens a few particulars respecting your friend?
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Your request, Sir, is an honor.
KING.—The sage Kanwa lives in the constant practice of austerities. How, then, can this friend of yours be called his daughter?
ANASUYA.—I will explain to you, Sir. You have heard of an illustrious sage of regal caste, Viswamitra, whose family name is Kausika.
KING.—I have.
ANASUYA.—Know that he is the real father of our friend. The venerable Kanwa is only her reputed father. He it was who brought her up, when she was deserted by her mother.
KING.—“Deserted by her mother!” My curiosity is excited; pray let me hear the story from the beginning.
ANASUYA.—You shall hear it, Sir. Some time since, this sage of regal caste, while performing a most severe penance on the banks of the river Godavari, excited the jealousy and alarm of the gods; insomuch that they despatched a lovely nymph named Menaka to interrupt his devotions.
KING.—The inferior gods, I am aware, are jealous of the power which the practice of excessive devotion confers on mortals.
ANASUYA.—Well, then, it happened that Viswamitra,
gazing on the bewitching beauty of that nymph at a
season when, spring being in its glory------
[Stops
short, and appears confused.
KING.—The rest may be easily divined. Sakoontala, then, is the offspring of the nymph.
ANASUYA.—Just so.
KING.—It is quite intelligible.
How could a mortal to such
charms give birth?
The lightning’s radiance
flashes not from earth.
[Sakoontala remains modestly seated with downcast eyes.
[Aside_]. And so my desire has really scope for its indulgence. Yet I am still distracted by doubts, remembering the pleasantry of her female companions respecting her wish for a husband.
PRIYAMVADA [looking with a smile at Sakoontala, and then turning towards the King].—You seem desirous, Sir, of asking something further.
[Sakoontala makes a chiding gesture with her finger.
KING.—You conjecture truly. I am so eager to hear the particulars of your friend’s history, that I have still another question to ask.
PRIYAMVADA.—Scruple not to do so. Persons who lead the life of hermits may be questioned unreservedly.
KING.—I wish to ascertain one point respecting
your friend—
Will she be bound by solitary
vows
Opposed to love, till her
espousals only?
Or ever dwell with these her
cherished fawns,
Whose eyes, in lustre vieing
with her own,
Return her gaze of sisterly
affection?
PRIYAMVADA.—Hitherto, Sir, she has been engaged in the practice of religious duties, and has lived in subjection to her foster-father; but it is now his fixed intention to give her away in marriage to a husband worthy of her.
KING [aside].—His intention may
be easily carried into effect.
Be hopeful, O my heart, thy
harrowing doubts
Are past and gone; that which
thou didst believe
To be as unapproachable as
fire,
Is found a glittering gem
that may be touched.
SAKOONTALA [pretending anger].—Anasuya, I shall leave you.
ANASUYA.—Why so?
SAKOONTALA.—That I may go and report this impertinent Priyamvada to the venerable matron, Gautami.[34]
ANASUYA.—Surely, dear friend, it would not be right to leave a distinguished guest before he has received the rights of hospitality, and quit his presence in this wilful manner.
[Sakoontala, without answering a word, moves away.
KING [making a movement to arrest her departure,
but checking himself.
Aside].—Ah! a lover’s feelings
betray themselves by his gestures.
When I would fain have stayed
the maid, a sense
Of due decorum checked my
bold design:
Though I have stirred not,
yet my mien betrays
My eagerness to follow on
her steps.
PRIYAMVADA [holding Sakoontala back].—Dear Sakoontala, it does not become you to go away in this manner.
SAKOONTALA [frowning].—Why not, pray?
PRIYAMVADA.—You are under a promise to
water two more shrubs for me.
When you have paid your debt, you shall go, and not
before.
[Forces
her to turn back.
KING.—Spare her this trouble, gentle maiden.
The exertion of watering
the shrubs has already fatigued her.
The water-jar has overtasked
the strength
Of her slim arms; her shoulders
droop, her hands
Are ruddy with the glow of
quickened pulses;
E’en now her agitated
breath imparts
Unwonted tremor to her heaving
breast;
The pearly drops that mar
the recent bloom
Of the Sirisha pendant in
her ear,
Gather in clustering circles
on her cheek;
Loosed is the fillet of her
hair: her hand
Restrains the locks that struggle
to be free.
Suffer me, then, thus to discharge the debt for you.
[Offers a ring to Priyamvada. Both the maidens, reading the name Dushyanta on the seal, look at each other with surprise.
KING.—Nay, think not that I am King Dushyanta. I am only the king’s officer, and this is the ring which I have received from him as my credentials.
PRIYAMVADA.—The greater the reason you ought not to part with the ring from your finger. I am content to release her from her obligation at your simple request. [With a smile.] Now, Sakoontala my love, you are at liberty to retire, thanks to the intercession of this noble stranger, or rather of this mighty prince.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—My movements are no longer under my own control. [Aloud.] Pray, what authority have you over me, either to send me away or keep me back?
KING [gazing at Sakoontala. Aside].—Would
I could ascertain whether
she is affected towards me as I am towards her!
At any rate, my hopes
are free to indulge themselves. Because,
Although she mingles not her
words with mine,
Yet doth her listening ear
drink in my speech;
Although her eye shrinks from
my ardent gaze,
No form but mine attracts
its timid glances.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—O hermits,
be ready to protect the
animals belonging to our hermitage. King Dushyanta,
amusing himself with
hunting, is near at hand.
Lo! by the feet of prancing
horses raised,
Thick clouds of moving dust,
like glittering swarms
Of locusts in the glow of
eventide,
Fall on the branches of our
sacred trees;
Where hang the dripping vests
of woven bark,
Bleached by the waters of
the cleansing fountain.
And see!
Scared by the royal chariot
in its course,
With headlong haste an elephant
invades
The hallowed precincts of
our sacred grove;
Himself the terror of the
startled deer,
And an embodied hindrance
to our rites.
The hedge of creepers clinging
to his feet,
Feeble obstruction to his
mad career,
Is dragged behind him in a
tangled chain;
And with terrific shock one
tusk he drives
Into the riven body of a tree,
Sweeping before him all impediments.
KING [aside].—Out upon it! my retinue are looking for me, and are disturbing this holy retreat. Well! there is no help for it; I must go and meet them.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Noble Sir, we are terrified by the accidental disturbance caused by the wild elephant. Permit us to return into the cottage.
KING [hastily].—Go, gentle maidens. It shall be our care that no injury happen to the hermitage. [All rise up.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—After such poor hospitality we are ashamed to request the honor of a second visit from you.
KING.—Say not so. The mere sight of you, sweet maidens, has been to me the best entertainment.
SAKOONTALA.—Anasuya, a pointed blade of Kusa-grass[35] has pricked my foot; and my bark-mantle is caught in the branch of a Kuruvaka-bush. Be so good as to wait for me until I have disentangled it. [Exit with her two companions, after making pretexts for delay, that she may steal glances at the King.
KING.—I have no longer any desire to return
to the city. I will therefore rejoin my attendants,
and make them encamp somewhere in the vicinity of
this sacred grove. In good truth, Sakoontala has
taken such possession of my thoughts, that I cannot
turn myself in any other direction.
My limbs drawn onward leave
my heart behind,
Like silken pennon borne against
the wind.
[33] The speed of the chariot resembled that of the wind and the sun. Indra was the god of the firmament or atmosphere. The sun, in Hindoo mythology, is represented as seated in a chariot drawn by seven green horses, having before him a lovely youth without legs, who acts as charioteer, and who is Aruna, or the Dawn personified.
[34] The Matron or Superior of the female part of the society of hermits. Their authority resembled that of an abbess in a convent of nuns.
[35] A grass held sacred by the Hindoos and freely used at their religious ceremonies. Its leaves are very long and taper to a needle-like point.
Scene.—A Plain on the Skirts of the Forest
Enter the Jester, Mathavya, in a melancholy mood.
MATHAVYA [sighing].—Heigh-ho! what
an unlucky fellow I am! worn to a shadow by my royal
friend’s sporting propensities. “Here’s
a deer!” “There goes a boar!” “Yonder’s
a tiger!” This is the only burden of our talk,
while in the heat of the meridian sun we toil on from
jungle to jungle, wandering about in the paths of
the woods, where the trees afford us no shelter.
Are we thirsty? We have nothing to drink but the
foul water of some mountain stream, filled with dry
leaves which give it a most pungent flavor. Are
we hungry? We have nothing to eat but roast game,
which we must swallow down at odd times, as best we
can. Even at night there is no peace to be had.
Sleeping is out of the question, with joints all strained
by dancing attendance upon my sporting friend; or if
I do happen to doze, I am awakened at the very earliest
dawn by the horrible din of a lot of rascally beaters
and huntsmen, who must needs surround the wood before
sunrise, and deafen me with their clatter. Nor
are these my only troubles. Here’s a fresh
grievance, like a new boil rising upon an old one!
Yesterday, while we were lagging behind, my royal
friend entered yonder hermitage after a deer; and there,
as ill-luck would have it? caught sight of a beautiful
girl, called Sakoontala, the hermit’s daughter.
From that moment, not another thought about returning
to the city! and all last night, not a wink of sleep
did he get for thinking of the damsel. What is
to be done? At any rate, I will be on the watch
for him as soon as he has finished his toilet. [[Walking
and looking about.] Oh! here he comes, attended
by the Yavana women with bows in their hands, and
wearing garlands of wild flowers. What shall
I do? I have it. I will pretend to stand
in the easiest attitude for resting my bruised and
crippled limbs.
[Stands
leaning on a staff.
Enter King Dushyanta, followed by a retinue in the manner described.
KING.—True, by no easy conquest may I win
her,
Yet are my hopes encouraged
by her mien.
Love is not yet triumphant;
but, methinks,
The hearts of both are ripe
for his delights.
[Smiling.] Ah! thus does the lover delude himself;
judging of the
state of his loved one’s feelings by his own
desires. But yet,
The stolen glance with half-averted
eye,
The hesitating gait, the quick
rebuke
Addressed to her companion,
who would fain
Have stayed her counterfeit
departure; these
Are signs not unpropitious
to my suit.
So eagerly the lover feeds
his hopes,
Claiming each trivial gesture
for his own.
MATHAVYA [still in the same attitude].—Ah, friend, my hands cannot move to greet you with the usual salutation. I can only just command my lips to wish your majesty victory.
KING.—Why, what has paralyzed your limbs?
MATHAVYA.—You might as well ask me how my eye comes to water after you have poked your finger into it.
KING.—I don’t understand you; speak more intelligibly.
MATHAVYA.—Ah, my dear friend, is yonder upright reed transformed into a crooked plant by its own act, or by the force of the current?
KING.—The current of the river causes it, I suppose.
MATHAVYA.—Aye; just as you are the cause of my crippled limbs.
KING.—How so?
MATHAVYA.—Here are you living the life of a wild man of the woods in a savage, unfrequented region, while your state affairs are left to shift for themselves; and as for poor me, I am no longer master of my own limbs, but have to follow you about day after day in your chases after wild animals, till my bones are all crippled and out of joint. Do, my dear friend, let me have one day’s rest.
KING [aside].—This fellow little
knows, while he talks in this
manner, that my mind is wholly engrossed by recollections
of the
hermit’s daughter, and quite as disinclined
to the chase as his own.
No longer can I bend my well-braced
bow
Against the timid deer; nor
e’er again
With well-aimed arrows can
I think to harm
These her beloved associates,
who enjoy
The privilege of her companionship;
Teaching her tender glances
in return.
MATHAVYA [looking in the King’s face].—I may as well speak to the winds, for any attention you pay to my requests. I suppose you have something on your mind, and are talking it over to yourself.
KING [smiling].—I was only thinking that I ought not to disregard a friend’s request.
MATHAVYA.—Then may the King live forever! [Moves off.
KING.—Stay a moment, my dear friend. I have something else to say to you.
MATHAVYA.—Say on, then.
KING.—When you have rested, you must assist me in another business, which will give you no fatigue.
MATHAVYA.—In eating something nice, I hope.
KING.—You shall know at some future time.
MATHAVYA.—No time better than the present.
KING.—What ho! there.
WARDER [entering].—What are your Majesty’s commands?
KING.—O Raivataka! bid the General of the forces attend.
WARDER.—I will, Sire. [Exit and reenters with the General] Come forward, General; his Majesty is looking towards you, and has some order to give you.
GENERAL [looking at the King].—Though
hunting is known to produce ill
effects, my royal master has derived only benefit
from it. For
Like the majestic elephant
that roams
O’er mountain wilds,
so does the King display
A stalwart frame, instinct
with vigorous life.
His brawny arms and manly
chest are scored
By frequent passage of the
sounding string;
Unharmed he bears the mid-day
sun; no toil
His mighty spirit daunts;
his sturdy limbs,
Stripped of redundant flesh,
relinquish nought
Of their robust proportions,
but appear
In muscle, nerve, and sinewy
fibre cased.
[Approaching the King.] Victory to the King!
We have tracked the wild
beasts to their lairs in the forest. Why delay,
when everything is
ready?
KING.—My friend Mathavya here has been disparaging the chase, till he has taken away all my relish for it.
GENERAL [aside to Mathavya].—Persevere
in your opposition, my good
fellow; I will sound the King’s real feelings,
and humor him
accordingly. [Aloud]. The blockhead talks
nonsense, and your Majesty,
in your own person, furnishes the best proof of it.
Observe, Sire, the
advantage and pleasure the hunter derives from the
chase.
Freed from all grosser influences,
his frame
Loses its sluggish humors,
and becomes
Buoyant, compact, and fit
for bold encounter.
’Tis his to mark with
joy the varied passions,
Fierce heats of anger, terror,
blank dismay,
Of forest animals that cross
his path.
Then what a thrill transports
the hunter’s soul,
When, with unerring course,
his driven shaft
Pierces the moving mark!
Oh! ’tis conceit
In moralists to call the chase
a vice;
What recreation can compare
with this?
MATHAVYA [angrily].—Away! tempter, away! The King has recovered his senses, and is himself again. As for you, you may, if you choose, wander about from forest to forest, till some old bear seizes you by the nose, and makes a mouthful of you.
KING.—My good General, as we are just now
in the neighborhood of a
consecrated grove, your panegyric upon hunting is
somewhat ill-timed,
and I cannot assent to all you have said. For
the present,
All undisturbed the buffaloes
shall sport
In yonder pool, and with their
ponderous horns
Scatter its tranquil waters,
while the deer,
Couched here and there in
groups beneath the shade
Of spreading branches, ruminate
in peace.
And all securely shall the
herd of boars
Feed on the marshy sedge;
and thou, my bow,
With slackened string enjoy
a long repose.
GENERAL.—So please your Majesty, it shall be as you desire.
KING.—Recall, then, the beaters who were
sent in advance to surround
the forest. My troops must not be allowed to
disturb this sacred
retreat, and irritate its pious inhabitants.
Know that within the calm
and cold recluse
Lurks unperceived a germ of
smothered flame,
All-potent to destroy; a latent
fire
That rashly kindled bursts
with fury forth:—
As in the disc of crystal
that remains
Cool to the touch, until the
solar ray
Falls on its polished surface,
and excites
The burning heat that lies
within concealed.
GENERAL.—Your Majesty’s commands shall be obeyed.
MATHAVYA.—Off with you, you son of a slave! Your nonsense won’t go down here, my fine fellow. [Exit General.
KING [looking at his attendants].—Here, women, take my hunting-dress; and you, Raivataka, keep guard carefully outside.
ATTENDANTS.—We will, sire. [Exeunt.
MATHAVYA.—Now that you have got rid of these plagues, who have been buzzing about us like so many flies, sit down, do, on that stone slab, with the shade of the tree as your canopy, and I will seat myself by you quite comfortably.
KING.—Go you, and sit down first.
MATHAVYA.—Come along, then.
[Both walk on a little way, and seat themselves.
KING.—Mathavya, it may be said of you that you have never beheld anything worth seeing: for your eyes have not yet looked upon the loveliest object in creation.
MATHAVYA.—How can you say so, when I see your Majesty before me at this moment?
KING.—It is very natural that everyone should consider his own friend perfect; but I was alluding to Sakoontala, the brightest ornament of these hallowed groves.
MATHAVYA [aside].—I understand well enough, but I am not going to humor him. [Aloud.] If, as you intimate, she is a hermit’s daughter, you cannot lawfully ask her in marriage. You may as well, then, dismiss her from your mind, for any good the mere sight of her can do.
KING.—Think you that a descendant of the
mighty Puru could fix his
affections on an unlawful object?
Though, as men say, the offspring
of the sage,
The maiden to a nymph celestial
owes
Her being, and by her mother
left on earth,
Was found and nurtured by
the holy man
As his own daughter, in this
hermitage;—
So, when dissevered from its
parent stalk,
Some falling blossom of the
jasmine, wafted
Upon the sturdy sunflower,
is preserved
By its support from premature
decay.
MATHAVYA [smiling].—This passion of yours for a rustic maiden, when you have so many gems of women at home in your palace, seems to me very like the fancy of a man who is tired of sweet dates, and longs for sour tamarinds as a variety.
KING.—You have not seen her, or you would not talk in this fashion.
MATHAVYA.—I can quite understand it must require something surpassingly attractive to excite the admiration of such a great man as you.
KING.—I will describe her, my dear friend,
in a few words—
Man’s all-wise Maker,
wishing to create
A faultless form, whose matchless
symmetry
Should far transcend Creation’s
choicest works,
Did call together by his mighty
will,
And garner up in his eternal
mind,
A bright assemblage of all
lovely things:—
And then, as in a picture,
fashion them
Into one perfect and ideal
form.
Such the divine, the wondrous
prototype,
Whence her fair shape was
moulded into being.
MATHAVYA.—If that’s the case, she must indeed throw all other beauties into the shade.
KING.—To my mind she really does.
This peerless maid is like
a fragrant flower,
Whose perfumed breath has
never been diffused;
A tender bud, that no profaning
hand
Has dared to sever from its
parent stalk;
A gem of priceless water,
just released
Pure and unblemished from
its glittering bed.
Or may the maiden haply be
compared
To sweetest honey, that no
mortal lip
Has sipped; or, rather to
the mellowed fruit
Of virtuous actions in some
former birth,
Now brought to full perfection?
Lives the man
Whom bounteous heaven has
destined to espouse her?
MATHAVYA.—Make haste, then, to her aid; you have no time to lose, if you don’t wish this fruit of all the virtues to drop into the mouth of some greasy-headed rustic of devout habits.
KING.—The lady is not her own mistress, and her foster-father is not at home.
MATHAVYA.—Well, but tell me, did she look at all kindly upon you?
KING.—Maidens brought up in a hermitage
are naturally shy and reserved;
but for all that,
She did look towards me, though
she quick withdrew
Her stealthy glances when
she met my gaze;
She smiled upon me sweetly,
but disguised
With maiden grace the secret
of her smiles.
Coy love was half unveiled;
then, sudden checked
By modesty, left half to be
divined.
MATHAVYA.—Why, of course, my dear friend, you never could seriously expect that at the very first sight she would fall over head and ears in love with you, and without more ado come and sit in your lap.
KING.—When we parted from each other, she
betrayed her liking for me by
clearer indications, but still with the utmost modesty.
Scarce had the fair one from
my presence passed,
When, suddenly, without apparent
cause,
She stopped, and counterfeiting
pain, exclaimed,
“My foot is wounded
by this prickly grass.”
Then glancing at me tenderly,
she feigned
Another charming pretext for
delay,
Pretending that a bush had
caught her robe,
And turned as if to disentangle
it.
MATHAVYA.—I trust you have laid in a good stock of provisions, for I see you intend making this consecrated grove your game-preserve, and will be roaming here in quest of sport for some time to come.
KING.—You must know, my good fellow, that I have been recognized by some of the inmates of the hermitage. Now I want the assistance of your fertile invention, in devising some excuse for going there again.
MATHAVYA.—There is but one expedient that I can suggest. You are the King, are you not?
KING.—What then?
MATHAVYA.—Say you have come for the sixth part of their grain, which they owe you for tribute.
KING.—No, no, foolish man; these hermits
pay me a very different kind
of tribute, which I value more than heaps of gold
or jewels; observe,
The tribute which my other
subjects bring
Must moulder into dust, but
holy men
Present me with a portion
of the fruits
Of penitential services and
prayers—
A precious and imperishable
gift.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—We are fortunate; here is the object of our search.
KING [listening],—Surely those must be the voices of hermits, to judge by their deep tones.
WARDER [entering],—Victory to the King! two young hermits are in waiting outside, and solicit an audience of your Majesty.
KING.—Introduce them immediately.
WARDER.—I will, my liege. [Goes out,
and reenters with two young
Hermits.] This way, Sirs, this way.
[Both the Hermits look at the King
FIRST HERMIT.—How majestic is his mien,
and yet what confidence it
inspires! But this might be expected in a king
whose character and
habits have earned for him a title only one degree
removed from that of
a Saint.
In this secluded grove, whose
sacred joys
All may participate, he deigns
to dwell
Like one of us; and daily
treasures up
A store of purest merit for
himself,
By the protection of our holy
rites.
In his own person wondrously
are joined
Both majesty and saintlike
holiness:—
And often chanted by inspired
bards,
His hallowed title of “Imperial
Sage”
Ascends in joyous accents
to the skies.
SECOND HERMIT.—Bear in mind, Gautama, that this is the great Dushyanta, the friend of Indra.
FIRST HERMIT.—What of that?
SECOND HERMIT.—Where is the wonder if his
nervous arm,
Puissant and massive as the
iron bar
That binds a castle-gateway,
singly sways
The sceptre of the universal
earth,
E’en to its dark-green
boundary of waters?
Or if the gods, beholden to
his aid
In their fierce warfare with
the powers of hell,
Should blend his name with
Indra’s in their songs
Of victory, and gratefully
accord
No lower meed of praise to
his braced bow,
Than to the thunders of the
god of heaven?
BOTH THE HERMITS [approaching].—Victory to the King!
KING [rising from his seat].—Hail to you both!
BOTH THE HERMITS.—Heaven bless your Majesty!
[They offer fruits.
KING [respectfully receiving the offering].—Tell me, I pray you, the object of your visit.
BOTH THE HERMITS.—The inhabitants of the
hermitage having heard of your
Majesty’s sojourn in our neighborhood, make
this humble petition.
KING.—What are their commands?
BOTH THE HERMITS.—In the absence of our Superior, the great Sage Kanwa, evil demons are disturbing our sacrificial rites.[36] Deign, therefore, accompanied by your charioteer, to take up your abode in our hermitage for a few days.
KING.—I am honored by your invitation.
MATHAVYA [aside].—Most opportune and convenient, certainly!
KING [smiling].—Ho! there, Raivataka! Tell the charioteer from me to bring round the chariot with my bow.
WARDER.—I will, Sire. [Exit.
BOTH THE HERMITS [joyfully].—Well
it becomes the King by acts of
grace
To emulate the virtues of
his race.
Such acts thy lofty destiny
attest;
Thy mission is to succor the
distressed.
KING [bowing to the Hermits].—Go first, reverend Sirs, I will follow you immediately.
BOTH THE HERMITS.—May victory attend you! [Exeunt.
KING.—My dear Mathavya, are you not full of longing to see Sakoontala?
MATHAVYA.—To tell you the truth, though I was just now brimful of desire to see her, I have not a drop left since this piece of news about the demons.
KING.—Never fear; you shall keep close to me for protection.
MATHAVYA.—Well, you must be my guardian-angel, and act the part of a very Vishnu[37] to me.
WARDER—[entering].—Sire, the chariot is ready, and only waits to conduct you to victory. But here is a messenger named Karabhaka, just arrived from your capital, with a message from the Queen, your mother.
KING—[respectfully].—How say you? a messenger from the venerable Queen?
WARDER.—Even so.
KING.—Introduce him at once.
WARDER.—I will, Sire. [Goes out, and
re-enters with Karabhaka.]
Behold the King! Approach.
KARABHAKA.—Victory to the King! The Queen-mother bids me say that in four days from the present time she intends celebrating a solemn ceremony for the advancement and preservation of her son. She expects that your Majesty will honor her with your presence on that occasion.
KING.—This places me in a dilemma. Here, on the one hand, is the commission of these holy men to be executed; and, on the other, the command of my revered parent to be obeyed. Both duties are too sacred to be neglected. What is to be done?
MATHAVYA.—You will have to take up an intermediate position between the two, like King Trisanku, who was suspended between heaven and earth, because the sage Viswamitra commanded him to mount up to heaven, and the gods ordered him down again.
KING.—I am certainly very much perplexed.
For here,
Two different duties are required
of me
In widely distant places;
how can I
In my own person satisfy them
both?
Thus is my mind distracted
and impelled
In opposite directions, like
a stream
That, driven back by rocks,
still rushes on,
Forming two currents in its
eddying course.
[Reflecting.] Friend Mathavya, as you were
my playfellow in childhood,
the Queen has always received you like a second son;
go you, then, back
to her and tell her of my solemn engagement to assist
these holy men.
You can supply my place in the ceremony, and act the
part of a son to
the Queen.
