Indian tradition, preserved in the Nāṭyaçāstra,1 the oldest of the texts of the theory of the drama, claims for the drama divine origin, and a close connexion with the sacred Vedas themselves. The golden age had no need for such amusements: ignorant of all pain, the sorrow, which is as essential to the art as joy itself, was inconceivable. The creation of the new form of literature was reserved to the silver age, when the gods approached the all-father and bade him produce something to give pleasure to the ears and eyes alike, a fifth Veda which, unlike the other four, would not be the jealous preserve of the three twice-born castes, but might be shared by the Çūdras also. Brahmā gave ear to the pleading, and designed to fashion a Veda in which tradition (itihāsa) should be combined with instruction in all the ends of men. To accomplish his task he took from the Ṛgveda the element of recitation, from the Sāmaveda song, from the Yajurveda the mimetic art, and from the Atharvaveda sentiment. Then he bade Viçvakarman, the divine architect, build a playhouse in which the sage Bharata was instructed to carry into practice the art thus created. The gods accepted with joy the new creation; Çiva contributed to it the Tāṇḍava dance, expressing violent emotion, Pārvatī, his spouse, the tender and voluptuous Lāsya, while Viṣṇu was responsible for the invention of the four dramatic styles, essential to the effect of any play. To Bharata fell the duty of transferring to earth this celestial Veda in the inferior and truncated form of the Nāṭyaçāstra.

The legend is interesting for its determination to secure the [13]participation of every member of the Hindu Trinity in the creation of the new art, and for its effort to claim that the fifth Veda of tradition was the Veda of the dramatic art. The older tradition, recorded and exploited by the epic,2 recognizes as the fifth Veda the mass of traditions, and the Nāṭyaçāstra tacitly concedes this by representing the Nāṭyaveda as including these traditions. The legend, therefore, is not of great antiquity, nor need we place it long before the compilation of the Nāṭyaçāstra itself. The date of that text is uncertain, but we cannot with any assurance place it before the third century A.D. With the Indian tendency to find divine origins, it may well be that the tradition existed much earlier, but in the absence of any corroboration that must remain a mere hypothesis, for which no conclusive ground can be adduced. What is important is that none of the theorists on the drama appeal to any Vedic texts as representing dramas, whence it is natural to draw the conclusion that there was no Indian tradition extant in their time which pointed to the preservation among the sacred texts of dramas. Indeed, if it were worth while, the conclusion might legitimately be drawn that the absence of any drama in the Vedic literature was recognized, since it was necessary for the gods to ask Brahmā to create a completely new type of literature, suitable for an age posterior to that in which the Vedas already existed.

The silence of Indian tradition is all the more remarkable because there do exist in the Ṛgveda itself a number of hymns which are obviously dialogues, and which are expressly recognized as such by early Indian tradition.3 The number of such hymns is uncertain, for it is possible to add to those which clearly bear that character others whose interpretation might be improved by assuming a division of persons. There are, however, at least fifteen whose character as dialogues is quite undeniable, and most of these hymns are of marked interest. Thus in x. 10 Yama and Yamī, the primeval twins, whence in the legend are derived the races of men, engage in debate; [14]the poet, with a more refined sentiment than the legend, is uneasy regarding this primitive incest, and represents Yamī as intent on an effort, fruitless so far as the hymn goes, to induce Yama to accept and make fruitful her proffered love. A tantalizing, but certainly interesting, hymn in the same book (x. 95) gives a dialogue between Purūravas, and the nymph Urvaçī; he rebukes her inconstancy, but does not succeed in making her refrain from withdrawing from his gaze. In viii. 100 Nema Bhārgava utters an appeal to Indra, to which the god is pleased to give a reply. Sometimes there are three interlocutors; thus Agastya, the sage, has a conversation (i. 179) of an enigmatic type with his wife, Lopāmudrā, and their son; not less obscure is the dialogue between Indra and Vasukra, in which the wife of the latter plays a small part, in x. 28; and in iv. 18 we have a most confused dialogue between Indra, Aditi, and Vāmadeva. Even less intelligible is the famous debate between Indra, his wife, Indrāṇī, and Vṛṣākapi (x. 86), each interpreter of which is able to show the absurdity of the versions of his predecessors but seems incapable of recognizing the defects of his own. Or one of the interlocutors may be a troop, not an individual. Thus Saramā, the messenger of Indra, seeking the kine which have been taken away, goes to the demons, the Paṇis, and holds with them lively debate (x. 108). The gods also have a hard business (x. 51–3) to persuade Agni, the living fire, to persevere in the tedious occupation of bearing to them the oblations of mortals, and the dialogue in which they engage is vivid in the extreme, extending even to the breaking of a stanza into portions for two interlocutors. Two dialogues are of interest for their historical allusions, the converse of Viçvāmitra and the rivers (iii. 33) which he seeks to cross, and that of Vasiṣṭha with his sons (vii. 33), if indeed that is the correct interpretation of the speakers of the hymn. Indra again disputes with the Maruts (i. 165 and 170), who had disgraced themselves in his eyes by deserting him in the thick of his contest with the demon Vṛtra, but who succeed at last in placating his anger; in the former hymn Agastya seems also to intervene, by summing up the result at the close, and invoking the favour of the gods for himself. Similarly the account of Viçvāmitra’s dialogue ends with the assertion that [15]the Bharatas successfully crossed the rivers in search of booty, having won a passage by the intercession of their priest. The interesting, but obscure, hymn (iv. 42), in which Indra and Varuṇa seem to engage in a dispute as to their relative pre-eminence, is clearly commented on by the poet himself, and his intervention may be suspected even where it is not essential.

Now it is clear that the tradition of the ritual literature did not know what to make of the dialogues of the Ṛgveda. The genre of composition was one which died out in the later Vedic age; it is significant that the Atharvaveda knows but one hymn of that type (v. 11) in which the priest, Atharvan, begs the god for the payment due, a cow; the god is little inclined to accord his prayer, but finally is induced to relent and to add to the guerdon due the promise of eternal friendship. It is not in the least surprising, therefore, if we find that Yāska and Çaunaka in the fifth century B.C. were at variance as to whether the hymn x. 95 was a dialogue, as the former held, or a mere legend, as the latter believed.4 In the commentary of Sāyaṇa we find that the tradition was unable to ascribe any ritual use for nearly all the hymns; the case of x. 86 is an exception, but it is significant that that hymn has little of a true dialogue, the three speakers rather uttering enigmas than conversing, and it was therefore easier to fit it into the inconspicuous part it occupies in the later ritual. We must, therefore, admit that we have in these dialogues the remnant of a style of poetry which died out in the later Vedic period.

Its original purpose is obscure, but a very interesting suggestion was made in 1869 by Max Müller in connexion with his version of Ṛgveda i. 165.5 He conjectured that the ‘dialogue was repeated at sacrifices in honour of the Maruts or that possibly it was acted by two parties, one representing Indra, the other the Maruts and their followers’. In 1890 the suggestion was repeated with approval by Professor Lévi,6 who added to it the argument that the Sāmaveda shows that the art of music had been fully developed by the Vedic age. Moreover the Ṛgveda7 already knows maidens who, decked in splendid raiment, dance and attract lovers, and the Atharvaveda8 tells [16]how men dance and sing to music. There is, therefore, a priori no fatal objection to assuming that the period of the Ṛgveda knew dramatic spectacles, religious in character, in which the priests assumed the rôles of gods and sages in order to imitate on earth the events of the heavens.

The logical consequence of this doctrine is seen in Professor von Schroeder’s elaborate theory9 that the dialogue hymns, and also certain monologues, for instance x. 119, in which Indra appears as glorifying himself in the intoxication of his favourite Soma drink, are relics of Vedic mysteries, an inheritance in germ from Indo-European times. Ethnology shows us the close relation of music, dance, and drama among many peoples, and the curious phenomenon that Vedic religion knows of gods as dancers cannot be explained satisfactorily save on the assumption that the priests were used to see performed ritual dances, in themselves imitations of the cosmic dance in which the world was, on one view, created. Such dances partake of the nature of sympathetic magic, and they have an obvious parallel in the great sacrificial rites, which in the Brāhmaṇa period are undertaken in order to represent on earth the cosmic creation. It is true that we do not find in the Ṛgveda the phallic dances which in Greece and Mexico alike are held to be closely connected with the origin of drama, but that was because the priests of the Ṛgveda were in many respects austere, and disapproved of phallic deities of any kind. The dramas of the ritual, therefore, are in a sense somewhat out of the main line of the development of the drama; the popular side has survived through the ages in a rough way in the Yātrās well known in the literature of Bengal, while the refined and sacerdotalized Vedic drama passed away without a direct descendant.

Independent support for the view of the dialogues as mystery plays in nuce is given by Dr. Hertel,10 whose argument is largely based on the doctrine that the Vedic hymns were always sung, and that in singing it would have been impossible for a single singer to make the necessary distinction between the different speakers, which would have been possible if the hymns had not [17]been sung. The hymns, therefore, represent the beginnings of a dramatic art, which may be compared with the form of the Gītagovinda.11 But, what is more important, he seeks to find an actual drama on an extended scale in the Suparṇādhyāya,12 a curious and comparatively late Vedic text. In his view, accordingly, the Vedic drama does not stand isolated; it is seen in the Ṛgveda only in its beginnings; the Suparṇādhyāya displays it en route to further development, and in the Yātrās we can see a continuation of the old type, which aids us in following the growth from the Vedic drama of the classical drama of India. In this regard there is a distinct divergence of view between the two supporters of the dramatic theory, for Professor von Schroeder regards the Yātrās as genuinely connected with the later drama, being developed in close connexion with the cult of Viṣṇu-Kṛṣṇa and Rudra-Çiva, but as representing a different development from the same root as the Vedic dialogues. Of this other side of the drama he finds hints in the traditional connexion of the Gandharvas and Apsarases with the drama, for these in his view are essentially phallic deities.

There is, of course, no doubt of the possibility of the dialogues really representing portions of the old ritual in which the priests assumed the character of gods or demons, for there are abundant parallels for such a supposition. But there is no sufficient ground to compel us to seek for such an explanation of these hymns; that the Ṛgveda contains nothing save what is connected with ritual is a postulate which is not made by the Indians themselves, and has no justification save in the desire for symmetry. On the contrary, it is perfectly legitimate and much more natural to regard the Ṛgveda as a collection of hymns, in the vast majority of cases of ritual origin, but including some more secular poetry, to which genus alone can we reasonably attribute the battle hymns of Viçvāmitra and Vasiṣṭha. The fact that such hymns disappear in the later Vedic literature is then natural, for that literature represents unquestionably hymns collected definitely for ritual uses, and therefore nothing was admitted which could not be employed therein. To assume, therefore, that a ritual explanation must [18]be found, and to find it in ritual drama is illegitimate, and the only justification for accepting the view in any case must lie in the fact that it affords a better explanation of the hymn than any which can be given otherwise.

It is impossible to feel any certainty that the necessary proof has been brought in any case. The hymn ix. 112, which describes in four stanzas in a rather humorous style the various ends of men, ending with the refrain in each case, ‘O Soma, flow for Indra’, is transformed into the marching song of a popular festival at which mummers represent vegetation deities and symbols of fertility are carried. The tradition knows nothing of these happenings, and the hymn certainly suggests none to the average intelligence. On the contrary, it seems a very natural piece of witty sarcasm, to which point is lent by the use of the refrain, and to deny the possibility of sarcasm to the thinkers who produce the advanced and sceptical views expressed in the Ṛgveda is certainly unwise.13 To explain the Vṛṣākapi hymn (x. 86) as a piece of fertility magic in dramatic form is ingenious, but unluckily it in no way contributes towards the explanation of the hymn, and, therefore, is as valueless as the other possible explanations which have been offered. The same condemnation must be passed on the effort to find a mimic race at a festival described in the strange Mudgala hymn (x. 102) which if it is intelligible at all, seems to have a mythological reference, and not to refer either to actual or mimic races.

An ingenious effort is that made to adduce ethnological parallels to prove that the hymn x. 119, which is a straightforward monologue, placed in the mouth of Indra, celebrating the effect of drinking the Soma, must be regarded as part of a ritual in which at the close of the drinking of the Soma in the rite, a priest comes forward, assuming the rôle of Indra, and celebrates in monologue the strength of the juice of the holy plant. Among the Cora Indians, after a wine festival, a god is introduced showing the effects of the drink, while a singer celebrates its potent merits. There is, however, a fatal hiatus in the proof; the poem by itself is perfectly clear, and to seek [19]for an explanation so far-fetched is idle expenditure of energy. The same condemnation must be expressed of the effort to find in the frog hymn (vii. 103) a song sung by men masked as frogs, dancing as a spell to secure rain. If we grant that the hymn is really intended as a rain spell, which is moderately probable though not proved, it needs no further explanation whatever, and, if we do not accept this suggestion but adopt the older view that it satyrizes in an amusing way the antics of certain performers of the ritual, the character of the hymn as a fertility spell vanishes at once. The errors of method are seen excellently in the fantastic conclusion that the gambler’s hymn (x. 34), in which a gambler deplores the fatal love for the dice which has led to his reducing even his beloved wife to ruin, is a dramatic monologue in which dancers represent the leaping and falling dice. The dialogue of Yama and Yamī reduces itself to a fertility drama, from which the prudishness of the Vedic age has omitted the vital part of the union of the pair. The curious hymn, iv. 18, which tells of Indra’s unnatural birth becomes a drama by the assumption that of thirteen verses seven are ascribed to the poet himself. We are in fact in every case presented with a bare possibility, which sometimes involves absurdities, and in all cases does nothing whatever to help us in interpreting the hymns. There is nothing, it is true, inconceivable in the view that the hymn of Saramā and the Paṇis was actually recited by two different parties, and thus was a ritual drama in nuce; what is certain is that the later Vedic period knew nothing whatever of such a practice; the only hymn in dialogue form for which it finds a use (x. 86) is assigned an employment in which there is nothing dramatic whatever. The absurdity of the whole process reaches perhaps its fullest exhibition in the dissertation on the hymn regarding Agastya and Lopāmudrā (i. 179), for it becomes a fertility rite performed after the corn has been cut; Lopāmudrā becomes ‘that which has the seal of disappearance upon it’, a feat which is impossible in the Vedic language; the hymn itself suits far better the obvious alternative14 of ‘one who enjoys love at the cost of breaking her marital vows’. To explain the hymns of Indra and the Maruts (i. 170, 171, and 165) we are to hold that we [20]have three scenes of a dramatic performance, which takes place at a Soma sacrifice to celebrate the victory of Indra over the serpent Vṛtra, ending with a dance of the Maruts, represented by youths fully armed. This weapon dance is a relic of old vegetation ritual, the driving out of the old year, winter, or death, which is the foundation of the dances of the Roman Salii, the Greek Kouretes, the Phrygian Korybantes, and the German sword dancers. How can it be justifiable to spin theories thus in order to explain hymns which are taken by themselves without serious difficulty save in detail?

It is equally impossible to find any cogency in Dr. Hertel’s arguments from the necessity of assuming two sets of performers, since the hymns were sung and a single voice in singing could not distinguish the interlocutors. Doubtless, if we accepted this necessity, we would be inclined to admit a priori that the song would tend to be accompanied by action and by the dance, so that drama would be on the way to development. But we do not know that the hymns of the Ṛgveda were always sung; on the contrary we do know with absolute certainty that, while the verses of the Sāmaveda were sung (gai), the verses of the Ṛgveda were recited (çaṅs). True, we do not have precise information of the exact character of the recitation, but there is not the slightest ground to suppose that a reciter could not have conveyed by differences in his mode of recitation the distinction between two different interlocutors, and the fact that this point is ignored in the argument is fatal to it. Moreover, we must admit that we are wholly ignorant as to the degree in which it was desired by the authors or reciters of these hymns to convey these differences of person. We do not know, and the ritual text-books did not know, exactly in what way these hymns were used. We find in the Ṛgveda a number of philosophic hymns; why should we not admit that a philosophic dialogue such as that of Yama and Yamī is possible without demanding that it should be a fragment of ritual? We have historical hymns in Maṇḍala vii; why should we turn the dialogue of Viçvāmitra and the rivers into a drama? Why should we insist that all hymns were composed for ritual use, when we know that ancient tales were among the things used to pass the period immediately following the disposal of the dead, and [21]that during the pauses in the great horse sacrifice, performed to assert the wide sovereignty of the king, both Brahmins and warriors sang songs to fill up the time? We may legitimately assume that in the Ṛgveda we have hymns of other than directly ritual or magic purpose; the gambler’s hymn cannot by any reasonable stretch of the imagination be taken as ritual.15

It is also impossible to accept the view that the Vedic drama died out under the chilling effect of the disapproval of the priests of fertility ritual. We find, on the contrary, that fertility ritual is fully recognized later in the Mahāvrata ceremonial, and also in the horse sacrifice, which are both known to the other Vedic Saṁhitās, though this feature of the rite is not referred to, directly at least, in the Ṛgveda. Moreover, even if the disapproval of fertility rites had been real, why should it have brought to a close the drama? The dialogues of Agni and the gods, of Saramā and the Paṇis, of Varuṇa and Indra, of Indra and the singer—and perhaps Vāyu also (viii. 100), have no connexion with fertility, and this aspect of drama need not have perished. Dr. Hertel is certainly right in demanding traces of development, not of decadence, but his great effort to find a full drama in the Suparṇādhyāya must definitely be pronounced a failure. It involves an elaborate invention of stage directions, the preparation of a list of dramatis personae largely on the basis of imagination, and a translation of the piece based on this theory, which can be shown in detail to be open to the certainty of error. Add to this the fact that there is no hint in Indian tradition that the Suparṇādhyāya, on the face of it a late imitation of Vedic work proper, had ever any dramatic intention or use.

A very different theory of the purpose of these hymns is that which we owe to Professors Windisch,16 Oldenberg,17 and Pischel.18 They represent an old type, Indo-European in antiquity, of composition of epic character, in which the verses, representing the points of highest emotion, were preserved, and the connecting links were in prose which was not stereotyped, and therefore [22]has not come down to us. The theory is capable of combination with the suggestion that these hymns in dialogue were dramatic; thus Prof. Pischel explained the combination of prose and verse in the Sanskrit drama as a relic of this early form of literature, which thus might serve both epic and dramatic ends.19 Despite the considerable vogue which the theory has at one time or other attained, and the energetic defence of it by Professor Oldenberg, who has based upon it an elaborate theory of the development of Indian prose, it is doubtful whether we can accept the view.20 It is a very real difficulty here also that the tradition shows no trace of knowledge of this characteristic of the hymns, and we do not find any work actually in this form in the whole of the Vedic literature. The alleged instances of this type, such as those of the tale of Çunaḥçepa in the Aitareya Brāhmaṇa, or the working up in the Çatapatha Brāhmaṇa of the legend of Purūravas and Urvaçī cannot possibly be made to fit the theory. In the latter case we have a tale, which manifestly does not agree with the verses of the Ṛgveda, and which is openly and obviously an attempt to work that hymn into the explanation of the ritual; in the former we have the use of gnomic verses to illustrate a theme, a form of literature which is preserved through the history of Sanskrit prose, and portions of a verse narrative. The true type, verses used at the point of emotion, especially, therefore, to give the vital speeches and replies, is thus not represented by any text of the Vedic literature. Whether it ever existed at all in the sense postulated by the theory, whether there are traces of it in the Pāli Jātakas, or whether its existence even there is a misunderstanding, are questions which are not in vital connexion with the origin of Sanskrit drama, and may, therefore, here be left undiscussed. One consideration, however, is germane; if it were necessary to explain the Vedic dialogues by this theory, it would certainly be possible to do so far more effectively and simply than by the theory of their being the remains of ritual dramas. The most serious objection to both theories is that they are not really necessary. Professor Geldner21 who formerly patronized [23]the theory of Oldenberg has sought to explain the hymns in question as ballads.22

Nor of course is it necessary to make any use of this theory in order to explain the mixture of prose and verse in the Sanskrit drama. The use of prose needs no defence or explanation; that of verse is what was essentially to be expected, in view of the importance of song as a form of amusement as well as in worship both in Vedic times and later, and of the fact that our extant dramas draw so largely on epic tradition, preserved in versified texts. Nothing indeed is more noteworthy in Sanskrit literature than the determination to turn everything, law, astronomy, architecture, rhetoric, even philosophy into a metrical form. The theorists on the drama give no suggestion that the prose was regarded as any less fixed in character than the verses, or that it was not the duty of the author of the drama to be as careful in preparing the one as the other, and the manuscript tradition of the drama does not hint at any distinction of the two elements as regards source.

The discovery of fragments of manuscripts on palm-leaf, of great antiquity, at Turfan, has through the energy of Professor Lüders revealed to us the existence of at least three Buddhist dramas. Of one of these the authorship is happily certain, for the colophon of the last act has been preserved, and it records that the drama was the Çāriputraprakaraṇa of Açvaghoṣa, son of Suvarṇākṣī; it gives also the fuller title Çāradvatīputraprakaraṇa and the number of acts as nine.

Açvaghoṣa is an author whose fame, thanks to his error in being a Buddhist long lost in India, has recently attained renewal by the discovery and publication of his Buddhacarita, a court epic in excellent style and spirit on the life of the Buddha. His Sūtrālaṁkāra is also known through the medium of a Tibetan translation, and illustrates his ability in turning the tale into an instrument for propaganda in support of the Buddhist faith. If the tradition which ascribes to him the Mahāyānaçraddhotpāda is correct, he was also the founder or expounder of a subtle system of metaphysics akin to the Vijñānavāda of the Mahāyāna school, and the Vajrasūcī seems to preserve in some measure the record of his onslaught on the caste system, which exalted the Brahmins at the expense of the Kṣatriyas, and condemned Buddhism on the score that it was unfitting that a Kṣatriya like the Buddha should give instructions to Brahmins. Certainly genuine is the Saundarananda, in the epic manner, which like all his works is devoted to the effective exposition of Buddhism in the language of polite literature, and also of the Brahmin schools. We recognize in him one who appreciated that it would never do to allow Buddhism to remain buried in a form inferior to the best that [81]Brahminism could produce, and it is curious that fate should have preserved the work of the rival of the Brahmins, while it has permitted his models to disappear. That he had abundant precedent to guide him is clear from the classical form already assumed by his dramas; the argument of Professor Konow1 to the contrary, on the ground that many of the standing formulae and characters are derived from the popular drama, and show that the artistic drama had not developed yet full independence, is unintelligible, since these features persist throughout the history of the Sanskrit drama. Nor does any weight attach to the argument that the Nāṭyaçāstra, assumed to be of about the same period as Açvaghoṣa, shows knowledge of only a limited variety of dramas. On the contrary it is amazing how much literature must have preceded to permit of the setting up of the main types of drama, some of which were evidently represented by many specimens, though others doubtless rested on a small basis of practice.

The brief fragments preserved of the drama of Açvaghoṣa give us the certainty of his authorship if any doubt could exist after the colophon, for one verse is taken bodily from the Buddhacarita, just as he twice refers in the Sūtrālaṁkāra to that important work. The story of the play is clear; it deals with the events which led up to the conversion of the young Maudgalyāyana and Çāriputra by the Buddha, and some of the incidents are certain. Çāriputra had an interview with Açvajit; then he discussed the question of the claims of the Buddha to be a teacher with his friend, the Vidūṣaka, who raised the objection that a Brahmin like his master should not accept the teaching of a Kṣatriya; Çāriputra repels the objection by reminding his friend that medicine aids the sick though given by one of inferior caste, as does water one aheat. Maudgalyāyana greets Çāriputra, inquiring of him the cause of his glad appearance, and learns his reasons. The two go to the Buddha, who receives them, and who foretells to them that they will be the highest in knowledge and magic power of his disciples. [82]In this point there is a deliberate and certainly artistic deviation from the ordinary version of the incident, followed in the Buddhacarita, in which the prophecy of the Buddha is addressed, not to the disciples themselves, but to others of the Buddha’s followers. The end of the play is marked by a philosophic dialogue between Çāriputra and the Buddha, which includes a polemic against the belief in the existence of a permanent self; it terminates in a praise of his two new disciples by the Buddha, and a formal benediction.

The most remarkable thing regarding this drama is its close correspondence to the classical type as laid down in the Nāṭyaçāstra. The piece is a Prakaraṇa, and it has nine acts, which accords perfectly with the rule of the Çāstra; the Mṛcchakaṭikā and Mālatīmādhava have ten apiece; the Acts bear no titles, but this is in accord with the normal usage, though the Mṛcchakaṭikā gives names. The hero is Çāriputra, who corresponds to the Brahmin hero of the Çāstra, and who is emphatically of the noble and calm type enjoined by that authority. Whether the heroine was a lady or a hetaera we do not know, nor does it appear how far the poet altered the subject-matter by invention, which is normally the case with later Prakaraṇas. The Buddha and his disciples, including, beside the two heroes, Kauṇḍinya and a Çramaṇa speak Sanskrit, and use both prose and verse; the Vidūṣaka speaks Prākrit. The presence of this figure is a remarkable proof of the fixed character attained by the drama, for in itself there is nothing more absurd than that a youthful ascetic seeking after truth should be encumbered by one who is a meet attendant on a wealthy merchant, Brahmin, or minister. It can, therefore, only be supposed that Açvaghoṣa was writing a type of drama in which the rôle was far too firmly embedded to permit its omission, and presumably in the story of the drama now lost to us the Vidūṣaka served to introduce comic relief. With natural good taste, he disappears from the last Act, where Çāriputra has no need as a member of the Buddha’s fraternity for encumbrances like a jester.

