SAKOONTALA

BY

KALIDASA



[Translation by Sir Monier Monier-Williams]

INTRODUCTION

The drama is always the latest development of a national poetry—for the origin of poetry is in the religious rite, where the hymn or the ode is used to celebrate the glories of some divinity, or some hero who has been received into the circle of the gods. This at least is the case in Sanscrit as in Greek literature, where the hymn and ballad precede the epic. The epic poem becomes the stable form of poetry during the middle period in the history of literature, both in India and Greece. The union of the lyric and the epic produces the drama. The speeches uttered by the heroes in such poems as the "Iliad" are put into the mouths of real personages who appear in sight of the audience and represent with fitting gestures and costumes the characters of the story. The dialogue is interspersed with songs or odes, which reach their perfection in the choruses of Sophocles.

The drama is undoubtedly the most intellectual, as it is the most artificial, form of poetry. The construction of the plot, and the arrangement of the action, give room for the most thoughtful and deliberate display of genius. In this respect the Greek drama stands forth as most philosophically perfect. The drama, moreover, has always been by far the most popular form of poetry; because it aids, as much as possible, the imagination of the auditor, and for distinctness and clearness of impression stands preeminent above both the epic narrative and the emotional description of the lyric.

The drama in India appears to have been a perfectly indigenous creation, although it was of very late development, and could not have appeared even so early as the Alexandrian pastorals which marked the last phase of Greek poetry. When it did appear, it never took the perfect form of the drama at Athens. It certainly borrowed as little from Greece as it did from China or Japan, and the Persians and Arabians do not appear to have produced any dramatic masterpieces. The greatest of dramatists in the Sanscrit language is undoubtedly Kalidasa, whose date is placed, by different scholars, anywhere from the first to the fifth century of our era. His masterpiece, and indeed the masterpiece of the Indian drama, is the "Sakoontala," which has all the graces as well as most of the faults of Oriental poetry. There can be no doubt that to most Europeans the charm of it lies in the exquisite description of natural scenery and of that atmosphere of piety and religious calm—almost mediaeval in its austere beauty and serenity—which invests the hermit life of India. The abode of the ascetics is depicted with a pathetic grace that we only find paralleled in the "Admetus" of Euripides. But at the same time the construction of the drama is more like such a play as Milton's "Comus," than the closely-knit, symmetrical, and inevitable progress of such a work of consummate skill as the "King Oedipus" of Sophocles. Emotion, and generally the emotion of love, is the motive in the "Sakoontala" of Kalidasa, and different phases of feeling, rather than the struggles of energetic action, lead on to the denouement of the play. The introduction of supernatural agencies controlling the life of the personages, leaves very little room for the development and description of human character. As the fate of the hero is dependent altogether upon the caprice of superhuman powers, the moral elements of a drama are but faintly discernible. Thus the central action of Sakoontala hinges on the fact that the heroine, absorbed in thoughts of love, neglects to welcome with due respect the great saint Durvasas—certainly a trifling and venial fault—but he is represented as blighting her with a curse which results in all the unhappiness of the drama, and which is only ended at last by the intervention of a more powerful being. By this principle of construction the characters are reduced to mere shadow creations: beautiful as arabesques, delicate as a piece of ivory carving, tinted like the flat profiles of an Oriental fan or the pattern of a porcelain vase, but deficient in robustness and vigorous coloring. Humanity is absolutely dwarfed and its powers rendered inoperative by the crowd of supernatural creatures that control its destiny. Even in the "Tempest" of Shakespeare, in which the supernatural plays a greater part than in any other English drama, the strength and nobility of human character are allowed full play—and man in his fortitude, in his intellect and will, even more than in his emotions, keeps full possession of the stage, and imparts a reality to every scene which makes the wildest flight of fancy bear a real relation to the common experiences of human life.

The "Sakoontala" is divided into seven acts, and is a mixture of prose and verse;—each character rising in the intensity of emotional utterance into bursts of lyric poetry. The first act introduces the King of India, Dushyanta, armed with bow and arrows, in a chariot with his driver. They are passing through a forest in pursuit of a black antelope, which they fail to overtake before the voice of some hermit forbids them to slay the creature as it belongs to the hermitage. The king piously desists and reaches the hermitage of the great saint Kanwa, who has left his companions in charge of his foster-daughter, Sakoontala, while he is bound on a pilgrimage. Following these hermits the king finds himself within the precincts of a sacred grove, where rice is strewn on the ground to feed the parrots that nest in the hollow trunks, and where the unterrified antelopes do not start at the human voice. The king stops his chariot and alights, so as not to disturb the dwellers in the holy wood. He feels a sudden throb in his right arm, which augurs happy love, and sees hermit maidens approaching to sprinkle the young shrubs, with watering-pots suited to their strength. The forms of these hermit maidens eclipse those found in queenly halls, as the luxuriance of forest vines excels the trim vineyards of cultivation. Amongst these maidens the king, concealed by the trees, observes Sakoontala, dressed in the bark garment of a hermit—like a blooming bud enclosed within a sheath of yellow leaves. When she stands by the kesara-tree, the king is impressed by her beauty, and regrets that she is, if of a purely Brahmanic origin, forbidden to marry one of the warrior class, even though he be a king. A very pretty description is given of the pursuit of Sakoontala by a bee which her sprinkling has startled from a jasmine flower. From this bee she is rescued by the king, and is dismayed to find that the sight of the stranger affects her with an emotion unsuited to the holy grove. She hurries off with her two companions, but as she goes she declares that a prickly kusa-grass has stung her foot; a kuruvaka-bush has caught her garment, and while her companions disentangle it, she takes a long look at the king, who confesses that he cannot turn his mind from Sakoontala. This is the opening episode of their love.

The second act introduces the king's jester, a Brahman on confidential terms with his master, who, while Dushyanta is thinking of love, is longing to get back to the city. He is tired of the hot jungle, the nauseating water of bitter mountain streams, the racket of fowlers at early dawn, and the eternal galloping, by which his joints are bruised. The king is equally tired of hunting, and confesses that he cannot bend his bow against those fawns which dwell near Sakoontala's abode, and have taught their tender glance to her. He calls back the beaters sent out to surround the forest, takes off his hunting-suit, and talks to the jester about the charms of Sakoontala—whom the Creator, he says, has formed by gathering in his mind all lovely shapes, so as to make a peerless woman-gem. He recalls the glance which she shot at him as she cried, "a kusha-grass has stung my foot." Meanwhile two hermits approach him with the news that the demons have taken advantage of Kanwa's absence to disturb the sacrifices. They request him to take up his abode in the grove for a few days, in order to vanquish the enemies. A messenger arrives to tell him that his mother, in four days, will be offering a solemn sacrifice for her son's welfare, and invites his presence at the rite. But he cannot leave Sakoontala, and sends the jester Mathavya in his stead, telling him to say nothing about his love for Sakoontala.

In the third act the love of the king and the hermit girl reaches its climax. The king is found walking in the hermitage, invoking the God of Love, whose shafts are flowers, though the flowery darts are hard as steel. "Mighty God of Love, hast Thou no pity on me?" What better relief, he asks, than the sight of my beloved? He traces Sakoontala, by the broken tubes which bore the blossoms she had culled, to the arbor, enclosed by the plantation of canes, and shaded by vines, at whose entrance he observes in the sand the track of recent footsteps. Peering through the branches, he perceives her reclining on a stone seat strewn with flowers. Her two companions are with her, and she is sick unto death. The king notices that her cheeks are wasted, her breasts less swelling, her slender waist more slender, her roseate hue has grown pale, and she seems like some poor madhave creeper touched by winds that have scorched its leaves. Her companions anxiously inquire the cause of her sickness, and, after much hesitation, she reveals her love by inscribing a poem, with her fingernail, on a lotus leaf smooth as a parrot's breast. The king hears the avowal of her love, rushes in to her, and declares his passion: adding that daughters of a royal saint have often been wedded by Gandharva rites, without ceremonies or parental consent, yet have not forfeited the father's blessing. He thus overcomes her scruples. Gautami, the matron of the hermitage, afterwards enters, and asks, "My child, is your fever allayed?" "Venerable mother," is the reply, "I feel a grateful change." As the king sits in solitude that evening in the deserted arbor, he hears a voice outside, uttering the verses—"The evening rites have begun; but, dark as the clouds of night, the demons are swarming round the altar fires." With these words of ill-omen the third act comes to an end.

The fourth act describes the fulfilment of this evil omen. The king has now returned to the city, and has given Sakoontala a signet ring, with an inscription on it, pronouncing that after there have elapsed as many days as there are letters in this inscription he will return. As the two maiden companions of Sakoontala are culling flowers in the garden of the hermitage, they hear a voice exclaiming, "It is I! give heed!" This is the great Durvasas, whom Sakoontala, lost in thoughts of her absent husband, has neglected at once to go forth to welcome. The voice from behind the scenes is soon after heard uttering a curse—"Woe unto her who is thus neglectful of a guest," and declaring that Dushyanta, of whom alone she is thinking, regardless of the presence of a pious saint, shall forget her in spite of all his love, as the wine-bibber forgets his delirium. The Hindoo saint is here described in all his arrogance and cruelty. One of the maidens says that he who had uttered the curse is now retiring with great strides, quivering with rage—for his wrath is like a consuming fire. A pretty picture is given of Sakoontala, who carries on her finger the signet ring, which has the virtue of restoring the king's love, if ever he should forget her. "There sits our beloved friend," cries one of the maidens: "motionless as a picture; her cheek supported by her left hand, so absorbed in thoughts of her absent lover that she is unconscious of her own self—how much more of a passing stranger?"

In the fourth act there is an exquisite description of the return of Kanwa from his pilgrimage, and the preparations for the start of Sakoontala for her husband's palace, in the city. The delicate pathos of the scene is worthy of Euripides. "Alas! Alas!" exclaim the two maidens, "Now Sakoontala has disappeared behind the trees of the forest. Tell us, master, how shall we enter again the sacred grove made desolate by her departure?" But the holy calm, broken for a moment by the excitement of his child's departure, is soon restored to Kanwa's mind. "Now that my child is dismissed to her husband's home, tranquillity regains my soul." The closing reflection is worthy of a Greek dramatist: "Our maids we rear for the happiness of others; and now that I have sent her to her husband I feel the satisfaction that comes from restoring a trust."