MATHAVYA.—With the greatest pleasure in the world; but don’t suppose that I am really coward enough to have the slightest fear of those trumpery demons.
KING [smiling].—Oh! of course not; a great Brahman like you could not possibly give way to such weakness.
MATHAVYA.—You must let me travel in a manner suitable to the King’s younger brother.
KING.—Yes, I shall send my retinue with you, that there may be no further disturbance in this sacred forest.
MATHAVYA [with a strut].—Already I feel quite like a young prince.
KING [aside].—This is a giddy fellow,
and in all probability he will let out the truth about
my present pursuit to the women of the palace.
What is to be done? I must say something to deceive
him. [Aloud to Mathavya, taking him by the hand.]
Dear friend, I am going to the hermitage wholly and
solely out of respect for its pious inhabitants, and
not because I have really any liking for Sakoontala,
the hermit’s daughter. Observe,
What suitable communion could
there be
Between a monarch and a rustic
girl?
I did but feign an idle passion,
friend,
Take not in earnest what was
said in jest.
MATHAVYA.—Don’t distress yourself; I quite understand.
[Exeunt.
[36] The religious rites of holy men were often disturbed by certain evil spirits called Rakshasas, who were the determined enemies of piety and devotion.
[37] Vishnu, the Preserver, was one of the three principal gods.
Scene.—The Hermitage
Enter a young Brahman, carrying bundles of Kusa-grass for the use of the sacrificing priests.
YOUNG BRAHMAN.—How wonderful is the power
of King Dushyanta! No sooner
did he enter our hermitage, than we were able to proceed
with our
sacrificial rites, unmolested by the evil demons.
No need to fix the arrow to
the bow;
The mighty monarch sounds
the quivering string,
And, by the thunder of his
arms dismayed,
Our demon foes are scattered
to the wind.
I must now, therefore, make haste and deliver to the
sacrificing priests
these bundles of Kusa-grass, to be strewn round the
altar. [Walking and
looking about; then addressing someone off the stage.]
Why, Priyamvada,
for whose use are you carrying that ointment of Usira-root
and those
lotus leaves with fibres attached to them? [Listening
for her answer.]
What say you?—that Sakoontala is suffering
from fever produced by
exposure to the sun, and that this ointment is to
cool her burning
frame? Nurse her with care, then, Priyamvada,
for she is cherished by
our reverend Superior as the very breath of his nostrils.
I, for my
part, will contrive that soothing waters, hallowed
in the sacrifice, be
administered to her by the hands of Gautami.
[Exit.
Scene.—The Sacred Grove
Enter King Dushyanta, with the air of one in love.
KING [sighing thoughtfully].—The
holy sage possesses magic power
In virtue of his penance;
she, his ward,
Under the shadow of his tutelage
Rests in security. I
know it well;
Yet sooner shall the rushing
cataract
In foaming eddies re-ascend
the steep,
Than my fond heart turn back
from its pursuit.
God of Love! God of the flowery shafts![38] we are all of us cruelly deceived by thee, and by the Moon, however deserving of confidence you may both appear.
For not to us do these thine
arrows seem
Pointed with tender flowerets;
not to us
Doth the pale moon irradiate
the earth
With beams of silver fraught
with cooling dews:—
But on our fevered frames
the moon-beams fall
Like darts of fire, and every
flower-tipped shaft
Of Kama, as it probes our
throbbing hearts,
Seems to be barbed with hardest
adamant.
Adorable god of love! hast thou no pity for me? [In a tone of anguish.] How can thy arrows be so sharp when they are pointed with flowers? Ah! I know the reason:
E’en now in thine unbodied
essence lurks
The fire of Siva’s anger,
like the flame
That ever hidden in the secret
depths
Of ocean, smoulders there
unseen. How else
Couldst thou, all immaterial
as thou art,
Inflame our hearts thus fiercely?—thou,
whose form
Was scorched to ashes by a
sudden flash
From the offended god’s
terrific eye.
Yet, methinks,
Welcome this anguish, welcome
Adorable divinity! Can I by no reproaches excite your commiseration?
Have I not daily offered at
thy shrine
Innumerable vows, the only
food
Of thine ethereal essence?
Are my prayers
Thus to be slighted?
Is it meet that thou
Shouldst aim thy shafts at
thy true votary’s heart,
Drawing thy bow-string even
to thy ear?
[Pacing up and down in a melancholy manner.] Now that the holy men have completed their rites, and have no more need of my services, how shall I dispel my melancholy? [Sighing. I have but one resource. Oh for another sight of the idol of my soul! I will seek her. [Glancing at the sun.] In all probability, as the sun’s heat is now at its height, Sakoontala is passing her time under the shade of the bowers on the banks of the Malini, attended by her maidens. I will go and look for her there. [Walking and looking about.] I suspect the fair one has but just passed by this avenue of young-trees.
Here, as she tripped along,
her fingers plucked
The opening buds: these
lacerated plants,
Shorn of their fairest blossoms
by her hand,
Seem like dismembered trunks,
whose recent wounds
Are still unclosed; while
from the bleeding socket
Of many a severed stalk, the
milky juice
Still slowly trickles, and
betrays her path.
[Feeling a breeze.] What a delicious breeze meets me in this spot!
Here may the zephyr, fragrant
with the scent
Of lotuses, and laden with
the spray
Caught from the waters of
the rippling stream,
Fold in its close embrace
my fevered limbs.
[Walking and looking about.] She must be somewhere
in the neighborhood of this arbor of overhanging creepers,
enclosed by plantations of cane.
[Looking
down.]
For at the entrance here I
plainly see
A line of footsteps printed
in the sand.
Here are the fresh impressions
of her feet;
Their well-known outline faintly
marked in front,
More deeply towards the heel;
betokening
The graceful undulation of
her gait.
I will peep through those branches. [Walking and looking. With transport.] Ah! now my eyes are gratified by an entrancing sight. Yonder is the beloved of my heart reclining on a rock strewn with flowers, and attended by her two friends. How fortunate! Concealed behind the leaves, I will listen to their conversation, without raising their suspicions. [Stands concealed, and gazes at them.]
Sakoontala and her two attendants, holding fans in their hands are discovered as described.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [fanning her. In a tone of affection.]—Dearest Sakoontala, is the breeze raised by these broad lotus leaves refreshing to you?
SAKOONTALA.—Dear friends, why should you trouble yourselves to fan me?
[Priyamvada and Anasuya look sorrowfully at one another.]
KING.—Sakoontala seems indeed to be seriously
ill. [Thoughtfully.]Can
it be the intensity of the heat that has affected
her? or does my heart
suggest the true cause of her malady? [Gazing at
her passionately.]
Why should I doubt it?
The maiden’s spotless
bosom is o’erspread
With cooling balsam; on her
slender arm
Her only bracelet, twined
with lotus stalks,
Hangs loose and withered;
her recumbent form
Expresses languor. Ne’er
could noon-day sun
Inflict such fair disorder
on a maid—
No, love, and love alone,
is hereto blame.
PRIYAMVADA [aside to Anasuya.]—I have observed, Anasuya, that Sakoontala has been indisposed ever since her first interview with King Dushyanta. Depend upon it, her ailment is to be traced to this source.
ANASUYA.—The same suspicion, dear Priyamvada, has crossed my mind. But I will at once ask her and ascertain the truth. [Aloud.] Dear Sakoontala, I am about to put a question to you. Your indisposition is really very serious.
SAKOONTALA [half-rising from her couch].—What were you going to ask?
ANASUYA.—We know very little about love-matters, dear Sakoontala; but for all that, I cannot help suspecting your present state to be something similar to that of the lovers we have read about in romances. Tell us frankly what is the cause of your disorder. It is useless to apply a remedy, until the disease be understood.
KING.—Anasuya bears me out in my suspicion.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—I am, indeed, deeply in love; but cannot rashly disclose my passion to these young girls.
PRIYAMVADA.—What Anasuya says, dear Sakoontala, is very just. Why give so little heed to your ailment? Every day you are becoming thinner; though I must confess your complexion is still as beautiful as ever.
KING.—Priyamvada speaks most truly.
Sunk is her velvet cheek;
her wasted bosom
Loses its fulness; e’en
her slender waist
Grows more attenuate; her
face is wan,
Her shoulders droop;—as
when the vernal blasts
Sear the young blossoms of
the Madhavi,
Blighting their bloom; so
mournful is the change,
Yet in its sadness, fascinating
still,
Inflicted by the mighty lord
of love
On the fair figure of the
hermit’s daughter.
SAKOONTALA.—Dear friends, to no one would I rather reveal the nature of my malady than to you; but I should only be troubling you.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Nay, this is the very point about which we are so solicitous. Sorrow shared with affectionate friends is relieved of half its poignancy.
KING.—Pressed by the partners of her joys and griefs, Her much beloved companions, to reveal The cherished secret locked within her breast, She needs must utter it; although her looks Encourage me to hope, my bosom throbs As anxiously I listen for her answer.
SAKOONTALA.—Know then, dear friends, that
from the first moment the illustrious Prince, who
is the guardian of our sacred grove, presented himself
to my sight—
[Stops
short, and appears confused.]
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Say on, dear Sakoontala, say on.
SAKOONTALA.—Ever since that happy moment, my heart’s affections have been fixed upon him, and my energies of mind and body have all deserted me, as you see.
KING [with rapture].—Her own lips
have uttered the words I most
longed to hear.
Love lit the flame, and Love
himself allays
My burning fever, as when
gathering clouds
Rise o’er the earth
in summer’s dazzling noon,
And grateful showers dispel
the morning heat.
SAKOONTALA.—You must consent, then, dear friends, to contrive some means by which I may find favor with the King, or you will have ere long to assist at my funeral.
KING [with rapture].—Enough! These words remove all my doubts.
PRIYAMVADA [aside to Anasuya].—She is far gone in love, dear Anasuya, and no time ought to be lost. Since she has fixed her affections on a monarch who is the ornament of Puru’s line, we need not hesitate for a moment to express our approval.
ANASUYA.—I quite agree with you.
PRIYAMVADA [aloud].—We wish you joy, dear Sakoontala. Your affections are fixed on an object in every respect worthy of you. The noblest river will unite itself to the ocean, and the lovely Madhavi-creeper clings naturally to the Mango, the only tree capable of supporting it.
KING.—Why need we wonder if the beautiful constellation Visakha pines to be united with the Moon.
ANASUYA.—By what stratagem can we best secure to our friend the accomplishment of her heart’s desire, both speedily and secretly?
PRIYAMVADA.—The latter point is all we have to think about. As to “speedily,” I look upon the whole affair as already settled.
ANASUYA.—How so?
PRIYAMVADA.—Did you not observe how the King betrayed his liking by the tender manner in which he gazed upon her, and how thin he has become the last few days, as if he had been lying awake thinking of her?
KING [looking at himself].—Quite
true! I certainly am becoming thin
from want of sleep:—
As night by night in anxious
thought I raise
This wasted arm to rest my
sleepless head,
My jewelled bracelet, sullied
by the tears
That trickle from my eyes
in scalding streams,
Slips towards my elbow from
my shrivelled wrist.
Oft I replace the bauble,
but in vain;
So easily it spans the fleshless
limb
That e’en the rough
and corrugated skin,
Scarred by the bow-string,
will not check its fall.
PRIYAMVADA [thoughtfully].—An idea strikes me, Anasuya. Let Sakoontala write a love-letter; I will conceal it in a flower, and contrive to drop it in the King’s path. He will surely mistake it for the remains of some sacred offering, and will, in all probability, pick it up.
ANASUYA.—A very ingenious device! It has my entire approval; but what says Sakoontala?
SAKOONTALA.—I must consider before I can consent to it.
PRIYAMVADA.—Could you not, dear Sakoontala, think of some pretty composition in verse, containing a delicate declaration of your love?
SAKOONTALA.—Well, I will do my best; but my heart trembles when I think of the chances of a refusal.
KING [with rapture].—Too timid maid,
here stands the man from whom
Thou fearest a repulse; supremely
blessed
To call thee all his own.
Well might he doubt
His title to thy love; but
how couldst thou
Believe thy beauty powerless
to subdue him?
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—You undervalue your own merits, dear Sakoontala. What man in his senses would intercept with the skirt of his robe the bright rays of the autumnal moon, which alone can allay the fever of his body?
SAKOONTALA [smiling].—Then it seems
I must do as I am bid.
[Sits
down and appears to be thinking.]
KING.—How charming she looks! My very
eyes forget to wink, jealous of
losing even for an instant a sight so enchanting.
How beautiful the movement
of her brow,
As through her mind love’s
tender fancies flow!
And, as she weighs her thoughts,
how sweet to trace
The ardent passion mantling
in her face!
SAKOONTALA.—Dear girls, I have thought of a verse, but I have no writing-materials at hand.
PRIYAMVADA.—Write the letters with your nail on this lotus leaf, which is smooth as a parrot’s breast.
SAKOONTALA [after writing the verse].—Listen, dear friends, and tell me whether the ideas are appropriately expressed.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—We are all attention.
SAKOONTALA [reads].—
I know not the secret thy
bosom conceals,
Thy form is not
near me to gladden my sight;
But sad is the tale that my
fever reveals,
Of the love that
consumes me by day and by night.
KING [advancing hastily towards her].—
Nay, Love does but warm thee,
fair maiden—thy frame
Only droops like
the bud in the glare of the noon;
But me he consumes with a
pitiless flame,
As the beams of
the day-star destroy the pale moon.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [looking at him joyfully, and rising to salute him].—Welcome, the desire of our hearts, that so speedily presents itself!
[Sakoontala makes an effort to rise.]
KING.—Nay, trouble not thyself, dear maiden,
Move not to do
me homage; let thy limbs
Still softly rest
upon their flowery couch,
And gather fragrance
from the lotus stalks
Bruised by the
fevered contact of thy frame.
ANASUYA.—Deign, gentle Sir, to seat yourself on the rock on which our friend is reposing.
[The King sits down. Sakoontala is confused.]
PRIYAMVADA.—Anyone may see at a glance that you are deeply attached to each other. But the affection I have for my friend prompts me to say something of which you hardly require to be informed.
KING.—Do not hesitate to speak out, my good girl. If you omit to say what is in your mind, you may be sorry for it afterwards.
PRIYAMVADA.—Is it not your special office as a King to remove the suffering of your subjects who are in trouble?
KING.—Such is my duty, most assuredly.
PRIYAMVADA.—Know, then, that our dear friend has been brought to her present state of suffering entirely through love for you. Her life is in your hands; take pity on her and restore her to health.
KING.—Excellent maiden, our attachment is mutual. It is I who am the most honored by it.
SAKOONTALA [looking at Priyamvada].—What do you mean by detaining the King, who must be anxious to return to his royal consorts after so long a separation?
KING.—Sweet maiden, banish from thy mind
the thought
That I could love another.
Thou dost reign
Supreme, without a rival,
in my heart,
And I am thine alone:
disown me not,
Else must I die a second deadlier
death—
Killed by thy words, as erst
by Kama’s shafts.
ANASUYA.—Kind Sir, we have heard it said that kings have many favorite consorts. You must not, then, by your behavior towards our dear friend, give her relations cause to sorrow for her.
KING.—Listen, gentle maiden, while in a
few words I quiet your anxiety.
Though many beauteous forms
my palace grace,
Henceforth two things alone
will I esteem
The glory of my royal dynasty;—
My sea-girt realm, and this
most lovely maid.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—We are satisfied by your assurances.
PRIYAMVADA [glancing on one side],—See, Anasuya, there is our favorite little fawn running about in great distress, and turning its eyes in every direction as if looking for its mother; come, let us help the little thing to find her.
[Both move away.]
SAKOONTALA.—Dear friends, dear friends, leave me not alone and unprotected. Why need you both go?
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Unprotected! when the Protector of the world is at your side. [Exeunt.]
SAKOONTALA.—What! have they both really left me?
KING.—Distress not thyself, sweet maiden.
Thy adorer is at hand to wait
upon thee.
Oh, let me tend thee, fair
one, in the place
Of thy dear friends; and,
with broad lotus fans,
Raise cooling breezes to refresh
thy frame;
Or shall I rather, with caressing
touch,
Allay the fever of thy limbs,
and soothe
Thy aching feet, beauteous
as blushing lilies?
SAKOONTALA.—Nay, touch me not. I will
not incur the censure of those
whom I am bound to respect.
[Rises
and attempts to go.]
KING.—Fair one, the heat of noon has not
yet subsided, and thy body is
still feeble.
How canst thou quit thy fragrant
couch of flowers,
And from thy throbbing bosom
cast aside
Its covering of lotus leaves,
to brave
With weak and fainting limbs
the noon-day heat?
[Forces her to turn back.]
SAKOONTALA.—Infringe not the rules of decorum,
mighty descendant of
Puru. Remember, though I love you, I have no
power to dispose of myself.
KING.—Why this fear of offending your relations,
timid maid? When your
venerable foster-father hears of it, he will not find
fault with you. He
knows that the law permits us to be united without
consulting him.
In Indra’s heaven, so
at least ’tis said,
No nuptial rites prevail,[39]
nor is the bride
Led to the altar by her future
spouse;
But all in secret does the
bridegroom plight
His troth, and each unto the
other vow
Mutual allegiance. Such
espousals, too,
Are authorized on earth, and
many daughters
Of royal saints thus wedded
to their lords,
Have still received their
father’s benison.
SAKOONTALA.—Leave me, leave me; I must take counsel with my female friends.
KING.--I will leave thee when------
SAKOONTALA.—When?
KING.—When I have gently stolen from thy
lips
Their yet untasted nectar,
to allay
The raging of my thirst, e’en
as the bee
Sips the fresh honey from
the opening bud.
[Attempts
to raise her face. Sakoontala tries to prevent
him.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—The loving birds, doomed by fate to nightly separation, must bid farewell to each other, for evening is at hand.
SAKOONTALA [in confusion].—Great Prince, I hear the voice of the matron Gautami. She is coming this way, to inquire after my health. Hasten and conceal yourself behind the branches.
KING.—I will. [Conceals himself.
Enter Gautami with a vase in her hand, preceded by two attendants.
ATTENDANTS.—This way, most venerable Gautami.
GAUTAMI [approaching Sakoontala].—My child, is the fever of thy limbs allayed?
SAKOONTALA.—Venerable mother, there is certainly a change for the better.
GAUTAMI.—Let me sprinkle you with this
holy water, and all your ailments will depart. [Sprinkling
Sakoontala on the head.] The day is closing, my
child; come, let us go to the cottage.
[They
all move away.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—Oh my heart!
thou didst fear to taste of happiness when it was
within thy reach. Now that the object of thy
desires is torn from thee, how bitter will be thy remorse,
how distracting thine anguish! [Moving on a few
steps and stopping. Aloud.] Farewell! bower
of creepers, sweet soother of my sufferings, farewell!
may I soon again be happy under thy shade.
[Exit
reluctantly with the others.
KING [returning to his former seat in the arbor.
Sighing].—Alas! how
many are the obstacles to the accomplishment of our
wishes!
Albeit she did coyly turn
away
Her glowing cheek, and with
her fingers guard
Her pouting lips, that murmured
a denial
In faltering accents, she
did yield herself
A sweet reluctant captive
to my will,
As eagerly I raised her lovely
face:
But ere with gentle force
I stole the kiss,
Too envious Fate did mar my
daring purpose.
Whither now shall I betake myself? I will tarry
for a brief space in
this bower of creepers, so endeared to me by the presence
of my beloved
Sakoontala.
[Looking
round.
Here printed on the flowery
couch I see
The fair impression of her
slender limbs;
Here is the sweet confession
of her love,
Traced with her nail upon
the lotus leaf—
And yonder are the withered
lily stalks
That graced her wrist.
While all around I view
Things that recall her image,
can I quit
This bower, e’en though
its living charm be fled?
A VOICE [in the air].—Great King,
Scarce is our evening sacrifice
begun,
When evil demons, lurid as
the clouds
That gather round the dying
orb of day,
Cluster in hideous troops,
obscene and dread,
About our altars, casting
far and near
Terrific shadows, while the
sacred fire
Sheds a pale lustre o’er
their ghostly shapes.
KING.—I come to the rescue, I come.
[Exit.
[38] Kama, the Hindoo Cupid, or god of love. He has five arrows, each tipped with the blossom of a flower, which pierce the heart through the five senses.
[39] A marriage without the usual ceremonies is called Gandharva. It was supposed to be the form of marriage prevalent among the nymphs of Indra’s heaven.
Scene.—The Garden of the Hermitage
Enter Priyamvada and Anasuya in the act of gathering flowers.
ANASUYA.—Although, dear Priyamvada, it rejoices my heart to think that Sakoontala has been happily united to a husband in every respect worthy of her, by the form of marriage prevalent among Indra’s celestial musicians, nevertheless, I cannot help feeling somewhat uneasy in my mind.
PRIYAMVADA.—How so?
ANASUYA.—You know that the pious King was gratefully dismissed by the hermits on the successful termination of their sacrificial rites. He has now returned to his capital, leaving Sakoontala under our care; and it may be doubted whether, in the society of his royal consorts, he will not forget all that has taken place in this hermitage of ours.
PRIYAMVADA.—On that score be at ease. Persons of his noble nature are not so destitute of all honorable feeling. I confess, however, that there is one point about which I am rather anxious. What, think you, will father Kanwa say when he hears what has occurred?
ANASUYA.—In my opinion, he will approve the marriage.
PRIYAMVADA.—What makes you think so?
ANASUYA.—From the first, it was always his fixed purpose to bestow the maiden on a husband worthy of her; and since heaven has given her such a husband, his wishes have been realized without any trouble to himself.
PRIYAMVADA [looking at the flower-basket].—We have gathered flowers enough for the sacred offering, dear Anasuya.
ANASUYA.—Well, then, let us now gather more, that we may have wherewith to propitiate the guardian-deity of our dear Sakoontala.
PRIYAMVADA.—By all means. [They continue gathering.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Ho there! See you not that I am here?
ANASUYA [listening].—That must be the voice of a guest announcing his arrival.
PRIYAMVADA.—Surely, Sakoontala is not absent from the cottage. [Aside.] Her heart at least is absent, I fear.
ANASUYA.—Come along, come along; we have
gathered flowers enough.
[They
move away.
THE SAME VOICE [behind the scenes].—Woe
to thee, maiden, for daring
to slight a guest like me!
Shall I stand here unwelcomed;
even I,
A very mine of penitential
merit,
Worthy of all respect?
Shalt thou, rash maid,
Thus set at nought the ever
sacred ties
Of hospitality? and fix thy
thoughts
Upon the cherished object
of thy love,
While I am present? Thus
I curse thee, then—
He, even he of whom thou thinkest,
he
Shall think no more of thee;
nor in his heart
Retain thine image. Vainly
shalt thou strive
To waken his remembrance of
the past;
He shall disown thee, even
as the sot,
Roused from his midnight drunkenness,
denies
The words he uttered in his
revellings.
PRIYAMVADA.—Alas! alas! I fear a terrible misfortune has occurred. Sakoontala, from absence of mind, must have offended some guest whom she was bound to treat with respect. [Looking behind the scenes.] Ah! yes; I see, and no less a person than the great sage Durvasas, who is known to be most irascible. He it is that has just cursed her, and is now retiring with hasty strides, trembling with passion, and looking as if nothing could turn him. His wrath is like a consuming fire.
ANASUYA.—Go quickly, dear Priyamvada, throw yourself at his feet, and persuade him to come back, while I prepare a propitiatory offering for him, with water and refreshments.
PRIYAMVADA.—I will. [Exit.
ANASUYA [advancing hastily a few steps and stumbling].—Alas!
alas! this comes of being in a hurry. My foot
has slipped and my basket of flowers has fallen from
my hand.
[Stays
to gather them up.
PRIYAMVADA [reentering].—Well, dear Anasuya, I have done my best; but what living being could succeed in pacifying such a cross-grained, ill-tempered old fellow? However, I managed to mollify him a little.
ANASUYA [smiling].—Even a little was much for him. Say on.
PRIYAMVADA.—When he refused to turn back, I implored his forgiveness in these words: “Most venerable sage, pardon, I beseech you, this first offence of a young and inexperienced girl, who was ignorant of the respect due to your saintly character and exalted rank.”
ANASUYA.—And what did he reply?
PRIYAMVADA.—“My word must not be falsified; but at the sight of the ring of recognition the spell shall cease.” So saying, he disappeared.
ANASUYA.—Oh! then we may breathe again; for now I think of it, the King himself, at his departure, fastened on Sakoontala’s finger, as a token of remembrance, a ring on which his own name was engraved. She has, therefore, a remedy for her misfortune at her own command.
PRIYAMVADA.—Come, dear Anasuya, let us proceed with our religious duties. [They walk away.
PRIYAMVADA [looking off the stage].—See, Anasuya, there sits our dear friend, motionless as a statue, resting her face on her left hand, her whole mind absorbed in thinking of her absent husband. She can pay no attention to herself, much less to a stranger.
ANASUYA.—Priyamvada, let this affair never pass our lips. We must spare our dear friend’s feelings. Her constitution is too delicate to bear much emotion.
PRIYAMVADA.—I agree with you. Who would think of watering a tender jasmine with hot water?
