The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sakoontala; Or, The Lost Ring: An Indian Drama, by Kalidasa

The fact that the following translation (first published in 1855) of India's most celebrated drama has gone through seven editions, might reasonably have absolved me from the duty of revising it.

Three years ago, however, I heard that Sir John Lubbock had thought '[S']akoontalá' worthy of a place among the hundred best books of the world, and had adopted my version of the original. I therefore undertook to go through every line and once again compare the translation with the Sanskrit, in the hope that I might be able to give a few finishing touches to a performance which, although it had been before the public for about forty years, was certainly not perfect. The act of revision was a labour of love, and I can honestly say that I did my best to make my representation of Kálidása's immortal work as true and trustworthy as possible.

Another edition is now called for, but after a severely critical examination of every word, I have only detected a few minor unimportant points—and those only in the Introduction and Notes—in which any alteration appeared to be desirable. Indeed it is probable that the possessors of previous editions will scarcely perceive that any alterations have been made anywhere.

Occasionally in the process of comparison a misgiving has troubled me, and I have felt inclined to accuse myself of having taken, in some cases, too great liberties with the Sanskrit original. But in the end I have acquiesced in my first and still abiding conviction that a literal translation (such as that which I have given in the notes of my edition of the Sanskrit text) might have commended itself to Oriental students, but would not have given a true idea of the beauty of India's most cherished drama to general readers, whose minds are cast in a European mould, and who require a translator to clothe Oriental ideas, as far as practicable, in a dress conformable to European canons of taste.

And most assuredly such a translation would never have adapted itself to actual representation on a modern stage as readily as it now appears that my free version has done. It has gratified me exceedingly to find that youthful English-speaking Indians—cultured young men educated at the Universities of Calcutta, Madras and Bombay—have acted the [S']akoontalá, in the very words of my translation with the greatest success before appreciative audiences in various parts of India.

And lest any one in this country should be sceptical as to the possibility of interesting a modern audience in a play written possibly as early as the third or fourth century of our era (see p. xvi), I here append an extract from a letter received by me in 1893 from Mr. V. Padmanabha Aiyar, B.A., resident at Karamanai, Trivandrum, Travancore.

'SIVEN COIL STREET, TRIVANDRUM,

'The members of the "Karamanai Young Men's Mutual Improvement Society" acted your translation of "[S']akoontalá" on the 3rd and 5th of September last year, in the Government Museum Theatre, Trivandrum.

'It was acted in two parts. On the first day Acts I to IV were acted, and on the second the remaining three Acts.

'All our chief native officials and many Europeans and their ladies honoured the occasion with their presence. We acted it a second time at the special request of H.H. the Second Prince of Travancore, in the Palace of His Highness' mother, the Junior Ránee.

'The public were kind enough to pronounce it a success. In many cases the applause given was not so much for the acting as for the beauty of your translation. The Hindús have a great liking for this play, and not one of the enlightened Hindú community will fail to acknowledge your translation to be a very perfect one. Our object in acting Hindú plays is to bring home to the Hindús the good lessons that our ancient authors are able to teach us. If there is one lesson in these days more than another which familiarity with the fountains of Western literature constantly forces upon the mind, it is that our age is turning its back on time-honoured creeds and dogmas. We are hurrying forward to a chaos in which all our existing beliefs, nay even the fundamental axioms of morality, may in the end be submerged; and as the general tenor of Indian thought among the educated community is to reject everything that is old, and equally blindly to absorb everything new, it becomes more and more an urgent question whether any great intellectual or moral revolution, which has no foundations in the past, can produce lasting benefits to the people.

'"I desire no future that will break the ties of the past" is what George Eliot has said, and so it is highly necessary that the Hindús should know something of their former greatness.

'The songs in [S']akoontalá, one in the Prologue and another in the beginning of the fifth Act, very easily adapted themselves to Hindú tunes.'

Towards the end of his letter Mr. Aiyar intimated that he himself took the part of Má[T.]Havya. He also mentioned that a few modifications and additions were introduced into some of the scenes.

In a subsequent letter received from Mr. Keshava Aiyar, the Secretary of the Society, I was informed that my version of the Play was acted again at Trivandrum in 1894.

These descriptions of the successful representation of the [S']akoontalá in Travancore justified me in expressing a hope that, as Kálidása has been called the Shakespeare of India, so the most renowned of his three dramatic works might, with a few manifestly necessary modifications, be some day represented, with equal success, before English-speaking audiences in other parts of the world and especially here in England. This hope has been realized, and quite recently my translation has been successfully acted by amateur actors before a London audience.

I venture, therefore, to add the expression of a further hope that with the daily growth of interest in Oriental literature, and now that the [S']akoontalá forms one of Sir John Lubbock's literary series, it may be more extensively read by the Rulers of India in all parts of the Empire. Those who study it attentively cannot fail to become better acquainted with the customs and habits of thought, past and present, of the people committed to their sway.

And it cannot be too often repeated that our duty towards our great Dependency requires us to do something more than merely rule justly. We may impart high education, we may make good laws, we may administer impartial justice, we may make roads, lay down railroads and telegraphs, stimulate trade, accomplish amazing engineering feats—like that lately achieved at Periyar—increase the wealth and develop the resources of our vast Eastern territories; but unless we seek to understand the inhabitants, unless we think it worth while to study their ancient literatures, their religious ideas, and time-honoured institutions, unless we find in them something to admire and respect, we can never expect any reciprocity of esteem and respect on their part—we can never look forward to a time when the present partition-wall, which obstructs the free Interchange of social relations between European and Asiatic races, will be entirely removed.

INTRODUCTION

About a century has elapsed since the great English Orientalist, Sir William Jones, astonished the learned world by the discovery of a Sanskrit Dramatic Literature. He has himself given us the history of this discovery. It appears that, on his arrival in Bengal, he was very solicitous to procure access to certain books called Nátaks, of which he had read in one of the 'Lettres Édifiantes et Curieuses' written by the Jesuit Missionaries of China. But, although he sought information by consulting both Bráhmans and Europeans, he was wholly unable for some time to satisfy his curiosity as to the nature of these books. It was reported to him that they were not histories, as he had hoped, but that they abounded with fables, and consisted of conversations in prose and verse held before ancient Rájás, in their public assemblies. Others, again, asserted that they were discourses on dancing, music, and poetry. At length, a sensible Bráhman, conversant with European manners, removed all his doubts, and gave him no less delight than surprise, by telling him that the English nation had compositions of the same sort, which were publicly represented at Calcutta in the cold season, and bore the name of 'plays.' The same Bráhman, when asked which of these Nátaks was most universally esteemed, answered without hesitation, '[S']akoontalá.'

It may readily be imagined with what interest, the keen Orientalist received this communication; with what rapidity he followed up the clue; and, when at length his zeal was rewarded by actual possession of a MS. copy of one of these dramas, with what avidity he proceeded to explore the treasures which for eighteen hundred years had remained as unknown to the European world as the gold-fields of Australia.

The earliest Sanskrit drama with which we are acquainted, the 'Clay-cart,' translated by my predecessor in the Boden Chair at Oxford, Professor H.H. Wilson, is attributed to a regal author, King [S']údraka, the date of whose reign cannot be fixed with any certainty, though some have assigned it to the first or second century B.C. Considering that the nations of Europe can scarcely be said to have possessed a dramatic literature before the fourteenth or fifteenth century of the present era, the great age of the Hindú plays would of itself be a most interesting and attractive circumstance, even if their poetical merit were not of a very high order. But when to the antiquity of these productions is added their extreme beauty and excellence as literary compositions, and when we also take into account their value as representations of the early condition of Hindú society—which, notwithstanding the lapse of two thousand years, has in many particulars obeyed the law of unchangeableness ever stamped on the manners and customs of the East—we are led to wonder that the study of the Indian drama has not commended itself in a greater degree to the attention of Europeans, and especially of Englishmen. The English student, at least, is bound by considerations of duty, as well as curiosity, to make himself acquainted with a subject which elucidates and explains the condition of the millions of Hindús who owe allegiance to his own Sovereign, and are governed by English laws.

Of all the Indian dramatists, indeed of all Indian poets, the most celebrated is Kálidása, the writer of the present play. The late Professor Lassen thought it probable that he flourished about the middle of the third century after Christ. Professor Kielhorn of Göttingen has proved that the composer of the Mandasor Inscription (A.D. 472) knew Kálidása's Ritusamhára. Hence it may be inferred that Lassen was not far wrong[1]. Possibly some King named Vikramáditya received Kálidása at his Court, and honoured him by his patronage about that time. Little, however, is known of the circumstances of his life. There is certainly no satisfactory evidence to be adduced in support of the tradition current in India that he lived in the time of the great King Vikramáditya I., whose capital was Ujjayiní, now Oujein.

From the absence of historical literature in India, our knowledge of the state of Hindústán between the incursion of Alexander and the Muhammadan conquest is very slight. But it is ascertained with tolerable accuracy that, after the invasion of the kingdoms of Bactria and Afghánistán, the Tartars or Scythians (called by the Hindús '[S']akas') overran the north-western provinces of India, and retained possession of them. The great Vikramáditya or Vikramárka succeeded in driving back the barbaric hordes beyond the Indus, and so consolidated his empire that it extended over the whole of Northern Hindústán. His name is even now cherished among the Hindús with pride and affection. His victory over the Scythians is believed to have taken place about B.C. 57. At any rate this is the starting-point of the Vikrama (also called the Málava and in later times the Samvat) era, one of the epochs from which the Hindús still continue to count. There is good authority for affirming that the reign of this Vikramárka or Vikramáditya was equal in brilliancy to that of any monarch in any age. He was a liberal patron of science and literature, and gave splendid encouragement to poets, philologists, astronomers, and mathematicians. Nine illustrious men of genius are said to have adorned his Court, and to have been supported by his bounty. They were called the 'Nine Gems'; and a not unnatural tradition, which, however, must be considered untrustworthy, included Kálidása among the Nine.

To Kálidása (as to another celebrated Indian Dramatist, Bhavabhúti, who probably flourished in the eighth century) only three plays are attributed; and of these the '[S']akoontalá' (here translated) has acquired the greatest celebrity [2].

Indeed, the popularity of this play with the natives of India exceeds that of any other dramatic, and probably of any other poetical composition [3]. But it is not in India alone that the '[S']akoontalá' is known and admired. Its excellence is now recognized in every literary circle throughout the continent of Europe; and its beauties, if not yet universally known and appreciated, are at least acknowledged by many learned men in every country of the civilized world. The four well-known lines of Goethe, so often quoted in relation to the Indian drama, may here be repeated:

  'Willst du die Blüthe des frühen, die Früchte des
    späteren Jahres,
  Willst du was reizt und entzückt, willst du was sättigt
    und nährt,
  Willst du den Himmel, die Erde, mit einem Namen
    begreifen:
  Nenn' ich, [S']akoontalá, Dich, und so ist Alles gesagt.'

  'Would'st thou the young year's blossoms and the fruits
    of its decline,
  And all by which the soul is charmed, enraptured,
    feasted, fed?
  Would'st thou the Earth and Heaven itself in one sole
    name combine?
  I name thee, O [S']akoontalá! and all at once is said.'

Augustus William von Schlegel, in his first Lecture on Dramatic Literature, says: 'Among the Indians, the people from whom perhaps all the cultivation of the human race has been derived, plays were known long before they could have experienced any foreign influence. It has lately been made known in Europe that they have a rich dramatic literature, which ascends back for more than two thousand years. The only specimen of their plays (Nátaks) hitherto known to us is the delightful [S']akoontalá, which, notwithstanding the colouring of a foreign clime, bears in its general structure a striking resemblance to our romantic drama.'

Alexander von Humboldt, in treating of Indian poetry, observes: 'Kálidása, the celebrated author of the [S']akoontalá, is a masterly describer of the influence which Nature exercises upon the minds of lovers. This great poet flourished at the splendid court of Vikramáditya, and was, therefore, cotemporary with Virgil and Horace. Tenderness in the expression of feeling, and richness of creative fancy, have assigned to him his lofty place among the poets of all nations'.

These considerations induced me, in 1853, to compile and publish an edition of the text of the '[S']akoontalá' from various original MSS., with English translations of the metrical passages, and explanatory notes. A second edition of this work has since been published by the Delegates of the Oxford University Press. To the notes of that edition I must refer all students of Sanskrit literature who desire a close and literal translation of the present drama, and in the Preface will be found an account of various other editions and translations.

The following pages contain a free translation, and the first English version in prose and metre, of the purest recension of the most celebrated drama of the Shakespeare of India.

The need felt by the British public for some such translation as I have here offered can scarcely be questioned. A great people, who, through their empire in India, command the destinies of the Eastern world, ought surely to be conversant with the most popular of Indian dramas, in which the customs of the Hindús, their opinions, prejudices, and fables, their religious rites, daily occupations and amusements, are reflected as in a mirror. Nor is the prose translation of Sir W. Jones (excellent though it be) adapted to meet the requirements of modern times. That translation was unfortunately made from corrupt manuscripts (the best that could then be procured), in which the bold phraseology of Kálidása has been occasionally weakened, his delicate expressions of refined love clothed in an unbecoming dress, and his ideas, grand in their simplicity, diluted by repetition or amplification. It is, moreover, altogether unfurnished with explanatory annotations. The present translation, on the contrary, while representing the purest version of the drama, has abundant notes, sufficient to answer the exigencies of the non-oriental scholar.

It may be remarked that in every Sanskrit play the women and inferior characters speak a kind of provincial dialect or patois, called Prákrit—bearing the relation to Sanskrit that Italian bears to Latin, or that the spoken Latin of the age of Cicero bore to the highly polished Latin in which he delivered his Orations. Even the heroine of the drama is made to speak in the vernacular dialect. The hero, on the other hand, and all the higher male characters, speak in Sanskrit; and as if to invest them with greater dignity, half of what they say is in verse. Indeed the prose part of their speeches is often very commonplace, being only introductory to the lofty sentiment of the poetry that follows. Thus, if the whole composition be compared to a web, the prose will correspond to the warp, or that part which is extended lengthwise in the loom, while the metrical portion will answer to the cross-threads which constitute the woof.

The original verses are written in a great variety of Sanskrit metres. For example, the first thirty-four verses of '[S']akoontalá' exhibit eleven different varieties of metre. No English metrical system could give any idea of the almost infinite resources of Sanskrit in this respect. Nor have I attempted it. Blank verse has been employed by me in my translation, as more in unison with the character of our own dramatic writings, and rhyming stanzas have only been admitted when the subject-matter seemed to call for such a change. Perhaps the chief consideration that induced me to adopt this mode of metrical translation was, that the free and unfettered character of the verse enabled me to preserve more of the freshness and vigour of the original. If the poetical ideas of Kálidása have not been expressed in language as musical as his own, I have at least done my best to avoid diluting them by unwarrantable paraphrases or additions. If the English verses are prosaic, I have the satisfaction of knowing that by resisting the allurements of rhyme, I have done all in my power to avoid substituting a fictitious and meagre poem of my own for the grand, yet simple and chaste creation of Kálidása.

The unrestricted liberty of employing hypermetrical lines of eleven syllables, sanctioned by the highest authority in dramatic composition, has, I think, facilitated the attainment of this object. One of our own poets has said in relation to such lines: 'Let it be remembered that they supply us with another cadence; that they add, as it were, a string to the instrument; and—by enabling the poet to relax at pleasure, to rise and fall with his subject—contribute what most is wanted, compass and variety. They are nearest to the flow of an unstudied eloquence, and should therefore be used in the drama[4].' Shakespeare does not scruple to avail himself of this licence four or five times in succession, as in the well-known passage beginning—

The poetical merit of Kálidása's '[S']akoontalá' is so universally admitted that any remarks on this head would be superfluous. I will merely observe that, in the opinion of learned natives, the Fourth Act, which describes the departure of [S']akoontalá from the hermitage, contains the most obvious beauties; and that no one can read this Act, nor indeed any part of the play, without being struck with the richness and elevation of its author's genius, the exuberance and glow of his fancy, his ardent love of the beautiful, his deep sympathy with Nature and Nature's loveliest scenes, his profound knowledge of the human heart, his delicate appreciation of its most refined feelings, his familiarity with its conflicting sentiments and emotions. But in proportion to the acknowledged excellence of Kálidása's composition, and in proportion to my own increasing admiration of its beauties, is the diffidence I feel lest I may have failed to infuse any of the poetry of the original into the present version. Translation of poetry must, at the best, resemble the process of pouring a highly volatile and evanescent spirit from one receptacle into another. The original fluid will always suffer a certain amount of waste and evaporation.

The English reader will at least be inclined to wonder at the analogies which a thoroughly Eastern play offers to our own dramatic compositions written many centuries later. The dexterity with which the plot is arranged and conducted, the ingenuity with which the incidents are connected, the skill with which the characters are delineated and contrasted with each other, the boldness and felicity of the diction, are scarcely unworthy of the great dramatists of European countries. Nor does the parallel fail in the management of the business of the stage, in minute directions to the actors, and various scenic artifices. The asides and aparts, the exits and the entrances, the manner, attitude, and gait of the speakers, the tone of voice with which they are to deliver themselves, the tears, the smiles, and the laughter, are as regularly indicated as in a modern drama.

In reference to the constitution and structure of the play here translated, a few general remarks on the dramatic system of the Hindús may be needed[5].

Dramatic poetry is said to have been invented by the sage Bharata, who lived at a very remote period of Indian history, and was the author of a system of music. The drama of these early times was probably nothing more than the Indian Nách-dance (Nautch) of the present day. It was a species of rude pantomime, in which dancing and movements of the body were accompanied by mute gestures of the hands and face, or by singing and music. Subsequently, dialogue was added, and the art of theatrical representation was brought to great perfection. Elaborate treatises were written which laid down minute regulations for the construction and conduct of plays, and subjected dramatic composition to highly artificial rules of poetical and rhetorical style. For example, the Sáhitya-darpana divides Sanskrit plays into two great classes, the Rúpaka or principal dramas, and the Uparúpaka or minor dramas. At the head of the ten species of Rúpaka stands the Nátaka, of which the '[S']akoontalá' is an example. It should consist of from five to ten Acts; it should have a celebrated story for its plot; it should represent heroic or godlike characters and good deeds; it should be written in an elaborate style, and be full of noble sentiments. Moreover, it should be composed like the end of a cow's tail; so that each of the Acts be gradually shorter.

In India, as in Greece, scenic entertainments took place at religious festivals, and on solemn public occasions. Kalidása's '[S']akoontalá' seems to have been acted at the commencement of the summer season—a period peculiarly sacred to Káma-deva, the Indian god of love. We are told that it was enacted before an audience 'consisting chiefly of men of education and discernment.' As the greater part of every play was written in Sanskrit, which, although spoken by the learned in every part of India even at the present day, was certainly not the vernacular language of the country at the time when the Hindú dramas were performed, few spectators would be present who were not of the educated classes. This circumstance is in accordance with the constitution of Hindú society, whereby the productions of literature as well as the offices of state, were reserved for the privileged castes[6].

Every Sanskrit play opens with a prologue, or, to speak more correctly, an introduction, designed to prepare the way for the entrance of the dramatis personæ. The prologue commences with a benediction or prayer (pronounced by a Bráhman, or if the stage-manager happened to be of the Bráhmanical caste, by the manager himself), in which the poet invokes the favour of the national deity in behalf of the audience. The blessing is generally followed by a dialogue between the manager and one or two of the actors, in which an account is given of the author of the drama, a complimentary tribute is paid to the critical acumen of the spectators, and such a reference is made to past occurrences or present circumstances as may be necessary for the elucidation of the plot. At the conclusion of the prologue, the manager, by some abrupt exclamation, adroitly introduces one of the dramatic personages, and the real performance commences.

The play, being thus opened, is carried forward in scenes and Acts; each scene being marked by the entrance of one character and the exit of another, as in the French drama. The dramatis personæ were divided into three classes—the inferior characters (nicha), who were said to speak Prákrit in a monotonous accentless tone of voice (anudáttoktyá); the middling (madhyama), and the superior (pradhána), who were said to speak Sanskrit with accent, emphasis, and expression (udáttoktyá). In general, the stage is never left vacant till the end of an Act, nor does any change of locality take place until then. The commencement of a new Act is often marked, like the commencement of the piece, by an introductory monologue or dialogue spoken by one or more of the dramatis personæ, and called Vishkambha or Prave[S']aka. In this scene allusion is frequently made to events supposed to have occurred in the interval of the Acts, and the audience is the better prepared to take up the thread of the story, which is then skilfully carried on to the concluding scene. The piece closes, as it began, with a prayer for national plenty and prosperity, addressed to the favourite deity, and spoken by one of the principal personages of the drama.

Although, in the conduct of the plot, and the delineation of character, Hindú dramatists show considerable skill, yet they do not appear to have been remarkable for much fertility of invention. Love, according to Hindú notions, is the subject of most of their dramas.