In the fifth act, the scene is laid in Dushyanta's palace, where the king is living, under the curse of Durvasas, in complete oblivion of Sakoontala. The life of the court is happily suggested, with its intrigues and its business. The king has yet a vague impression of restlessness, which, on hearing a song sung behind the scenes, prompts him to say, "Why has this strain flung over me so deep a melancholy, as though I was separated from some loved one; can this be the faint remembrance of affections in some previous existence?" It is here that the hermits, with Gautami, arrive, bringing Sakoontala, soon to be made a mother, into the presence of the king; but she has been utterly forgotten by him. He angrily denies his marriage; and when she proposes to bring forth the ring, she finds she has lost it from her finger. "It must have slipped off," suggested Gautami, "when thou wast offering homage to Sachi's holy lake." The king smiles derisively. Sakoontala tries to quicken his memory:—"Do you remember how, in the jasmine bower, you poured water from the lotus cup into the hollow of my hand? Do you remember how you said to my little fawn, Drink first, but she shrunk from you—and drank water from my hand, and you said, with a smile, 'Like trusts Like,' for you are two sisters in the same grove." The king calls her words "honeyed falsehoods." Sakoontala buries her face in her mantle and bursts into tears.

The tenderness of this scene, its grace and delicacy, are quite idyllic, and worthy of the best ages of the pastoral drama. The ring is at length restored to Dushyanta, having been found by a fisherman in the belly of a carp. On its being restored to the king's finger, he is overcome with a flood of recollection: he gives himself over to mourning and forbids the celebration of the Spring festival. He admits that his palsied heart had been slumbering, and that, now it is roused by memories of his fawn-eyed love, he only wakes to agonies of remorse. Meanwhile Sakoontala had been carried away like a celestial nymph to the sacred grove of Kasyapa, far removed from earth in the upper air. The king, being summoned by Indra to destroy the brood of giants, descendants of Kalamemi, the monster of a hundred arms and heads, reaches in the celestial car Indra, the grove where dwell his wife and child, an heroic boy whom the hermits call Sarva-damana—the all-tamer. The recognition and reconciliation of husband and wife are delineated with the most delicate skill, and the play concludes with a prayer to Shiva.

E.W.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

DUSHYANTA, King of India.

MATHAVYA, the Jester, friend and companion of the King.

KANWA, chief of the Hermits, foster-father of Sakoontala.

SARNGARAVA, SARADWATA, two Brahmans, belonging to the hermitage of Kanwa.

MITRAVASU, brother-in-law of the King, and Superintendent of the city police.

JANUKA, SUCHAKA, two constables.

VATAYANA, the Chamberlain or attendant on the women's apartments.

SOMARATA, the domestic Priest.

KARABHAKA, a messenger of the Queen-mother.

RAIVATAKA, the warder or door-keeper.

MATALI, charioteer of Indra.

SARVA-DAMANA, afterwards Bharata, a little boy, son of Dushyanta by Sakoontala.

KASYAPA, a divine sage, progenitor of men and gods, son of Marichi and grandson of Brahma.

SAKOONTALA, daughter of the sage Viswamitra and the nymph Menaka, foster-child of the hermit Kanwa.

PRIYAMVADA and ANASUYA, female attendants, companions of Sakoontala.

GAUTAMI, a holy matron, Superior of the female inhabitants of the hermitage.

VASUMATI, the Queen of Dushyanta.

SANUMATI, a nymph, friend of Sakoontala.

TARALIKA, personal attendant of the King.

CHATURIKA, personal attendant of the Queen.

VETRAVATI, female warder, or door-keeper.

PARABARITIKA and MADHUKARIKA, maidens in charge of the royal gardens.

SUVRATA, a nurse.

ADITI, wife of Kasyapa; grand-daughter of Brahma, through her father, Daksha.

Charioteer, Fisherman, Officers, and Hermits.

RULES FOR PRONUNCIATION OF PROPER NAMES

Observe, that in order to secure the correct pronunciation of the title of this Drama, "Sakuntala" has been spelt "Sa-koontala," the u being pronounced like the u in the English word rule.

The vowel a must invariably be pronounced with a dull sound, like the a in organ, or the u in fun, sun. Dushyanta must therefore be pronounced as if written Dooshyunta. The long vowel a is pronounced like the a in last, cart; i like the i in pin, sin; i like the i in marine; e like the e in prey; o like the o in so; ai like the ai in aisle; au like au in the German word baum, or like the ou in our.

The consonants are generally pronounced as in English, but g has always the sound of g in gun, give, never of g in gin. S with the accent over it (s) has the sound of s in sure, or of the last s in session.



SAKOONTALA

PROLOGUE

Benediction

Isa preserve you! he who is revealed In these eight forms by man perceptible— Water, of all creation's works the first; The fire that bears on high the sacrifice Presented with solemnity to heaven; The Priest, the holy offerer of gifts; The Sun and Moon, those two majestic orbs, Eternal marshallers of day and night; The subtle Ether, vehicle of sound, Diffused throughout the boundless universe; The Earth, by sages called "The place of birth Of all material essences and things"; And Air, which giveth life to all that breathe.

STAGE-MANAGER [after the recitation of the benediction, looking towards the tiring-room.]—Lady, when you have finished attiring yourself, come this way.

ACTRESS [entering.]—Here I am, Sir; what are your commands?

STAGE-MANAGER.—We are here before the eyes of an audience of educated and discerning men; and have to represent in their presence a new drama composed by Kalidasa, called "Sakoontala, or the Lost Ring." Let the whole company exert themselves to do justice to their several parts.

ACTRESS,—You, Sir, have so judiciously managed the cast of the characters, that nothing will be defective in the acting.

STAGE-MANAGER.—Lady, I will tell you the exact state of the case. No skill in acting can I deem complete, Till from the wise the actor gain applause: Know that the heart e'en of the truly skilful, Shrinks from too boastful confidence in self.

ACTRESS [modestly].—You judge correctly. And now, what are your commands?

STAGE-MANAGER.—What can you do better than engage the attention of the audience by some captivating melody?

ACTRESS.—Which among the seasons shall I select as the subject of my song?

STAGE-MANAGER.—You surely ought to give the preference to the present Summer season that has but recently commenced, a season so rich in enjoyment. For now Unceasing are the charms of halcyon days, When the cool bath exhilarates the frame; When sylvan gales are laden with the scent Of fragrant Patalas; when soothing sleep Creeps softly on beneath the deepening shade; And when, at last, the dulcet calm of eve Entrancing steals o'er every yielding sense.

ACTRESS.—I will. [Sings. Fond maids, the chosen of their hearts to please, Entwine their ears with sweet Sirisha flowers, Whose fragrant lips attract the kiss of bees That softly murmur through the summer hours.

STAGE-MANAGER.—Charmingly sung! The audience are motionless as statues, their souls riveted by the enchanting strain. What subject shall we select for representation, that we may insure a continuance of their favor?

ACTRESS.—Why not the same, Sir, announced by you at first? Let the drama called "Sakoontala, or the Lost Ring," be the subject of our dramatic performance.

STAGE-MANAGER.—Rightly reminded! For the moment I had forgotten it. Your song's transporting melody decoyed My thoughts, and rapt with ecstasy my soul; As now the bounding antelope allures The King Dushyanta on the chase intent. [Exeunt.



ACT FIRST

Scene.—A Forest

Enter King Dushyanta, armed with a bow and arrow, in a chariot, chasing an antelope, attended by his Charioteer.

CHARIOTEER [looking at the deer, and then at the King].— Great Prince, When on the antelope I bend my gaze, And on your Majesty, whose mighty bow Has its string firmly braced; before my eyes The god that wields the trident seems revealed, Chasing the deer that flies from him in vain.

KING.—Charioteer, this fleet antelope has drawn us far from my attendants. See! there he runs:— Aye and anon his graceful neck he bends To cast a glance at the pursuing car; And dreading now the swift-descending shaft, Contracts into itself his slender frame: About his path, in scattered fragments strewn, The half-chewed grass falls from his panting mouth; See! in his airy bounds he seems to fly, And leaves no trace upon th'elastic turf. [With astonishment. How now! swift as is our pursuit, I scarce can see him.

CHARIOTEER.—Sire, the ground here is full of hollows; I have therefore drawn in the reins and checked the speed of the chariot. Hence the deer has somewhat gained upon us. Now that we are passing over level ground, we shall have no difficulty in overtaking him.

KING.—Loosen the reins, then.

CHARIOTEER.—The King is obeyed. [Drives the chariot at full speed.] Great Prince, see! see! Responsive to the slackened rein, the steeds Chafing with eager rivalry, career With emulative fleetness o'er the plain; Their necks outstretched, their waving plumes, that late Fluttered above their brows, are motionless; Their sprightly ears, but now erect, bent low; Themselves unsullied by the circling dust, That vainly follows on their rapid course.

KING [joyously].—In good sooth, the horses seem as if they would outstrip the steeds of Indra and the Sun.[33] That which but now showed to my view minute Quickly assumes dimension; that which seemed A moment since disjoined in diverse parts, Looks suddenly like one compacted whole; That which is really crooked in its shape In the far distance left, grows regular; Wondrous the chariot's speed, that in a breath, Makes the near distant and the distant near.

Now, Charioteer, see me kill the deer. [Takes aim.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Hold, O King! this deer belongs to our hermitage. Kill it not! kill it not!

CHARIOTEER [listening and looking].—Great King, some hermits have stationed themselves so as to screen the antelope at the very moment of its coming within range of your arrow.

KING [hastily].—Then stop the horses.

CHARIOTEER.—I obey. [Stops the chariot.

Enter a Hermit, and two others with him.

HERMIT [raising his hand].—This deer, O King, belongs to our hermitage. Kill it not! kill it not! Now heaven forbid this barbed shaft descend Upon the fragile body of a fawn, Like fire upon a heap of tender flowers! Can thy steel bolts no meeter quarry find Than the warm life-blood of a harmless deer? Restore, great Prince, thy weapon to its quiver; More it becomes thy arms to shield the weak, Than to bring anguish on the innocent.

KING.—'Tis done. [Replaces the arrow in its quiver.

HERMIT.—Worthy is this action of a Prince, the light of Puru's race. Well does this act befit a Prince like thee, Right worthy is it of thine ancestry. Thy guerdon be a son of peerless worth, Whose wide dominion shall embrace the earth.

BOTH THE OTHER HERMITS [raising their hands].—May heaven indeed grant thee a son, a sovereign of the earth from sea to sea!

KING [bowing.]—I accept with gratitude a Brahman's benediction.

HERMIT.—We came hither, mighty Prince, to collect sacrificial wood. Here on the banks of the Malini you may perceive the hermitage of the great sage Kanwa. If other duties require not your presence, deign to enter and accept our hospitality. When you behold our penitential rites Performed without impediment by Saints Rich only in devotion, then with pride Will you reflect, Such are the holy men Who call me Guardian; such the men for whom To wield the bow I bare my nervous arm, Scarred by the motion of the glancing string.

KING.—Is the Chief of your Society now at home?

HERMIT.—No; he has gone to Soma-tirtha to propitiate Destiny, which threatens his daughter Sakoontala with some calamity; but he has commissioned her in his absence to entertain all guests with hospitality.