Scene.—The Neighborhood of the Hermitage
Enter one of Kanwa’s pupils, just arisen from his couch at the dawn of day.
PUPIL.—My master, the venerable Kanwa,
who is but lately returned from
his pilgrimage, has ordered me to ascertain how the
time goes. I have
therefore come into the open air to see if it be still
dark. [Walking
and looking about.] Oh! the dawn has already broken.
Lo! in one quarter of the
sky, the Moon,
Lord of the herbs and night-expanding
flowers,
Sinks towards his bed behind
the western hills;
While in the east, preceded
by the Dawn,
His blushing charioteer, the
glorious Sun
Begins his course, and far
into the gloom
Casts the first radiance of
his orient beams,
Hail! co-eternal orbs, that
rise to set,
And set to rise again; symbols
divine
Of man’s reverses, life’s
vicissitudes.
And now,
While the round Moon withdraws
his looming disc
Beneath the western sky, the
full-blown flower
Of the night-loving lotus
sheds her leaves
In sorrow for his loss, bequeathing
nought
But the sweet memory of her
loveliness
To my bereaved sight:
e’en as the bride
Disconsolately mourns her
absent lord,
And yields her heart a prey
to anxious grief.
ANASUYA [entering abruptly].—Little as I know of the ways of the world, I cannot help thinking that King Dushyanta is treating Sakoontala very improperly.
PUPIL.—Well, I must let my revered preceptor know that it is time to offer the burnt oblation. [Exit.
ANASUYA.—I am broad awake, but what shall I do? I have no energy to go about my usual occupations. My hands and feet seem to have lost their power. Well, Love has gained his object; and Love only is to blame for having induced our dear friend, in the innocence of her heart, to confide in such a perfidious man. Possibly, however, the imprecation of Durvasas may be already taking effect. Indeed, I cannot otherwise account for the King’s strange conduct, in allowing so long a time to elapse without even a letter; and that, too, after so many promises and protestations. I cannot think what to do, unless we send him the ring which was to be the token of recognition. But which of these austere hermits could we ask to be the bearer of it? Then, again, Father Kanwa has just returned from his pilgrimage: and how am I to inform him of Sakoontala’s marriage to King Dushyanta, and her expectation of being soon a mother? I never could bring myself to tell him, even if I felt that Sakoontala had been in fault, which she certainly has not. What is to be done?
PRIYAMVADA [entering; joyfully].—Quick! quick! Anasuya! come and assist in the joyful preparations for Sakoontala’s departure to her husband’s palace.
ANASUYA.—My dear girl, what can you mean?
PRIYAMVADA.—Listen, now, and I will tell you all about it. I went just now to Sakoontala, to inquire whether she had slept comfortably—
ANASUYA.—Well, well; go on.
PRIYAMVADA.—She was sitting with her face bowed down to the very ground with shame, when Father Kanwa entered and, embracing her, of his own accord offered her his congratulations. “I give thee joy, my child,” he said, “we have had an auspicious omen. The priest who offered the oblation dropped it into the very centre of the sacred fire, though thick smoke obstructed his vision. Henceforth thou wilt cease to be an object of compassion. This very day I purpose sending thee, under the charge of certain trusty hermits, to the King’s palace; and shall deliver thee into the hands of thy husband, as I would commit knowledge to the keeping of a wise and faithful student.”
ANASUYA.—Who, then, informed the holy Father of what passed in his absence?
PRIYAMVADA.—As he was entering the sanctuary of the consecrated fire, an invisible being chanted a verse in celestial strains.
ANASUYA [with astonishment].—Indeed! pray repeat it.
PRIYAMVADA [repeats the verse].—
Glows in thy daughter King
Dushyanta’s glory,
As in the sacred
tree the mystic fire.
Let worlds rejoice to hear
the welcome story;
And may the son
immortalize the sire.
ANASUYA [embracing Priyamvada].—Oh, my dear Priyamvada, what delightful news! I am pleased beyond measure; yet when I think that we are to lose our dear Sakoontala this very day, a feeling of melancholy mingles with my joy.
PRIYAMVADA.—We shall find means of consoling ourselves after her departure. Let the dear creature only be made happy, at any cost.
ANASUYA.—Yes, yes, Priyamvada, it shall be so; and now to prepare our bridal array. I have always looked forward to this occasion, and some time since, I deposited a beautiful garland of Kesara flowers in a cocoa-nut box, and suspended it on a bough of yonder mango-tree. Be good enough to stretch out your hand and take it down, while I compound unguents and perfumes with this consecrated paste and these blades of sacred grass.
PRIYAMVADA.—Very well.
[Exit Anasuya. Priyamvada takes down the flowers.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Gautami, bid Sarngarava and the others hold themselves in readiness to escort Sakoontala.
PRIYAMVADA [listening].—Quick, quick, Anasuya! They are calling the hermits who are to go with Sakoontala to Hastinapur.
ANASUYA [reentering, with the perfumed unguents in her hand].—Come along then, Priyamvada; I am ready to go with you. [They walk away.
PRIYAMVADA [looking].—See! there sits Sakoontala, her locks arranged even at this early hour of the morning. The holy women of the hermitage are congratulating her, and invoking blessings on her head, while they present her with wedding-gifts and offerings of consecrated wild-rice. Let us join them. [They approach.
Sakoontala is seen seated, with women surrounding her, occupied in the manner described.
FIRST WOMAN [to Sakoontala].—My child, may’st thou receive the title of “Chief-queen,” and may thy husband delight to honor thee above all others!
SECOND WOMAN.—My child, may’st thou be the mother of a hero!
THIRD WOMAN.—My child, may’st thou be highly honored by thy lord!
[Exeunt all the women, excepting Gautami, after blessing Sakoontala.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [approaching].—Dear Sakoontala, we are come to assist you at your toilet, and may a blessing attend it!
SAKOONTALA.—Welcome, dear friends, welcome. Sit down here.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [taking the baskets containing the bridal decorations, and sitting down].—Now, then, dearest, prepare to let us dress you. We must first rub your limbs with these perfumed unguents.
SAKOONTALA.—I ought indeed to be grateful for your kind offices, now that I am so soon to be deprived of them. Dear, dear friends, perhaps I shall never be dressed by you again. [Bursts into tears.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Weep not, dearest, tears are out of season on such a happy occasion.
[They wipe away her tears and begin to dress her.
PRIYAMVADA.—Alas! these simple flowers and rude ornaments which our hermitage offers in abundance, do not set off your beauty as it deserves.
Enter two young Hermits, bearing costly presents.
BOTH HERMITS.—Here are ornaments suitable for a queen.
[The women look at them in astonishment.
GAUTAMI.—Why, Narada, my son, whence came these?
FIRST HERMIT.—You owe them to the devotion of Father Kanwa.
GAUTAMI.—Did he create them by the power of his own mind?
SECOND HERMIT.—Certainly not; but you shall
hear. The venerable sage
ordered us to collect flowers for Sakoontala from
the forest-trees; and
we went to the wood for that purpose, when
Straightway depending from
a neighboring tree
Appeared a robe of linen tissue,
pure
And spotless as a moon-beam—mystic
pledge
Of bridal happiness; another
tree
Distilled a roseate dye wherewith
to stain
The lady’s feet; and
other branches near
Glistened with rare and costly
ornaments.
While, ’midst the leaves,
the hands of forest-nymphs,
Vying in beauty with the opening
buds,
Presented us with sylvan offerings.
PRIYAMVADA [looking at Sakoontala].—The
wood-nymphs have done you honor, indeed. This
favor doubtless signifies that you are soon to be
received as a happy wife into your husband’s
house, and are from this forward to become the partner
of his royal fortunes.
[Sakoontala
appears confused.
FIRST HERMIT.—Come, Gautama; Father Kanwa has finished his ablutions. Let us go and inform him of the favor we have received from the deities who preside over our trees.
SECOND HERMIT.—By all means. [Exeunt.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Alas! what are we to do? We are unused to such splendid decorations, and are at a loss how to arrange them. Our knowledge of painting must be our guide. We will dispose the ornaments as we have seen them in pictures.
SAKOONTALA.—Whatever pleases you, dear girls, will please me. I have perfect confidence in your taste. [They commence dressing her.
Enter Kanwa, having just finished his ablutions.
KANWA.—This day my loved one leaves me,
and my heart
Is heavy with its grief:
the streams of sorrow
Choked at the source, repress
my faltering voice.
I have no words to speak;
mine eyes are dimmed
By the dark shadows of the
thoughts that rise
Within my soul. If such
the force of grief
In an old hermit parted from
his nursling,
What anguish must the stricken
parent feel—
Bereft forever of an only
daughter?
[Advances
towards Sakoontala
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Now, dearest Sakoontala,
we have finished
decorating you. You have only to put on the two
linen mantles.
[Sakoontala
rises and puts them on.
GAUTAMI.—Daughter, see, here comes thy foster-father; he is eager to fold thee in his arms; his eyes swim with tears of joy. Hasten to do him reverence.
SAKOONTALA [reverently].—My father, I salute you.
KANWA.—My daughter,
May’st thou be highly
honored by thy lord,
E’en as Yayati Sarmishtha
adored!
And, as she bore him Puru;
so may’st thou
Bring forth a son to whom
the world shall bow!
GAUTAMI.—Most venerable father, she accepts your benediction as if she already possessed the boon it confers.
KANWA.—Now come this way, my child, and walk reverently round these sacrificial fires. [They all walk round.
KANWA [repeats a prayer in the metre of the Rig-veda].—
Holy flames, that gleam around
Every altar’s hallowed
ground;
Holy flames, whose frequent
food
Is the consecrated wood,
And for whose encircling bed,
Sacred Kusa-grass is spread;
Holy flames, that waft to
heaven
Sweet oblations daily given,
Mortal guilt to purge away;—
Hear, oh hear me, when I pray—
Purify my child this day!
Now then, my daughter, set out on thy journey. [Looking
on one side.]
Where are thy attendants, Sarngarava and the others?
YOUNG HERMIT [entering].—Here we are, most venerable father.
KANWA.—Lead the way for thy sister.
SARNGARAVA.—Come, Sakoontala, let us proceed.
[All
move away.
KANWA.—Hear me, ye trees that surround
our hermitage!
Sakoontala ne’er moistened
in the stream
Her own parched lips, till
she had fondly poured
Its purest water on your thirsty
roots;
And oft, when she would fain
have decked her hair
With your thick-clustering
blossoms, in her love
She robbed you not e’en
of a single flower.
Her highest joy was ever to
behold
The early glory of your opening
buds:
Oh, then, dismiss her with
a kind farewell!
This very day she quits her
father’s home,
To seek the palace of her
wedded lord.
[The
note of a Koeil is heard.
Hark! heard’st thou
not the answer of the trees,
Our sylvan sisters, warbled
in the note
Of the melodious Koeil? they
dismiss
Their dear Sakoontala with
loving wishes.
VOICES [in the air].—
Fare thee well, journey pleasantly
on amid streams
Where the lotuses bloom, and
the sun’s glowing beams
Never pierce the deep shade
of the wide-spreading trees,
While gently around thee shall
sport the cool breeze;
Then light be thy footsteps
and easy thy tread,
Beneath thee shall carpets
of lilies be spread.
Journey on to thy lord, let
thy spirit be gay,
For the smiles of all Nature
shall gladden thy way.
[All
listen with astonishment.
GAUTAMI.—Daughter! the nymphs of the wood, who love thee with the affection of a sister, dismiss thee with kind wishes for thy happiness. Take thou leave of them reverentially.
SAKOONTALA [bowing respectfully and walking on. Aside to her friend].—Eager as I am, dear Priyamvada, to see my husband once more, yet my feet refuse to move, now that I am quitting forever the home of my girlhood.
PRIYAMVADA.—You are not the only one, dearest,
to feel the bitterness
of parting. As the time of separation approaches,
the whole grove seems
to share your anguish.
In sorrow for thy loss, the
herd of deer
Forget to browse; the peacock
on the lawn
Ceases its dance; the very
trees around us
Shed their pale leaves, like
tears, upon the ground.
SAKOONTALA [recollecting herself].—My father, let me, before I go, bid adieu to my pet jasmine, the Moonlight of the Grove. I love the plant almost as a sister.
KANWA.—Yes, yes, my child, I remember thy sisterly affection for the creeper. Here it is on the right.
SAKOONTALA [approaching the jasmine],—My beloved jasmine, most brilliant of climbing plants, how sweet it is to see thee cling thus fondly to thy husband, the mango-tree; yet, prithee, turn thy twining arms for a moment in this direction to embrace thy sister; she is going far away, and may never see thee again.
KANWA.—Daughter, the cherished purpose
of my heart
Has ever been to wed thee
to a spouse
That should be worthy of thee;
such a spouse
Hast thou thyself, by thine
own merits, won.
To him thou goest, and about
his neck
Soon shalt thou cling confidingly,
as now
Thy favorite jasmine twines
its loving arms
Around the sturdy mango.
Leave thou it
To its protector—e’en
as I consign
Thee to thy lord, and henceforth
from my mind
Banish all anxious thought
on thy behalf.
Proceed on thy journey, my child.
SAKOONTALA [to Priyamvada and Anasuya].—To
you, my sweet companions,
I leave it as a keepsake. Take charge of it when
I am gone.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [bursting into tears].—And to whose charge do you leave us, dearest? Who will care for us when you are gone?
KANWA.—For shame, Anasuya! dry your tears.
Is this the way to cheer
your friend at a time when she needs your support
and consolation?
[All
move on.
SAKOONTALA.—My father, see you there my pet deer, grazing close to the hermitage? She expects soon to fawn, and even now the weight of the little one she carries hinders her movements. Do not forget to send me word when she becomes a mother.
KANWA.—I will not forget it.
SAKOONTALA [feeling herself drawn back].—What can this be, fastened to my dress? [Turns round.
KANWA.—My daughter,
It is the little fawn, thy
foster-child.
Poor helpless orphan! it remembers
well
How with a mother’s
tenderness and love
Thou didst protect it, and
with grains of rice
SAKOONTALA.—My poor little fawn, dost thou ask to follow an unhappy woman who hesitates not to desert her companions? When thy mother died, soon after thy birth, I supplied her place, and reared thee with my own hand; and now that thy second mother is about to leave thee, who will care for thee? My father, be thou a mother to her. My child, go back, and be a daughter to my father. [Moves on, weeping.
KANWA.—Weep not, my daughter, check the
gathering tear
That lurks beneath thine eyelid,
ere it flow
And weaken thy resolve; be
firm and true—
True to thyself and me; the
path of life
Will lead o’er hill
and plain, o’er rough and smooth,
And all must feel the steepness
of the way;
Though rugged be thy course,
press boldly on.
SARNGARAVA.—Venerable sire! the sacred precept is—“Accompany thy friend as far as the margin of the first stream.” Here then, we are arrived at the border of a lake. It is time for you to give us your final instructions and return.
KANWA.—Be it so; let us tarry for a moment under the shade of this fig-tree. [They do so.
KANWA [aside].—I must think of some appropriate message to send to his majesty King Dushyanta. [Reflects.
SAKOONTALA [aside to Anasuya].—See, see, dear Anasuya, the poor female Chakravaka-bird, whom cruel fate dooms to nightly separation from her mate, calls to him in mournful notes from the other side of the stream, though he is only hidden from her view by the spreading leaves of the water-lily. Her cry is so piteous that I could almost fancy she was lamenting her hard lot in intelligible words.
ANASUYA.—Say not so, dearest.
Fond bird! though sorrow lengthen
out her night
Of widowhood, yet with a cry
of joy
She hails the morning light
that brings her mate
Back to her side. The
agony of parting
Would wound us like a sword,
but that its edge
Is blunted by the hope of
future meeting.
KANWA.—Sarngarava, when you have introduced Sakoontala into the presence of the King, you must give him this message from me.
SARNGARAVA.—Let me hear it, venerable father.
KANWA.—This is it—
Most puissant prince! we here
present before thee
One thou art bound to cherish
and receive
As thine own wife; yea, even
to enthrone
As thine own queen—worthy
of equal love
With thine imperial consorts.
So much, Sire,
We claim of thee as justice
due to us,
In virtue of our holy character—
SARNGARAVA.—A most suitable message. I will take care to deliver it correctly.
KANWA.—And now, my child, a few words of advice for thee. We hermits, though we live secluded from the world, are not ignorant of worldly matters.
SARNGARAVA.—No, indeed. Wise men are conversant with all subjects.
KANWA.—Listen, then, my daughter.
When thou reachest thy husband’s
palace, and art admitted into his family,
Honor thy betters; ever be
respectful
To those above thee; and,
should others share
Thy husband’s love,
ne’er yield thyself a prey
To jealousy; but ever be a
friend,
A loving friend, to those
who rival thee
In his affections. Should
thy wedded lord
Treat thee with harshness,
thou must never be
Harsh in return, but patient
and submissive.
Be to thy menials courteous,
and to all
Placed under thee, considerate
and kind:
Be never self-indulgent, but
avoid
Excess in pleasure; and, when
fortune smiles,
Be not puffed up. Thus
to thy husband’s house
Wilt thou a blessing prove,
and not a curse.
What thinks Gautami of this advice?
GAUTAMI.—An excellent compendium, truly, of every wife’s duties! Lay it well to heart, my daughter.
KANWA.—Come, my beloved child, one parting embrace for me and for thy companions, and then we leave thee.
SAKOONTALA.—My father, must Priyamvada and Anasuya really return with you? They are very dear to me.
KANWA.—Yes, my child; they, too, in good time, will be given in marriage to suitable husbands. It would not be proper for them to accompany thee to such a public place. But Gautami shall be thy companion.
SAKOONTALA [embracing him].—Removed from thy bosom, my beloved father, like a young tendril of the sandal-tree torn from its home in the western mountains,[40] how shall I be able to support life in a foreign soil?
KANWA.—Daughter, thy fears are groundless:—
Soon shall thy lord prefer
thee to the rank
Of his own consort; and unnumbered
cares
Befitting his imperial dignity
Shall constantly engross thee.
Then the bliss
Of bearing him a son—a
noble boy,
Bright as the day-star—shall
transport thy soul
With new delights, and little
shalt thou reck
Of the light sorrow that afflicts
thee now
At parting from thy father
and thy friends.
[Sakoontala throws herself at her foster-father’s feet.
KANWA.—Blessings on thee, my child! May all my hopes of thee be realized!
SAKOONTALA [approaching her friends].—Come, my two loved companions, embrace me—both of you together.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [embracing her].—Dear Sakoontala, remember, if the King should by any chance be slow in recognizing you, you have only to show him this ring, on which his own name is engraved.
SAKOONTALA.—The bare thought of it puts me in a tremor.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—There is no real cause for fear, dearest. Excessive affection is too apt to suspect evil where none exists.
SARNGARAVA.—Come, lady, we must hasten on. The sun is rising in the heavens.
SAKOONTALA [looking towards the hermitage].—Dear father, when shall I ever see this hallowed grove again?
KANWA.—I will tell thee; listen—
When thou hast passed a long
and blissful life
As King Dushyanta’s
queen, and jointly shared
With all the earth his ever-watchful
care;
And hast beheld thine own
heroic son,
Matchless in arms, united
to a spouse
In happy wedlock; when his
aged sire,
Thy faithful husband, hath
to him resigned
The helm of state; then, weary
of the world,
Together with Dushyanta thou
shalt seek
The calm seclusion of thy
former home:—
There amid holy scenes to
be at peace,
Till thy pure spirit gain
its last release.
GAUTAMI.—Come, my child, the favorable time for our journey is fast passing. Let thy father return. Venerable Sire, be thou the first to move homewards, or these last words will never end.
KANWA.—Daughter, detain me no longer. My religious duties must not be interrupted.
SAKOONTALA [again embracing her foster-father].—Beloved father, thy frame is much enfeebled by penitential exercises. Do not, oh! do not, allow thyself to sorrow too much on my account.
KANWA [sighing].—How, O my child,
shall my bereaved heart
Forget its bitterness, when,
day by day,
Full in my sight shall grow
the tender plants
Reared by thy care, or sprung
from hallowed grain
Which thy loved hands have
strewn around the door—
A frequent offering to our
household gods?
Go, my daughter, and may thy journey be prosperous.
[Exit Sakoontala with her escort.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [gazing after Sakoontala].—Alas! alas! she is gone, and now the trees hide our darling from our view.
KANWA [sighing].—Well, Anasuya, your sister has departed. Moderate your grief, both of you, and follow me. I go back to the hermitage.
PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Holy father, the sacred grove will be a desert without Sakoontala. How can we ever return to it?
KANWA.—It is natural enough that your affection
should make you view it
in this light. [Walking pensively on.] As for
me, I am quite surprised
at myself. Now that I have fairly dismissed her
to her husband’s house,
my mind is easy: for indeed,
A daughter is a loan—a
[Exeunt.
[40] The sandal-tree is a large kind of myrtle, with pointed leaves. The wood affords many highly esteemed perfumes and is celebrated for its delicious scent. It is chiefly found on the slopes of the Malay mountains or Western Ghants, on the Malabar coast.
Scene.—A Room in the Palace
The King Dushyanta and the Jester Mathavya are discovered seated.
MATHAVYA [listening].—Hark! my dear friend, listen a minute, and you will hear sweet sounds proceeding from the music-room. Someone is singing a charming air. Who can it be? Oh! I know. The queen Hansapadika is practising her notes, that she may greet you with a new song.
KING.—Hush! Let me listen.
A VOICE [sings behind the scenes].—
How often hither didst thou
rove,
Sweet bee, to kiss the mango’s
cheek;
Oh! leave not, then, thy early
love,
The lily’s honeyed lip
to seek.
KING.—A most impassioned strain, truly!
MATHAVYA.—Do you understand the meaning of the words?
KING [smiling].—She means to reprove me, because I once paid her great attention, and have lately deserted her for the queen Vasumati. Go, my dear fellow, and tell Hansapadika from me that I take her delicate reproof as it is intended.
MATHAVYA.—Very well. [Rising from his seat.] But stay—I don’t much relish being sent to bear the brunt of her jealousy. The chances are that she will have me seized by the hair of the head and beaten to a jelly. I would as soon expose myself, after a vow of celibacy, to the seductions of a lovely nymph, as encounter the fury of a jealous woman.
KING.—Go, go; you can disarm her wrath by a civil speech; but give her my message.
MATHAVYA.—What must be must be, I suppose. [Exit.
KING [aside].—Strange! that song
has filled me with a most peculiar
sensation. A melancholy feeling has come over
me, and I seem to yearn
after some long-forgotten object of affection.
Singular, indeed! but,
Not seldom in our happy hours
of ease,
When thought is still, the
sight of some fair form,
Or mournful fall of music
breathing low,
Will stir strange fancies,
thrilling all the soul
With a mysterious sadness,
and a sense
Of vague yet earnest longing.
Can it be
That the dim memory of events
long past,
Or friendships formed in other
states of being,
Flits like a passing shadow
o’er the spirit?
[Remains
pensive and sad.
Enter the Chamberlain.
CHAMBERLAIN.—Alas! to what an advanced
period of life have I attained!
Even this wand betrays the
lapse of years;
In youthful days ’twas
but a useless badge
And symbol of my office; now
it serves
As a support to prop my tottering
steps.
Ah me! I feel very unwilling to announce to the King that a deputation of young hermits from the sage Kanwa has arrived, and craves an immediate audience. Certainly, his majesty ought not to neglect a matter of sacred duty, yet I hardly like to trouble him when he has just risen from the judgment-seat. Well, well; a monarch’s business is to sustain the world, and he must not expect much repose; because—
Onward, forever onward, in
his car
The unwearied Sun pursues
his daily course,
Nor tarries to unyoke his
glittering steeds.
And ever moving speeds the
rushing Wind
Through boundless space, filling
the universe
With his life-giving breezes.
Day and night,
The King of Serpents on his
thousand heads
Upholds the incumbent earth;
and even so,
Unceasing toil is aye the
lot of kings,
Who, in return, draw nurture
from their subjects.
I will therefore deliver my message. [Walking on
and looking about.]
Ah! here comes the King:—
His subjects are his children;
through the day,
Like a fond father, to supply
their wants,
Incessantly he labors; wearied
now,
The monarch seeks seclusion
and repose—
E’en as the prince of
elephants defies
The sun’s fierce heat,
and leads the fainting herd
To verdant pastures, ere his
wayworn limbs
He yields to rest beneath
the cooling shade.
[Approaching.] Victory to the King! So please your majesty, some hermits who live in a forest near the Snowy Mountains have arrived here, bringing certain women with them. They have a message to deliver from the sage Kanwa, and desire an audience. I await your Majesty’s commands.
KING [respectfully].—A message from the sage Kanwa, did you say?
CHAMBERLAIN.—Even so, my liege.
KING.—Tell my domestic priest, Somarata, to receive the hermits with due honor, according to the prescribed form. He may then himself introduce them into my presence. I will await them in a place suitable for the reception of such holy guests.
CHAMBERLAIN.—Your Majesty’s commands shall be obeyed. [Exit.
KING [rising and addressing the Warder].—Vetravati, lead the way to the chamber of the consecrated fire.