The hero, who is generally a king, and already the husband of a wife or wives (for a wife or two more or less is no encumbrance in Indian plays), is suddenly smitten with the charms of a lovely woman, sometimes a nymph, or, as in the case of [S']akoontalá, the daughter of a nymph by a mortal father. The heroine is required to be equally impressible, and the first tender glance from the hero's eye reaches her heart. With true feminine delicacy, however, she locks the secret of her passion in her own breast, and by her coyness and reserve keeps her lover for a long period in the agonies of suspense. The hero, being reduced to a proper state of desperation, is harassed by other difficulties. Either the celestial nature of the nymph is in the way of their union, or he doubts the legality of the match, or he fears his own unworthiness, or he is hampered by the angry jealousy of a previous wife. In short, doubts, obstacles, and delays make great havoc of both hero and heroine. They give way to melancholy, indulge in amorous rhapsodies, and become very emaciated. So far, it must be confessed, the story is decidedly dull, and its chain, however, does not commence until the Fourth Act, when the union of the heroine with King Dushyanta, and her acceptance of the marriage-ring as a token of recognition, are supposed to have taken place. Then follows the King's departure and temporary desertion of his bride; the curse pronounced on [S']akoontalá by the choleric Sage; the monarch's consequent loss of memory; the bride's journey to the palace of her husband; the mysterious disappearance of the marriage-token; the public repudiation of [S']akoontalá; her miraculous assumption to closes, as it began, with a prayer for national plenty and prosperity, addressed to the favourite deity, and spoken by one of the principal personages of the drama.

But, by way of relief, an element of life is generally introduced in the character of the Vidúshaka, or Jester, who is the constant companion of the hero; and in the young maidens, who are the confidential friends of the heroine, and soon become possessed of her secret. By a curious regulation, the Jester is always a Bráhman, and therefore of a caste superior to the king himself; yet his business is to excite mirth by being ridiculous in person, age, and attire. He is sometimes represented as grey-haired, hump-backed, lame, and ugly. In fact, he is a species of buffoon, who is allowed full liberty of speech, being himself a universal butt. His attempts at wit, which are rarely very successful, and his allusions to the pleasures of the table, of which he is a confessed votary, are absurdly contrasted with the sententious solemnity of the despairing hero, crossed in the prosecution of his love-suit. His clumsy interference in the intrigues of his friend only serves to augment his difficulties, and occasions many an awkward dilemma. On the other hand, the shrewdness of the heroine's confidantes never seems to fail them under the most trying circumstances; while their sly jokes and innuendos, their love of fun, their girlish sympathy with the progress of the love affair, their warm affection for their friend, heighten the interest of the plot, and contribute not a little to vary its monotony.

Fortunately, in the '[S']akoontalá' the story is diversified and the interest well sustained by a chain of stirring incidents. The first link of the chain, however, does not commence until the Fourth Act, when the union of the heroine with King Dushyanta, and her acceptance of the marriage-ring as a token of recognition, are supposed to have taken place. Then follows the King's departure and temporary desertion of his bride; the curse pronounced on [S']akoontalá by the choleric Sage; the monarch's consequent loss of memory; the bride's journey to the palace of her husband; the mysterious disappearance of the marriage-token; the public repudiation of [S']akoontalá; her miraculous assumption to a celestial asylum; the unexpected discovery of the ring by a poor fisherman; the King's agony on recovering his recollection; his aërial voyage in the car of Indra; his strange meeting with the refractory child in the groves of Kasyapa; the boy's battle with the young lion; the search for the amulet, by which the King is proved to be his father; the return of [S']akoontalá, and the happy reunion of the lovers;—all these form a connected series of moving and interesting incidents. The feelings of the audience are wrought up to a pitch of great intensity; and whatever emotions of terror, grief, or pity may have been excited, are properly tranquillized by the happy termination of the story.

Indeed, if a calamitous conclusion be necessary to constitute a tragedy, the Hindú dramas are never tragedies. They are mixed compositions, in which joy and sorrow, happiness and misery, are woven in a mingled web—tragi-comic representations, in which good and evil, right and wrong, truth and falsehood, are allowed to blend in confusion during the first Acts of the drama. But, in the last Act, harmony is always restored, order succeeds to disorder, tranquillity to agitation; and the mind of the spectator, no longer perplexed by the apparent ascendency of evil, is soothed, and purified, and made to acquiesce in the moral lesson deducible from the plot.

The play of '[S']akoontalá,' as Sir W. Jones observes, must have been very popular when it was first performed. The Indian empire was then in its palmy days, and the vanity of the natives would be flattered by the introduction of those kings and heroes who were supposed to have laid the foundation of its greatness and magnificence, and whose were connected with all that was sacred and holy in their religion, Dushyanta, the hero of the drama, according to Indian legends, was one of the descendants of the Moon, or in other words, belonged to the Lunar dynasty of Indian princes; and, if any dependence may be placed on Hindú chronology, he must have lived in the twenty-first or twenty-second generation after the Flood. Puru, his most celebrated ancestor, was the sixth in descent from the Moon's son Budha, who married a daughter of the good King Satya-vrata, preserved by Vishnu in the Ark at the time of the Deluge. The son of Dushyanta, by [S']akoontalá, was Bharata, from whom India is still called by the natives Bhárata-varsha. After him came Samvarana, Kuru, Sántanu, Bhíshma, and Vyasa. The latter was the father of Dhritaráshtra and Pándu, the quarrels of whose sons form the subject of the great Sanskrit epic poem called Mahá-bhárata, a poem with parts of which the audience would be familiar, and in which they would feel the greatest pride. Indeed the whole story of [S']akoontalá is told in the Mahá-bhárata. The pedigree of [S']akoontalá, the heroine of the drama, was no less interesting, and calculated to awaken the religious sympathies of Indian spectators. She was the daughter of the celebrated Vi[s']wámitra, a name associated with many remarkable circumstances in Hindú mythology and history. His genealogy and the principal events of his life are narrated in the Rámáyana, the first of the two epic poems which were to the Hindús what the Iliad and the Odyssey were to the Greeks. He was originally of the regal caste; and, having raised himself to the rank of a Bráhman by the length and rigour of his penance, he became the preceptor of Rámachandra, who was the hero of the Rámáyana, and one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu. With such an antecedent interest in the particulars of the story, the audience could not fail to bring a sharpened appetite, and a self-satisfied frame of mind, to the performance of the play.

Although in the following translation it has been thought expedient to conform to modern usage, by indicating at the head of each Act the scene in which it is laid, yet it is proper to apprise the English reader that in scenery and scenic apparatus the Hindú drama, must have been very defective. No directions as to changes of scene are given in the original text of the play. This is the more curious, as there are numerous stage directions, which prove that in respect of dresses and decorations the resources of the Indian theatre were sufficiently ample.

It is probable that a curtain suspended across the stage, and divided in the centre, answered all the purposes of scenes. Behind the curtain was the space or room called nepathya, where the decorations were kept, where the actors attired themselves, and remained in readiness before entering the stage, and whither they withdrew on leaving it. When an actor was to enter hurriedly, he was directed to do so 'with a toss of the curtain.'

The machinery and paraphernalia of the Indian theatre were also very limited, contrasting in this respect unfavourably with the ancient Greek theatre, which appears to have comprehended nearly all that modern ingenuity has devised. Nevertheless, seats, thrones, weapons, and chariots, were certainly introduced, and as the intercourse between the inhabitants of heaven and earth was very frequent, it is not improbable that there may have been aërial contrivances to represent the chariots of celestial beings, as on the Greek stage. It is plain, however, from the frequent occurrence of the word nátayitwá, 'gesticulating,' 'acting,' that much had to be supplied by the imagination of the spectator, assisted by the gesticulations of the actors.

For further information relative to the dramatic system of the Hindús, the reader is referred to the notes appended to the present translation. It is hoped that they will be found sufficient to explain every allusion that might otherwise be unintelligible to the English reader.

MONIER MONIER-WILLIAMS.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: In the Aihole Inscription (edited by Dr. Fleet) of the Western Chálukya King Pulike[S']in II, dated [S']aka 556=A.D. 634-35, actual mention is made of Kálidása and Bháravi by name, and Professor Kielhorn has informed me that he found a verse from the Raghu-van[S']a quoted in an inscription dated A.D. 602.]

[Footnote 2: As to the other two, the most celebrated, called
Vikramorva[S']í, has been excellently translated by Professors H.H.
Wilson and E.B. Cowell, and the Málavikágnimitra, by Professor Weber,
the eminent Orientalist of Berlin.]

[Footnote 3: The following is an extract from, the Bombay Times of February 3, 1855. It is given literatim, and the orthographical errors and mutilation of the story prove that in those days a good and complete version of India's most celebrated drama was not obtainable.

'HINDU DRAMA. 'SATURDAY, 3D FEBRUARY 1855.

'After a short discourse between the Sutradhar (the chief actor) and the Vidúshaka (the clown), Surswati (the Goddess of learning) will appear. Sutradhar will call his wife (Nati), and they will determine on performing the play of Shakuntala. They both will sing songs together, after which Nati will go away. The play will then regularly commence. Dushanta Rajah will appear in the Court, and order his Pradhan (the Minister) to make preparations for a hunting excursion. The Rajah, sitting in his carriage, will pursue a stag, the stag will disappear, upon which Dushanta will ask his coachman the cause thereof, this being known, the Rajah in his carriage will proceed farther, when they will see the stag again, upon which he will aim an arrow at the stag. The stag will run and reach the retirement of Waikhanas Rushi. The sage will come out of his hut and remonstrate with the Rajah against his killing the harmless animal. The Rajah will obey the injunctions of the sage, who will pronounce benedictions upon him. According to the Rushi's instructions, he will prepare to proceed to the residence of another sage named Kunwa. Bidding each other farewell, the Rushi will go to procure material for his religious ceremonies. After reaching Kunwa's place, and commanding his coachman to groom the horses, the Rajah will walk forth to the sage's hut. Observing on his way thither Shakuntala with her fellow mates watering the trees, he will hide himself behind a tree. Shakuntala will praise to her mates the beauty of the Keshar tree. Charmed with overhearing her discourse, Dushanta will try to find out her descent. Shakuntala will be very much teased by a Bhramar (fly) hovering about her face. The Rajah will then come forward and ask the cause of the disturbed state of her mind. After a mutual exchange of polite respect they all take their seats beneath a shady tree, Dushanta will inform her of his country and descent, whereupon they will all go to the Rushi's hut.

I have already stated that the '[S']akoontalá' in the words of my own translation has been since performed at Bombay and recently at Trivandrum, the capital of Travancore (see Preface to this edition, p. vii, &c).]

[Footnote 5: The admirable Essay by Professor H.H. Wilson, prefixed to his Hindú Theatre, is the principal source of the information which I have here given.]

RULES FOR THE PRONUNCIATION OF THE PROPER NAMES.

Observe, that in order to secure the correct pronunciation of the title of this Drama, 'Sakuntalá' has been spelt '[S']akoontalá,' the u of [S']akuntalá 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 gun, sun. Dushyanta must therefore be pronounced as if written Dooshyunta. The long vowel á is pronounced like the a in last, cart; i like the i in pin, sin; í 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 haus, 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.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA,} } two Bráhmans, belonging to the hermitage of KANWA. [S']ÁRADWATA, }

MITRÁVASU, brother-in-law of the King, and superintendent of the city police.

SARVA-DAMANA, afterwards BHARATA, a little boy, son
of DUSHYANTA by [S']AKOONTALÁ.

KA[S']YAPA, a divine sage, progenitor of men and gods, son of
MARÍCHI, and grandson of BRAHMÁ.

[S']AKOONTALÁ, daughter of the sage VI[S']WÁMITRA and the
nymph MENAKÁ, foster-child of the hermit KANWA.

ADITI, wife of KA[S']YAPA; granddaughter of BRAHMÁ through her father DAKSHA.

CHARIOTEER, FISHERMAN, OFFICERS, AND HERMITS.

[S']AKOONTALÁ; OR, THE LOST RING.

PROLOGUE.

BENEDICTION.

  Í[S']a preserve you [1]! he who is revealed
  In these eight forms[2] 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.

ACTRESS.

STAGE-MANAGER.

We are here before the eyes of an audience of educated and discerning men[3]; and have to represent in their presence a new drama composed by Kálidása, called '[S']akoontalá; or, the Lost Ring[4].' 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.

  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.

STAGE-MANAGER.

What can you do better than engage the attention of the audience by some captivating melody?

ACTRESS.

STAGE-MANAGER.

You surely ought to give the preference to the present Summer season[5] 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 Pátalas[6]; 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.

  Fond maids, the chosen of their hearts to please,
  Entwine their ears with sweet [S']irísha flowers[7],
  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 ensure a continuance of their favour?

ACTRESS.

Why not the same, Sir, announced by you at first? Let the drama called '[S']akoontalá; or, the Lost Ring,' be the subject of our dramatic performance.

STAGE-MANAGER.

  Your song's transporting melody decoyed
  My thoughts, and rapt with ecstasy my soul;
  As now the bounding antelope allures
  The King Dushyanta[8] on the chase intent.

ACT I.

SCENE-A Forest.

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

CHARIOTEER.

  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[9] 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.

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.

CHARIOTEER.

  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[10];
  Their sprightly ears, but now erect, bent low;
  Themselves unsullied by the circling dust,
  That vainly follows on their rapid course.

In good sooth, the horses seem as if they would outstrip the steeds of Indra and the Sun[11].

  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.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

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.

CHARIOTEER.

  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.

HERMIT.

  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.

KING.

HERMIT.

We came hither, mighty Prince, to collect sacrificial wood. Here on the banks of the Máliní you may perceive the hermitage of the great sage Kanwa[13]. 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.

HERMIT.

No; he has gone to Soma-tírtha[14] to propitiate Destiny, which threatens his daughter [S']akoontalá 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.

KING.

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

CHARIOTEER.

Charioteer, even without being told, I should have known that these were the precincts of a grove consecrated to penitential rites.

CHARIOTEER.

KING.

  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 Ingudí[15].
  The gentle roe-deer, taught to trust in man,
  Unstartled hear our voices. On the paths
  Appear the traces of bark-woven vests[16]
  Borne dripping from the limpid fount of waters.

  Laved are the roots of trees by deep canals [17],
  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.

The inhabitants of this sacred retreat must not be disturbed.
Stay the chariot, that I may alight.

CHARIOTEER.

Charioteer, groves devoted to penance must be entered in humble attire. Take these ornaments.

Charioteer, see that the horses are watered, and attend to them until I return from visiting the inhabitants of the hermitage.

CHARIOTEER.

  Serenest peace is in this calm retreat,
  By passion's breath unruffled; what portends
  My throbbing arm[18]? Why should it whisper here
  Of happy love? Yet everywhere around us
  Stand the closed portals of events unknown.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

Hark! I hear voices to the right of yonder grove of trees. I will walk in that direction.

Ah! here are the maidens of the hermitage coming this way to water the shrubs, carrying water-pots proportioned to their strength.

In palaces such charms are rarely ours;
The woodland plants outshine the garden flowers.

Enter [S']AKOONTALÁ, with her two female companions, employed in the manner described.

[S']AKOONTALÁ

ANASÚYÁ.

Dear [S']akoontalá, 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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Dear Anasúyá, 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.

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[19]
  With the soft edge of a blue lotus-leaf.

Well! concealed behind this tree, I will watch her without raising her suspicions.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Good Anasúyá, Priyamvadá has drawn this bark-dress too tightly about my chest. I pray thee, loosen it a little.

ANASÚYÁ.

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

KING.

  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[20] with the [S']aivala[21] 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.

Yon Ke[S']ara-tree[22] 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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ

The Ke[S']ara-tree, whilst your graceful form bends about its stem, appears as if it were wedded to some lovely twining creeper.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Ah! saucy girl, you are most appropriately named Priyamvadá
('Speaker of flattering things').

KING.

  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.

ANASÚYÁ.

See, dear [S']akoontalá, 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?

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

ANASÚYÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

KING.

Would that my union with her were permissible[23]! 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.

Ah! a bee, disturbed by the sprinkling of the water, has left the young jasmine, and is trying to settle on my face.

  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.

  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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

How now! he is following me here. Help! my dear friends, help! deliver me from the attacks of this troublesome insect.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

How can we deliver you? Call Dushyanta to your aid. The sacred groves are under the King's special protection.

KING.

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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

  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?

ANASÚYÁ.

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

ANASÚYÁ.

All is well indeed, now that we are honoured by the reception of a distinguished guest. Dear [S']akoontalá, 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[25].

KING.

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

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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[26].

KING.

ANASÚYÁ.

Dear [S']akoontalá, there is no impropriety in our sitting by the side of our guest; come, let us sit down here.

How is it that the sight of this made me sensible of emotions inconsistent with religious vows?

How charmingly your friendship is in keeping with the equality of your ages and appearance!

Who can this person be, whose lively yet dignified manner, and polite conversation, bespeak him a man of high rank?

ANASÚYÁ.

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?

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.

ANASÚYÁ.

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

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

[Perceiving the state of her feelings, and of the KING'S. Aside to [S']AKOONTALÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

He would honour this our distinguished guest with an offering of the most precious of his possessions.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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?

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

KING.

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

ANASÚYÁ.

I will explain to you. Sir. You have heard of an illustrious sage of regal caste, Vi[s']wámitra, whose family name is Kau[S']ika[27].

KING.

ANASÚYÁ.

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.

ANASÚYÁ.

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 Godávarí, excited the jealousy and alarm of the gods; insomuch that they despatched a lovely nymph named Menaká to interrupt his devotions.

KING.

The inferior gods, I am aware, are jealous[28] of the power which the practice of excessive devotion confers on mortals.

ANASÚYÁ.

Well, then, it happened that Vi[s']wámitra, gazing on the bewitching beauty of that nymph at a season when, spring being in its glory—

KING.

The rest may be easily divined. [S']akoontalá, then, is the offspring of the nymph.

ANASÚYÁ.

KING.

How would a mortal to such charms give birth?
The lightning's radiance flashes not from earth.

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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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

KING.

  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 vying with her own,
  Return her gaze of sisterly affection?

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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.

  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.

ANASÚYÁ.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

That I may go and report this impertinent Priyamvadá to the venerable matron, Gautamí[29].

ANASÚYÁ.

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

KING.

  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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

You are under a promise to water two more shrubs for me. When you have paid your debt, you shall go, and not before.

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 [S']irísha pendent 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 PRIYAMVADÁ. 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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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.

Now, [S']akoontalá, my love, you are at liberty to retire, thanks to the intercession of this noble stranger, or rather of this mighty prince.

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.

  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.

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.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

Noble Sir, we are terrified by the accidental disturbance caused by the wild elephant. Permit us to return to the cottage.

Go, gentle maidens. It shall be our care that no injury happen to the hermitage.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

After such poor hospitality, we are ashamed to request the honour of a second visit from you.

KING.

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

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Anasúyá, a pointed blade of Ku[s']a-grass [30] has pricked my foot; and my bark-mantle is caught in the branch of a Kuruvaka-bush[31]. 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, [S']akoontalá 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.

ACT II.

SCENE.—_A plain on the skirts of the forest.

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 dirty water of some mountain stream mixed with dry leaves, which give it a most pungent flavour. Are we hungry? We have nothing to eat but roast game[33], 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 [S']akoontalá, 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.

Oh! here he comes, attended by the Yavana women[34], with bows in their hands, 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.

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.

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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Ah, friends, my hands cannot move to greet you with the usual salutation. I can only just command my lips to wish your Majesty victory.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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.

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.

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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

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

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

WARDER.

Come forward, General; his Majesty is looking towards you, and has some order to give you.

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 midday 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.

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 Má[T.]Havya here has been disparaging the chase, till he has taken away all my relish for it.

Persevere in your opposition, my good fellow; I will sound the
King's real feelings, and humour him accordingly.

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.

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 neighbourhood 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.

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[35] 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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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

Here, women, take my hunting-dress; and you, Raivatika, keep guard carefully outside.

ATTENDANTS.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

Má[T.]Havya, 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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

It is very natural that every one should consider his own friend perfect; but I was alluding to [S']akoontalá, the brightest ornament of these hallowed groves.

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[36], wafted
  Upon the sturdy sun-flower, is preserved
  By its support from premature decay.

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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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

KING.

  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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

  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[37],
  Now brought to full perfection? Lives the man
  Whom bounteous heaven has destined to espouse her?

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Why, of course, my dear friend, you never could seriously expect that at the very first sight she would fall over head 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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA

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 recognised 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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Say you have come for the sixth part of their grain [38], which they owe you for tribute.

KING.

No, no, foolish man; those 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.

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

KING.

WARDER.

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 Sage [39].

  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 [40],
  His hallowed title of 'Imperial Sage'
  Ascends in joyous accents to the skies.

SECOND HERMIT.

FIRST HERMIT.

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 [41],
  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.

The inhabitants of the hermitage, having heard of your Majesty's sojourn in our neighbourhood, make this humble petition:—

KING.

BOTH THE HERMITS.

In the absence of our Superior, the great sage Kanwa, evil demons are disturbing our sacrificial rites [42]. Deign, therefore, accompanied by your charioteer, to take up your abode in our hermitage for a few days.

KING.

Ho, there, Raivatika! Tell the charioteer from me to bring round the chariot with my bow.

WARDER.

  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 succour the distressed.

BOTH THE HERMITS.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Well, you must be my guardian-angel, and act the part of a very
Vishnu [43] to me.

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.

WARDER.

KING.

WARDER.

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 honour 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?

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

You will have to take up an intermediate position between the two, like King Tri[s']anku [44], who was suspended between heaven and earth, because the sage Vi[s']wámitra commanded him to mount up to heaven, and the gods ordered him down again.

KING.

  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.

Friend Má[T.]Havya, as you were my playfellow in childhood, the Queen has already 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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

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.