In one point only has it been claimed to find a clear discrepancy between Açvaghoṣa’s practice and that of the later drama. At the close the theory2 requires that the question, ‘Is [83]there anything further that you desire (ataḥ param api priyam asti)?’ be addressed to the hero by himself or another, to which he replies by uttering a benediction styled the Bharatavākya. In the drama of Açvaghoṣa the phrase is omitted, and the benediction proceeds, without prelude, with the words, ‘From now on shall these two ever increase their knowledge, restraining their senses, to gain release’, spoken by the Buddha, not by the hero. Lüders concludes hence that the regular form of close was not yet established by Açvaghoṣa’s time. The conclusion is clearly fallacious, and rests on a failure to recognize in this the readiness of Açvaghoṣa to give effect to a traditional usage, while not slavishly following it. It would obviously have been absurd to place the last words in the drama in the form of a benediction in the mouth of any one save the Buddha, and therefore he speaks the benediction. To preface it with the usual formula was needless in his case, but the opening words of the verse are ataḥ param, which is obviously not an incredible coincidence, but a deliberate reference to the ordinary phrase. Açvaghoṣa shows thus his knowledge of the rule and his power to vary it in case of need. Similarly Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa in the Veṇīsaṁhāra puts the Bharatavākya in the mouth of Yudhiṣṭhira, but he makes Kṛṣṇa end the play by according the favour prayed for by Yudhiṣṭhira. He too felt that it would be absurd to leave the omnipotent one in the position of listening without response to the utterance of a benediction by one who cannot be more than an inferior, though nominally the hero.3

The same manuscript which contains portions of the Çāriputraprakaraṇa has also fragments of two other dramas. There is no evidence of their authorship, other than the fact that they appear in the same manuscript as the work of Açvaghoṣa, and that they display the same general appearance as the work of that writer. That they are Açvaghoṣa’s is much more probable than that they are the work of some unknown contemporary.4 [84]

The first of these is specially interesting as it represents a type of which we have otherwise no earlier specimen than the Prabodhacandrodaya of Kṛṣṇamiçra. We find the allegorical figures of Buddhi, wisdom, Kīrti, fame, and Dhṛti, firmness, appearing and conversing. This is followed by the advent of the Buddha himself, adorned with the halo which he borrowed from Greek art. We do not know whether he appeared later in actual conversation with the allegorical figures, but for this mixture of the real and the ideal we have to go beyond Kṛṣṇamiçra, who represents all his characters as abstract, Viṣṇu for instance by Faith in Viṣṇu, to Kavikarṇapūra’s glorification of Caitanya in the sixteenth century, in which allegorical figures are mingled with Caitanya and his followers, though they do not actually converse together.5 It must remain uncertain whether there was a train of tradition leading from Açvaghoṣa to Kṛṣṇamiçra, or whether the latter created the type of drama afresh; the former theory is the more likely. The characters all speak Sanskrit, but the fragments are too short to give us any real information on the general trend of the play.

The other drama gives us more interesting matter. It is one in which figures a hetaera named Magadhavatī, a Vidūṣaka named Komudhagandha, a hero styled only Nāyaka, but probably named Somadatta, a Duṣṭa, rogue, without further name, a certain Dhānaṁjaya, who may possibly be a prince if the term ‘king’s son’ (bhaṭṭidālaka), which is recognized in the Nāṭyaçāstra as the style of the younger princes of the blood, applies to him, a maid-servant, and Çāriputra and Maudgalyāyana. The drama was doubtless intended for purposes of religious edification, but what we have is too fragmentary to do more than show that the author was possessed of humour and that the Vidūṣaka was already a hungry soul. The drama alludes to an old garden as the place where part of the action passed, as in the Mṛcchakaṭikā, and also as in that drama the house of the hetaera served as the scene of another part of the action. The characters are often introduced as entering in vehicles (pravahaṇa), a further point of [85]similarity to that drama, while an allusion to a Samāja or festival on a hill-top accords with the frequent reference to such amusements in Buddhist literature. An obscure character is a person, obviously of lower rank, who is styled Gobaṁ°.

The drama shows close agreement with the classical model; the name of the Vidūṣaka is evidence of this, for not only is it connected with a real Brahmin family, but it obeys the rule that the name of that character should indicate a flower, the spring, &c., for it means literally ‘the offspring of the lotus-smelling’. The name of the hetaera does not observe the rule exemplified in the Cārudatta that the hetaera’s name should end in senā, siddhā, or dattā, but, apart from the fact that the authority for the rule is very late, the name was very probably given to the poet by the literary tradition. The fact that the Duṣṭa and the Nāyaka appear by these titles only has a parallel in the Cārudatta and the Buddhist drama of Harṣa, the Nāgānanda, but it is difficult to say whether or not this is a sign of antiquity.

The material available in the case of any of the three dramas is too scanty to give us any assurance as to what the practice was regarding the introduction, especially the use of the Nāndī, or verse of benediction. What is certain is that the Pāripārçvika, or assistant of the Sūtradhāra in the later literature, is found apparently as taking part in the opening of the drama, perhaps the Çāriputraprakaraṇa.

In accordance with the later rules we find the Buddha, his disciples, the hero of the hetaera play and Dhānaṁjaya speaking Sanskrit; the same is true of the allegorical characters, and this is also in accord with later practice, for in both Kṛṣṇamiçra and Kavikarṇapūra’s works some of the allegorical characters speak Sanskrit, though others, of more feminine appeal and character, speak Prākrit. One Çramaṇa speaks Sanskrit, another—conceivably an Ājīvika—a Prākrit.

The Sanskrit contains some errors, which are obvious Prākritisms, and which it would be unjust to attribute to the author, or authors. Genuine departures from the norm are scanty; the use of ārttha for artha has a precise parallel in the nearly contemporaneous dialect of Mathurā; tuṣṇīm is frequent in [86]Buddhist Sanskrit as well as etymologically correct; krimi is found also in the Buddhacarita where the reading kṛmi would spoil the metre; pratīgṛhīta has many Sanskrit parallels. In pradveṣam where the metre requires pradoṣam Buddhist influence is doubtless present, but yeva and tāva are probably merely errors of the scribe, to whom may be assigned such a monstrosity as paçyemas and Somadattassa. But bhagavāṁ has the support of the practice of the Mahāvastu where stems in mat and vat end thus, and it explains the Sandhi çṛṇvam puṣpā. These are minimal variants; in the main the Sanskrit is excellent and the fragments shows traces of the able versification and style of Açvaghoṣa.

The other characters speak Prākrit, and, by a curious variation from the normal practice, the stage directions, which are freely given as in the classical drama, are normally expressed in the language which the character concerned uses, though there are cases of mixture and apparent confusion which may be due to the scribe. Three different forms of Prākrit may be distinguished, the first spoken by the Duṣṭa, the second by the mysterious Gobaṁ°, and the third by the hetaera and Vidūṣaka.

The Duṣṭa’s speech in three important points is similar to the Māgadhī of the Prākrit grammarians; it substitutes l for r; reduces all three sibilants to ç; and has e in the nominative singular of masculine nouns in a. But it ignores the rules of the grammarians in certain matters; hard letters are not softened (e.g. bhoti), nor soft consonants elided (e.g. komudagandha), when intervocalic. There is no tendency to cerebralize n, and in kālanā the dental replaces the cerebral. Fuller forms of consonants remain in han̄gho (haṅho) and bambhaṇa (bamhaṇa). The later forms of development of consonantal combinations are unknown; thus for rj we have jj, not yy, as in ajja; cch remains in lieu of becoming çc; kṣ becomes kkh, not sk or ẖk; ṣṭ and ṣṭh give ṭṭh, not sṭ. In kiçça we have an older form than kīça, in ahakaṁ than ahake, hake, hage. In practically all these details we must see an earlier stage of what becomes Māgadhī in the grammarians. With it may be compared the metrical inscription of the Jogīmārā cave on the Rāmgarh hill which belongs to the period of Açoka.

The Prākrit of the Gobaṁ° agrees with this Old Māgadhī in having l for r and e in the nominative singular, but it reduces all [87]sibilants to s. It thus shows a certain similarity to the Ardha-Māgadhī of the grammarians, but that dialect often keeps r though it frequently alters it to l; for instance it has r for the kaleti of this Prākrit and the Old Māgadhī. Other points of similarity are the retention of the dental for cerebral in vanna; the lengthening of the vowel before the suffix ka (vannīkāhi); the accusative plural neuter in pupphā; and the infinitive bhuṁjitaye (bhuñjittae). There are points of difference, but they are probably all cases of earlier forms. Thus, as in Old Māgadhī, we have no softening or loss of intervocalic consonants; n is not cerebralised, but even introduced in palinata; ḷ appears in lieu of l; the instrumental in āhi has no nasal; the nominative of vat stems appears as in vā, as against vaṁ or vante; in the infinitive we find no doubling of the consonant in taye. The fact, however, of the regular change of r to l and the use of the form yeva after a long vowel as in Māgadhī and Pāli show that the Old Ardha-Māgadhī was more akin to Māgadhī than the later Ardha-Māgadhī, which came steadily under the influence of the western dialects as shown by the tendency to change e of the nominative to o.

There are strong points of similarity between this Old Ardha-Māgadhī and the language of Açoka’s pillar inscriptions. They agree as regards the use of l, s, and e, the dentals in palinata and vannīkāhi, yeva after long vowels, and the long vowel before the suffix ka. They disagree in the nominative and accusative plural neuter of a stems, which have āni in the inscriptions as against ā, but that is of no great importance, as these are doublets. The infinitive, however, is in tave, which cannot be equated with taye; Ardha-Māgadhī ttae may be from either.

The Açokan dialect is doubtless the court speech of his kingdom, and a descendant of the Ardha-Māgadhī of Mahāvīra, the founder of the Jain religion, and probably also of the Buddha, whose speech was clearly not akin to the Māgadhī of the grammarians, though it is called Māgadhī in the sacred texts.6

The theory of the Nāṭyaçāstra assigns Ardha-Māgadhī as the language of savants, sons of kings or Rājputs, and Çreṣṭhins, rich merchants, but, with the exception of Bhāsa’s Karṇabhāra, it does not appear in the extant dramas. Māgadhī, on the contrary, [88]is required in the case of men who live in the women’s apartments, diggers of underground passages, keepers of drink shops, watchers, the hero himself in time of danger, and the Çakāra. Into which category the Duṣṭa falls is not certain; the Daçarūpa ascribes this Prākrit to low people in general.

Çaurasenī is ascribed to the hetaera by the Çāstra which gives Prācyā or eastern dialect to the Vidūṣaka, but it is clear that the Prācyā is a mere variety of Çaurasenī, from which it differs only in the use of certain expressions. This is borne out by the dramas, in which there is no real distinction between the speech of these two characters. With the Çaurasenī of the grammarians it shows remarkable parallels. It has r in lieu of changing it to l; it reduces the sibilants to s; and for the nominative masculine it has o. Further, it changes kṣ into kkh, not cch; for chard it has chaḍḍ, for mard, madd; for saçrīkam irregularly sassirīkaṁ with the double s despite the epenthetic vowel; and in the third singular future issiti. The gerund kariya is parallel to karia in Hemacandra’s grammar; bhaṭṭā is the vocative of bhartṛ; iyaṁ is feminine as later iaṁ in Çaurasenī alone; bhavāṁ as nominative is comparable with bhavaṁ; bhaṇ is conjugated in the ninth class; viya is parallel to via for iva; and dāni with loss of i as a particle is similar to dāṇiṁ.

In other cases the forms of this Prākrit are clearly older than those of the grammarians’ Çaurasenī. As in the other Prākrits of the drama, there is no softening or omission of intervocalic consonants, and no cerebralization of n. Further, initial y is kept, not reduced to j; the interjection ai in lieu of aï is supported by the language of the Girnār and Udayagiri inscriptions; in nirussāsam we have an older form than ūsasida of Çaurasenī; jñ and ny give ññ, not the later ṇṇ; dy gives yy (written y) for jj; tuvaṁ and tava are both manifestly older than the forms tumaṁ and tuha, while karotha is a remarkable example of the preservation of the old strong base. Old also is the preservation of the long vowel in bhavāṁ. In adaṇḍāraho and the dubious arhessi we have two variants on the rule of Çaurasenī, which has i as the epenthetic vowel in arh, but this merely illustrates the uncertainty of these epentheses; duguṇa in lieu of diuṇa is not older, but a variant mode of treating dviguṇa, and there is no special difficulty in holding that dāṇi and idāṇi are forms which [89]were originally doublets of dāṇiṁ and idāṇiṁ in Çaurasenī, and later were superseded. From other Prākrit passages, presumably in the same Old Çaurasenī, we obtain old forms like vayaṁ, we, and tumhākaṁ in lieu of tumhāṇaṁ; edisa for erisa or īdisa; dissati for dīsadi; gahītaṁ for gahidaṁ; khu is kept after short vowels in lieu of being doubled; a long vowel is kept before tti and such forms as mhi. The future in gamissāma is probably old, while nikkhanta and bambhaṇa admit of this explanation against the later nikkanta and bamhaṇa.

In the words of the hetaera the word surada occurs, with softening of t to d; conceivably the passage might be verse, but in all probability we are merely faced with a sporadic instance of a change which later set in, due perhaps to a copyist’s error; to find in it an evidence of Māhārāṣṭrī would be unwise, especially as the very next word (vimadda) is not in the Māhārāṣṭrī form (vimaḍḍa). In the dialect of the Duṣṭa we have a form makkaṭaho which may be genitive, as in Apabhraṅça, but is not allowed in Māgadhī; but the sense is too uncertain to permit of any security.

The existence and literary use of these Prākrits is most interesting in the history both of the language and the literature, for they present archaic features which place them on the same plane of change as Pāli and the dialects of the older inscriptions. They may be set beside the inscriptions in the Sītābengā and Jogīmārā caves on the Rāmgarh hill, which both show lyric strophes. The influence of the Kāvya style in Sanskrit can be traced obviously in the later Nāsik inscription in Prākrit of the second century A.D., and even in the inscription of Khāravela of Kalin̄ga perhaps in the second century B.C.7 We cannot, therefore, see any plausibility in the idea of the gradual adaptation of Sanskrit, a sacred language, to belles lettres; on the contrary the dramas show that the Prākrits in literature were already under the influence of the Sanskrit Kāvya.

Until 1910 the existence of any drama of Bhāsa’s was unknown in Europe, and only in 1912 appeared under the editorship of T. Gaṇapati Çāstrin, the first of a series of thirteen dramas which their discoverer attributed to that poet. The fact, however, that the dramas themselves are silent as to the authorship rendered careful research necessary to determine their provenance, and the proofs adduced have not won entire satisfaction.

What we knew before the publication of Bhāsa was simply his high reputation. Kālidāsa in his first work, the Mālavikāgnimitra, refers to Bhāsa, with Saumilla, Kaviputra, and others as his great predecessors in the art, whose fame renders difficult the acceptance of the work of an untried author. Bāṇa,1 at the beginning of the seventh century, states that Bhāsa attained fame by his dramas, begun by the Sūtradhāra, with many rôles and including episodes, as one might by the erection of temples, begun by the architect, with many stages, and beflagged. It would be unwise to prove by this that Bhāsa innovated in these regards; what is essential to Bāṇa is to celebrate Bhāsa’s fame, and to show his wit by the comparison in the same words with some not very obvious object of comparison. A century later Vākpati2 declares his pleasure in Bhāsa, friend of fire (jalaṇamitte), in the author of the Raghuvaṅça, in Subandhu and Hāricandra. Rājaçekhara (c. A.D. 900) places him among the classical poets, and a verse records a curious incident: ‘Critics cast on the fire, to test it, the discus composed of the dramas of Bhāsa; the Svapnavāsavadattā did not succumb to the [92]flames’.3 The verse, however, contains a double entendre strangely ignored by Professor Konow;4 it denotes of course the superiority of the Svapnavāsavadattā to the other dramas of Bhāsa—a fact which the published plays bear out to the full—but it also alludes to a reason; the play itself contains a fire, which was feigned by the minister to permit the possibility of the king’s new marriage, and it is only appropriate that, as that fire could not burn the queen, so the fire which tried the play was unable to prevail against it. The passage throws the necessary light on the term ‘friend of fire’ of Vākpati, which should not be rendered meaningless by attributing it to the fact that Bhāsa often mentions fire in his dramas.

These facts are, it must at once be admitted, extremely favourable to the authenticity of the dramas; taken all in all they are clearly the work of a very considerable writer; in technique they are less finished than those of Kālidāsa; the Prākrit is clearly earlier than that of the works of Kālidāsa or the Mṛcchakaṭikā; the Svapnavāsavadattā is clearly the best, and it explains Vākpati and Rājaçekhara’s references. Bāṇa’s statement regarding the opening of the plays by the Sūtradhāra is proved by the dramas. There is also substantial evidence to be derived from the writers on rhetoric. Bhāmaha, who may belong to the beginning of the eighth century A.D., criticizes severely the plot of the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa; Vāmana, in the eighth, cites from that play, the Svapnavāsavadattā, and the Cārudatta; Abhinavagupta (c. A.D. 1000) twice names the Svapnavāsavadattā, and mentions the Cārudatta. These references are not in themselves conclusive, for they do not mention Bhāsa as the author of the plays, even when these are named,5 and not merely cited from or discussed, but they show that the critics knew and were prepared to cite these dramas, which means that they accepted the view that they were by an important author. The ascription of the Svapnavāsavadattā to Bhāsa gives us the right to accept his authorship of the rest if internal evidence supports it. That this is so is undeniable, [93]even by those who suspect the attribution to Bhāsa; the coincidences in technique, in the Prākrits, in metre, and in style are overwhelming. Finally, there is the evidence of the Cārudatta; it is undeniably and obviously the prototype of the Mṛcchakaṭikā, and it proves, therefore, that the dramas are older than that work which was well known by Vāmana, and is certainly a good deal earlier.

The arguments6 against the authenticity are all inconclusive. They are based on the fact that a drama, Mattavilāsa, of Mahendravikramavarman, of the seventh century A.D. presents the same characteristics as regards the form of opening the drama as the plays of Bhāsa, and the suggestion that Rājasiṅha is to be identified with a prince of the south of that name (c. A.D. 675). The evidence is clearly inadequate; Bhāsa’s fame was evidently more prevalent in the south than in the north, for a scene from one of his plays has survived in a mutilated form in the popular theatre there, and it is easy to understand how a seventh-century writer imitated him in technique. Moreover, the imitation is very partial; the omission of the name of the author and the play is not followed, and this is certainly a sign of a later date for the Mattavilāsa. The guess regarding the identification of the king is without probative force, for the term seems deliberately vague, and is in keeping with the silence of the author regarding his own name and that of his drama. The introduction of immediate reality is incongruous, and, therefore, avoided.

It is difficult to arrive at any precise determination of Bhāsa’s date. That Kālidāsa knew his fame as firmly established is clear, and, if we may fairly safely date Kālidāsa about A.D. 400, this gives us a period of not later than A.D. 350 for Bhāsa. The fact of his priority to the Mṛcchakaṭikā leads us to no definite result, for the view that this play is to be placed before Kālidāsa in the third century A.D. is not at all plausible. An upper limit is given by the fact that Bhāsa is doubtless later than Açvaghoṣa, whose Buddhacarita is probably the source of a [94]verse in the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa, and whose Prākrit is assuredly and unquestionably older in character. It is useless to seek to estimate by the evidence of the Prākrit whether Bhāsa is more closely allied in date to Kālidāsa than to Açvaghoṣa, because changes in speech and the representation of them in literature are matters which do not in the slightest degree permit of exact valuation in terms of years. The most that can be said is that it may be held without improbability that Bhāsa is nearer to Kālidāsa’s period than to Açvaghoṣa’s.

An effort at more exact determination is made by Professor Konow7 on the ground that Bhāsa’s dramas in part deal with the story of Udayana, of which Ujjayinī was specially fond, as we know from Kālidāsa. Hence we may assume that the home of the poet was Ujjayinī, an assumption which obviously is not legitimate in any degree. Further we may assume that he lived under one of the Western Kṣatrapas, which again goes too far. Now the usual ending of a drama is not regularly observed in Bhāsa’s dramas; the introductory question is found only in the Avimāraka, Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa, Bālacarita, and Dūtavākya. The description of the final benediction as Bharatavākya is omitted in the Madhyamavyāyoga, where Viṣṇu is praised; in the Dūtaghaṭotkaca, where his commands are given; in the Pañcarātra, where the wish is expressed that the king (rājasiṅha) should rule the whole earth; and in the Ūrubhan̄ga, where the wish is that the prince should conquer his foes and rule the earth. In the other plays a change of form of the Bharatavākya is asserted; in the Karṇabhāra there is the desire for the disappearance of misfortune; in the Pratimānāṭaka the wish is that the king may fare as Rāma who was reunited with Sītā and his kinsmen; in the Avimāraka, the Abhiṣekanāṭaka, and the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa, that the king should, after destroying his foes, rule the whole earth, while in the Svapnavāsavadattā, Dūtavākya, and Bālacarita, the wish is for universal rule. This suggests that for a time the king reigned in peace; then enemies arose and disturbed his power; finally he again won the upper hand, and his friends could without absurdity pray for his attaining imperial rank. This would agree with the history of the Kṣatrapa Rudrasiṅha, who held from 181–8, and [95]again from A.D. 191–6 the high rank of Mahākṣatrapa, and whose name may be hinted at in the use of the term rājasiṅha. That the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa is older than the Svapnavāsavadattā is held to support this suggestion, but it is clearly without any merit save ingenuity.

Nor is there more to be said for Konow’s other suggestions of date; the fact that the term Nāṭaka is used, and that the Vidūṣaka appears, cannot show that he is early, for they are used on continuously to the latest days of the drama, and the view that Bhāsa was an innovator who shortened the preliminaries, which is given as a reason for making him early, because the Nāṭyaçāstra gives the preliminaries in detail, is abandoned sub silentio in the author’s later work,8 where it is candidly admitted that we do not know whether he shortened the preliminaries at all. Nor can we say anything regarding his relation to the Nāṭyaçāstra which will aid us to a date; there is even a tradition that he himself wrote on the theory of the drama. Nor can any weight be attached to the view that Bhāsa stands nearer Açvaghoṣa in technique than Kālidāsa; these matters do not permit of precise evaluation in time, and, if we place Bhāsa about A.D. 300, we go as far as the evidence allows.

The derivation of the drama in part from epic recitations is peculiarly clear in Bhāsa, who shows the influence of the two great epics in its clearest form. In the Madhyamavyāyoga9 we have a reminiscence of the tale of the love of the demon Hiḍimbā for Bhīma, the third of the five Pāṇḍavas, and their marriage which has Ghaṭotkaca as its fruit, though the parents part. The play opens with preliminary rites, after which the director pronounces a benediction on the audience, and begins to address them, but is suddenly interrupted by a sound, which is revealed as the cry of a Brahmin, who with his three sons and his wife is being pursued by the demon Ghaṭotkaca. The demon has received orders from his mother to bring her a victim; he offers, therefore, [96]to spare the rest of the family, if one is willing to go with him, and the midmost, Madhyama, of the sons decides to go, though there is a generous rivalry among the three in self-sacrifice. He asks, however, time to go to perform a rite of purification, and, as he tarries, the demon in anger calls aloud for him. Bhīma responds, as the midmost of the Pāṇḍavas; he will go in the boy’s place, but not by force. The demon, not knowing his father, seeks to compel him, but, failing, accepts his offer to go willingly. Hiḍimbā greets her husband with joy, and reproaches her son and bids him express regret. She explains that her demand was made expressly to win for her a visit from Bhīma, who suggests that they should all accompany the aged Brahmin and his family to their destination, and with a verse in praise of Viṣṇu the piece ends.

Ghaṭotkaca is again the leading figure of the Dūtaghaṭotkaca, which may also be classed as a Vyāyoga, a term indicating primarily a military spectacle. The Kurus are jubilant over the defeat of Abhimanyu, Arjuna’s son, at the hands of Jayadratha, though Dhṛtarāṣṭra warns them of the dangers that overshadow them. Ghaṭotkaca appears to them and predicts their punishment at the hands of Arjuna. Of the same general type apparently is the Karṇabhāra which deals with Karṇa’s armour; he makes himself ready for his fight with Arjuna, and tells Çalya, the Madra king, of the trick by which he won it from the great Paraçurāma, though the latter retaliated for the deception by the curse that the arms should fail him in the hour of his need. The curse is fulfilled, for Indra comes in the guise of a Brahmin and obtains from Karṇa his weapons and earrings. Karṇa and Çalya go out to battle, and the sound of Arjuna’s chariot is heard. In the Ūrubhan̄ga the fight between Bhīma and Duryodhana, greatest of the Kurus, ends in the breaking of the thigh of the latter, who falls in agony; his son comes to him in his childish way, but his father is fain to save him the sorrow of his plight. His parents and wives surround him; he seeks to comfort them; Açvatthāman swears vengeance despite his counsels of peace; visions of his brothers and Apsarases float before him, and he passes away.

These four plays have each but one Act; the Pañcarātra, on the other hand, has three, and may perhaps be classed as a [97]Samavakāra, in so far at least as it is a drama in which there are more heroes of sorts than one, and they more or less attain their ends, which seem to be the chief features of that dubious kind of play in the theory. It reflects the period when efforts are being made to save the Kurus and the Pāṇḍavas from the fatal conflict, which ends in the ruin of the former and grave loss to the latter. Droṇa has undertaken a sacrifice for Duryodhana, and seeks as the fee the grant to the Pāṇḍavas of half the realm to which they had a just claim. Duryodhana promises on condition that they are heard of within five days. Virāṭa, however, is missing from those present at the offering; he has to mourn the loss of a hundred10 Kīcakas. Bhīṣma suspects that Bhīma must be at the bottom of this illhap, and on his instigation at the end of Act II it is decided to raid Virāṭa’s cows, as he hopes thus to bring the facts to light. The foray, however, fails, for the Pāṇḍavas are with Virāṭa in disguise; Abhimanyu is taken prisoner and married to Virāṭa’s daughter. The charioteer in Act III brings back the news, showing clearly that Arjuna and Bhīma have taken part in the contest, but none the less Duryodhana decides to keep faith.

The Dūtavākya, a Vyāyoga in one act, is again from the Mahābhārata, but deals with the Kṛṣṇa legend. Bhīṣma is made chief of the Kuru forces; the arrival of Nārāyaṇa is announced, but Duryodhana forbids that any honour be shown to him, and seats himself before a picture, in which is depicted the indignity shown to Draupadī, when her husband gambled her away at dice. Kṛṣṇa enters, making a deep impression on all by his majesty; even Duryodhana falls from his seat. The messenger demands the half of the realm for the Pāṇḍavas; Duryodhana refuses and seeks to bind the envoy. Enraged, he calls for his magic weapons, but finally he consents to lay aside his wrath, and receives the homage of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. It is interesting to note that the play, in describing the picture, omits any allusion to the miracle by which in the epic Kṛṣṇa himself is represented as providing the unhappy Draupadī with fresh raiment as soon as each garment is dragged from her in insult. But it would be extremely unwise to assume with Professor Winternitz11 that this [98]fact proves that Bhāsa did not know of this episode, and that it was interpolated after his time in the epic. Obviously it would have ruined the effect of the picture if such a fact had been hinted at in it, apart from the difficulty of exhibiting this by the painter’s art, and Bhāsa is clearly justified on artistic grounds in allowing this episode to be passed over.