WARDER.—This way, Sire.
KING [walking on, with the air of one oppressed
by the cares of
government].—People are generally contented
and happy when they have
gained their desires; but kings have no sooner attained
the object of
their aspirations than all their troubles begin.
’Tis a fond thought
Two HERALDS [behind the scenes].—May the King be victorious!
FIRST HERALD.—Honor to him who labors day
by day
For the world’s weal,
forgetful of his own.
Like some tall tree that with
its stately head
Endures the solar beam, while
underneath
It yields refreshing shelter
to the weary.
SECOND HERALD.—Let but the monarch wield
his threatening rod
And e’en the guilty
tremble; at his voice
The rebel spirit cowers; his
grateful subjects
Acknowledge him their guardian;
rich and poor
Hail him a faithful friend,
a loving kinsman.
KING.—Weary as I was before, this complimentary address has refreshed me. [Walks on.
WARDER.—Here is the terrace of the hallowed fire-chamber, and yonder stands the cow that yields the milk for the oblations. The sacred enclosure has been recently purified, and looks clean and beautiful. Ascend, Sire.
KING [leans on the shoulders of his attendants,
and ascends].
Vetravati, what can possibly be the message that the
venerable Kanwa has
sent me by these hermits?—
Perchance their sacred rites
have been disturbed
By demons, or some evil has
befallen
The innocent herds, their
favorites, that graze
Within the precincts of the
hermitage;
Or haply, through my sins,
some withering blight
Has nipped the creeping plants
that spread their arms
Around the hallowed grove.
Such troubled thoughts
Crowd through my mind, and
fill me with misgiving.
WARDER.—If you ask my opinion, Sire, I think the hermits merely wish to take an opportunity of testifying their loyalty, and are therefore come to offer homage to your Majesty.
Enter the Hermits, leading Sakoontala, attended by Gautami; and, in advance of them, the Chamberlain and the domestic Priest.
CHAMBERLAIN.—This way, reverend sirs, this way.
SARNGARAVA.—O Saradwata,
’Tis true the monarch
lacks no royal grace,
Nor ever swerves from justice;
true, his people,
Yea such as in life’s
humblest walks are found,
Refrain from evil courses;
still to me,
A lonely hermit reared in
solitude,
This throng appears bewildering,
and methinks
I look upon a burning house,
whose inmates
Are running to and fro in
wild dismay.
SARADWATA.—It is natural that the first
sight of the King’s capital
should affect you in this manner; my own sensations
are very similar.
As one just bathed beholds
the man polluted;
As one late purified, the
yet impure:—
As one awake looks on the
yet unwakened;
Or as the freeman gazes on
the thrall,
So I regard this crowd of
pleasure-seekers.
SAKOONTALA [feeling a quivering sensation in her right eyelid, and suspecting a bad omen],—Alas! what means this throbbing of my right eyelid?
GAUTAMI.—Heaven avert the evil omen, my child! May the guardian deities of thy husband’s family convert it into a sign of good fortune! [Walks on.
PRIEST [pointing to the King].—Most reverend sirs, there stands the protector of the four classes of the people; the guardian of the four orders of the priesthood. He has just left the judgment-seat, and is waiting for you. Behold him!
SARNGARAVA.—Great Brahman, we are happy
in thinking that the King’s
power is exerted for the protection of all classes
of his subjects. We
have not come as petitioners—we have the
fullest confidence in the
generosity of his nature.
The loftiest trees bend humbly
to the ground
Beneath the teeming burden
of their fruit;
High in the vernal sky the
pregnant clouds
Suspend their stately course,
and hanging low,
Scatter their sparkling treasures
o’er the earth:—
And such is true benevolence;
the good
Are never rendered arrogant
by riches.
WARDER.—So please your Majesty, I judge from the placid countenance of the hermits that they have no alarming message to deliver.
KING [looking at Sakoontala].—But
the lady there—
Who can she be, whose form
of matchless grace
Is half concealed beneath
her flowing veil?
Among the sombre hermits she
appears
Like a fresh bud ’mid
sear and yellow leaves.
WARDER.—So please your Majesty, my curiosity is also roused, but no conjecture occurs to my mind. This at least is certain, that she deserves to be looked at more closely.
KING.—True; but it is not right to gaze at another man’s wife.
SAKOONTALA [placing her hand on her bosom. Aside].—O my heart, why this throbbing? Remember thy lord’s affection, and take courage.
PRIEST [advancing].—These holy men have been received with all due honor. One of them has now a message to deliver from his spiritual superior. Will your Majesty deign to hear it?
KING.—I am all attention.
HERMITS [extending their hands].—Victory to the King!
KING.—Accept my respectful greeting.
HERMITS.—May the desires of your soul be accomplished!
KING.—I trust no one is molesting you in the prosecution of your religious rites.
HERMITS.—Who dares disturb our penitential
rites
When thou art our protector?
Can the night
Prevail to cast her shadows
o’er the earth
While the sun’s beams
irradiate the sky?
KING.—Such, indeed, is the very meaning of my title—“Defender of the Just.” I trust the venerable Kanwa is in good health. The world is interested in his well-being.
HERMITS.—Holy men have health and prosperity in their own power. He bade us greet your Majesty, and, after kind inquiries, deliver this message.
KING.—Let me hear his commands.
SARNGARAVA.—He bade us say that he feels
happy in giving his sanction
to the marriage which your Majesty contracted with
this lady, his
daughter, privately and by mutual agreement.
Because
By us thou art esteemed the
most illustrious
Of noble husbands; and Sakoontala
Virtue herself in human form
revealed.
Great Brahma hath in equal
yoke united
A bride unto a husband worthy
of her:—
Henceforth let none make blasphemous
complaint
That he is pleased with ill-assorted
unions.
Since, therefore, she expects soon to be the mother of thy child, receive her into thy palace, that she may perform, in conjunction with thee, the ceremonies prescribed by religion on such an occasion.
GAUTAMI.—So please your Majesty, I would
add a few words: but why
should I intrude my sentiments when an opportunity
of speaking my mind
has never been allowed me?
She took no counsel with her
kindred; thou
Didst not confer with thine,
but all alone
Didst solemnize thy nuptials
with thy wife.
Together, then, hold converse;
let us leave you.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—Ah! how I tremble for my lord’s reply.
KING.—What strange proposal is this?
SAKOONTALA [aside].—His words are fire to me.
SARNGARAVA.—What do I hear? Dost thou,
then, hesitate? Monarch, thou
art well acquainted with the ways of the world, and
knowest that
A wife, however virtuous and
discreet,
If she live separate from
her wedded lord,
Though under shelter of her
parent’s roof,
Is mark for vile suspicion.
Let her dwell
Beside her husband, though
he hold her not
In his affection. So
her kinsmen will it.
KING.—Do you really mean to assert that I ever married this lady?
SAKOONTALA [despondingly. Aside].—O my heart, thy worst misgivings are confirmed.
SARNGARAVA.—Is it becoming in a monarch to depart from the rules of justice, because he repents of his engagements?
KING.—I cannot answer a question which is based on a mere fabrication.
SARNGARAVA.—Such inconstancy is fortunately not common, excepting in men intoxicated by power.
KING.—Is that remark aimed at me?
GAUTAMI.—Be not ashamed, my daughter. Let me remove thy veil for a little space. Thy husband will then recognize thee. [Removes her veil.
KING [gazing at Sakoontala. Aside].—What
charms are here revealed
before mine eyes!
Truly no blemish mars the
symmetry
Of that fair form; yet can
I ne’er believe
She is my wedded wife; and
like a bee
That circles round the flower
whose nectared cup
Teems with the dew of morning,
I must pause
Ere eagerly I taste the proffered
sweetness.
[Remains
wrapped in-thought.
WARDER.—How admirably does our royal master’s behavior prove his regard for justice! Who else would hesitate for a moment when good fortune offered for his acceptance a form of such rare beauty?
SARNGARAVA.—Great King, why art thou silent?
KING.—Holy men, I have revolved the matter in my mind; but the more I think of it, the less able am I to recollect that I ever contracted an alliance with this lady. What answer, then, can I possibly give you when I do not believe myself to be her husband, and I plainly see that she is soon to become a mother?
SAKOONTALA [aside].—Woe! woe! Is our very marriage to be called in question by my own husband? Ah me! is this to be the end of all my bright visions of wedded happiness?
SARNGARAVA.—Beware!
Beware how thou insult the
holy Sage!
Remember how he generously
allowed
Thy secret union with his
foster-child;
And how, when thou didst rob
him of his treasure,
He sought to furnish thee
excuse, when rather
He should have cursed thee
for a ravisher.
SARADWATA.—Sarngarava, speak to him no more. Sakoontala, our part is performed; we have said all we had to say, and the King has replied in the manner thou hast heard. It is now thy turn to give him convincing evidence of thy marriage.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—Since his feeling towards me has undergone a complete revolution, what will it avail to revive old recollections? One thing is clear—I shall soon have to mourn my own widowhood. [Aloud.] My revered husband—[Stops short.] But no—I dare not address thee by this title, since thou hast refused to acknowledge our union. Noble descendant of Puru! It is not worthy of thee to betray an innocent-minded girl, and disown her in such terms, after having so lately and so solemnly plighted thy vows to her in the hermitage.
KING [stopping his ears].—I will
hear no more. Be such a crime far
from my thoughts!
What evil spirit can possess
thee, lady,
That thou dost seek to sully
my good name
By base aspersions? like a
swollen torrent,
That, leaping from its narrow
bed, overthrows
The tree upon its bank, and
strives to blend
Its turbid waters with the
crystal stream?
SAKOONTALA.—If, then, thou really believest me to be the wife of another, and thy present conduct proceeds from some cloud that obscures thy recollection, I will easily convince thee by this token.
KING.—An excellent idea!
SAKOONTALA [feeling for the ring].—Alas!
alas! woe is me! There is no
ring on my finger!
[Looks
with anguish at Gautami.
GAUTAMI.—The ring must have slipped off when thou wast in the act of offering homage to the holy water of Sachi’s sacred pool, near Sakravatara.
KING [smiling].—People may well talk of the readiness of woman’s invention! Here is an instance of it.
SAKOONTALA.—Say, rather, of the omnipotence of fate. I will mention another circumstance, which may yet convince thee.
KING.—By all means let me hear it at once.
SAKOONTALA.—One day, while we were seated in a jasmine bower, thou didst pour into the hollow of thine hand some water, sprinkled by a recent shower in the cup of a lotus blossom—
KING.—I am listening; proceed.
SAKOONTALA.—At that instant, my adopted child, the little fawn, with soft, long eyes, came running towards us. Upon which, before tasting the water thyself, thou didst kindly offer some to the little creature, saying fondly—“Drink first, gentle fawn.” But she could not be induced to drink from the hand of a stranger; though immediately afterwards, when I took the water in my own hand, she drank with perfect confidence. Then, with a smile, thou didst say—“Every creature confides naturally in its own kind. You are both inhabitants of the same forest, and have learnt to trust each other.”
KING.—Voluptuaries may allow themselves to be seduced from the path of duty by falsehoods such as these, expressed in honeyed words.
GAUTAMI.—Speak not thus, illustrious Prince. This lady was brought up in a hermitage, and has never learnt deceit.
KING.—Holy matron,
E’en in untutored brutes,
the female sex
Is marked by inborn subtlety—much
more
In beings gifted with intelligence.
The wily Koeil, ere towards
the sky
She wings her sportive flight,
commits her eggs
To other nests, and artfully
consigns
The rearing of her little
ones to strangers.
SAKOONTALA [angrily].—Dishonorable man, thou judgest of others by thine own evil heart. Thou, at least, art unrivalled in perfidy, and standest alone—a base deceiver in the garb of virtue and religion—like a deep pit whose yawning mouth is concealed by smiling flowers.
KING [aside].—Her anger, at any
rate, appears genuine, and makes me
almost doubt whether I am in the right. For,
indeed,
When I had vainly searched
my memory,
And so with stern severity
denied
The fabled story of our secret
loves,
Her brows, that met before
in graceful curves,
Like the arched weapon of
the god of love,
Seemed by her frown dissevered;
while the fire
Of sudden anger kindled in
her eyes.
[Aloud.] My good lady, Dushyanta’s character is well-known to all. I comprehend not your meaning.
SAKOONTALA.—Well do I deserve to be thought
a harlot for having, in the innocence of my heart,
and out of the confidence I reposed in a Prince of
Puru’s race, intrusted my honor to a man whose
mouth distils honey, while his heart is full of poison.
[Covers
her face with her mantle, and bursts into tears.
SARNGARAVA.—Thus is it that burning remorse
must ever follow rash
actions which might have been avoided, and for which
one has only one’s
self to blame.
Not hastily should marriage
be contracted,
And specially in secret.
Many a time,
In hearts that know not each
the other’s fancies,
Fond love is changed into
most bitter hate.
KING.—How now! Do you give credence to this woman rather than to me, that you heap such accusations on me?
SARNGARAVA [sarcastically].—That
would be too absurd, certainly. You
have heard the proverb—
Hold in contempt the innocent
words of those
Who from their infancy have
known no guile:—
But trust the treacherous
counsels of the man
Who makes a very science of
deceit.
KING.—Most veracious Brahman, grant that you are in the right, what end would be gained by betraying this lady?
SARNGARAVA.—Ruin.
KING.—No one will believe that a Prince of Puru’s race would seek to ruin others or himself.
SARADWATA.—This altercation is idle, Sarngarava.
We have executed the
commission of our preceptor; come, let us return.
[To the King.
Sakoontala is certainly thy
bride;
Receive her or reject her,
she is thine.
Do with her, King, according
to thy pleasure—
The husband o’er the
wife is absolute.
Go on before us, Gautami. [They move away.
SAKOONTALA.—What! is it not enough to have
been betrayed by this perfidious man? Must you
also forsake me, regardless of my tears and lamentations?
[Attempts
to follow them.
GAUTAMI [stopping].—My son Sarngarava, see, Sakoontala is following us, and with tears implores us not to leave her. Alas! poor child, what will she do here with a cruel husband who casts her from him?
SARNGARAVA [turning angrily towards her].—Wilful
woman, dost thou seek to be independent of thy lord?
[Sakoontala
trembles with fear.
SARNGARAVA.—Sakoontala!
If thou art really what the
King proclaims thee,
How can thy father e’er
receive thee back
Into his house and home? but,
if thy conscience
Be witness to thy purity of
soul,
E’en should thy husband
to a handmaid’s lot
Condemn thee, thou may’st
cheerfully endure it,
When ranked among the number
of his household.
Thy duty, therefore, is to stay. As for us, we must return immediately.
KING.—Deceive not the lady, my good hermit,
by any such expectations.
The moon expands the lotus
of the night,
The rising sun awakes the
lily; each
Is with his own contented.
Even so
The virtuous man is master
of his passions,
And from another’s wife
averts his gaze.
SARNGARAVA.—Since thy union with another woman has rendered thee oblivious of thy marriage with Sakoontala, whence this fear of losing thy character for constancy and virtue?
KING [to the Priest],—You must counsel
me, revered sir, as to my
course of action. Which of the two evils involves
the greater or less
sin?
Whether by some dark veil
my mind be clouded,
Or this designing woman speak
untruly,
I know not. Tell me,
must I rather be
The base disowner of my wedded
wife,
Or the defiling and defiled
adulterer?
PRIEST [after deliberation].—You must take an intermediate course.
KING.—What course, revered sir? Tell me at once.
PRIEST.—I will provide an asylum for the lady in my own house until the birth of her child; and my reason, if you ask me, is this. Soothsayers have predicted that your first-born will have universal dominion. Now, if the hermit’s daughter bring forth a son with the discus or mark of empire in the lines of his hand, you must admit her immediately into your royal apartments with great rejoicings; if not, then determine to send her back as soon as possible to her father.
KING.—I bow to the decision of my spiritual adviser.
PRIEST.—Daughter, follow me.
SAKOONTALA.—O divine earth, open and receive me into thy bosom!
[Exit Sakoontala weeping, with the Priest and the Hermits. The King remains absorbed in thinking of her, though the curse still clouds his recollection.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—A miracle! a miracle!
KING [listening].—What has happened now?
PRIEST [entering with an air of astonishment].—Great Prince, a stupendous prodigy has just occurred!
KING.—What is it?
PRIEST.—May it please your Majesty, so
soon as Kanwa’s pupils had
departed,
Sakoontala, her eyes all bathed
in tears,
With outstretched arms bewailed
her cruel fate—
KING.—Well, well, what happened then?
PRIEST.—When suddenly a shining apparition, In female shape, descended from the skies, Near the nymphs’ pool, and bore her up to heaven.
[All remain motionless with astonishment.
KING.—My good priest, from the very first I declined having anything to do with this matter. It is now all over, and we can never, by our conjectures, unravel the mystery; let it rest; go, seek repose.
PRIEST [looking at the King].—Be it so. Victory to the King! [Exit.
KING.—Vetravati, I am tired out; lead the way to the bed-chamber.
WARDER.—This way, Sire. [They move away.
KING.—Do what I will, I cannot call to
mind
That I did e’er espouse
the sage’s daughter—
Therefore I have disowned
her; yet ’tis strange
How painfully my agitated
heart
Bears witness to the truth
of her assertion,
And makes me credit her against
my judgment.
[Exeunt.
Scene.—A Street
Enter the King’s brother-in-law as Superintendent of the city police; and with him two Constables, dragging a poor fisherman, who has his hands tied behind his back.
BOTH THE CONSTABLES [striking the prisoner].—Take that for a rascally thief that you are; and now tell us, sirrah, where you found this ring—aye, the King’s own signet-ring. See, here is the royal name engraved on the setting of the jewel.
FISHERMAN [with a gesture of alarm].—Mercy! kind sirs, mercy! I did not steal it; indeed I did not.
FIRST CONSTABLE.—Oh! then I suppose the King took you for some fine Brahman, and made you a present of it?
FISHERMAN.—Only hear me. I am but a poor fisherman, living at Sakravatara------
SECOND CONSTABLE.—Scoundrel, who ever asked you, pray, for a history of your birth and parentage?
SUPERINTENDENT [to one of the Constables].—Suchaka, let the fellow tell his own story from the beginning. Don’t interrupt him.
BOTH CONSTABLES.—As you please, master. Go on, then, sirrah, and say what you’ve got to say.
FISHERMAN.—You see in me a poor man, who supports his family by catching fish with nets, hooks, and the like.
SUPERINTENDENT [laughing].—A most refined occupation, certainly!
FISHERMAN.—Blame me not for it, master.
The father’s occupation,
though despised
By others, casts no shame
upon the son,
And he should not forsake
it. Is the priest
Who kills the animal for sacrifice
Therefore deemed cruel?
Sure a lowborn man
May, though a fisherman, be
tender-hearted.
SUPERINTENDENT.—Well, well; go on with your story.
FISHERMAN.—One day I was cutting open a large carp I had just hooked, when the sparkle of a jewel caught my eye, and what should I find in the fish’s maw but that ring! Soon afterwards, when I was offering it for sale, I was seized by your honors. Now you know everything. Whether you kill me, or whether you let me go, this is the true account of how the ring came into my possession.
SUPERINTENDENT [to one of the Constables].—Well, Januka, the rascal emits such a fishy odor that I have no doubt of his being a fisherman; but we must inquire a little more closely into this queer story about the finding of the ring. Come, we’ll take him before the King’s household.
BOTH CONSTABLES.—Very good, master.
Get on with you, you cutpurse.
[All
move on.
SUPERINTENDENT.—Now attend, Suchaka; keep you guard here at the gate; and hark ye, sirrahs, take good care your prisoner does not escape, while I go in and lay the whole story of the discovery of this ring before the King in person. I will soon return and let you know his commands.
CONSTABLE.—Go in, master, by all means;
and may you find favor in the
King’s sight!
[Exit
Superintendent.
FIRST CONSTABLE [after an interval].—I
say, Januka, the
Superintendent is a long time away.
SECOND CONSTABLE.—Aye, aye; kings are not to be got at so easily. Folks must bide the proper opportunity.
FIRST CONSTABLE.—Januka, my fingers itch
to strike the first blow at
this royal victim here. We must kill him with
all the honors, you know.
I long to begin binding the flowers round his head.
[Pretends
to strike a blow at the fisherman.
FISHERMAN.—Your honor surely will not put an innocent man to a cruel death.
SECOND CONSTABLE [looking].—There’s our Superintendent at last, I declare. See, he is coming towards us with a paper in his hand. We shall soon know the King’s command; so prepare, my fine fellow, either to become food for the vultures, or to make acquaintance with some hungry cur.
SUPERINTENDENT [entering].—Ho, there, Suchaka! set the fisherman at liberty, I tell you. His story about the ring is all correct.
SUCHAKA.—Oh! very good, sir; as you please.
SECOND CONSTABLE.—The fellow had one foot in hell, and now here he is in the land of the living. [Releases him.
FISHERMAN [bowing to the Superintendent].—Now, master, what think you of my way of getting a livelihood?
SUPERINTENDENT.—Here, my good man, the
King desired me to present you with this purse.
It contains a sum of money equal to the full value
of the ring.
[Gives
him the money.
FISHERMAN [taking it and bowing].—His Majesty does me too great honor.
SUCHAKA.—You may well say so. He might as well have taken you from the gallows to seat you on his state elephant.
JANUKA.—Master, the King must value the ring very highly, or he would never have sent such a sum of money to this ragamuffin.
SUPERINTENDENT.—I don’t think he prizes it as a costly jewel so much as a memorial of some person he tenderly loves. The moment it was shown to him he became much agitated, though in general he conceals his feelings.
SUCHAKA.--Then you must have done a great service------
JANUKA.—Yes, to this husband of a fish-wife.
[Looks
enviously at the fisherman.
FISHERMAN.—Here’s half the money for you, my masters. It will serve to purchase the flowers you spoke of, if not to buy me your good-will.
JANUKA.—Well, now, that’s just as it should be.
SUPERINTENDENT.—My good fisherman, you are an excellent fellow, and I begin to feel quite a regard for you. Let us seal our first friendship over a glass of good liquor. Come along to the next wine-shop and we’ll drink your health.
ALL.—By all means.
[Exeunt.
Scene.—The Garden of the Palace
The nymph Sanumati is seen descending in a celestial car.
SANUMATI.—Behold me just arrived from attending in my proper turn at the nymphs’ pool, where I have left the other nymphs to perform their ablutions, whilst I seek to ascertain, with my own eyes, how it fares with King Dushyanta. My connection with the nymph Menaka has made her daughter Sakoontala dearer to me than my own flesh and blood; and Menaka it was who charged me with this errand on her daughter’s behalf. [Looking round in all directions.] How is it that I see no preparations in the King’s household for celebrating the great vernal festival? I could easily discover the reason by my divine faculty of meditation; but respect must be shown to the wishes of my friend. How then shall I arrive at the truth? I know what I will do. I will become invisible, and place myself near those two maidens who are tending the plants in the garden. [Descends and takes her station.
Enter a Maiden, who stops in front of a mango-tree and gazes at the blossom. Another Maiden is seen behind her.
FIRST MAIDEN.—Hail to thee, lovely harbinger of spring! The varied radiance of thy opening flowers Is welcome to my sight. I bid thee hail, Sweet mango, soul of this enchanting season.
SECOND MAIDEN.—Parabaitika, what are you saying there to yourself?
FIRST MAIDEN.—Dear Madhukarika, am I not named after the Koeil?[41] and does not the Koeil sing for joy at the first appearance of the mango-blossom?
SECOND MAIDEN [approaching hastily, with transport].—What! is spring really come?
FIRST MAIDEN.—Yes, indeed, Madhukarika, and with it the season of joy, love, and song.
SECOND MAIDEN.—Let me lean upon you, dear, while I stand on tip-toe and pluck a blossom of the mango, that I may present it as an offering to the god of love.
FIRST MAIDEN.—Provided you let me have half the reward which the god will bestow in return.
SECOND MAIDEN.—To be sure you shall, and
that without asking. Are we not one in heart
and soul, though divided in body? [Leans on her
friend and plucks a mango-blossom.] Ah! here is
a bud just bursting into flower. It diffuses
a delicious perfume, though not yet quite expanded.
[Joining
her hands reverentially.
God of the bow, who with spring’s
choicest flowers
Dost point thy five unerring
shafts; to thee
I dedicate this blossom; let
it serve
To barb thy truest arrow;
be its mark
Some youthful heart that pines
to be beloved.
[Throws down a mango-blossom.
CHAMBERLAIN [entering in a hurried manner, angrily].—Hold there, thoughtless woman. What are you about breaking off those mango-blossoms, when the King has forbidden the celebration of the spring festival?
BOTH MAIDENS [alarmed].—Pardon us, kind sir, we have heard nothing of it.
CHAMBERLAIN.—You have heard nothing of
it? Why, all the vernal plants
and shrubs, and the very birds that lodge in their
branches, show more
respect to the King’s order than you do.
Yon mango-blossoms, though
long since expanded,
Gather no down upon their
tender crests;
The flower still lingers in
the amaranth,
Imprisoned in its bud; the
tuneful Koeil,
Though winter’s chilly
dews be overpast,
Suspends the liquid volume
of his song
Scarce uttered in his throat;
e’en Love, dismayed,
Restores the half-drawn arrow
to his quiver.