Oh! of course not; a great Bráhman like you could not possibly give way to such weakness.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

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

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.

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 [S']akoontalá, 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.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

PRELUDE TO ACT III.

SCENE.—The Hermitage.

Enter a YOUNG BRÁHMAN carrying bundles of ku[S']a-grass for the use of the sacrificing priest.

YOUNG BRÁHMAN.

How wonderful is the power of King Dushyanta! No sooner did he enter our hermitage, than we were able to proceed with our sacrificial rites, unmolested by the evil demons.

  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 Ku[s']a-grass, to be strewn round the altar.

Why, Priyamvadá, for whose use are you carrying that ointment of
Usíra-root and those lotus-leaves with fibres attached to them?

What Say you?—that [S']akoontalá 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, Priyamvadá, for she is cherished by our reverend Superior as the very breath of his nostrils[46]. I, for my part, will contrive that soothing waters, hallowed in the sacrifice, he administered to her by the hands of Gautamí.

ACT III.

SCENE.—The Sacred Grove.

  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 [47]! we lovers are 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-tipt shaft
  Of Káma[47], as it probes our throbbing hearts,
  Seems to be barbed with hardest adamant.

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 [S']iva's anger[48], like the flame
  That ever hidden in the secret depths
  Of ocean, smoulders there unseen[49]. How else
  Could'st 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.

  Welcome this anguish, welcome to my heart
  These rankling wounds inflicted by the god,
  Who on his scutcheon bears the monster-fish[50]
  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
  Should'st aim thy shafts at thy true votary's heart,
  Drawing thy bow-string even to thy ear?

Now that the holy men have completed their rites, and have no more need of my services, how shall I dispel my melancholy?

I have but one resource. Oh for another sight of the Idol of my soul! I will seek her.

In all probability, as the sun's heat is now at its height, [S']akoontalá is passing her time under the shade of the bowers on the banks of the Máliní, attended by her maidens. I will go and look for her there.

  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.

  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.

She must be somewhere in the neighbourhood of this arbour of overhanging creepers enclosed by plantations of cane;

  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[51].

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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ and her two attendants, holding fans in their hands, are discovered as described.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

Dearest [S']akoontalá, is the breeze raised by these broad lotus-leaves refreshing to you?

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

KING.

Can it be the intensity of the heat that has affected her? or does my heart suggest the true cause of her malady?

  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
  Betokens languor. Ne'er could noon-day sun
  Inflict such fair disorder on a maid—
  No, love, and love alone, is here to blame.

I have observed, Anasúyá, that [S']akoontalá has been indisposed ever since her first interview with King Dushyanta. Depend upon it, her ailment is to be traced to that source.

ANASÚYÁ.

The same suspicion, dear, has crossed my mind. But I will at once ask her and ascertain the truth.

Dear [S']akoontalá, I am about to put a question to you. Your indisposition is really very serious.

ANASÚYÁ.

We know very little about love-matters, dear [S']akoontalá; but for all that, I cannot help suspecting your present state to be something similar to that of the lovers we have heard 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.

I am, indeed, deeply in love; but cannot rashly disclose my passion to these young girls.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

What Anasúyá says, dear [S']akoontalá, 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.

  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 Mádhaví[52],
  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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

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

KING.

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

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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—

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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.

  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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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

KING.

She is far gone in love, dear Anasúyá, 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.

ANASÚYÁ.

We wish you joy, dear [S']akoontalá. 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 Mádhaví-creeper clings naturally to the Mango, the only tree capable of supporting it.

KING.

Why need we wonder if the beautiful constellation Vi[s']ákhá pines to be united with the Moon[53]?

ANASÚYÁ.

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

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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

ANASÚYÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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?

  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[54].

PRIYAMVADÁ.

An idea strikes me, Anasúyá. Let [S']akoontalá 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.

ANASÚYÁ.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

Could, you not, dear [S']akoontalá, think of some pretty composition in verse, containing a delicate declaration of your love?

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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

  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 could'st thou
  Believe thy beauty powerless to subdue him?

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

You undervalue your own merits, dear [S']akoontalá. 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?

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!

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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

Listen, dear friends, and tell me whether the ideas are appropriately expressed.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

  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.

  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.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

KING.

  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.

ANASÚYÁ.

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

PRIYAMVADÁ.

Any one 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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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

KING.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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 honoured by it.

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 Káma's[47] shafts.

ANASÚYÁ.

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

KING.

  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.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

See, Anasúyá, there is our favourite 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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

KING.

  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?

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Nay, touch me not. I will not incur the censure of those whom I am bound to respect.

KING.

  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?

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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[55], nor is the bride
  Led to the altar by her future lord;
  But all in secret does the bridegroom plight
  His troth, and each unto the other vow
  Mutual allegiance. Such espousals, too,
  Are authorised on earth, and many daughters
  Of royal saints thus wedded to their lords
  Have still received their father's benison.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

KING.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

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.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

The loving birds, doomed by fate to nightly separation[56], must bid farewell to each other, for evening is at hand.

Great Prince, I hear the voice of the matron Gautamí. She is coming this way to inquire after my health. Hasten and conceal yourself behind the branches.

KING.

ATTENDANTS.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

GAUTAMÍ.

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!

Farewell! bower of creepers, sweet soother of my sufferings, farewell! may I soon again be happy under thy shade.

KING.

  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 [S']akoontalá.

  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 be fled?

A VOICE IN THE AIR.

  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.

PRELUDE TO ACT IV.

SCENE.—The Garden of the Hermitage.

ANASÚYÁ.

Although, dear Priyamvadá, it rejoices my heart to think that [S']akoontalá 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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

ANASÚYÁ.

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 [S']akoontalá 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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

On that score be at ease. Persons of his noble nature are not so destitute of all honourable 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?

ANASÚYÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

ANASÚYÁ.

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.

ANASÚYÁ.

Well, then, let us now gather more, that we may have wherewith to propitiate the guardian-deity of our dear [S']akoontalá.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

ANASÚYÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

ANASÚYÁ.

THE SAME VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

  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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

Alas! alas! I fear a terrible misfortune has occurred. [S']akoontalá, from absence of mind, must have offended some guest whom she was bound to treat with respect.

Ah! yes; I see; and no less a person than the great sage Durvásas[57], 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.

ANASÚYÁ.

Go quickly, dear Priyamvadá, throw yourself at his feet, and persuade him to come back, while I prepare a propitiatory offering[59] for him, with water and refreshments.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

ANASÚYÁ.

Alas! alas! this comes of being in a hurry. My foot has slipped, and my basket of flowers has fallen from my hand.

Well, dear Anasúyá, 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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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.'

ANASÚYÁ

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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

ANASÚYÁ.

Oh! then we may breathe again; for, now I think of it, the King himself, at his departure, fastened on [S']akoontalá'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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

See, Anasúyá, 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.

ANASÚYÁ.

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

PRIYAMVADÁ.

ACT IV.

Scene.—_The Neighbourhood of the Hermitage.

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.

  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[59], 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.

  While the round Moon withdraws his looming disc
  Beneath the western sky, the full-blown flower
  Of the night-loving lotus[60] sheds her leave
  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.

Little as I know of the ways of the world, I cannot help thinking that King Dushyanta is treating [S']akoontalá very improperly.

PUPIL.

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

ANASÚYÁ.

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 Durvásas may he 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 [S']akoontalá's marriage to King Dushyanta, and her expectation of becoming soon a mother? I never could bring myself to tell him, even if I felt that [S']akoontalá had been in fault, which she certainly has not. What is to be done?

Quick! quick! Anasúyá! come and assist in the joyful preparations for [S']akoontalá's departure to her husband's palace.

ANASÚYÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

Listen, now, and I will tell you all about it. I went just now to
[S']akoontalá, to inquire whether she had slept comfortably—

ANASÚYÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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 [81], 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.'

ANASÚYÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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

  Glows in thy daughter King Dushyanta's glory,
  As in the sacred tree the mystic fire [62];
  Let worlds rejoice to hear the welcome story,
  And may the son immortalize the sire.

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

PRIYAMVADÁ.

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

ANASÚYÁ.

Yes, yes, Priyamvadá, it shall be so; and now to prepare the bridal array. I have always looked forward to this occasion, and some time since, I deposited a beautiful garland of Ke[S']ara 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.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

Gautamí, bid [S']árngarava and the others hold themselves in readiness to escort [S']akoontalá.

Quick, quick, Anasúyá! They are calling the hermits who are to go with [S']akoontalá to Hastinápur[83].

See! there sits [S']akoontalá, 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.

[S']AKOONTALÁ is seen seated, with women surrounding her, occupied in the manner described.

My child, may'st thou receive the title of 'Chief-queen,' and may thy husband delight to honour thee above all others!

SECOND WOMAN.

THIRD WOMAN.

Dear [S']akoontalá, we are come to assist you at your toilet, and may a blessing attend it!

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

Now, then, dearest, prepare to let us dress you. We must first rub your limbs with these perfumed unguents.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

I ought indeed to be grateful for your kind offices, now that I am so soon to be deprived of them. Dear, dear friends, perhaps I shall never be dressed by you again.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

Alas! these simple flowers and rude ornaments, which our hermitage offers in abundance, do not set off your beauty as it deserves.

BOTH HERMITS.

GAUTAMÍ

FIRST HERMIT.

GAUTAMÍ.

SECOND HERMIT.

Certainly not; but you shall hear. The venerable sage ordered us to collect flowers for [S']akoontalá from the forest-trees; and we went to the wood for that purpose, when

  Straightway depending from a neighbouring tree
  Appeared a robe of linen tissue, pure
  And spotless as a moonbeam—mystic pledge
  Of bridal happiness; another tree
  Distilled a roseate dye wherewith to stain
  The lady's feet [135]; and other branches near
  Glistened with rare and costly ornaments.
  While, 'mid the leaves, the hands of forest-nymphs,
  Vying in beauty with the opening buds,
  Presented us with sylvan offerings.

The wood-nymphs have done you honour, indeed. This favour doubtless signifies that you are soon to be received as a happy wife into your husband's house, and are from this time forward to become the partner of his royal fortunes.

FIRST HERMIT.

Come, Gautama; Father Kanwa has finished his ablutions. Let us go and inform him of the favour we have received from the deities who preside over our trees.

SECOND HERMIT.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ

Alas! what are we to do? We are unused to such splendid decorations, and are at a loss how to arrange them. Our knowledge of painting must be our guide. We will dispose the ornaments as we have seen them in pictures.

[S']AKOONTALÁ

Whatever pleases you, dear girls, will please me. I have perfect confidence In your taste.

KANWA.

  This day my loved one leaves me, and my heart
  Is heavy with its grief; the streams of sorrow,
  Choked at the source, repress my faltering voice,
  I have no words to speak; mine eyes are dimmed
  By the dark shadows of the thoughts that rise
  Within my soul. If such the force of grief
  In an old hermit parted from his nursling,
  What anguish must the stricken parent feel—
  Bereft for ever of an only daughter.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

Now, dearest [S']akoontalá, we have finished decorating you. You have only to put on the two linen mantles.

GAUTAMÍ.

Daughter, see, here comes thy foster-father; he is eager to fold thee in his arms; his eyes swim with tears of joy. Hasten to do him reverence.

KANWA.

  May'st thou be highly honoured by thy lord,
  E'en as Yayáti [S']armishthá adored[64]!
  And, as she bore him Puru, so may'st thou
  Bring forth a son to whom the world shall bow!

GAUTAMÍ.

Most venerable father, she accepts your benediction as if she already possessed the boon it confers.

KANWA.

  Holy flames, that gleam around
  Every altar's hallowed ground;
  Holy flames, whose frequent food
  Is the consecrated wood,
  And for whose encircling bed,
  Sacred Ku[s']a-grass is spread [65];
  Holy flames, that waft to heaven
  Sweet oblations daily given,
  Mortal guilt to purge away,
  Hear, oh hear me, when I pray—
  Purify my child this day!

KANWA.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

KANWA.

  Hear me, ye trees that surround our hermitage!
  [S']akoontalá ne'er moistened in the stream
  Her own parched lips, till she had fondly poured
  Its purest water on your thirsty roots;
  And oft, when she would fain have decked her hair
  With your thick-clustering blossoms, in her love
  She robbed you not e'en of a single flower.
  Her highest joy was ever to behold
  The early glory of your opening buds;
  Oh, then, dismiss her with a kind farewell.
  This very day she quits her father's home,
  To seek the palace of her wedded lord.

  Hark! heard'st thou not the answer of the trees,
  Our sylvan sisters, warbled in the note
  Of the melodious Koïl[66]? they dismiss
  Their dear [S']akoontalá with loving wishes.

VOICES IN THE AIR.

  Fare thee well, journey pleasantly on amid streams
  Where the lotuses bloom, and the sun's glowing beams
  Never pierce the deep shade of the wide-spreading trees,
  While gently around thee shall sport the cool breeze;
  Then light be thy footsteps and easy thy tread,
  Beneath thee shall carpets of lilies be spread;
  Journey on to thy lord, let thy spirit be gay,
  For the smiles of all Nature shall gladden thy way.

GAUTAMÍ.

Daughter! the nymphs of the wood, who love thee with the affection of a sister, dismiss thee with kind wishes for thy happiness. Take thou leave of them reverentially.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Eager as I am, dear Priyamvadá, to see my husband once more, yet my feet refuse to move, now that I am quitting for ever the home of my girlhood.

PRIYAMVADÁ.

You are not the only one, dearest, to feel the bitterness of parting. As the time of separation approaches, the whole grove seems to share your anguish.

  In sorrow for thy loss, the herd of deer
  Forget to browse; the peacock on the lawn
  Ceases its dance[67]; the very trees around
  Shed their pale leaves, like tears, upon the ground.

My father, let me, before I go, bid adieu to my pet jasmine, the
Moonlight of the Grove[68]. I love the plant almost as a sister.

KANWA.

Yes, yes, my child, I remember thy sisterly affection for the creeper. Here it is on the right.

My beloved jasmine! most brilliant of climbing plants, how sweet it is to see thee cling thus fondly to thy husband, the mango-tree; yet, prithee, turn thy twining arms for a moment in this direction to embrace thy sister; she is going far away, and may never see thee again.

KANWA.

  Daughter, the cherished purpose of my heart
  Has ever been to wed thee to a man
  That should be worthy of thee; such a spouse
  Hast thou thyself, by thine own merits, won.
  To him thou goest, and about his neck
  Soon shalt thou cling confidingly, as now
  Thy favourite jasmine twines its loving arms
  Around the sturdy mango. Leave thou it
  To its protector—e'en as I consign
  Thee to thy lord, and henceforth from my mind
  Banish all anxious thought on thy behalf.

To you, my sweet companions, I leave it as a keepsake. Take charge of it when I am gone.

And to whose charge do you leave us, dearest? Who will care for us when you are gone?

KANWA.

For shame, Anasúyá! dry your tears. Is this the way to cheer your friend at a time when she needs your support and consolation?

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

My father, see you there my pet deer, grazing close to the hermitage? She expects soon to fawn, and even now the weight of the little one she carries hinders her movements. Do not forget to send me word when she becomes a mother.

KANWA.

  It is the little fawn, thy foster-child,
  Poor helpless orphan! it remembers well
  How with a mother's tenderness and love
  Thou didst protect it, and with grains of rice
  From thine own hand didst daily nourish it;
  And, ever and anon, when some sharp thorn
  Had pierced its mouth, how gently thou didst tend
  The bleeding wound, and pour in healing balm.
  The grateful nursling clings to its protectress,
  Mutely imploring leave to follow her.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

My poor little fawn! dost thou ask to follow an ungrateful wretch who hesitates not to desert her companions! When thy mother died, soon after thy birth, I supplied her place, and reared thee with my own hand; and now that thy second mother is about to leave thee, who will care for thee? My father, be thou a mother to her. My child, go back, and be a daughter to my father.

KANWA.

  Weep not, my daughter, check the gathering tear
  That lurks beneath thine eyelid, ere it flow
  And weaken thy resolve; be firm and true—
  True to thyself and me; the path of life
  Will lead o'er hill and plain, o'er rough and smooth,
  And all must feel the steepness of the way;
  Though rugged be thy course, press boldly on.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

Venerable Sire! the sacred precept is:—'Accompany thy friend as far as the margin of the first stream.' Here, then, we are arrived at the border of a lake. It is time for you to give us your final instructions and return.

KANWA.

See, see, dear Anasúyá, the poor female Chakraváka-bird[70], whom cruel fate dooms to nightly separation from her mate, calls to him in mournful notes from the other side of the stream, though he is only hidden from her view by the spreading leaves of the water-lily. Her cry is so piteous that I could almost fancy she was lamenting her hard lot in intelligible words.

ANASÚYÁ

  Fond bird! though sorrow lengthen out her night
  Of widowhood, yet with a cry of joy
  She hails the morning light that brings her mate
  Back to her side. The agony of parting
  Would wound us like a sword, but that its edge
  Is blunted by the hope of future meeting.

KANWA.

[S']árngarava! when you have introduced [S']akoontalá into the presence of the King, you must give him this message from me:—

[S']ÁRNGARAVA

KANWA.

  Most puissant prince! we here present before thee
  One thou art bound to cherish and receive
  As thine own wife; yea, even to enthrone
  As thine own queen—worthy of equal love
  With thine imperial consorts. So much, Sire,
  We claim of thee as justice due to us,
  In virtue of our holy character,
  In virtue of thine honourable rank,
  In virtue of the pure spontaneous love
  That secretly grew up 'twixt thee and her,
  Without consent or privity of us.
  We ask no more—the rest we freely leave
  To thy just feeling and to destiny.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

KANWA.

And, now, my child, a few words of advice for thee. We hermits, though we live secluded from the world are not ignorant of worldly matters.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

KANWA.

Listen, then, my daughter. When thou reachest thy husband's palace, and art admitted into his family,

  Honour thy betters; ever be respectful
  To those above thee; and, should others share
  Thy husband's love, ne'er yield thyself a prey
  to jealousy; but ever be a friend,
  A loving friend, to those who rival thee
  In his affections. Should thy wedded lord
  Treat thee with harshness, thou most never be
  Harsh in return, but patient and submissive;
  Be to thy menials courteous, and to all
  Placed under thee, considerate and kind;
  Be never self-indulgent, but avoid
  Excess in pleasure; and, when fortune smiles,
  Be not puffed up. Thus to thy husband's house
  Wilt thou a blessing prove, and not a curse.

GAUTAMÍ.

An excellent compendium, truly, of every wife's duties! Lay it well to heart, my daughter.

KANWA.

Come, my beloved child, one parting embrace for me and for thy companions, and then we leave thee.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

My father, must Priyamvadá and Anasúyá really return with you?
They are very dear to me.

KANWA.

Yes, my child; they, too, in good time, will be given in marriage to suitable husbands. It would not be proper for them to accompany thee to such a public place. But Gautamí shall be thy companion.

Removed from thy bosom, my beloved father, like a young tendril of the sandal-tree torn from its home in the western mountains[71], how shall I be able to support life in a foreign soil?

KANWA.

  Soon shall thy lord prefer thee to the rank
  Of his own consort; and unnumbered cares
  Befitting his imperial dignity
  Shall constantly engross thee. Then the bliss
  Of bearing him a son—a noble boy,
  Bright as the day-star, shall transport thy soul
  With new delights, and little shalt thou reck
  Of the light sorrow that afflicts thee now
  At parting from thy father and thy friends.

KANWA.

Dear [S']akoontalá, remember, if the King should by any chance be slow in recognizing you, you have only to show him this ring, on which his own name is engraved.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

There is no real cause for fear, dearest. Excessive affection is too apt to suspect evil where none exists.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

KANWA.

  When thou hast passed a long and blissful life
  As King Dushyanta's queen, and jointly shared
  With all the earth his ever-watchful care;
  And hast beheld thine own heroic son,
  Matchless in arms, united to a bride
  In happy wedlock; when his aged sire,
  Thy faithful husband, hath to him resigned
  The helm of state; then, weary of the world,
  Together with Dushyanta thou shalt seek
  The calm seclusion of thy former home[72];
  There amid holy scenes to be at peace,
  Till thy pure spirit gain its last release.

GAUTAMÍ.

Come, my child, the favourable time for our journey is fast passing. Let thy father return. Venerable Sire, be thou the first to move homewards, or these last words will never end.

KANWA.

Beloved father, thy frame is much enfeebled by penitential exercises. Do not, oh! do not, allow thyself to sorrow too much on my account.

  How, O my child, shall my bereaved heart
  Forget its bitterness, when, day by day,
  Full in my sight shall grow the tender plants
  Reared by thy care, or sprang from hallowed grain
  Which thy loved hands have strewn around the door—
  A frequent offering to our household gods[73]?

Well, Anasúyá, your sister has departed. Moderate your grief, both of you, and follow me, I go back to the hermitage.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.

Holy father, the sacred grove will be a desert without
[S']akoontalá. How can we ever return to it?

KANWA.

As for me, I am quite surprised at myself. Now that I have fairly dismissed her to her husband's house, my mind is easy; for, indeed,

  A daughter is a loan—a precious jewel
  Lent to a parent till her husband claim her.
  And now that to her rightful lord and master
  I have delivered her, my burdened soul
  Is lightened, and I seem to breathe more freely.

ACT V.

SCENE.—A Room in the Palace.