Of far greater importance is the Bālacarita,12 which presents us with a lively and vivid picture of the feats of Kṛṣṇa, culminating in the slaying of Kaṅsa, a brilliant exemplification of the value of Patañjali’s evidence as to the growth of drama. The director enters, pronounces a verse of benediction asking the favour of the god, who is Nārāyaṇa, Viṣṇu, Rāma, and Kṛṣṇa in the four ages of the world; he announces the advent of the sage Nārada and retires. Nārada explains that he has come from the heaven to gaze on the young Kṛṣṇa, born in the family of the Vṛṣṇis as son of Devakī and Vasudeva, who is in truth Nārāyaṇa incarnate to destroy Kaṅsa. He sees the infant, pays homage, and departs. Devakī and Vasudeva appear on the stage; they have joy in the birth of a son, but terror, for Kaṅsa has slain already six sons of theirs and will slay the seventh—a deviation in number from our other sources which make Kṛṣṇa the eighth child. Vasudeva takes the infant and decides to remove it from Kaṅsa’s reach. He leaves the city, but the child’s weight is as colossal as that of Mount Mandara; the darkness is impenetrable, but a marvellous light comes from the child, and the Yamunā makes dry a path for him to cross. The spirit of the tree under which he rests brings to him the cowherd Nanda, bearing a dead maiden, an infant just borne by his wife Yaçodā, who, fallen in a faint, does not know whether the child is a boy or a girl. Nanda gives aid reluctantly, but in memory of past favours. He seeks first to purify himself from contact with the dead, but a spring of water shoots forth and renders labour needless. He takes the boy, but his weight proves too great. Now appear in the guise of herdsmen the weapons of Kṛṣṇa and his steed, who present themselves each with a verse, ‘I am the bird, Garuḍa,’ &c., ‘I am the discus’, ‘I the bow’, ‘I the club’, ‘I the conch’, and ‘I the sword’. At the request of the discus the infant consents to become light, and Nanda bears him away. Vasudeva finds the dead child awakened [99]to life in his arms, and the weight of it is oppressive, but the Yamunā once more gives dry passage, and he returns to Mathurā and Devakī. Act II opens with an entr’acte in Kaṅsa’s palace. The curse pronounced on him by the seer Madhuka enters, guised as a Caṇḍāla in hateful form with a necklace of skulls; he and his retinue of Caṇḍālīs force their way into the heart of the palace; the royal fortune, Rājaçrī, would bar their way, but the curse announces that it is Viṣṇu’s will that he enter, and she yields; the curse seizes then hold of Kaṅsa. The Act then presents Kaṅsa uneasy and distressed by the portents of the night; he summons his astrologer and his domestic priests, who warn him that the portents presage the birth of a god. Kaṅsa has Vasudeva summoned, is told of the birth of a daughter, refuses to spare the child, and hurls it against a rock. But part only of the lifeless body falls to earth; the rest rises to heaven, and the dread figure of the goddess Kārtyāyanī appears to the king. Her retinue come also, announcing each his advent with a verse, and declare their purpose to destroy Kaṅsa. In the meantime, in herdsmen’s guise they will go to the home of the child to share in the sports of the herdsmen.

The entr’acte before Act III tells us in the mouths of the herdsmen of their joys since Kṛṣṇa came to live with them, and an old man relates in a long Prākrit speech his wonderful deeds, including the destruction of the demons, Pūtanā, Çakaṭa, Yamala and Arjuna, Pralamba, Dhenuka, and Keçin. We are told then that Kṛṣṇa or Dāmodara, the name won from an adventure, has gone to the Vṛndā wood for the Hallīçaka dance; the dance is performed by Dāmodara, his friends, and the maidens, to the music of the drum and to song. The advent of the demon Ariṣṭa is announced; Dāmodara bids the maidens and herdsmen mount a hill, and watch the struggle. It proves unequal; the bull demon recognizes the superiority of his foe, and that he is Viṣṇu himself, and meets death with resignation. The victory accomplished, the news is brought of a new danger, the snake Kāliya has appeared on the Yamunā bank, menacing cows and Brahmins. Act IV shows us the maidens seeking to restrain Kṛṣṇa from the new struggle, but he persists and overcomes the demon, plunging into the waters to grapple with him. He brings him out, learns that he had entered the waters in fear of Garuḍa [100]who slays snakes at pleasure, makes him promise to spare cows and Brahmins, and puts on him a mark that Garuḍa must respect. A herald then enters to challenge Dāmodara and his brother Balarāma to the festival of the boys at Mathurā.

Act V shows us Kaṅsa plotting the overthrow of the youths. A herald reports the arrival of Dāmodara, and his great feats of strength, the mocking of the elephant let loose on him, the making straight of a female dwarf, the breaking of the bow of the guardsman. The king orders at once the boxing to begin; Kṛṣṇa, however, easily overcomes Muṣṭika and Cāṇūra, the king’s chosen champions, and completes his victory by a sudden onslaught which leaves the king dead. His soldiers would avenge him, but Vasudeva announces Kṛṣṇa’s identity with Viṣṇu, and appoints Ugrasena king in Kaṅsa’s place, freeing him from the confinement in which his son had placed him. Nārada with Apsarases and Gandharvas appears to glorify Kṛṣṇa, who graciously permits Nārada to return to heaven, and a benediction, spoken apparently by the actor, closes the play.

The precise source of the drama is unknown; it differs in detail widely from the stories of Kṛṣṇa in the Harivaṅça, Viṣṇu, and Bhāgavata Purāṇas, but none of these works, as we have it, is probably older than Bhāsa. The erotic element, which is so closely associated with Kṛṣṇa in later tradition, is lacking here as in the Harivaṅça and the Viṣṇu Purāṇa, and similarly the figure of Rādhā is missing.

The merits of the Bālacarita are not reproduced in Bhāsa’s treatment of the other chief Avatāra of Viṣṇu. The Pratimānāṭaka shows us the death of Daçaratha, when he realizes the departure of Rāma, deprived of his inheritance by Kaikeyī’s wiles, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa into the forest; his statue is added to those of his predecessors in the statue (pratimā) hall. Bharata returns from a visit, learns of the news, pursues Rāma, but is induced to return to rule, bearing with him Rāma’s shoes as token that he regards himself but as viceroy. Rāma decides to offer the sacrifice for the dead for his sire; Rāvaṇa appears under the guise of an expert, and bids him offer a golden antelope, by this device securing Rāma’s absence when Sītā is stolen by him, slaying Jaṭāyu who seeks to protect her. Rāma goes to Kiṣkindhā, and makes alliance with Sugrīva against Vālin. Bharata [101]learns that Kaikeyī’s ruse had been induced by the curse of an ascetic, whose son Daçaratha had unwittingly slain, and that she had but meant to ask for a banishment of fourteen days, but had by a slip said years. He sends his army to aid Rāma, who ultimately defeats Rāvaṇa, and recovers Sītā. He brings her with him to Janasthāna, where he is begged to resume his kingdom; all then go by the magic car Puṣpak to Ayodhyā. The seven acts of the play are matched by the six of the Abhiṣekanāṭaka,13 the drama of the consecration of Rāma which follows, like its predecessor, the Rāmāyaṇa. It tells of Vālin’s death at the hands of Rāma; Hanumant’s success in reaching Lan̄kā and in comforting Sītā and affronting Rāvaṇa. Vibhīṣaṇa advises the coercion of the ocean to attain a passage for the army; Rāvaṇa vainly seeks to win Sītā, showing her in appearance the heads of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, but she repudiates his advances; he is compelled to fight, and the play ends with Rāma’s coronation. The epic apparently has weighed too heavily on the author, whose resource in incident is remarkable by its absence.

A far more favourable opportunity is afforded to Bhāsa when he derived his story from the Kathā literature,14 as is doubtless the case in the Avimāraka, a drama in six acts. The daughter of king Kuntibhoja, the young Kuran̄gī, is saved from an elephant by an unknown youth, who, in reality son of the Sauvīra king, is with his father living as a member of a degraded caste for a year, as the outcome of a curse. His low status forbids his aspiring to the princess, but love triumphs, and the maidens of Kuran̄g, arrange a secret meeting to which the youth comes in the guise of a thief. But the news leaks out and he must fly; in despair of reunion he seeks death in the fire, but Agni repulses him; he would have thrown himself from a rock, but a Vidyādhara dissuades him, giving him a ring which enables him unseen to re-enter the palace and save Kuran̄gī, likewise desolated, from suicide. The way for a happy issue from the impasse is found by the fact that Nārada reveals the true history of Avimāraka; he is not in fact the son of the Sauvīra king; he is the son of the god Agni by Sudarçanā, the wife of the king of Kāçi, who [102]gave him over on his birth to Sucetanā, her sister, wife of the Sauvīra king. The marriage thus takes place with the approval of all those connected with the pair.

Equally from the Kathā literature, and in this case from a source known to us, the Bṛhatkathā of Guṇāḍhya, which, written in Paiçācī Prākrit has vanished, but is preserved in a version from Nepal and two from Kashmir, is the subject of the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa,15 styled in the prologue a Prakaraṇa, which has four Acts and resembles in part that form of drama as recognized by the theory, though its hero is the minister of Udayana, the Vatsa king. The latter goes on an elephant hunt, armed with his lyre to charm his prey, but is taken prisoner by a clever trick of his enemy, Pradyota Mahāsena, of Ujjayinī, a counterfeit elephant being employed for his overthrow. Yaugandharāyaṇa determines to revenge the king. In Ujjayinī Mahāsena discusses with his wife the question of the marriage of their daughter Vāsavadattā, when the news of the capture of Udayana arrives. They decide that she shall take lessons in music from the captive, and, not unnaturally, the two fall in love. Yaugandharāyaṇa comes to Ujjayinī in disguise with his friends, and through his machinations the king is enabled to escape with Vāsavadattā, though the minister is himself, after a gallant fight, captured. Mahāsena, however, appreciated the minister’s cleverness, and has the marriage of the pair depicted.16

The play is criticized severely, though not by name, by Bhāmaha,17 on the score that Udayana could never have been deceived by an artificial elephant, and if deceived his life would not have been spared by the enemy forces. The contentions are obviously of little value in this form; the essence, of course, is that such an incident which may pass in a tale seems too childish for a drama, but, if this troubles us, we may console ourselves with the reflexion that the trees were thick, and Udayana ardent in the chase. Vāmana18 cites the end of verse 3 in Act IV which occurs also in the Arthaçāstra,19 a work which need not be older than Bhāsa, and may be a good deal later. [103]

The Svapnavāsavadattā,20 or the Svapnanāṭaka, in six Acts forms in substance the continuation of the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa. The minister is anxious to secure for Udayana an extension of his power by wedding him to Padmāvatī, daughter of the king of Magadha. But Udayana will not leave his beloved Vāsavadattā, so that strategy is needed. The minister induces Vāsavadattā to aid in his scheme, and, taking advantage of a temporary separation, he spreads the rumour that the queen and he have perished in a conflagration. The king is thus induced to consider marriage with Padmāvatī, in whose care the minister has entrusted the queen, giving out that she is his sister. Padmāvatī is willing to accept the love of the king, but, learning that he has never ceased to cherish the memory of his beloved, she is seized by a severe headache, and the king comes to comfort her. He does not find her, and lies down, sleep overcoming him; Vāsavadattā who had come to aid Padmāvatī sits down beside the sleeping form which she mistakes for that of her new mistress, but, as he begins to speak in his sleep she rises and leaves him, but not before he has caught a glimpse of her, in a dream as he thinks. He is summoned to the palace, and finds the good news that his foes have been defeated, and a messenger has come from Mahāsena and his wife to console him, bearing the picture of the nuptials of himself and Vāsavadattā. Padmāvatī recognizes in the lady the features of the sister left in her care by Yaugandharāyaṇa, who arrives to explain to the satisfaction of all the plan he has devised to secure Udayana’s ends.

The fame of the work in Rājaçekhara’s time is attested, and already before him the imaginary conflagration of the queen had excited the imitation of Harṣa in the Ratnāvalī; Vāmana21 cites from it, and Abhinavagupta22 knew it. Nor is there any doubt that it is the poet’s masterpiece and the most mature of his dramas. Great promise, however, in a different vein is shown in the Cārudatta, of which we have only a fragment in four [104]Acts without beginning or final verses. Cārudatta, a merchant whose generosity has impoverished him, has seen a hetaera Vasantasenā at a festival, and they have fallen in love. Pursued by the king’s brother-in-law, Saṁsthāna, Vasantasenā takes refuge in Cārudatta’s house, and, when she goes, she leaves in his care her gold ornaments. She generously ransoms from his creditors a former servant of Cārudatta, who then renounces the world and becomes a monk. In the night the ornaments, which she had deposited, are stolen by a thief Sajjalaka who breaks into Cārudatta’s house, in order to gain the means to purchase the freedom of a slave of the hetaera with whom he is in love. Cārudatta is overcome with shame at learning of the theft of goods deposited in his care, and his noble wife sacrifices a pearl necklace, which she gives to the Vidūṣaka to hand over to Vasantasenā in lieu of her lost jewels. He takes it to the hetaera, who has learned of the theft, but accepts it to have the excuse of visiting the merchant once more. She therefore hands over the slave girl to Sajjalaka, and starts out to Cārudatta’s house. At this point the play ends abruptly, but it seems as if Cārudatta were accused of theft, and that Vasantasenā herself is in grave danger of her life.

A verse of this play is cited by Vāmana23 and another,24 found also in the Bālacarita25 and the Mṛcchakaṭikā,26 is quoted by Daṇḍin in the Kāvyādarça.27 We need not doubt that Bhāsa is his source, especially as there is possibly elsewhere in the Kāvyādarça an allusion to the dream scene of the Svapnavāsavadattā and its sequel. The Daridracārudatta mentioned by Abhinavagupta is most probably the same work. From it are derived the first four Acts of the Mṛcchakaṭikā.28 The source of the drama is not certain; we have the motif of the love of a merchant and a hetaera elsewhere, but not with the special developments given by Bhāsa.

Verses attributed to Bhāsa are also found which are not contained in the extant dramas, so that, even allowing for misquotation and confusion, it is probable that he may have written [105]further plays, or he may have illustrated the book of the dramatic art which he is credited with writing,29 by inserting examples of his own composition. Why his plays should have fared so badly as to disappear from popular use apparently for centuries does not appear. The most plausible view is that he was a poet of the south, and that his dramas suffered from the general Mahomedan objection to everything Hindu, and especially to the dramas of an earnest devotee of Viṣṇu such as Bhāsa was. But this is mere conjecture.

The number of Bhāsa’s dramas, and the variety of their themes, indicate the activity and originality of his talent. Even the limitations imposed by the choice of epic subjects are often successfully surmounted. In the Rāma dramas only is there lacking any sign of his ability; the Abhiṣekanāṭaka is a somewhat dreary summary of the corresponding books (IV–VI) of the Rāmāyaṇa, nor is the Pratimānāṭaka substantially superior. The variations are in the main few and unimportant; the two struggles between Sugrīva and Vālin are condensed into one, which leaves the treacherous slaying of Vālin without shadow of excuse, and casts a blemish on Rāma’s character which later dramatists avoid. The pathetic scene of the epic in which Tārā, his wife, laments Vālin’s death is omitted, Vālin forbidding any woman to gaze on him in his fall. The two efforts of Rāvaṇa to deceive Sītā, first by showing her Rāma’s head, and later Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa bound and seemingly dead, are reduced to one, the showing of the heads of both, and Sītā’s constancy is made inhuman by denying her the comfort of a consoler. To secure a happy ending, Agni is made to vindicate Sītā by the test of fire, and to hand her over to Rāma as Lakṣmī and his fit mate. The characters remain stereotyped and dull; Rāvaṇa is nothing more than a miles gloriosus, if not comic, and Lakṣmaṇa cuts a very poor figure.30

The pieces based on the Mahābhārata shows more invention [106]and interest. The Madhyamavyāyoga exploits neatly the theme of Hiḍimbā’s longing to see her husband of many years before, and the obedience of a son to a mother exemplified both by Ghaṭotkaca and by Madhyama; a mother’s bidding outweighs even that of a father. The struggle of father against son, both unknowing, is original, though not tragic. In the Karṇabhāra the nobility of the haughty Karṇa is emphasized; in the epic he surrenders his armour to Indra, but demands a price, the lance that never fails; in the play it suffices the prince that he has conferred a boon on the god himself. There is the same martial spirit, evoking the sentiment of heroism in the audience, in the Dūtaghaṭotkaca where the joy of the Kurus is contrasted effectively with the doubts of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, and the grave warning which Ghaṭotkaca brings of the revenge to be wreaked by Arjuna for his son’s death. The Dūtavākya is admirable in his contrast between the character of Duryodhana and the majesty of Kṛṣṇa; the picture motif is effectively elaborated, and the deep admiration of the poet for Kṛṣṇa as the embodiment of the highest of gods Viṣṇu, of whom he was an adorer, is plainly manifest. In the Ūrubhan̄ga Duryodhana’s hauteur to the highest of gods meets with its just punishment; Duryodhana is the chief subject, but not the hero, of the piece which manifests the just31 punishment of the impious. The death of Duryodhana is admirably depicted; his child who loved to sit on his knees comes to him, but must be repulsed; the touch that brought joy aforetime would now be an agony.32 But Duryodhana, with all his demerits as a man, remains heroic in his death.

The Bālacarita reveals the originality of Bhāsa’s genius; the entr’acte to the second Act is extremely effective in its terrors, and the poet has no hesitation in asking the audience to conceive for themselves the strange figures of the attendants of Viṣṇu or the host of the goddess Kārtyāyanī, or the bull Ariṣṭa, or the snake demon Kāliya, all of whom appear on the stage, but doubtless in costumes which left most to the mind’s eye. The miracles of the light emanating from the child Kṛṣṇa, the crossing of the Yamunā, and the water springing from the ground, are innovations on the tradition, as is the apparent death and revival of the child of Yaçodā. Kṛṣṇa is heroism incarnate, Kaṅsa [107]without merit, and his slaying just, but the heroic sentiment is blended with the erotic, and with that of wonder. As a drama, however, the play suffers unquestionably from the wholly undeniable disparity between the two opponents; Kṛṣṇa is never in danger, and his feats are too easily achieved to produce their full effect.

The Avimāraka is a drama of love, primitive in its expression and intensity; Bhāsa’s love for rapid action is here, as always, strongly marked, as is also his willingness to repeat incidents and situations; the hero twice seeks suicide, and the heroine does so once. The dénouement is artificial, though something of the kind was necessary to secure the possibility of the marriage of the pair. There is a far more interesting hint of youthful love in the amours of Udayana and Vāsavadattā in the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa, where the rapidity of action is in entire harmony with the skill attributed to the minister, whose address, courage, and loyalty, make him an attractive figure. The Svapnavāsavadattā itself reveals Udayana as a faithful and devoted husband, very different from the careless if courteous gentleman of Harṣa’s dramas. His love for the queen he imagines lost ennobles and elevates his character, while motives of statecraft and the affection shown him by Padmāvatī easily explain his wooing of that maiden. Vāsavadattā herself is not the jealous if high-minded wife of Harṣa’s plays; she is the devoted and self-sacrificing lover who is willing to postpone her own feelings and wishes to the good of her husband. The king and queen are the finest products of Bhāsa’s characterization of lovers. In the Cārudatta, however, we have clever studies in the hetaera, the merchant and the minor figures, though the value of the play must seem less to us than when completed and elaborated in the Mṛcchakaṭikā.

Bhāsa undoubtedly excels in suggesting heroism; this characteristic is admirably depicted in Yaugandharāyaṇa, and above all in Duryodhana, who in the Dūtaghaṭotkaca effectively replies to the menaces of the envoy by promising an answer in deeds, war, not in harsh words. But his power is not confined to heroism, love, pathos, or the marvellous. The Vidūṣaka in his hands attains the characteristics which mark him in the later drama, and, though much was doubtless traditional, it may [108]safely be assumed that he tended by his example to stereotype the figure. In the Avimāraka33 he distinguishes himself by devotion to his master; he is set on finding him, dead or alive, when he is missing, and he is prepared if need be to follow him beyond the grave. Avimāraka himself portrays the character of his friend; he places first, doubtless deliberately, the amusement he produces in social intercourse (goṣṭhīṣu hāsyaḥ), but he describes him also as brave in battle, a wise friend, a comforter in sorrow, a violent foe to his enemies. If in the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa34 he seems to abandon the idea of succouring his master, it is only because he is convinced that Vatsa is dead, and that nothing can be done to save him. The other side of his character is his devotion to the pleasures of the table and his feeble attempts at wit and humour. Vāsavadattā he remembers fondly because she used to see that he never lacked sweetmeats.35 When in the Avimāraka36 the heroine weeps in love-sorrow, he would like to weep also in sympathy; but no tears come, and he recalls that, even when his own father died, he could hardly weep. When addressed as a man, he insists that he is a woman. He is, however, a Brahmin in his prejudices; he will not drink brandy, a pleasure which he permits to the Gātrasevaka, the disguise assumed by one of Yaugandharāyaṇa’s following in the attempt to rescue Udayana. This worthy favours us with a eulogy of drink, which is an interesting fragment of the drinking songs which must have existed in ancient India:37

‘Blessed those that are drunk with drink, blessed those that are soaked with drink; blessed those that are washed with drink, blessed those that are choked with drink.’ Amusing also is the figure of Yaugandharāyaṇa as an Unmattaka, devoted to eating and dancing, and of Rumaṇvant in his guise of a Çramaṇaka. There is genuine humour in the scene in the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa38 between the Gātrasevaka and the servant, when the former makes ready the elephant Bhadravatī, which is to be [109]the means of carrying off the king and Vāsavadattā beyond the reach of all pursuit, without raising any suspicion on the part of the entourage of Mahāsena. Quiet humour is shown in the episode of the bringing of Bhīma by Ghaṭotkaca to his mother Hiḍimbā; Ghaṭotkaca has difficulty in describing his victim, and is much amazed to find his mother, whose curiosity is aroused by his lack of precision, finding him to be his deity and hers in his capacity as husband and father.39 In the same vein is the compliment paid by Rāma to Sītā, when the latter accurately predicts the action he would take when his father offered him the throne: ‘Thou hast guessed well; few pairs are there of like character in the world (suṣṭhu tarkitam alpaṁ tulyaçīlāni dvandvāni sṛjyante)’.40 Quite distinctly amusing is the scene at the close of the Avimāraka,41 where the facts of the relationships are being disclosed to the king Kuntibhoja. That sovereign may be justly excused his difficulty in apprehending the situation; he is reduced to such confusion that he is dubious about his own capital Vairantya, but finally, when assured that the hero is the son-in-law of Kuntibhoja, asks who that worthy may be, to be reminded politely that he himself is Kuntibhoja, father of Kuran̄gī, son of Duryodhana, and lord of Vairantya. This power explains the description of Bhāsa as the laughter (hāsa) of poetry given to him by Jayadeva in the Prasannarāghava, a title which is also merited by such verses as one cited in the anthologies,42 though not found in the extant dramas:

‘When its rays fall on its cheeks the cat licks them, thinking them milk; when they are caught in the cleft of a tree the elephant deems them a lotus; when they rest on the couch of lovers the maiden seizes them, saying, “’Tis my robe”; the moon in truth, proud of its brilliance, doth lead astray all this world.’

Of deeper sentiments we need expect nothing from Bhāsa; [110]in this respect he sets the model for his successors. From Kālidāsa he differs in being a devotee of Viṣṇu rather than Çiva, but he is equally an admirer of the established Brahminical order. In the Pañcarātra,43 the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa,44 and in the character of Nārada in the Avimāraka,45 we find clearly expressed his appreciation of the high rank of the Brahmin, and the obligations due to him from kings and other classes.

Care in the delineation of even minor characters is normally displayed; the number of these is considerable; sixteen each in the Svapnavāsavadattā and the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa, about twenty in the Avimāraka, Abhiṣekanāṭaka, and Pañcarātra, twelve in the Cārudatta, and about thirty in the Bālacarita. But there are traces of the anxiety of Bhāsa to avoid adding needlessly to the number of those appearing; in the Avimāraka neither the king of Kāçi nor Sucetanā appears on the scene despite their part in the play. The silence of Sītā, though at the close of the Abhiṣekanāṭaka she appears on the stage, is doubtless explicable by the same dramatic touch which makes Euripides refuse to assign any words to Alkestis on her return from the dead.

In technique Bhāsa does not accord entirely with the later rules of the theorists. The Nāṭyaçāstra, it is true, when it forbids the exhibition of battle scenes contradicts itself, and Bhāsa freely permits them, as must have been the case in the primitive drama in which Kṛṣṇa slew Kaṅsa. The maidens, however, he bids watch the mortal combat of Ariṣṭa and Kṛṣṇa from afar. Daçaratha’s death he admits; the bodies of Cāṇūra, Muṣṭika, and Kaṅsa lie on the stage, and Vālin perishes there as well as Duryodhana, but all these are evildoers, and their death evokes no sorrow. The same simplicity doubtless accounts for the introduction of the mythological figures of the Bālacarita, whom we need not imagine to have been elaborately costumed; they announce their nature or are described,46 and the spectator supplies the imagination requisite to comprehend them.

We find already in Bhāsa the formal distinction of introductory scenes into Viṣkambhakas of two kinds, according as Sanskrit alone or Sanskrit and Prākrit are used and Praveçakas; [111]in the former the number of interlocutors is three in two47 cases against one or two as usual later; there are other signs of his fondness for triads.48 The introduction normally is styled Sthāpanā,49 not as later Prastāvanā, and it is extremely simple; after a Nāndī, not preserved, has been pronounced—perhaps behind the scene—the director enters, utters a benediction, and is about to make an announcement when a sound is heard which leads up to the actual drama. No mention of the poet’s name or the work is found, but these we may suggest were left to the preliminaries which even in the Nāṭyaçāstra were elaborate, and which doubtless were performed before Bhāsa’s plays, as they were essentially religious rites in honour of the gods. On the other hand, the close, the Bharatavākya, of the later theory is varied in Bhāsa. The conventions as to the use of speech, aloud, aside to another, or to the audience alone are well known, and effective use is made of the voice from the air or behind the scene, as in the Abhiṣekanāṭaka, when Rāvaṇa taunts his prisoner and asks, who can set her free when her rescuers are dead; the voice replies, ‘Rāma, Rāma’.50

There are unquestionably primitive traits in Bhāsa’s art; he uses with dangerous freedom the device by which some one departs and returns straightway, to narrate what must have taken long to happen; thus in the Abhiṣekanāṭaka, Çan̄kukarṇa is bidden send a thousand men against Hanumant; he departs at once, to return and tell that they have fallen. Free use is made also, as in the epic, of magic weapons in the conflict, as in the battle of Duryodhana and Kṛṣṇa in the Dūtavākya. So also in the Madhyamavyāyoga we find Ghaṭotkaca employing his magic power to produce water from a rock; then he binds Bhīma in a magic noose, from which he is delivered by a magic formula. In the Dūtavākya the discus of Kṛṣṇa [112]secures water from the heavenly Ganges by magic means; it has the power to move the mountains of the gods, to set the ocean in motion, and to bring down the stars to earth, ideas which are less unintelligible when we remember the wide-spread Indian beliefs in the powers of magicians, which we find later in Harṣa’s Ratnāvalī, and which are earlier recorded of those who have attained high degrees of intuition in both the Upaniṣads and Buddhism. In the Avimāraka we have the magic ring of the Vidyādhara playing a decisive part in the action, since by its use the hero can enter unseen the harem and visit his wife Kuran̄gī in secret. It is clear that both in the epic and in the popular tale Bhāsa found adequate precedent for the stress laid on these means of evoking in his audience the sentiment of wonder.