KING.—Good! I will pay her a visit. She will make me acquainted with the mighty sage's acts of penance and devotion.

HERMIT.—And we will depart on our errand. [Exit with his companions.

KING.—Charioteer, urge on the horses. We will at least purify our souls by a sight of this hallowed retreat.

CHARIOTEER.—Your Majesty is obeyed. [Drives the chariot with great velocity.

KING [looking all about him].—Charioteer, even without being told, I should have known that these were the precincts of a grove consecrated to penitential rites.

CHARIOTEER.—How so?

KING.—Do not you observe? Beneath the trees, whose hollow trunks afford Secure retreat to many a nestling brood Of parrots, scattered grains of rice lie strewn. Lo! here and there are seen the polished slabs That serve to bruise the fruit of Ingudi. The gentle roe-deer, taught to trust in man, Unstartled hear our voices. On the paths Appear the traces of bark-woven vests Borne dripping from the limpid fount of waters. And mark! Laved are the roots of trees by deep canals, Whose glassy waters tremble in the breeze; The sprouting verdure of the leaves is dimmed By dusky wreaths of upward curling smoke From burnt oblations; and on new-mown lawns Around our car graze leisurely the fawns.

CHARIOTEER.—I observe it all.

KING [advancing a little further].—The inhabitants of this sacred retreat must not be disturbed. Stay the chariot, that I may alight.

CHARIOTEER.—The reins are held in. Your Majesty may descend.

KING [alighting].—Charioteer, groves devoted to penance must be entered in humble attire. Take these ornaments. [Delivers his ornaments and bow to the Charioteer.] Charioteer, see that the horses are watered, and attend to them until I return from visiting the inhabitants of the hermitage.

CHARIOTEER.—I will. [Exit.

KING [walking and looking about].—Here is the entrance to the hermitage. I will now go in. [Entering he feels a throbbing sensation in his arm Serenest peace is in this calm retreat, By passion's breath unruffled; what portends My throbbing arm? Why should it whisper here Of happy love? Yet everywhere around us Stand the closed portals of events unknown.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—This way, my dear companions; this way.

KING [listening].—Hark! I hear voices to the right of yonder grove of trees. I will walk in that direction. [Walking and looking about.] Ah! here are the maidens of the hermitage coming this way to water the shrubs, carrying watering-pots proportioned to their strength. [Gazing at them.] How graceful they look! In palaces such charms are rarely ours; The woodland plants outshine the garden flowers. I will conceal myself in this shade and watch them. [Stands gazing at them.

Enter Sakoontala, with her two female companions, employed in the manner described.

SAKOONTALA.—This way, my dear companions; this way.

ANASUYA.—Dear Sakoontala, one would think that father Kanwa had more affection for the shrubs of the hermitage even than for you, seeing he assigns to you who are yourself as delicate as the fresh-blown jasmine, the task of filling with water the trenches which encircle their roots.

SAKOONTALA.—Dear Anasuya, although I am charged by my good father with this duty, yet I cannot regard it as a task. I really feel a sisterly love for these plants. [Continues watering the shrubs.

KING.—Can this be the daughter of Kanwa? The saintly man, though descended from the great Kasyapa, must be very deficient in judgment to habituate such a maiden to the life of a recluse. The sage who would this form of artless grace Inure to penance—thoughtlessly attempts To cleave in twain the hard acacia's stem With the soft edge of a blue lotus leaf. Well! concealed behind this tree, I will watch her without raising her suspicions. [Conceals himself.

SAKOONTALA.—Good Anasuya, Priyamvada has drawn this bark-dress too tightly about my chest. I pray thee, loosen it a little.

ANASUYA.—I will. [Loosens it.

PRIYAMVADA [smiling].—Why do you lay the blame on me? Blame rather your own blooming youthfulness which imparts fulness to your bosom.

KING.—A most just observation! This youthful form, whose bosom's swelling charms By the bark's knotted tissue are concealed, Like some fair bud close folded in its sheath, Gives not to view the blooming of its beauty. But what am I saying? In real truth, this bark-dress, though ill-suited to her figure, sets it off like an ornament. The lotus with the Saivala entwined Is not a whit less brilliant: dusky spots Heighten the lustre of the cold-rayed moon: This lovely maiden in her dress of bark Seems all the lovelier. E'en the meanest garb Gives to true beauty fresh attractiveness.

SAKOONTALA [looking before her].—Yon Kesara-tree beckons to me with its young shoots, which, as the breeze waves them to and fro, appear like slender fingers. I will go and attend to it. [Walks towards it.

PRIYAMVADA.—Dear Sakoontala, prithee, rest in that attitude one moment.

SAKOONTALA.—Why so?

PRIYAMVADA.—The Kesara-tree, whilst your graceful form bends about its stem, appears as if it were wedded to some lovely twining creeper.

SAKOONTALA.—Ah! saucy girl, you are most appropriately named Priyamvada ("Speaker of flattering things").

KING.—What Priyamvada says, though complimentary, is nevertheless true. Verily, Her ruddy lip vies with the opening bud; Her graceful arms are as the twining stalks; And her whole form is radiant with the glow Of youthful beauty, as the tree with bloom.

ANASUYA.—See, dear Sakoontala, here is the young jasmine, which you named "the Moonlight of the Grove," the self-elected wife of the mango-tree. Have you forgotten it?

SAKOONTALA.—Rather will I forget myself. [Approaching the plant and looking at it.] How delightful is the season when the jasmine-creeper and the mango-tree seem thus to unite in mutual embraces! The fresh blossoms of the jasmine resemble the bloom of a young bride, and the newly-formed shoots of the mango appear to make it her natural protector. [Continues gazing at it.

PRIYAMVADA [smiling].—Do you know, my Anasuya, why Sakoontala gazes so intently at the jasmine?

ANASUYA.—No, indeed, I cannot imagine. I pray thee tell me.

PRIYAMVADA.—She is wishing that as the jasmine is united to a suitable tree, so, in like manner, she may obtain a husband worthy of her.

SAKOONTALA.—Speak for yourself, girl; this is the thought in your own mind. [Continues watering the flowers.

KING.—Would that my union with her were permissible! and yet I hardly dare hope that the maiden is sprung from a caste different from that of the Head of the hermitage. But away with doubt:— That she is free to wed a warrior-king My heart attests. For, in conflicting doubts, The secret promptings of the good man's soul Are an unerring index of the truth.

However, come what may, I will ascertain the fact.

SAKOONTALA [in a flurry].—Ah! a bee, disturbed by the sprinkling of the water, has left the young jasmine, and is trying to settle on my face. [Attempts to drive it away.

KING [gazing at her ardently].—Beautiful! there is something charming even in her repulse. Where'er the bee his eager onset plies, Now here, now there, she darts her kindling eyes: What love hath yet to teach, fear teaches now, The furtive glances and the frowning brow. [In a tone of envy. Ah happy bee! how boldly dost thou try To steal the lustre from her sparkling eye; And in thy circling movements hover near, To murmur tender secrets in her ear; Or, as she coyly waves her hand, to sip Voluptuous nectar from her lower lip! While rising doubts my heart's fond hopes destroy, Thou dost the fulness of her charms enjoy.

SAKOONTALA.—This impertinent bee will not rest quiet. I must move elsewhere. [Moving a few steps off, and casting a glance around.] How now! he is following me here. Help! my dear friends, help! deliver me from the attacks of this troublesome insect.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—How can we deliver you? Call Dushyanta to your aid. The sacred groves are under the king's special protection.

KING.—An excellent opportunity for me to show myself. Fear not—[Checks himself when the words are half-uttered. Aside.] But stay, if I introduce myself in this manner, they will know me to be the King. Be it so, I will accost them, nevertheless.

SAKOONTALA [moving a step or two further off].—What! it still persists in following me.

KING [advancing hastily].—When mighty Puru's offspring sways the earth, And o'er the wayward holds his threatening rod, Who dares molest the gentle maids that keep Their holy vigils here in Kanwa's grove?

[All look at the King, and are embarrassed.

ANASUYA.—Kind Sir, no outrage has been committed; only our dear friend here was teased by the attacks of a troublesome bee. [Points to Sakoontala.

KING [turning to Sakoontala].—I trust all is well with your devotional rites?

[Sakoontala stands confused and silent.

ANASUYA.—All is well, indeed, now that we are honored by the reception of a distinguished guest. Dear Sakoontala, go, bring from the hermitage an offering of flowers, rice, and fruit. This water that we have brought with us will serve to bathe our guest's feet.

KING.—The rites of hospitality are already performed; your truly kind words are the best offering I can receive.

PRIYAMVADA.—At least be good enough, gentle Sir, to sit down awhile, and rest yourself on this seat shaded by the leaves of the Sapta-parna tree.

KING.—You, too, must all be fatigued by your employment.

ANASUYA.—Dear Sakoontala, there is no impropriety in our sitting by the side of our guest: come, let us sit down here.

[All sit down together.

SAKOONTALA [aside].—How is it that the sight of this man has made me sensible of emotions inconsistent with religious vows?

KING [gazing at them all by turns].—How charmingly your friendship is in keeping with the equality of your ages and appearance!

PRIYAMVADA [aside to Anasuya].—Who can this person be, whose lively yet dignified manner, and polite conversation, bespeak him a man of high rank?

ANASUYA.—I, too, my dear, am very curious to know. I will ask him myself. [Aloud]. Your kind words, noble Sir, fill me with confidence, and prompt me to inquire of what regal family our noble guest is the ornament? what country is now mourning his absence? and what induced a person so delicately nurtured to expose himself to the fatigue of visiting this grove of penance?

SAKOONTALA [aside].—Be not troubled, O my heart, Anasuya is giving utterance to thy thoughts.

KING [aside].—How now shall I reply? shall I make myself known, or shall I still disguise my real rank? I have it; I will answer her thus. [Aloud]. I am the person charged by his majesty, the descendant of Puru, with the administration of justice and religion; and am come to this sacred grove to satisfy myself that the rites of the hermits are free from obstruction.

ANASUYA.—The hermits, then, and all the members of our religious society have now a guardian.

[Sakoontala gazes bashfully at the King.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [perceiving the state of her feelings, and of the King's. Aside to Sakoontala].—Dear Sakoontala, if father Kanwa were but at home to-day———

SAKOONTALA [angrily].—What if he were?

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—He would honor this our distinguished guest with an offering of the most precious of his possessions.

SAKOONTALA.—Go to! you have some silly idea in your minds. I will not listen to such remarks.

KING.—May I be allowed, in my turn, to ask you maidens a few particulars respecting your friend?

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Your request, Sir, is an honor.

KING.—The sage Kanwa lives in the constant practice of austerities. How, then, can this friend of yours be called his daughter?