Hark! my dear friend, listen a minute, and you will hear sweet sounds proceeding from the music-room. Some one is singing a charming air. Who can it be? Oh! I know. The queen Hansapadiká is practising her notes, that she may greet you with a new song.

KING.

A VOICE SINGS BEHIND THE SCENES.

  How often hither didst thou rove,
  Sweet bee, to kiss the mango's cheek;
  Oh! leave not, then, thy early love,
  The lily's honeyed lip to seek.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

She means to reprove me, because I once paid her great attention, and have lately deserted her for the queen Vasumatí. Go, my dear fellow, and tell Hansapadiká from me that I take her delicate reproof as it is intended.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

But stay—I don't much relish being sent to bear the brunt of her jealousy. The chances are that she will have me seized by the hair of the head and beaten to a jelly. I would as soon expose myself, after a vow of celibacy, to the seductions of a lovely nymph, as encounter the fury of a jealous woman.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Strange! that song has filled me with a most peculiar sensation. A melancholy feeling has come over me, and I seem to yearn after some long-forgotten object of affection. Singular, indeed! but

  Not seldom In our happy hours of ease,
  When thought is still, the sight of some fair form,
  Or mournful fall of music breathing low,
  Will stir strange fancies, thrilling all the soul
  With a mysterious sadness, and a sense
  Of vague yet earnest longing. Can it be
  That the dim memory of events long past,
  Or friendships formed in other states of being[74],
  Flits like a passing shadow o'er the spirit?

CHAMBERLAIN.

  Even this wand betrays the lapse of years;
  In youthful days 'twas but a useless badge
  And symbol of my office; now it serves
  As a support to prop my tottering steps.

Ah me! I feel very unwilling to announce to the King that a deputation of young hermits from the sage Kanwa has arrived, and craves an immediate audience. Certainly, his Majesty ought not to neglect a matter of sacred duty, yet I hardly like to trouble him when he has just risen from the judgment-seat. Well, well; a monarch's business is to sustain the world, and he must not expect much repose; because—

  Onward, for ever onward, in his car
  The unwearied Sun pursues his daily course,
  Nor tarries to unyoke his glittering steeds.
  And, ever moving, speeds the rushing Wind
  Through boundless space, filling the universe
  With his life-giving breezes. Day and night,
  The King of Serpents on his thousand heads[76]
  Upholds the incumbent earth; and even so,
  Unceasing toil is aye the lot of kings,
  Who, in return, draw nurture from their subjects.

  His subjects are his children; through the day,
  Like a fond father, to supply their wants,
  Incessantly he labours; wearied now,
  The monarch seeks seclusion and repose;
  E'en as the prince of elephants defies
  The sun's fierce heat, and leads the fainting herd
  To verdant pastures, ere his wayworn limbs
  He yields to rest beneath the cooling shade.

Victory to the King! So please your Majesty, some hermits who live in a forest near the Snowy Mountains have arrived here, bringing certain women with them. They have a message to deliver from the sage Kanwa and desire an audience. I await your Majesty's commands.

CHAMBERLAIN.

KING.

Tell my domestic priest Somaráta to receive the hermits with due honour, according to the prescribed form. He may then himself introduce them into my presence. I will await them in a place suitable for the reception of such holy guests.

CHAMBERLAIN.

WARDER.

KING.

People are generally contented and happy when they have gained their desires; but kings have no sooner attained the object of their aspirations than all their troubles begin.

  'Tis a fond thought that to attain the end
  And object of ambition is to rest;
  Success doth only mitigate the fever
  Of anxious expectation; soon the fear
  Of losing what we have, the constant care
  Of guarding it, doth weary. Ceaseless toil
  Must be the lot of him who with his hands
  Supports the canopy that shields his subjects.

FIRST HERALD.

  Honour to him who labours day by day
  For the world's weal, forgetful of his own;
  Like some tall tree that with its stately head
  Endures the solar beam, while underneath
  It yields refreshing shelter to the weary.

SECOND HERALD.

  Let but the monarch wield his threatening rod
  And e'en the guilty tremble; at his voice
  The rebel spirit cowers; his grateful subjects
  Acknowledge him their guardian; rich and poor
  Hail him a faithful friend—a loving kinsman.

KING.

WARDER.

Here is the terrace of the hallowed fire-chamber, and yonder stands the cow that yields the milk for the oblations. The sacred enclosure has been recently purified, and looks clean and beautiful. Ascend, Sire.

Vetravatí, what can possibly be the message that the venerable
Kanwa has sent me by these hermits?

  Perchance their sacred rites have been disturbed
  By demons, or some evil has befallen
  The innocent herds, their favourites, that graze
  Within the precincts of the hermitage,
  Or haply, through my sins, some withering blight
  Has nipped the creeping plants that spread their arms
  Around the hallowed grove. Such troubled thoughts
  Crowd through my mind, and fill me with misgiving.

WARDER.

If you ask my opinion, Sire, I think the hermits merely wish to take an opportunity of testifying their loyalty, and are therefore come to offer homage to your majesty.

Enter the HERMITS leading [S']AKOONTALÁ, attended by GAUTAMÍ; and in advance of them, the CHAMBERLAIN and the DOMESTIC PRIEST.

CHAMBERLAIN.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA

  'Tis true the monarch lacks no royal grace,
  Nor ever swerves from justice; true, his people,
  Yea such as in life's humblest walks are found,
  Refrain from evil courses; still to me,
  A lonely hermit reared in solitude,
  This throng appears bewildering, and I seem
  To look upon a burning house, whose inmates
  Are running to and fro in wild dismay.

[S']ÁRADWATA.

It is natural that the first sight of the King's capital should affect you in this manner; my own sensations are very similar.

  As one just bathed beholds the man polluted;
  As one late purified, the yet impure;
  As one awake looks on the yet unawakened;
  Or as the freeman gazes on the thrall,
  So I regard this crowd of pleasure-seekers.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

[Feeling a quivering sensation in her right eyelid [79], and suspecting a bad omen.

GAUTAMÍ.

Heaven avert the evil omen, my child! May the guardian deities of thy husband's family convert it into a sign of good fortune!

PRIEST.

Most reverend Sirs, there stands the protector of the four classes of the people; the guardian of the four conditions of the priesthood[80]. He has just left the judgment-seat, and is waiting for you. Behold him!

[S']ÁRNGARAVA

Great Bráhman, we are happy in thinking that the King's power is exerted for the protection of all classes of his subjects. We have not come as petitioners—we have the fullest confidence in the generosity of his nature.

  The loftiest trees bend humbly to the ground
  Beneath the teeming burden of their fruit;
  High in the vernal sky the pregnant clouds
  Suspend their stately course, and, hanging low,
  Scatter their sparkling treasures o'er the earth;
  And such is true benevolence; the good
  Are never rendered arrogant by riches.

WARDER.

So please your Majesty, I judge from the placid countenance of the hermits that they have no alarming message to deliver.

  Who can she be, whose form of matchless grace
  Is half concealed beneath her flowing veil?
  Among the sombre hermits she appears
  Like a fresh bud 'mid sear and yellow leaves.

WARDER.

So please your Majesty, my curiosity is also roused, but no conjecture occurs to my mind. This at least is certain, that she deserves to be looked at more closely.

KING.

O my heart, why this throbbing? Remember thy lord's affection, and take courage.

These holy men have been received with all due honour. One of them has now a message to deliver from his spiritual superior. Will your Majesty deign to hear it?

KING.

HERMITS.

KING.

HERMITS.

  Who dares disturb our penitential rites
  When thou art our protector? Can the night
  Prevail to cast her shadows o'er the earth
  While the sun's beams irradiate the sky?

KING.

Such, indeed, is the very meaning of my title—'Defender of the Just.' I trust the venerable Kanwa is in good health. The world is interested in his well-being.

HERMITS.

Holy men have health and prosperity in their own power. He bade us greet your Majesty, and, after kind inquiries, deliver this message.

KING.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

He bade us say that he feels happy in giving his sanction to the marriage which your Majesty contracted with this lady, his daughter, privately and by mutual agreement. Because,

  By us thou art esteemed the most illustrious
  Of noble husbands; and [S']akoontalá,
  Virtue herself in human form revealed.
  Great Brahmá hath in equal yoke united
  A bride unto a husband worthy of her;
  Henceforth let none make blasphemous complaint
  That he is pleased with ill-assorted unions[81].

Since, therefore, she expects soon to be the mother of thy child, receive her into thy palace, that she may perform, in conjunction with thee, the ceremonies prescribed by religion on such an occasion.

GAUTAMÍ.

So please your Majesty, I would add a few words; but why should I intrude my sentiments when an opportunity of speaking my mind has never been allowed me?

  She took no counsel with her kindred; thou
  Didst not confer with thine, but all alone
  Didst solemnize thy nuptials with thy wife.
  Together, then, hold converse; let us leave you.

KING.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA

What do I hear? Dost thou, then, hesitate? Monarch, thou art well acquainted with the ways of the world, and knowest that

  A wife, however virtuous and discreet,
  If she live separate from her wedded lord,
  Though under shelter of her parent's roof,
  Is marked for vile suspicion. Let her dwell
  Beside her husband, though he hold her not
  In his affection. So her kinsmen will it.

KING.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

Is it becoming in a monarch to depart from the rules of justice, because he repents of his engagements?

KING.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

KING.

GAUTAMÍ.

Be not ashamed, my daughter. Let me remove thy veil for a little space. Thy husband will then recognize thee.

KING.

  What charms are here revealed before mine eyes!
  Truly no blemish mars the symmetry
  Of that fair form; yet can I ne'er believe
  She is my wedded wife; and like a bee
  That circles round the flower whose nectared cup
  Teems with the dew of morning, I must pause
  Ere eagerly I taste the proffered sweetness.

WARDER.

How admirably does our royal master's behaviour prove his regard for justice! Who else would hesitate for a moment when good fortune offered for his acceptance a form of such rare beauty?

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

KING.

Holy men, I have revolved the matter in my mind; but the more I think of it, the less able am I to recollect that I ever contracted an alliance with this lady. What answer, then, can I possibly give you when I do not believe myself to be her husband, and I plainly see that she is soon to become a mother?

[S']AKOONTALÁ

Woe! woe! Is our very marriage to be called in question by my own husband? Ah me! is this to be the end of all my bright visions of wedded happiness?

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

  Beware how thou insult the holy Sage!
  Remember how he generously allowed
  Thy secret union with his foster-child;
  And how, when thou didst rob him of his treasure,
  He sought to furnish thee excuse, when rather
  He should have cursed thee for a ravisher.

[S']ÁRADWATA.

[S']árngarava, speak to him no more. [S']akoontalá, our part is performed; we have said all we have to say, and the King has replied in the manner thou hast heard. It is now thy turn to give him convincing evidence of thy marriage.

Since his feeling towards me has undergone a complete revolution, what will it avail to revive old recollections? One thing is clear—I shall soon have to mourn my own widowhood.

But no—I dare not address thee by this title, since thou hast refused to acknowledge our union. Noble descendant of Puru! It is not worthy of thee to betray an innocent-minded girl, and disown her in such terms, after having so lately and so solemnly plighted thy vows to her in the hermitage.

KING.

  What evil spirit can possess thee, lady,
  That thou dost seek to sully my good name
  By base aspersions, like a swollen torrent,
  That, leaping from its narrow bed, o'erthrows
  The tree upon its bank, and strives to blend
  Its turbid waters with the crystal stream?

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

If, then, thou really believest me to be the wife of another, and thy present conduct proceeds from some cloud that obscures thy recollection, I will easily convince thee by this token.

KING.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

GAUTAMÍ.

The ring must have slipped off when thou wast in the act of offering homage to the holy water of [S']achí's sacred pool, near Sakrávatára[82].

People may well talk of the readiness of woman's invention! Here is an instance of it.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Say, rather, of the omnipotence of fate. I will mention another circumstance, which may yet convince thee.

KING.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

One day, while we were seated in a jasmine-bower, thou didst pour into the hollow of thine hand some water, sprinkled by a recent shower in the cup of a lotus-blossom—

KING.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

At that instant, my adopted child, the little fawn, with soft, long eyes, came running towards us. Upon which, before tasting the water thyself, thou didst kindly offer some to the little creature, saying fondly:—'Drink first, gentle fawn.' But she could not be induced to drink from the hand of a stranger; though immediately afterwards, when I took the water in my own hand, she drank with perfect confidence. Then, with a smile, thou didst say;—'Every creature confides naturally in its own kind. You are both inhabitants of the same forest, and have learnt to trust each other.'

KING.

Voluptuaries may allow themselves to be seduced from the path of duty by falsehoods such as these, expressed in honeyed words.

GAUTAMÍ.

Speak not thus, illustrious Prince. This lady was brought up in a hermitage, and has never learnt deceit.

KING.

  E'en in untutored brutes, the female sex
  Is marked by inborn subtlety—much more
  In beings gifted with intelligence.
  The wily Koïl[83], ere towards the sky
  She wings her sportive flight, commits her eggs
  To other nests, and artfully consigns
  The rearing of her little ones to strangers.

Dishonourable man, thou judgest of others by thine own evil heart. Thou, at least, art unrivalled in perfidy, and standest alone—a base deceiver in the garb of virtue and religion—like a deep pit whose yawning mouth is concealed by smiling flowers.

Her anger, at any rate, appears genuine, and makes me almost doubt whether I am in the right. For indeed,

  When I had vainly searched my memory,
  And so with stern severity denied
  The fabled story of our secret loves,
  Her brows, that met before in graceful curves,
  Like the arched weapon of the god of love,
  Seemed by her frown dissevered; while the fire
  Of sudden anger kindled in her eyes.

My good lady, Dushyanta's character is well known to all. I comprehend not your meaning.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Well do I deserve to be thought a harlot for having in the innocence of my heart, and out of the confidence I reposed in a Prince of Puru's race, entrusted my honour to a man whose mouth distils honey, while his heart is full of poison.

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

Thus it is that burning remorse must ever follow rash actions which might have been avoided, and for which one has only one's self to blame.

  Not hastily should marriage be contracted,
  And specially in secret. Many a time,
  In hearts that know not each the other's fancies,
  Fond love is changed into most bitter hate.

KING.

How now! Do you give credence to this woman rather than to me, that you heap such accusations on me?

  Hold in contempt the innocent words of those
  Who from their infancy have known no guile;
  But trust the treacherous counsels of the man
  Who makes a very science of deceit.

KING.

Most veracious Bráhman, grant that you are in the right, what end would be gained by betraying this lady?

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

KING.

No one will believe that a Prince of Puru's race would seek to ruin others or himself.

[S']ÁRADWATA.

This altercation is idle, [S']árngarava. We have executed the commission of our preceptor; come, let us return.

  [S']akoontalá is certainly thy bride;
  Receive her or reject her, she is thine.
  Do with her, King, according to thy pleasure—
  The husband o'er the wife is absolute.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

What! is it not enough to have been betrayed by this perfidious man? Must you also forsake me, regardless of my tears and lamentations?

My son [S']árngarava, see! [S']akoontalá is following us, and with tears implores us not to leave her. Alas! poor child, what will she do here with a cruel husband who casts her from him?

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

  If thou art really what the King proclaims thee,
  How can thy father e'er receive thee back
  Into his house and home? but if thy conscience
  Be witness to thy purity of soul,
  E'en should thy husband to a handmaid's lot
  Condemn thee, thou may'st cheerfully endure it.
  When ranked among the number of his household.

KING.

  The moon expands the lotus of the night,
  The rising sun awakes the lily; each
  Is with his own contented. Even so
  The virtuous man is master of his passions,
  And from another's wife averts his gaze[120].

[S']ÁRNGARAVA.

Since thy union with another woman has rendered thee oblivious of thy marriage with [S']akoontalá, whence this fear of losing thy character for constancy and virtue?

You must counsel me, revered Sir, as to my course of action.
Which of the two evils involves the greater or less sin?

  Whether by some dark veil my mind be clouded.
  Or this designing woman speak untruly,
  I know not. Tell me, must I rather be
  The base disowner of my wedded wife,
  Or the defiling and defiled adulterer?

KING.

PRIEST.

I will provide an asylum for the lady in my own house until the birth of her child; and my reason, if you ask me, is this: Soothsayers have predicted that your first-born will have universal dominion. Now, if the hermit's daughter bring forth a son with the discus or mark of empire in the lines of his hand[84], you must admit her immediately into your royal apartments with great rejoicings; if not, then determine to send her back as soon as possible to her father.

PRIEST.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

[Exit [S']AKOONTALÁ weeping, with the PRIEST and the HERMITS. The KING remains absorbed in thinking of her, though the curse still clouds his recollection.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

KING.

PRIEST.

May it please your Majesty, so soon as Kanwa's pupils had departed, [S']akoontalá, her eyes all bathed in tears, with outstretched arms, bewailed her cruel fate—

KING.

PRIEST.

  When suddenly a shining apparition,
  In female shape, descended from the skies,
  Near the nymph's pool, and bore her up to heaven.

KING.

My good priest, from the very first I declined having anything to do with this matter. It is now all over, and we can never, by our conjectures, unravel the mystery; let it rest; go, seek repose.

PRIEST.

KING.

WARDER.

KING.

  Do what I will, I cannot call to mind
  That I did e'er espouse the sage's daughter;
  Therefore I have disowned her; yet 'tis strange
  How painfully my agitated heart
  Bears witness to the truth of her assertion,
  And makes me credit her against my judgment.

PRELUDE TO ACT VI.

SCENE.—A Street.

Enter the King's brother-in-law as SUPERINTENDENT of the city police; and with him TWO CONSTABLES, dragging a poor FISHERMAN, who has his hands tied behind his back.

Take that for a rascally thief that you are; and now tell us, sirrah, where you found this ring—aye, the King's own signet-ring. See, here is the royal name engraved on the setting of the jewel.

FIRST CONSTABLE.

Oh! then I suppose the King took you for some fine Bráhman, and made you a present of it?

FISHERMAN.

SECOND CONSTABLE.

Súchaka, let the fellow tell his own story from the beginning.
Don't interrupt him.

BOTH CONSTABLES.

FISHERMAN.

You see in me a poor man, who supports his family by catching fish with nets, hooks, and the like.

FISHERMAN.

  The father's occupation, though despised
  By others, casts no shame upon the son,
  And he should not forsake it[86]. Is the priest
  Who kills the animal for sacrifice
  Therefore deemed cruel? Sure a low-born man
  May, though a fisherman, be tender-hearted.

SUPERINTENDENT.

FISHERMAN.

One day I was cutting open a large carp[87] I had just hooked, when the sparkle of a jewel caught my eye, and what should I find in the fish's maw but that ring! Soon afterwards, when I was offering it for sale, I was seized by your honours. Now you know everything. Whether you kill me, or whether you let me go, this is the true account of how the ring came into my possession.

Well, Jánuka, the rascal emits such a fishy odour that I have no doubt of his being a fisherman; but we must inquire a little more closely into this queer story about the finding of the ring. Come, we'll take him before the King's household.

BOTH CONSTABLES.

SUPERINTENDENT.

Now attend, Súchaka; keep your guard here at the gate; and hark ye, sirrahs, take good care your prisoner does not escape, while I go in and lay the whole story of the discovery of this ring before the King in person. I will soon return and let you know his commands.

BOTH CONSTABLES.

SECOND CONSTABLE.

Aye, aye; kings are not to be got at so easily. Folks must bide the proper opportunity.

FIRST CONSTABLE.

Jánuka, my fingers itch to strike the first blow at this royal victim here. We must kill him with all the honours, you know. I long to begin binding the flowers round his head[88].

FISHERMAN.

SECOND CONSTABLE.

There's our Superintendent at last, I declare. See! he is coming towards us with a paper in his hand. We shall soon know the King's command; so prepare, my fine fellow, either to become food for the vultures, or to make acquaintance with some hungry cur.

SUPERINTENDENT.

Ho, there, Súchaka! set the fisherman at liberty, I tell you. His story about the ring is all correct. SÚCHAKA.

SECOND CONSTABLE.

FISHERMAN.

SUPERINTENDENT.

Here, my good man, the King desired me to present you with this purse. It contains a sum of money equal to the full value of the ring.

FISHERMAN.

SÚCHAKA.

You may well say so. He might as well have taken you from the gallows to seat you on his state elephant.

JÁNUKA.

Master, the King must value the ring very highly, or he would never have sent such a sum of money to this ragamuffin.

SUPERINTENDENT.

I don't think he prizes it as a costly jewel so much as a memorial of some person he tenderly loves. The moment it was shown to him he became much agitated, though in general he conceals his feelings. SÚCHAKA.

JÁNUKA.

FISHERMAN.

Here's half the money for you, my masters. It will serve to purchase the flowers you spoke of, if not to buy me your good-will.

JÁNUKA.

SUPERINTENDENT.

My good fisherman, you are an excellent fellow, and I begin to feel quite a regard for you. Let us seal our first friendship over a glass of good liquor. Come along to the next wine-shop, and we'll drink your health.

ALL.

ACT VI.

SCENE.—_The Garden of a Palace.

SÁNUMATÍ.

Behold me just arrived from attending in my proper turn at the nymph's pool, where I have left the other nymphs to perform their ablutions, whilst I seek to ascertain, with my own eyes, how it fares with King Dushyanta. My connexion with the nymph Menaká has made her daughter [S']akoontalá dearer to me than my own flesh and blood; and Menaká it was who charged me with this errand on her daughter's behalf.

