Part 2 / Book 1 — ŚAKOONTALÁ (continued 2)
Edwin Arnold translation
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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, Somaráta, 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].—Vetravatí, 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 that to attain the end And object of ambition is to rest; Success doth only mitigate the fever Of anxious expectation; soon the fear Of losing what we have, the constant care Of guarding it doth weary. Ceaseless toil Must be the lot of him who with his hands Supports the canopy that shields his subjects.
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]. Vetravatí, 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 Śakoontalá, attended by Gautamí; and, in advance of them, the Chamberlain and the domestic Priest.
CHAMBERLAIN.—This way, reverend sirs, this way.
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—O Śáradwata,
'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.
SÁRADWATA.—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [feeling a quivering sensation in her right eyelid, and suspecting a bad omen],—Alas! what means this throbbing of my right eyelid?
GAUTAMÍ.—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!
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—Great Bráhman, 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 Śakoontalá].—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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.
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—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 Śakoontalá Virtue herself in human form revealed. Great Brahmá 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.
GAUTAMÍ.—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—Ah! how I tremble for my lord's reply.
KING.—What strange proposal is this?
ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—His words are fire to me.
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—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?
ŚAKOONTALÁ [despondingly. Aside].—O my heart, thy worst misgivings are confirmed.
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—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.
SÁRNGARAVA.—Such inconstancy is fortunately not common, excepting in men intoxicated by power.
KING.—Is that remark aimed at me?
GAUTAMÍ.—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 Śakoontalá. 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?
SÁRNGARAVA.—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?
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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?
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—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.
ŚÁRADWATA.—Śárngarava, speak to him no more. Śakoontalá, 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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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!
ŚAKOONTALÁ [feeling for the ring].—Alas! alas! woe is me! There is no ring on my finger! [Looks with anguish at Gautamí.
GAUTAMÍ.—The ring must have slipped off when thou wast in the act of offering homage to the holy water of Śachí's sacred pool, near Śakrávatára.
KING [smiling].—People may well talk of the readiness of woman's invention! Here is an instance of it.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.
GAUTAMÍ.—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 Köil, 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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—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?
ŚÁRNGARAVA [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 Bráhman, grant that you are in the right, what end would be gained by betraying this lady?
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—Ruin.
KING.—No one will believe that a Prince of Puru's race would seek to ruin others or himself.
ŚÁRADWATA.—This altercation is idle, Śárngarava. We have executed the commission of our preceptor; come, let us return. [To the King.
Śakoontalá 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, Gautamí. [They move away.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.
GAUTAMÍ [stopping].—My son Śárngarava, see, Śakoontalá 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?
ŚÁRNGARAVA [turning angrily towards her].—Wilful woman, dost thou seek to be independent of thy lord? [Śakoontalá trembles with fear.
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—Śakoontalá!
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.
ŚÁRNGARAVA.—Since thy union with another woman has rendered thee oblivious of thy marriage with Śakoontalá, 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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—O divine earth, open and receive me into thy bosom!
[Exit Śakoontalá 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,
Śakoontalá, 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.—Vetravatí, 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.
PRELUDE TO ACT SIXTH
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 Bráhman, and made you a present of it?
FISHERMAN.—Only hear me. I am but a poor fisherman, living at Śakrávatára———
SECOND CONSTABLE.—Scoundrel, who ever asked you, pray, for a history of your birth and parentage?
SUPERINTENDENT [to one of the Constables].—Súchaka, 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, Jánuka, 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, Súchaka; 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, Jánuka, 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.—Jánuka, 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, Súchaka! set the fisherman at liberty, I tell you. His story about the ring is all correct.
SÚCHAKA.—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.
SÚCHAKA.—You may well say so. He might as well have taken you from the gallows to seat you on his state elephant.
JÁNUKA.—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.
SÚCHAKA.—Then you must have done a great service———
JÁNUKA.—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.
JÁNUKA.—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.
ACT SIXTH
Scene.—The Garden of the Palace
The nymph Sánumatí is seen descending in a celestial car.
