Like silken pennon borne against the wind.
ACT SECOND
Scene.—A Plain on the Skirts of the Forest
Enter the Jester, Máthavya, in a melancholy mood.
MÁTHAVYA [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
Śakoontalá, 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.
Love is not yet triumphant; but, methinks,
The hearts of both are ripe for his delights.
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.
MÁTHAVYA [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?
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—Aye; just as you are the cause of my crippled limbs.
KING.—How so?
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
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.
MÁTHAVYA [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.
MÁTHAVYA.—Then may the King live forever!
KING.—Stay a moment, my dear friend. I have something else to say to you.
MÁTHAVYA.—Say on, then.
KING.—When you have rested, you must assist me in another business, which will give you no fatigue.
MÁTHAVYA.—In eating something nice, I hope.
KING.—You shall know at some future time.
MÁTHAVYA.—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 reënters 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
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 Máthavya here has been disparaging the chase, till he has taken away all my relish for it.
GENERAL [aside to Máthavya].—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.
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?
MÁTHAVYA [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,
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.
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.
MÁTHAVYA.—Off with you, you son of a slave! Your nonsense won't go down here, my fine fellow.
KING [looking at his attendants].—Here, women, take my hunting-dress; and you, Raivataka, keep guard carefully outside.
ATTENDANTS.—We will, sire.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—Come along, then.
KING.—Máthavya, 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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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 Śakoontalá, the brightest ornament of these hallowed groves.
MÁTHAVYA [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?
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.
MÁTHAVYA [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.
MÁTHAVYA.—I can quite understand it must require something surpassingly attractive to excite the admiration of such a great man as you.
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.
MÁTHAVYA.—If that's the case, she must indeed throw all other beauties into the shade.
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?
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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,
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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—There is but one expedient that I can suggest. You are the King, are you not?
KING.—What then?
MÁTHAVYA.—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,
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 reënters with two young Hermits.] This way, Sirs, this way.
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.
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?
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!
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.
MÁTHAVYA [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.
BOTH THE HERMITS [joyfully].—Well it becomes the King by acts of
grace
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!
KING.—My dear Máthavya, are you not full of longing to see Śakoontalá?
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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-ënters 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?
MÁTHAVYA.—You will have to take up an intermediate position between the two, like King Triśanku, who was suspended between heaven and earth, because the sage Viśwámitra commanded him to mount up to heaven, and the gods ordered him down again.
KING.—I am certainly very much perplexed. For here,
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 Máthavya, 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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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 Bráhman like you could not possibly give way to such weakness.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA [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
Máthavya, 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 Śakoontalá, the hermit's
daughter. Observe,
Between a monarch and a rustic girl?
I did but feign an idle passion, friend,
Take not in earnest what was said in jest.
MÁTHAVYA.—Don't distress yourself; I quite understand.
PRELUDE TO ACT THIRD
Scene.—The Hermitage
Enter a young Bráhman, carrying bundles of Kuśa-grass for the use of the sacrificing priests.
YOUNG BRÁHMAN.—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.
The mighty monarch sounds the quivering string,
And, by the thunder of his arms dismayed,
Our demon foes are scattered to the wind.
ACT THIRD
Scene.—The Sacred Grove
Enter King Dushyanta, with the air of one in love.
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.
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 Káma, 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:
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.
These rankling wounds inflicted by the god,
Who on his scutcheon bears the monster-fish
Slain by his prowess: welcome death itself,
So that, commissioned by the lord of love,
This fair one be my executioner.
Adorable divinity! Can I by no reproaches excite your commiseration?
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, Śakoontalá is passing her time under the shade of the bowers on the banks of the Máliní, 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.
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!
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.]
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.]
Śakoontalá and her two attendants, holding fans in their hands are discovered as described.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ [fanning her. In a tone of affection.]—Dearest Śakoontalá, is the breeze raised by these broad lotus leaves refreshing to you?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Dear friends, why should you trouble yourselves to fan me?
KING.—Śakoontalá 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?
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.
PRIYAMVADÁ [aside to Anasúyá.]—I have observed, Anasúyá, that Śakoontalá has been indisposed ever since her first interview with King Dushyanta. Depend upon it, her ailment is to be traced to this source.
ANASÚYÁ.—The same suspicion, dear Priyamvadá, has crossed my mind. But I will at once ask her and ascertain the truth. [Aloud.] Dear Śakoontalá, I am about to put a question to you. Your indisposition is really very serious.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [half-rising from her couch].—What were you going to ask?
ANASÚYÁ.—We know very little about love-matters, dear Śakoontalá; 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.—Anasúyá bears me out in my suspicion.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—I am, indeed, deeply in love; but cannot rashly disclose my passion to these young girls.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—What Anasúyá says, dear Śakoontalá, 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.
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 Mádhaví,
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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Dear friends, to no one would I rather reveal the nature of my malady than to you; but I should only be troubling you.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.]
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—Say on, dear Śakoontalá, say on.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.