How is it that I see no preparations in the King's household for celebrating the great vernal festival[89]? I could easily discover the reason by my divine faculty of meditation[134]; but respect must be shown to the wishes of my friend. How then shall I arrive at the truth? I know what I will do. I will become invisible, and place myself near those two maidens who are tending the plants in the garden.

Enter a MAIDEN, who stops in front of a mango-tree, and gazes at the blossom. Another MAIDEN is seen behind her.

FIRST MAIDEN.

Hail to thee, lovely harbinger of spring! The varied radiance of thy opening flowers Is welcome to my sight. I bid thee hail, Sweet mango, soul of this enchanting season.

SECOND MAIDEN.

FIRST MAIDEN.

Dear Madhukariká, am I not named after the Koïl[90]? and does not the Koïl sing for joy at the first appearance of the mango-blossom?

FIRST MAIDEN.

SECOND MAIDEN.

Let me lean upon you, dear, while I stead on tiptoe and pluck a blossom, of the mango, that I may present it as an offering to the god of love.

FIRST MAIDEN.

SECOND MAIDEN.

To be sure you shall, and that without asking. Are we not one in heart and soul, though divided in body?

Ah! here is a bud just bursting into flower. It diffuses a delicious perfume, though not yet quite expanded.

  God of the bow, who with spring's choicest flowers
  Dost point thy five unerring shafts[91]; to thee
  I dedicate this blossom; let it serve
  To barb thy truest arrow; be its mark
  Some youthful heart that pines to be beloved.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Hold there, thoughtless woman. What are you about, breaking off those mango-blossoms, when the King has forbidden the celebration of the spring festival?

CHAMBERLAIN.

You have heard nothing of it? Why, all the vernal plants and shrubs, and the very birds that lodge in their branches, show more respect to the King's order than you do.

  Yon mango-blossoms, though long since expanded,
  Gather no down upon their tender crests;
  The flower still lingers in the amaranth[92],
  Imprisoned in its bud; the tuneful Koïl,
  Though winter's chilly dews be overpast,
  Suspends the liquid volume of his song
  Scarce uttered in his throat; e'en Love, dismayed,
  Restores the half-drawn arrow to his quiver.

BOTH MAIDENS.

FIRST MAIDEN.

It is but a few days since Mitrávasu, the King's brother-in-law, sent us to wait upon his Majesty; and, during the whole of our sojourn here, we have been entrusted with the charge of the royal pleasure-grounds. We are therefore strangers in this place, and heard nothing of the order till you informed us of it.

CHAMBERLAIN.

BOTH MAIDENS.

But tell us, kind Sir, why has the King prohibited the usual festivities? We are curious to hear, if we may.

Men are naturally fond of festive entertainments. There must be some good reason for the prohibition.

CHAMBERLAIN.

The whole affair is now public; why should I not speak of it? Has not the gossip about the King's rejection of [S']akoontalá reached your ears yet?

BOTH MAIDENS.

Oh yes, we heard the story from the King's brother-in-law, as far, at least, as the discovery of the ring.

CHAMBERLAIN.

Then there is little more to tell you. As soon as the King's memory was restored by the sight of his own ring, he exclaimed: 'Yes, it is all true. I remember now my secret marriage with [S']akoontalá. When I repudiated her, I had lost my recollection!' Ever since that moment, he has yielded himself a prey to the bitterest remorse.

  He loathes his former pleasures; he rejects
  The daily homage of his ministers;
  On his lone couch he tosses to and fro,
  Courting repose in vain. Whene'er he meets
  The ladies of his palace, and would fain
  Address them with politeness, he confounds
  Their names; or, calling them '[S']akoontalá,'
  Is straightway silent and abashed with shame.

CHAMBERLAIN.

In short, the King is so completely out of his mind that the festival has been prohibited.

BOTH MAIDENS.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

Oh! here comes his Majesty in this direction. Pass on, maidens; attend to your duties.

BOTH MAIDENS.

Enter King DUSHYANTA, dressed in deep mourning, attended his Jester, MÁ[T.]HAVYA, and preceded by VETRAVATÍ.

Well, noble forms are certainly pleasing, under all varieties of outward circumstances. The King's person is as charming as ever, notwithstanding his sorrow of mind.

  Though but a single golden bracelet spans
  His wasted arm; though costly ornaments
  Have given place to penitential weeds;
  Though oft-repeated sighs have blanched his lips,
  And robbed them of their bloom; though sleepless care
  And carking thought have dimmed his beaming eye;
  Yet does his form, by its inherent lustre,
  Dazzle the gaze; and, like a priceless gem
  Committed to some cunning polisher,
  Grow more effulgent by the loss of substance.

Now that I have seen him, I can well understand why [S']akoontalá should pine after such a man, in spite of his disdainful rejection of her.

  When fatal lethargy o'erwhelmed my soul,
  My loved one strove to rouse me, but in vain;
  And now, when I would fain in slumber deep
  Forget myself, full soon remorse doth wake me.

He is taken with another attack of this odious [S']akoontalá-fever.
How shall we ever cure him?

Victory to the King! Great Prince, the royal pleasure-grounds have been put in order. Your Majesty can resort to them for exercise and amusement whenever you think proper.

KING.

Vetravatí, tell the worthy Pi[S']una, my prime minister, from me, that I am so exhausted by want of sleep that I cannot sit on the judgment-seat to-day. If any case of importance be brought before the tribunal, he must give it his best attention, and inform me of the circumstances by letter.

VETRAVATÍ.

CHAMBERLAIN.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Now that you have rid yourself of these troublesome fellows, you can enjoy the delightful coolness of your pleasure-grounds without interruption.

KING.

Ah! my dear friend, there is an old adage:—'When affliction has a mind to enter, she will find a crevice somewhere;' and it is verified in me.

  Scarce is my soul delivered from the cloud
  That darkened its remembrance of the past,
  When lo! the heart-born deity of love
  With yonder blossom of the mango barbs
  His keenest shaft, and aims it at my breast.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Well, then, wait a moment; I will soon demolish Master Káma's[47] arrow with a cut of my cane.

That will do. I see very well the god of love is not a match for a Bráhman. And now, my dear friend, where shall I sit down, that I may enchant my sight by gazing on the twining plants, which seem to remind me of the graceful shape of my beloved?

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Don't you remember? you told your personal attendant, Chaturiká, that you would pass the heat of the day in the jasmine-bower; and commanded her to bring the likeness of your queen [S']akoontalá, sketched with your own hand.

KING.

True. The sight of her picture will refresh my soul. Lead the way to the arbour.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Here we are at the jasmine-bower. Look, it has a marble seat, and seems to bid us welcome with its offerings of delicious flowers. You have only to enter and sit down.

SÁNUMATÍ

I will lean against these young jasmines. I can easily, from behind them, glance at my friend's picture, and will then hasten to inform her of her husband's ardent affection.

KING.

Oh! my dear friend, how vividly all the circumstances of my union with [S']akoontalá present themselves to my recollection at this moment! But tell me now how it was that, between the time of my leaving her in the hermitage and my subsequent rejection of her, you never breathed her name to me? True, you were not by my side when I disowned her; but I had confided to you the story of my love, and you were acquainted with every particular. Did it pass out of your mind as it did out of mine?

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

No, no; trust me for that. But, if you remember, when you had finished telling me about it, you added that I was not to take the story in earnest, for that you were not really in love with a country girl, but were only jesting; and I was dull and thick-headed enough to believe you. But so fate decreed, and there is no help for it.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Come, come, cheer up; why do you give way? Such weakness is unworthy of you. Great men never surrender themselves to uncontrolled grief. Do not mountains remain unshaken even in a gale of wind?

KING.

How can I be otherwise than inconsolable, when I call to mind the agonized demeanour of the dear one on the occasion of my disowning her?

  When cruelly I spurned her from my presence,
  She fain had left me; but the young recluse,
  Stern as the Sage, and with authority
  As from his saintly master, in a voice
  That brooked not contradiction, bade her stay.
  Then through her pleading eyes, bedimmed with tears,
  She cast on me one long reproachful look,
  Which like a poisoned shaft torments me still.

Alas! such is the force of self-reproach following a rash action. But his anguish only rejoices me.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA

An idea has just struck me. I should not wonder if some celestial being had carried her off to heaven.

KING.

Very likely. Who else would have dared to lay a finger on a wife, the idol of her husband? It is said that Menaká, the nymph of heaven, gave her birth. The suspicion has certainly crossed my mind that some of her celestial companions may have taken her to their own abode.

His present recollection of every circumstance of her history does not surprise me so much as his former forgetfulness.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

No father and mother can endure to see a daughter suffering the pain of separation from her husband.

  Was it a dream? or did some magic dire,
  Dulling my senses with a strange delusion,
  O'ercome my spirit? or did destiny,
  Jealous of my good actions, mar their fruit,
  And rob me of their guerdon? It is past,
  Whate'er the spell that bound me. Once again
  Am I awake, but only to behold
  The precipice o'er which my hopes have fallen.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Do not despair in this manner. Is not this very ring a proof that what has been lost may be unexpectedly found?

Ah! this ring, too, has fallen from a station not easily regained, and I offer it my sympathy. O gem,

  The punishment we suffer is deserved,
  And equal is the merit of our works,
  When such our common doom. Thou didst enjoy
  The thrilling contact of those slender fingers,
  Bright as the dawn; and now how changed thy lot!

Had it found its way to the hand of any other person, then indeed its fate would have been deplorable.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

You shall hear. When I was leaving my beloved [S']akoontalá that I might return to my own capital, she said to me, with tears in her eyes: 'How long will it be ere my lord send for me to his palace and make me his queen?'

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

KING.

Repeat each day one letter of the name Engraven on this gem; ere thou hast reckoned The tale of syllables, my minister Shall come to lead thee to thy husband's palace.

But, hard-hearted man that I was, I forgot to fulfil my promise, owing to the infatuation that took possession of me.

A pleasant arrangement! Fate, however, ordained that the appointment should not be kept.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

But how did the ring contrive to pass into the stomach of that carp which the fisherman caught and was cutting up?

KING.

It must have slipped from my [S']akoontalá's hand, and fallen into the stream of the Ganges, while she was offering homage to the water of [S']achí's holy pool.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Hence it happened, I suppose, that the King, always fearful of committing the least injustice, came to doubt his marriage with my poor [S']akoontalá. But why should affection so strong as his stand in need of any token of recognition?

KING.

  Hear me, then dull and undiscerning bauble!
  For so it argues thee, that thou could'st leave
  The slender fingers of her hand, to sink
  Beneath the waters. Yet what marvel is it
  That thou should'st lack discernment? let me rather
  Heap curses on myself, who, though endowed
  With reason, yet rejected her I loved.

And so, I suppose, I must stand here to be devoured by hunger, whilst he goes on in this sentimental strain.

KING.

O forsaken one, unjustly banished from my presence, take pity on thy slave, whose heart is consumed by the fire of remorse, and return to my sight.

CHATURIKÁ.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Excellent, my dear friend, excellent! The imitation of nature is perfect, and the attitude of the figures is really charming. They stand out in such bold relief that the eye is quite deceived.

A most artistic performance! I admire the King's skill, and could almost believe that [S']akoontalá herself was before me.

KING.

  I own 'tis not amiss, though it portrays
  But feebly her angelic loveliness.
  Aught less than perfect is depicted falsely,
  And fancy must supply the imperfection.

A very just remark from a modest man, whose affection is exaggerated by the keenness of his remorse.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Tell me:—I see three female figures drawn on the canvas, and all of them beautiful; which of the three is her Majesty [S']akoontalá?

If he cannot distinguish her from the others, the simpleton might as well have no eyes in his head.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

She who is leaning, apparently a little tired, against the stem of that mango-tree, the tender leaves of which glitter with the water she has poured upon them. Her arms are gracefully extended; her face is somewhat flushed with the heat; and a few flowers have escaped from her hair, which has become unfastened, and hangs in loose tresses about her neck. That must be the queen [S']akoontalá, and the others, I presume, are her two attendants.

KING.

  My finger, burning with the glow of love[93],
  Has left its impress on the painted tablet;
  While here and there, alas! a scalding tear
  Has fallen on the cheek and dimmed its brightness.

Chaturiká, the garden in the background of the picture is only half-painted. Go, fetch the brush that I may finish it.

CHATURIKÁ.

KING.

  My loved one came but lately to my presence
  And offered me herself, but in my folly
  I spurned the gift, and now I fondly cling
  To her mere image; even as a madman
  Would pass the waters of the gushing stream,
  And thirst for airy vapours of the desert[94].

He has been fool enough to forego the reality for the semblance, the substance for the shadow.

He longs, no doubt, to delineate some favourite spot where my
[S']akoontalá delighted to ramble.

KING.

  I wish to see the Máliní portrayed,
  Its tranquil course by banks of sand impeded;
  Upon the brink a pair of swans; beyond,
  The hills adjacent to Himálaya[95],
  Studded with deer; and, near the spreading shade
  Of some large tree, where 'mid the branches hang
  The hermits' vests of bark, a tender doe,
  Rubbing its downy forehead on the horn
  Of a black antelope, should be depicted.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Pooh! if I were he, I would fill up the vacant spaces with a lot of grizzly-bearded old hermits.

KING.

My dear Má[T.]Havya, there is still a part of [S']akoontalá's dress which I purposed to draw, but find I have omitted.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Something suitable, I suppose, to the simple attire of a young and beautiful girl dwelling in a forest.

KING.

  A sweet [S']irísha blossom should be twined
  Behind her ear[7], its perfumed crest depending
  Towards her cheek; and, resting on her bosom,
  A lotus-fibre necklace, soft and bright
  As an autumnal moonbeam, should be traced.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

Pray, why does the Queen cover her lips with the tips of her fingers, bright as the blossom of a lily, as if she were afraid of something? [Looking more closely.] Oh! I see; a vagabond bee, intent on thieving honey from the flowers, has mistaken her mouth for a rosebud, and is trying to settle upon it.

KING.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

That's your business. Your royal prerogative gives you power over all offenders.

KING.

Very true. Listen to me, thou favourite guest of flowering plants; why give thyself the trouble of hovering here?

See where thy partner sits on yonder flower,
And waits for thee ere she will sip its dew.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

You'll find the obstinate creature is not to be sent about his business so easily as you think.

KING.

  An thou but touch the lips of my beloved,
  Sweet as the opening blossom, whence I quaffed
  In happier days love's nectar, I will place thee
  Within the hollow of yon lotus cup,
  And there imprison thee for thy presumption.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

He must be bold indeed not to show any fear when you threaten him with such an awful punishment. [Smiling, aside.] He is stark mad, that's clear; and I believe, by keeping him company, I am beginning to talk almost as wildly. [Aloud.] Look, it is only a painted bee.

KING.

  While all entranced, I gazed upon her picture,
  My loved one seemed to live before my eyes
  Till every fibre of my being thrilled
  With rapturous emotion. Oh! 'twas cruel
  To dissipate the day-dream, and transform
  The blissful vision to a lifeless image.

Separated lovers are very difficult to please; but he seems more difficult than usual.

KING.

Alas! my dear Má[T.]Havya, why am I doomed to be the victim of perpetual disappointment?

  Vain is the hope of meeting her in dreams,
  For slumber night by night forsakes my couch;
  And now that I would fain assuage my grief
  By gazing on her portrait here before me,
  Tears of despairing love obscure my sight.

You have made ample amends for the wrong you did [S']akoontalá in disowning her.

KING.

CHATURIKÁ.

When I met the queen Vasumatí, attended by Taraliká. She insisted on taking it from me, and declared she would herself deliver it into your Majesty's hands.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

CHATURIKÁ.

While her maid was disengaging her mantle, which had caught in the branch, of a shrub, I ran away.

KING.

Here, my good friend, take the picture and conceal it. My attentions to the Queen have made her presumptuous. She will be here in a minute.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

The Queen has a bitter draught in store for you, which you will have to swallow, as [S']iva did the poison at the Deluge[96]. When you are well quit of her, you may send and call me from the Palace of Clouds[97], where I shall take refuge.

Although the King's affections are transferred to another object, yet he respects his previous attachments. I fear his love must be somewhat fickle.

KING.

VETRAVATÍ.

I did; but when she saw that I had a despatch in my hand for your
Majesty, she turned back.

KING.

The Queen has too much regard for propriety to interrupt me when
I am engaged with State-affairs.

VETRAVATÍ.

So please your Majesty, your prime minister begs respectfully to inform you that he has devoted much time to the settlement of financial calculations, and only one case of importance has been submitted by the citizens for his consideration. He has made a written report of the facts, and requests your Majesty to cast your eyes over it.

KING.

What have we here? 'A merchant named Dhanamitra, trading by sea, was lost in a late shipwreck. Though a wealthy trader, he was childless; and the whole of his immense property becomes by law forfeited to the king.' So writes the minister. Alas! alas! for his childlessness! But surely, if he was wealthy, he must have had many wives. Let an inquiry be made whether any one of them is expecting to give birth to a child.

VETRAVATÍ.

They say that his wife, the daughter of the foreman of a guild belonging to Ayodhyá [98], has just completed the ceremonies usual upon such expectations.

KING.

The unborn child has a title to its father's property. Such is my decree. Go, bid my minister proclaim it so.

VETRAVATÍ.

KING.

VETRAVATÍ.

KING.

Let there be no question whether he may or may not have left offspring; Rather be it proclaimed that whosoe'er Of King Dushyanta's subjects be bereaved

  Of any loved relation, an it be not
  That his estates are forfeited for crimes,
  Dushyanta will himself to them supply
  That kinsman's place in tenderest affection.

VETRAVATÍ.

Your Majesty's proclamation was received with acclamations of joy, like grateful rain at the right season.

So, then, the property of rich men, who have no lineal descendants, passes over to a stranger at their decease. And such, alas! must be the fate of the fortunes of the race of Puru at my death; even as when fertile soil is sown with seed at the wrong season.

VETRAVATÍ.

KING.

Fool that I was to reject such happiness when it offered itself for my acceptance!

He may well blame his own folly when he calls to mind his treatment of my beloved [S']akoontalá.

KING.

  Ah! woe is me! when I forsook my wife—
  My lawful wife—concealed within her breast
  There lay my second self, a child unborn,
  Hope of my race, e'en as the choicest fruit
  Lies hidden in the bosom of the earth.

The affair of the merchant's death has quite upset our royal master, and caused him sad distress. Would it not be better to fetch the worthy Má[t.]havya from the Palace of Clouds to comfort him?

VETRAVATÍ.

KING.

Alas! the shades of my forefathers are even now beginning to be alarmed, lest at my death they may be deprived of their funeral libations.

  No son remains in King Dushyanta's place
  To offer sacred homage to the dead
  Of Puru's noble line; my ancestors
  Must drink these glistening tears, the last libation[99]
  A childless man can ever hope to make them.

Alas! alas! though a bright light is shining near him, he is involved in the blackest darkness, by reason of the veil that obscures his sight. I will now reveal all, and put an end to his misery. But no; I heard the mother of the great Indra[100], when she was consoling [S']akoontalá, say that the gods will soon bring about a joyful union between husband and wife, being eager for the sacrifice which will be celebrated in their honour on the occasion. I must not anticipate the happy moment, but will return at once to my dear friend and cheer her with an account of what I have seen and heard. [Rises aloft and disappears.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

KING.

VETRAVATÍ.

Some evil demon, invisible to human eyes, has seized him, and carried him to one of the turrets of the Palace of Clouds.

  Impossible! Have evil spirits power over my subjects,
  even in nay private apartments? Well, well;—
  Daily I seem, less able to avert
  Misfortune from myself, and o'er my actions
  Less competent to exercise control;
  How can I then direct my subjects' ways,
  Or shelter them from tyranny and wrong?

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

THE SAME VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

Fear nothing, indeed! How can I help fearing when some monster is twisting back my neck, and is about to snap it as he would a sugar-cane?

ANOTHER VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

  Here, thirsting for thy life-blood, will I slay thee,
  As a fierce tiger rends his struggling prey.
  Call now thy friend Dushyanta to thy aid;
  His bow is mighty to defend the weak;
  Yet all its vaunted power shall be as nought.

What! dares he defy me to my face? Hold there, monster! Prepare to die, for your time is come.

VETRAVATÍ.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

Help! Save me! I can see you, though you cannot see me. I am like a mouse in the claws of a cat; my life is not worth a minute's purchase.

KING.

Avaunt, monster! You may pride yourself on the magic that renders you invisible, but my arrow shall find you out. Thus do I fix a shaft That shall discern between an impious demon, And a good Bráhman; bearing death to thee, To him deliverance—even as the swan Distinguishes the milk from worthless water[101].

MÁTALI.

  Turn thou thy deadly arrows on the demons;
  Such is the will of Indra; let thy bow
  Be drawn against the enemies of the gods;
  But on thy friends cast only looks of favour.

MÁ[T.]HAVYA.

So, here is a monster who thought as little about slaughtering me as if I had been a bullock for sacrifice, and you must e'en greet him with a welcome.

KING.

MÁTALI.

There is a race of giants, the descendants of Kálanemi[103], whom the gods find it difficult to subdue.

KING.

MÁTALI.

  Heaven's mighty lord, who deigns to call thee 'friend,'
  Appoints thee to the post of highest honour,
  As leader of his armies; and commits
  The subjugation of this giant brood
  To thy resistless arms, e'en as the sun
  Leaves the pale moon to dissipate the darkness.