The use of the dance as an ornament to the drama which is seen in Kālidāsa is frequently resorted to in Bhāsa. In Act III of the Bālacarita there is a performance of the Hallīçaka dance, in which both the herdsmen and the cowherdesses take full part; the dance is accompanied by music and song, and the maidens are gaily attired. A similar dance is mentioned in Act II of the Pañcarātra,51 a reflex no doubt of the ritual dance of the winter solstice in the Mahāvrata rite. It is conceivable also that the conception in the Bālacarita of the appearance of Viṣṇu’s weapons as figures on the stage in the dress of herdsmen is a reminiscence of a cult dance in honour of Viṣṇu, but this idea must not be pressed unduly, for the poet there invents also the figures of the Curse and the King’s Fortune as personae dramatis. There is, it is clear, a certain similarity between the personification of these abstractions and the allegorical figures of the Buddhist drama, which come again into being in the Prabodhacandrodaya of Kṛṣṇamiçra. Song as an important element in the drama again appears in the Abhiṣekanāṭaka, where the Gandharvas and Apsarases sing the praises of Viṣṇu.52

There are clear traces in the dramas of the overwhelming influence of epic tradition and of epic recitation in the tendency [113]to introduce the description of battle scenes at great length in lieu of dramatic action, while a certain lack of skill is apparent in the attempt to transform the tale into a drama. Thus in the Avimāraka the facts essential for a full understanding of the story come out only in the last Act, and the adventures of the hero are there recounted with distinct lack of propriety, as they have formed the subject of the earlier acts of the drama. Neither the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa nor the Svapnavāsavadattā is constructed in so clumsy a manner, but in both cases the working out of the plot is certainly open to criticism. Thus even in the last Act of the latter drama, which in many respects is effective, the stage directions assume that the queen appears on the stage with Vāsavadattā as her attendant, but that the king either does not see, or does not recognize the latter, both obviously very improbable suppositions; possibly it is assumed that the presence of Vāsavadattā, though obvious to the audience, is concealed from the king in some manner by the use of the curtain, but this is left to be imagined,53 and it would have been much simpler to invent some ground for securing the entry of Vāsavadattā by herself later on. On the other hand, in Act I of the play, the facts regarding the supposed death of Vāsavadattā and the minister in a fire are effectively brought out by the device of using a Brahmacārin, who arrives at the hermitage at the same time as Yaugandharāyaṇa and Vāsavadattā in their disguise, and tells the tale of the disaster as explaining why he has left that place in sorrow at the event, dilating at the same time on the effect of the news on the unhappy king. The mode in which Vāsavadattā in Act V mistakes the king for Padmāvatī is quite naturally evolved, for the place where he is resting is poorly illuminated and she was naturally unwilling to arouse her mistress from the slumber into which she hoped she had fallen. In Act II of the Abhiṣekanāṭaka the conversation of Hanumant with Sītā is made possible only by the somewhat implausible device of assuming that the Rākṣasīs who guard her fall asleep at their post.

A rather marked fondness is shown by Bhāsa for the repetition of the same incident. Thus in the Avimāraka we have the [114]twice repeated attempt of the hero at suicide followed by the attempt of the heroine in the same sense, from which he saves her. At the close of the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa we have again the idea of the attempted suicide of the heroine’s mother, which is obviated by the king’s good sense in showing her that the marriage of the runaway pair was quite proper in their rank and in arranging for marrying them in a painting. The dying Vālin in the Abhiṣekanāṭaka has a vision of the Ganges and the other great rivers. Urvaçī and the Apsarases, and the chariot drawn by a thousand swans, which bears away the dead, coming for his spirit; Duryodhana in the Ūrubhan̄ga has a similar vision, and Avimāraka, when on the point of committing suicide he sees the Vidyādhara beside him, imagines that this is a vision such as comes often to dying men. Again in the prologues there is almost a monotonous adoption of the device by which the director is interrupted in making a proposed announcement by a voice from behind the scene, which enables him by a clever transition to lead the audience into the dramatic action proper.

The rapidity and directness of the action of Bhāsa’s plays is reflected in his style. More than any other dramatist, he uses the verse to further the progress of the play, in lieu of devoting it to descriptions rather poetic than directly aiding the drama, and it is characteristic that he freely employs monostichs, which are rare later. On the other hand, he is ready to resort to monologue; that on the third Act of the Avimāraka suggested perhaps the monologue of Çarvilaka in the Mṛcchakaṭikā, whose author must have known Bhāsa’s works intimately.

The dominating influence on Bhāsa’s style was clearly that of the epic and in special of Vālmīki, whose great work inevitably impressed itself on the minds of all his successors. The effects are visible not merely in the dramas with epic subject-matter, but extend throughout Bhāsa’s plays. The results of this influence are all to the good; the necessities of the drama saved Bhāsa from the one great defect of the epic style, the lack of measure, which permits the Rāmāyaṇa to illustrate by twenty-nine similes the sorrows of Sītā in her captivity, while in the [115]Abhiṣekanāṭaka the dramatist is content with one. On the other hand he owes to it the relative simplicity of his diction, and his freedom from the excesses of the poetic equivalent of the nominal style, which comes to dominate later Sanskrit literature. The use of long compounds is obviously and plainly undramatic; carried to excess it must have rendered a Sanskrit drama unintelligible even to a highly cultivated audience as far as the verses were concerned, and it is an essential dramatic merit in Bhāsa that his expression is far easier to follow than in much of later dramatic poetry. He possesses in fact that clearness, which is theoretically a merit of the Kāvya style, but which is signally neglected by the average Kāvya writer in his anxiety to display the complete familiarity which he possesses with every side of the art of poetry. As far as we can judge from the scanty fragments of Açvaghoṣa’s dramas, that poet was more complex than Bhāsa, and certainly so in his epics, which aided powerfully in the formation of Kālidāsa’s epic and dramatic style.

Bhāsa, of course, is not in the slightest degree akin to a poet of the people; he is an accomplished master of the art of poetry, but one whose good sense and taste preserve him from adopting in drama the artifices which are permitted in the court epic and lyric which were intended to be studied at leisure. The simple and sententious is beloved of Bhāsa: thus Karṇa repels the objections of Çalya to his parting with armour and earring to the disguised Indra:54

‘Learning decayeth with the passing of time; though firm their roots, trees fall; the water of a lake drieth up; but sacrifices and gifts endure.’ When Sītā is forced to undergo the ordeal by fire Lakṣmaṇa exclaims:55

‘I know the queen’s chastity; I have heard the bidding of our preceptor; like a swing, my mind doth move ’twixt duty and [116]love.’ When Rāma falls at his father’s feet on the order being given for his coronation, he tells us:56

‘My father’s feet were wet with tears I let fall on them, and my head was wet with tears he let fall over me.’ When Devakī must yield, for the sake of saving it, her child, it is said of her:57

‘She is divided; her heart remaineth here, her body goeth yonder, as in cloud and water the digit of the moon is divided.’ Rāvaṇa’s contempt for Rāma as a foe is forcibly expressed:58

‘Can the deer bring low the lion with flowing mane? Can the jackal slay the mighty elephant in his wrath?’ In the Cārudatta59 the darkness is happily described:

‘Affording easy refuge, yet abodes of fear, the forest depths and darkness are akin; for the shadows guard alike him who feareth and him who causeth fear.’ More ambitious is a verse given in the Subhāṣitāvali:60

‘Hard-hearted maiden, lay aside the anger that doth impede our joy; death entereth on his register every day as it goeth, disdainful one; not meet is this in thy tender youth, for love is fleeting; rather spend in love the time we lose in this quarrel.’

The simple figures of speech are freely used by Bhāsa, and he shows as usual a marked fondness for the accumulation of similar sounds, as in sajalajaladhara, sanīranīrada, or kuladayaṁ hanti [117]madena nārī: kūladvayaṁ kṣubdhajalā nadīva. More interesting are instances of his power, which is specially manifest in the Svapnavāsavadattā and the Pratimānāṭaka, of expressing strong emotion adequately and forcibly. Thus we have the indignant upbraiding of Kaikeyī by the angry Bharata:61

‘Hast thou not brought upon me disgrace and dishonour, on my noble father’s death at the hands of his dearest, on all Ayodhyā ceaseless lamentation, exile on Lakṣmaṇa, sorrow on the noble ladies, who love their children, for the cruel journey imposed on thy daughter-in-law, and on thyself the hateful reproach of a shameful deed?’ Equally effective is Lakṣmaṇa’s protest against Rāma’s acquiescence in his exclusion from the throne:62

‘If thou wilt not endure the king’s infatuation, take thy bow, show no pity. Hidden among his own folk every weakling is thus overborne. But, if thou wilt not, leave me free at least; my mind is intent to make this world free of that youthful one, since cheated we have been.’ Bharata’s devotion is expressed happily enough:63

‘Thither will I go where dwelleth Lakṣmaṇa’s beloved; without him Ayodhyā is not Ayodhyā; where Rāghava is, there is Ayodhyā.’ A martial spirit breathes in Virāṭa’s words:64

‘Instant fame destroys the pangs of the warrior stricken in performing a deed of valour.’ There is manly indignation and pathos in Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s mourning over Abhimanyu’s death:65 [118]

‘How could these cruel men bear to raise their arms to smite one young boy, alone against such a concourse?’ The necessity of toil to achieve any end is well brought out in a verse in the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa,66 which has a curious parallel in Açvaghoṣa:67

‘Fire ariseth from the rubbing of timber; the earth when dug giveth water; nothing is there that men may not obtain by effort; every exertion duly undertaken doth bear fruit.’ A profound truth, the rareness of gratitude, is emphasized in the Svapnavāsavadattā:68

‘There are many to show conspicuous virtue and to do constant deeds of kindness, but few are there who are grateful for such actions.’ The heavy burden of the duties of a king is effectively described in the Avimāraka:69

‘First there must be consideration of the injunctions of the law, then the train of the minister’s thought must be followed; desire and anger must be concealed; mercy and harshness must be applied as expediency demands; the temper of the people must be ascertained through the aid of spies as well as the demeanour of neighbouring kings; one’s life must be guarded with every care, but in the forefront of battle heed for it must be laid aside.’ The position of a minister is no enviable one:70 [119]

‘If policy succeeds, the people acclaim the prince’s might; if disaster ensue, it condemns the incompetency of the minister; poor fools, puffed up by their strength of intellect, they receive from kings the noble and sweet sounding style of “counsellor” only to be punished sharply for any failure.’

Bhāsa is fond of expressing typical feelings in simple language which later poets would deem lacking in ornament; thus he expresses a mother’s feelings regarding her daughter’s marriage in the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa:71

‘Shame were it if she be not betrothed; yet if betrothed sorrow is one’s lot; between duty and love mothers are sore vexed in heart.’ The responsibility of a teacher is set out by Droṇa in the Pañcarātra:72

‘A pupil’s fault passes over relatives and friends and settles on the teacher, for it is no wrong in father or mother to hand over a young child to a preceptor.’

Bhāsa’s power of depicting irony is specially prominent in the Svapnavāsavadattā,73 where Vāsavadattā is driven to weave the garland for the new queen’s marriage, on the score of her skill in this art. Rāvaṇa shows the heads which he represents as those of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to Sītā, only to hear the announcement that his son is slain in the battle, by the very two whose death he has feigned.74 Effective is the contrast between Vālin’s splendour and his fall in his son An̄gada’s lament:75

‘Soft indeed thy couch aforetime as lord of the apes, who now [120]dost lie on the ground, thy every movement stilled in death’, and Duryodhana’s fall is not less effectively described.76

A characteristic of Bhāsa is his fondness for pithy proverbial phrases, ‘Everything suits a handsome figure’, ‘Misfortunes never come singly’, ‘Good news sounds more pleasant from a friend’s mouth’ (piaṇivediamāṇāṇi piāṇi piadarāṇi honti), ‘Man’s fate is as mobile as an elephant’s trunk’, ‘There are many obstacles in the road to fortune’, ‘A small cause begets grave misfortune’, are found in the Avimāraka alone. An idea once expressed fascinates Bhāsa and is repeated again and again in the same terms, a fact which incidentally helps to assure the genuineness of the plays. For some phrases he has a special fondness; mā with the instrumental is normal in lieu of the ordinary alam, which he also uses; aho tu khalu to introduce a stanza; kiṁ nu khalu in a question; āma and bādham to indicate assent; sukham āryasya as a phrase of greeting. Especially is he devoted to the term vara, sometimes before, usually after, the noun whose quality it intensifies; the use occurs even twice or thrice in a single stanza.

The harmony and melody of Bhāsa’s style, added to its purity and perspicuity, have no better proof than the imitations of his verses which are unquestionably to be traced in Kālidāsa, who attests thus his practical appreciation of the merits of the dramatist, with whose established fame his nascent genius had to contend.

Bhāsa’s Sanskrit77 is in the main correct according to the rules of the grammarians, but his dependence on the epic is revealed by the occasional use of epic irregularities, almost always for the sake of the metre, which in the epic also is the cause of many deviations from classical grammar. We have thus the irregular contractions putreti and Avantyādhipateḥ, and a number of middle forms in lieu of active, gamiṣye, garjase, drakṣyate, pṛcchase, bhraçyate, ruhyate, çroṣyate. In other cases the active replaces the middle, āpṛccha, upalapsyati, pariṣvaja. There is confusion between the simple and the causative verb in sravati and vījanti, [121]and in vimoktukāma. The forms rudantī and gṛhya have many epic parallels. Irregular compounds are sarvarājñaḥ in verse, and Kāçirājñe in prose; vyūḍhoras and tulyadharma occur in verse. The use in one clause of both ced and yadi is found in verse and also in prose, as in the epic. Mere blunders perhaps may be styled pratyāyati, a haplological form of the causative with the meaning of the simple verb, samāçvāsitum with causative sense, and yudh as a masculine noun. There are other seeming irregularities, but they are either sanctioned by usage or possible of explanation by reference to variant interpretations of Pāṇini’s rules.

The Prākrits78 found in Bhāsa are normally Çaurasenī, which is present in all the plays save the Dūtavākya, which has no Prākrit; Māgadhī found in two different forms; and what may be styled Ardha-Māgadhī. The distinctive feature of his language is its transitional aspect as compared with Açvaghoṣa on the one hand and Kālidāsa on the other. Açvaghoṣa never softens—save in one instance—hard consonants, but both ṭ and t are changed to ḍ and d in Bhāsa. Açvaghoṣa never omits consonants, but, though this is less often carried out than in Kālidāsa, we find cases of the loss of k, g, c, j, t, d, p, b, v, and y when intervocalic. y itself suffers frequent change to j, contrary to Açvaghoṣa’s usage. The change of n initial and medial to ṇ is regular, while it is unknown to Açvaghoṣa. The aspirates kh, gh, th, dh, ph, and bh are all often reduced as later to h, but never in Açvaghoṣa.

In the case of conjunct consonants we find that jñ gives in Bhāsa either ññ or ṇṇ, possibly the latter by error; Açvaghoṣa has ññ only, Kālidāsa ṇṇ. For ny and ṇy Bhāsa has always ṇṇ as against Açvaghoṣa’s ññ. The eliding of a consonant, with the compensatory lengthening of the vowel as in dīsadi, is unknown to Açvaghoṣa, where the omission of the consonant twice occurs but without lengthening; it is frequent in Bhāsa and regular in Kālidāsa. The analogous use of a short vowel and a double consonant to represent a long vowel with a single consonant is unknown to Açvaghoṣa, but Bhāsa has it in evva, evvaṁ, jovvana, [122]devva, ekka. On the other hand, like Açvaghoṣa, for ry he has yy only in lieu of Kālidāsa’s jj. For the later metta matta is always found, and the epenthetic vowel is u, not i, in purusa, and puruva is normal.

In inflection we have, in the nominative and accusative plural of neuter stems in a, āni in Açvaghoṣa, āṇi in Bhāsa, while both āṇi and āiṁ are allowed later. The accusative plural masculine has also, analogously to āni in the Ardha-Māgadhī of the Açoka inscriptions,79 āṇi, and the locative singular feminine is in āaṁ, not as later āe. For the later attāṇaaṁ we have attāṇaṁ. For ‘we’ Açvaghoṣa has vayaṁ, Kālidāsa amhe; Bhāsa both and vaaṁ. In the genitive plural Bhāsa has both amhāaṁ and the only form later amhāṇaṁ, while Açvaghoṣa would doubtless have used amhākaṁ. kissa is kept for later kīsa, and kocci (kaccid) disappears later. The root darç is represented by dass and daṅs, grah by gaṇhadi against the later geṇhadi, which, however, is found in Açvaghoṣa. The older forms karia and gacchia or gamia, are found in lieu of kadua and gadua, but the last occurs once. mā is used with the gerund in the sense of alam.

Many of these peculiarities mark also the Māgadhī, which appears in two slightly varied forms, the first in the Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa and the Cārudatta, the second in the Bālacarita and the Pañcarātra; in the two latter we have ṣ and o for the ç and e of the former. As in Açvaghoṣa there is no trace of obedience to the rules of the grammarians which require sṭ for Sanskrit ṣṭh or ṣṭ, çc for cch, sk or ẖk for kṣ. For ‘I’ we find ahake, which is an intermediate stage between Açvaghoṣa’s ahakaṁ and the later hage. ny becomes ṇṇ, not ññ, and the use of y to denote a dropped consonant is not carried out.

The only passages that can claim to be anything like Ardha-Māgadhī are the remarks of Indra in disguise in the Karṇabhāra, where the characteristic signs, the use of r, s, and e, are found; in the speeches of Muṣṭika and Cāṇūra in the Bālacarita we have the use of l and a locative in ammi. A single passage in the Pañcarātra suggests Māgadhī Apabhraṅça, but is probably corrupt. [123]

It is characteristic of Bhāsa’s close dependence on the epic that his dramas should show a far more frequent use of the Çloka, 436 out of 1,092 verses. No later writer save Bhavabhūti in his Rāma dramas approaches this frequency, which, it must be noted, is not confined to the epic plays, for the Svapnavāsavadattā has 26 Çlokas out of 57 verses. In some plays, it is true, such as the Madhyamavyāyoga or the Pañcarātra, long series of Çlokas suggest incomplete command of the dramatic art on Bhāsa’s part, but his general preference is clearly an outcome of his desire for rapid movement and simplicity; it is the later love for elaborate descriptions that encourages the use of sonorous and complex metres. The Çlokas are remarkably regular in construction; the diiambus in the second Pāda is insisted on rigidly; the Vipulās80 are rare, the fourth is unknown, the second sporadic, the first twice as frequent as the third, and the prior foot is rarely81 ⏓ - ⏑ -. The sparing use of the irregular forms is doubtless due to the comparatively small number of Çlokas used consecutively, which minimises the desire for change of form.

Of the more elaborate metres, in which each syllable has a fixed length, the favourite is the Vasantatilaka, which occurs 179 times, while the Upajāti occurs 121 times. Next comes the Çārdūlavikrīḍita (92), Mālinī (72), Puṣpitāgrā with the scheme ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ - ⏑ - ⏑ - - | ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ - ⏑ ⏑ - ⏑ - ⏑ - - (66), Vaṅçasthā (35), Çālinī (2), Çikhariṇī (19), and Praharṣiṇī (17). Other metres are purely sporadic; they include the Sragdharā, Hariṇī, Vaiçvadevī,82 Drutavilambita,83 Pṛthvī,84 and Bhujan̄gaprāyata,85 while the Suvadanā occurs four times. There is one example of the Upagīti with 12 morae in the first and third Pādas, and 15 in the second and fourth, and one of the Vaitālīya with 14 and 16 in the two sets respectively. There is also one example of the shortest form of Daṇḍaka metre, with six short syllables followed by [124]seven amphimacers, while there is also one shorter metre with six amphimacers. The rarity of the Āryā is remarkable; beside the one Upagīti, which is in Prākrit, there are only eleven, of which five are in Prākrit. Contrast the frequency of the Āryā in Kālidāsa where there are 31 out of 163 in the Vikramorvaçī, and 35 out of 96 in the Mālavikāgnimitra.

Generally the rules of classical prosody are faithfully observed; there is one hiatus between Pādas and once Sandhi; in niyatī and maulī, as in anūkarṣa, the lengthening is probably metrical. The Çlokas show a great fondness for epic tags, such as acireṇaiva kālena, prasādaṁ kartum arhasi, and kampayann iva medinīm. Especially frequent is the breaking up of a verse between different speakers or by interruptions of one kind or another.

Kālidāsa refers in the prologue to the Mālavikāgnimitra not only to Bhāsa but to Saumilla and Kaviputra—perhaps rather the Kaviputras—as his predecessors in drama. Saumilla, whose name suggests an origin in Mahārāṣṭra, is mentioned by Rājaçekhara along with Bhāsa and a third poet Rāmila. Further, the same authority tells us that Rāmila and Somila composed a Çūdrakakathā, which is compared to Çiva under the form of Ardhanārīçvara, in which he is united with his spouse, perhaps a hint at the union of heroic and love sentiments in the tale. A fine stanza is attributed to them in the Çārn̄gadharapaddhati:1

‘Had he been ill he would have been emaciated; wounded, he would have bled; bitten, have shown the venom; no sign of these is here; how then has the unhappy traveller met his death? Ah! I see. When the bees began to hum as they sought greedily for honey, the rash one let his glance fall on the mango bud’. Spring is the time for lovers’ meetings; the traveller, far from his beloved, lets himself think of her and dies of despair.

The Kaviputras, a pair according to the verse cited from them in the Subhāṣitāvali2, were apparently also collaborators, a decidedly curious parallel with Somila and Rāmila, as such collaboration seems later rare. The stanza is pretty:

[128]

‘The play of the brows, the sidelong glances which contract the corners of the eyes, words of love, bashful laughter, the slow departure in sport, and the staying of the steps: these are the ornaments and the weapons of women.’

Strange that so scanty remnants should remain of poets who must have deserved high praise to receive Kālidāsa’s recognition, but the fame of that poet doubtless inflicted on them the fate that all but overtook Bhāsa himself.

The discovery of the Cārudatta of Bhāsa has cast an unexpected light on the age of the Mṛcchakaṭikā, but has still left it dubious whether or not the author is to be placed before Kālidāsa. That this rank was due to him was the general opinion before Professor Lévi attacked the theory, and it is curious that later he should have inclined to doubt the value of his earlier judgement. The existence of the Cārudatta would explain, of course, the silence of Kālidāsa on the Mṛcchakaṭikā, if it existed in his time. Explicit use of the drama by Kālidāsa or the reverse would be conclusive, but unhappily none of the parallels which can be adduced have any effective force, and from rhetorical quotations we only have the fact that Çūdraka was recognized as an author by Vāmana,3 for Daṇḍin’s citation of a verse found in the Mṛcchakaṭikā is now clearly known to be a citation from Bhāsa, in whose works the verse in question twice occurs. With this falls the hypothesis of Pischel,4 who, after ascribing the play to Bhāsa, later fathered it upon Daṇḍin, to make good the number of three famous works with which he is in later tradition credited.

The play itself presents Çūdraka, a king, as its author and gives curious details of his capacities; he was an expert in the Ṛgveda, the Sāmaveda, mathematics, the arts regarding courtesans, and the science of elephants, all facts which could be concluded from the knowledge shown in the play itself; he was cured of some complaint, and after establishing his son in his place, and performing the horse sacrifice, he entered the fire and [129]died at the age of a hundred years and ten days. We have a good deal more information of a sort regarding his personality; he was to Kalhaṇa in the Rājataran̄giṇī5 a figure to be set beside Vikramāditya; the Skanda Purāṇa6 makes him out the first of the Andhrabhṛtyas; the Vetālapañcaviṅçati knows of his age as a hundred, and gives as his capital either Vardhamāna or Çobhāvatī, which is the scene of his activities according to the Kathāsaritsāgara, which tells of the sacrifice of a Brahmin who saves him from imminent death and secures his life of a hundred years by killing himself. In the Kādambarī he is located at Vidiçā, and in the Harṣacarita we hear of the device by which he got rid of his enemy Candraketu, prince of Cakora, while Daṇḍin in the Daçakumāracarita refers to his adventures in several lives. The fact that Rāmila and Somila wrote a Kathā on him is significant of his legendary character in their time, considerably before Kālidāsa. A very late tradition in the Vīracarita and the younger Rājaçekhara7 brings him into connexion with Sātavāhana or Çālivāhana, whose minister he was and from whom he obtained half his kingdom, including Pratiṣṭhāna.8

These references seem to suggest that Çūdraka was a merely legendary person, a fact rather supported than otherwise by his quaint name, which is absurd in a king of normal type. Nevertheless, Professor Konow treats him as historical, and finds in him the Ābhīra prince Çivadatta, who, or whose son, Īçvarasena, is held by Dr. Fleet to have overthrown the last of the Andhra dynasty and to have founded the Cedi era of A.D. 248–9.9 This remarkable result is held to be supported by the fact that in the play the king of Ujjayinī is Pālaka, and is represented as being overthrown by Āryaka, son of a herdsman (gopāla), and the Ābhīras are essentially herdsmen. But this is much more than dubious; we have in fact legendary history in the names of Pālaka, Gopāla—to be taken probably in the Mṛcchakaṭikā as a proper name—and Āryaka. The proof is indeed overwhelming, for Bhāsa, who is the source of so much of the Mṛcchakaṭikā, [130]mentions in his Pratijñāyaugandharāyaṇa as sons of Pradyota of Ujjayinī both Gopāla and Pālaka, and the Bṛhatkathā must have contained the story of Gopāla surrendering the kingdom on Pradyota’s death to Pālaka, and of the latter having to make room for Āryaka, his brother’s son. To make history out of these events, which belong to the period shortly after the Buddha’s death, say 483 B.C., and history of the third century A.D., is really impossible. Çūdraka is really clearly mythical, as is seen by the admission that he entered the fire, for no one can believe that he foresaw his death-day so precisely, or that the ceremony referred to is that performed on becoming an ascetic, or even that the prologue was added after his death; if it had been, it would have doubtless been of a different type. Still less can we imagine that he was helped in his work by Rāmila and Somila.

Windisch,10 on the other hand, attempted to prove a close similarity between the plot of the political side of the play and the legend of Kṛṣṇa, instancing the prediction of Āryaka’s attaining the throne, the jealousy of the king and his efforts to destroy him, and the final overthrow of the tyrant. The similarity, however, is really remote; the story is a commonplace in legend, and nothing can be made of the comparison.