ANASUYA.—I will explain to you, Sir. You have heard of an illustrious sage of regal caste, Viswamitra, whose family name is Kausika.

KING.—I have.

ANASUYA.—Know that he is the real father of our friend. The venerable Kanwa is only her reputed father. He it was who brought her up, when she was deserted by her mother.

KING.—"Deserted by her mother!" My curiosity is excited; pray let me hear the story from the beginning.

ANASUYA.—You shall hear it, Sir. Some time since, this sage of regal caste, while performing a most severe penance on the banks of the river Godavari, excited the jealousy and alarm of the gods; insomuch that they despatched a lovely nymph named Menaka to interrupt his devotions.

KING.—The inferior gods, I am aware, are jealous of the power which the practice of excessive devotion confers on mortals.

ANASUYA.—Well, then, it happened that Viswamitra, gazing on the bewitching beauty of that nymph at a season when, spring being in its glory——— [Stops short, and appears confused.

KING.—The rest may be easily divined. Sakoontala, then, is the offspring of the nymph.

ANASUYA.—Just so.

KING.—It is quite intelligible. How could a mortal to such charms give birth? The lightning's radiance flashes not from earth.

[_Sakoontala remains modestly seated with downcast eyes.

[Aside_]. And so my desire has really scope for its indulgence. Yet I am still distracted by doubts, remembering the pleasantry of her female companions respecting her wish for a husband.

PRIYAMVADA [looking with a smile at Sakoontala, and then turning towards the King].—You seem desirous, Sir, of asking something further.

[Sakoontala makes a chiding gesture with her finger.

KING.—You conjecture truly. I am so eager to hear the particulars of your friend's history, that I have still another question to ask.

PRIYAMVADA.—Scruple not to do so. Persons who lead the life of hermits may be questioned unreservedly.

KING.—I wish to ascertain one point respecting your friend— Will she be bound by solitary vows Opposed to love, till her espousals only? Or ever dwell with these her cherished fawns, Whose eyes, in lustre vieing with her own, Return her gaze of sisterly affection?

PRIYAMVADA.—Hitherto, Sir, she has been engaged in the practice of religious duties, and has lived in subjection to her foster-father; but it is now his fixed intention to give her away in marriage to a husband worthy of her.

KING [aside].—His intention may be easily carried into effect. Be hopeful, O my heart, thy harrowing doubts Are past and gone; that which thou didst believe To be as unapproachable as fire, Is found a glittering gem that may be touched.

SAKOONTALA [pretending anger].—Anasuya, I shall leave you.

ANASUYA.—Why so?

SAKOONTALA.—That I may go and report this impertinent Priyamvada to the venerable matron, Gautami.[34]

ANASUYA.—Surely, dear friend, it would not be right to leave a distinguished guest before he has received the rights of hospitality, and quit his presence in this wilful manner.

[Sakoontala, without answering a word, moves away.

KING [making a movement to arrest her departure, but checking himself. Aside].—Ah! a lover's feelings betray themselves by his gestures. When I would fain have stayed the maid, a sense Of due decorum checked my bold design: Though I have stirred not, yet my mien betrays My eagerness to follow on her steps.

PRIYAMVADA [holding Sakoontala back].—Dear Sakoontala, it does not become you to go away in this manner.

SAKOONTALA [frowning].—Why not, pray?

PRIYAMVADA.—You are under a promise to water two more shrubs for me. When you have paid your debt, you shall go, and not before. [Forces her to turn back.

KING.—Spare her this trouble, gentle maiden. The exertion of watering the shrubs has already fatigued her. The water-jar has overtasked the strength Of her slim arms; her shoulders droop, her hands Are ruddy with the glow of quickened pulses; E'en now her agitated breath imparts Unwonted tremor to her heaving breast; The pearly drops that mar the recent bloom Of the Sirisha pendant in her ear, Gather in clustering circles on her cheek; Loosed is the fillet of her hair: her hand Restrains the locks that struggle to be free. Suffer me, then, thus to discharge the debt for you.

[Offers a ring to Priyamvada. Both the maidens, reading the name Dushyanta on the seal, look at each other with surprise.

KING.—Nay, think not that I am King Dushyanta. I am only the king's officer, and this is the ring which I have received from him as my credentials.

PRIYAMVADA.—The greater the reason you ought not to part with the ring from your finger. I am content to release her from her obligation at your simple request. [With a smile.] Now, Sakoontala my love, you are at liberty to retire, thanks to the intercession of this noble stranger, or rather of this mighty prince.

SAKOONTALA [aside].—My movements are no longer under my own control. [Aloud.] Pray, what authority have you over me, either to send me away or keep me back?

KING [gazing at Sakoontala. Aside].—Would I could ascertain whether she is affected towards me as I am towards her! At any rate, my hopes are free to indulge themselves. Because, Although she mingles not her words with mine, Yet doth her listening ear drink in my speech; Although her eye shrinks from my ardent gaze, No form but mine attracts its timid glances.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—O hermits, be ready to protect the animals belonging to our hermitage. King Dushyanta, amusing himself with hunting, is near at hand. Lo! by the feet of prancing horses raised, Thick clouds of moving dust, like glittering swarms Of locusts in the glow of eventide, Fall on the branches of our sacred trees; Where hang the dripping vests of woven bark, Bleached by the waters of the cleansing fountain. And see! Scared by the royal chariot in its course, With headlong haste an elephant invades The hallowed precincts of our sacred grove; Himself the terror of the startled deer, And an embodied hindrance to our rites. The hedge of creepers clinging to his feet, Feeble obstruction to his mad career, Is dragged behind him in a tangled chain; And with terrific shock one tusk he drives Into the riven body of a tree, Sweeping before him all impediments.

KING [aside].—Out upon it! my retinue are looking for me, and are disturbing this holy retreat. Well! there is no help for it; I must go and meet them.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Noble Sir, we are terrified by the accidental disturbance caused by the wild elephant. Permit us to return into the cottage.

KING [hastily].—Go, gentle maidens. It shall be our care that no injury happen to the hermitage. [All rise up.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—After such poor hospitality we are ashamed to request the honor of a second visit from you.

KING.—Say not so. The mere sight of you, sweet maidens, has been to me the best entertainment.

SAKOONTALA.—Anasuya, a pointed blade of Kusa-grass[35] has pricked my foot; and my bark-mantle is caught in the branch of a Kuruvaka-bush. Be so good as to wait for me until I have disentangled it. [Exit with her two companions, after making pretexts for delay, that she may steal glances at the King.

KING.—I have no longer any desire to return to the city. I will therefore rejoin my attendants, and make them encamp somewhere in the vicinity of this sacred grove. In good truth, Sakoontala has taken such possession of my thoughts, that I cannot turn myself in any other direction. My limbs drawn onward leave my heart behind, Like silken pennon borne against the wind.

[33] The speed of the chariot resembled that of the wind and the sun. Indra was the god of the firmament or atmosphere. The sun, in Hindoo mythology, is represented as seated in a chariot drawn by seven green horses, having before him a lovely youth without legs, who acts as charioteer, and who is Aruna, or the Dawn personified.

[34] The Matron or Superior of the female part of the society of hermits. Their authority resembled that of an abbess in a convent of nuns.

[35] A grass held sacred by the Hindoos and freely used at their religious ceremonies. Its leaves are very long and taper to a needle-like point.



ACT SECOND

Scene.—A Plain on the Skirts of the Forest

Enter the Jester, Mathavya, in a melancholy mood.

MATHAVYA [sighing].—Heigh-ho! what an unlucky fellow I am! worn to a shadow by my royal friend's sporting propensities. "Here's a deer!" "There goes a boar!" "Yonder's a tiger!" This is the only burden of our talk, while in the heat of the meridian sun we toil on from jungle to jungle, wandering about in the paths of the woods, where the trees afford us no shelter. Are we thirsty? We have nothing to drink but the foul water of some mountain stream, filled with dry leaves which give it a most pungent flavor. Are we hungry? We have nothing to eat but roast game, which we must swallow down at odd times, as best we can. Even at night there is no peace to be had. Sleeping is out of the question, with joints all strained by dancing attendance upon my sporting friend; or if I do happen to doze, I am awakened at the very earliest dawn by the horrible din of a lot of rascally beaters and huntsmen, who must needs surround the wood before sunrise, and deafen me with their clatter. Nor are these my only troubles. Here's a fresh grievance, like a new boil rising upon an old one! Yesterday, while we were lagging behind, my royal friend entered yonder hermitage after a deer; and there, as ill-luck would have it? caught sight of a beautiful girl, called Sakoontala, the hermit's daughter. From that moment, not another thought about returning to the city! and all last night, not a wink of sleep did he get for thinking of the damsel. What is to be done? At any rate, I will be on the watch for him as soon as he has finished his toilet. [[Walking and looking about.] Oh! here he comes, attended by the Yavana women with bows in their hands, and wearing garlands of wild flowers. What shall I do? I have it. I will pretend to stand in the easiest attitude for resting my bruised and crippled limbs. [Stands leaning on a staff.

Enter King Dushyanta, followed by a retinue in the manner described.

KING.—True, by no easy conquest may I win her, Yet are my hopes encouraged by her mien. Love is not yet triumphant; but, methinks, The hearts of both are ripe for his delights. [Smiling.] Ah! thus does the lover delude himself; judging of the state of his loved one's feelings by his own desires. But yet, The stolen glance with half-averted eye, The hesitating gait, the quick rebuke Addressed to her companion, who would fain Have stayed her counterfeit departure; these Are signs not unpropitious to my suit. So eagerly the lover feeds his hopes, Claiming each trivial gesture for his own.

MATHAVYA [still in the same attitude].—Ah, friend, my hands cannot move to greet you with the usual salutation. I can only just command my lips to wish your majesty victory.

KING.—Why, what has paralyzed your limbs?

MATHAVYA.—You might as well ask me how my eye comes to water after you have poked your finger into it.

KING.—I don't understand you; speak more intelligibly.

MATHAVYA.—Ah, my dear friend, is yonder upright reed transformed into a crooked plant by its own act, or by the force of the current?

KING.—The current of the river causes it, I suppose.

MATHAVYA.—Aye; just as you are the cause of my crippled limbs.

KING.—How so?

MATHAVYA.—Here are you living the life of a wild man of the woods in a savage, unfrequented region, while your state affairs are left to shift for themselves; and as for poor me, I am no longer master of my own limbs, but have to follow you about day after day in your chases after wild animals, till my bones are all crippled and out of joint. Do, my dear friend, let me have one day's rest.

KING [aside].—This fellow little knows, while he talks in this manner, that my mind is wholly engrossed by recollections of the hermit's daughter, and quite as disinclined to the chase as his own. No longer can I bend my well-braced bow Against the timid deer; nor e'er again With well-aimed arrows can I think to harm These her beloved associates, who enjoy The privilege of her companionship; Teaching her tender glances in return.