SÁNUMATÍ.—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 Menaká has made her daughter Śakoontalá dearer to me than my own flesh and blood; and Menaká 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.—Parabaitiká, what are you saying there to yourself?
FIRST MAIDEN.—Dear Madhukariká, am I not named after the Köil?[41] and does not the Köil 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, Madhukariká, 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 Köil, 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 Mitrávasu, 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.
SÁNUMATÍ [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 Śakoontalá 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 Śakoontalá. 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 "Śakoontalá," Is straightway silent and abashed with shame.
SÁNUMATÍ [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, Máthavya, and preceded by Vetravatí.
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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside. Looking at the King].—Now that I have seen him, I can well understand why Śakoontalá 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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—My poor Śakoontalá's sufferings are very similar.
MÁTHAVYA [aside].—He is taken with another attack of this odious Śakoontalá 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.—Vetravatí, tell the worthy Piśuna, 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.
VETRAVATÍ.—Your Majesty's commands shall be obeyed. [Exit.
KING [to the Chamberlain].—And you, Vátáyana, may go about your own affairs.
CHAMBERLAIN.—I will, Sire. [Exit.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—Well, then, wait a moment; I will soon demolish Master Káma'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 Bráhman. 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?
MÁTHAVYA.—Do you not remember? you told Chaturiká you should pass the heat of the day in the jasmine bower; and commanded her to bring the likeness of your queen Śakoontalá, sketched with your own hand.
KING.—True. The sight of her picture will refresh my soul. Lead the way to the arbor.
MÁTHAVYA.—This way, Sire. [Both move on, followed by Sánumatí.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
SÁNUMATÍ [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 Śakoontalá 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?
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Exactly.
KING [after deep thought].—My dear friend, suggest some relief for my misery.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Alas! such is the force of self-reproach following a rash action. But his anguish only rejoices me.
MÁTHAVYA.—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 Menaká, 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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—His present recollection of every circumstance of her history does not surprise me so much as his former forgetfulness.
MÁTHAVYA.—If that's the case, you will be certain to meet her before long.
KING.—Why?
MÁTHAVYA.—No father and mother can endure to see a daughter suffering the pain of separation from her husband.
KING.—Oh! my dear Máthavya,
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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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!
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Had it found its way to the hand of any other person, then indeed its fate would have been deplorable.
MÁTHAVYA.—Pray, how did the ring ever come upon her hand at all?
SÁNUMATÍ.—I myself am curious to know.
KING.—You shall hear. When I was leaving my beloved Śakoontalá 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?"
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—A pleasant arrangement! Fate, however, ordained that the appointment should not be kept.
MÁTHAVYA.—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 Śakoontalá's hand, and fallen into the stream of the Ganges, while she was offering homage to the water of Sachí's holy pool.
MÁTHAVYA.—Very likely.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Hence it happened, I suppose, that the King, always fearful of committing the least injustice, came to doubt his marriage with my poor Śakoontalá. 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.
MÁTHAVYA [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.
MÁTHAVYA [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 Chaturiká hurriedly, with a picture in her hand.
CHATURIKÁ.—Here is the Queen's portrait. [Shows the picture.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—A most artistic performance! I admire the King's skill, and could almost believe that Śakoontalá 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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—A very just remark from a modest man, whose affection is exaggerated by the keenness of his remorse.
MÁTHAVYA.—Tell me—I see three female figures drawn on the canvas, and all of them beautiful; which of the three is her Majesty, Śakoontalá?
SÁNUMATÍ [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?
MÁTHAVYA.—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 Śakoontalá, 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. Chaturiká, the garden in the background of the picture is only half-painted. Go, fetch the brush that I may finish it.
CHATURIKÁ.—Worthy Máthavya, have the kindness to hold the picture until I return.
KING.—Nay, I will hold it myself. [Takes the picture. Exit Chaturiká.
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.
MÁTHAVYA [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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—He longs, no doubt, to delineate some favorite spot where my dear Śakoontalá delighted to ramble.
KING.—You shall hear———
I wish to see the Máliní portrayed, Its tranquil course by banks of sand impeded— Upon the brink a pair of swans: beyond, The hills adjacent to Himálaya, 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.