Let your Majesty, therefore, ascend at once the celestial car of
Indra; and, grasping your arms, advance to victory.

KING.

The mighty Indra honours me too highly by such a mark of distinction. But tell me, what made you act thus towards my poor friend Má[T.]Havya?

MÁTALI.

I will tell you. Perceiving that your Majesty's spirit was completely broken by some distress of mind under which you were labouring, I determined to rouse your energies by moving you to anger. Because To light a flame, we need but stir the embers; The cobra, when incensed, extends his head And springs upon his foe; the bravest men Display their courage only when provoked.

My dear Má[T.]Havya, the commands of the great Indra must not be left unfulfilled. Go you and acquaint my minister, Pi[S']una, with what has happened, and say to him from me:—

  Dushyanta to thy care confides his realm—
  Protect with all the vigour of thy mind
  The interests of his people; while his bow
  Is braced against the enemies of heaven.

MÁTALI

ACT VII.

SCENE.—The Sky.

KING.

My good Mátali, it appears to me incredible that I can merit such a mark of distinction for having simply fulfilled the behests of the great Indra.

  You underrate the services you have rendered,
  And think too highly of the god's reward;
  He deems it scarce sufficient recompense
  For your heroic deeds on his behalf.

KING.

Nay, Mátali, say not so. My most ambitious expectations were more than realised by the honour conferred on me at the moment when I took my leave. For,

  Tinged with celestial sandal, from the breast[105]
  Of the great Indra, where before it hung,
  A garland of the ever-blooming tree
  Of Nandana[106] was cast about my neck
  By his own hand; while, in the very presence
  Of the assembled gods, I was enthroned
  Beside their mighty lord, who smiled to see
  His son Jayanta[107] envious of the honour.

MÁTALI.

There is no mark of distinction which your Majesty does not deserve at the hands of the immortals. See,

  Heaven's hosts acknowledge thee their second saviour:
  For now thy how's unerring shafts (as erst
  The Lion-man's terrific claws[108]) have purged
  The empyreal sphere from taint of demons foul.

KING.

  When mighty gods make men their delegates
  In martial enterprise, to them belongs
  The palm of victory; and not to mortals.
  Could the pale Dawn dispel the shades of night,
  Did not the god of day, whose diadem
  Is jewelled with a thousand beams of light,
  Place him in front of his effulgent car[11]?

MÁTALI.

Great King, behold! the glory of thy fame has reached even to the vault of heaven.

  Hark! yonder inmates of the starry sphere
  Sing anthems worthy of thy martial deeds,
  While with celestial colours they depict
  The story of thy victories on scrolls
  Formed of the leaves of heaven's immortal trees.

KING.

My good Mátali, yesterday, when I ascended the sky, I was so eager to do battle with the demons, that the road by which we were travelling towards Indra's heaven escaped my observation. Tell me, in which path of the seven winds are we now moving?

MÁTALI.

  We journey in the path of Parivaha[109]—
  The wind that bears along the triple Ganges[110]
  And causes Ursa's seven stars to roll
  In their appointed orbits, scattering
  Their several rays with equal distribution.
  'Tis the same path that once was sanctified
  By the divine impression of the foot
  Of Vishnu, when, to conquer haughty Bali,
  He spanned the heavens in his second stride[111].

KING.

This is the reason, I suppose, that a sensation of calm repose pervades all my senses.

MÁTALI.

KING.

The car itself instructs me; we are moving
O'er pregnant clouds, surcharged with rain; below us
I see the moisture-loving Chátakas[112]
In sportive flight dart through the spokes; the steeds
Of Indra glisten with the lightning's flash;
And a thick mist bedews the circling wheels.

MÁTALI.

You are right; in a little while the chariot will touch the ground, and you will be in your own dominions.

  Stupendous prospect! yonder lofty hills
  Do suddenly uprear their towering heads
  Amid the plain, while from beneath their crests
  The ground receding sinks; the trees, whose stem
  Seemed lately hid within their leafy tresses,
  Rise into elevation, and display
  Their branching shoulders; yonder streams, whose waters,
  Like silver threads, were scarce, but now, discerned,
  Grow into mighty rivers; lo! the earth
  Seems upward hurled by some gigantic power.

MÁTALI.

KING.

Tell me, Mátali, what is the range of mountains which, like a bank of clouds illumined by the setting sun, pours down a stream of gold? On one side its base dips into the eastern ocean, and on the other side into the western.

MÁTALI.

Great Prince, it is called 'Golden-peak[113],' and is the abode of the attendants of the god of wealth. In this spot the highest forms of penance are wrought out.

  There Ka[s']yapa[114], the great progenitor
  Of demons and of gods, himself the offspring
  Of the divine Maríchi, Brahmá's son,
  With Adití, his wife, in calm seclusion,
  Does holy penance for the good of mortals.

KING.

Then I must not neglect so good an opportunity of obtaining his blessing. I should much like to visit this venerable personage and offer him my homage.

MÁTALI.

  Our chariot wheels move noiselessly. Around
  No clouds of dust arise; no shock betokened
  Our contact with the earth; we seem to glide
  Above the ground, so lightly do we touch it.

MÁTALI.

KING.

  Where stands yon anchorite, towards the orb
  Of the meridian sun, immovable
  As a tree's stem, his body half-concealed
  By a huge ant-hill. Bound about his breast
  No sacred cord is twined[115], but in its stead
  A hideous serpent's skin. In place of necklace,
  The tendrils of a withered creeper chafe
  His wasted neck. His matted hair depends
  In thick entanglement about his shoulders,
  And birds construct their nests within its folds[116].

KING.

Great Prince, we are now in the sacred grove of the holy Ka[s']yapa—the grove that boasts as its ornament one of the five trees of Indra's heaven, reared by Adití.

KING.

This sacred retreat is more delightful than heaven itself. I could almost fancy myself bathing in a pool of nectar.

MÁTALI.

You see around you the celebrated region where the holiest sages devote themselves to penitential rites.

KING.

  In such a place as this do saints of earth
  Long to complete their acts of penance; here,
  Beneath the shade of everlasting trees.
  Transplanted from the groves of Paradise,
  May they inhale the balmy air, and need
  No other nourishment[117]; here may they bathe
  In fountains sparkling with the golden dust
  Of lilies; here, on jewelled slabs of marble,
  In meditation rapt, may they recline;
  Here, in the presence of celestial nymphs,
  E'en passion's voice is powerless to move them.

MÁTALI.

So true is it that the aspirations of the good and great are ever soaring upwards.

Tell me, Vriddha-[S']ákalya, how is the divine son of Maríchi now engaged? What sayest thou? that he is conversing with Adití and some of the wives of the great sages, and that they are questioning him respecting the duties of a faithful wife?

If your Majesty will rest under the shade, at the foot of this A[s']oka-tree [118], I will seek an opportunity of announcing your arrival to Indra's reputed father.

KING.

MÁTALI.

  Wherefore this causeless throbbing, O mine arm[18]?
  All hope has fled for ever; mock me not
  With presages of good, when happiness
  Is lost, and nought but misery remains.

A VOICE BEHIND THE SCENES.

This is no place for petulance. Who can it be whose behaviour calls for such a rebuke?

A child, is it? closely attended by two holy women. His disposition seems anything but child-like. See!

  He braves the fury of yon lioness
  Suckling its savage offspring, and compels
  The angry whelp to leave the half-sucked dug,
  Tearing its tender mane in boisterous sport.

Enter a CHILD, attended by TWO WOMEN of the hermitage, in the manner described.

CHILD.

FIRST ATTENDANT.

You naughty child, why do you tease the animals? Know you not that we cherish them in this hermitage as if they were our own children? In good sooth, you have a high spirit of your own, and are beginning already to do justice to the name Sarva-damana ('All-taming'), given you by the hermits.

KING.

Strange! My heart inclines towards the boy with almost as much affection as if he were my own child. What can be the reason? I suppose my own childlessness makes me yearn towards the sons of others.

SECOND ATTENDANT.

KING.

  The germ of mighty courage lies concealed
  Within this noble infant, like a spark
  Beneath the fuel, waiting but a breath
  To fan the flame and raise a conflagration.

FIRST ATTENDANT.

Let the young lion go, like a dear child, and I will give you something else to play with.

CHILD.

How's that? His hand exhibits one of those mystic marks[84] which are the sure prognostic of universal empire. See! His fingers stretched in eager expectation To grasp the wished-for toy, and knit together By a close-woven web, in shape resemble A lotus blossom, whose expanding petals The early dawn has only half unfolded.

SECOND ATTENDANT.

We shall never pacify him by mere words, dear Suvratá. Be kind enough to go to my cottage, and you will find there a plaything belonging to Márkandeya, one of the hermit's children. It is a peacock made of china-ware, painted in many colours. Bring it here for the child.

FIRST ATTENDANT.

CHILD.

KING.

  I feel an unaccountable affection for this wayward child.
  How blessed the virtuous parents whose attire
  Is soiled with dust, by raising from the ground
  The child that asks a refuge in their arms!
  And happy are they while with lisping prattle,
  In accents sweetly inarticulate,
  He charms their ears; and with his artless smiles
  Gladdens their hearts[119], revealing to their gaze
  His pearly teeth just budding into view.

ATTENDANT.

Kind Sir, could you come hither a moment and help me to release the young lion from the clutch of this child who is teasing him in boyish play?

  Dost thou dare show a wayward spirit here?
  Here, in this hallowed region? Take thou heed
  Lest, as the serpent's young defiles the sandal[71],
  Thou bring dishonour on the holy sage
  Thy tender-hearted parent, who delights
  To shield from harm the tenants of the wood.

ATTENDANT.

KING.

His behaviour and whole bearing would have led me to doubt it, had not the place of his abode encouraged the idea.

[Follows the CHILD, and takes him by the hand, according to
the request of the attendant. Aside.

  I marvel that the touch of this strange child
  Should thrill me with delight; if so it be,
  How must the fond caresses of a son
  Transport the father's soul who gave him being!

KING.

ATTENDANT.

I am astonished at the striking resemblance between the child and yourself; and, what is still more extraordinary, he seems to have taken to you kindly and submissively, though you are a stranger to him.

ATTENDANT.

What! are we, then, descended from the same ancestry? This, no doubt, accounts for the resemblance she traces between the child and me. Certainly it has always been an established usage among the princes of Puru's race,

  To dedicate the morning of their days
  To the world's weal, in palaces and halls,
  'Mid luxury and regal pomp abiding;
  Then, in the wane of life, to seek release
  From kingly cares, and make the hallowed shade
  Of sacred trees their last asylum, where
  As hermits they may practise self-abasement,
  And bind themselves by rigid vows of penance.

ATTENDANT.

Your remark is just; but your wonder will cease when I tell you that his mother is the offspring of a celestial nymph, and gave him birth in the hallowed grove of Ka[s']yapa.

But what, let me ask, was the name of the prince whom she deigned to honour with her hand?

ATTENDANT.

How could I think of polluting my lips by the mention of a wretch who had the cruelty to desert his lawful wife?

Ha! the description suits me exactly. Would I could bring myself to inquire the name of the child's mother!

But it is against propriety to make too minute inquiries about the wife of another man[120].

FIRST ATTENDANT.

BOTH ATTENDANTS.

He mistook the word [S']akoonta for [S']akoontalá. The boy dotes upon his mother, and she is ever uppermost in his thoughts.

SECOND ATTENDANT.

What! is his mother's name [S']akoontalá? But the name is not uncommon among women. Alas! I fear the mere similarity of a name, like the deceitful vapour of the desert[94], has once more raised my hopes only to dash them to the ground.

CHILD.

FIRST ATTENDANT.

KING.

Don't distress yourself. Here it is. It fell off while he was struggling with the young lion.

BOTH ATTENDANTS.

Hold! hold! Touch it not, for your life. How marvellous! He has actually taken it up without the slightest hesitation.

[Both raise their hands to their breasts and look at each other in astonishment.

KING.

FIRST ATTENDANT.

Listen, great Monarch. This amulet, known as 'The Invincible,' was given to the boy by the divine son of Maríchi, soon after his birth, when the natal ceremony was performed. Its peculiar virtue is, that when it falls on the ground, no one except the father or mother of the child can touch it unhurt.

KING.

FIRST ATTENDANT.

KING.

BOTH ATTENDANTS.

SECOND ATTENDANT.

Come, my dear Suvratá, we must inform [S']akoontalá immediately of this wonderful event, though we have to interrupt her in the performance of her religious vows.

KING.

CHILD.

Enter [S']AKOONTALÁ, in widow's apparel, with her long hair twisted into a single braid.

I have just heard that Sarva-damana's amulet has retained its form, though a stranger raised it from the ground. I can hardly believe in my good fortune. Yet why should not Sánumatí's prediction be verified?

KING.

  Clad in the weeds of widowhood, her face
  Emaciate with fasting, her long hair
  Twined in a single braid[121], her whole demeanour
  Expressive of her purity of soul;
  With patient constancy she thus prolongs
  The vow to which my cruelty condemned her.

Surely this is not like my husband; yet who can it be that dares pollute by the pressure of his hand my child, whose amulet should protect him from a stranger's touch?

KING.

My best beloved, I have indeed treated thee most cruelly, but am now once more thy fond and affectionate lover. Refuse not to acknowledge me as thy husband.

Be of good cheer, my heart. The anger of Destiny is at last appeased. Heaven regards thee with compassion. But is he in very truth my husband?

KING.

  Behold me, best and loveliest of women,
  Delivered from the cloud of fatal darkness
  That erst oppressed my memory. Again
  Behold us brought together by the grace
  Of the great lord of Heaven. So the moon
  Shines forth from dim eclipse [122], to blend his rays
  With the soft lustre of his Rohiní.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

KING.

  O fair one, though the utterance of thy prayer
  Be lost amid the torrent of thy tears,
  Yet does the sight of thy fair countenance
  And of thy pallid lips, all unadorned[123]
  And colourless in sorrow for my absence,
  Make me already more than conqueror.

CHILD.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

  Fairest of women, banish from thy mind
  The memory of my cruelty; reproach
  The fell delusion that o'erpowered my soul,
  And blame not me, thy husband; 'tis the curse
  Of him in whom the power of darkness[124] reigns,
  That he mistakes the gifts of those he loves
  For deadly evils. Even though a friend
  Should wreathe a garland on a blind man's brow,
  Will he not cast it from him as a serpent?

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

Rise, my own husband, rise. Thou wast not to blame. My own evil deeds, committed in a former state of being[37], brought down this judgment upon me. How else could my husband, who was ever of a compassionate disposition, have acted so unfeelingly?

But tell me, my husband, how did the remembrance of thine unfortunate wife return to thy mind?

KING.

As soon as my heart's anguish is removed, and its wounds are healed, I will tell thee all.

  Oh! let me, fair one, chase away the drop
  That still bedews the fringes of thine eye;
  And let me thus efface the memory
  Of every tear that stained thy velvet cheek,
  Unnoticed and unheeded by thy lord,
  When in his madness he rejected thee.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

KING.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

The ring was to blame in allowing itself to be lost at the very time when I was anxious to convince my noble husband of the reality of my marriage.

KING.

Receive it back, as the beautiful twining-plant receives again its blossom in token of its reunion with the spring.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

MÁTALI.

I congratulate your Majesty. Happy are you in your reunion with your wife; happy are you in beholding the face of your own son.

KING.

Yes, indeed. My heart's dearest wish has borne sweet fruit. But tell me, Mátali, is this joyful event known to the great Indra?

What is unknown to the gods? But come with me, noble Prince, the divine Ka[s']yapa graciously permits thee to be presented to him.

KING.

[S']akoontalá, take our child and lead the way. We will together go into the presence of the holy Sage.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

I shrink from entering the august presence of the great Saint, even with my husband at my side.

KING.

KA[S']YAPA.

  This is the mighty hero, King Dushyanta,
  Protector of the earth; who, at the head
  Of the celestial armies of thy son,
  Does battle with the enemies of heaven.
  Thanks to his bow, the thunderbolt of Indra
  Rests from its work, no more the minister
  Of death and desolation to the world,
  But a mere symbol of divinity.

ADITI.

Sire, the venerable progenitors of the celestials are gazing at your Majesty with as much affection as if you were their son. You may advance towards them.

KING.

  Are these, O Mátali, the holy pair,
  Offspring of Daksha and divine Maríchi,
  Children of Brahmá's sons[125], by sages deemed
  Sole fountain of celestial light, diffused
  Through twelve effulgent orbs [114]? Are these the pair
  From whom the ruler of the triple world [126],
  Sovereign of gods and lord of sacrifice,
  Sprang into being? That immortal pair
  Whom Vishnu, greater than the Self-existent [127],
  Chose for his parents, when, to save mankind,
  He took upon himself the shape of mortals?

MÁTALI.

Most august of beings! Dushyanta, content to have fulfilled the commands of your son Indra, offers you his adoration.

KA[S']YAPA.

ADITI.

[S']AKOONTALÁ.

KA[S']YAPA.

  Thy lord resembles Indra, and thy child
  Is noble as Jayanta, Indra's son;
  I have no worthier blessing left for thee,
  May'st thou be faithful as the god's own wife!

ADITI.

My daughter, may'st thou be always the object of thy husband's fondest love; and may thy son live long to be the joy of both his parents! Be seated.

  Hail to the beautiful [S']akoontalá,
  Hail to her noble son, and hail to thee,
  Illustrious Prince—rare triple combination
  Of virtue, wealth, and energy united!

KING.

Most venerable Ka[s']yapa, by your favour all my desires were accomplished even before I was admitted to your presence. Never was mortal so honoured that his boon should be granted ere it was solicited. Because—

  Bloom before fruit, the clouds before the rain,
  Cause first and then effect, in endless sequence,
  Is the unchanging law of constant nature;
  But, ere the blessing issued from thy lips,
  The wishes of my heart were all fulfilled.

MÁTALI.

KING.

Most reverend Sage, this thy handmaid was married to me by the Gándharva ceremony[55], and after a time was conducted to my palace by her relations. Meanwhile a fatal delusion seized me; I lost my memory and rejected her, thus committing a grievous offence against the venerable Kanwa, who is of thy divine race. Afterwards the sight of this ring restored my faculties, and brought back to my mind all the circumstances of my union with his daughter. But my conduct still seems to me incomprehensible;

  As foolish as the fancies of a man
  Who, when he sees an elephant, denies
  That 'tis an elephant; then afterwards,
  When its huge bulk moves onward, hesitates;
  Yet will not be convinced till it has passed
  For ever from his sight, and left behind
  No vestige of its presence save its footsteps.

KA[S']YAPA.

My son, cease to think thyself in fault. Even the delusion that possessed thy mind was not brought about by any act of thine. Listen to me.

KING.

KA[S']YAPA.

Know that when the nymph Menaká, the mother of [S']akoontalá, became aware of her daughter's anguish in consequence of the loss of the ring at the nymph's pool, and of thy subsequent rejection of her, she brought her and confided her to the care of Adití. And I no sooner saw her than I ascertained by my divine faculty of meditation[134], that thy repudiation of thy poor faithful wife had been caused entirely by the curse of Durvásas—not by thine own fault—and that the spell would terminate on the discovery of the ring.

Oh! what a weight is taken off my mind, now that my character is cleared of reproach.

Joy! joy! My revered husband did not, then, reject me without good reason, though I have no recollection of the curse pronounced upon me. But, in all probability, I unconsciously brought it upon myself, when I was so distracted on being separated from my husband soon after our marriage. For I now remember that my two friends advised me not to fail to show the ring in case he should have forgotten me.

KA[S']YAPA.

At last, my daughter, thou art happy, and hast gained thy heart's desire. Indulge, then, no feeling of resentment against thy consort. See, now,

  Though he repulsed thee, 'twas the sage's curse
  That clouded his remembrance; 'twas the curse
  That made thy tender husband harsh towards thee.
  Soon as the spell was broken, and his soul
  Delivered from its darkness, in a moment,
  Thou didst regain thine empire o'er his heart.
  So on the tarnished surface of a mirror
  No image is reflected, till the dust,
  That dimmed its wonted lustre, is removed.

KING.

KA[S']YAPA.

  Know that he, too, will become the monarch of the
  wholes earth. Observe,
  Soon, a resistless hero, shall he cross
  The trackless ocean, borne above the waves
  In an aërial car; and shall subdue
  The earth's seven sea-girt isles[128]. Now has he gained,
  As the brave tamer of the forest-beasts,
  The title Sarva-damana; but then
  Mankind shall hail him as King Bharata[129],
  And call him the supporter of the world.

KING.

We cannot but entertain the highest hopes of a child for whom your Highness performed the natal rites.

ADITI.

My revered husband, should not the intelligence be conveyed to Kanwa, that his daughter's wishes are fulfilled, and her happiness complete? He is [S']akoontalá's foster-father. Menaká, who is one of my attendants, is her mother, and dearly does she love her daughter.

KA[S']YAPA.

His penances have gained for him the faculty of omniscience, and the whole scene is already present to his mind's eye.

KING.

KA[S']YAPA.

Nevertheless, it becomes us to send him intelligence of this happy event, and hear his reply. What ho there!

KA[S']YAPA.