MATHAVYA [looking in the King's face].—I may as well speak to the winds, for any attention you pay to my requests. I suppose you have something on your mind, and are talking it over to yourself.

KING [smiling].—I was only thinking that I ought not to disregard a friend's request.

MATHAVYA.—Then may the King live forever! [Moves off.

KING.—Stay a moment, my dear friend. I have something else to say to you.

MATHAVYA.—Say on, then.

KING.—When you have rested, you must assist me in another business, which will give you no fatigue.

MATHAVYA.—In eating something nice, I hope.

KING.—You shall know at some future time.

MATHAVYA.—No time better than the present.

KING.—What ho! there.

WARDER [entering].—What are your Majesty's commands?

KING.—O Raivataka! bid the General of the forces attend.

WARDER.—I will, Sire. [Exit and reenters with the General] Come forward, General; his Majesty is looking towards you, and has some order to give you.

GENERAL [looking at the King].—Though hunting is known to produce ill effects, my royal master has derived only benefit from it. For Like the majestic elephant that roams O'er mountain wilds, so does the King display A stalwart frame, instinct with vigorous life. His brawny arms and manly chest are scored By frequent passage of the sounding string; Unharmed he bears the mid-day sun; no toil His mighty spirit daunts; his sturdy limbs, Stripped of redundant flesh, relinquish nought Of their robust proportions, but appear In muscle, nerve, and sinewy fibre cased. [Approaching the King.] Victory to the King! We have tracked the wild beasts to their lairs in the forest. Why delay, when everything is ready?

KING.—My friend Mathavya here has been disparaging the chase, till he has taken away all my relish for it.

GENERAL [aside to Mathavya].—Persevere in your opposition, my good fellow; I will sound the King's real feelings, and humor him accordingly. [Aloud]. The blockhead talks nonsense, and your Majesty, in your own person, furnishes the best proof of it. Observe, Sire, the advantage and pleasure the hunter derives from the chase. Freed from all grosser influences, his frame Loses its sluggish humors, and becomes Buoyant, compact, and fit for bold encounter. 'Tis his to mark with joy the varied passions, Fierce heats of anger, terror, blank dismay, Of forest animals that cross his path. Then what a thrill transports the hunter's soul, When, with unerring course, his driven shaft Pierces the moving mark! Oh! 'tis conceit In moralists to call the chase a vice; What recreation can compare with this?

MATHAVYA [angrily].—Away! tempter, away! The King has recovered his senses, and is himself again. As for you, you may, if you choose, wander about from forest to forest, till some old bear seizes you by the nose, and makes a mouthful of you.

KING.—My good General, as we are just now in the neighborhood of a consecrated grove, your panegyric upon hunting is somewhat ill-timed, and I cannot assent to all you have said. For the present, All undisturbed the buffaloes shall sport In yonder pool, and with their ponderous horns Scatter its tranquil waters, while the deer, Couched here and there in groups beneath the shade Of spreading branches, ruminate in peace. And all securely shall the herd of boars Feed on the marshy sedge; and thou, my bow, With slackened string enjoy a long repose.

GENERAL.—So please your Majesty, it shall be as you desire.

KING.—Recall, then, the beaters who were sent in advance to surround the forest. My troops must not be allowed to disturb this sacred retreat, and irritate its pious inhabitants. Know that within the calm and cold recluse Lurks unperceived a germ of smothered flame, All-potent to destroy; a latent fire That rashly kindled bursts with fury forth:— As in the disc of crystal that remains Cool to the touch, until the solar ray Falls on its polished surface, and excites The burning heat that lies within concealed.

GENERAL.—Your Majesty's commands shall be obeyed.

MATHAVYA.—Off with you, you son of a slave! Your nonsense won't go down here, my fine fellow. [Exit General.

KING [looking at his attendants].—Here, women, take my hunting-dress; and you, Raivataka, keep guard carefully outside.

ATTENDANTS.—We will, sire. [Exeunt.

MATHAVYA.—Now that you have got rid of these plagues, who have been buzzing about us like so many flies, sit down, do, on that stone slab, with the shade of the tree as your canopy, and I will seat myself by you quite comfortably.

KING.—Go you, and sit down first.

MATHAVYA.—Come along, then.

[Both walk on a little way, and seat themselves.

KING.—Mathavya, it may be said of you that you have never beheld anything worth seeing: for your eyes have not yet looked upon the loveliest object in creation.

MATHAVYA.—How can you say so, when I see your Majesty before me at this moment?

KING.—It is very natural that everyone should consider his own friend perfect; but I was alluding to Sakoontala, the brightest ornament of these hallowed groves.

MATHAVYA [aside].—I understand well enough, but I am not going to humor him. [Aloud.] If, as you intimate, she is a hermit's daughter, you cannot lawfully ask her in marriage. You may as well, then, dismiss her from your mind, for any good the mere sight of her can do.

KING.—Think you that a descendant of the mighty Puru could fix his affections on an unlawful object? Though, as men say, the offspring of the sage, The maiden to a nymph celestial owes Her being, and by her mother left on earth, Was found and nurtured by the holy man As his own daughter, in this hermitage;— So, when dissevered from its parent stalk, Some falling blossom of the jasmine, wafted Upon the sturdy sunflower, is preserved By its support from premature decay.

MATHAVYA [smiling].—This passion of yours for a rustic maiden, when you have so many gems of women at home in your palace, seems to me very like the fancy of a man who is tired of sweet dates, and longs for sour tamarinds as a variety.

KING.—You have not seen her, or you would not talk in this fashion.

MATHAVYA.—I can quite understand it must require something surpassingly attractive to excite the admiration of such a great man as you.

KING.—I will describe her, my dear friend, in a few words— Man's all-wise Maker, wishing to create A faultless form, whose matchless symmetry Should far transcend Creation's choicest works, Did call together by his mighty will, And garner up in his eternal mind, A bright assemblage of all lovely things:— And then, as in a picture, fashion them Into one perfect and ideal form. Such the divine, the wondrous prototype, Whence her fair shape was moulded into being.

MATHAVYA.—If that's the case, she must indeed throw all other beauties into the shade.

KING.—To my mind she really does. This peerless maid is like a fragrant flower, Whose perfumed breath has never been diffused; A tender bud, that no profaning hand Has dared to sever from its parent stalk; A gem of priceless water, just released Pure and unblemished from its glittering bed. Or may the maiden haply be compared To sweetest honey, that no mortal lip Has sipped; or, rather to the mellowed fruit Of virtuous actions in some former birth, Now brought to full perfection? Lives the man Whom bounteous heaven has destined to espouse her?

MATHAVYA.—Make haste, then, to her aid; you have no time to lose, if you don't wish this fruit of all the virtues to drop into the mouth of some greasy-headed rustic of devout habits.

KING.—The lady is not her own mistress, and her foster-father is not at home.

MATHAVYA.—Well, but tell me, did she look at all kindly upon you?

KING.—Maidens brought up in a hermitage are naturally shy and reserved; but for all that, She did look towards me, though she quick withdrew Her stealthy glances when she met my gaze; She smiled upon me sweetly, but disguised With maiden grace the secret of her smiles. Coy love was half unveiled; then, sudden checked By modesty, left half to be divined.

MATHAVYA.—Why, of course, my dear friend, you never could seriously expect that at the very first sight she would fall over head and ears in love with you, and without more ado come and sit in your lap.

KING.—When we parted from each other, she betrayed her liking for me by clearer indications, but still with the utmost modesty. Scarce had the fair one from my presence passed, When, suddenly, without apparent cause, She stopped, and counterfeiting pain, exclaimed, "My foot is wounded by this prickly grass." Then glancing at me tenderly, she feigned Another charming pretext for delay, Pretending that a bush had caught her robe, And turned as if to disentangle it.

MATHAVYA.—I trust you have laid in a good stock of provisions, for I see you intend making this consecrated grove your game-preserve, and will be roaming here in quest of sport for some time to come.

KING.—You must know, my good fellow, that I have been recognized by some of the inmates of the hermitage. Now I want the assistance of your fertile invention, in devising some excuse for going there again.

MATHAVYA.—There is but one expedient that I can suggest. You are the King, are you not?

KING.—What then?

MATHAVYA.—Say you have come for the sixth part of their grain, which they owe you for tribute.

KING.—No, no, foolish man; these hermits pay me a very different kind of tribute, which I value more than heaps of gold or jewels; observe, The tribute which my other subjects bring Must moulder into dust, but holy men Present me with a portion of the fruits Of penitential services and prayers— A precious and imperishable gift.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—We are fortunate; here is the object of our search.

KING [listening],—Surely those must be the voices of hermits, to judge by their deep tones.

WARDER [entering],—Victory to the King! two young hermits are in waiting outside, and solicit an audience of your Majesty.

KING.—Introduce them immediately.

WARDER.—I will, my liege. [Goes out, and reenters with two young Hermits.] This way, Sirs, this way.

[Both the Hermits look at the King

FIRST HERMIT.—How majestic is his mien, and yet what confidence it inspires! But this might be expected in a king whose character and habits have earned for him a title only one degree removed from that of a Saint. In this secluded grove, whose sacred joys All may participate, he deigns to dwell Like one of us; and daily treasures up A store of purest merit for himself, By the protection of our holy rites. In his own person wondrously are joined Both majesty and saintlike holiness:— And often chanted by inspired bards, His hallowed title of "Imperial Sage" Ascends in joyous accents to the skies.

SECOND HERMIT.—Bear in mind, Gautama, that this is the great Dushyanta, the friend of Indra.

FIRST HERMIT.—What of that?

SECOND HERMIT.—Where is the wonder if his nervous arm, Puissant and massive as the iron bar That binds a castle-gateway, singly sways The sceptre of the universal earth, E'en to its dark-green boundary of waters? Or if the gods, beholden to his aid In their fierce warfare with the powers of hell, Should blend his name with Indra's in their songs Of victory, and gratefully accord No lower meed of praise to his braced bow, Than to the thunders of the god of heaven?

BOTH THE HERMITS [approaching].—Victory to the King!

KING [rising from his seat].—Hail to you both!

BOTH THE HERMITS.—Heaven bless your Majesty!

[They offer fruits.

KING [respectfully receiving the offering].—Tell me, I pray you, the object of your visit.

BOTH THE HERMITS.—The inhabitants of the hermitage having heard of your Majesty's sojourn in our neighborhood, make this humble petition.

KING.—What are their commands?

BOTH THE HERMITS.—In the absence of our Superior, the great Sage Kanwa, evil demons are disturbing our sacrificial rites.[36] Deign, therefore, accompanied by your charioteer, to take up your abode in our hermitage for a few days.