MÁTHAVYA [aside].—Pooh! if I were he, I would fill up the vacant spaces with a lot of grizzly-bearded old hermits.
KING.—My dear Máthavya, there is still a part of Śakoontalá's dress which I purposed to draw, but find I have omitted.
MÁTHAVYA.—What is that?
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Something suitable, I suppose, to the simple attire of a young and beautiful girl dwelling in a forest.
KING.—A sweet Śirísha 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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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?
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—A most polite way of warning him off!
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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!
SÁNUMATÍ [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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—Separated lovers are very difficult to please; but he seems more difficult than usual.
KING.—Alas! my dear Máthavya, 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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside],—You have made ample amends for the wrong you did Śakoontalá in disowning her.
CHATURIKÁ [entering].—Victory to the King! I was coming along with the box of colors in my hand———
KING.—What now?
CHATURIKÁ.—When I met the Queen Vasumatí, attended by Taraliká. She insisted on taking it from me, and declared she would herself deliver it into your Majesty's hands.
MÁTHAVYA.—By what luck did you contrive to escape her?
CHATURIKÁ.—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.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
SÁNUMATÍ [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.
VETRAVATÍ [entering with a despatch in her hand].—Victory to the King!
KING.—-Vetravatí, did you observe the Queen Vasumatí coming in this direction?
VETRAVATÍ.—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.
VETRAVATÍ.—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. [Vetravatí 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.
VETRAVATÍ.—They say that his wife, the daughter of the foreman of a guild belonging to Ayodhyá, 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.
VETRAVATÍ.—I will, my liege. [Going.
KING.—Stay a moment.
VETRAVATÍ.—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.
VETRAVATÍ.—It shall be so proclaimed. [Exit Vetravatí, and reënter after an interval.
VETRAVATÍ.—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.
VETRAVATÍ.—Heaven forbid!
KING.—Fool that I was to reject such happiness when it offered itself for my acceptance!
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—He may well blame his own folly when he calls to mind his treatment of my beloved Śakoontalá.
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.
SÁNUMATÍ [aside].—There is no fear of your race being cut off for want of a son.
CHATURIKÁ [aside to Vetravatí].—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 Máthavya from the Palace of Clouds to comfort him?
VETRAVATÍ.—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.
CHATURIKÁ [looking at him in consternation].—Great King, compose yourself.
SÁNUMATÍ [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 Śakoontalá, 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 Máthavya's voice. What ho there!
VETRAVATÍ [entering].—Your friend is in danger; save him, great King.
KING.—Who dares insult the worthy Máthavya?
VETRAVATÍ.—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.] Vetravatí, lead the way to the terrace.
VETRAVATÍ.—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 Bráhman; bearing death to thee, To him deliverance—even as the swan Distinguishes the milk from worthless water.
[Takes aim. Enter Mátali, holding Máthavya, whom he releases.
MÁTALI.—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, Mátali! Welcome, most noble charioteer of the mighty Indra.
MÁTHAVYA.—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.
MÁTALI [smiling].—Great Prince, hear on what errand Indra sent me into your presence.
KING.—I am all attention.
MÁTALI.—There is a race of giants, the descendants of Kálanemi, whom the gods find difficult to subdue.
KING.—So I have already heard from Nárada.
MÁTALI.—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 Máthavya?
MÁTALI.—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 Máthavya].—My dear Máthavya, the commands of the great Indra must not be left unfulfilled. Go you and acquaint my minister, Piśuna, 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.
MÁTHAVYA.—I obey. [Exit.
MÁTALI.—Ascend, illustrious Prince. [The King ascends the car. Exeunt.
ACT SEVENTH
Scene.—The Sky
Enter King Dushyanta and Mátali in the car of Indra, moving in the air.
KING.—My good Mátali, it appears to me incredible that I can merit such a mark of distinction for having simply fulfilled the behests of the great Indra.
MÁTALI [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, Mátali, 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.
MÁTALI.—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?
MÁTALI.—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 Mátali, 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?
MÁTALI.—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! Mátali, we are descending towards the earth's atmosphere.