BOTH MAIDENS.—The mighty power of King Dushyanta is not to be disputed.
FIRST MAIDEN.—It is but a few days since Mitravasu, the king’s brother-in-law, sent us to wait upon his Majesty; and, during the whole of our sojourn here, we have been intrusted with the charge of the royal pleasure-grounds. We are therefore strangers in this place, and heard nothing of the order until you informed us of it.
CHAMBERLAIN.—Well then, now you know it, take care you don’t continue your preparations.
BOTH MAIDENS.—But tell us, kind sir, why has the King prohibited the usual festivities? We are curious to hear, if we may.
SANUMATI [aside].—Men are naturally fond of festive entertainments. There must be some good reason for the prohibition.
CHAMBERLAIN.—The whole affair is now public; why should I not speak of it! Has not the gossip about the King’s rejection of Sakoontala reached your ears yet?
BOTH MAIDENS.—Oh yes, we heard the story from the King’s brother-in-law, as far, at least, as the discovery of the ring.
CHAMBERLAIN.—Then there is little more
to tell you. As soon as the
King’s memory was restored by the sight of his
own ring, he exclaimed,
“Yes, it is all true. I remember now my
secret marriage with Sakoontala.
When I repudiated her, I had lost my recollection.”
Ever since that
moment, he has yielded himself a prey to the bitterest
remorse.
He loathes his former pleasures;
he rejects
The daily homage of his ministers.
On his lone couch he tosses
to and fro,
Courting repose in vain.
Whene’er he meets
The ladies of his palace,
and would fain
Address them with politeness,
he confounds
Their names; or, calling them
“Sakoontala,”
Is straightway silent and
abashed with shame.
SANUMATI [aside].—To me this account is delightful.
CHAMBERLAIN.—In short, the King is so completely out of his mind that the festival has been prohibited.
BOTH MAIDENS.—Perfectly right.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—The King! the King! This way, Sire, this way.
CHAMBERLAIN [listening].—Oh! here comes his majesty in this direction. Pass on, maidens; attend to your duties.
BOTH MAIDENS.—We will, sir. [Exeunt.
Enter King Dushyanta, dressed in deep mourning, attended by his Jester, Mathavya, and preceded by Vetravati.
CHAMBERLAIN [gazing at the King].—Well,
noble forms are certainly
pleasing, under all varieties of outward circumstances.
The King’s
person is as charming as ever, notwithstanding his
sorrow of mind.
Though but a single golden
bracelet spans
His wasted arm; though costly
ornaments
Have given place to penitential
weeds;
Though oft-repeated sighs
have blanched his lips,
And robbed them of their bloom;
though sleepless care
And carking thought have dimmed
his beaming eye;
Yet does his form, by its
inherent lustre,
Dazzle the gaze; and, like
a priceless gem
Committed to some cunning
polisher,
Grow more effulgent by the
loss of substance.
SANUMATI [aside. Looking at the King].—Now that I have seen him, I can well understand why Sakoontala should pine after such a man, in spite of his disdainful rejection of her.
KING [walking slowly up and down, in deep thought].—
When fatal lethargy overwhelmed
my soul,
My loved one strove to rouse
me, but in vain:—
And now when I would fain
in slumber deep
Forget myself, full soon remorse
doth wake me.
SANUMATI [aside].—My poor Sakoontala’s sufferings are very similar.
MATHAVYA [aside].—He is taken with
another attack of this odious
Sakoontala fever. How shall we ever cure him?
CHAMBERLAIN [approaching].—Victory to the King! Great Prince, the royal pleasure-grounds have been put in order. Your Majesty can resort to them for exercise and amusement whenever you think proper.
KING.—Vetravati, tell the worthy Pisuna, my prime minister, from me, that I am so exhausted by want of sleep that I cannot sit on the judgment-seat to-day. If any case of importance be brought before the tribunal he must give it his best attention, and inform me of the circumstances by letter.
VETRAVATI.—Your Majesty’s commands shall be obeyed. [Exit.
KING [to the Chamberlain].—And you, Vatayana, may go about your own affairs.
CHAMBERLAIN.—I will, Sire. [Exit.
MATHAVYA.—Now that you have rid yourself of these troublesome fellows, you can enjoy the delightful coolness of your pleasure-grounds without interruption.
KING.—Ah! my dear friend, there is an old
adage—“When affliction has a
mind to enter, she will find a crevice somewhere”—and
it is verified in
me.
Scarce is my soul delivered
from the cloud
That darkened its remembrance
of the past,
When lo! the heart-born deity
of love
With yonder blossom of the
mango barbs
His keenest shaft, and aims
it at my breast.
MATHAVYA.—Well, then, wait a moment; I will soon demolish Master Kama’s arrow with a cut of my cane.
[Raises his stick and strikes off the mango-blossom.
KING [smiling].—That will do. I see very well the god of Love is not a match for a Brahman. And now, my dear friend, where shall I sit down, that I may enchant my sight by gazing on the twining plants, which seem to remind me of the graceful shape of my beloved?
MATHAVYA.—Do you not remember? you told Chaturika you should pass the heat of the day in the jasmine bower; and commanded her to bring the likeness of your queen Sakoontala, sketched with your own hand.
KING.—True. The sight of her picture will refresh my soul. Lead the way to the arbor.
MATHAVYA.—This way, Sire.
[Both move on, followed by Sanumati.
MATHAVYA.—Here we are at the jasmine bower. Look, it has a marble seat, and seems to bid us welcome with its offerings of delicious flowers. You have only to enter and sit down. [Both enter and seat themselves.
SANUMATI [aside].—I will lean against these young jasmines. I can easily, from behind them, glance at my friend’s picture, and will then hasten to inform her of her husband’s ardent affection. [Stands leaning against the creepers.
KING.—Oh! my dear friend, how vividly all the circumstances of my union with Sakoontala present themselves to my recollection at this moment! But tell me now how it was that, between the time of my leaving her in the hermitage and my subsequent rejection of her, you never breathed her name to me! True, you were not by my side when I disowned her; but I had confided to you the story of my love and you were acquainted with every particular. Did it pass out of your mind as it did out of mine?
MATHAVYA.—No, no; trust me for that. But, if you remember, when you had finished telling me about it, you added that I was not to take the story in earnest, for that you were not really in love with a country girl, but were only jesting; and I was dull and thick-headed enough to believe you. But so fate decreed, and there is no help for it.
SANUMATI [aside].—Exactly.
KING [after deep thought].—My dear friend, suggest some relief for my misery.
MATHAVYA.—Come, come, cheer up; why do you give way? Such weakness is unworthy of you. Great men never surrender themselves to uncontrolled grief. Do not mountains remain unshaken even in a gale of wind?
KING.—How can I be otherwise than inconsolable,
when I call to mind the
agonized demeanor of the dear one on the occasion
of my disowning her?
When cruelly I spurned her
from my presence,
She fain had left me; but
the young recluse,
Stern as the Sage, and with
authority
As from his saintly master,
in a voice
That brooked not contradiction,
bade her stay.
Then through her pleading
eyes, bedimmed with tears,
She cast on me one long reproachful
look,
Which like a poisoned shaft
torments me still.
SANUMATI [aside].—Alas! such is the force of self-reproach following a rash action. But his anguish only rejoices me.
MATHAVYA.—An idea has just struck me. I should not wonder if some celestial being had carried her off to heaven.
KING.—Very likely. Who else would have dared to lay a finger on a wife, the idol of her husband? It is said that Menaka, the nymph of heaven, gave her birth. The suspicion has certainly crossed my mind that some of her celestial companions may have taken her to their own abode.
SANUMATI [aside].—His present recollection of every circumstance of her history does not surprise me so much as his former forgetfulness.
MATHAVYA.—If that’s the case, you will be certain to meet her before long.
KING.—Why?
MATHAVYA.—No father and mother can endure to see a daughter suffering the pain of separation from her husband.
KING.—Oh! my dear Mathavya,
Was it a dream? or did some
magic dire,
Dulling my senses with a strange
delusion,
Overcome my spirit? or did
destiny,
Jealous of my good actions,
mar their fruit,
And rob me of their guerdon?
It is past,
Whatever the spell that bound
me. Once again
Am I awake, but only to behold
The precipice o’er which
my hopes have fallen.
MATHAVYA.—Do not despair in this manner. Is not this very ring a proof that what has been lost may be unexpectedly found?
KING [gazing at the ring].—Ah! this
ring, too, has fallen from a
station which it will not easily regain, and deserves
all my sympathy.
O gem, deserved the punishment
we suffer,
And equal is the merit of
our works,
When such our common doom.
Thou didst enjoy
The thrilling contact of those
slender fingers,
Bright as the dawn; and now
how changed thy lot!
SANUMATI [aside].—Had it found its way to the hand of any other person, then indeed its fate would have been deplorable.
MATHAVYA.—Pray, how did the ring ever come upon her hand at all?
SANUMATI.—I myself am curious to know.
KING.—You shall hear. When I was leaving my beloved Sakoontala that I might return to my own capital, she said to me, with tears in her eyes, “How long will it be ere my lord send for me to his palace and make me his queen?”
MATHAVYA.—Well, what was your reply?
KING.—Then I placed the ring on her finger,
and thus addressed her—
Repeat each day one letter
of the name
Engraven on this gem; ere
thou hast reckoned
The tale of syllables, my
minister
Shall come to lead thee to
thy husband’s palace.
But, hard-hearted man that I was, I forgot to fulfil
my promise, owing
to the infatuation that took possession of me.
SANUMATI [aside].—A pleasant arrangement! Fate, however, ordained that the appointment should not be kept.
MATHAVYA.—But how did the ring contrive to pass into the stomach of that carp which the fisherman caught and was cutting up?
KING.—It must have slipped from my Sakoontala’s hand, and fallen into the stream of the Ganges, while she was offering homage to the water of Sachi’s holy pool.
MATHAVYA.—Very likely.
SANUMATI [aside].—Hence it happened, I suppose, that the King, always fearful of committing the least injustice, came to doubt his marriage with my poor Sakoontala. But why should affection so strong as his stand in need of any token of recognition?
KING.—Let me now address a few words of reproof to this ring.
MATHAVYA [aside].—He is going stark mad, I verily believe.
KING.—Hear me, thou dull and undiscerning
bauble!
For so it argues thee, that
thou couldst leave
The slender fingers of her
hand, to sink
Beneath the waters. Yet
what marvel is it
That thou shouldst lack discernment?
let me rather
Heap curses on myself, who,
though endowed
With reason, yet rejected
her I loved.
MATHAVYA [aside].—And so, I suppose, I must stand here to be devoured by hunger, whilst he goes on in this sentimental strain.
KING.—O forsaken one, unjustly banished from my presence, take pity on thy slave, whose heart is consumed by the fire of remorse, and return to my sight.
Enter Chaturika hurriedly, with a picture in her hand.
CHATURIKA.—Here is the Queen’s portrait. [Shows the picture.
MATHAVYA.—Excellent, my dear friend, excellent! The imitation of nature is perfect, and the attitude of the figures is really charming. They stand out in such bold relief that the eye is quite deceived.
SANUMATI [aside].—A most artistic performance! I admire the King’s skill, and could almost believe that Sakoontala herself was before me.
KING.—I own ’tis not amiss, though
it portrays
But feebly her angelic loveliness.
Aught less than perfect is
depicted falsely,
And fancy must supply the
imperfection.
SANUMATI [aside].—A very just remark from a modest man, whose affection is exaggerated by the keenness of his remorse.
MATHAVYA.—Tell me—I see three female figures drawn on the canvas, and all of them beautiful; which of the three is her Majesty, Sakoontala?
SANUMATI [aside].—If he cannot distinguish her from the others, the simpleton might as well have no eyes in his head.
KING.—Which should you imagine to be intended for her?
MATHAVYA.—She who is leaning, apparently a little tired, against the stem of that mango-tree, the tender leaves of which glitter with the water she has poured upon them. Her arms are gracefully extended; her face is somewhat flushed with the heat; and a few flowers have escaped from her hair, which has become unfastened, and hangs in loose tresses about her neck. That must be the queen Sakoontala, and the others, I presume, are her two attendants.
KING.—I congratulate you on your discernment.
Behold the proof of my
passion;
My finger, burning with the
glow of love,
Has left its impress on the
painted tablet;
While here and there, alas!
a scalding tear
Has fallen on the cheek and
dimmed its brightness.
Chaturika, the garden in the
background of the picture is
only half-painted. Go,
fetch the brush that I may finish it.
CHATURIKA.—Worthy Mathavya, have the kindness
to hold the picture until
I return.
KING.—Nay, I will hold it myself.
[Takes
the picture. Exit Chaturika.
KING.—My loved one came but lately to my
presence
And offered me herself, but
in my folly
I spurned the gift, and now
I fondly cling
To her mere image; even as
a madman
Would pass the waters of the
gushing stream,
And thirst for airy vapors
of the desert.
MATHAVYA [aside].—He has been fool enough to forego the reality for the semblance, the substance for the shadow. [Aloud.] Tell us, I pray, what else remains to be painted.
SANUMATI [aside].—He longs, no doubt, to delineate some favorite spot where my dear Sakoontala delighted to ramble.
KING.--You shall hear------ I wish to see the Malini portrayed, Its tranquil course by banks of sand impeded— Upon the brink a pair of swans: beyond, The hills adjacent to Himalaya, Studded with deer; and, near the spreading shade Of some large tree, where ’mid the branches hang The hermits’ vests of bark, a tender doe, Rubbing its downy forehead on the horn Of a black antelope, should be depicted.
MATHAVYA [aside].—Pooh! if I were he, I would fill up the vacant spaces with a lot of grizzly-bearded old hermits.
KING.—My dear Mathavya, there is still a part of Sakoontala’s dress which I purposed to draw, but find I have omitted.
MATHAVYA.—What is that?
SANUMATI [aside].—Something suitable, I suppose, to the simple attire of a young and beautiful girl dwelling in a forest.
KING.—A sweet Sirisha blossom should be
twined
Behind her ear, its perfumed
crest depending
Towards her cheek; and, resting
on her bosom,
A lotus-fibre necklace, soft
and bright
As an autumnal moon-beam,
should be traced.
MATHAVYA.—Pray, why does the Queen cover her lips with the tips of her fingers, bright as the blossom of a lily, as if she were afraid of something? [Looking more closely.] Oh! I see; a vagabond bee, intent on thieving the honey of flowers, has mistaken her mouth for a rose-bud, and is trying to settle upon it.
KING.—A bee! drive off the impudent insect, will you?
MATHAVYA.—That’s your business. Your royal prerogative gives you power over all offenders.
KING.—Very true. Listen to me, thou favorite guest of flowering plants; why give thyself the trouble of hovering here? See where thy partner sits on yonder flower, And waits for thee ere she will sip its dew.
SANUMATI [aside].—A most polite way of warning him off!
MATHAVYA.—You’ll find the obstinate creature is not to be sent about his business so easily as you think.
KING.—Dost thou presume to disobey?
Now hear me—
An thou but touch the lips
of my beloved,
Sweet as the opening blossom,
whence I quaffed
In happier days love’s
nectar, I will place thee
Within the hollow of yon lotus
cup,
And there imprison thee for
thy presumption.
MATHAVYA.—He must be bold indeed not to show any fear when you threaten him with such an awful punishment. [Smiling, aside.] He is stark mad, that’s clear; and I believe, by keeping him company, I am beginning to talk almost as wildly. [Aloud.] Look, it is only a painted bee.
KING.—Painted? impossible!
SANUMATI [aside].—Even I did not perceive it; how much less should he?
KING.—Oh! my dear friend, why were you
so ill-natured as to tell me the
truth?
While, all entranced, I gazed
upon her picture,
My loved one seemed to live
before my eyes,
Till every fibre of my being
thrilled
With rapturous emotion.
Oh! ’twas cruel
To dissipate the day-dream,
and transform
The blissful vision to a lifeless
image.
[Sheds
tears.
SANUMATI [aside].—Separated lovers are very difficult to please; but he seems more difficult than usual.
KING.—Alas! my dear Mathavya, why am I
doomed to be the victim of
perpetual disappointment?
Vain is the hope of meeting
her in dreams,
For slumber night by night
forsakes my couch:
And now that I would fain
assuage my grief
By gazing on her portrait
here before me,
Tears of despairing love obscure
my sight.
SANUMATI [aside],—You have made
ample amends for the wrong you did
Sakoontala in disowning her.
CHATURIKA [entering].—Victory to the King! I was coming along with the box of colors in my hand------
KING.—What now?
CHATURIKA.—When I met the Queen Vasumati, attended by Taralika. She insisted on taking it from me, and declared she would herself deliver it into your Majesty’s hands.
MATHAVYA.—By what luck did you contrive to escape her?
CHATURIKA.—While her maid was disengaging her mantle, which had caught in the branch of a shrub, I ran away.
KING.—Here, my good friend, take the picture and conceal it. My attentions to the Queen have made her presumptuous. She will be here in a minute.
MATHAVYA.—Conceal the picture! conceal
myself, you mean. [Getting up and taking the picture.]
The Queen has a bitter draught in store for you, which
you will have to swallow as Siva did the poison at
the Deluge. When you are well quit of her, you
may send and call me from the Palace of Clouds,[42]
where I shall take refuge.
[Exit,
running.
SANUMATI [aside].—Although the King’s affections are transferred to another object, yet he respects his previous attachments. I fear his love must be somewhat fickle.
VETRAVATI [entering with a despatch in her hand].—Victory to the King!
KING.—–Vetravati, did you observe the Queen Vasumati coming in this direction?
VETRAVATI.—I did; but when she saw that I had a despatch in my hand for your Majesty, she turned back.
KING.—The Queen has too much regard for propriety to interrupt me when I am engaged with state-affairs.
VETRAVATI.—So please your Majesty, your Prime Minister begs respectfully to inform you that he has devoted much time to the settlement of financial calculations, and only one case of importance has been submitted by the citizens for his consideration. He has made a written report of the facts, and requests your Majesty to cast your eyes over it.
KING.—Hand me the paper.
[Vetravati
delivers it.
KING [reading].—What have we here? “A merchant named Dhanamitra, trading by sea, was lost in a late shipwreck. Though a wealthy trader, he was childless; and the whole of his immense property becomes by law forfeited to the King.” So writes the minister. Alas! alas! for his childlessness. But surely, if he was wealthy, he must have had many wives. Let an inquiry be made whether any one of them is expecting to give birth to a child.
VETRAVATI.—They say that his wife, the daughter of the foreman of a guild belonging to Ayodhya, has just completed the ceremonies usual upon such expectations.
KING.—The unborn child has a title to his father’s property. Such is my decree. Go, bid my minister proclaim it so.
VETRAVATI.—I will, my liege. [Going.
KING.—Stay a moment.
VETRAVATI.—I am at your Majesty’s service.
KING.—Let there be no question whether
he may or may not have left
offspring;
Rather be it proclaimed that
whosoe’er
Of King Dushyanta’s
subjects be bereaved
Of any loved relation, an
it be not
That his estates are forfeited
for crimes,
Dushyanta will himself to
them supply
That kinsman’s place
in tenderest affection.
VETRAVATI.—It shall be so proclaimed.
[Exit Vetravati, and reenter after an interval.
VETRAVATI.—Your Majesty’s proclamation was received with acclamations of joy, like grateful rain at the right season.
KING [drawing a deep sigh].—So then, the property of rich men, who have no lineal descendants, passes over to a stranger at their decease. And such, alas! must be the fate of the fortunes of the race of Puru at my death; even as when fertile soil is sown with seed at the wrong season.
VETRAVATI.—Heaven forbid!
KING.—Fool that I was to reject such happiness when it offered itself for my acceptance!
SANUMATI [aside].—He may well blame his own folly when he calls to mind his treatment of my beloved Sakoontala.
KING.—Ah! woe is me? when I forsook my
wife—
My lawful wife—concealed
within her breast
There lay my second self,
a child unborn,
Hope of my race, e’en
as the choicest fruit
Lies hidden in the bosom of
the earth.
SANUMATI [aside].—There is no fear of your race being cut off for want of a son.
CHATURIKA [aside to Vetravati].—The affair of the merchant’s death has quite upset our royal master, and caused him sad distress. Had you not better fetch the worthy Mathavya from the Palace of Clouds to comfort him?
VETRAVATI.—A very good idea. [Exit.
KING.—Alas! the shades of my forefathers
are even now beginning to be
alarmed, lest at my death they may be deprived of
their funeral
libations.
No son remains in King Dushyanta’s
place
To offer sacred homage to
the dead
Of Puru’s noble line:
my ancestors
Must drink these glistening
tears, the last libation
A childless man can ever hope
to make them.
[Falls
down in an agony of grief.
CHATURIKA [looking at him in consternation].—Great King, compose yourself.
SANUMATI [aside].—Alas! alas! though
a bright light is shining near him, he is involved
in the blackest darkness, by reason of the veil that
obscures his sight. I will now reveal all, and
put an end to his misery. But no; I heard the
mother of the great Indra, when she was consoling
Sakoontala, say, that the gods will soon bring about
a joyful union between husband and wife, being eager
for the sacrifice which will be celebrated in their
honor on the occasion. I must not anticipate the
happy moment, but will return at once to my dear friend
and cheer her with an account of what I have seen
and heard.
[Rises
aloft and disappears.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Help! help! to the rescue!
KING [recovering himself. Listening].—Ha! I heard a cry of distress, and in Mathavya’s voice. What ho there!
VETRAVATI [entering].—Your friend is in danger; save him, great King.
KING.—Who dares insult the worthy Mathavya?
VETRAVATI.—Some evil demon, invisible to human eyes, has seized him, and carried him to one of the turrets of the Palace of Clouds.
KING [rising].—Impossible!
Have evil spirits power over my subjects,
even in my private apartments? Well, well—
Daily I seem less able to
avert
Misfortune from myself, and
o’er my actions
Less competent to exercise
control;
How can I then direct my subjects’
ways,
Or shelter them from tyranny
and wrong?
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Halloo there! my dear friend; help! help!
KING [advancing with rapid strides].—Fear nothing—
THE SAME VOICE [behind the scenes].—Fear nothing, indeed! How can I help fearing when some monster is twisting back my neck, and is about to snap it as he would a sugarcane?
KING [looking round].—What ho there! my bow.
SLAVE [entering with a bow].—Behold your bow, Sire, and your arm-guard.
[The king snatches up the bow and arrows.
ANOTHER VOICE [behind the scenes].—Here, thirsting for thy life-blood, will I slay thee, As a fierce tiger rends his struggling prey. Call now thy friend Dushyanta to thy aid; His bow is mighty to defend the weak; Yet all its vaunted power shall be as nought.
KING [with fury].—What! dares he defy me to my face? Hold there, monster! Prepare to die, for your time is come. [Stringing his bow.] Vetravati, lead the way to the terrace.
VETRAVATI.—This way, Sire. [They advance in haste.
KING [looking on every side].—How’s this? there is nothing to be seen.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Help! Save me! I can see you, though you cannot see me. I am like a mouse in the claws of a cat; my life is not worth a moment’s purchase.
KING.—Avaunt, monster! You may pride
yourself on the magic that renders
you invisible, but my arrow shall find you out.
Thus do I fix a shaft
That shall discern between
an impious demon
And a good Brahman; bearing
death to thee,
To him deliverance—even
as the swan
Distinguishes the milk from
worthless water.
[Takes
aim.
Enter Matali, holding Mathavya, whom he releases.
MATALI.—Turn thou thy deadly arrows on
the demons;
Such is the will of Indra;
let thy bow
Be drawn against the enemies
of the gods;
But on thy friends cast only
looks of favor.
KING [putting back his arrow].—What, Matali! Welcome, most noble charioteer of the mighty Indra.
MATHAVYA.—So, here is a monster who thought as little about slaughtering me as if I had been a bullock for sacrifice, and you must e’en greet him with a welcome.
MATALI [smiling].—Great Prince, hear on what errand Indra sent me into your presence.
KING.—I am all attention.
MATALI.—There is a race of giants, the descendants of Kalanemi, whom the gods find difficult to subdue.
KING.—So I have already heard from Narada.
MATALI.—Heaven’s mighty lord, who
deigns to call thee “friend,”
Appoints thee to the post
of highest honor,
As leader of his armies; and
commits
The subjugation of this giant
brood
To thy resistless arms, e’en
as the sun
Leaves the pale moon to dissipate
the darkness.
Let your Majesty, therefore, ascend at once the celestial car of Indra; and, grasping your arms, advance to victory.
KING.—The mighty Indra honors me too highly by such a mark of distinction. But tell me, what made you act thus towards my poor friend Mathavya?
MATALI.—I will tell you. Perceiving
that your Majesty’s spirit was
completely broken by some distress of mind under which
you were
laboring, I determined to rouse your energies by moving
you to anger.
Because
To light a flame, we need
but stir the embers;
The cobra, when incensed,
extends his head
And springs upon his foe;
the bravest men
Display their courage only
when provoked.