KING.—I am honored by your invitation.

MATHAVYA [aside].—Most opportune and convenient, certainly!

KING [smiling].—Ho! there, Raivataka! Tell the charioteer from me to bring round the chariot with my bow.

WARDER.—I will, Sire. [Exit.

BOTH THE HERMITS [joyfully].—Well it becomes the King by acts of grace To emulate the virtues of his race. Such acts thy lofty destiny attest; Thy mission is to succor the distressed.

KING [bowing to the Hermits].—Go first, reverend Sirs, I will follow you immediately.

BOTH THE HERMITS.—May victory attend you! [Exeunt.

KING.—My dear Mathavya, are you not full of longing to see Sakoontala?

MATHAVYA.—To tell you the truth, though I was just now brimful of desire to see her, I have not a drop left since this piece of news about the demons.

KING.—Never fear; you shall keep close to me for protection.

MATHAVYA.—Well, you must be my guardian-angel, and act the part of a very Vishnu[37] to me.

WARDER—[entering].—Sire, the chariot is ready, and only waits to conduct you to victory. But here is a messenger named Karabhaka, just arrived from your capital, with a message from the Queen, your mother.

KING—[respectfully].—How say you? a messenger from the venerable Queen?

WARDER.—Even so.

KING.—Introduce him at once.

WARDER.—I will, Sire. [Goes out, and re-enters with Karabhaka.] Behold the King! Approach.

KARABHAKA.—Victory to the King! The Queen-mother bids me say that in four days from the present time she intends celebrating a solemn ceremony for the advancement and preservation of her son. She expects that your Majesty will honor her with your presence on that occasion.

KING.—This places me in a dilemma. Here, on the one hand, is the commission of these holy men to be executed; and, on the other, the command of my revered parent to be obeyed. Both duties are too sacred to be neglected. What is to be done?

MATHAVYA.—You will have to take up an intermediate position between the two, like King Trisanku, who was suspended between heaven and earth, because the sage Viswamitra commanded him to mount up to heaven, and the gods ordered him down again.

KING.—I am certainly very much perplexed. For here, Two different duties are required of me In widely distant places; how can I In my own person satisfy them both? Thus is my mind distracted and impelled In opposite directions, like a stream That, driven back by rocks, still rushes on, Forming two currents in its eddying course. [Reflecting.] Friend Mathavya, as you were my playfellow in childhood, the Queen has always received you like a second son; go you, then, back to her and tell her of my solemn engagement to assist these holy men. You can supply my place in the ceremony, and act the part of a son to the Queen.

MATHAVYA.—With the greatest pleasure in the world; but don't suppose that I am really coward enough to have the slightest fear of those trumpery demons.

KING [smiling].—Oh! of course not; a great Brahman like you could not possibly give way to such weakness.

MATHAVYA.—You must let me travel in a manner suitable to the King's younger brother.

KING.—Yes, I shall send my retinue with you, that there may be no further disturbance in this sacred forest.

MATHAVYA [with a strut].—Already I feel quite like a young prince.

KING [aside].—This is a giddy fellow, and in all probability he will let out the truth about my present pursuit to the women of the palace. What is to be done? I must say something to deceive him. [Aloud to Mathavya, taking him by the hand.] Dear friend, I am going to the hermitage wholly and solely out of respect for its pious inhabitants, and not because I have really any liking for Sakoontala, the hermit's daughter. Observe, What suitable communion could there be Between a monarch and a rustic girl? I did but feign an idle passion, friend, Take not in earnest what was said in jest.

MATHAVYA.—Don't distress yourself; I quite understand.

[Exeunt.

[36] The religious rites of holy men were often disturbed by certain evil spirits called Rakshasas, who were the determined enemies of piety and devotion.

[37] Vishnu, the Preserver, was one of the three principal gods.



PRELUDE TO ACT THIRD

Scene.—The Hermitage

Enter a young Brahman, carrying bundles of Kusa-grass for the use of the sacrificing priests.

YOUNG BRAHMAN.—How wonderful is the power of King Dushyanta! No sooner did he enter our hermitage, than we were able to proceed with our sacrificial rites, unmolested by the evil demons. No need to fix the arrow to the bow; The mighty monarch sounds the quivering string, And, by the thunder of his arms dismayed, Our demon foes are scattered to the wind. I must now, therefore, make haste and deliver to the sacrificing priests these bundles of Kusa-grass, to be strewn round the altar. [Walking and looking about; then addressing someone off the stage.] Why, Priyamvada, for whose use are you carrying that ointment of Usira-root and those lotus leaves with fibres attached to them? [Listening for her answer.] What say you?—that Sakoontala is suffering from fever produced by exposure to the sun, and that this ointment is to cool her burning frame? Nurse her with care, then, Priyamvada, for she is cherished by our reverend Superior as the very breath of his nostrils. I, for my part, will contrive that soothing waters, hallowed in the sacrifice, be administered to her by the hands of Gautami. [Exit.



ACT THIRD

Scene.—The Sacred Grove

Enter King Dushyanta, with the air of one in love.

KING [sighing thoughtfully].—The holy sage possesses magic power In virtue of his penance; she, his ward, Under the shadow of his tutelage Rests in security. I know it well; Yet sooner shall the rushing cataract In foaming eddies re-ascend the steep, Than my fond heart turn back from its pursuit.

God of Love! God of the flowery shafts![38] we are all of us cruelly deceived by thee, and by the Moon, however deserving of confidence you may both appear.

For not to us do these thine arrows seem Pointed with tender flowerets; not to us Doth the pale moon irradiate the earth With beams of silver fraught with cooling dews:— But on our fevered frames the moon-beams fall Like darts of fire, and every flower-tipped shaft Of Kama, as it probes our throbbing hearts, Seems to be barbed with hardest adamant.

Adorable god of love! hast thou no pity for me? [In a tone of anguish.] How can thy arrows be so sharp when they are pointed with flowers? Ah! I know the reason:

E'en now in thine unbodied essence lurks The fire of Siva's anger, like the flame That ever hidden in the secret depths Of ocean, smoulders there unseen. How else Couldst thou, all immaterial as thou art, Inflame our hearts thus fiercely?—thou, whose form Was scorched to ashes by a sudden flash From the offended god's terrific eye. Yet, methinks, Welcome this anguish, welcome to my heart 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?

Have I not daily offered at thy shrine Innumerable vows, the only food Of thine ethereal essence? Are my prayers Thus to be slighted? Is it meet that thou Shouldst aim thy shafts at thy true votary's heart, Drawing thy bow-string even to thy ear?

[Pacing up and down in a melancholy manner.] Now that the holy men have completed their rites, and have no more need of my services, how shall I dispel my melancholy? [Sighing. I have but one resource. Oh for another sight of the idol of my soul! I will seek her. [Glancing at the sun.] In all probability, as the sun's heat is now at its height, Sakoontala is passing her time under the shade of the bowers on the banks of the Malini, attended by her maidens. I will go and look for her there. [Walking and looking about.] I suspect the fair one has but just passed by this avenue of young-trees.

Here, as she tripped along, her fingers plucked The opening buds: these lacerated plants, Shorn of their fairest blossoms by her hand, Seem like dismembered trunks, whose recent wounds Are still unclosed; while from the bleeding socket Of many a severed stalk, the milky juice Still slowly trickles, and betrays her path.

[Feeling a breeze.] What a delicious breeze meets me in this spot!

Here may the zephyr, fragrant with the scent Of lotuses, and laden with the spray Caught from the waters of the rippling stream, Fold in its close embrace my fevered limbs.

[Walking and looking about.] She must be somewhere in the neighborhood of this arbor of overhanging creepers, enclosed by plantations of cane. [Looking down.]

For at the entrance here I plainly see A line of footsteps printed in the sand. Here are the fresh impressions of her feet; Their well-known outline faintly marked in front, More deeply towards the heel; betokening The graceful undulation of her gait.

I will peep through those branches. [Walking and looking. With transport.] Ah! now my eyes are gratified by an entrancing sight. Yonder is the beloved of my heart reclining on a rock strewn with flowers, and attended by her two friends. How fortunate! Concealed behind the leaves, I will listen to their conversation, without raising their suspicions. [Stands concealed, and gazes at them.]

Sakoontala and her two attendants, holding fans in their hands are discovered as described.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [fanning her. In a tone of affection.]—Dearest Sakoontala, is the breeze raised by these broad lotus leaves refreshing to you?

SAKOONTALA.—Dear friends, why should you trouble yourselves to fan me?

[Priyamvada and Anasuya look sorrowfully at one another.]

KING.—Sakoontala seems indeed to be seriously ill. [Thoughtfully.]Can it be the intensity of the heat that has affected her? or does my heart suggest the true cause of her malady? [Gazing at her passionately.] Why should I doubt it? The maiden's spotless bosom is o'erspread With cooling balsam; on her slender arm Her only bracelet, twined with lotus stalks, Hangs loose and withered; her recumbent form Expresses languor. Ne'er could noon-day sun Inflict such fair disorder on a maid— No, love, and love alone, is hereto blame.

PRIYAMVADA [aside to Anasuya.]—I have observed, Anasuya, that Sakoontala has been indisposed ever since her first interview with King Dushyanta. Depend upon it, her ailment is to be traced to this source.

ANASUYA.—The same suspicion, dear Priyamvada, has crossed my mind. But I will at once ask her and ascertain the truth. [Aloud.] Dear Sakoontala, I am about to put a question to you. Your indisposition is really very serious.

SAKOONTALA [half-rising from her couch].—What were you going to ask?

ANASUYA.—We know very little about love-matters, dear Sakoontala; but for all that, I cannot help suspecting your present state to be something similar to that of the lovers we have read about in romances. Tell us frankly what is the cause of your disorder. It is useless to apply a remedy, until the disease be understood.

KING.—Anasuya bears me out in my suspicion.

SAKOONTALA [aside].—I am, indeed, deeply in love; but cannot rashly disclose my passion to these young girls.

PRIYAMVADA.—What Anasuya says, dear Sakoontala, is very just. Why give so little heed to your ailment? Every day you are becoming thinner; though I must confess your complexion is still as beautiful as ever.

KING.—Priyamvada speaks most truly. Sunk is her velvet cheek; her wasted bosom Loses its fulness; e'en her slender waist Grows more attenuate; her face is wan, Her shoulders droop;—as when the vernal blasts Sear the young blossoms of the Madhavi, Blighting their bloom; so mournful is the change, Yet in its sadness, fascinating still, Inflicted by the mighty lord of love On the fair figure of the hermit's daughter.

SAKOONTALA.—Dear friends, to no one would I rather reveal the nature of my malady than to you; but I should only be troubling you.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Nay, this is the very point about which we are so solicitous. Sorrow shared with affectionate friends is relieved of half its poignancy.