We are left, therefore, to accept the view that the author who wrote up the Cārudatta, and combined with it a new play, thought it well to conceal his identity and to pass off the work under the appellation of a famous king. Lévi’s suggestion that he chose Çūdraka for this purpose because he lived after Vikramāditya, patron of Kālidāsa, and wished to give his work the appearance of antiquity by associating it with a prince who preceded Vikramāditya, is clearly far-fetched, and insufficient to suggest a date. Nor can anything be deduced from the plentiful exhibition of Prākrits, which is not, to judge from Bhāsa, a sign of very early date; while the use of Māhārāṣṭrī Prākrit would be, if proved, conclusive that he is fairly late. Konow’s effort to support Çūdraka’s connexion with Pratiṣṭhāna by this use is clearly untenable.

There is more plausibility in the argument from the simple form of the construction of the drama; the manner of Bhāsa is [131]closely followed; thus in Act IX the absurd celerity with which the officer of the court obeys the order to bring the mother of Vasantasenā on the scene, and secures the presence of Cārudatta, is precisely on a par with Bhāsa’s management of the plot in his dramas. The scenes of violence, in which Vasantasenā is apparently killed and Cārudatta is led to death, are reminiscent of Bhāsa’s willingness to present such scenes, but they do not depart from the practice of the later drama as in Bhavabhūti’s Mālatīmādhava. The Çakāra and Viṭa are indeed figures of the early stage, but they are taken straight from Bhāsa and prove nothing. The position of the Buddhist monk is more interesting, but here again it is borrowed, though developed, and we find Buddhism respected in Kālidāsa and Harṣa. The arguments based on the apparent similarity with the Greek New Comedy are without value for an early date, for they apply, if they have any value at all, to the Cārudatta of Bhāsa. We are left, therefore, with no more than impressions, and these are quite insufficient to assign any date to the clever hand which recast the Cārudatta and made one of the great plays of the Indian drama.11

The first four acts of the play are a reproduction with slight changes of the Cārudatta of Bhāsa;12 the very prologue shows the fact in the inexplicable transformation in the speech of the director, who opens in Sanskrit and then changes to Prākrit, while in the Cārudatta he speaks Prākrit only as fits the part of the Vidūṣaka which he is to play. The names are slightly changed; the king’s brother-in-law is called Saṁsthānaka, and the thief Çarvilaka. Act I carries the action up to the deposit of the gems by Vasantasenā; Act II relates the generosity of the hetaera to the shampooer who turns monk, and the attack made on him as he leaves her house by a mad elephant, from which Karṇapūraka, a servant of Vasantasenā’s, saves him, receiving as reward a cloak which Vasantasenā recognizes as Cārudatta’s. In Act III we learn of Çarvilaka’s success in stealing the jewels, and the generous resolve of the wife of Cārudatta to give her necklace to [132]replace them. In Act IV Çarvilaka gives the jewels to Vasantasenā, who, though aware of the theft, sets his love free. As he leaves with her, he hears of the imprisonment of his friend Āryaka by order of the king, who knows the prophecy of his attaining the kingship, and leaving his newly-made bride, he hastens to aid his friend who is reported to have escaped from his captivity. The Vidūṣaka then comes with the necklace, which the hetaera accepts in order to use it as a pretext to see Cārudatta once more. The visit occupies Act V, which passes in a storm forcing Vasantasenā to spend the night in Cārudatta’s house. Act VI reveals her next morning offering to return to Cārudatta’s wife the necklace, but her gift is refused. The child of Cārudatta appears, complaining that he has only a little earth cart (mṛcchakaṭikā), whence the name of the play; Vasantasenā gives him her jewels that he may buy one of gold. She is to rejoin Cārudatta in a neighbouring park, the property of Saṁsthānaka, but by error she enters the car of Saṁsthānaka, while Āryaka, who has been seeking a hiding-place, leaps into that of Cārudatta and is driven away; two policemen stop the cart, and one recognizes Āryaka, but protects him from the other with whom he contrives a quarrel. In Act VII Cārudatta, who is conversing with the Vidūṣaka, sees his cart drive up, discovers Āryaka, and permits him to go off in it, while he himself leaves to find Vasantasenā. In the next act Saṁsthānaka, with the Viṭa and a slave, meets in the park the shampooer turned monk, who has gone there to wash his robe in the tank; he insults him and beats him. The cart with Vasantasenā then is driven up, and the angry Saṁsthānaka first tries to win her by fair words; then, repulsed, orders the Viṭa and the slave to slay her; they indignantly refuse; he pretends to grow calm, dismisses them, and then rains blows on Vasantasenā, who falls apparently dead; the Viṭa, who sees his action, deserts at once his cause and passes over to Āryaka’s side. Saṁsthānaka, after burying the body under some leaves, departs, promising himself to put the slave in chains; the monk re-enters to dry his robe, finds and restores to life Vasantasenā, and takes her to the monastery to be cared for. In Act IX Saṁsthānaka denounces Cārudatta as the murderer of Vasantasenā to the court;13 her [133]mother is summoned as a witness, but defends Cārudatta, who himself is cited; the police officer testifies to the escape of Āryaka, which implicates Cārudatta; the Vidūṣaka who enters the court, while en route to return to Vasantasenā the jewels she had given the child, is so indignant with the accuser that he lets fall the jewels; this fact, taken together with the evidence that Vasantasenā spent the night with Cārudatta and left next morning to meet him, and the signs of struggle in the park, deceives the judge, who condemns Cārudatta to exile; Pālaka converts the sentence into one of death. Act X reveals the hero led to death by two Caṇḍālas, who regret the duty they have to perform; the servant of Saṁsthānaka escapes and reveals the truth, but Saṁsthānaka makes light of his words as a disgraced and spiteful slave, and the headsmen decide to proceed with their work. Vasantasenā and the monk enter just in time to prevent Cārudatta’s death, and, while the lovers rejoice at their reunion, the news is brought that Āryaka has succeeded Pālaka whom he has slain, and that he has granted a principality to Cārudatta. The crowd shout for Saṁsthānaka’s death, but Cārudatta pardons him, while the monk is rewarded by being appointed superior over the Buddhist monasteries of the realm, and, best of all, Vasantasenā is made free of her profession, and thus can become Cārudatta’s lawful wife.

To the author we may ascribe the originality of combining the political and the love intrigue, which give together a special value to the play. We know of no precise parallel to this combination of motifs, though in the Bṛhatkathā there was probably a story recorded later14 of the hetaera Kumudikā who fell in love with a poor Brahmin, imprisoned by the king; she allied herself to the fortunes of a dethroned prince Vikramasiṅha, aided him by her arts to secure the throne, and was permitted by the grateful prince to marry her beloved, now released from prison. The idea was doubtless current in some form or another, just as for the incidents of Bhāsa’s story we can trace parallels in the Kathā literature of hetaerae who love honest and poor men and desire to abandon for their sakes their hereditary and obligatory calling, which the law will compel them to follow.15 The conception of the science of theft is neatly paralleled in the Daçakumāracarita, [134]where a text-book of the subject is ascribed to Karṇīsuta, and the same work contains interesting accounts of gambling which illustrate Act II. The Kathāsaritsāgara16 tells of a ruined gambler, who takes refuge in an empty shrine, and describes in Sarga xxxviii the palace of the hetaera Madanamālā in terms which may be compared with the description by the Vidūṣaka in Act IV of the splendours of Vasantasenā’s palace.17 The court scene conforms duly to the requirements of the legal Smṛtis of the sixth and seventh centuries A.D., but the conservatism of the law renders this no sign of date.

Though composite in origin and in no sense a transcript from life, the merits of the Mṛcchakaṭikā are great and most amply justify what else would have been an inexcusable plagiarism. The hints given in the Cārudatta here appear in full and harmonious development aided and heightened by the introduction of the intrigue, which combines the private affairs of the hero with the fate of the city and kingdom. Cārudatta’s character is attractive in the extreme; considerate to his friend the Vidūṣaka, honouring and respecting his wife, deeply devoted to his little son, Rohasena, he loves Vasantasenā with an affection free from all mere passion; he has realized her nobility of character, her generosity, and the depth and truth of her love. Yet his devotion is only a part of his life; aware of the vanity of all human things, he does not value life over-highly; his condemnation affects him most because it strikes at his honour that he should have murdered a woman, and he leaves thus to his child a heritage of shame. Not less attractive is Vasantasenā, bound, despite herself, to a profession which has brought her great wealth but which offends her heart; the judge and all the others believe her merely carried away by sensual passion; Cārudatta and his wife alone recognize her nobility of soul, and realize how much it means for her to be made eligible for marriage to her beloved. There is an admirable contrast with the hero in the Çakāra Saṁsthānaka, who is described vividly and realistically. His position as brother-in-law of the king and his wealth make him believe that he is entitled to whatever he wants; Vasantasenā’s repulse of him outrages his sense of his own importance [135]more than anything else; brutal, ignorant18 despite his association with courtiers of breeding and refinement, and cowardly, he has only skill in perfidy and deceit, and is mean enough to beg piteously for the life he has forfeited, but which Cārudatta magnanimously spares. The Viṭa is an excellent foil to him in his culture, good taste, and high breeding; despite his dependence on his patron, he checks his violence to Vasantasenā, strives to prevent his effort to murder her, and when he fails in this takes his life into his own hands and passes over to Āryaka’s side. The Vidūṣaka may be fond of food and comfortable living, but he remains faithful in adversity to his master, is prepared to die for him, and consents to live only to care for his son.

The minor characters among the twenty-seven in all who appear have each an individuality rare in Indian drama. Çarvilaka, once a Brahmin, now a professional thief, performs his new functions with all the precision appropriate to the performance of religious rites according to the text-books. The shampooer, turned Buddhist monk, has far too much worldly knowledge to seek any temporal preferment from the favour of Āryaka. Māthura, the master gambler, is a hardened sinner without bowels of compassion, but the two headsmen are sympathetic souls who perform reluctantly their painful duty. The wife of Cārudatta is a noble and gentle lady worthy of her husband, and one who in the best Indian fashion does not grudge him a new love if worthy, while the lively maid Madanikā deserves fully her freedom and marriage with Çarvilaka. Even characters which play so small an actual part as Āryaka are effectively indicated. The good taste of the author is strikingly revealed by the alteration made in the last scene by a certain Nīlakaṇṭha,19 who holds that the omission to bring upon the stage Cārudatta’s wife, his son, and the Vidūṣaka was due to the risk of making the time occupied by the representation of the play too great. He supplies the lacuna by representing all three as determined to commit suicide when Cārudatta rescues them; the author himself would never have consented to introduce the first wife at the moment when a second is about to be taken.

The author is not merely admirable in characterization; he is [136]master of pathos, as in the parting of Cārudatta from his son who asks the headsman to kill him and let his father go, and above all he abounds in humour and wit; even in the last act Goha, the headman, relieves the tension by the tale of his father who advised him on his death-bed not to slay too quickly the criminal on the off-chance that there might be a revolution or something to save the wretch’s life, and, when after deliverance comes the noble Cārudatta forbids the slaying with steel of the grovelling Saṁsthānaka, Çarvilaka cheerfully remarks that is all right: he will be eaten alive by the dogs instead.

These merits and the wealth of incident of the drama more than compensate for the overluxuriance of the double intrigue, and the lack of unity, which is unquestionable. A demerit in the eyes of the writers on poetics is the absence of elaborate descriptions, but the simple and clear diction of the play adds greatly to its liveliness and dramatic effect, and the poet has perfect command of the power of pithy and forcible expression. The Viṭa effectually rebukes the arrogance and pride of family of Saṁsthānaka:

‘Why talk of birth? Character alone counts. In rich soil the thorn trees grow fastest.’ Cārudatta on the point of death asserts his fearlessness:

‘I fear not death, but my honour is sullied; were that stain removed, death would be as dear as the birth of a son.’ Admirable is his expression of belief in Vasantasenā who may be dead:

‘If righteousness prevails, though to-day I am undone by the slanderous words of one in power through my unhappy fate, may she, dwelling with the gods above or wherever she be, by her true nature wipe out the blot upon me.’ Sadly he apostrophizes his child deemed to be at play: [137]

‘Ah! Rohasena, since thou dost not know my plight, ever dost thou rejoice in thy play falsely, for sorrow is in store.’

The character of Cārudatta is effectively portrayed by the Vidūṣaka:20

‘A tree of bounty to the poor, bent down by its fruits, his virtues; a support for all good men; a mirror of the learned, a touchstone of virtue, an ocean that never violates its boundaries of virtue; righteous, free from pride, a store-house of human merit, the essence of courtesy and nobility; he gives meaning to life by the goodness which we extol; other men merely breathe.’

The evils of poverty are forcibly depicted by Cārudatta himself:21

‘Like empty houses, in truth, are poor men, or wells without water or blasted trees; for fruitless are their hours of relaxation, since their former friends forget them.’ The same idea is again expressed by the hero:22

‘My dejection, assuredly, is not born of the mere loss of my wealth, for with the turn of fortune’s wheel riches come and go. Nay, what pains me is that men fail in friendship to him whose sometime wealth has taken flight.’ The repetition of the idea becomes, indeed, wearisome, but the ingenuity and fancy of the author are undoubted. [138]

Love is also effectively described. The Viṭa is an admirer of Vasantasenā and thus addresses the fleeting lady:23

‘Why, surpassing my speed with thine own, dost thou flee like a snake, filled with fear of the lord of birds? Were I to use my speed I could outstrip the wind itself, but I would make no effort to seize thee, O fair-limbed one.’ Cārudatta praises the rain:24

‘Happy the life of those whose limbs embrace the limbs of their loved ones, come to their home, dripping wet and cold with the water of the clouds.’

Moreover, while to later Indian critics the descriptive stanzas of the poet are lacking in that elaboration and cleverness which are admitted by developed taste, to us much of the poetic value of the drama depends on the power of the poet to describe with point and feeling in simple terms which require no effort to appreciate. The whole scene of the storm gains by the stanzas in which its beauties are described, once we consent, as we must do in appreciating any Sanskrit play, to ignore the inappropriateness of these lyric effusions in the actual circumstances. In real life a lady seeking eagerly an interview with her beloved, in resplendent attire, would have no time to display her command of Sanskrit poetry in description, when counsels of prudence urged her to her destination with the least possible delay:25

‘ “If, foolish one, my beloved has joy clasped in my bosom’s embrace, what is that to thee?” Thus night with her thunders, seeking to stay me, blocks my path, like an angry rival.’

[139]

‘Let the clouds rain, thunder, or cast down the levin bolt; women who speed to their loved ones reckon nothing of heat or cold.’26

‘The stars disappear, like a favour bestowed on a worthless man; the quarters lose their radiance, like women severed from their beloved; molten by the fierce fire of Indra’s bolt, the sky, I ween, is poured down upon us in rain.’27

‘The cloud rises aloft, bows down, pours rain, sends thunder and the dark; every show it makes of its wealth like the man newly rich.’28

Last we may cite the rebuke of Vasantasenā to the lightning:

‘If the cloud must thunder, then let him thunder; cruel were men ever; but, O lightning, can it be that thou too dost not know the pangs of a maiden’s love?’29

The merits of the play are sufficient to enable its author to dispense with praise not deserved. For Çūdraka, regarded as the author, has been credited30 with the distinction of being a cosmopolitan; however great the difference between Kālidāsa, ‘the grace of poetry’31 and Bhavabhūti, ‘the master of eloquence,’32 these two authors, it is said, are far more allied in spirit than is either of them with the author of the Mṛcchakaṭikā; the Çakuntalā and the Uttararāmacarita could have been produced nowhere save in India, Çakuntalā is a Hindu maid, Mādhava a Hindu hero, while Saṁsthānaka, Maitreya, and Madanikā are citizens of the world. This claim, however, can hardly be admitted; the Mṛcchakaṭikā as a whole is a drama redolent of Indian thought and life, and none of the three characters adduced have any special claim to be more cosmopolitan than some of the [140]creations of Kālidāsa. The variety of the characters of the play is unquestionably laudable, but the praise in part is due to Bhāsa, and not to his successor. To the same source also must be attributed the comparative simplicity of the style, which certainly contrasts with the degree of elaboration found even in Kālidāsa, and carried much further in Bhavabhūti. The variety of incident is foreshadowed in Bhāsa, but the development of the drama must be attributed to the author, and frankly it cannot be said to be wholly artistic; that the drama is unnecessarily complex must be conceded, nor can the action be said to proceed with complete ease and conviction. The humour of the play is undoubted, but here again to Bhāsa must honour be given. Bhāsa again is the prototype for the neglect of the rule of the dramaturgy which demands the presence of the hero on the stage in each act; the naming of the play, in defiance of convention, from a minor incident may justly be ascribed to the author himself.

The real Indian character of the drama reveals itself in the demand for the conventional happy ending, which shows us every person in a condition of happiness, with the solitary exception of the evil king. Cārudatta is restored to affluence and power from the depths of infamy and misery; Vasantasenā’s virtue and fidelity are rewarded by the signal honour of restoration to the rank of one whom the hero may marry; the monk, who refuses worldly gain, has the pleasure of becoming charged with spiritual oversight, with its attendant amenities—not inconsiderable to judge from our knowledge of the wealth of Buddhist monasteries. Even Saṁsthānaka is spared, to save us, we may assume, the pain of seeing anything so unpleasant as a real, even if well deserved, death on the stage, for the king perishes at a distance from the scene. If, as Cārudatta asserts at the end of the play, fate plays with men like buckets at the well, one rising as another falls, Çūdraka is not inclined to seek realism sufficiently to permit of his introducing even a tinge of sorrow into the close of his drama.

No extant play exhibits anything like the variety of Prākrits found in the Mṛcchakaṭikā, which seems almost as if intended to [141]illustrate the precepts of the Nāṭyaçāstra in this regard.33 The commentator obligingly provides us with the names of the dialects represented and those who speak them. Çaurasenī is spoken by the director after his Sanskrit exordium, the comedienne, Vasantasenā, Madanikā, her servant, Karṇapūraka, her slave, her mother, the wife of Cārudatta, the Çreṣṭhin or guildsman, and the officer of the court, and Radanikā, Cārudatta’s servant. Avantikā is attributed to the two policemen Vīraka and Candanaka. The Vidūṣaka speaks Prācyā. The shampooer who turns monk, Sthāvaraka, servant of the Çakāra Saṁsthānaka, Kumbhīlaka, servant of Vasantasenā, Vardhamānaka, servant of Cārudatta, and the little Rohasena speak Māgadhī. The Çakāra speaks Çākārī, the Caṇḍālas who act as headsmen Cāṇḍālī, and the chief gambler Ḍhakkī. Sanskrit, on the other hand, is spoken by the hero, the Viṭa, the royal claimant Āryaka, and the Brahmin thief Çarvilaka. This distribution of Prākrits agrees with that of the Nāṭyaçāstra as we have it in one important aspect; it ignores the Māhārāṣṭrī, though for some not obvious reason Konow claims that this was introduced into the drama by Çūdraka. On the other hand, it does not assign to slaves, Rājputs, or guildsmen the Ardha-Māgadhī of the Nāṭyaçāstra. In the case of Rohasena the Māgadhī ascribed to him has been largely converted into Çaurasenī in the manuscripts. The Çāstra ascribes Āvantī to Dhūrtas, which is interpreted as meaning gamblers; the distinction between it and Çaurasenī is minimal; it is said to have s and r and be rich in proverbs by Pṛthvīdhara, and this accords adequately with the actual speeches of the officers. But the second, Candanaka, expressly gives himself out as a southerner, and we can hardly avoid the conclusion that the dialect is Dākṣiṇātyā which the Çāstra ascribes to warriors, police officers, and gamblers. The Prācyā of the Vidūṣaka is nothing more or less than Çaurasenī, though it is given separately in the Çāstra also; it may have been an eastern dialect of the main language. The Ḍhakkī ascribed to the gamblers should probably34 be named Ṭakkī, or Ṭākkī, an easy error because of the confusion of the letters in manuscripts. Pischel regarded it as an eastern dialect which had l, and preserved two [142]sibilants ç and s in which ṣ was merged; Sir G. Grierson finds in it a western dialect, which seems more probable. The Çākārī of Saṁsthānaka is nothing more or less than Māgadhī, which is given as the language of that person by the Nāṭyaçāstra, and the Cāṇḍālī is merely another variety of that Prākrit. Thus the rich variety reduces itself in effect to Çaurasenī35 and Māgadhī with Ṭakkī, of which we have too little to say precisely what it was.

It is unfortunate, though as in the case of Shakespeare not surprising, that we know practically nothing of the life and age of Kālidāsa save what we can infer from his works and from the general history of Sanskrit literature. There are indeed stories1 of his ignorance in youth, until he was given poetic power by the grace of Kālī, whence his strange style of Kālidāsa, slave of Kālī, which is not one prima facie to be expected in the case of a poet who shows throughout his work the finest flower of Brahmanical culture. But these tales are late and worthless, and equally without value is the fiction that he was a contemporary of King Bhoja of Dhārā in the first half of the eleventh century A.D. As little value, however, attaches to a tale which has been deemed of greater value, the alleged death of Kālidāsa in Ceylon when on a visit there by the hand of a courtesan, and the discovery of his murder by his friend Kumāradāsa, identified with the king of that name of the early part of the sixth century A.D. The tradition, as I showed in 1901, is very late, unsupported by the earliest evidence, and totally without value.2

The most prevalent tradition makes Kālidāsa a contemporary of Vikramāditya, and treats him as one of the nine jewels of that monarch’s entourage. Doubtless the king meant by the tradition, which is late and of uncertain provenance, is the Vikramāditya whose name is associated with the era of 57 B.C. and who is credited with a victory over the Çakas. Whatever truth there may be in the legend, and in this regard we have nothing but conjecture,3 there is not the slightest reason to accept so early a date for Kālidāsa, and it has now no serious supporter outside India. But, based on Fergusson’s suggestion4 that the era of [144]57 B.C. was based on a real victory over Hūṇas in A.D. 544, the reckoning being antedated 600 years, Max Müller5 adopted the view that Kālidāsa flourished about that period, a suggestion which was supported by the fact that Varāhamihira, also a jewel, certainly belongs to that century, and others of the jewels might without great difficulty be assigned to the same period. The theory in so far as it rested on Fergusson’s hypothesis has been definitely demolished by conclusive proof of the existence of the era, as that of the Mālavas, before A.D. 544, but the date has been supported on other grounds. Thus Dr. Hoernle6 found it most probable that the victor who was meant by Vikramāditya in tradition was the king Yaçodharman, conqueror of the Hūṇas, and the same view was at one time supported by Professor Pathak,7 who laid stress on the fact that Kālidāsa in his account of the Digvijaya, or tour of conquest of the earth, of the ancient prince Raghu in the Raghuvaṅça8 refers to the Hūṇas, and apparently locates them in Kashmir, because he mentions the saffron which grows only in Kashmir.

An earlier date, to bring Kālidāsa under the Guptas, has been favoured by other authorities, who have found that the reference to a conquest of the Hūṇas must be held to be allusion to a contemporary event. This date is attained on second thoughts by Professor Pathak,9 who places the Hūṇas on the Oxus on this view, and holds that Kālidāsa wrote his poem shortly after A.D. 450, the date of the first establishment of their empire in the Oxus valley, but before their first defeat by Skandagupta, which took place before A.D. 455, when they were still in the Oxus valley and were considered the most invincible warriors of the age. On the other hand, Monmohan Chakravarti,10 who converted Professor Pathak to belief in the contemporaneity of Kālidāsa with the Guptas, places the date at between A.D. 480 and 490, on the theory that the Hūṇas were in Kālidāsa’s time in Kashmir. The whole argument, however, appears fallacious; Raghu is represented as conquering the Persians, and there is no [145]contemporary ground for this allegation; manifestly we have no serious historical reminiscences, but, as is natural in a Brahmanical poet, a reference of the type of the epic which knows perfectly well the Hūṇas. The exact identity of the Hūṇas of the epic is immaterial; as the name had penetrated to the western world by the second century A.D. if not earlier, there is no conceivable reason for assuming that it could not have reached India long before the fifth or sixth centuries A.D.11

Other evidence is scanty. Mallinātha, as is notorious, finds in verse 14 of the Meghadūta a reference to a poet Nicula, a friend of Kālidāsa, and an enemy Dignāga; the latter would be the famous Buddhist logician, and, assuming that his date is the fifth century A.D., we have an argument for placing Kālidāsa in the fifth or sixth century A.D. But the difficulties of this argument are insurmountable. In the first place, it is extremely difficult to accept the alleged reference to Nicula, who is otherwise a mere name, and to Dignāga; why a Buddhist logician should have attacked a poet does not appear, especially as every other record of the conflict is lost. Nor is the double entendre at all in Kālidāsa’s manner;12 such efforts are little in harmony with Kālidāsa’s age, while later they are precisely what is admitted, and are naturally seen by the commentators where not really intended. It is significant that the allusion is not noted by Vallabhadeva, and that it first occurs in Dakṣināvarta Nātha (c. A.D. 1200) and Mallinātha (fourteenth century), many centuries after the latest date assignable to Kālidāsa. Even, however, if the reference were real, the date of Dignāga can no longer be placed confidently in the fifth century A.D., or with other authorities in the sixth century. On the contrary, there is a good deal of evidence which suggests that A.D. 400 is as late as he can properly be placed.13

As little can any conclusion be derived from the allusion in Vāmana to a son of Candragupta in connexion with Vasubandhu, which has led to varied efforts at identification, based largely on the fifth century as the date of Vasubandhu. But it is far more [146]probable that Vasubandhu dates from the early part of the fourth century, and nothing can be derived hence to aid in determining the period of Kālidāsa.14

More solid evidence must be sought in the astronomical or astrological data which are found in Kālidāsa. Professor Jacobi has seen in the equalization of the midday with the sixth Kāla in the Vikramorvaçī a proof of Kālidāsa’s having lived in the period immediately subsequent to the introduction from the west of the system of reckoning for ordinary purposes the day by 12 Horās, Kāla being evidently used as Horā. The passage has been interpreted by Huth as referring to a sixteenfold division, and the argument to be derived from it is not established, but Huth, on the other hand, manifestly errs by making Kālidāsa posterior to Āryabhaṭa (A.D. 499) on the score that in the Raghuvaṅça he refers to eclipses as caused by the shadow of the earth, the reference being plainly to the old doctrine of the spots on the moon. It is, however, probable that Kālidāsa in the Vikramorvaçī refers to the figure of the lion in the zodiac, borrowed from the west, and it is certain that he was familiar with the system of judicial astrology, which India owes to the west, for he alludes both in the Raghuvaṅça and the Kumārasambhava to the influence of the planets, and above all uses technical terms like ucca and even jāmitra, borrowed from Greece. A date not probably prior to A.D. 350 is indicated by such passages.15

Similar evidence can be derived from Kālidāsa’s Prākrit, which is plainly more advanced than that of Bhāsa, while his Māhārāṣṭrī can be placed with reasonable assurance after that of the earlier Māhārāṣṭrī lyric, which may have flourished in the third and fourth centuries A.D. He is also earlier than the Aihole inscription of A.D. 634, where he is celebrated, than Bāṇa (A.D. 620), and above all than Vatsabhaṭṭi’s Mandasor Praçasti of A.D. 473. It is, therefore, most probable that he flourished under Candragupta II of Ujjayinī, who ruled up to about A.D. 413 with the style of Vikramāditya, which is perhaps alluded to in the [147]name Vikramorvaçī, while the Kumārasambhava’s title may well hint a compliment on the birth of young Kumāragupta, his son and successor.16 The Mālavikāgnimitra with its marked insistence on the horse sacrifice of the drama seems to suggest a period in Kālidāsa’s early activity when the memory of the first horse sacrifice for long performed by an Indian king, that of Samudragupta, was fresh in men’s minds. Moreover the poems of Kālidāsa are essentially those of the Gupta period, when the Brahmanical and Indian tendencies of the dynasty were in full strength and the menace of foreign attack was for the time evanescent.