MÁTALI.—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 Chátakas 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.
MÁTALI.—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.
MÁTALI.—Well described! [Looking with awe.] Grand, indeed, and lovely is the spectacle presented by the earth.
KING.—Tell me, Mátali, 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.
MÁTALI.—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 Kaśyapa, the great progenitor Of demons and of gods, himself the offspring Of the divine Maríchi, Brahmá'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.
MÁTALI.—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.
MÁTALI.—Such is the difference between the car of Indra and that of your Majesty.
KING.—In which direction, Mátali, is Kaśyapa's sacred retreat?
MÁTALI [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.
MÁTALI [holding in the reins of the car].—Great Prince, we are now in the sacred grove of the holy Kaśyapa—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.
MÁTALI [stopping the chariot].—Descend, mighty Prince.
KING [descending].—And what will you do, Mátali?
MÁTALI.—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.
MÁTALI.—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-śákalya, how is the divine son of Maríchi 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.
MÁTALI [looking at the King].—If your Majesty will rest under the shade, at the foot of this Aśoka-tree, I will seek an opportunity of announcing your arrival to Indra's reputed father.
KING.—As you think proper. [Remains under the tree.
MÁTALI.—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 Suvratá. Be kind enough to go to my cottage, and you will find there a plaything belonging to Márkándeya, 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 Kaśyapa.
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 Śakoonta (bird).
CHILD [looking round].—My mother! Where? Let me go to her.
BOTH ATTENDANTS.—He mistook the word Śakoonta for Śakoontalá. 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 Śakoonta.
KING [aside].—What! is his mother's name Śakoontalá? 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 Maríchi, 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 Suvratá, we must inform Śakoontalá 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 Śakoontalá, in widow's apparel, with her long hair twisted into a single braid.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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 Sánumatí's prediction be verified?
KING [gazing at Śakoontalá].—Alas! can this indeed be my Śakoontalá?
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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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 Rohiní.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—My child, ask the deity that presides over thy destiny.
KING [falling at Śakoontalá'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?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Nay; I can never more place confidence in it. Let my husband retain it. Enter Mátali.
MÁTALI.—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, Mátali, is this joyful event known to the great Indra?
MÁTALI [smiling].—What is unknown to the gods? But come with me, noble Prince, the divine Kaśyapa graciously permits thee to be presented to him.
KING.—Śakoontalá, take our child and lead the way. We will together go into the presence of the holy Sage.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—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. Kaśyapa is discovered seated on a throne with his wife Aditi.
KAŚYAPA [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.
MÁTALI [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 Mátali, the holy pair,
Offspring of Daksha and divine Maríchi, Children of Brahmá'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 of sacrifice, Sprang into being? That immortal pair Whom Vishnu, greater than the self-existent, Chose for his parents, when, to save mankind, He took upon himself the shape of mortals?
MÁTALI.—Even so.
KING [prostrating himself].—Most august of beings, Dushyanta, content to have fulfilled the commands of your son Indra, offers you his adoration.
KAŚYAPA.—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!
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—I also prostrate myself before you, most adorable beings, and my child with me.
KAŚYAPA.—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 Kaśyapa.
KAŚYAPA [regarding each of them by turns].—Hail to the beautiful Śakoontalá!
Hail to her noble son! and hail to thee, Illustrious Prince! Rare triple combination Of virtue, wealth, and energy united!
KING.—Most venerable Kaśyapa, 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.
MÁTALI.—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 Menaká, the mother of Śakoontalá, 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 Durvásas—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.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [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.
KAŚYAPA.—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.
KAŚYAPA.—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 Śakoontalá's foster-father. Menaká, who is one of my attendants, is her mother, and dearly does she love her daughter.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—The venerable matron has given utterance to the very wish that was in my mind.
KAŚYAPA.—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.
KAŚYAPA.—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?
KAŚYAPA.—My good Gálava, 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 Śakoontalá has a son, and that she is once more tenderly acknowledged by her husband.
PUPIL.—Your highness's commands shall be obeyed. [Exit.
KAŚYAPA.—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.
KAŚYAPA.—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.
KAŚYAPA.—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.