KING.—Pressed by the partners of her joys and griefs, Her much beloved companions, to reveal The cherished secret locked within her breast, She needs must utter it; although her looks Encourage me to hope, my bosom throbs As anxiously I listen for her answer.

SAKOONTALA.—Know then, dear friends, that from the first moment the illustrious Prince, who is the guardian of our sacred grove, presented himself to my sight— [Stops short, and appears confused.]

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Say on, dear Sakoontala, say on.

SAKOONTALA.—Ever since that happy moment, my heart's affections have been fixed upon him, and my energies of mind and body have all deserted me, as you see.

KING [with rapture].—Her own lips have uttered the words I most longed to hear. Love lit the flame, and Love himself allays My burning fever, as when gathering clouds Rise o'er the earth in summer's dazzling noon, And grateful showers dispel the morning heat.

SAKOONTALA.—You must consent, then, dear friends, to contrive some means by which I may find favor with the King, or you will have ere long to assist at my funeral.

KING [with rapture].—Enough! These words remove all my doubts.

PRIYAMVADA [aside to Anasuya].—She is far gone in love, dear Anasuya, and no time ought to be lost. Since she has fixed her affections on a monarch who is the ornament of Puru's line, we need not hesitate for a moment to express our approval.

ANASUYA.—I quite agree with you.

PRIYAMVADA [aloud].—We wish you joy, dear Sakoontala. Your affections are fixed on an object in every respect worthy of you. The noblest river will unite itself to the ocean, and the lovely Madhavi-creeper clings naturally to the Mango, the only tree capable of supporting it.

KING.—Why need we wonder if the beautiful constellation Visakha pines to be united with the Moon.

ANASUYA.—By what stratagem can we best secure to our friend the accomplishment of her heart's desire, both speedily and secretly?

PRIYAMVADA.—The latter point is all we have to think about. As to "speedily," I look upon the whole affair as already settled.

ANASUYA.—How so?

PRIYAMVADA.—Did you not observe how the King betrayed his liking by the tender manner in which he gazed upon her, and how thin he has become the last few days, as if he had been lying awake thinking of her?

KING [looking at himself].—Quite true! I certainly am becoming thin from want of sleep:— As night by night in anxious thought I raise This wasted arm to rest my sleepless head, My jewelled bracelet, sullied by the tears That trickle from my eyes in scalding streams, Slips towards my elbow from my shrivelled wrist. Oft I replace the bauble, but in vain; So easily it spans the fleshless limb That e'en the rough and corrugated skin, Scarred by the bow-string, will not check its fall.

PRIYAMVADA [thoughtfully].—An idea strikes me, Anasuya. Let Sakoontala write a love-letter; I will conceal it in a flower, and contrive to drop it in the King's path. He will surely mistake it for the remains of some sacred offering, and will, in all probability, pick it up.

ANASUYA.—A very ingenious device! It has my entire approval; but what says Sakoontala?

SAKOONTALA.—I must consider before I can consent to it.

PRIYAMVADA.—Could you not, dear Sakoontala, think of some pretty composition in verse, containing a delicate declaration of your love?

SAKOONTALA.—Well, I will do my best; but my heart trembles when I think of the chances of a refusal.

KING [with rapture].—Too timid maid, here stands the man from whom Thou fearest a repulse; supremely blessed To call thee all his own. Well might he doubt His title to thy love; but how couldst thou Believe thy beauty powerless to subdue him?

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—You undervalue your own merits, dear Sakoontala. What man in his senses would intercept with the skirt of his robe the bright rays of the autumnal moon, which alone can allay the fever of his body?

SAKOONTALA [smiling].—Then it seems I must do as I am bid. [Sits down and appears to be thinking.]

KING.—How charming she looks! My very eyes forget to wink, jealous of losing even for an instant a sight so enchanting. How beautiful the movement of her brow, As through her mind love's tender fancies flow! And, as she weighs her thoughts, how sweet to trace The ardent passion mantling in her face!

SAKOONTALA.—Dear girls, I have thought of a verse, but I have no writing-materials at hand.

PRIYAMVADA.—Write the letters with your nail on this lotus leaf, which is smooth as a parrot's breast.

SAKOONTALA [after writing the verse].—Listen, dear friends, and tell me whether the ideas are appropriately expressed.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—We are all attention.

SAKOONTALA [reads].— I know not the secret thy bosom conceals, Thy form is not near me to gladden my sight; But sad is the tale that my fever reveals, Of the love that consumes me by day and by night.

KING [advancing hastily towards her].— Nay, Love does but warm thee, fair maiden—thy frame Only droops like the bud in the glare of the noon; But me he consumes with a pitiless flame, As the beams of the day-star destroy the pale moon.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [looking at him joyfully, and rising to salute him].—Welcome, the desire of our hearts, that so speedily presents itself!

[Sakoontala makes an effort to rise.]

KING.—Nay, trouble not thyself, dear maiden, Move not to do me homage; let thy limbs Still softly rest upon their flowery couch, And gather fragrance from the lotus stalks Bruised by the fevered contact of thy frame.

ANASUYA.—Deign, gentle Sir, to seat yourself on the rock on which our friend is reposing.

[The King sits down. Sakoontala is confused.]

PRIYAMVADA.—Anyone may see at a glance that you are deeply attached to each other. But the affection I have for my friend prompts me to say something of which you hardly require to be informed.

KING.—Do not hesitate to speak out, my good girl. If you omit to say what is in your mind, you may be sorry for it afterwards.

PRIYAMVADA.—Is it not your special office as a King to remove the suffering of your subjects who are in trouble?

KING.—Such is my duty, most assuredly.

PRIYAMVADA.—Know, then, that our dear friend has been brought to her present state of suffering entirely through love for you. Her life is in your hands; take pity on her and restore her to health.

KING.—Excellent maiden, our attachment is mutual. It is I who am the most honored by it.

SAKOONTALA [looking at Priyamvada].—What do you mean by detaining the King, who must be anxious to return to his royal consorts after so long a separation?

KING.—Sweet maiden, banish from thy mind the thought That I could love another. Thou dost reign Supreme, without a rival, in my heart, And I am thine alone: disown me not, Else must I die a second deadlier death— Killed by thy words, as erst by Kama's shafts.

ANASUYA.—Kind Sir, we have heard it said that kings have many favorite consorts. You must not, then, by your behavior towards our dear friend, give her relations cause to sorrow for her.

KING.—Listen, gentle maiden, while in a few words I quiet your anxiety. Though many beauteous forms my palace grace, Henceforth two things alone will I esteem The glory of my royal dynasty;— My sea-girt realm, and this most lovely maid.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—We are satisfied by your assurances.

PRIYAMVADA [glancing on one side],—See, Anasuya, there is our favorite little fawn running about in great distress, and turning its eyes in every direction as if looking for its mother; come, let us help the little thing to find her.

[Both move away.]

SAKOONTALA.—Dear friends, dear friends, leave me not alone and unprotected. Why need you both go?

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—Unprotected! when the Protector of the world is at your side. [Exeunt.]

SAKOONTALA.—What! have they both really left me?

KING.—Distress not thyself, sweet maiden. Thy adorer is at hand to wait upon thee. Oh, let me tend thee, fair one, in the place Of thy dear friends; and, with broad lotus fans, Raise cooling breezes to refresh thy frame; Or shall I rather, with caressing touch, Allay the fever of thy limbs, and soothe Thy aching feet, beauteous as blushing lilies?

SAKOONTALA.—Nay, touch me not. I will not incur the censure of those whom I am bound to respect. [Rises and attempts to go.]

KING.—Fair one, the heat of noon has not yet subsided, and thy body is still feeble. How canst thou quit thy fragrant couch of flowers, And from thy throbbing bosom cast aside Its covering of lotus leaves, to brave With weak and fainting limbs the noon-day heat?

[Forces her to turn back.]

SAKOONTALA.—Infringe not the rules of decorum, mighty descendant of Puru. Remember, though I love you, I have no power to dispose of myself.

KING.—Why this fear of offending your relations, timid maid? When your venerable foster-father hears of it, he will not find fault with you. He knows that the law permits us to be united without consulting him. In Indra's heaven, so at least 'tis said, No nuptial rites prevail,[39] nor is the bride Led to the altar by her future spouse; But all in secret does the bridegroom plight His troth, and each unto the other vow Mutual allegiance. Such espousals, too, Are authorized on earth, and many daughters Of royal saints thus wedded to their lords, Have still received their father's benison.

SAKOONTALA.—Leave me, leave me; I must take counsel with my female friends.

KING.—I will leave thee when———

SAKOONTALA.—When?

KING.—When I have gently stolen from thy lips Their yet untasted nectar, to allay The raging of my thirst, e'en as the bee Sips the fresh honey from the opening bud. [Attempts to raise her face. Sakoontala tries to prevent him.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—The loving birds, doomed by fate to nightly separation, must bid farewell to each other, for evening is at hand.

SAKOONTALA [in confusion].—Great Prince, I hear the voice of the matron Gautami. She is coming this way, to inquire after my health. Hasten and conceal yourself behind the branches.

KING.—I will. [Conceals himself.

Enter Gautami with a vase in her hand, preceded by two attendants.

ATTENDANTS.—This way, most venerable Gautami.

GAUTAMI [approaching Sakoontala].—My child, is the fever of thy limbs allayed?

SAKOONTALA.—Venerable mother, there is certainly a change for the better.

GAUTAMI.—Let me sprinkle you with this holy water, and all your ailments will depart. [Sprinkling Sakoontala on the head.] The day is closing, my child; come, let us go to the cottage. [They all move away.

SAKOONTALA [aside].—Oh my heart! thou didst fear to taste of happiness when it was within thy reach. Now that the object of thy desires is torn from thee, how bitter will be thy remorse, how distracting thine anguish! [Moving on a few steps and stopping. Aloud.] Farewell! bower of creepers, sweet soother of my sufferings, farewell! may I soon again be happy under thy shade. [Exit reluctantly with the others.

KING [returning to his former seat in the arbor. Sighing].—Alas! how many are the obstacles to the accomplishment of our wishes! Albeit she did coyly turn away Her glowing cheek, and with her fingers guard Her pouting lips, that murmured a denial In faltering accents, she did yield herself A sweet reluctant captive to my will, As eagerly I raised her lovely face: But ere with gentle force I stole the kiss, Too envious Fate did mar my daring purpose. Whither now shall I betake myself? I will tarry for a brief space in this bower of creepers, so endeared to me by the presence of my beloved Sakoontala. [Looking round. Here printed on the flowery couch I see The fair impression of her slender limbs; Here is the sweet confession of her love, Traced with her nail upon the lotus leaf— And yonder are the withered lily stalks That graced her wrist. While all around I view Things that recall her image, can I quit This bower, e'en though its living charm be fled?