The Mālavikāgnimitra17 is unquestionably the first dramatic work18 of Kālidāsa; he seeks in the prologue to excuse his presumption of presenting a new play when tried favourites such as Bhāsa, Saumilla, and the Kaviputras exist, and in the Vikramorvaçī also he shows some diffidence, which has disappeared in the Çakuntalā. The great merits of the poet are far less clearly exhibited here than in his other plays, but the identity of authorship is unquestionable, and was long ago proved by Weber against the doubts of Wilson.

The play, performed at a spring festival, probably at Ujjayinī, is a Nāṭaka in five Acts, and depicts a love drama of the type seen already in Bhāsa’s plays on the theme of Udayana. The heroine Mālavikā is a Vidarbha princess, who is destined as the bride of Agnimitra; her brother, Mādhavasena, however, is captured by his cousin Yajñasena; she escapes and seeks Agnimitra, but en route to his capital in Vidiçā her escort is attacked [148]by foresters, perhaps by order of the rival Vidarbha prince; she escapes again, however, and reaches Vidiçā, where she finds refuge in the home of the queen Dhāriṇī, who has her trained in the art of dancing. The king happens to see a picture in which she is depicted, and falls in love with her. To arrange an interview is not easy, but Gautama, his Vidūṣaka, provokes a quarrel between two masters of the dance, who have recourse to the king to decide the issue of superiority. He in turn refers the matter to the nun Kauçikī, who is in reality a partisan of Mālavikā, who had been in her charge and that of her brother, who was killed when the escort was dispersed. She bids the masters produce each his best pupil; Gaṇadāsa brings out Mālavikā, whose singing and dancing delight all, while her beauty ravishes the king more than ever. She is victorious. In Act III the scene changes to the park, whither comes Mālavikā at the bidding of Dhāriṇī to make the Açoka blossom, according to the ancient belief, by the touch of her foot. The king hidden with the Vidūṣaka behind a thicket watches her, but so also does Irāvatī, the younger of Agnimitra’s queens, who is suspicious and jealous of any rival in the king’s love. The king overhears Mālavikā’s conversation with her friend, and realizes that his love is shared; he comes forth and embraces her, but Irāvatī springs out of her hiding-place and insults the king. Dhāriṇī has Mālavikā confined to prevent any further development of the intrigue. The Vidūṣaka, however, proves equal to the occasion with the aid of Kauçikī; he declares himself bitten by a snake; the only remedy proves to require the use of a stone in the queen’s ring, which is accorded for that purpose, but employed for the more useful end of securing the release of Mālavikā, and the meeting of the lovers, which Irāvatī, who has excellent grounds for her vigilance, again disturbs. The king’s embarrassment is fortunately mitigated by the necessity of his going to the rescue of the little princess Vasulakṣmī, whom a monkey has frightened. Act V cuts the knot by the advent of two unexpected pieces of news; envoys come bearing the report of victory over the prince of Vidarbha and conveying captives; two young girls introduced before the queen as singers recognize both Kauçikī and their princess Mālavikā among the queen’s attendants, and Kauçikī explains her silence on the [149]princess’s identity by obedience to a prophecy. Further, Puṣyamitra, Agnimitra’s father, sends tidings of victory from the north; the son of Dhāriṇī, Vasumitra, has defeated the Yavanas on the bank of the Indus, while guarding the sacrificial horse, which by ancient law is let loose to roam for a year unfettered before a king can perform rightfully the horse sacrifice, which marks him as emperor. Dhāriṇī already owes Mālavikā a guerdon for her service in causing the Açoka plant to blossom; delighted by the news of her son’s success, she gladly gives Agnimitra authority to marry Mālavikā, Irāvatī begs her pardon, and all ends in happiness.

Puṣyamitra, Agnimitra, and Vasumitra are clearly taken from the dynasty of the Çun̄gas, formed by the first through the deposition of the last Maurya in 178 B.C.19 Contact with Yavanas in his time is recorded and the horse sacrifice is doubtless traditional, but equally it may reflect the sacrifice of Samudragupta, the most striking event of the early Gupta history, since it asserted the imperial sway of the family. The rest of the play is based on the normal model.

The Vikramorvaçī,20 by many reckoned as the last work21 in drama of Kālidāsa, seems rather to fall in the interval between the youthful Mālavikāgnimitra and the mature perfection of the Çakuntalā. The theme is that of the love of Purūravas, a king, and Urvaçī, an Apsaras, or heavenly nymph. The prologue, which has been unjustly suspected of being proof of the incompleteness and therefore later date of the drama, is followed by screams of the nymphs from whom Urvaçī on her return from Kailāsa has been torn away by a demon; the king hastens to her aid, recovers her, and restores her first to her friends, and then to the Gandharva king, but not before both have fallen desperately in love. In the entr’acte a servant of the queen extracts cleverly from the Vidūṣaka the secret of the change which has come over the king, his love for Urvaçī. The king himself then appears; in conversation with the Vidūṣaka he [150]declares his love, to meet with scant sympathy; Urvaçī and a friend appear in the air, and Urvaçī drops a letter written on birch bark breathing her love; the king reads it and gives it to the Vidūṣaka; Urvaçī’s friend appears, and finally Urvaçī herself, but after a brief exchange of love passages Urvaçī is recalled to play a part in heaven in a drama produced by Bharata. The message, unluckily, falls into the queen’s hands, and she refuses to be appeased by Purūravas’s attempts to soothe her. In the entr’acte before Act II we learn from a conversation between two pupils of Bharata that Urvaçī was so deeply in love that she played badly her part in the piece on Lakṣmī’s wedding; asked whom she loved, she answered Purūravas instead of Puruṣottama, Viṣṇu’s name, and Bharata cursed her; but Indra intervened and gave her leave to dwell on earth with her love until he had seen the face of her child. The Act that follows shows the king, anxious to please the queen, engaged with her in celebrating the festival of the moon’s union with Rohiṇī; Urvaçī and her friend, in disguise and unseen by the king in a fairy mist, watch his courtesy which fills the nymph with anguish, though her friend assures her that it is mere courtesy. To her joy she finds that the queen has decided to be reconciled, and to permit the king the enjoyment of his beloved; pressed to stay with the king, she refuses, and Urvaçī joins Purūravas, her friend leaving her, bidding Purūravas to care for her so that she may not miss her friends in the sky.

The prelude to Act IV tells us of misfortune; the nymphs who mourn by the sea her absence learn that, angry at her husband for some trivial cause, she had entered the grove of Kumāra, forbidden to women, and been turned into a creeper. In distraction22 the king seeks for her; he deems the cloud a demon which has stolen her away, demands of the peacock, the cuckoo, the flamingo, the bee, the elephant, the boar, the antelope what has become of her; he deems her transformed into the stream, whose waves are the movements of her eyebrows while the rows of birds in its waters are her girdle; he dances, sings, cries, faints in his madness, or deems the echo to be answering [151]him, until a voice from heaven tells him of a magic stone, armed with which he grasps a creeper which in his embrace turns into Urvaçī.

From this lyric height the drama declines in Act V. The king and his beloved are back in his capital; the moon festival is being celebrated, but the magic stone is stolen by a vulture, which, however, falls pierced by the arrow of a youthful archer; the arrow bears the inscription, ‘the arrow of Āyus, son of Urvaçī and Purūravas’. The king had known nothing of the child, but, while he is amazed, a woman comes from a hermitage with a gallant boy, who, educated in the duties of his warrior caste, has by his slaying the bird violated the rule of the hermitage and is now returned to his mother. Urvaçī, summoned, admits her parentage, but, while Purūravas is glad, she weeps to think of their severance, now inevitable, since he has seen his son. But, while Purūravas is ready to abandon the realm to the boy and retire to the forest in grief, Nārada comes with a message of good tidings; a battle is raging between the gods and the demons; Purūravas’s arms will be necessary, and in reward he may have Urvaçī’s society for his life.

The play has come down in two recensions, one preserved in Bengālī and Devanāgarī manuscripts and commented on by Ran̄ganātha in A.D. 1656, and the other in South Indian manuscripts, commented on by Kāṭayavema, minister of the Reḍḍi prince, Kumāragiri of Koṇḍavīḍu about A.D. 1400. The most important among many differences is the fact that in Act IV the northern manuscripts give a series of Apabhraṅça verses, with directions as to the mode of singing and accompanying them, which are ignored in the southern manuscripts. The northern text calls the play a Troṭaka, apparently from the dance which accompanied the verses, the southern a Nāṭaka which it in essentials is. The arguments against the authenticity of the verses are partly the silence of the theorists, the fact that the existence in Kālidāsa’s time of Apabhraṅça of the type found is more than dubious,23 that there is sometimes a degree of discrepancy between the verses and the prose of the drama, and that in the many imitations of the scene (Mālatīmādhava, Act IX, Bālarāmāyaṇa, Act V, Prasannarāghava, Act VI, and Mahānāṭaka, [152]Act IV) there are no similar verses. These reasons are on the whole conclusive, and the problematic fact that the Prākrit of the northern recension is better is not of importance.

The Çakuntalā24 certainly represents the perfection of Kālidāsa’s art, and may justly be assumed to belong to his latest period of work. The prologue with his usual skill leads us up to the picture of the king in swift pursuit of an antelope entering the outskirts of the hermitage; warned of the sacred character of the spot, the king alights from his chariot and decides to pay his respects to the holy man whose hermitage it is; he is absent, but Çakuntalā, his foster-daughter, is there with her friends; pursued by a bee she calls for help; they reply that Duḥṣanta the king should aid as the hermitage is under his protection, and the king gallantly comes forward to help. From the maidens he elicits the tale of Çakuntalā’s birth; she is daughter of Viçvāmitra and Menakā, and is being reared not for the religious life but for marriage to some worthy one. The king loves and the maiden begins to reciprocate his affection, when the news that a wild elephant is menacing the hermitage takes him away. Act II reveals his Vidūṣaka groaning over the toils of the king’s hunting. But the king gives order for the hunt to end, not to please the Vidūṣaka but for Çakuntalā’s sake, and, while he recounts his feelings to his unsympathetic friend, receives with keen satisfaction the request of the young hermits to protect the hermitage against the attacks of demons. The Vidūṣaka he gets rid of by sending him back to the capital to take part in a festival there, assuring him, in order to prevent domestic trouble, that his remarks about Çakuntalā were not serious. In the entr’acte before Act III a young Brahmin praises the deeds of Duḥṣanta, and we learn that Çakuntalā is unwell, and her maidens are troubled regarding her state, as she is the very life breath of Kaṇva. The Act itself depicts Çakuntalā with her maidens; she is deeply in love and writes a letter at their suggestion: the king who has overheard all comes on the scene and a dialogue follows, in which both the king and the maiden express their feelings; the scene is [153]ended by the arrival of the nun Gautamī to fetch away her charge. The entr’acte that follows tells us from the conversation of Priyaṁvadā and Anasūyā, Çakuntalā’s dear friends, that the king after his marriage with Çakuntalā has departed and seems to have forgotten her; while Kaṇva is about to return and knows nothing of the affair. A loud cry interrupts them; Çakuntalā in her love-sickness has failed to pay due respect to the harsh ascetic Durvāsas, who has come to visit the hermitage: he curses her, and all the entreaties of her friends succeed in no more than mitigating the harshness of his curse; she will be forgotten by her husband, not indeed for ever, but until she presents to him the ring he gave her in token of their union. The curse is essential; the whole action of the play depends on it. The Act itself tells us that the difficulty regarding Kaṇva has been solved; a voice from the sky has informed him at the moment of his return of the marriage and Çakuntalā’s approaching maternity. He has decided to send her under escort to the king. Then follows a scene of intense pathos; the aged hermit unwillingly parts with his beloved foster-daughter, with words of advice for her future life, and Çakuntalā is desolated to leave him, her friends, and all that she has loved at the hermitage.

Act V shows us the king in his court, overwhelmed with the duties of office, for Kālidāsa takes care to show us Duḥṣanta as the great and good monarch. News is brought that hermits with women desire an interview, while a song is heard in which the queen Haṅsavatī laments the king’s faithlessness to her; the king dispatches the Vidūṣaka to solace her, and receives in state the hermits. They bring him his wife, but, under the malign influence of the curse, he does not recognize her and cannot receive her. The hermits reprove him, and insist on leaving her, refusing her the right to go with them, since her duty is by her husband’s side. The king’s priest is willing to give her the safety of his house till the babe be born, but a figure of light in female shape appears and bears Çakuntalā away, leaving the king still unrecognizing, but filled with wonder. In the entr’acte which follows a vital element is contributed; policemen mishandle a fisherman accused of theft of a royal ring found in a fish which he has caught; it is Duḥṣanta’s ring which Çakuntalā had dropped while bathing. The Act that follows tells us of the [154]recognition by the king of the wrong unwittingly done and his grief at the loss of his wife; he seeks to console himself with her portrait, when he is interrupted by a lady of the harem, and then by the minister, who obtains from him the decision of a law case involving the right of succession; the episode reminds the king of his childlessness. From his despair the king is awakened by the screams of the Vidūṣaka who has been roughly handled by Mātali, Indra’s charioteer, as an effective means of bringing the king back to the realization that there are duties superior to private feeling. The gods need his aid for battle. In Act VII Duḥṣanta is revealed victorious, and travelling with Mātali in a divine car high through the air to Hemakūṭa, where dwells in the place of supreme bliss the seer Mārīca and his wife. Here the king sees a gallant boy playfully pulling about a young lion to the terror of two maidens who accompany him in the dress of the hermitage; they ask the king to intervene with the child in the cub’s interest, and the king feels a pang as he thinks of his sonlessness. To his amazement he learns that this is no hermit’s son, but his own; Çakuntalā is revealed to him in the dress of an ascetic, and Mārīca crowns their happiness by making it clear to Çakuntalā that her husband was guiltless of the sorrow inflicted upon her.

A drama so popular has naturally enough failed to come down to us in a single recension.25 Four are normally distinguished, Bengālī, Devanāgarī, Kāçmīrī, and South Indian, while a fifth may also be traced. There are, however, in reality, two main recensions, the Bengālī, with 221 stanzas, as fixed by the commentators Çan̄kara and Candraçekhara, and the Devanāgarī, with 194 stanzas, of Rāghavabhaṭṭa; the Kāçmīrī, which supplies an entr’acte to Act VII, is in the main an eclectic combination of these two representatives of North Indian texts, and the South Indian is closely akin to the Devanāgarī; Abhirāma and Kāṭayavema among others have commented on it. The evidence of superior merit is conflicting; Pischel26 laid stress on the more correct Prākrit of the Bengālī and the fact that some readings in [155]the Devanāgarī are best explained as glosses on the Bengālī text, while Lévi27 proved that Harṣa and Rājaçekhara knew the Bengālī recension in some shape. On the other hand, Weber28 contended for the priority of the Devanāgarī; certainly some readings there are better, and some of the Bengālī stanzas are mere repetitions of others found in both texts. Unless we adopt the not very plausible view of Bollensen that the Devanāgarī version is the acting edition of the play revised for representation, we must hold that neither recension is of conclusive value: the argument from the Prākrit is not conclusive, for it may merely rest on the superior knowledge of the copyists from whom the Bengālī original ultimately issued.29

The order of plays here adopted is in precise harmony with the development in a harmonious manner of Kālidāsa’s dramatic art. The Mālavikāgnimitra is essentially a work of youthful promise and some achievement;30 the theme is one less banal probably in Kālidāsa’s time than it became later when every Nāṭikā was based on an analogous plot, and there is some skill in the manner in which the events are interlaced; the Vidūṣaka’s stratagems to secure his master the sight of his beloved are amusing, and, though Agnimitra appears mainly as a love-sick hero, the reports of battles and victories reminds us adequately of his kingly functions and high importance. The most effective characterization, however, is reserved for the two queens, Dhāriṇī and Irāvatī: the grace and dignity, and finally the magnanimity of the former, despite just cause for anger, are set off effectively against the passionate impetuosity of the latter, which leads her to constant eavesdropping, and to an outbreak against the king, forgetful of his rank and rights. The heroine is herself but faintly presented, but her friend Kauçikī, who has been driven by a series of misfortunes to enter the religious life, is a noble [156]figure; she comforts and distracts the mind of Dhāriṇī; she is an authority on the dance and on the cure for snake bite, and alone among the women she speaks Sanskrit. The Vidūṣaka is an essential element in the drama, and he plays rather the part of a friend and confidant of the king than his jester; without his skilled aid Agnimitra would have languished in vain for his inamorata. But on the other hand he contributes comparatively little to the comic side of the drama.

In the Vikramorvaçī Kālidāsa shows a marked advance in imagination. We have no precise information of the source he followed; the story is old, it occurs in an obscure form in the Ṛgveda, and is degraded to sacrificial application in the Çatapatha Brāhmaṇa; it is also found in a number of Purāṇas, and in the Matsya31 there is a fairly close parallel to Kālidāsa’s version, for the motif of the nymph’s transformation into a creeper, instead of a swan, is already present, Purūravas’s mad search for her is known as well as his rescue of her from a demon. The passionate and undisciplined love of Urvaçī is happily displayed, but it is somewhat too far removed from normal life to charm; her magic power to watch her lover unseen and to overhear his conversation is as unnatural as the singular lack of maternal affection which induces her to abandon forthwith her child rather than lose her husband; her love is selfish; she forgets her duty of respect to the gods in her dramatic act, and her transformation is the direct outcome of a fit of insane jealousy. The hero sinks to a diminutive stature beside her, and, effective in the extreme as is his passionate despair in Act IV, his lack of self-restraint and manliness is obvious and distasteful. The minor characters are handled with comparative lack of success; the incident of the boy Āyus is forced, and the ending of the drama ineffective and flat. The Vidūṣaka, however, introduces an element of comedy in the stupidity by which he allows himself to be cheated out of the name of Urvaçī, and the clumsiness which permits the nymph’s letter to fall into the hands of the queen. The latter, Auçīnarī, is a dignified and more attractive figure than the nymph; [157]like Agnimitra in his scene with Irāvatī, Purūravas cuts a sorry figure beside her, seeing how just cause she had to be vexed at his lack of faith and candour towards her.

In the Çakuntalā Kālidāsa handles again with far more perfect art many of the incidents found in his earlier drama. He does not hesitate to repeat himself; we have in the first and third Acts the pretty idea of the king in concealment hearing the confidential talk of the heroine and her friends; the same motif is found in Act III of the Mālavikāgnimitra. Like Urvaçī, Çakuntalā, when she leaves the king, makes a pretext—her foot pricked by a thorn and her tunic caught by a branch—to delay her going; in the same way both express their love by letters; the snatching by a bird of the magic stone in the Vikramorvaçī is paralleled by Mātali’s seizure of the Vidūṣaka in Act VI; Āyus has a peacock to play with, as the little Bharata a lion, but in each case the comparison is all to the good of the Çakuntalā. The same maturity is seen in the changes made in the narrative of the Mahābhārata32 which the poet had before him. The story there is plain and simple; the king arrives at the hermitage; the maiden recounts to him her ancestry without false shame; he proposes marriage; she argues, and, on being satisfied of the legality of a secret union, agrees on the understanding that her son shall be made heir apparent. The king goes away; the child grows up, until at the due season the mother, accompanied by hermits, takes him to court; the hermits leave her, but she is undaunted when the king out of policy refuses to recognize her; she threatens him with death and taunts him with her higher birth; finally, a divine voice bids the king consecrate the child, and he explains that his action was due solely in order to have it made plain that the child was the rightful prince. This simple tale is transformed; the shy heroine would not dream of telling her birth; her maidens even are too modest to do more than hint, and leave the experienced king to guess the rest. Çakuntalā’s dawning love is depicted with perfect skill; her marriage and its sequel alluded to with delicate touches. The king’s absurd conduct is now explained; a curse produces it, and for that curse Çakuntalā was not without responsibility, for she allowed her [158]love to make her forgetful of the essential duty of hospitality and reverence to the stranger and saint. Before the king she utters no threat but behaves with perfect dignity, stunned as she is by his repudiation of their love. The king is a worthy hero, whose devotion to his public duties and heroism are insisted on, and who deserves by reason of his unselfishness to be reunited with his wife. His love for his son is charmingly depicted, and, accepting as an Indian must do the validity of the curse,33 his conduct is irreproachable; it is not that he despises the lovely maiden that he repulses her, but as a pattern of virtue and morality he cannot accept as his wife one of whom he knows nothing. Çakuntalā’s own love for him is purified by her suffering, and, when she is finally united to him, she is no longer a mere loving girl, but one who has suffered tribulation of spirit and gained in depth and beauty of nature.

The other characters are models of skilful presentation. Kālidāsa here shakes himself free from the error of presenting any other woman in competition with Çakuntalā; Duḥṣanta is much married, but though Haṅsavatī deplores his faithlessness he does not meet her, and, when Vasumatī enters in Act VI, the effect is saved by the entry of the minister to ask the king to decide a point of law. The Vidūṣaka, who would have ruined the love idyll, is cleverly dismissed on other business in Act II, while he serves the more useful end of introducing comic relief; Mātali playfully terrifies him to rouse the king from his own sorrows. Kaṇva is a delightful figure, the ascetic, without child, who lavishes on his adopted daughter all the wealth of his deep affection, and who sends her to her husband with words of tender advice; he is brilliantly contrasted with the fierce pride and anger of Durvāsas who curses Çakuntalā for what is no more than a girlish fault, and the solemn majesty of Mārīca, who, though married, has abandoned all earthly thoughts and enjoys the happiness of release, while yet contemplating the affairs of the world and intervening to set them in order with purely disinterested zeal The companions of the heroine are painted with delicate taste; both are devoted body and soul to their mistress, but Anasūyā is serious and sensible; Priyaṁvadā [159]talkative and gay. There is a contrast between the two hermits who take Çakuntalā to the court; Çārn̄garava shows the pride and hauteur of his calling, and severely rebukes the king; Çāradvata is calm and restrained and admonishes him in lieu. Equally successful is the delineation of the police officers, whose unjust and overbearing conduct to the fisherman represents the spirit of Indian police from the first appearance in history. The supernatural, which is in excess in the Vikramorvaçī, is reduced to modest dimensions, and intervenes hardly at all in the play, until we come to the last Act, where the theory permits and even demands that the marvellous should be introduced, and the celestial hermitage is a fit place for the reunion of two lovers severed by so hard a fate. The episode of the ring whose loss prevents the immediate recognition of the heroine is effectively conceived and woven into the plot.

Kālidāsa excels in depicting the emotions of love, from the first suggestion in an innocent mind to the perfection of passion; he is hardly less expert in pathos; the fourth Act of the Çakuntalā is a model of tender sorrow, and the loving kindness with which even the trees take farewell of their beloved one contrasts with the immediate harsh reception which awaits her at the royal court. Kālidāsa here, as in the fourth Act of the Vikramorvaçī and in the garden scenes of the Mālavikāgnimitra, displays admirably his love for nature and his power of description of all the stock elements of Indian scenery, the mango, the Bimba fruit, the Açoka, the lotus, and his delicate appreciation of the animal world of India. In the last Act of the Çakuntalā also we have the graceful picture of the appearance of the earth viewed in perspective from the celestial car of Mātali.

The humour of the Vidūṣaka is never coarse; his fondness for food is admitted; cakes and sugar suggest themselves to him when the hero admires the moon or is sick of love; heroics he despises: the king is summarily compared to a thief in his dislike for discovery; if caught, he should imitate the latter who explains that he was learning the art of wall breaking. Or again, he is in his contempt for the ladies of his harem like one sated of sweet dates and desiring the bitter tamarind. Mālavikā is summarily treated; she is like a cuckoo caught by a cat when Dhāriṇī places her in confinement, but he is no more respectful [160]of himself, for, seized by Mātali, he treats himself as a mouse in mortal fear of a cat. Best of all is his description in Act II of the miseries brought on him by Duḥṣanta’s hunting; the Brahmins were no admirers of the sport, though they had to acquiesce in it in kings, and the Vidūṣaka’s picture is vivid in the extreme.

The range of Kālidāsa’s technical knowledge is apparent in his skilled use of the dance and song to set off his dramas; the Mālavikāgnimitra contains an interesting exposition by the dancing master of the theory of the art and its importance; not only is Mālavikā a dancer, but Çakuntalā shows her skill in movement in Act I. The songs of the trees and of Haṅsavatī in the same play enable him to add a fresh interest to the drama, and in the Vikramorvaçī spectacular effects seem to have been aimed at, while in the Bengālī recension song is prominently introduced in Act IV of the Vikramorvaçī.

Admirable as is Kālidāsa’s work, it would be unjust to ignore the fact that in his dramas as in his epics he shows no interest in the great problems of life and destiny. The admiration of Goethe and the style of the Shakespeare of India accorded by Sir William Jones,34 the first to translate the Çakuntalā, are deserved, but must not blind us to the narrow range imposed on Kālidāsa’s interests by his unfeigned devotion to the Brahmanical creed of his time. Assured, as he was, that all was governed by a just fate which man makes for himself by his own deeds, he was incapable of viewing the world as a tragic scene, of feeling any sympathy for the hard lot of the majority of men, or appreciating the reign of injustice in the world. It was impossible for him to go beyond his narrow range; we may be grateful that, confined as he was, he accomplished a work of such enduring merit and universal appeal as Çakuntalā, which even in the ineffective guise of translations has won general recognition as a masterpiece.