My good Gálava, delay not an instant, but hasten through the air and convey to the venerable Kanwa, from me, the happy news that the fatal spell has ceased, that Dushyanta's memory is restored, that his daughter [S']akoontalá has a son, and that she is once more tenderly acknowledged by her husband.

PUPIL.

KA[S']YAPA.

And now, my dear son, take thy consort and thy child, re-ascend the car of Indra, and return to thy imperial capital.

KING.

KA[S']YAPA.

  For countless ages may the god of gods,
  Lord of the atmosphere, by copious showers
  Secure abundant harvests to thy subjects;
  And thou by frequent offerings preserve
  The Thunderer's friendship. Thus, by interchange
  Of kindly actions may you both confer
  Unnumbered benefits on earth and heaven.

KING.

KA[S']YAPA.

KING.

What other can I desire? If, however, you permit me to form another wish, I would humbly beg that the saying of the sage Bharata[130] be fulfilled:

  May kings reign only for their subjects' weal;
  May the divine Saraswatí[131], the source
  Of speech, and goddess of dramatic art,
  Be ever honoured by the great and wise;
  And may the purple self-existent god[132],
  Whose vital Energy[133] pervades all space,
  From future transmigrations save my soul.

NOTES:

That is, 'the Lord,' a name given to the god Siva, when regarded as supreme. As presiding over dissolution he is associated with Brahmá the Creator, and Vishnu the Preserver; constituting with them the Hindú Triad. Kálidása indulges the religious predilections of his fellow-townsmen by beginning and ending the play with a prayer to [S']iva, who had a large temple in Ujjayiní, the modern Oujein, the city of Vikramáditya, situated north-eastward from Gujarát.

The worshippers of Siva, who were Pantheists in the sense of believing that [S']iva was himself all that exists, as well as the cause of all that is, held that there were eight different manifestations of their god, called Rudras; and that these had their types in the eight visible forms enumerated here. The Hindús reckon five elements. The most subtle is Ether (ákása), supposed to convey sound, which is its peculiar attribute or property (guna). The next element—Air, has for its properties sound and feeling. The third—Fire, has sound, feeling, and colour. The fourth—Water, has sound, feeling, colour, and taste. The fifth—Earth, has all the other properties, with the addition of smell.

Lit. 'An audience, who are chiefly men of education and discernment.' Few could have been present at these dramatic representations excepting learned and educated men. The mass of the composition being in Sanskrit, would not have been intelligible to the vulgar and illiterate.

Hindú poets divide the year into six seasons of two months each, viz. I. Spring (Vasanta), beginning about the middle of March; or, according to some, February. 2. Summer (Gríshma). 3. Rains (Varsha). 4. Autumn (Sarad). 5. Winter (Hemanta). 6. Dews (Sisira). Practically, however, there are only three seasons in India, 1. The hot season. 2. The rains. 3. The cold weather. In Lower Bengal and Behar, the first of these seasons begins in March, the second in June, and the third in November. The temperature of the cold season is highly exhilarating, and the climate is then superior to that of any portion of the English year. In Calcutta, this season continues for about three months; in Upper India, for about five; and in the Panjáb for about seven. The rains in Bengal Proper are more violent and protracted than in Hindústán and the Panjáb. In the latter country they last for hardly more than two months, and even then only fall at intervals. Plays were acted on solemn and festive occasions, on lunar holidays, and especially at the changes of the season.

The flowers of the Acacia Sírisha were used by the Hindú women as ear-ornaments.

[S']iva is called Pinákin, that is, 'armed with a trident,' or according to some, a bow named Pináka. Siva not being invited to Daksha's sacrifice, was so indignant, that, with his wife, he suddenly presented himself, confounded the sacrifice, dispersed the gods, and chasing Yajna, 'the lord of sacrifice,' who fled in the form of a deer, overtook and decapitated him.

10. Their waving plumes, that late Fluttered above their brows, are motionless.

The Chámarí, or chowrie, formed of the white bushy tail of the Yak, or Bos grunniens, was placed as an ornament between the ears of horses, like the plume of the war-horse of chivalry. The velocity of the chariot caused it to lose its play, and appear fixed in one direction, like a flag borne rapidly against the wind.

That is, the speed of the chariot resembled that of the Wind and the Sun. Indra was the god of the firmament or atmosphere—the Jupiter Tonans of Hindú mythology—and presided over the forty-nine Winds. He has a heaven of his own (Swarga), of which he is the lord, and, although inferior to the three great deities of the Hindú Triad (Brahmá, Vishnu, and Siva), he is chief of the secondary gods. The Hindús represent the Sun as seated in a chariot, drawn by seven green horses, having before him a lovely youth without legs, who acts as his charioteer, and who is Aruna, or the Dawn personified.

The sage Kanwa was a descendant of Kasyapa, whom the Hindús consider to have been the father of the inferior gods, demons, man, fish, reptiles, and all animals, by his twelve wives. Kanwa was the chief of a number of devotees, or hermits, who had constructed a hermitage on the banks of the river Máliní, and surrounded it with gardens and groves, where penitential rites were performed, and animals were reared for sacrificial purposes, or for the amusement of the inmates. There is nothing new in asceticism. The craving after self-righteousness, and the desire of acquiring merit by self-mortification, is an innate principle of the human heart, and ineradicable even by Christianity. Witness the monastic institutions of the Romish Church, of which Indian penance-groves were the type. The Superior of a modern Convent is but the antitype of Kanwa; and what is Romanism but humanity developing itself in some of its most inveterate propensities?

A place of pilgrimage in the west of India, on the coast of Gujarát, near the temple of Somanáth, or Somnát, made notorious by its gates, which were brought back from Ghazní by Lord Ellenborough's orders in 1842, and are now to be seen in the arsenal at Agra. These places of pilgrimage were generally fixed on the bank of some sacred stream, or in the vicinity of some holy spring. The word tírtha is derived from a Sanskrit root, trí, 'to cross,' implying that the river has to be passed through, either for the washing away of sin, or extrication from some adverse destiny. Thousands of devotees still flock to the most celebrated Tírthas on the Ganges, at Benares, Haridwár, etc.

A tree, commonly called Ingua, or Jiyaputa, from the fruit of which oil was extracted, which the devotees used for their lamps and for ointment. One synonym for this tree is tápasa-taru, 'the anchorite's tree.'

Dresses made of bark, worn by ascetics, were washed in water, and then suspended to dry on the branches of trees.

It was customary to dig trenches round the roots of trees, to collect the rain-water.

A quivering sensation in the right arm was supposed by the Hindús to prognosticate union with a beautiful woman. Throbbings of the arm or eyelid, if felt on the right side, were omens of good fortune in men; if on the left, bad omens. The reverse was true of women. 19. The hard acacia's stem.

The Samí tree, a kind of acacia (Acacia Suma), the wood of which is very hard, and supposed by the Hindús to contain fire.

This beautiful plant, the varieties of which, white, blue, and red, are numerous, bears some resemblance to our water-lily. It is as favourite a subject of allusion and comparison with Hindú poets as the rose is with Persian.

The [S']aivala (Vallisneria) is an aquatic plant, which spreads itself over ponds, and interweaves itself with the lotus. The interlacing of its stalks is compared in poetry to braided hair.

The Ke[s']ara tree (Mimusops elengi) is the same as the Bakula, frequent mention of which is made is some of the Puránas. It bears a strong-smelling flower, which, according to Sir W. Jones, is ranked among the flowers of the Hindú paradise. The tree Is very ornamental in pleasure-grounds.

A Bráhman might marry a woman of the military or kingly class next below him, and the female offspring of such a marriage would belong to a mixed caste, and might be lawfully solicited in marriage by a man of the military class. But if [S']akoontalá were a pure Bráhmaní woman, both on the mother's and father's side, she would be ineligible as the wife of a Kshatriya king. Dushyanta discovers afterwards that she was, in fact, the daughter of the great Vi[s']wámitra (see note 27), who was of the same caste as himself, though her mother was the nymph Menaká.

This was the regular formula of salutation addressed to persons engaged in religions exercises.

25. This water that we have brought with us will serve to bathe our guest's feet.

Water for the feet is one of the first things invariably provided for a guest in all Eastern countries. Compare Genesis xxiv. 32; Luke vii. 44. If the guest were a Bráhman, or a man of rank, a respectful offering (argha) of rice, fruit, and flowers was next presented. In fact, the rites of hospitality in India were enforced by very stringent regulations. The observance of them ranked as one of the five great sacred rites, and no punishment was thought too severe for one who violated them. If a guest departed unhonoured from a house, his sins were to be transferred to the householder, and all the merits of the householder were to be transferred to him.

In the Rámáyana, the great sage Vi[s']wámitra (both king and saint), who raised himself by his austerities from the regal to the Bráhmanical caste, is said to be the son of Gádhi, King of Kanúj, grandson of Kusanátha, and great-grandson of Kusika or Kusa. On his accession to the throne, in the room of his father Gádhi, in the course of a tour through his dominions, he visited the hermitage of the sage Vasishtha, where the Cow of Plenty, a cow granting all desires, excited his cupidity. He offered the sage untold treasures for the cow; but being refused, prepared to take it by force. A long war ensued between the king and the sage (symbolical of the struggles between the military and Bráhmanical classes), which ended in the defeat of Vi[s']wámitra, whose vexation was such, that he devoted himself to austerities, in the hope of attaining the condition of a Bráhman. The Rámáyana recounts how, by gradually increasing the rigour of his penance through thousands of years, he successively earned the title of Royal Sage, Sage, Great Sage, and Bráhman Sage. It was not till he had gained this last title that Vasishtha consented to acknowledge his equality with himself, and ratify his admission into the Bráhmanical state. It was at the time of Vi[s']wámitra's advancement to the rank of a Sage, and whilst he was still a Kshatriya, that Indra, jealous of his increasing power, sent the nymph Menaká to seduce him from his life of mortification and continence. The Rámáyana records his surrender to this temptation, and relates that the nymph was his companion in the hermitage for ten years, but does not allude to the birth of [S']akoontalá during that period.

According to the Hindú system, Indra and the other inferior deities were not the possessors of Swarga, or heaven, by indefeasible right. They accordingly viewed with jealousy, and even alarm, any extraordinary persistency by a human being in acts of penance, as it raised him to a level with themselves; and, if carried beyond a certain point, enabled him to dispossess them of Paradise. Indra was therefore the enemy of excessive self-mortification, and had in his service numerous nymphs who were called his 'weapons,' and whose business it was to impede by their seductions the devotion of holy men.

The name of the matron or Superior of the female part of the society of hermits. Every association of religious devotees seems to have included a certain number of women, presided over by an elderly and venerable matron, whose authority resembled that of an abbess in a convent of nuns.

This grass was held sacred by the Hindús, and was abundantly used in all their religions ceremonies. Its leaves are very long, and taper to a sharp needle-like point, of which the extreme acuteness was proverbial; whence the epithet applied to a clever man, 'sharp as the point of Ku[s']a-grass.' Its botanical name is Poa cynosuroïdes.

A species of Jhintí or Barleria, with purple flowers, and covered with sharp prickles.

Who these women were has not been accurately ascertained. Yavana is properly Arabia, but is also a name applied to Greece. The Yavana women were therefore either natives of Arabia, or Greece, and their business was to attend upon the king, and take charge of his weapons, especially his bow and arrows. Professor H. H. Wilson, in his translation of the Vikramorva[s']í, where the same word occurs (Act V. p. 261), remarks that Tartarian or Bactrian women may be intended.

That is, the sun-gem (Súrya-kánta, 'beloved by the sun'), a shining stone resembling crystal. Professor Wilson calls it a fabulous stone with fabulous properties, and mentions another stone, the moon-gem (chandra-kánta). It may be gathered from this passage that the sun-stone was a kind of glass lens, and that the Hindús were not ignorant of the properties of this instrument at the time when '[S']akoontalá' was written.

The jasmine here intended was a kind of double jasmine with a very delicious perfume, sometimes called 'Arabian jasmine' (Jasminum zambac). It was a delicate plant, and, as a creeper, would depend on some other tree for support. The Arka, or sun-tree (Gigantic Asclepias: Calotropis gigantea), on the other hand, was a large and vigorous shrub. Hence the former is compared to [S']akoontalá, the latter to the sage Kanwa.

The doctrine of the transmigration of the soul from one body to another is an essential dogma of the Hindú religion, and connected with it is the belief in the power which every human being possesses of laying up for himself a store of merit by good deeds performed in the present and former births. Indeed the condition of every person is supposed to derive its character of happiness or misery, elevation or degradation, from the virtues or vices of previous states of being. The consequences of actions in a former birth are called vipáka; they may be either good or bad, but are rarely unmixed with evil taint.

In the present comparison, however, they are described as pure and unalloyed. With reference to the first four lines of this stanza, compare Catullus, Carmen Nuptiale, verse 39.

  'Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis,
  Ignotus pecori, nullo contusus aratro,
  Quem mulcent auræ, firmat sol, educat imber:
  Multi illuum pueri, multæ optavere puellæ:
  Idem quum tenui carptus defloruit ungui,
  Nulli illum pueri, nallæ optavere puellæ:
  Sic virgo, dum intacta manet,' etc.

According to Manu, a king might take a sixth part of liquids, flowers, roots, fruit, grass, etc.; but, even though dying with want, he was not to receive any tax from a Bráhman learned in the Vedas.

Dushyanta was a Rájarshi; that is, a man of the military class who had attained the rank of Royal Sage or Saint by the practice of religious austerities. The title of Royal or Imperial Sage was only one degree inferior to that of Sage. Compare note 27.

Or celestial minstrels, called Gandharvas. These beings were the musicians of Indra's heaven, and their business was to amuse the inhabitants of Swarga by singing the praises of gods, saints, or heroes. Compare note 11.

Indra and the other inferior gods (compare note 11) were for ever engaged in hostilities with their half-brothers, the demons called Daityas, who were the giants or Titans of Hindú mythology. On such occasions the gods seem to have depended very much upon the assistance they received from mortal heroes.

The religious rites and sacrifices of holy men were often disturbed by certain evil spirits or goblins called Rákshasas, who were the determined enemies of piety and devotion. No great sacrifice or religious ceremony was ever carried on without an attempt on the part of these demons to impede its celebration; and the most renowned saints found it necessary on such occasions to acknowledge their dependence on the strong arm of the military class, by seeking the aid of warriors and heroes. The inability of holy men, who had attained the utmost limit of spiritual power, to cope with the spirits of evil, and the superiority of physical force in this respect, is very remarkable.

Vishnu, the Preserver, was one of the three gods of the Hindú Triad. He became incarnate in various forms for the good of mortals, and is the great enemy of the demons.

The story of this monarch is told in the Rámáyana. He is there described as a just and pious prince of the solar race, who aspired to celebrate a great sacrifice, hoping thereby to ascend to heaven in his mortal body. After various failures he had recourse to Vi[s']wámitra, who undertook to conduct the sacrifice, and invited all the gods to be present. They, however, refused to attend; upon which the enraged Vi[s']wámitra, by his own power, transported Tri[s']anku to the skies, whither he had no sooner arrived than he was hurled down again by Indra and the gods; but being arrested in his downward course by the sage, he remained suspended between heaven and earth, forming a constellation in the southern hemisphere.

The root of a fragrant grass (Andropogon muricatum), from which a cooling ointment was made.

Compare Lam. iv. 20. 'The breath of our nostrils, the anointed of the Lord, was taken.'

The Hindú Cupid, or god of love (Káma), is armed with a bow made of sugar-cane, the string of which consists of bees. He has five arrows, each tipped with the blossom of a flower, which pierce the heart through the five senses; and his favourite arrow is pointed with the chita, or mango-flower.

The story is thus told in the Rámáyana. Káma (Cupid) once approached [S']iva that he might influence him with love for his wife, Párvatí. [S']iva happened then to be practising austerities, and intent on a vow of chastity. He therefore cursed the god of love in a terrible voice, and at the same time a flash from his eye caused the god's body to shrivel into ashes. Thus Káma was made incorporeal, and from that time was called 'the bodiless one.'

49.
                    Like the flame,
  That ever hidden in the secret depths
  Of ocean, smoulders there unseen.

This submarine fire was called Aurva, from the following fable. The Rishi Aurva, who had gained great power by his austerities, was pressed by the gods and others to perpetuate his race. He consented, but warned them that his offspring would consume the world. Accordingly, he created from his thigh a devouring fire, which, as soon as it was produced, demanded nourishment, and would have destroyed the whole earth, had not Brahmá appeared and assigned the ocean as its habitation, and the waves as its food. The spot where it entered the sea was called 'the mare's mouth.' Doubtless the story was invented to suit the phenomenon of some marine volcano, which may have exhaled through the water bituminous inflammable gas, and which, perhaps in the form of a horse's mouth, was at times visible above the sea.

The Hindú Cupid is said to have subdued a marine monster, which was, therefore, painted on his banner.

Hansa-gáminí, 'walking like a swan,' was an epithet for a graceful woman. The Indian lawgiver, Manu, recommends that a Bráhman should choose for his wife a young maiden, whose gait was like that of a phoenicopter, or flamingo, or even like that of a young elephant. The idea in the original is, that the weight of her hips had caused the peculiar appearance observable in the print of her feet. Largeness of the hips was considered a great beauty in Hindú women, and would give an undulatory motion to their walk. 52 The Mádhaví.

A large and beautiful creeper (Gaertnera racemosa), bearing white, fragrant flowers, to which constant allusion is made in Sanskrit plays.

A complete revolution of the moon, with respect to the stars, being made in twenty-seven days, odd hours, the Hindús divide the heavens into twenty-seven constellations (asterisms) or lunar stations, one of which receives the moon for one day in each of his monthly journeys. As the Moon, Chandra, is considered to be a masculine deity, the Hindús fable these twenty-seven constellations as his wives, and personify them as the daughters of Daksha. Of these twenty-seven wives, twelve of whom give names to the twelve months, Chandra is supposed to show the greatest affection for the fourth, Rohiní; but each of the others, and amongst them Vi[s']ákhá, is represented as jealous of this partiality, and eager to secure the Moon's favour for herself, Dushyanta probably means to compare himself to the Moon (he being of the Lunar race) and [S']akoontalá to Vi[s']ákhá.

Owing to emaciation and disuse of the bow, the callosities on the forearm, usually caused by the bow-string, were not sufficiently prominent to prevent the bracelet from slipping down from the wrist to the elbow, when the arm was raised to support the head. This is a favourite idea with Kálidása to express the attenuation caused by love.

A marriage without the usual ceremonies is called Gándharva. It was supposed to be the form of marriage prevalent among the nymphs of India's heaven. In the 3rd Book of Manu (v. 22), it is included among the various marriage rites, and is said to be a union proceeding entirely from love, or mutual inclination, and concluded without any religious services, and without consulting relatives. It was recognized as a legal marriage by Manu and other lawgivers, though it is difficult to say in what respect it differed from unlawful cohabitation.

That is, the male and female of the Chakraváka, commonly called Chakwa and Chakwí, or Bráhmaní duck (Anas casarca). These birds associate together during the day, and are, like turtle-doves, patterns of connubial affection; but the legend is, that they are doomed to pass the night apart, in consequence of a curse pronounced upon them by a saint whom they had offended. As soon as night commences, they take up their station on the opposite banks of a river, and call to each other in piteous cries. The Bengálís consider their flesh to be a good medicine for fever.

A Saint or Muni, represented by the Hindú poets as excessively choleric and inexorably severe. The Puránas and other poems contain frequent accounts of the terrible effects of his imprecations on various occasions, the slightest offence being in his eyes deserving of the most fearful punishment. On one occasion he cursed Indra, merely because his elephant let fall a garland he had given to this god; and in consequence of this imprecation all plants withered, men ceased to sacrifice, and the gods were overcome in their wars with the demons.

Some species of the lotus, especially the white esculent kind, open their petals during the night, and close them during the day, whence the moon is often called the 'lover, or lord of the lotuses.'

Fire was an important object of veneration with the Hindús, as with the ancient Persians. Perhaps the chief worship recognized in the Vedas is that of Fire and the Sun. The holy fire was deposited in a hallowed part of the house, or in a sacred building, and kept perpetually burning. Every morning and evening, oblations were offered to it by dropping clarified butter and other substances into the flame, accompanied with prayers and invocations.

Literally, 'as the [S']ami-tree is pregnant with fire.' The legend is, that the goddess Párvatí, being one day under the influence of love, reposed on a trunk of this tree, whereby a sympathetic warmth was generated in the pith or interior of the wood, which ever after broke into a sacred flame on the slightest attrition.

The ancient Delhi, situated on the Ganges, and the capital of Dushyanta. Its site is about fifty miles from the modern Delhi, which is on the Jumná,

[S']armishthá was the daughter of Vrishaparvan, king of the demons, and wife of Yayáti, son of Nahusha, one of the princes of the Lunar dynasty, and ancestor of Dushyanta. Puru was the son of Yayáti, by [S']armishthá.

At a sacrifice, sacred fires were lighted at the four cardinal points, and Ku[s']a-grass was scattered around each fire, 66 Koïl,

The Koïl, or Kokil, is the Indian cuckoo. It is sometimes called Para-bhrita ('nourished by another'). because the female is known to leave her eggs in the nest of the crow to be hatched. The bird is as great a favourite with Indian poets as the nightingale with European. One of its names is 'Messenger of Spring.' Its note is a constant subject of allusion, and is described as beautifully sweet, and, if heard on a journey, indicative of good fortune. Everything, however, is beautiful by comparison. The song of the Koïl is not only very dissimilar, but very inferior to that of the nightingale,

The Indian peacock is very restless, especially at the approach of rain, in which it is thought to take delight. Its circular movements are a frequent subject of allusion with Hindú poets, and are often by them compared to dancing.