KING [aside to Mathavya].—My dear
Mathavya, the commands of the great
Indra must not be left unfulfilled. Go you and
acquaint my minister,
Pisuna, with what has happened, and say to him from
me, Dushyanta to thy
care confides his realm—
Protect with all the vigor
of thy mind
The interests of my people;
while my bow
Is braced against the enemies
of heaven.
MATHAVYA.—I obey. [Exit.
MATALI.—Ascend, illustrious Prince.
[The
King ascends the car. Exeunt.
[41] The Koeil is the Indian cuckoo. It is sometimes called Parabhrita (nourished by another) because the female is known to leave her eggs in the nest of the crow to be hatched. The bird is a great favorite with the Indian poets, as the nightingale with Europeans.
[42] Palace of King Dushyanta, so-called because it was as lofty as the clouds.
Scene.—The Sky
Enter King Dushyanta and Matali in the car of Indra, moving in the air.
KING.—My good Matali, it appears to me incredible that I can merit such a mark of distinction for having simply fulfilled the behests of the great Indra.
MATALI [smiling].—Great Prince,
it seems to me that neither of you is
satisfied with himself—
You underrate the service
you have rendered,
And think too highly of the
god’s reward:
He deems it scarce sufficient
recompense
For your heroic deeds on his
behalf.
KING.—Nay, Matali, say not so. My
most ambitious expectations were more
than realized by the honor conferred on me at the
moment when I took my
leave. For,
Tinged with celestial sandal,
from the breast
Of the great Indra, where
before it hung,
A garland of the ever-blooming
tree
Of Nandana was cast about
my neck
By his own hand: while,
in the very presence
Of the assembled gods, I was
enthroned
Beside their mighty lord,
who smiled to see
His son Jayanta envious of
the honor.
MATALI.—There is no mark of distinction
which your Majesty does not
deserve at the hands of the immortals. See,
Heaven’s hosts acknowledge
thee their second saviour;
For now thy bow’s unerring
shafts (as erst
The lion-man’s terrific
claws) have purged
The empyreal sphere from taint
of demons foul.
KING.—The praise of my victory must be
ascribed to the majesty of
Indra.
When mighty gods make men
their delegates
In martial enterprise, to
them belongs
The palm of victory; and not
to mortals.
Could the pale Dawn dispel
the shades of night,
Did not the god of day, whose
diadem
Is jewelled with a thousand
beams of light,
Place him in front of his
effulgent car?
MATALI.—A very just comparison. [Driving
on.] Great King, behold! the
glory of thy fame has reached even to the vault of
heaven.
Hark! yonder inmates of the
starry sphere
Sing anthems worthy of thy
martial deeds,
While with celestial colors
they depict
The story of thy victories
on scrolls
Formed of the leaves of heaven’s
immortal trees.
KING.—My good Matali, yesterday, when I ascended the sky, I was so eager to do battle with the demons, that the road by which we were travelling towards Indra’s heaven escaped my observation. Tell me, in which path of the seven winds are we now moving?
MATALI.—We journey in the path of Parivaha;
The wind that bears along
the triple Ganges,
And causes Ursa’s seven
stars to roll
In their appointed orbits,
scattering
Their several rays with equal
distribution.
’Tis the same path that
once was sanctified
By the divine impression of
the foot
Of Vishnu, when, to conquer
haughty Bali,
He spanned the heavens in
his second stride.
KING.—This is the reason, I suppose, that a sensation of calm repose pervades all my senses. [Looking down at the wheels.] Ah! Matali, we are descending towards the earth’s atmosphere.
MATALI.—What makes you think so?
KING.—The car itself instructs me; we are
moving
O’er pregnant clouds,
surcharged with rain; below us
I see the moisture-loving
Chatakas
In sportive flight dart through
the spokes; the steeds
Of Indra glisten with the
lightning’s flash;
And a thick mist bedews the
circling wheels.
MATALI.—You are right; in a little while the chariot will touch the ground, and you will be in your own dominions.
KING [looking down],—How wonderful
is the appearance of the earth as
we rapidly descend!
Stupendous prospect! yonder
lofty hills
Do suddenly uprear their towering
heads
Amid the plain, while from
beneath their crests
The ground receding sinks;
the trees, whose stems
Seemed lately hid within their
leafy tresses,
Rise into elevation, and display
Their branching shoulders;
yonder streams, whose waters,
Like silver threads, but now
were scarcely seen,
Grow into mighty rivers; lo!
the earth
Seems upward hurled by some
gigantic power.
MATALI.—Well described! [Looking with awe.] Grand, indeed, and lovely is the spectacle presented by the earth.
KING.—Tell me, Matali, what is that range of mountains which, like a bank of clouds illumined by the setting sun, pours down a stream of gold? On one side its base dips into the eastern ocean, and on the other side into the western.
MATALI.—Great Prince, it is called “Golden-peak,"[43]
and is the abode
of the attendants of the god of Wealth. In this
spot the highest forms
of penance are wrought out.
There Kasyapa, the great progenitor
Of demons and of gods, himself
the offspring
Of the divine Marichi, Brahma’s
son,
With Aditi, his wife, in calm
seclusion,
Does holy penance for the
good of mortals.
KING.—Then I must not neglect so good an opportunity of obtaining his blessing. I should much like to visit this venerable personage and offer him my homage.
MATALI.—By all means! An excellent idea. [Guides the car to the earth.]
KING [in a tone of wonder].—How’s
this?
Our chariot wheels move noiselessly.
Around
No clouds of dust arise; no
shock betokened
Our contact with the earth;
we seem to glide
Above the ground, so lightly
do we touch it.
MATALI.—Such is the difference between the car of Indra and that of your Majesty.
KING.—In which direction, Matali, is Kasyapa’s sacred retreat?
MATALI [pointing].—Where stands
yon anchorite, towards the orb
Of the meridian sun, immovable
As a tree’s stem, his
body half-concealed
By a huge ant-hill. Round
about his breast
No sacred cord is twined,
but in its stead
A hideous serpent’s
skin. In place of necklace,
The tendrils of a withered
creeper chafe
His wasted neck. His
matted hair depends
In thick entanglement about
his shoulders,
And birds construct their
nests within its folds.
KING.—I salute thee, thou man of austere devotion.
MATALI [holding in the reins of the car].—Great Prince, we are now in the sacred grove of the holy Kasyapa—the grove that boasts as its ornament one of the five trees of Indra’s heaven, reared by Aditi.
KING.—This sacred retreat is more delightful than heaven itself. I could almost fancy myself bathing in a pool of nectar.
MATALI [stopping the chariot].—Descend, mighty Prince.
KING [descending].—And what will you do, Matali?
MATALI.—The chariot will remain where I have stopped it. We may both descend. [Doing so.] This way, great King, [Walking on.] You see around you the celebrated region where the holiest sages devote themselves to penitential rites.
KING.—I am filled with awe and wonder as
I gaze.
In such a place as this do
saints of earth
Long to complete their acts
of penance; here,
Beneath the shade of everlasting
trees,
Transplanted from the groves
of Paradise,
May they inhale the balmy
air, and need
No other nourishment; here
may they bathe
In fountains sparkling with
the golden dust
Of lilies; here, on jewelled
slabs of marble,
In meditation rapt, may they
recline;
Here, in the presence of celestial
nymphs,
E’en passion’s
voice is powerless to move them.
MATALI.—So true is it that the aspirations of the good and great are ever soaring upwards. [Turning round and speaking off the stage.] Tell me, Vriddha-sakalya, how is the divine son of Marichi now engaged? What sayest thou? that he is conversing with Aditi and some of the wives of the great sages, and that they are questioning him respecting the duties of a faithful wife?
KING [listening].—Then we must await the holy father’s leisure.
MATALI [looking at the King].—If your Majesty will rest under the shade, at the foot of this Asoka-tree, I will seek an opportunity of announcing your arrival to Indra’s reputed father.
KING.—As you think proper. [Remains under the tree.
MATALI.—Great King, I go. [Exit.
KING [feeling his arm throb].—Wherefore
this causeless throbbing, O
mine arm?
All hope has fled forever;
mock me not
With presages of good, when
happiness
Is lost, and nought but misery
remains.
A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Be not so naughty. Do you begin already to show a refractory spirit?
KING [listening].—This is no place
for petulance. Who can it be whose
behavior calls for such a rebuke? [Looking in the
direction of the
sound and smiling.] A child, is it? closely attended
by two holy women.
His disposition seems anything but childlike.
See,
He braves the fury of yon
lioness
Suckling its savage offspring,
and compels
The angry whelp to leave the
half-sucked dug,
Tearing its tender mane in
boisterous sport.
Enter a child, attended by two women of the hermitage, In the manner described.
CHILD.—Open your mouth, my young lion, I want to count your teeth.
FIRST ATTENDANT.—You naughty child, why do you tease the animals? Know you not that we cherish them in this hermitage as if they were our own children? In good sooth, you have a high spirit of your own, and are beginning already to do justice to the name Sarva-damana (All-taming), given you by the hermits.
KING.—Strange! My heart inclines towards the boy with almost as much affection as if he were my own child. What can be the reason? I suppose my own childlessness makes me yearn towards the sons of others.
SECOND ATTENDANT.—This lioness will certainly attack you if you do not release her whelp.
CHILD [laughing].—Oh! indeed! let her come. Much I fear her, to be sure. [Pouts his under-lip in defiance.
KING.—The germ of mighty courage lies concealed
Within this noble infant,
like a spark
Beneath the fuel, waiting
but a breath
To fan the flame and raise
a conflagration.
FIRST ATTENDANT.—Let the young lion go, like a dear child, and I will give you something else to play with.
CHILD.—Where is it? Give it me first.
[Stretches
out his hand.
KING [looking at his hand].—How’s
this? His hand exhibits one of
those mystic marks which are the sure prognostic of
universal empire.
See!
His fingers stretched in eager
expectation
To grasp the wished-for toy,
and knit together
By a close-woven web, in shape
resemble
A lotus-blossom, whose expanding
petals
The early dawn has only half
unfolded.
SECOND ATTENDANT.—We shall never pacify him by mere words, dear Suvrata. Be kind enough to go to my cottage, and you will find there a plaything belonging to Markandeya, one of the hermit’s children. It is a peacock made of China-ware, painted in many colors. Bring it here for the child.
FIRST ATTENDANT.—Very well. [Exit.
CHILD.—No, no; I shall go on playing with the young lion.
[Looks at the female attendant and laughs.
KING.—I feel an unaccountable affection
for this wayward child.
How blessed the virtuous parents
whose attire
Is soiled with dust, by raising
from the ground
The child that asks a refuge
in their arms!
And happy are they while with
lisping prattle,
In accents sweetly inarticulate,
He charms their ears; and
with his artless smiles
Gladdens their hearts, revealing
to their gaze
His tiny teeth, just budding
into view.
ATTENDANT.—I see how it is. He pays me no manner of attention. [Looking off the stage.] I wonder whether any of the hermits are about here. [Seeing the King.] Kind Sir, could you come hither a moment and help me to release the young lion from the clutch of this child, who is teasing him in boyish play?
KING [approaching and smiling].—Listen
to me, thou child of a mighty
saint.
Dost thou dare show a wayward
spirit here?
Here, in this hallowed region?
Take thou heed
Lest, as the serpent’s
young defiles the sandal,
Thou bring dishonor on the
holy sage,
Thy tender-hearted parent,
who delights
To shield from harm the tenants
of the wood.
ATTENDANT.—Gentle Sir, I thank you; but he is not the saint’s son.
KING.—His behavior and whole bearing would have led me to doubt it, had not the place of his abode encouraged the idea.
[Follows the child, and takes him by the hand,
according to the request
of the attendant. Speaking aside.
I marvel that the touch of
this strange child
Should thrill me with delight;
if so it be,
How must the fond caresses
of a son
Transport the father’s
soul who gave him being!
ATTENDANT [looking at them both].—Wonderful! Prodigious!
KING.—What excites your surprise, my good woman?
ATTENDANT.—I am astonished at the striking resemblance between the child and yourself; and, what is still more extraordinary, he seems to have taken to you kindly and submissively, though you are a stranger to him.
KING [fondling the child].—If he be not the son of the great sage, of what family does he come, may I ask?
ATTENDANT.—Of the race of Puru.
KING [aside].—What! are we, then,
descended from the same ancestry?
This, no doubt, accounts for the resemblance she traces
between the
child and me. Certainly it has always been an
established usage among
the princes of Puru’s race,
To dedicate the morning of
their days
To the world’s weal,
in palaces and halls,
’Mid luxury and regal
pomp abiding;
Then, in the wane of life,
to seek release
From kingly cares, and make
the hallowed shade
Of sacred trees their last
asylum, where
As hermits they may practise
self-abasement,
And bind themselves by rigid
vows of penance.
[Aloud.] But how could mortals by their own
power gain admission to
this sacred region?
ATTENDANT.—Your remark is just; but your wonder will cease when I tell you that his mother is the offspring of a celestial nymph, and gave him birth in the hallowed grove of Kasyapa.
KING [aside].—Strange that my hopes should be again excited! [Aloud.] But what, let me ask, was the name of the prince whom she deigned to honor with her hand?
ATTENDANT.—How could I think of polluting my lips by the mention of a wretch who had the cruelty to desert his lawful wife?
KING [aside].—Ha! the description suits me exactly. Would I could bring myself to inquire the name of the child’s mother! [Reflecting.] But it is against propriety to make too minute inquiries about the wife of another man.
FIRST ATTENDANT [entering with the china peacock in her hand].—Sarva-damana, Sarva-damana, see, see, what a beautiful Sakoonta (bird).
CHILD [looking round].—My mother! Where? Let me go to her.
BOTH ATTENDANTS.—He mistook the word Sakoonta for Sakoontala. The boy dotes upon his mother, and she is ever uppermost in his thoughts.
SECOND ATTENDANT.—Nay, my dear child, I said, Look at the beauty of this Sakoonta.
KING [aside].—What! is his mother’s name Sakoontala? But the name is not uncommon among women. Alas! I fear the mere similarity of a name, like the deceitful vapor of the desert, has once more raised my hopes only to dash them to the ground.
CHILD [takes the toy].—Dear nurse, what a beautiful peacock!
FIRST ATTENDANT [looking at the child. In great distress].—Alas! alas! I do not see the amulet on his wrist.
KING.—Don’t distress yourself. Here it is. It fell off while he was struggling with the young lion.
[Stoops to pick it up.
BOTH ATTENDANTS.—Hold! hold! Touch it not, for your life. How marvellous! He has actually taken it up without the slightest hesitation.
[Both raise their hands to their breasts and look at each other in astonishment.
KING.—Why did you try to prevent my touching it?
FIRST ATTENDANT.—Listen, great Monarch. This amulet, known as “The Invincible,” was given to the boy by the divine son of Marichi, soon after his birth, when the natal ceremony was performed. Its peculiar virtue is, that when it falls on the ground, no one excepting the father or mother of the child can touch it unhurt.
KING.—And suppose another person touches it?
FIRST ATTENDANT.—Then it instantly becomes a serpent, and bites him.
KING.—Have you ever witnessed the transformation with your own eyes?
BOTH ATTENDANTS.—Over and over again.
KING [with rapture. Aside].—Joy!
joy! Are then my dearest hopes to be
fulfilled?
[Embraces
the child.
SECOND ATTENDANT.—Come, my dear Suvrata,
we must inform Sakoontala immediately of this wonderful
event, though we have to interrupt her in the performance
of her religious vows.
[Exeunt.
CHILD [to the King].—Do not hold me. I want to go to my mother.
KING.—We will go to her together, and give her joy, my son.
CHILD.—Dushyanta is my father, not you.
KING [smiling].—His contradiction convinces me only the more.
Enter Sakoontala, in widow’s apparel, with her long hair twisted into a single braid.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—I have just heard that Sarva-damana’s amulet has retained its form, though a stranger raised it from the ground. I can hardly believe in my good fortune. Yet why should not Sanumati’s prediction be verified?
KING [gazing at Sakoontala].—Alas!
can this indeed be my Sakoontala?
Clad in the weeds of widowhood,
her face
Emaciate with fasting, her
long hair
Twined in a single braid,
her whole demeanor
Expressive of her purity of
soul:
With patient constancy she
thus prolongs
The vow to which my cruelty
condemned her.
SAKOONTALA [gazing at the King, who is pale with remorse]. Surely this is not like my husband; yet who can it be that dares pollute by the pressure of his hand my child, whose amulet should protect him from a stranger’s touch?
CHILD [going to his mother].—Mother, who is this man that has been kissing me and calling me his son?
KING.—My best beloved, I have indeed treated thee most cruelly, but am now once more thy fond and affectionate lover. Refuse not to acknowledge me as thy husband.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—Be of good cheer, my heart. The anger of Destiny is at last appeased. Heaven regards thee with compassion. But is he in very truth my husband?
KING.—Behold me, best and loveliest of
women,
Delivered from the cloud of
fatal darkness
That erst oppressed my memory.
Again
Behold us brought together
by the grace
Of the great lord of Heaven.
So the moon
Shines forth from dim eclipse,
to blend his rays
With the soft lustre of his
Rohini.
SAKOONTALA.--May my husband be victorious------ [She stops short, her voice choked with tears.
KING.—O fair one, though the utterance
of thy prayer
Be lost amid the torrent of
thy tears,
Yet does the sight of thy
fair countenance,
And of thy pallid lips, all
unadorned
And colorless in sorrow for
my absence,
Make me already more than
conqueror.
CHILD.—Mother, who is this man?
SAKOONTALA.—My child, ask the deity that presides over thy destiny.
KING [falling at Sakoontala’s feet].—Fairest
of women, banish from
thy mind
The memory of my cruelty;
reproach
The fell delusion that overpowered
my soul,
And blame not me, thy husband;
’tis the curse
Of him in whom the power of
darkness reigns,
That he mistakes the gifts
of those he loves
For deadly evils. Even
though a friend
Should wreathe a garland on
a blind man’s brow,
Will he not cast it from him
as a serpent?
SAKOONTALA.—Rise, my own husband, rise. Thou wast not to blame. My own evil deeds, committed in a former state of being, brought down this judgment upon me. How else could my husband, who was ever of a compassionate disposition, have acted so unfeelingly? [The King rises.] But tell me, my husband, how did the remembrance of thine unfortunate wife return to thy mind?
KING.—As soon as my heart’s anguish
is removed, and its wounds are
healed, I will tell thee all.
Oh! let me, fair one, chase
away the drop
That still bedews the fringes
of thine eye;
And let me thus efface the
memory
Of every tear that stained
thy velvet cheek,
Unnoticed and unheeded by
thy lord,
When in his madness he rejected
thee.
[Wipes
away the tear.
SAKOONTALA [seeing the signet-ring on his finger].—Ah! my dear husband, is that the Lost Ring?
KING.—Yes; the moment I recovered it, my memory was restored.
SAKOONTALA.—The ring was to blame in allowing itself to be lost at the very time when I was anxious to convince my noble husband of the reality of my marriage.
KING.—Receive it back, as the beautiful twining plant receives again its blossom in token of its reunion with the spring.
SAKOONTALA.—Nay; I can never more place confidence in it. Let my husband retain it.
Enter Matali.
MATALI.—I congratulate your Majesty. Happy are you in your reunion with your wife: happy are you in beholding the face of your son.
KING.—Yes, indeed. My heart’s dearest wish has borne sweet fruit. But tell me, Matali, is this joyful event known to the great Indra?
MATALI [smiling].—What is unknown to the gods? But come with me, noble Prince, the divine Kasyapa graciously permits thee to be presented to him.
KING.—Sakoontala, take our child and lead the way. We will together go into the presence of the holy Sage.
SAKOONTALA.—I shrink from entering the august presence of the great Saint, even with my husband at my side.
KING.—Nay; on such a joyous occasion it is highly proper. Come, come; I entreat thee. [All advance.
Kasyapa is discovered seated on a throne with his wife Aditi.
KASYAPA [gazing at Dushyanta. To his wife].—O Aditi, This is the mighty hero, King Dushyanta, Protector of the earth; who, at the head Of the celestial armies of thy son, Does battle with the enemies of heaven. Thanks to his bow, the thunderbolt of Indra Rests from its work, no more the minister Of death and desolation to the world, But a mere symbol of divinity.
ADITI.—He bears in his noble form all the marks of dignity.
MATALI [to Dushyanta].—Sire, the venerable progenitors of the celestials are gazing at your Majesty with as much affection as if you were their son. You may advance towards them.
KING.—Are these, O Matali, the holy pair,
Offspring of Daksha and divine
Marichi,
Children of Brahma’s
sons, by sages deemed
Sole fountain of celestial
light, diffused
Through twelve effulgent orbs?
Are these the pair
From whom the ruler of the
triple world,
Sovereign of gods and lord
MATALI.—Even so.
KING [prostrating himself].—Most august of beings, Dushyanta, content to have fulfilled the commands of your son Indra, offers you his adoration.
KASYAPA.—My son, long may’st thou live, and happily may’st thou reign over the earth!
ADITI.—My son, may’st thou ever be invincible in the field of battle!
SAKOONTALA.—I also prostrate myself before you, most adorable beings, and my child with me.
KASYAPA.—My daughter,
Thy lord resembles Indra,
and thy child
Is noble as Jayanta, Indra’s
son;
I have no worthier blessing
left for thee,
May’st thou be faithful
as the god’s own wife!
ADITI.—My daughter, may’st thou be always the object of thy husband’s fondest love; and may thy son live long to be the joy of both his parents! Be seated.
[All sit down in the presence of Kasyapa.
KASYAPA [regarding each of them by turns].—Hail
to the beautiful
Sakoontala!
Hail to her noble son! and
hail to thee,
Illustrious Prince! Rare
triple combination
Of virtue, wealth, and energy
united!
KING.—Most venerable Kasyapa, by your favor
all my desires were
accomplished even before I was admitted to your presence.
Never was
mortal so honored that his boon should be granted
ere it was solicited.
Because,
Bloom before fruit, the clouds
before the rain—
Cause first and then effect,
in endless sequence,
Is the unchanging law of constant
nature:
But, ere the blessing issued
from thy lips,
The wishes of my heart were
all fulfilled.
MATALI.—It is thus that the great progenitors of the world confer favors.
KING.—Most reverend Sage, this thy handmaid
was married to me by the Gandharva ceremony, and after
a time was conducted to my palace by her relations.
Meanwhile a fatal delusion seized me; I lost my memory
and rejected her, thus committing a grievous offence
against the venerable Kanwa, who is of thy divine
race. Afterwards the sight of this ring restored
my faculties, and brought back to my mind all the circumstances
of my union with his daughter. But my conduct
still seems to me incomprehensible;
As foolish as the fancies
of a man
Who, when he sees an elephant,
denies
That ’tis an elephant,
yet afterwards,
When its huge bulk moves onward,
hesitates,
Yet will not be convinced
till it has passed
Forever from his sight, and
left behind
No vestige of its presence
save its footsteps.
KASYAPA.—My son, cease to think thyself in fault. Even the delusion that possessed thy mind was not brought about by any act of thine. Listen to me.
KING.—I am attentive.
KASYAPA.—Know that when the nymph Menaka, the mother of Sakoontala, became aware of her daughter’s anguish in consequence of the loss of the ring at the nymphs’ pool, and of thy subsequent rejection of her, she brought her and confided her to the care of Aditi. And I no sooner saw her than I ascertained by my divine power of meditation, that thy repudiation of thy poor faithful wife had been caused entirely by the curse of Durvasas—not by thine own fault—and that the spell would terminate on the discovery of the ring.
KING [drawing a deep breath].—Oh! what a weight is taken off my mind, now that my character is cleared of reproach.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—Joy! joy! My revered husband did not, then, reject me without good reason, though I have no recollection of the curse pronounced upon me. But, in all probability, I unconsciously brought it upon myself, when I was so distracted on being separated from my husband soon after our marriage. For I now remember that my two friends advised me not to fail to show the ring in case he should have forgotten me.
KASYAPA.—At last, my daughter, thou art
happy, and hast gained thy
heart’s desire. Indulge, then, no feeling
of resentment against thy
partner. See, now,
Though he repulsed thee, ’twas
the sage’s curse
That clouded his remembrance;
’twas the curse
That made thy tender husband
harsh towards thee.
Soon as the spell was broken,
and his soul
Delivered from its darkness,
in a moment
Thou didst gain thine empire
o’er his heart.
So on the tarnished surface
of a mirror
No image is reflected, till
the dust
That dimmed its wonted lustre
is removed.
KING.—Holy father, see here the hope of
my royal race.
[Takes
his child by the hand.
KASYAPA.—Know that he, too, will become
the monarch of the whole earth.
Observe,
Soon, a resistless hero, shall
he cross
The trackless ocean, borne
above the waves
In an aerial car; and shall
subdue
The earth’s seven sea-girt
isles.[44] Now has he gained,
As the brave tamer of the
forest-beasts,
The title Sarva-damana; but
then
Mankind shall hail him as
King Bharata,
And call him the supporter
of the world.
KING.—We cannot but entertain the highest hopes of a child for whom your highness performed the natal rites.