Kālidāsa represents the highest pitch of elegance attained in Sanskrit style of the elevated Kāvya character; he is master of the Vaidarbha style, the essentials of which are the absence of [161]compounds or the rare use of them, and harmony of sound as well as clearness, elevation, and force allied to beauty, such as is conveyed to language by the use of figures of speech and thought. He is simple, as are Bhāsa and the author of the Mṛcchakaṭikā, but with an elegance and refinement which are not found in these two writers; Açvaghoṣa, we may be sure, influenced his style, but the chief cause of its perfection must have been natural taste and constant reworking of what he had written, a fact which may easily explain the discrepancies between the recensions of his work. But his skill in the Çakuntalā never leads him into the defect of taste which betrayed his successors into exhibiting their skill in the wrong place; skilled as he is in description, and ready as he is to exhibit his power, in the fifth Act he refrains from inserting any of these ornamental stanzas which add nothing to the action, however much honour they may do to the skill of the poet. His language has also the merit of suggestiveness; what Bhavabhūti, the greatest of his successors, expresses at length, he is content to indicate by a touch. He is admirably clear, and the propriety of his style is no less admirable; the language of the policeman and the fisher is as delicately nuanced as that of the domestic priest who argues at once in the best style of the philosophical Sūtras. The Prākrit which he ascribes to the maidens of his play has the supreme merit that it utterly eschews elaborate constructions and long compounds, such as Bhavabhūti places without thought of the utter incongruity in the mouths of simple girls.

The rhetoricians35 extol the merits of Kālidāsa in metaphor, and they repeatedly cite his skill in the use of figures of speech, sound and thought, which they divide and subdivide in endless variety. He excels in vivid description (svabhāvokti) as when he depicts the flight of the antelope which Duḥṣanta pursues to the hermitage:

[162]

‘His glance fixed on the chariot, ever and anon he leaps up, gracefully bending his neck; through fear of the arrow’s fall he draws ever his hinder part into the front of his body; he strews his path with the grass, half chewed, which drops from his mouth opened in weariness; so much aloft he bounds that he runs rather in the air than on earth.’ Inferential knowledge is illustrated by a brilliant stanza:36

‘This is the hermitage where all desires are stilled; yet my arm throbs; how can here be found the fruit of such a presage? Nay, the doors of fate are ever open.’ The rôle of conscience in human action is finely portrayed:37

‘Assuredly the maiden is meet for marriage to a warrior, since my noble mind is set upon her; for with the good in matters of doubt the final authority is the dictate of conscience.’ Of the departing Çakuntalā after her rejection the king says:38

‘When I rejected her she sought to regain her companions, but the disciple, in his master’s stead, loudly bade her stay; then she turned on cruel me a glance dimmed by her falling tears, and that now burns me like a poisoned arrow.’ At his son’s touch he says:39

‘When such joy is mine in the touch on my limbs of a scion of some other house, what gladness must not be his, from whose [163]loins, happy man, this child is sprung?’ The punishment of the king for his disloyalty is severe:40

‘My sleeplessness forbids the sight of her even in a dream; my tears deny me her pictured form.’ On reunion the picture is very different:41

‘Thou wert rejected by thy husband, cruel through the curse that robbed him of memory; now thy dominion is complete over him whose darkness is dispelled; on the tarnished mirror no image forms; let it be cleaned and it easily appears.’

There is pathos in Purūravas’s reproach to Urvaçī:42

‘My delight was ever in thee, my words ever of love; what suspicion of fault dost thou see in me that, O angry one, thou dost abandon thy slave?’ The metrical effect is here, as usual, extremely well planned. His vain efforts to attain his beloved are depicted forcibly:43

‘Whatever I deem to be my beloved in a moment assumes another aspect. I will force my eyes to be sleepless, since I have failed to touch her whom I adore.’ There are no limits to the strength of his love:44

[164]

‘In this body no member has value save that which, thanks to the movement of the chariot, she has touched; all else is a mere burden to the earth.’ Hyperbole45 is permissible:

‘Despite the radiance shed on my footstool by the jewelled diadems of vassal princes, despite the subjection of the whole earth to my sway, not so much joy did I gain from attaining kingship as the satisfaction won from paying homage to the feet of that lady, O my friend.’ The recovery of the nymph from her faint caused by the savage onslaught upon her is described in a happy series of similes:46

‘As the night, freed from the darkness when the moon has appeared, as the light of a fire in the evening when the smoke has nearly all gone, so appears this lady fair, recovering from her faint, and winning back her calmness, like the Ganges after her stream has been troubled by the falling of her banks.’

The Mālavikāgnimitra, it is true, has far fewer beauties of diction than the other two dramas, but it contains many verses which are unmistakably the work of Kālidāsa, though they present much less than the maturity of his later style. The figure of discrepancy (viṣama) is illustrated by the description of the god of love whose bow, so innocent in seeming, can yet work such ill:47

‘How strange the difference between this pain that wrings the heart, and thy bow to all seeming so harmless. That which is [165]most sweet and most bitter at once is assuredly found in thee, O God of Love.’ Agnimitra is ready enough with a pun, when Mālavikā, on being bidden to show fearlessly her love towards him, slyly reminds him that she has seen him as terrified as herself of the queen:48

‘Politeness, O Bimba-lipped one, is the family tradition of the descendants of Bimbaka; nevertheless, what life I have depends entirely on the hope of thy favour.’ The excellent Kauçikī consoles and comforts Dhāriṇī with her approval of her acts:49

‘Even to the extent of admitting a rival, noble ladies, who love their spouses, honour their husbands; the great rivers bear to the ocean the waters of many a tributary stream.’ There is an amusing directness and homeliness in the king’s utterance on learning of the true quality of Mālavikā:50

‘This lady, fit to bear the title of queen, has been treated as a maid-servant, even as one might use a garment of woven silk for a bathing cloth.’ But Kālidāsa shows himself equal to the expression of more manly sentiments as well; the nun thus tells of her brother’s fall in the effort to save Mālavikā when the foresters attack them:51

‘Eager in this misfortune to protect her, terrified by the enemy’s onslaught, he paid with his dear life his debt of affection to the lord whom he loved.’ The king’s reply is manly: bhagavati tanutyajām īdṛçī lokayātrā: na çocyaṁ tatrabhavān saphalīkṛtabhartṛpiṇḍaḥ. ‘O lady, such is the fate of brave men; thou must not mourn for him who showed himself thus worthy of his master’s salt.’ [166]

Some mystery exists as to the identity and character of Candra as a dramatist.1 We have in a Tibetan version a Lokānanda, a Buddhist drama telling of a certain Maṇicūḍa, who handed over his wife and children to a Brahmin as a sign of supreme generosity, which is ascribed to Candragomin, the grammarian, in whose Çiṣyalekhā is found a verse ascribed to Candragopin in the Subhāṣitāvali. If this is the dramatist Candaka or Candraka, who is placed by Kalhaṇa under Tuñjina of Kashmir, and who rivalled the author of the Mahābhārata in a drama, is wholly uncertain. The grammarian must have lived before A.D. 650, as he is cited in the Kāçikā Vṛtti though not by name; a more precise date it is impossible to give, for his reference to a victory of a Jarta over the Hūṇas cannot be made precise until we know what Jāṭ prince is referred to, though Yaçodharman has been suggested. The identification by Lévi of Candra with a person of that name mentioned by I-Tsing as living in his time is seemingly impossible, though I-Tsing ascribes to him the verse found in the Çiṣyalekhā mentioned above; the verse is lacking in the Tibetan version and I-Tsing may have made a slip. His contemporary seems to have been a Candradāsa, and to have dramatized the Viçvantara legend.

To Candaka is ascribed in the Subhāṣitāvali2 a fine verse of martial tone:

[169]

‘I go to battle, and I swear that my foes shall never see the backs of my steeds; for the rest, fate directs the destiny of the wavering fight; I promise nothing, but shall take defeat or victory as it pleases destiny.’ A verse of love is:3

‘Be gentle; show a little joy; lay aside thy anger; beloved, my limbs are dried up, let thy speech pour ambrosia upon them. Turn to me for a moment thy face, the abode of happiness; foolish one, time is an antelope which, gone, cannot be recalled.’ The other citations we have show skill both in tragic and erotic sentiment.

Candraka was evidently admired by the authorities on poetics; we find in the commentary on the Daçarūpa4 a verse, elsewhere ascribed to him, cited as an example where diverse sentiments blend but where one, that of coming parting of lovers, is predominant:

‘With one angry eye she gazes on the orb of the sun as it tarries on the horizon; with the other, dimmed by her tears, she looks on her soul’s beloved; thus the mate of the Cakravāka, feeling the approach at nightfall of separation from her dear one, expresses two emotions, even as a clever actress.’

Curiously enough we have no less than four stanzas of benediction ascribed to him, which illustrate a formal feature of the Sanskrit drama, the introduction of each play with one or more stanzas involving divine favour. The verses are interesting, not so much for the intrinsic merits of their poetry, which frankly are not great, but because of the curious manner in which Indian poetry treats its deities; the greatest of gods nevertheless in his sportive moods is yet made the prototype of the human lover:5 [170]

‘Smiling, the daughter of the mountain wrought into one a digit fallen from the moon and a bracelet broken in a love quarrel, and said to her lord, “Behold my work”. May he, Çiva, protect you, and the lady of the mountain, and that moon of dalliance all covered with bites and rays.’

‘O mother.—My life.—What is it that my father guards so carefully in the palm of his hand?—Dear one, it is a sweet fruit.—He will not give me it.—Go thyself and take it.—Thus urged by his mother, Guha seizes the closed hands of his sire as he adores the Twilight and drags them apart; Çiva, angry at the interruption of his devotion, stays his wrath at sight of his son and laughs: may that laughter protect you.’6

Three dramas, as well as some minor poetry, have come down to us under the name of Harṣa, unquestionably the king of Sthāṇvīçvara and Kanyakubja, who reigned from about A.D. 606 to 648,7 the patron of Bāṇa who celebrates him in the Harṣacarita and of the Chinese pilgrim Hiuan-Tsang who is our most valuable source of information on his reign. That the three plays are by one and the same hand is made certain in part by the common ascription in a verse in the prologue mentioning Harṣa as an accomplished poet, partly by the recurrence of two verses in the Priyadarçikā and the Nāgānanda and of one in the former play and the Ratnāvalī, and above all by the absolute similarity of style and tone in the three works, which renders any effort to [171]dissociate them wholly impossible. The question of their actual authorship was raised in antiquity; for, while Mammaṭa in his Kāvyaprakāça8 merely refers to the gift of gold to Bāṇa—or Dhāvaka in some manuscripts—by Harṣa, the commentators explain this of the Ratnāvalī, which was passed off in Harṣa’s name. This is, however, not in any way borne out by early tradition; I-Tsing9 clearly refers to the dramatization of the subject of the Nāgānanda by Harṣa and its performance, and in the Kuṭṭanīmata10 of Dāmodaragupta, who lived under Jayāpīḍa of Kashmir (A.D. 779–813), a performance of the Ratnāvalī, ascribed to a king, is mentioned. The ascription to Bāṇa has nothing even plausible in it, so disparate are the styles of the dramas and the Harṣacarita, and we have the option of believing that Harṣa wrote them himself with such aid as his Paṇḍits might give, or of accepting them as the work of some unknown dramatist, who allowed the king to claim the credit for them.

The Ratnāvalī and the Priyadarçikā are closely connected both in subject-matter and form; they are Nāṭikās, each in four Acts; their common hero is Udayana, whom Bhāsa already celebrated, and the common theme one of his numerous amourettes. The Ratnāvalī,11 in special, has found favour in the text-books of the drama, and has served to illustrate the technical rules.

The ubiquitous Yaugandharāyaṇa, insatiable in seeking his master’s welfare, has planned marriage for him with the daughter of the king of Ceylon, but to attain this end has been difficult; to avoid vexing the queen Vāsavadattā, he has kept her in the dark, and has spread a rumour which he has had conveyed by Bābhravya, the king’s chamberlain, of the death of Vāsavadattā in a fire at Lāvāṇaka. The king of Ceylon then yields the hand of his daughter, and dispatches her in the care of the chamberlain and his minister Vasubhūti to Vatsa, but, wrecked at sea, she is rescued by a merchant of Kauçāmbī, taken there, and handed [172]over to Vāsavadattā who, seeing her beauty, decides to keep her from contact with her inconstant spouse. But fate is adverse; at the spring festival which she celebrates with Vatsa, Sāgarikā, as the princess is called from her rescue from the sea, appears in the queen’s train; hastily sent away, she lingers concealed, watches the ceremony of the worship of the god Kāma, thinking Vatsa is the god in bodily presence, but is undeceived by the eulogy of the herald announcing the advent of evening. In Act II Sāgarikā is presented with her friend Susaṁgatā; she has depicted the prince on a canvas, and Susaṁgatā in raillery adds her beside him; she admits her love, but the confidence is broken by the alarm created by the escape of a monkey from the stables. In its mad rush it breaks the cage in Sāgarikā’s keeping, and the parrot escapes. The king and the Vidūṣaka enter the grove where the bird is, hear it repeat the maidens’ talk, and find the picture. The maidens returning for the picture overhear the confidences of the king and the Vidūṣaka, until Susaṁgatā sallies out and brings the lovers face to face. Their meeting is cut short by the advent of the queen, who sees the picture, realizes the position, and departs without manifesting the deep anger which she feels and which the king vainly seeks to assuage. In Act III the Vidūṣaka proves to have devised a scheme to secure a meeting of the lovers; Sāgarikā dressed as the queen and Susaṁgatā as her attendant are to meet Vatsa, but the plot is overheard, and it is Vāsavadattā herself who keeps the rendezvous; she listens to Vatsa’s declarations of love, and then bitterly reproaches him, rejecting his attempts to excuse himself. Sāgarikā, who had come on the scene too late, hears the king’s plight; weary, she ties a noose to her neck, when she is saved by the advent of the Vidūṣaka and the king, who naturally mistakes her for Vāsavadattā whom he fears his cruelty has driven to suicide. He joyously recognizes his error, but the queen, who, ashamed of her anger, has returned to make friends with her husband, finds the lovers united, and in violent anger carries off the maiden and the Vidūṣaka captive. But in Act IV we find the Vidūṣaka released and forgiven, but Sāgarikā in some prison, the king helpless to aid her. Good news, however, arrives; the general Rumaṇvant has won a victory over the Kosalas and slain the king. A magician enters and is allowed to display his art, [173]but the spectacle is interrupted by the advent of Vasubhūti and Bābhravya, who also have escaped the shipwreck. They tell their tale of disaster, when another interruption occurs; the harem is on fire; Vāsavadattā, shocked, reveals that Sāgarikā is there; Vatsa rushes to aid her, and emerges with her in chains, for the fire has been no more than a device of the magician. Bābhravya and Vasubhūti recognize in Sāgarikā the princess, and Yaugandharāyaṇa arrives to confess his management of the whole plot and the magician’s device. Vāsavadattā gladly gives the king to Ratnāvalī, since her husband will thus be lord of the earth, and Ratnāvalī is her full cousin.

The Priyadarçikā12 introduces us in a speech by his chamberlain, Vinayavasu, to the king Dṛḍhavarman, whose daughter is destined for wedlock with Vatsa despite the demand for her hand made by the king of Kalin̄ga, who revenges himself during Vatsa’s imprisonment at the court of Pradyota by attacking and driving away Dṛḍhavarman. The maid is carried away by the chamberlain and is received and sheltered by Vindhyaketu, her father’s ally, but he offends Vatsa, is attacked and killed by his general Vijayasena, who brings back as part of the booty the unlucky Priyadarçikā; the king allots her to the harem as attendant on Vāsavadattā with the name Āraṇyikā (Āraṇyakā). In Act II we find the king, who has fallen in love with the maiden, seeking to distract himself with his Vidūṣaka. Āraṇyikā enters, to pluck lotuses, with her friend; she tells her love, which the king overhears; a bee attacks her when her friend leaves her, and in her confusion she runs into the arms of the king. Vatsa rescues her, but retires when her confidante returns. Act III tells that the aged confidante of the queen, Sāṁkṛtyāyanī, has composed a play on the marriage of Vatsa and Vāsavadattā which the queen is to see performed; the rôle of queen is to be played by Āraṇyikā, and Manoramā is to act the part of king, but she and the Vidūṣaka have arranged to let the king take the part. The performance causes anxiety to the queen, so ardent is the love-making, though Sāṁkṛtyāyanī reminds her it is but play-making; she leaves the hall, and finds the Vidūṣaka asleep; rudely wakened, he lets out the secret and the queen refuses to listen to Vatsa’s lame excuses. Act IV reveals Āraṇyikā in [174]prison, the king in despair, and the queen in sorrow, as she has learned from a letter from her mother that Dṛḍhavarman, her aunt’s husband, is in bondage, needing Vatsa’s aid. But Vijayasena brings news of the defeat of the Kalin̄ga king and the re-establishment of Dṛḍhavarman, and the chamberlain of the latter brings his thanks, his one sorrow being his daughter’s loss. Manoramā enters in terror; Āraṇyikā has poisoned herself, Vāsavadattā, filled with remorse, has her fetched, as Vatsa can cure her; the chamberlain recognizes his princess, Vatsa’s magic arts bring her back to consciousness, and Vāsavadattā recognizes in her her cousin, and grants her hand to the king.

The Nāgānanda13 performed at a festival of Indra, perhaps in the autumn, differs from these dramas in its form, for it is a Nāṭaka in five Acts, and in its inspiration; those are variants by Harṣa on the theme of Vatsa’s loves, this is the dramatization of a Buddhist legend, the self-sacrifice of Jīmūtavāhana, which was told in the Bṛhatkathā, whence it appears in the later versions of that text14 and in the Vetālapañcaviṅçati.15 Jīmūtavāhana is a prince of the Vidyādharas, who has induced his father to resign his kingship, and give himself up to a life of calm; he has made the acquaintance of Mitrāvasu, the prince of the Siddhas, who has a sister. She has had a dream in which Gaurī has revealed to her her future husband, and Jīmūtavāhana hidden behind a thicket overhears her confiding this dream to her friend; the Vidūṣaka forces a meeting on the timid lovers, who shyly confess their affection, when an ascetic from the hermitage arrives to take the maiden away. In Act II Malayavatī is love-sick, resting on a stone seat in the garden; a sound makes her move away, when the king enters, equally oppressed, declares his love and paints his fancy. Mitrāvasu comes to offer him his sister’s hand; the king declines it, ignorant of whom he loves; she deems herself disdained and seeks to hang herself, but her friends rescue her and call for aid. Jīmūtavāhana appears, and proves that she is his love by showing the picture. The two exchange vows, and the marriage is concluded. In Act III, after a comic interlude, we find them walking in the park in happiness; Jīmūtavāhana is [175]apprised of the seizure of his kingdom, but accepts the news gladly. But the last two Acts change the topic. While strolling with Mitrāvasu one day, Jīmūtavāhana sees a heap of bones and learns that they are the bones of serpents daily offered to the divine bird Garuḍa; he resolves to save the lives of the serpents at the cost of his own, gets rid of Mitrāvasu, and goes to the place of offering. He hears the sobs of the mother of Çan̄khacūḍa, whose son is about to be offered, consoles her by offering himself in ransom, but is refused with admiration for his gallantry. But, when the two have entered the temple to pray before the offering, he gives himself to Garuḍa as substitute and is borne away. The last Act opens with the anxiety of the parents of Jīmūtavāhana, to whom and his wife is borne a jewel fallen from his crown; Çan̄khacūḍa, also, emerged from the temple, finds the sacrifice made and reveals to Garuḍa his crime. It is too late; the hero expires as his parents arrive. Garuḍa is ashamed, and Gaurī appears to cut the knot, revive the prince, and re-establish him in his realm, in order to keep faith with Malayavatī; by a shower of ambrosia the snakes slain by Garuḍa revive, and he promises to forego his cruel revenge.

Comparison with Kālidāsa is doubtless the cause why Harṣa has tended to receive less praise than is due to his dramas. The originality of his Nāṭikās is not perhaps great, but he has effectively devised the plot in both; the action moves smoothly and in either play there is ingenuity. The scene of the magician’s activity in the Ratnāvalī is depicted with humour and vivacity; the parrot’s escape and its chatter are sketched with piquancy, and the exchange of costumes in the Ratnāvalī is natural and effective. The double comedy in the Priyadarçikā is a happy thought, the intrigue in Act IV is neatly conducted, so as to show us Vāsavadattā in the light of an affectionate niece, and the scene with the bee is attractive. It is true that the plays are full of reminiscences of the Mālavikāgnimitra, such as the escape in the Ratnāvalī of the monkey, and the monkey that there frightens the little princess while Sāṁkṛtyāyanī is Kauçikī revived. But in this artificial comedy elegance is sought, not [176]originality,16 and Harṣa is a clever borrower. The similarity of development of both plays is perhaps more to be condemned; they are too obviously variations of one theme.

The dominant emotion in either is love of the type which appertains to a noble and gay (dhīralalita) hero, who is always courteous, whose loves, that is to say, mean very little to him, and who does not forget to assure the old love of his devotion while playing with the new. This is a different aspect of Vatsa’s character from that displayed by Bhāsa, and admittedly a much inferior one. Vāsavadattā suffers equal deterioration, for she is no longer the wife who sacrifices herself for her husband’s good; she is rather a jealous, though noble and kind-hearted woman, whose love for her husband makes her resent too deeply his inconstancy. The heroines are ingénues with nothing but good looks and willingness to be loved by the king, whom they know, though he does not, to be destined by their fathers as their husband. In neither case is any adequate reason17 suggested for the failure to declare themselves in their true character, unless we are to assume that they would not, in the absence of sponsors, have been believed. Susaṁgatā, the friend of the heroine in the Ratnāvalī, is a pleasant, merry girl who makes excellent fun of her mistress. The Vidūṣaka18 in both plays is typical in his greediness, but his figure lacks comic force; he is, however, a pleasant enough character, for his love for his master is genuine; he is prepared to die with him in the Ratnāvalī, though he thinks his action in rushing into the fire quixotic. The magician is an amusing and clever sketch of great pretensions allied to some juggling skill.

The Nāgānanda reveals Harṣa in a new light in the last two Acts. His liking for the marvellous is exhibited indeed in the last Acts of both the Nāṭikās in accord with the theory, but it has a far wider scope in the Nāgānanda, where the supernatural freely appears, and, though the drama be Buddhist in inspiration, Gaurī is introduced to solve the difficulty of restoring [177]Jīmūtavāhana. Harṣa here rises to the task of depicting the emotions of self-sacrifice, charity, magnanimity, and resolution in the face of death; Jīmūtavāhana, however bizarre his setting, is one of the ideals of Buddhism, a man seized with the conviction that to sacrifice oneself for others is the highest duty. Çan̄khacūḍa and his mother too appear as noble in character, far superior to the savage Garuḍa. There is, it must be admitted, a decided lack of harmony between the two distinct parts of the drama, but the total effect is far from unsuccessful. Perhaps as a counterpoise to the seriousness of the last part, Harṣa has introduced effective comedy in Act III. The Vidūṣaka, Ātreya, is hideous and stupid; as he lies sleeping, covered by a mantle to protect him from the bees, the Viṭa, Çekharaka, sees him, mistakes him for his inamorata, embraces him and fondles him. Navamālikā enters, and, indignant, the Viṭa makes the Vidūṣaka, though a Brahmin, bow before her and drink alcohol. A little later Navamālikā makes fun of him before the newly married couple by painting his face with Tamūla juice.

Harṣa is fond of descriptions in the approved manner; the evening, midday, the park, the hermitage, the gardens, the fountain, the marriage festival, the hour for the bath, the mountain Malaya, the forest, the palace, are among the ordinary themes beloved in the Kāvya. In imagination and grace he is certainly inferior to Kālidāsa, but he possesses the great merit of simplicity of expression and thought; his Sanskrit is classical, and precise; his use of figures of speech and thought restrained and in good taste. There is fire in his description of a battle:19

‘Heads were cleft by the blows of swords on helmets sore smitten; blood flowed in torrents, fire flashed from the ringing strokes; when his main host had been broken, Rumaṇvant challenged in the forefront of the battle the lord of Kosala, who rode on a maddened elephant, and alone slew him with a hundred arrows.’ The matching of the sound to the sense [178]is admirable, while a delicate perception is evinced in the line describing the king’s success in soothing the wounded queen:20

‘It was not so much by my false oaths of devotion, my loving words, my coaxing, my depths of dejection, and falling at her feet, or the advice of her friends, that the queen was appeased as that her anger was wiped away by the cleansing water of her own bitter tears.’ Pretty, if not appropriate, is the king’s address to the fire:21

‘Stay, stay, fire; cease thy constant smoke; why dost thou raise aloft thy circle of flames? What canst thou avail against me, whom the fire of severance from my beloved, fierce as the flame that shall consume the universe, could not consume?’ There is excellent taste and propriety in Vatsa’s address to the dead Kosala king:22 mṛtyur api te çlāghyo yasya çatravo ’py evaṁ puruṣakāraṁ varṇayanti. ‘Even death for thee is glorious when even thy foes must thus depict thy manly prowess.’ Such a phrase may reveal to us the true Harṣa himself, the winner of many victories, and the hero of one great disaster.

The Nāgānanda strikes varied notes; there is fire and enthusiasm in the assurances which Mitrāvasu gives the prince of the swift overthrow of his enemy, Matan̄ga, at the hands of his faithful Siddhas, will he but give the word:23

‘With their chariots, meeting together and o’erspreading the whole surface of the sky as they speed along, darkening the day [179]as when the sun’s rays are hidden in the rain, my Siddhas await but the bidding to fare forthwith hence to the battle; but say the word and thy haughty foe shall fall, and thy kingdom be restored to thee, while the princes bow before thee in fear of his fate.’

Jīmūtavāhana, however, has other views of his duty:24

‘Gladly, unasked, would I give my own life for another in compassion; how then could I consent to the cruel slaughter of men merely to win a realm?’ The saying is essential to the drama, for it leads immediately to the determination of the prince to sacrifice himself for the Nāga.

There is dignity and force in the admonition addressed by the dying hero to the repentant Garuḍa who begs him to command him:25

‘Cease for ever from taking life; repent of thy past misdeeds; eagerly accumulate a store of merit, freeing all creatures from fear of thee, so that, lost in the infinite stream of thy goodness, the sin of slaying creatures, in number limited, may cease to fructify, even as a morsel of salt cast in the unfathomable depths of a great lake.’

Though Buddhist the drama, the benediction is enough to show how effectively the spirit of the Nāṭikā has been introduced into the legend:26

‘ “Feigned is thy trance; of what fair one dost thou think? Open thine eyes for a moment and gaze on us whom love doth [180]drive mad. Protector art thou; save thou us. False is thy compassion; could there be any man more pitiless than thou?” May he, whom Māra’s beauties thus addressed, the Buddha, the conqueror, protect you.’