The name of [S']akoontalá's favourite jasmine, spoken of in the 1st
Act. See page 15 of this volume.

Not the Banyan-tree (Ficus Indica), nor the Pippala (Ficus religiosa), but the Glomerous Fig-tree (Ficus glomerata), which yields a resinous milky juice from its bark, and is large enough to afford abundant shade.

71. Like a young tendril of the sandal-tree torn from its home in the western mountains.

The sandal is a kind of large myrtle with pointed leaves (Sirium myrtifolium). The wood affords many highly esteemed perfumes, unguents, etc., and is celebrated for its delicious scent. It is chiefly found on the slopes of the Malaya mountain or Western Ghauts on the Malabar coast. The roots of the tree are said to be infested with snakes. Indeed it seems to pay dearly for the fragrance of its wood: 'The root is infested by serpents, the blossoms by bees, the branches by monkeys, the summit by bears. In short there is not a part of the sandal-tree that is not occupied by the vilest impurities.' Hitopade[s']a, verse 162.

'When the father of a family perceives his own wrinkles and grey hair, committing the care of his wife to his sons, or accompanied by her, let him repair to the woods and become a hermit.'—Manu, vi. 2. It was usual for kings, at a certain time of life, to abdicate the throne in favour of the heir-apparent, and pass the remainder of their days in seclusion.

This was an offering (bali) in honour of those spiritual beings called 'household deities,' which were supposed to hover round and protect houses. It was made by throwing up into the air in some part of the house (generally at the door) the remains of the morning and evening meal of rice or grain, uttering at the same time a mantra, or prayer.

Dim recollections of occurrences in former states of existence are supposed occasionally to cross the mind. Compare note 37.

The attendant on the women's apartment. He is generally a Bráhman, and usually appears in the plays as a tottering and decrepit old man, leaning on his staff of office. 76. The king of serpents on his thousand heads.

A mythological serpent, the personification of eternity, and king of the Nágas, or snakes, who inhabit Pátála, the lowermost of the seven regions below the earth. His body formed the couch of Vishnu, reposing on the waters of Chaos, whilst his thousand heads were the god's canopy. He is also said to uphold the world on one of his heads.

These heralds were introduced into Hindú plays something in the same manner as a Chorus; and, although their especial duty was to announce, in measured verse, the periods of the day, and particularly the fixed divisions into which the king's day was divided, yet the strain which they poured forth frequently contained allusions to incidental circumstances. The royal office was no sinecure. From the Da[s']a-kumára, it appears that the day and night were each divided into eight portions of one hour and a half, reckoned from sunrise; and were thus distributed: Day—l. The king, being dressed, is to audit accounts; 2. He is to pronounce judgment in appeals; 3. He is to breakfast; 4. He is to receive and make presents; 5. He is to discuss political questions with his ministers; 6. He is to amuse himself; 7. He is to review his troops; 8. He is to hold a military council. Night—l. He is to receive the reports of his spies and envoys; 2. He is to sup or dine; 3. He is to retire to rest after the perusal of some sacred work; 4 and 5. He is to sleep; 6. He is to rise and purify himself; 7. He is to hold a private consultation with his ministers, and instruct his officers; 8. He is to attend upon the Purohita or family priest, for the performance of religious ceremonies. See Wilson's Hindú Theatre, vol. i. p. 209.

80. The protector of the four classes of the people, the guardian of the four conditions of the priesthood.

A remarkable feature in the ancient Hindú social system, as depicted in the plays, was the division of the people into four classes or castes:—1st. The sacerdotal, consisting of the Bráhmans.—2nd. The military, consisting of fighting men, and including the king himself and the royal family. This class enjoyed great privileges, and must have been practically the most powerful.—3rd. The commercial, including merchants and husbandmen.—4th. The servile, consisting of servants and slaves. Of these four divisions the first alone has been preserved in its purity to the present day, although the Rájputs claim to be the representatives of the second class. The others have been lost in a multitude of mixed castes formed by intermarriage, and bound together by similarity of trade or occupation. With regard to the sacerdotal class, the Bráhmans, who formed it, were held to be the chief of all human beings; they were superior to the king, and their lives and property were protected by the most stringent laws. They were to divide their lives into four quarters, during which they passed through four states or conditions, viz. as religious students, as householders, as anchorites, and as religious mendicants.

The god Brahmá seems to have enjoyed a very unenviable notoriety as taking pleasure in ill-assorted marriages, and encouraging them by his own example in the case of his own daughter.

[S']akra is a name of the god Indra, and Sakrávatára is a sacred place of pilgrimage where he descended upon earth. [S']achí is his wife, to whom a Urtha, or holy bathing-place, was probably consecrated at the place where [S']akoontalá had performed her ablutions. Compare note 14.

When the lines of the right hand formed themselves into a circle, it was thought to be the mark of a future hero or emperor.

Spoken ironically. The occupation of a fisherman, and, indeed, any occupation which involved the sin of slaughtering animals, was considered despicable. Fishermen, butchers, and leather-sellers were equally objects of scorn. In Lower Bengal the castes of Jáliyás and Bágdis, who live by fishing, etc., are amongst the lowest, and eke out a precarious livelihood by thieving and dacoity.

The great Hindú lawgiver is very peremptory in restricting special occupations (such as fishing, slaughtering animals, basket-making) to the mixed and lowest castes. 'A man of the lowest caste, who, through covetousness, lives by the acts of the highest, let the king strip of all his wealth and banish. His own business, though badly performed, is preferable to that of another, though well performed.'—Manu, x. 96. In the later Hindú system the sacrifice of animals is practised by the priests of the goddess Káli only.

That is, the Rohita, or Rohi (red) fish (Cyprinus rohita), a kind of carp found in lakes and ponds in the neighbourhood of the Ganges. It grows to the length of three feet, is very voracious, and its flesh, though it often has a muddy taste, is edible. Its back is olive-coloured, its belly of a golden hue, its fins and eyes red. This fish is often caught in tanks in Lower Bengal of the weight of twenty-five or thirty pounds.

It is evident from the Málati-Mádhava, and other plays, that a victim, about to be offered as a sacrifice, had a wreath of flowers bound round the head.

In celebration of the return of Spring, and said to be in honour of Krishna, and of his son Káma-deva, the god of love. It is identified with the Holí or Dolá-yátra, the Saturnalia, or rather, Carnival of the Hindús, when people of all conditions take liberties with each other, especially by scattering red powder and coloured water on the clothes of persons passing in the street, as described in the play called Ratnávalí, where the crowd are represented as using syringes and waterpipes. Flowers, and especially the opening blossoms of the mango, would naturally be much employed for decoration at this festival, as an offering to the god of love. It was formerly held on the full moon of the month Chaitra, or about the beginning of April, but it is now celebrated on the full moon of Phálguna, or about the beginning of March. The other great Hindú festival, held in the autumn, about October, is called Durgá-pújá, being in honour of the goddess Durgá. The Holí festival is now so disfigured by unseemly practices and coarse jests that it is reprobated by the respectable natives, and will probably, in the course of time, either die out or be prohibited by legal enactment.

That is, the Kuruvaka, either the crimson amaranth, or a purple species of Barleria.

However offensive to our notions of good taste, it is certain that, in Hindú erotic poetry, a hot hand is considered to be one of the signs of passionate love. Compare Othello, Act III. Scene 4. 'Give me your hand: this hand is moist, my lady—hot, hot, and moist.'

A kind of mirage floating over waste places, and appearing at a distance like water. Travellers and some animals, especially deer, are supposed to be attracted and deceived by it.

The name of this celebrated range of mountains is derived from two Sanskrit words, hima, 'ice' or 'snow' (Lat. hiems), and álaya, 'abode.' The pronunciation Himalaya is incorrect.

At the churning of the ocean, after the Deluge, by the gods and demons, for the recovery or production of fourteen sacred things, a deadly poison called Kála-kúta, or Halá-hala, was generated, so virulent that it would have destroyed the world, had not the god [S']iva swallowed it. Its only effect was to leave a dark blue mark on his throat, whence his name Níla-kantha. This name is also given to a beautiful bird, not wholly unlike our jay, common in Bengal.

The chief of a guild or corporation of artisans practising the same trade. Ayodhyá, or the Invincible City, was the ancient capital of Rámachandra, founded by Ikshwáku, the first of the Solar dynasty. It was situated on the river Sarayu in the north of India, and is now called Oude.

Oblations to the spirits of the deceased are offered by the nearest surviving relatives soon after the funeral ceremonies; and are repeated once in every year. They are supposed to be necessary to secure the well-being of the souls of the dead in the world appropriated to them. The oblation-ceremony is called [S']ráddha, and generally consisted in offering balls made of rice and milk, or in pouring out water, or water and sesamum-seed mixed. These ceremonies are still regarded as essential to the welfare of deceased persons, and their celebration is marked by magnificent feasts, to which relations and a host of Bráhmans are invited. A native who had grown rich in the time of Warren Hastings spent nine lakhs of rupees on his mother's [S']ráddha; and large sums are still spent on similar occasions by wealthy Hindús (see my 'Bráhmanism and Hindúism,' p. 306).

That is, Adití, the wife of Ka[s']yapa, with whom, in their sacred retreat, [S']akoontalá was enjoying an asylum.

The Hindús imagine that the flamingo (a kind of goose) is the vehicle on which the god Brahmá is borne through the air; and that this bird, being fond of the pulpy fibres of the water-lily, has been gifted by him with the power of separating the milky from the watery portion of the juice contained in the stalk of that plant.

The charioteer of Indra. In the pictures which represent this god mounted on his usual vehicle—an elephant called Aírávata—Mátali is seen seated before him on the withers of the animal, acting as its driver. In the plays, however, Indra is generally represented borne in a chariot drawn by two horses, guided by Mátali.

A celebrated divine sage, usually reckoned among the ten patriarchs first created by Brahmá. He acted as a messenger of the gods.

The breast of Indra was dyed yellow with a fragrant kind of sandal-wood (hari-chandana); and the garland by rubbing against it, became tinged with the same color. Wreaths and garlands of flowers are much used by the Hindús as marks of honorary distinction, as well as for ornament or festive occasions. They are suspended round the neck.

That is, Mandára, one of the five ever-blooming trees of Nandana, or Swarga, Indra's heaven. The two most celebrated of these trees were the Párijáta and the Kalpa-druma, or tree granting all desires. Each of the superior Hindú gods has a heaven, paradise, or elysium of his own. That of Brahmá is called Brahma-loka, situate on the summit of mount Meru; that of Vishnu is Vaikuntha, on the Himálayas; that of [S']iva and Kuvera is Kailása, also on the Himálayas; that of Indra is Swarga or Nandana. The latter, though properly on the summit of mount Meru, below Brahmá's paradise, is sometimes identified with the sphere of the sky or heaven in general. It is the only heaven of orthodox Bráhmanism.

Vishnu, in the monstrous shape of a creature half man, half lion (his fourth Avatár or incarnation), delivered the three worlds, that is to say, Earth, Heaven, and the lower regions, from the tyranny of an insolent demon called Hiranya-ka[S']ipu.

The Hindús divide the heavens into seven Márgas, paths or orbits, assigning a particular wind to each. The sixth of these paths is that of the Great Bear, and its peculiar wind is called Parivaha. This wind is supposed to bear along the seven stars of Ursa Major, and to propel the heavenly Ganges.

The Ganges was supposed to take its rise in the toe of Vishnu (whence one of its names, Vishnu-padí); thence it flowed through the heavenly sphere, being borne along by the wind Parivaha, and identified with the Mandákiní, or Milky Way. Its second course is through the earth; but the weight of its descent was borne by [S']iva's head, whence, after wandering among the tresses of his hair, it descended through a chasm in the Himálayas. Its third course is through Pátála, or the lower regions, the residence of the Daityas and Nágas, and not to be confounded with Naraka, 'hell,' 'the place of punishment.'

The story of Vishnu's second stride was this:—An Asura or Daitya, named Bali, had, by his devotions, gained the dominion of Heaven, Earth, and Pátála. Vishnu undertook to trick him out of his power, and assuming the form of a Vámana, or dwarf (his fifth Avatár), he appeared before the giant and begged as a boon as much land as he could pace in three steps. This was granted; and the god immediately expanded himself till he filled the world; deprived Bali, at the first step, of Earth; at the second, of Heaven; but, in consideration of some merit, left Pátála still under his rule.

The Chátaka is a kind of Cuckoo (Cuculus Melanoleucus). The Hindús suppose that it drinks only the water of the clouds, and their poets usually introduce allusions to this bird in connexion with cloudy or rainy weather.

A sacred range of mountains lying among the Himálaya chain, and apparently identical with, or immediately adjacent to, Kailása, the paradise of Kuvera, the god of wealth. It is here described as the mountain of the Kimpurashas, or servants of Kuvera. They are a dwarfish kind of monster, with the body of a man and the head of a horse, and are otherwise called Kinnara.

Ka[s']yapa was the son of Brahmá's son, Maríchi, and was one of those Patriarchs (created by Brahmá to supply the universe with inhabitants) who, after fulfilling their mission, retired from the world to practise penance. He was a progenitor on a magnificent scale, as he is considered to have been the father of the gods, demons, man, fish, reptiles, and all animals, by the thirteen daughters of Daksha. The eldest of the thirteen, his favourite wife, was Adití, from whom were born Indra and all the inferior gods, and particularly the twelve Ádityas, or forms of the sun, which represent him in the several months of the year. From Diti, Danu, and others of the remaining twelve, came the Daityas, Dánavas, and other demons.

The serpent's skin was used by the ascetic in place of the regular Bráhmanical cord. This thread or cord, sometimes called the sacrificial cord, might be made of various substances, such as cotton, hempen or woollen thread, according to the class of the wearer; and was worn over the left shoulder and under the right. The rite of investiture with this thread, which conferred the title of 'twice-born,' and corresponded in some respects with the Christian rite of baptism, was performed on youths of the first three classes (compare note 80), at ages varying from eight to sixteen, from eleven to twenty-two, and from twelve to twenty-four, respectively. At present the Bráhmans alone, and those who claim to be Kshatriyas, have a right to wear this thread. Not long since, a Káyath (or man of the writer caste) in Bengal, who attempted to claim it, was excommunicated.

Such was the immovable impassiveness of this ascetic, that the ants had thrown up their mound as high as his waist without being disturbed, and birds had built their nests in his hair.

The Hindús imagine that living upon air is a proof of the highest degree of spirituality to which a man can attain.

The A[s']oka (Jonesia Asoka) is one of the most beautiful of Indian trees. Sir W. Jones observes that 'the vegetable world scarce exhibits a richer sight than an A[s']oka-tree in full bloom'. It is about as high as an ordinary cherry-tree. The flowers are very large, and beautifully diversified with tints of orange-scarlet, of pale yellow, and of bright orange, which form a variety of shades according to the age of the blossom.

Chézy is enraptured with this verse: ' … strophe incomparable, que tout père, ou plutôt toute mère, ne pourra lire sans sentir battre son coeur, tant le poète a su y rendre, avec les nuances les plus délicates, l'expression vivante de l'amour maternel.' Compare Statius, Theb., book v. line 613.

  'Heu ubi siderei vultus? ubi verba ligatis
  Imperfecta sonis? risusque et murmura soli
  Intellecta mihi?'

120. It is against propriety to make too minute inquiries about the wife of another man.

The Hindús were very careful to screen their wives from the curiosity of strangers; and their great lawgiver, Manu, enjoined that married women should be cautiously guarded by their husbands in the inner apartments (antahpura) appropriated to women (called by the Muhammadans, Haram, and in common parlance, in India andar-mahall). The chief duty of a married woman's life seems to have been to keep as quiet as possible, to know as little as possible, to hear, see, and inquire about nothing; and above all, to avoid being herself the subject of conversation or inquiry; in short, the sole end and object of her existence was to act as a good head-servant, yielding to her husband a servile obedience, regulating the affairs of his family, preparing his daily food, and superintending his household. (Manu, ix. 11, 16.) But notwithstanding the social restrictions to which women were subjected, even in the earlier periods of Indian history, it seems probable that they were not rigidly excluded from general society until after the introduction of Muhammadan customs into India. It appears from the plays that they were allowed to go into public on certain occasions; they took part in bridal processions, and were permitted to enter the temples of the gods, [S']akoontalá appears in the court of King Dushyanta and pleads her own cause; and Vásavadattá, in the Ratnávalí, holds a conversation with her father's envoy. Even in later times, the presence of men, other than husbands or sons, in the inner apartments, was far from being prohibited. See Wilson's Hindú Theatre, p. xliii.

Hindú women collect their hair into a single long braid as a sign of mourning, when their husbands are dead or absent for a long period.

The following is the Hindú notion of an eclipse:—A certain demon, which had the tail of a dragon, was decapitated by Vishnu at the churning of the ocean; but, as he had previously tasted of the Amrit or nectar reproduced at that time, he was thereby rendered immortal, and his head and tail, retaining their separate existence, were transferred to the stellar sphere. The head was called Ráhu, and became the cause of eclipses, by endeavouring at various times to swallow the sun and moon. So in the Hitopade[s']a, line 192, the moon is said to be eaten by Ráhu. With regard to the love of the Moon for Rohiní, the fourth lunar constellation, see note 53.

According to Hindú philosophy there are three qualities or properties which together make up or dominate humanity: 1. Sattwa, 'excellence' or 'goodness' (quiescence), whence proceed truth, knowledge, purity, etc. 2. Rajas, 'passion' (activity), which produces lust, pride, falsehood, etc., and is the cause of pain. 3. Tamas, 'darkness' (inertia), whence proceed ignorance, infatuation, delusion, mental blindness, etc.

Ka[s']yapa and Adití were the children of Maríchi and Daksha respectively, and these last were the sons of Brahmá.

That is, Indra, lord of heaven, earth, and the lower regions.
Compare notes 110, 113.

Vishnu, as Náráyana, or the Supreme Spirit, moved over the waters before the creation of the world, and from his navel came the lotus from which Brahmá, the World's Creator, here called the Self-existent, sprang. As Vishnu, the Preserver, he became incarnate in various forms; and chose Ka[s']yapa and Adití, from whom all human beings were descended, as his medium of incarnation, especially in the Avatár in which he was called Upendra, 'Indra's younger brother.' Hence it appears that the worshippers of Vishnu exalt him above the Creator.

According to the mythical geography of the Hindús, the earth consisted of seven islands, or rather insular continents, surrounded by seven seas. That inhabited by men was called Jambudwípa, and was in the centre, having in the middle of it the sacred mountain Meru or Sumeru, a kind of Mount Olympus inhabited by the gods. About Jambu flowed the sea of salt-water which extends to the second Dwípa, called Plaksha, which is in its turn surrounded by a sea of sugar-cane juice. And so with the five other Dwípas, viz. Sálmali, Ku[S']a, Krauncha, [S']áka, and Pushkara, which are severally surrounded by the seas of wine, clarified butter, curds, milk, and fresh water.

The name Bharata is derived from the root bhri (fero),'to support.' Many Indian princes were so named, but the most celebrated was this son of Dushyanta and [S']akoontalá, who so extended his empire that from him the whole of India was called Bharata-varsha or Bhárata-varsha; and whose descendants, the sons of Dhritaráshtra and Pándu, by their quarrels, formed the subject of the great epic poem called Mahá-bhárata. The Hindús at the present day continue to call India by the name Bhárata-varsha.

The Bharata here intended must not be confounded with the young prince. He was a holy sage, the director or manager of the gods' dramas, and inventor of theatrical representations in general. He wrote a work containing precepts and rules relating to every branch of dramatic writing, which appears to have been lost, but is constantly quoted by the commentators. (See p. xxix.)

She is the goddess of speech and eloquence, patroness of the arts and sciences, and inventress of the Sanskrit language. There is a festival still held in her honour for two days, about February in every year, when no Hindú will touch a pen or write a letter. The courts are all closed accordingly.

[S']iva is usually represented as borne on a bull; his colour, as well as that of the animal he rides, being white, to denote the purity of Justice, over which he presides. In his destroying capacity, he is characterized by the quality 'darkness,' and named Rudra, Kála, etc., when his colour is said to be purple or black. Some refer the epithet 'purple' to the colour of his throat; compare note 96. Self-existent, although properly a name of the Supreme Being (Brahmá), is applied both to Vishnu and [S']iva by their votaries.

That is, [S']iva's wife, Párvatí, who was supposed to personify his energy or active power. Exemption from further transmigration, and absorption into the divine soul, was the summum bonum of Hindú philosophy. Compare note 37.

Celestial beings were endowed with a mental faculty (called dhyána, pranidhána, etc.), which enabled them to arrive at the knowledge of present and future events.

That is, the soles of her feet. It was customary for Hindú ladies to stain the soles of their feet of a red colour with the dye made from lac—a minute insect bearing some resemblance to the cochineal—which punctures the bark of the Indian fig-tree, and surrounds itself with the milky resinous juice of that tree. This custom is a alluded to in one of Paterson's Hindú odes—

  'The rose that humbly bowed to meet,
  With glowing lips, her hallowed feet,
  And lent them all its bloom.'

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