ADITI.—My revered husband, should not the intelligence be conveyed to Kanwa, that his daughter’s wishes are fulfilled, and her happiness complete? He is Sakoontala’s foster-father. Menaka, who is one of my attendants, is her mother, and dearly does she love her daughter.
SAKOONTALA [aside].—The venerable matron has given utterance to the very wish that was in my mind.
KASYAPA.—His penances have gained for him the faculty of omniscience, and the whole scene is already present to his mind’s eye.
KING.—Then most assuredly he cannot be very angry with me.
KASYAPA.—Nevertheless it becomes us to send him intelligence of this happy event, and hear his reply. What, ho there!
PUPIL [entering].—Holy father, what are your commands?
KASYAPA.—My good Galava, delay not an instant, but hasten through the air and convey to the venerable Kanwa, from me, the happy news that the fatal spell has ceased, that Dushyanta’s memory is restored, that his daughter Sakoontala has a son, and that she is once more tenderly acknowledged by her husband.
PUPIL.—Your highness’s commands shall be obeyed. [Exit.
KASYAPA.—And now, my dear son, take thy consort and thy child, re-ascend the car of Indra, and return to thy imperial capital.
KING.—Most holy father, I obey.
KASYAPA.—And accept this blessing—
For countless ages may the
god of gods,
Lord of the atmosphere, by
copious showers
Secure abundant harvest to
thy subjects;
And thou by frequent offerings
preserve
The Thunderer’s friendship!
Thus, by interchange
Of kindly actions, may you
both confer
Unnumbered benefits on earth
and heaven!
KING.—Holy father, I will strive, as far as I am able, to attain this happiness.
KASYAPA.—What other favor can I bestow on thee, my son?
KING.—What other can I desire? If,
however, you permit me to form
another wish, I would humbly beg that the saying of
the sage Bharata be
fulfilled:—
May kings reign only for their
subjects’ weal!
May the divine Saraswati,
the source
Of speech, and goddess of
dramatic art,
Be ever honored by the great
and wise!
And may the purple self-existent
god,
Whose vital Energy pervades
all space,
From future transmigrations
save my soul!
[Exeunt omnes.
[43] A sacred range of mountains lying along the Himalaya chain immediately adjacent to Kailasa, the paradise of Kuvera, the god of wealth.
[44] According to the mythical geography of the Hindoos the earth consisted of seven islands surrounded by seven seas.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
TORU DUTT
If Toru Dutt were alive, she would still be younger than any recognized European writer, and yet her fame, which is already considerable, has been entirely posthumous. Within the brief space of four years which now divides us from the date of her decease, her genius has been revealed to the world under many phases, and has been recognized throughout France and England. Her name, at least, is no longer unfamiliar in the ear of any well-read man or woman. But at the hour
“Still barred thy doors!
The far East glows,
The morning wind blows fresh and free.
Should not the hour that wakes the rose
Awaken also thee?
“All look for thee, Love,
Light, and Song,
Light in the sky deep red above,
Song, in the lark of pinions strong,
And in my heart, true Love.
“Apart we miss our nature’s
goal,
Why strive to cheat our destinies?
Was not my love made for thy soul?
Thy beauty for mine eyes?
No longer sleep,
Oh, listen now!
I wait and weep,
But where art thou?”
When poetry is as good as this it does not much matter whether Rouveyre prints it upon Whatman paper, or whether it steals to light in blurred type from some press in Bhowanipore.
Toru Dutt was the youngest of the three children of a high-caste Hindoo couple in Bengal. Her father, who survives them all, the Baboo Govin Chunder Dutt, is himself distinguished among his countrymen for the width of his views and the vigor of his intelligence. His only son, Abju, died in 1865, at the age of fourteen, and left his two younger sisters to console their parents. Aru, the elder daughter, born in 1854, was eighteen months senior to Toru, the subject of this memoir, who was born in Calcutta on March 4, 1856. With the exception of one year’s visit to Bombay, the childhood of these girls was spent in Calcutta, at their father’s garden-house. In a poem now printed for the first time, Toru refers
She brought with her from Europe a store of knowledge that would have sufficed to make an English or French girl seem learned, but which in her case was simply miraculous. Immediately on her return she began to study Sanscrit with the same intense application which she gave to all her work, and mastering the language with extraordinary swiftness, she plunged into its mysterious literature. But she was born to write, and despairing of an audience in her own language, she began to adopt ours as a medium for her thought. Her first essay, published when she was eighteen, was a monograph, in the “Bengal Magazine,” on Leconte de Lisle, a writer with whom she had a sympathy which is very easy to comprehend. The austere poet of “La Mort de Valmiki” was, obviously, a figure to whom the poet of “Sindhu” must needs be attracted on approaching European literature. This study, which was illustrated by translations into English verse, was followed by another on Josephin Soulary, in whom she saw more than her maturer judgment might have justified. There is something very
In 1876, as we have said, appeared that obscure first volume at Bhowanipore. The “Sheaf gleaned in French Fields” is certainly the most imperfect of Toru’s writings, but it is not the least interesting. It is a wonderful mixture of strength and weakness, of genius overriding great obstacles, and of talent succumbing to ignorance and inexperience. That it should have been performed at all is so extraordinary that we forget to be surprised at its inequality. The English verse is sometimes exquisite; at other times the rules of our prosody are absolutely ignored, and it is obvious that the Hindoo poetess was chanting to herself a music that is discord in an English ear. The notes are no less curious, and to a stranger no less bewildering. Nothing could be more naive than the writer’s ignorance at some points, or more startling than her learning at others. On the whole, the attainment of the book was simply astounding. It consisted of a selection of translations from nearly one hundred French poets, chosen by the poetess herself on a principle of her own which gradually dawned upon the careful reader. She eschewed the Classicist writers as though they had never existed. For her Andre Chenier was the next name in chronological order after Du Bartas. Occasionally she showed a profundity of research that would have done no discredit to Mr. Saintsbury or “le doux Assellineau.” She was ready to pronounce an opinion on Napol le Pyrenean or detect a plagiarism in Baudelaire. But she thought that Alexander Smith was still alive, and she was curiously vague about the career of Sainte-Beuve. This inequality of equipment was a thing inevitable to her isolation, and hardly worthy recording, except to show how laborious her mind was, and how quick to make the best of small resources.
We have already seen that the “Sheaf gleaned in French Fields” attracted the very minimum of attention in England. In France it was talked about a little more. M. Garcin de Tassy, the famous Orientalist, who scarcely survived Toru by twelve months, spoke of it to Mlle. Clarisse Bader, author of a somewhat remarkable book on the position of women in ancient Indian society. Almost simultaneously this volume fell into the hands of Toru, and she was moved to translate it into English, for the use of Hindoos less instructed than herself. In January, 1877, she accordingly wrote to Mlle. Bader requesting her authorization, and received a prompt and kind reply. On the 18th of March Toru wrote again to this, her solitary correspondent in the world of European literature, and her letter, which has been preserved, shows that she had already descended into the valley of the shadow of death:—
“Ma constitution n’est pas forte; j’ai contracte une toux opiniatre, il y a plus de deux ans, qui ne me quitte point. Cependant j’espere mettre la main a l’oeuvre bientot. Je ne peux dire, mademoiselle, combien votre affection—car vous les aimez, votre livre et votre lettre en temoignent assez—pour mes compatriotes et mon pays me touche; et je suis fiere de pouvoir le dire que les heroines de nos grandes epopees sont dignes de tout honneur et de tout amour. Y a-t-il d’heroine plus touchante, plus aimable que Sita? Je ne le crois pas. Quand j’entends ma mere chanter, le soir, les vieux chants de notre pays, je pleure presque toujours. La plainte de Sita, quand, bannie pour la seconde fois, elle erre dans la vaste foret, seule, le desespoir et l’effroi dans l’ame, est si pathetique qu’il n’y a personne, je crois, qui puisse l’entendre sans verser des larmes. Je vous envois sous ce pli deux petites traductions du Sanscrit, cette belle langue antique. Malheureusement j’ai ete obligee de faire cesser mes traductions de Sanscrit, il y a six mois. Ma sante ne me permet pas de les continuer.”
These simple and pathetic words, in which the dying poetess pours out her heart to the one friend she had, and that one gained too late, seem as touching and as beautiful as any strain of Marceline Valmore’s immortal verse. In English poetry I do not remember anything that exactly parallels their resigned melancholy. Before the month of March was over, Toru had taken to her bed. Unable to write, she continued to read, strewing her sick-room with the latest European books, and entering with interest into the questions raised by the Societe Asiatique of Paris, in its printed Transactions. On the 30th of July she wrote her last letter to Mlle. Clarisse Bader, and a month later, on August 30, 1877, at the age of twenty-one years six months and twenty-six days, she breathed her last in her father’s house in Maniktollah street, Calcutta.
In the first distraction of grief it seemed as though her unequalled promise had been entirely blighted, and as though she would be remembered only by her single book. But as her father examined her papers, one completed work after another revealed itself. First a selection from the sonnets of the Comte de Grammont, translated into English, turned up, and was printed in a Calcutta magazine; then some fragments of an English story, which were printed in another Calcutta magazine. Much more important, however, than any of these was a complete romance, written in French, being the identical story for which her sister Aru had proposed to make the illustrations. In the meantime Toru was no sooner dead than she began to be famous. In May, 1878, there appeared a second edition of the “Sheaf gleaned in French Fields,” with a touching sketch of her death, by her father; and in 1879 was published, under the editorial care of Mlle. Clarisse Bader, the romance of “Le Journal de Mlle. D’Arvers,”
“Il est beau en effet. Sa taille est haute, mais quelques-uns la trouveraient mince; sa chevelure noire est bouclee et tombe jusqu’a la nuque; ses yeux noirs sont profonds et bien fendus; le front est noble; la levre superieure, couverte par une moustache naissante et noire, est parfaitement modelee; son menton a quelque chose de severe; son teint est d’un blanc presque feminin, ce qui denote sa haute naissance.”
In this description we seem to recognize some Surya or Soma of Hindoo mythology, and the final touch, meaningless as applied to a European, reminds us that in India whiteness of skin has always been a sign of aristocratic birth, from the days when it originally distinguished the conquering Aryas from the indigenous race of the Dasyous.
As a literary composition “Mlle. D’Arvers” deserves high commendation. It deals with the ungovernable passion of two brothers for one placid and beautiful girl, a passion which leads to fratricide and madness. That it is a very melancholy and tragical story is obvious from this brief sketch of its contents, but it is remarkable for coherence and self-restraint no less than for vigor of treatment. Toru Dutt never sinks to melodrama in the course of her extraordinary tale, and the wonder is that she is not more often fantastic and unreal.
But we believe that the original English poems will be ultimately found to constitute Toru’s chief legacy to posterity. These ballads form the last and most matured of her writings, and were left so far fragmentary at her death that the fourth and fifth in her projected series of nine were not to be discovered in any form among her papers. It is probable that she had not even commenced them. Her father, therefore, to give a certain continuity to the series, has filled up these blanks with two stories from the “Vishnupurana,” which originally appeared respectively in the “Calcutta Review” and in the “Bengal Magazine.” These are interesting, but a little rude in form, and they have not the same peculiar value as the rhymed octo-syllabic ballads. In these last we see Toru no longer attempting vainly, though heroically, to compete with European literature on its own ground, but turning to the legends of her own race and country for inspiration. No modern Oriental has given us so strange an insight into the conscience of the Asiatic as is presented in the story of “Prehiad,” or so quaint a piece of religious fancy as the ballad of “Jogadhya Uma.” The poetess seems in these verses to be chanting to herself those songs of her mother’s race to which she always turned with tears of pleasure. They breathe a Vedic solemnity and simplicity of temper, and are singularly devoid of that littleness and frivolity which seem, if we may judge by a slight experience, to be the bane of modern India.
As to the merely technical character of these poems, it may be suggested that in spite of much in them that is rough and inchoate, they show that Toru was advancing in her mastery of English verse. Such a stanza as this, selected out of many no less skilful, could hardly be recognized as the work of one by whom the language was a late acquirement:—
“What glorious trees!
The sombre saul,
On which the eye
delights to rest—
The betel-nut, a pillar tall,
With feathery
branches for a crest—
The light-leaved tamarind
spreading wide—
The pale faint-scented
bitter neem,
The seemul, gorgeous as a
bride,
With flowers that
have the ruby’s gleam.”
In other passages, of course, the text reads like a translation from some stirring ballad, and we feel that it gives but a faint and discordant echo of the music welling in Toru’s brain. For it must frankly be confessed that in the brief May-day of her existence she had not time to master our language as Blanco White did, or as Chamisso mastered German. To the end of her days, fluent and graceful as she was, she was not entirely conversant with English, especially with the colloquial turns of modern speech. Often a very fine thought is spoiled for hypercritical ears by the queer turn of expression which she has innocently given to it. These faults are found to a much smaller degree in her miscellaneous poems. Her sonnets seem to me to be of great beauty, and her longer piece, entitled “Our Casuarina Tree,” needs no apology for its rich and mellifluous numbers.
It is difficult to exaggerate when we try to estimate what we have lost in the premature death of Toru Dutt. Literature has no honors which need have been beyond the grasp of a girl who at the age of twenty-one, and in languages separated from her own by so deep a chasm, had produced so much of lasting worth. And her courage and fortitude were worthy of her intelligence. Among “last words” of celebrated people, that which her father has recorded, “It is only the physical pain that makes me cry,” is not the least remarkable, or the least significant of strong character. It was to a native of our island, and to one ten years senior to Toru, to whom it was said, in words more appropriate, surely, to her than to Oldham,
“Thy generous fruits,
though gathered ere their prime,
Still showed a quickness,
and maturing time
But mellows what we write
to the dull sweets of Rime.”
That mellow sweetness was all that Toru lacked to perfect her as an English poet, and of no other Oriental who has ever lived can the same be said. When the history of the literature of our country comes to be written, there is sure to be a page in it dedicated to this fragile exotic blossom of song.
EDMUND W. GOSSE.
London, 1881.
JOGADHYA UMA
“Shell-bracelets ho!
Shell-bracelets ho!
Fair maids and
matrons come and buy!”
Along the road, in morning’s
glow,
The pedler raised
his wonted cry.
The road ran straight, a red,
red line,
To Khirogram,
for cream renowned,
Through pasture-meadows where
the kine,
In knee-deep grass,
stood magic bound
And half awake, involved in
mist,
That floated in
dun coils profound,
Till by the sudden sunbeams
kissed
Rich rainbow hues
broke all around.
“Shell-bracelets ho!
Shell-bracelets ho!”
The roadside trees
still dripped with dew,
And hung their blossoms like
a show.
Who heard the
cry? ’Twas but a few,
A ragged herd-boy, here and
there,
With his long
stick and naked feet;
A ploughman wending to his
care,
The field from
which he hopes the wheat;
An early traveller, hurrying
fast
To the next town;
an urchin slow
Bound for the school; these
heard and passed,
Unheeding all—“Shell-bracelets
ho!”
Pellucid spread a lake-like
tank
Beside the road
now lonelier still,
High on three sides arose
the bank
Which fruit-trees
shadowed at their will;
Upon the fourth side was the
Ghat,
With its broad
stairs of marble white,
And at the entrance-arch there
sat,
Full face against
the morning light,
A fair young woman with large
eyes,
And dark hair
falling to her zone,
She heard the pedler’s
cry arise,
And eager seemed
his ware to own.
“Shell-bracelets ho!
See, maiden see!
The rich enamel
sunbeam kissed!
Happy, oh happy, shalt thou
be,
Let them but clasp
that slender wrist;
These bracelets are a mighty
charm,
They keep a lover
ever true,
And widowhood avert, and harm,
Buy them, and
thou shalt never rue.
Just try them on!”—She
stretched her hand,
“Oh what
a nice and lovely fit!
No fairer hand, in all the
land,
And lo! the bracelet
matches it.”
Dazzled the pedler on her
gazed
Till came the
shadow of a fear,
While she the bracelet arm
upraised
Against the sun
to view more clear.
Oh she was lovely, but her
look
Had something
of a high command
That filled with awe.
Aside she shook
Intruding curls
by breezes fanned
And blown across her brows
and face,
And asked the
price, which when she heard
She nodded, and with quiet
grace
For payment to
her home referred.
“And where, O maiden,
is thy house?
But no, that wrist-ring
has a tongue,
No maiden art thou, but a
spouse,
Happy, and rich,
and fair, and young.”
“Far otherwise, my lord
“That is the temple
spire.”—“Yes, there
We live; my father
is the priest,
The manse is near, a building
fair
But lowly, to
the temple’s east.
When thou hast knocked, and
seen him, say,
His daughter,
at Dhamaser Ghat,
Shell-bracelets bought from
thee to-day,
And he must pay
so much for that.
Be sure, he will not let thee
pass
Without the value,
and a meal.
If he demur, or cry alas!
No money hath
he—then reveal,
Within the small box, marked
with streaks
Of bright vermilion,
by the shrine,
The key whereof has lain for
weeks
Untouched, he’ll
find some coin—’tis mine.
That will enable him to pay
The bracelet’s
price, now fare thee well!”
She spoke, the pedler went
away,
Charmed with her
voice, as by some spell;
While she left lonely there,
prepared
To plunge into
the water pure,
And like a rose her beauty
bared,
From all observance
quite secure.
Not weak she seemed, nor delicate,
Strong was each
limb of flexile grace,
And full the bust; the mien
elate,
Like hers, the
goddess of the chase
On Latmos hill—and
oh, the face
Framed in its
cloud of floating hair,
No painter’s hand might
hope to trace
The beauty and
the glory there!
Well might the pedler look
with awe,
For though her
eyes were soft, a ray
Lit them at times, which kings
who saw
Would never dare
to disobey.
Onwards through groves the
pedler sped
Till full in front
the sunlit spire
Arose before him. Paths
which led
To gardens trim
in gay attire
Lay all around. And lo!
the manse,
Humble but neat
with open door!
He paused, and blest the lucky
chance
That brought his
bark to such a shore.
Huge straw ricks, log huts
full of grain,
Sleek cattle,
flowers, a tinkling bell,
Spoke in a language sweet
and plain,
“Here smiling
Peace and Plenty dwell.”
Unconsciously he raised his
cry,
“Shell-bracelets
ho!” And at his voice
Looked out the priest, with
eager eye,
And made his heart
at once rejoice.
“Ho, Sankha pedler!
Pass not by,
But step thou
in, and share the food
Just offered on our altar
high,
If thou art in
a hungry mood.
Welcome are all to this repast!
The rich and poor,
the high and low!
Come, wash thy feet, and break
thy fast,
Then on thy journey
strengthened go.”
“Oh thanks, good priest!
Observance due
And greetings!
May thy name be blest!
I came on business, but I
knew,
Here might be
had both food and rest
Without a charge; for all
the poor
Ten miles around
thy sacred shrine
Know that thou keepest open
door,
And praise that
generous hand of thine:
But let my errand first be
told,
For bracelets
sold to thine this day,
So much thou owest me in gold,
Hast thou the
ready cash to pay?
The bracelets were enamelled—so
The price is high.”—“How!
Sold to mine?
Who bought them, I should
like to know.”
“Thy daughter,
with the large black eyne,
Now bathing at the marble
ghat.”
Loud laughed the
priest at this reply,
“I shall not put up,
friend, with that;
No daughter in
the world have I,
An only son is all my stay;
Some minx has
played a trick, no doubt,
But cheer up, let thy heart
be gay.
Be sure that I
shall find her out.”
“Nay, nay, good father,
such a face
Could not deceive,
I must aver;
At all events, she knows thy
place,
’And if
my father should demur
To pay thee’—thus
she said—’or cry
He has no money,
tell him straight
The box vermilion-streaked
to try,
That’s near
the shrine,’” “Well, wait, friend,
wait!”
The priest said thoughtful,
and he ran
And with the open
box came back,
“Here is the price exact,
my man,
No surplus over,
and no lack.
How strange! how strange!
Oh blest art thou
To have beheld
her, touched her hand,
Before whom Vishnu’s
self must bow,
And Brahma and
his heavenly band!
Here have I worshipped her
for years
And never seen
the vision bright;
Vigils and fasts and secret
tears
Have almost quenched
my outward sight;
And yet that dazzling form
and face
I have not seen,
and thou, dear friend,
To thee, unsought for, comes
the grace,
What may its purport
be, and end?
How strange! How strange!
Oh happy thou!
And couldst thou
ask no other boon
Than thy poor bracelet’s
price? That brow
Resplendent as
the autumn moon
Must have bewildered thee,
I trow,
And made thee
lose thy senses all.”
A dim light on the pedler
now
Began to dawn;
and he let fall
His bracelet basket in his
haste,
And backward ran
the way he came;
What meant the vision fair
and chaste,
Whose eyes were
they—those eyes of flame?
Swift ran the pedler as a
hind,
The old priest
followed on his trace,
They reached the Ghat but
could not find
The lady of the
noble face.
The birds were silent in the
wood,
The lotus flowers
Broad sunshine, yet a hush
profound!
They turned with
saddened hearts to go;
Then from afar there came
a sound
Of silver bells;—the
priest said low,
“O Mother, Mother, deign
to hear,
The worship-hour
has rung; we wait
In meek humility and fear.
Must we return
home desolate?
Oh come, as late thou cam’st
unsought,
Or was it but
an idle dream?
Give us some sign if it was
not,
A word, a breath,
or passing gleam.”
Sudden from out the water
sprung
A rounded arm,
on which they saw
As high the lotus buds among
It rose, the bracelet
white, with awe.
Then a wide ripple tost and
swung
The blossoms on
that liquid plain,
And lo! the arm so fair and
young
Sank in the waters
down again.
They bowed before the mystic
Power,
And as they home
returned in thought,
Each took from thence a lotus
flower
In memory of the
day and spot.
Years, centuries, have passed
away,
And still before
the temple shrine
Descendants of the pedler
pay
Shell-bracelets
of the old design
As annual tribute. Much
they own
In lands and gold—but
they confess
From that eventful day alone
Dawned on their
industry—success.
Absurd may be the tale I tell,
Ill-suited to
the marching times,
I loved the lips from which
it fell,
So let it stand
among my rhymes.
“Ho! Master of
the wondrous art!
Instruct me in fair archery,
And buy for aye—a
grateful heart
That will not grudge to give
thy fee.”
Thus spoke a lad with kindling
eyes,
A hunter’s lowborn son
was he—
To Dronacharjya, great and
wise,
Who sat with princes round
his knee.
Up Time’s fair stream
far back—oh far,
The great wise teacher must
be sought!
The Kurus had not yet in war
With the Pandava brethren
fought.
In peace, at Dronacharjya’s
feet,
Magic and archery they learned,
A complex science, which we
meet
No more, with ages past inurned.
“And who art thou,”
the teacher said,
“My science brave to
learn so fain?
Which many kings who wear
the thread
Have asked to learn of me
in vain.”
“My name is Buttoo,”
said the youth,
“A hunter’s son,
I know not Fear;”
The teacher answered, smiling
smooth,
“Then know him from
this time, my dear.”
Unseen the magic arrow came,
Amidst the laughter and the
scorn
Of royal youths—like
lightning flame
Sudden and sharp. They
blew the horn,
As down upon the ground he
fell,
Not hurt, but made a jest
and game;—
He rose—and waved
a proud farewell,
But cheek and brow grew red
with shame.
And lo—a single,
single tear
Dropped from his eyelash as
he past,
“My place I gather is
not here;
No matter—what
is rank or caste?
In us is honor, or disgrace,
Not out of us,” ’twas
thus he mused,
“The question is—not
wealth or place,
But gifts well used, or gifts
abused.”
“And I shall do my best
to gain
The science that man will
not teach,
For life is as a shadow vain,
Until the utmost goal we reach
To which the soul points.
I shall try
To realize my waking dream,
And what if I should chance
to die?
None miss one bubble from
a stream.”
So thinking, on and on he
went,
Till he attained the forest’s
verge,
The garish day was well-nigh
spent,
Birds had already raised its
dirge.
Oh what a scene! How
sweet and calm!
It soothed at once his wounded
pride,
And on his spirit shed a balm
That all its yearnings purified.
What glorious trees!
The sombre saul
On which the eye delights
to rest,
The betel-nut—a
pillar tall,
With feathery branches for
a crest,
The light-leaved tamarind
spreading wide,
The pale faint-scented bitter
neem,
The seemul, gorgeous as a
bride,
With flowers that have the
ruby’s gleam,
The Indian fig’s pavilion
tent
In which whole armies might
repose,
With here and there a little
rent,
The sunset’s beauty
to disclose,
The bamboo boughs that sway
and swing
’Neath bulbuls as the
south wind blows,
The mango-tope, a close dark
ring,
Home of the rooks and clamorous
crows,
The champac, bok, and South-sea
pine,
The nagessur with pendant
flowers
Like ear-rings—and
the forest vine
That clinging over all, embowers,
The sirish famed in Sanscrit
song
Which rural maidens love to
wear,
The peepul giant-like and
strong,
The bramble with its matted
hair,
All these, and thousands,
thousands more,
With helmet red, or golden
crown,
Or green tiara, rose before
The youth in evening’s
shadows brown.