A VOICE [in the air].—Great King, Scarce is our evening sacrifice begun, When evil demons, lurid as the clouds That gather round the dying orb of day, Cluster in hideous troops, obscene and dread, About our altars, casting far and near Terrific shadows, while the sacred fire Sheds a pale lustre o'er their ghostly shapes.

KING.—I come to the rescue, I come. [Exit.

[38] Kama, the Hindoo Cupid, or god of love. He has five arrows, each tipped with the blossom of a flower, which pierce the heart through the five senses.

[39] A marriage without the usual ceremonies is called Gandharva. It was supposed to be the form of marriage prevalent among the nymphs of Indra's heaven.



PRELUDE TO ACT FOURTH

Scene.—The Garden of the Hermitage

Enter Priyamvada and Anasuya in the act of gathering flowers.

ANASUYA.—Although, dear Priyamvada, it rejoices my heart to think that Sakoontala has been happily united to a husband in every respect worthy of her, by the form of marriage prevalent among Indra's celestial musicians, nevertheless, I cannot help feeling somewhat uneasy in my mind.

PRIYAMVADA.—How so?

ANASUYA.—You know that the pious King was gratefully dismissed by the hermits on the successful termination of their sacrificial rites. He has now returned to his capital, leaving Sakoontala under our care; and it may be doubted whether, in the society of his royal consorts, he will not forget all that has taken place in this hermitage of ours.

PRIYAMVADA.—On that score be at ease. Persons of his noble nature are not so destitute of all honorable feeling. I confess, however, that there is one point about which I am rather anxious. What, think you, will father Kanwa say when he hears what has occurred?

ANASUYA.—In my opinion, he will approve the marriage.

PRIYAMVADA.—What makes you think so?

ANASUYA.—From the first, it was always his fixed purpose to bestow the maiden on a husband worthy of her; and since heaven has given her such a husband, his wishes have been realized without any trouble to himself.

PRIYAMVADA [looking at the flower-basket].—We have gathered flowers enough for the sacred offering, dear Anasuya.

ANASUYA.—Well, then, let us now gather more, that we may have wherewith to propitiate the guardian-deity of our dear Sakoontala.

PRIYAMVADA.—By all means. [They continue gathering.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Ho there! See you not that I am here?

ANASUYA [listening].—That must be the voice of a guest announcing his arrival.

PRIYAMVADA.—Surely, Sakoontala is not absent from the cottage. [Aside.] Her heart at least is absent, I fear.

ANASUYA.—Come along, come along; we have gathered flowers enough. [They move away.

THE SAME VOICE [behind the scenes].—Woe to thee, maiden, for daring to slight a guest like me! Shall I stand here unwelcomed; even I, A very mine of penitential merit, Worthy of all respect? Shalt thou, rash maid, Thus set at nought the ever sacred ties Of hospitality? and fix thy thoughts Upon the cherished object of thy love, While I am present? Thus I curse thee, then— He, even he of whom thou thinkest, he Shall think no more of thee; nor in his heart Retain thine image. Vainly shalt thou strive To waken his remembrance of the past; He shall disown thee, even as the sot, Roused from his midnight drunkenness, denies The words he uttered in his revellings.

PRIYAMVADA.—Alas! alas! I fear a terrible misfortune has occurred. Sakoontala, from absence of mind, must have offended some guest whom she was bound to treat with respect. [Looking behind the scenes.] Ah! yes; I see, and no less a person than the great sage Durvasas, who is known to be most irascible. He it is that has just cursed her, and is now retiring with hasty strides, trembling with passion, and looking as if nothing could turn him. His wrath is like a consuming fire.

ANASUYA.—Go quickly, dear Priyamvada, throw yourself at his feet, and persuade him to come back, while I prepare a propitiatory offering for him, with water and refreshments.

PRIYAMVADA.—I will. [Exit.

ANASUYA [advancing hastily a few steps and stumbling].—Alas! alas! this comes of being in a hurry. My foot has slipped and my basket of flowers has fallen from my hand. [Stays to gather them up.

PRIYAMVADA [reentering].—Well, dear Anasuya, I have done my best; but what living being could succeed in pacifying such a cross-grained, ill-tempered old fellow? However, I managed to mollify him a little.

ANASUYA [smiling].—Even a little was much for him. Say on.

PRIYAMVADA.—When he refused to turn back, I implored his forgiveness in these words: "Most venerable sage, pardon, I beseech you, this first offence of a young and inexperienced girl, who was ignorant of the respect due to your saintly character and exalted rank."

ANASUYA.—And what did he reply?

PRIYAMVADA.—"My word must not be falsified; but at the sight of the ring of recognition the spell shall cease." So saying, he disappeared.

ANASUYA.—Oh! then we may breathe again; for now I think of it, the King himself, at his departure, fastened on Sakoontala's finger, as a token of remembrance, a ring on which his own name was engraved. She has, therefore, a remedy for her misfortune at her own command.

PRIYAMVADA.—Come, dear Anasuya, let us proceed with our religious duties. [They walk away.

PRIYAMVADA [looking off the stage].—See, Anasuya, there sits our dear friend, motionless as a statue, resting her face on her left hand, her whole mind absorbed in thinking of her absent husband. She can pay no attention to herself, much less to a stranger.

ANASUYA.—Priyamvada, let this affair never pass our lips. We must spare our dear friend's feelings. Her constitution is too delicate to bear much emotion.

PRIYAMVADA.—I agree with you. Who would think of watering a tender jasmine with hot water?



ACT FOURTH

Scene.—The Neighborhood of the Hermitage

Enter one of Kanwa's pupils, just arisen from his couch at the dawn of day.

PUPIL.—My master, the venerable Kanwa, who is but lately returned from his pilgrimage, has ordered me to ascertain how the time goes. I have therefore come into the open air to see if it be still dark. [Walking and looking about.] Oh! the dawn has already broken. Lo! in one quarter of the sky, the Moon, Lord of the herbs and night-expanding flowers, Sinks towards his bed behind the western hills; While in the east, preceded by the Dawn, His blushing charioteer, the glorious Sun Begins his course, and far into the gloom Casts the first radiance of his orient beams, Hail! co-eternal orbs, that rise to set, And set to rise again; symbols divine Of man's reverses, life's vicissitudes. And now, While the round Moon withdraws his looming disc Beneath the western sky, the full-blown flower Of the night-loving lotus sheds her leaves In sorrow for his loss, bequeathing nought But the sweet memory of her loveliness To my bereaved sight: e'en as the bride Disconsolately mourns her absent lord, And yields her heart a prey to anxious grief.

ANASUYA [entering abruptly].—Little as I know of the ways of the world, I cannot help thinking that King Dushyanta is treating Sakoontala very improperly.

PUPIL.—Well, I must let my revered preceptor know that it is time to offer the burnt oblation. [Exit.

ANASUYA.—I am broad awake, but what shall I do? I have no energy to go about my usual occupations. My hands and feet seem to have lost their power. Well, Love has gained his object; and Love only is to blame for having induced our dear friend, in the innocence of her heart, to confide in such a perfidious man. Possibly, however, the imprecation of Durvasas may be already taking effect. Indeed, I cannot otherwise account for the King's strange conduct, in allowing so long a time to elapse without even a letter; and that, too, after so many promises and protestations. I cannot think what to do, unless we send him the ring which was to be the token of recognition. But which of these austere hermits could we ask to be the bearer of it? Then, again, Father Kanwa has just returned from his pilgrimage: and how am I to inform him of Sakoontala's marriage to King Dushyanta, and her expectation of being soon a mother? I never could bring myself to tell him, even if I felt that Sakoontala had been in fault, which she certainly has not. What is to be done?

PRIYAMVADA [entering; joyfully].—Quick! quick! Anasuya! come and assist in the joyful preparations for Sakoontala's departure to her husband's palace.

ANASUYA.—My dear girl, what can you mean?

PRIYAMVADA.—Listen, now, and I will tell you all about it. I went just now to Sakoontala, to inquire whether she had slept comfortably—

ANASUYA.—Well, well; go on.

PRIYAMVADA.—She was sitting with her face bowed down to the very ground with shame, when Father Kanwa entered and, embracing her, of his own accord offered her his congratulations. "I give thee joy, my child," he said, "we have had an auspicious omen. The priest who offered the oblation dropped it into the very centre of the sacred fire, though thick smoke obstructed his vision. Henceforth thou wilt cease to be an object of compassion. This very day I purpose sending thee, under the charge of certain trusty hermits, to the King's palace; and shall deliver thee into the hands of thy husband, as I would commit knowledge to the keeping of a wise and faithful student."

ANASUYA.—Who, then, informed the holy Father of what passed in his absence?

PRIYAMVADA.—As he was entering the sanctuary of the consecrated fire, an invisible being chanted a verse in celestial strains.

ANASUYA [with astonishment].—Indeed! pray repeat it.

PRIYAMVADA [repeats the verse].— Glows in thy daughter King Dushyanta's glory, As in the sacred tree the mystic fire. Let worlds rejoice to hear the welcome story; And may the son immortalize the sire.

ANASUYA [embracing Priyamvada].—Oh, my dear Priyamvada, what delightful news! I am pleased beyond measure; yet when I think that we are to lose our dear Sakoontala this very day, a feeling of melancholy mingles with my joy.

PRIYAMVADA.—We shall find means of consoling ourselves after her departure. Let the dear creature only be made happy, at any cost.

ANASUYA.—Yes, yes, Priyamvada, it shall be so; and now to prepare our bridal array. I have always looked forward to this occasion, and some time since, I deposited a beautiful garland of Kesara flowers in a cocoa-nut box, and suspended it on a bough of yonder mango-tree. Be good enough to stretch out your hand and take it down, while I compound unguents and perfumes with this consecrated paste and these blades of sacred grass.

PRIYAMVADA.—Very well.

[Exit Anasuya. Priyamvada takes down the flowers.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—Gautami, bid Sarngarava and the others hold themselves in readiness to escort Sakoontala.

PRIYAMVADA [listening].—Quick, quick, Anasuya! They are calling the hermits who are to go with Sakoontala to Hastinapur.

ANASUYA [reentering, with the perfumed unguents in her hand].—Come along then, Priyamvada; I am ready to go with you. [They walk away.

PRIYAMVADA [looking].—See! there sits Sakoontala, her locks arranged even at this early hour of the morning. The holy women of the hermitage are congratulating her, and invoking blessings on her head, while they present her with wedding-gifts and offerings of consecrated wild-rice. Let us join them. [They approach.

Sakoontala is seen seated, with women surrounding her, occupied in the manner described.

FIRST WOMAN [to Sakoontala].—My child, may'st thou receive the title of "Chief-queen," and may thy husband delight to honor thee above all others!