He passed into the forest—there
New sights of wonder met his
view,
A waving Pampas green and
fair
All glistening with the evening
dew.
How vivid was the breast-high
grass!
Here waved in patches, forest
corn—
Here intervened a deep morass—
Here arid spots of verdure
shorn
Lay open—rock or
barren sand—
And here again the trees arose
Thick clustering—a
glorious band
Their tops still bright with
sunset glows.—
Stirred in the breeze the
crowding boughs,
And seemed to welcome him
with signs,
Onwards and on—till
Buttoo’s brows
Are gemmed with pearls, and
day declines.
Then in a grassy open space
He sits and leans against
a tree,
To let the wind blow on his
face
And look around him leisurely.
Herds, and still herds, of
timid deer
Were feeding in the solitude,
They knew not man, and felt
no fear,
And heeded not his neighborhood,
Some young ones with large
eyes and sweet
Came close, and rubbed their
foreheads smooth
Against his arms, and licked
his feet,
As if they wished his cares
to soothe.
“They touch me,”
he exclaimed with joy,
“They have no pride
of caste like men,
They shrink not from the hunter-boy,
Should not my home be with
them then?
Here in this forest let me
dwell,
With these companions innocent,
And learn each science and
each spell
All by myself in banishment.
A calm, calm life, and it
shall be
Its own exceeding great reward!
No thoughts to vex in all
I see,
No jeers to bear or disregard;—
All creatures and inanimate
things
Shall be my tutors; I shall
learn
From beast, and fish, and
bird with wings,
And rock, and stream, and
tree, and fern.
With this resolve, he soon
began
To build a hut, of reeds and
leaves,
And when that needful work
was done
He gathered in his store,
the sheaves
Of forest corn, and all the
fruit,
Date, plum, guava, he could
find,
And every pleasant nut and
root
By Providence for man designed,
A statue next of earth he
made,
An image of the teacher wise,
So deft he laid, the light
and shade,
On figure, forehead, face
and eyes,
That any one who chanced to
view
That image tall might soothly
swear,
If he great Dronacharjya knew,
The teacher in his flesh was
there.
Then at the statue’s
feet he placed
A bow, and arrows tipped with
steel,
With wild-flower garlands
interlaced,
And hailed the figure in his
zeal
As Master, and his head he
bowed,
A pupil reverent from that
hour
Of one who late had disallowed
The claim, in pride of place
and power.
By strained sense, by constant
prayer,
By steadfastness of heart
and will,
By courage to confront and
dare,
All obstacles he conquered
still;
A conscience clear—a
ready hand,
Joined to a meek humility,
Success must everywhere command,
How could he fail who had
all three!
And now, by tests assured,
he knows
His own God-gifted wondrous
might,
Nothing to any man he owes,
Unaided he has won the fight;
Equal to gods themselves—above
Wishmo and Drona—for
his worth
His name, he feels, shall
be with love
Reckoned with great names
of the earth.
Yet lacks he not, in reverence
To Dronacharjya, who declined
To teach him—nay,
with e’en offence
That well might wound a noble
mind,
Drove him away;—for
in his heart
Meek, placable, and ever kind,
Resentment had not any part,
And Malice never was enshrined.
One evening, on his work intent,
Alone he practised Archery,
When lo! the bow proved false
and sent
The arrow from its mark awry;
Again he tried—and
failed again;
Why was it? Hark!—A
wild dog’s bark!
An evil omen:—it
was plain
Some evil on his path hung
dark!
Thus many times he tried and
failed,
And still that lean, persistent
dog
At distance, like some spirit
wailed,
Safe in the cover of a fog.
His nerves unstrung, with
many a shout
He strove to frighten it away,
It would not go—but
roamed about,
Howling, as wolves howl for
their prey.
Worried and almost in a rage,
One magic shaft at last he
sent,
A sample of his science sage,
To quiet but the noises meant.
Unerring to its goal it flew,
No death ensued, no blood
was dropped;
But by the hush the young
man knew
At last that howling noise
had stopped.
It happened on this very day
That the Pandava princes came
With all the Kuru princes
gay
To beat the woods and hunt
the game.
Parted from others in the
chase,
Arjuna brave the wild dog
found—
Stuck still the shaft—but
not a trace
Of hurt, though tongue and
lip were bound.
“Wonder of wonders!
Didst not thou
O Dronacharjya, promise me
Thy crown in time should deck
my brow
And I be first in archery?
Lo! here, some other thou
hast taught
A magic spell—to
all unknown;
Who has in secret from thee
bought
The knowledge, in this arrow
shown!”
Indignant thus Arjuna spake
To his great Master when they
met—
“My word, my honor,
is at stake,
Judge not, Arjuna, judge not
yet.
Come, let us see the dog “—and
straight
They followed up the creature’s
trace.
They found it, in the self-same
state,
Dumb, yet unhurt—near
Buttoo’s place.
A hut—a
statue—and a youth
In the dim forest—what
mean these?
They gazed in wonder, for
in sooth
The thing seemed full of mysteries.
“Now who art thou that
dar’st to raise
Mine image in the wilderness?
Is it for worship and for
praise?
What is thine object? speak,
confess,”
“Oh Master, unto thee
I came
To learn thy science.
Name or pelf
I had not, so was driven with
shame,
And here I learn all by myself.
But still as Master thee revere,
For who so great in archery!
Lo, all my inspiration here,
And all my knowledge is from
thee.”
“If I am Master, now
thou hast
Finished thy course, give
me my due.
Let all the past, be dead
and past,
Henceforth be ties between
us new.”
“All that I have, O
Master mine,
All I shall conquer by my
skill,
Gladly shall I to thee resign,
Let me but know thy gracious
will,”
“Is it a promise?”
“Yea, I swear
So long as I have breath and
life
To give thee all thou wilt,”
“Beware!
Rash promise ever ends in
strife.”
“Thou art my Master—ask!
oh ask!
From thee my inspiration came,
Thou canst not set too hard
a task,
Nor aught refuse I, free from
blame.”
“If it be so—Arjuna
hear!”
Arjuna and the youth were
dumb,
“For thy sake, loud
I ask and clear,
Give me, O youth, thy right-hand
thumb.
I promised in my faithfulness
No equal ever shall there
be
To thee, Arjuna—and
I press
For this sad recompense—for
thee.”
Glanced the sharp knife one
moment high,
The severed thumb was on the
sod,
There was no tear in Buttoo’s
eye,
He left the matter with his
God.
“For this”—said
Dronacharjya—“Fame
Shall sound thy praise from
sea to sea,
And men shall ever link thy
name
With Self-help, Truth, and
Modesty.”
SINDHU
Deep in the forest shades
there dwelt
A Muni
and his wife,
Blind, gray-haired, weak,
they hourly felt
Their slender
hold on life.
No friends had they, no help
or stay,
Except an only
boy,
A bright-eyed child, his laughter
gay,
Their leaf-hut
filled with joy.
Attentive, duteous, loving,
kind,
Thoughtful, sedate,
and calm,
He waited on his parents blind,
Whose days were
like a psalm.
He roamed the woods for luscious
fruits,
He brought them
water pure,
He cooked their simple mess
of roots,
Content to live
obscure.
To fretful questions, answers
mild
He meekly ever
gave,
If they reproved, he only
smiled,
He loved to be
their slave.
Not that to him they were
austere,
But age is peevish
still,
Dear to their hearts he was—so
dear,
That none his
place might fill.
They called him Sindhu, and
his name
Was ever on their
tongue,
And he, nor cared for wealth
nor fame,
Who dwelt his
own among.
A belt of Bela-trees
hemmed round
The cottage small
and rude,
If peace on earth was ever
found
’Twas in
that solitude.
Great Dasarath, the King of
Oudh,
Whom all men love
and fear,
With elephants and horses
proud
Went forth to
hunt the deer.
O gallant was the long array!
Pennons and plumes
were seen,
And swords that mirrored back
the day,
And spears and
axes keen.
Rang trump, and conch, and
piercing fife,
Woke Echo from
her bed!
The solemn woods with sounds
were rife
As on the pageant
sped.
Hundreds, nay thousands, on
they went!
The wild beasts
fled away!
Deer ran in herds, and wild
boars spent
Became an easy
prey.
Whirring the peacocks from
the brake
With Argus wings
arose,
Wild swans abandoned pool
and lake
For climes beyond
the snows.
From tree to tree the monkeys
sprung,
Unharmed and unpursued,
As louder still the trumpets
rung
And startled all
the wood.
The porcupines and such small
game
Unnoted fled at
will,
The weasel only caught to
tame
From fissures
in the hill.
Slunk light the tiger from
the bank,
But sudden turned
to bay!
When he beheld the serried
rank
That barred his
tangled way.
Uprooting fig-trees on their
path,
And trampling
shrubs and flowers,
Wild elephants, in fear and
wrath,
Burst through,
like moving towers.
Lowering their horns in crescents
grim
Whene’er
they turned about,
Retreated into coverts dim
The bisons’
fiercer rout.
And in this mimic game of
war
In bands dispersed
and passed
The royal train—some
near, some far,
As day closed
in at last.
Where was the king? He
left his friends
At mid-day, it
was known,
And now that evening fast
descends
Where was he?
All alone.
Curving, the river formed
a lake,
Upon whose bank
he stood, I
No noise the silence there
to break,
Or mar the solitude.
Upon the glassy surface fell
The last beams
of the day,
Like fiery darts, that lengthening
swell,
As breezes wake
and play.
Osiers and willows on the
edge
And purple buds
and red,
Leant down—and
’mid the pale green sedge
The lotus raised
its head.
And softly, softly, hour by
hour
Light faded, and
a veil
Fell over tree, and wave,
and flower,
On came the twilight
pale.
Deeper and deeper grew the
shades,
Stars glimmered
in the sky,
The nightingale along the
glades
Raised her preluding
cry.
What is that momentary flash?
A gleam of silver
scales
Reveals the Mahseer;—then
a splash,
And calm again
prevails.
As darkness settled like a
pall
The eye would
pierce in vain,
The fireflies gemmed the bushes
all,
Like fiery drops
of rain.
Pleased with the scene—and
knowing not
Which way, alas!
to go,
The monarch lingered on the
spot—
The lake spread
bright below.
He lingered, when—oh
hark! oh hark
What sound salutes
his ear!
A roebuck drinking in the
dark,
Not hunted, nor
in fear.
Straight to the stretch his
bow he drew,
That bow ne’er
missed its aim,
Whizzing the deadly arrow
flew,
Ear-guided, on
the game!
Ah me! What means this?—Hark,
a cry,
A feeble human
wail,
“Oh God!” it said—“I
die—I die,
Who’ll carry
home the pail?”
Startled, the monarch forward
ran,
And then there
met his view
A sight to freeze in any man
The warm blood
coursing true.
A child lay dying on the grass,
A pitcher by his
side,
Poor Sindhu was the child,
alas!
His parents’
stay and pride.
His bow and quiver down to
fling,
And lift the wounded
boy,
A moment’s work was
with the king.
Not dead—that
was a joy!
He placed the child’s
head on his lap,
And ’ranged
the blinding hair,
The blood welled fearful from
the gap
On neck and bosom
fair.
He dashed cold water on the
face,
He chafed the
hands, with sighs,
Till sense revived, and he
could trace
Expression in
the eyes.
Then mingled with his pity,
fear—
In all this universe
What is so dreadful as to
hear
A Brahman’s
dying curse!
So thought the king, and on
his brow
The beads of anguish
spread,
And Sindhu, fully conscious
now,
The anguish plainly
read.
“What dost thou fear,
O mighty king?
For sure a king
thou art!
Why should thy bosom anguish
wring?
No crime was in
thine heart!
Unwittingly the deed was done;
It is my destiny,
O fear not thou, but pity
one
Whose fate is
thus to die.
No curses, no!—I
bear no grudge,
Not thou my blood
hast spilt,
Lo! here before the unseen
Judge,
Thee I absolve
from guilt.
The iron, red-hot as it burns,
Burns those that
touch it too,
Not such my nature—for
it spurns,
Thank God, the
like to do.
Because I suffer, should I
give
Thee, king, a
needless pain?
Ah, no! I die, but may’st
thou live,
And cleansed from
every stain!”
Struck with these words, and
doubly grieved
At what his hands
had done,
The monarch wept, as weeps
bereaved
A man his only
son.
“Nay, weep not so,”
resumed the child,
“But rather
let me say
My own sad story, sin-defiled,
And why I die
to-day!
Picking a living in our sheaves,
And happy in their
loves,
Near, ’mid a peepul’s
quivering leaves,
There lived a
pair of doves.
Never were they two separate,
And lo, in idle
mood,
I took a sling and ball, elate
In wicked sport
and rude—
And killed one bird—it
was the male,
Oh cruel deed
and base!
The female gave a plaintive
wail
And looked me
in the face!
The wail and sad reproachful
look
In plain words
seemed to say,
A widowed life I cannot brook,
The forfeit thou
must pay.
What was my darling’s
crime that thou
Him wantonly shouldst
kill?
The curse of blood is on thee
now,
Blood calls for
red blood still.
And so I die—a
bloody death—
But not for this
I mourn,
To feel the world pass with
my breath
I gladly could
have borne,
But for my parents, who are
blind,
And have no other
stay—
This, this, weighs sore upon
my mind,
And fills me with
dismay.
Upon the eleventh day of the
moon
They keep a rigorous
fast,
All yesterday they fasted;
soon
For water and
repast
They shall upon me feebly
call!
Ah, must they
call in vain?
Bear thou the pitcher, friend—’tis
all
I ask—down
that steep lane.”
He pointed—ceased—then
sudden died!
The king took
up the corpse,
And with the pitcher slowly
hied,
Attended by Remorse,
Down the steep lane—unto
the hut
Girt round with
Bela-trees;
Gleamed far a light—the
door not shut
Was open to the
breeze.
“Oh why does not our
child return?
Too long he surely
stays.”—
Thus to the Muni, blind
and stern,
His partner gently
says.
“For fruits and water
when he goes
He never stays
so long,
Oh can it be, beset by foes,
He suffers cruel
wrong?
Some distance he has gone,
I fear,
A more circuitous
round—
Yet why should he? The
fruits are near,
The river near
our bound.
I die of thirst—it
matters not
If Sindhu be but
safe,
What if he leave us, and this
spot,
Poor birds in
cages chafe.
Peevish and fretful oft we
are—
Ah, no—that
cannot be:
Of our blind eyes he is the
star,
Without him, what
were we?
Too much he loves us to forsake,
But something
ominous,
Here in my heart, a dreadful
ache,
Says, he is gone
from us.
Why do my bowels for him yearn,
What ill has crossed
his path?
Blind, helpless, whither shall
we turn,
Or how avert the
wrath?
Lord of my soul—what
means my pain?
This horrid terror—like
Some cloud that hides a hurricane;
Hang not, O lightning—strike!”
Thus while she spake, the
king drew near
With haggard look
and wild,
Weighed down with grief, and
pale with fear,
Bearing the lifeless
child.
Rustled the dry leaves ’neath
his foot,
And made an eerie
sound,
A neighboring owl began to
hoot,
All else was still
around.
At the first rustle of the
leaves
The Muni
answered clear,
“Lo, here he is—oh
wherefore grieves
Thy soul, my partner
dear?”
The words distinct, the monarch
heard,
He could no further
go,
His nature to its depths was
stirred,
He stopped in
speechless woe.
No steps advanced—the
sudden pause
Attention quickly
drew,
Rolled sightless orbs to learn
the cause,
But, hark!—the
steps renew.
“Where art thou, darling—why
so long
Hast thou delayed
to-night?
We die of thirst—we
are not strong,
This fasting kills
outright.
Speak to us, dear one—only
speak,
And calm our idle
fears,
Where hast thou been, and
what to seek?
Have pity on these
tears.”
With head bent low the monarch
heard,
Then came a cruel
throb
That tore his heart—still
not a word,
Only a stifled
sob!
“It is not Sindhu—who
art thou?
And where is Sindhu
gone?
There’s blood upon thy
hands—avow!”
“There is.”—“Speak
on, speak on,”
The dead child in their arms
he placed,
And briefly told
his tale,
The parents their dead child
embraced,
And kissed his
forehead pale.
“Our hearts are broken.
Come, dear wife,
On earth no more
we dwell;
Now welcome Death, and farewell
Life,
And thou, O king,
farewell!
We do not curse thee, God
forbid
But to my inner
eye
The future is no longer hid,
Thou too shalt
like us die.
Die—for a son’s
untimely loss!
Die—with
a broken heart!
Now help us to our bed of
moss,
And let us both
depart.”
Upon the moss he laid them
down,
And watched beside
the bed;
Death gently came and placed
a crown
Upon each reverend
head.
Where the Sarayu’s waves
dash free
Against a rocky
bank,
The monarch had the corpses
three
Conveyed by men
of rank;
There honored he with royal
pomp
Their funeral
obsequies—
Incense and sandal, drum and
tromp.
And solemn sacrifice.
What is the sequel of the
tale?
How died the king?—Oh
man,
A prophet’s words can
never fail—
Go, read the Ramayan.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,
We loitered at
the time
When ripens on the wall the
peach,
The autumn’s
lovely prime.
Far off—the sea
and sky seemed blent,
The day was wholly
done,
The distant town its murmurs
sent,
Strangers—we
were alone.
We wandered slow; sick, weary,
faint,
Then one of us
sat down,
No nature hers, to make complaint;—
The shadows deepened
brown.
A lady past—she
was not young,
But oh! her gentle
face
No painter-poet ever sung,
Or saw such saintlike
grace.
She passed us—then
she came again,
Observing at a
glance
That we were strangers; one,
in pain—
Then asked—Were
we from France?
We talked awhile—some
roses red
That seemed as
wet with tears,
She gave my sister, and she
said,
God bless you
both, my dears!”
Sweet were the roses—sweet
and full,
And large as lotus
flowers
That in our own wide tanks
we cull
To deck our Indian
bowers.
But sweeter was the love that
gave
Those flowers
to one unknown,
I think that He who came to
save
The gift a debt
will own.
The lady’s name I do
not know,
Her face no more
may see,
But yet, oh yet I love her
so!
Blest, happy,
may she be!
Her memory will not depart,
Though grief my
years should shade,
Still bloom her roses in my
heart!
And they shall
never fade!
FRANCE
1870
Not dead—oh no—she
cannot die!
Only a swoon,
from loss of blood!
Levite England passes her
by,
Help, Samaritan! None
is nigh;
Who shall staunch
me this sanguine flood?
’Range the brown hair,
it blinds her eyne,
Dash cold water
over her face!
Drowned in her blood, she
makes no sign,
Give her a draught of generous
wine.
None heed, none
hear, to do this grace.
Head of the human column,
thus
Ever in swoon
wilt thou remain?
Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched
ominous
Whence then shall Hope arise
for us,
Plunged in the
darkness all again.
No, she stirs!—There’s
a fire in her glance,
Ware, oh ware
of that broken sword!
What, dare ye for an hour’s
mischance,
Gather around her, jeering
France,
Attila’s
own exultant horde?
Lo, she stands up—stands
up e’en now,
Strong once more
for the battle-fray,
Gleams bright the star, that
from her brow
Lightens the world. Bow,
nations, bow,
Let her again
lead on the way!
Broad daylight, with a sense
of weariness!
Mine eyes were closed, but
I was not asleep,
My hand was in my father’s,
and I felt
His presence near me.
Thus we often passed
In silence, hour by hour.
What was the need
Of interchanging words when
every thought
That in our hearts arose,
was known to each,
And every pulse kept time?
Suddenly there shone
A strange light, and the scene
as sudden changed.
I was awake:—It
was an open plain
Illimitable—stretching,
stretching—oh, so far!
And o’er it that strange
light—a glorious light
Like that the stars shed over
fields of snow
In a clear, cloudless, frosty
winter night,
Only intenser in its brilliance
calm.
And in the midst of that vast
plain, I saw,
For I was wide awake—it
was no dream,
A tree with spreading branches
and with leaves
Of divers kinds—dead
silver and live gold,
Shimmering in radiance that
no words may tell!
Beside the tree an Angel stood;
he plucked
A few small sprays, and bound
them round my head.
Oh, the delicious touch of
those strange leaves!
No longer throbbed my brows,
no more I felt
The fever in my limbs—“And
oh,” I cried,
“Bind too my father’s
forehead with these leaves.”
One leaf the Angel took and
therewith touched
His forehead, and then gently
whispered “Nay!”
Never, oh never had I seen
a face
More beautiful than that Angel’s,
or more full
Of holy pity and of love divine.
Wondering I looked awhile—then,
all at once
Opened my tear-dimmed eyes—When
lo! the light
Was gone—the light
as of the stars when snow
Lies deep upon the ground.
No more, no more,
Was seen the Angel’s
face. I only found
My father watching patient
by my bed,
And holding in his own, close-prest,
my hand.
MADAME THERESE
Written on the fly-leaf of Erckmann-Chatrian’s novel, entitled, “Madame Therese.”
Wavered the foremost soldiers—then
fell back.
Fallen was their leader, and
loomed right before
The sullen Prussian cannon,
grim and black,
With lighted matches waving.
Now, once more,
Patriots and veterans!—Ah!
Tis in vain!
Back they recoil, though bravest
of the brave;
No human troops may stand
that murderous rain;
But who is this—that
rushes to a grave?
It is a woman—slender,
tall, and brown!
She snatches up the standard
as it falls—
In her hot haste tumbles her
dark hair down,
And to the drummer-boy aloud
she calls
To beat the charge; then forwards
on the pont
They dash together;—who
could bear to see
A woman and a child, thus
Death confront,
Nor burn to follow them to
victory?
I read the story and my heart beats fast! Well might all Europe quail before thee, France, Battling against oppression! Years have passed, Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance. Va-nu-pieds! When rose high your Marseillaise Man knew his rights to earth’s remotest bound, And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise! Ah, had a Washington but then been found!
A sea of foliage girds our
garden round,
But not a sea
of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts
of all colors here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds
abound
Amid the mango clumps of green
profound,
And palms arise,
like pillars gray, between;
And o’er
the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red—red, and startling
like a trumpet’s sound.
But nothing can be lovelier
than the ranges
Of bamboos to
the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps,
and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of
silver. One might swoon
Drunken
with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On
a primeval Eden, in amaze.
SONNET
Love came to Flora asking
for a flower
That would of
flowers be undisputed queen,
The lily and the
rose, long, long had been
Rivals for that high honor.
Bards of power
Had sung their claims.
“The rose can never tower
Like the pale
lily with her Juno mien”—
“But is
the lily lovelier?” Thus between
Flower-factions rang the strife
in Psyche’s bower.
“Give me a flower delicious
as the rose
And stately as
the lily in her pride”—
“But of
what color?”—“Rose-red,”
Love first chose,
Then prayed—“No,
lily-white—or, both provide;”
And Flora gave
the lotus, “rose-red” dyed,
And “lily-white”—the
queenliest flower that blows.
Like a huge Python, winding
round and round
The rugged trunk,
indented deep with scars
Up to its very
summit near the stars,
A creeper climbs, in whose
embraces bound
No other tree
could live. But gallantly
The giant wears the scarf,
and flowers are hung
In crimson clusters all the
boughs among,
Whereon all day
are gathered bird and bee;
And oft at nights the garden
overflows
With one sweet song that seems
to have no close,
Sung darkling from our tree,
while men repose,
When first my casement is
wide open thrown
At dawn, my eyes
delighted on it rest;
Sometimes, and
most in winter—on its crest
A gray baboon sits statue-like
alone
Watching the sunrise;
while on lower boughs
His puny offspring leap about
and play;
And far and near kokilas hail
the day;
And to their pastures
wend our sleepy cows;
And in the shadow, on the
broad tank cast
By that hoar tree, so beautiful
and vast,
The water-lilies spring, like
snow enmassed.
But not because of its magnificence
Dear is the Casuarina
to my soul:
Beneath it we
have played; though years may roll,
O sweet companions, loved
with love intense,
For your sakes,
shall the tree be ever dear!
Blent with your images, it
shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears
blind mine eyes!
What is that dirge-like
murmur that I hear
Like the sea breaking on a
shingle-beach?
It is the tree’s lament,
an eerie speech,
That haply to the unknown
land may reach.
Unknown, yet well-known to
the eye of faith!
Ah, I have heard
that wail far, far away
In distant lands,
by many a sheltered bay,
When slumbered in his cave
the water-wraith
And the waves
gently kissed the classic shore
Of France or Italy, beneath
the moon,
When earth lay tranced in
a dreamless swoon:
And every time
the music rose—before
Mine inner vision rose a form
sublime,
Thy form, O Tree, as in my
happy prime
I saw thee, in my own loved
native clime.
Therefore I fain would consecrate
a lay
Unto thy honor,
Tree, beloved of those
Who now in blessed
sleep, for aye, repose,
Dearer than life to me, alas!
were they!
May’st thou
be numbered when my days are done
With deathless trees—like
those in Borrowdale,
Under whose awful branches
lingered pale
“Fear, trembling
Hope, and Death, the skeleton,
And Time, the shadow;”
and though weak the verse
That would thy beauty fain,
oh fain rehearse,
May Love defend thee from
Oblivion’s curse.