But Harṣa’s chief merit is undoubtedly shown in erotic verses as in the description of the shyness of the new-made bride in the Nāgānanda:28

‘Looked at, she casts down her face; addressed, she gives no reply; with head averted she lies on the couch; forcibly embraced, she trembles; when her maidens leave her chamber, she seeks also to depart; perverse though she be, my new-wed love delights me more and more.’ The accuracy of the aim of love as an archer is described in the Ratnāvalī:29

‘Mind is naturally mobile and hard to find; nevertheless mine has been pierced by love at once with all his darts.’ In entire harmony with Indian taste Harṣa dwells on the points of physical perfection in the adored one in the Nāgānanda:30

‘The burden of thy bosom serves to weary thy waist; why then add the weight of thy necklace? Thy thighs are wearied by the bearing of thy hips; why then thy girdle of bells? Thy feet can barely carry the load of thy thighs; why add thine anklets? When in every limb thou dost possess such grace, why dost thou wear ornaments to thy weariness?’ Harṣa is also capable of expressing a deeper side of love, as when the king in the Ratnāvalī31 fancies that Vāsavadattā has been driven to suicide by his faithlessness: [181]

‘My beloved, whose love for me waxed daily because of my affection and respect, has seen my falsity which she has never known before, and now assuredly she seeks to lay life aside in despair; for unendurable is a wrong against a noble love.’

Harṣa’s Sanskrit is of the usual classical type, eschewing any deviation from the beaten paths, and his Prākrits, mainly Çaurasenī with Māhārāṣṭrī in the verses, offer nothing of special interest, beyond evidence of his careful study of Prākrit grammar.32

His use of metrical forms, on the other hand, marks the tendency to reject the simplicity of the earlier dramatists, and to insist on the use of the more elaborate metres, which in themselves are wholly undramatic, but give a much wider range of opportunity for the exhibition of merits of description. Harṣa’s favourite is the Çārdūlavikrīḍita, which occurs 23 times in the Ratnāvalī, 20 times in the Priyadarçikā, and 30 times in the Nāgānanda; the Sragdharā takes second place with 11, 8, and 17 occurrences. The Çloka occurs in the Ratnāvalī (9) and the Nāgānanda (24), the frequency in the latter being due to the more epic character of the piece; its absence from the Priyadarçikā is marked. The Āryā occurs 9 times each in the Nāṭikās, and 16 times in the Nāgānanda. The Priyadarçikā suggests by its content immaturity, and its poverty in metres supports this view; it has but seven in all, including Indravajrā, Vasantatilaka (6), Mālinī, and Çikhariṇī. The Nāgānanda has also Çālinī and Hariṇī, in common with the Ratnāvalī, and Drutavilambita, while the Ratnāvalī adds Puṣpitāgrā, Pṛthvī, and Praharṣiṇī. That play has 5 Prākrit Āryās and 1 Gīti, the other two 3 Āryās apiece, while the Ratnāvalī contains a pretty pair of rhymed verses, each with Pādas of 12 morae. [182]

Bhavabhūti tells us in his prologues that he belonged to a family of Brahmins styled Udumbaras, of Padmapura, apparently in Vidarbha, who were of the Kāçyapa Gotra and followed the Taittirīya school of the Black Yajurveda. His full name was Çrīkaṇṭha Nīlakaṇṭha, son of Nīlakaṇṭha and Jātūkarṇī, grandson of Bhaṭṭa Gopāla, fifth in descent from Mahākavi, a Vājapeya sacrificer, famed for his scholarship. He was skilled in grammar, rhetoric, and logic, or perhaps in grammar, logic, and Mīmāṅsā,1 if we may believe the legend that he was a pupil of Kumārila preserved in one manuscript of the Mālatīmādhava, which complicates the matter by styling the author also Umvekācārya, a commentator on Kumārila’s works. As he expressly mentions his knowledge of the Vedas, the Upaniṣads, Sāṁkhya and Yoga, and gives Jñānanidhi as his teacher, we may probably discard this suggestion. The whole three of his plays were performed for the feast of the Lord Kālapriya, who is normally identified with Mahākāla of Ujjayinī, though the scene of the Mālatīmādhava is laid in Padmāvatī. We may conjecture, therefore, that he left his home and proceeded to Ujjayinī or Padmāvatī in search of fortune. From the silence in his dramas on any good luck, it is strange to find that Kalhaṇa in the Rājataran̄giṇī2 expressly asserted that he was a member of the entourage of Yaçovarman of Kanyakubja, who was defeated by Muktāpīḍa Lalitāditya of Kashmir, not earlier, probably, than A.D. 736. A further indication of date is afforded by the [187]reference in Vākpati’s Gaüḍavaha3 to Bhavabhūti’s ocean of poetry; the poem is a prelude to a description in Prākrit of Yaçovarman’s defeat of a Gauḍa king, and, as it seems never to have been finished, it presumably was interrupted by the king’s own defeat. We must, therefore, place Bhavabhūti somewhere about A.D. 700. The silence of Bāṇa regarding him suggests that he was not known to him, while it is certain that he knew Kālidāsa; the first writer on poetics to cite him is Vāmana.4 Verses not in our extant dramas are ascribed to him, so he may have written other works than the three dramas, two Nāṭakas on the Rāma legend and a Prakaraṇa, which we have. His friendship with actors is a trait to which he himself refers, and efforts have been made to trace in his works evidence of revision for stage purposes.

Perhaps the earliest of the works is the Mahāvīracarita, but the evidence for this is uncertain, and there is no reason to assign it definitely to an earlier date than the Mālatīmādhava; both antedate, perhaps considerably, the Uttararāmacarita. The Mālatīmādhava,5 as a Prakaraṇa, should have a plot invented by the author, and this is true to the extent that the combination of elements which make up the intrigue is clearly the poet’s, though the main motif of the story and the chief episodes can all be paralleled in the Kathā literature even as we have it.

Bhūrivasu, minister of the king of Padmāvatī, has asked an old friend, now turned nun, Kāmandakī, to arrange a marriage between his daughter, Mālatī, and Mādhava, son of an old friend Devarāta, minister of the king of Vidarbha, who has sent his son to Padmāvatī, mainly in the hope that Bhūrivasu would remember a compact of their student days to marry their children to each other. The obstacle in the way is the desire of [188]Nandana, the king’s boon companion (narmasuhṛd), to wed Mālatī with the king’s approval. Kāmandakī, therefore, decides to arrange the meeting of the young people and their marriage, so as to be able to present the king with a fait accompli. Both hero and heroine have friends, Makaranda and Madayantikā, sister of Nandana, and, after Acts I and II have made the main lovers sufficiently enamoured, in Act III, when the lovers are meeting in a temple of Çiva, Madayantikā is in danger of death from an escaped tiger, and is rescued by Makaranda, not without injury. These two then are deeply in love. But Act IV shows us the king resolved on the mating of Mālatī and Nandana; Mādhava, despairing of success through Kāmandakī’s aid alone, decides to win the favour of the ghouls of the cemetery by an offering of fresh flesh; this leads him in Act V to a great adventure, for on his ghastly errand he hears cries from a temple near by, and rushes in just in time to save Mālatī whom the priest Aghoraghaṇṭa and his acolyte Kapālakuṇḍalā were about to offer in sacrifice to the goddess Cāmuṇḍā. He slays Aghoraghaṇṭa. In Act VI Kapālakuṇḍalā swears revenge, but for the moment all goes well; Mālatī is to wed Nandana, but by a clever stratagem Makaranda takes her place at the temple where she goes to worship before her marriage, and, while Mādhava and Mālatī flee, Makaranda is led home as a bride. In Act VII we hear how poor Nandana has been repulsed by his bride; Madayantikā comes to rebuke her sister-in-law, finds her lover, and elopes. But they are pursued, as they make their way to rejoin their friends, and in Act VIII we learn that the fugitives were succoured by Mādhava and so splendidly routed their foes that the king, learning of it, gladly forgives the runaways. But in the tumult Mālatī has been stolen away by Kapālakuṇḍalā, and Act IX is devoted to Mādhava’s wild search with his friend to find her, which would have been fruitless, had not Saudāminī, a pupil of Kāmandakī, by good fortune come on Kapālakuṇḍalā and rescued her victim. A scene of lament at the beginning of Act X is interrupted by the return of the lovers, and the king approves the marriage.

The source of the Mahāvīracarita6 is very different; it is an [189]effort to describe the main story of the Rāmāyaṇa by the use of dialogue narrating the main events, but a deliberate bid for dramatic effect is made through treating the whole story as the feud of Rāvaṇa, and his plots to ruin Rāma. The motif is introduced in Act I; at Viçvāmitra’s hermitage Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa see and love Sītā and Ūrmilā, daughters of Janaka of Videha. Rāvaṇa, however, sends a messenger to demand Sītā’s hand in marriage, but Rāma defeats the demon Tāḍakā, and Viçvāmitra gives him celestial weapons, and summons Çiva’s bow, which, if he bends, he may have Sītā. The bow is broken and Rāvaṇa’s envoy departs in rage. In Act II Rāvaṇa’s minister Mālyavant plots with his sister Çūrpaṇakhā how to make good the defeat sustained; a letter from Paraçurāma suggests a means; they incite him to avenge the breaking of Çiva’s bow. Paraçurāma acts on the hint in his usual haughty pride; he arrives at Mithilā, insults Rāma and demands a conflict. In the next Act the exchange of insults continues; Vasiṣṭha, Viçvāmitra, Çatānanda, Janaka, and Daçaratha in vain seek to avoid a struggle between the youth and the savage Brahmin, slayer of his own mother and exterminator of Kṣatriyas, but they fail. Act IV reveals that Paraçurāma has been defeated, and has saluted with respect the victor; Mālyavant bethinks him of a new device, Çūrpaṇakhā will assume the dress of Mantharā, servant of Kaikeyī, Daçaratha’s favourite wife, and destroy the concord of the royal family. That family is in excellent spirits; Rāma is at Mithilā with his father-in-law when the supposed Mantharā appears, bearing an alleged letter from Kaikeyī asking him to secure Daçaratha’s fulfilment of two boons he had once granted her; these are the selection of her son Bharata as crown prince and Rāma’s banishment for fourteen years. Meanwhile Bharata and his uncle Yudhājit have asked Daçaratha to crown Rāma forthwith; he is only too willing, but Rāma arrives, reports the demands of Kaikeyī and insists on leaving for the forest, accompanied by Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, while Bharata is bidden remain, though he treats himself but as vicegerent. In Act V a dialogue between the aged vultures Jaṭāyu and Sampāti informs us of Rāma’s doings in the forest and destruction of demons; Sampāti is uneasy and bids Jaṭāyu guard Rāma well. Jaṭāyu fares on his duty, sees Sītā stolen by Rāvaṇa, and is slain in her defence. [190]We see Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa in mourning; they wander in the forest, save, and receive tidings from, an ascetic; Vibhīṣaṇa, brother of Rāvaṇa, exiled from Lan̄kā, wishes to meet them at Ṛṣyamukha where also are the jewels dropped by Sītā in her despair. Vālin, however, on the instigation of Mālyavant, seeks to forbid their entry; Rāma persists and slays his foe, who bids his brother Sugrīva lend his aid to Rāma’s search. In Act VI Mālyavant appears desolated by the failure of his plans; he hears of Hanumant’s setting Lan̄kā on fire. Rāvaṇa appears, doting on Sītā; in vain Mandodarī warns him of the advance of the enemy, but his disbelief is rudely dispelled; An̄gada bears terms of surrender of Sītā and humiliation before Lakṣmaṇa; he refuses, and seeks to punish the envoy, who escapes. He then goes out to battle, described at length by Indra and Citraratha, who, as divine, can watch it from the sky; Rāvaṇa performs feats of valour, but Hanumant revives with ambrosia Rāma and his comrades, and Rāvaṇa finally falls dead beside his gallant son, Meghanāda. In Act VII the cities Lan̄kā and Alakā, represented by their deities, exchange condolences; it is reported that Sītā has by the fire ordeal proved her chastity. The whole of Rāma’s party are now triumphant; an aerial journey carries them to the north, where they are welcomed by Rāma’s brothers and Daçaratha’s widows, and Viçvāmitra crowns Rāma.

The Uttararāmacarita7 is based on the last and late book of the Rāmāyaṇa. Janaka has departed; Sītā enceinte is sad and Rāma is consoling her. News is brought from Vasiṣṭha; he bids the king meet every wish of his wife, but rank first of all his duty to his people. Lakṣmaṇa reports that the painter, who has been depicting the scenes of their wanderings, has finished; they enter the gallery, and live over again their experiences, Rāma consoling Sītā for her cruel separation from her husband and friends; incidentally he prays the holy Gan̄gā to protect her and that the magic arms he has may pass spontaneously to his sons. Sītā, wearied, falls asleep. The Brahmin Durmukha, who has been sent to report on the feeling of the people, reveals that they doubt Sītā’s purity. Rāma has already promised Sītā to let her visit again the forest, scene of her wanderings; he now decides [191]that, when she has gone, she must not return, and the command is obeyed. Act II shows an ascetic Ātreyī in converse with the spirit of the woods, Vāsantī; we learn that Rāma is celebrating the horse sacrifice, and that Vālmīki is bringing up two fine boys entrusted to him by a goddess. Rāma enters, sword in hand, to slay an impious Çūdra Çambūka; slain, the latter, purified by this death, appears in spirit form and leads his benefactor to Agastya’s hermitage. In Act III two rivers Tamasā and Muralā converse; they tell us that Sītā abandoned would have killed herself but Gan̄gā preserved her, and entrusted her two sons, born in her sorrow, to Vālmīki to train. Then Sītā in a spirit form appears, unseen by mortals; she is permitted by Gan̄gā to revisit under Tamasā’s care the scenes of her youth. Rāma also appears. At the sight of the scene of their early love, both faint, but Sītā, recovering, touches unseen Rāma who recovers only to relapse and be revived again. Finally Sītā departs, leaving Rāma fainting.

The scene changes in Act IV to the hermitage of Janaka, retired from kingly duties; Kauçalyā, Rāma’s mother, meets him and both forget self in consoling each other. They are interrupted by the merry noises of the children of the hermitage; one especially is pre-eminent; questioned, he is Lava, who has a brother Kuça and who knows Rāma only from Vālmīki’s work. The horse from Rāma’s sacrifice approaches, guarded by soldiers. Lava joins his companions, but, unlike them, he is undaunted by the royal claim of sovereignty and decides to oppose it. Act V passes in an exchange of martial taunts between him and Candraketu, who guards the horse for Rāma, though each admires the other. In Act VI a Vidyādhara and his wife, flying in the air, describe the battle of the youthful heroes and the magic weapons they use. The arrival of Rāma interrupts the conflict. He admires Lava’s bravery, which Candraketu extols; he questions him, but finds that the magic weapons came to him spontaneously. Kuça enters from Bharata’s hermitage, whither he has carried Vālmīki’s poem to be dramatized. The father admires the two splendid youths, who are, though he knows it not, his own sons.

In Act VII all take part in a supernatural spectacle devised by Bharata and played by the Apsarases. Sītā’s fortunes after [192]her abandonment are depicted; she weeps and casts herself in the Bhāgīrathī; she reappears, supported by Pṛthivī, the earth goddess, and Gan̄gā, each carrying a new-born infant. Pṛthivī declaims against the harshness of Rāma, Gan̄gā excuses his acts; both ask Sītā to care for the children until they are old enough to hand over to Vālmīki, when she can act as she pleases. Rāma is carried away, he believes the scene real, now he intervenes in the dialogue, now he faints. Arundhatī suddenly appears with Sītā, who goes to her husband and brings him back to consciousness. The people acclaim the queen, and Vālmīki presents to them Rāma’s sons, Kuça and Lava.

Indian tradition asserts that of the Mahāvīracarita Bhavabhūti wrote only up to stanza 46 of Act V, the rest being completed by Subrahmaṇya Kavi; if this were to be taken as certain, it would be a sign that that drama was never completed, and so was the last work of the author, but the maturity of the Uttararāmacarita makes it clear that, whatever there may be of truth in the story, the incompleteness cannot have been due to lack of time.

It is difficult to doubt that Bhavabhūti must have been induced to write his Prakaraṇa in an effort to vie with the author of the Mṛcchakaṭikā. It is true that no such humour as lightens that drama is found in the Mālatīmādhava, but that was doubtless due to Bhavabhūti’s own temperament; conscious that he had no gift8 in that direction, he omitted boldly the part of the Vidūṣaka which he could clearly not have handled effectively. But in doing so he lessened greatly his resources, and has to select for his theme in lieu of comic relief incidents of the terrible and horrible type blended with the supernatural. The main love-story, with the episode of the two young lovers, whose desires are thwarted by interposition of a powerful suitor, and whose affairs are mixed up with those of two other lovers, both affections ending in elopements, occurs in the Kathāsaritsāgara,9 [193]and in that collection as elsewhere10 we find the motifs of the sacrifice of a maiden by a magician and the offering of flesh to the demons to obtain their aid. But the credit is due to Bhavabhūti of combining them in an effective enough whole, and of producing in Act V a spectacle at once horrible and exciting. He has also improved his authorities in detail; the escaped tiger replaces the more conventional elephant; and the intrigue is more effectually welded together by making Madayantikā the sister of Nandana, the king’s favourite. Further, he has introduced the machinery of Kāmandakī and her assistants Avalokitā and Saudāminī. This again is taken from the romance; Daṇḍin, as Brahmanical an author as Bhavabhūti himself, adopts Buddhist nuns as go-betweens, and Kāmandakī’s offices are perfectly honourable; she merely undertakes, at the request of the parents, to subtract Mālatī from marriage with one unworthy of her and not her father’s choice. The influence of Kālidāsa explains Act IX, which is a manifest effort to rival Act IV of the Vikramorvaçī, which it excels in tragic pathos, if it is inferior to it in grace and charm. The same Act has a flagrant imitation of the Meghadūta in Mādhava’s idea of sending a cloud message to his lost love, and is full of verbal reminiscences of that text.

The plot, however interesting, is extremely badly knit together; the action is dependent to an absurd degree on accident; Mālatī twice on the verge of death is twice saved by mere chance. Moreover, the characters live apart from all contact with real life; they are in a city like the characters of the Mṛcchakaṭikā, but seem to exist in a world of their own in which the escape of tigers and the abduction of maidens with murderous intent cause no surprise. There is little individuality in hero or heroine, though the shy modesty of the latter contrasts with the boldness of Madayantikā, who flings herself at Makaranda’s head. A friend of Mādhava, Kalahaṅsa, is asserted later11 to be a Viṭa, but has nothing characteristic, and probably the assertion is without ground.

The Mahāvīracarita lacks the novelty of the Mālatīmādhava, [194]but Bhavabhūti’s effort to give some unity to the plot is commendable, though it is unsuccessful. The fatal error, of course, is the narration of events in long speeches in lieu of action. The conversations of Mālyavant and Çūrpaṇakhā, of Jaṭāyu and Sampāti, of Indra and Citraratha, and of Alakā and Lan̄kā are wholly undramatic; the word-painting of the places of their adventures, as seen from the aerial car on the return home, has not the slightest conceivable right to a place in drama. The elaborate exchange of passionate and grandiose defiances between Rāma and Paraçurāma which drags through two Acts does credit to the rhetorical powers of the dramatist, but is wearisome and a mere hindrance to the action. On the other hand, the scene where Bharata determines to act as vicegerent and that between Vālin and Sugrīva are effective, while with excellent taste Vālin is made an enemy, who opposes Rāma under bad advice, and the treachery and fraternal strife of the Rāmāyaṇa disappear for good. The characterization is feeble; Rāma and Sītā are tediously of one pattern without shadow on their virtue, and neither Mālyavant nor Rāvaṇa surpasses mediocrity.

The Uttararāmacarita reaches no higher level as a drama; he has a period of twelve years to cover, as he had fourteen in the Mahāvīracarita, and to produce effective unity would be hard for any author; Bhavabhūti has made no serious effort to this end; he has contented himself with imagining a series of striking pictures. The first Act is admirably managed; the tragic irony of Sītā’s gazing on the pictures of a sorrow over for good just on the verge of an even crueller fate, and of asking for a visit to see the old scenes of her unhappiness as well as her joy, which affords the king the means of immediately abandoning her, is perfectly brought out. Yet excuses are made for the king; it is the voice of duty that he hears; his counsellors who might have stayed his rash act are away. The scene in Act III, when Sītā sees and forgives her spouse, is admirable in its delicacy of the portrayal of her gradual but generous surrender to the proof that, though harsh, he deeply loved her. Lava again is a fine study in his pride, followed by submission to the great king when approached with courtesy, but the Vidyādhara’s tale of the use of the magic weapons, doubtless an effort to vie with Bhāravi’s Kirātārjunīya, is ineffective. The last Act, however, reveals [195]Bhavabhūti at his best; the plain tale of the Rāmāyaṇa makes Kuça and Lava recite the story of the Rāmāyaṇa at a sacrifice and be recognized by their father; here a supernatural drama with goddesses as actors leads insensibly to a happy ending, for Bhavabhūti again defies tradition to attain the end, without which the drama would be defective even in our eyes. Sītā and Rāma are splendidly characterized; the one in his greatness of power and nobility of spirit, the other ethereal and spiritual, removed from the gross things of earth. Janaka and Kauçalyā are effectively drawn; their condolences have the accent of sincerity, but the other characters—there are twenty-four in all—present nothing of note. It was not within Bhavabhūti’s narrow range to create figures on a generous scale; in his other dramas they are reduced to the minimum necessary for the action.

As a poem the merits of the Uttararāmacarita are patent and undeniable. The temper of Bhavabhūti was akin to the grand and the inspiring in nature and life; the play blends the martial fervour of Rāma and his gallant son with the haunting pathos of the fate of the deserted queen, and the forests, the mountains, the rivers in the first three Acts afford abundant opportunity for his great ability in depicting the rugged as well as the tender elements of nature; what is awe-inspiring and magnificent in its grandeur has an attraction for Bhavabhūti, which is not shown in the more limited love of nature in Kālidāsa. He excels Kālidāsa also in the last Act, for the reunion of Sītā and Rāma has a depth of sentiment, not evoked by the tamer picture of the meeting of Duḥṣanta and Çakuntalā; both Rāma and Sītā are creatures of more vital life and deeper experience than the king and his woodland love.

We find, in fact, in Bhavabhūti, in a degree unknown to Kālidāsa, child of fortune, to whom life appeared as an ordered joyous whole, the sense of the mystery of things; ‘what brings things together’, he says, ‘is some mysterious inward tie; it is certainly not upon outward circumstances that affection rests’.12 Self-sacrifice is a reality to Bhavabhūti; Rāma is prepared to abandon without a pang affection, compassion, and felicity, nay Sītā herself, for the sake of his people,13 and he acts up to his resolve. Friendship is to him sacred; to guard a friend’s interests [196]at the cost of one’s own, to avoid in dealings with him all malice and guile, and to strive for his weal as if for one’s own is the essential mark of true friendship.14 Admirable also is his conception of love, far nobler than that normal in Indian literature; it is the same in happiness and sorrow, adapted to every circumstance of life, in which the heart finds solace, unspoiled by age, mellowing and becoming more valuable as in course of time reserve dies away, a supreme blessing attained only by those that are fortunate and after long toil.15 The child completes the union; it ties in a common knot of union the strands of its parents’ hearts.16 Bhavabhūti was clearly a solitary soul; this is attested by the prologue of the Mālatīmādhava:

‘Those that disparage me know little; for them my effort is not made; there will or does exist some one with like nature to mine, for time is boundless and the earth is wide.’ Yet we may sympathize with those who felt17 that his art was unfit for the stage, for Bhavabhūti’s style has many demerits in addition to the defects of his technique.

Bhavabhūti in fact proclaims here as his own merit richness and elevation of expression (prauḍhatvam udāratā ca vacasām) and depth of meaning, and we must admit that he has no small grounds for his claims. The depth of thought and grandeur which can be admitted in the case of Bhavabhūti must be measured by Indian standards, and be understood subject to the grave limitations which are imposed on any Brahmanical speculation as to existence by the orthodoxy which is as apparent in Bhavabhūti as it is in the lighter-hearted Kālidāsa. When, therefore, we are told18 that ‘with reference to Kālidāsa he holds a position such as Aeschylus holds with reference to Euripides’, we must not take too seriously the comparison. No poet, in fact, suggests less readily comparison with Euripides than does Kālidāsa. He has nothing whatever of the questioning mind of the [197]Greek dramatist, contemporary of the Sophists, and eager inquirer into the validity of all established conventions. In style again he aims at a level of perfection of achievement, which was neither sought nor attained by Euripides. Unquestionably, if any parallel were worth making, Kālidāsa would fall to be ranked as the Sophokles of the Indian drama, for as far as any Indian poet could, ‘he saw life steadily and saw it whole’, and was free from the vain questionings which vexed the soul of Euripides. Bhavabhūti again cannot seriously be compared with Aischylos, for he accepted without question the Brahmanical conceptions of world order, unlike the great Athenian who sought to interpret for himself the fundamental facts of existence, and who found for them no solution in popular belief or traditional religion. There can, moreover, be no greater contrast in style than that between the simple strength of Aischylos, despite his power of brilliant imagery,19 and the over-elaboration and exaggeration of Bhavabhūti. The distinction between Kālidāsa and his successor is of a different kind. Both accepted the traditional order, but Kālidāsa, enjoying, we may feel assured, a full measure of prosperity in the golden age of India under the Gupta empire, viewed with a determined optimism all that passed before him in life, in strange contrast to the bitterness of the denunciations of existence which Buddhism, then losing ground, has set forth as its contribution to the problems of life. Bhavabhūti, on his part, recognized with a truer insight, sharpened perhaps by the obvious inferiority of his fortunes and failure to enjoy substantial royal favour, the difficulties and sorrows of life; his theme is not the joys of a pleasure-loving great king or the vicissitudes of a Purūravas, too distant from humanity to touch our own life, but the bitter woes of Rāma and Sītā, who have for us the reality of manhood and womanhood, as many a touch reminds us:20

‘As slowly and gently, cheek pressed against cheek, we whispered soft nothings, each clasping the other with warm embrace, the night, whose watches had sped unnoticed, came to an end.’ [198]

As regards the formal side of Bhavabhūti’s style we must unquestionably admit his power of expression, which is displayed equally in all three dramas. To modern taste Bhavabhūti is most attractive when he is simple and natural, as he can be when it pleases him. Thus in Act VI of the Mālatīmādhava we have a pretty expression of Mādhava’s joy at the words of love of him uttered by Mālatī when she has no idea of his presence near her:

‘Fortune has favoured me, for I have heard the nectar of her words that make to bloom again the faded flower of my life, delightful, disturbing every sense, causing gladness, sole elixir for my heart.’ The deliberate rhyming effect is as appropriate as it is uncommon in such elaboration, and it is characteristic that the same effect is shortly afterwards repeated. Effective simplicity and directness also characterize the speech, in Sanskrit contrary to the usual rule, of Buddharakṣitā in Act VII, when she clinches the argument in favour of the elopement of Madayantikā and Makaranda:

‘Here is thy beloved, on whom a thousand times thy hopes have rested; in the minister’s palace the men are asleep or drunken; impenetrable is the darkness; be grateful and show thy favour; come, let us silence our jewelled anklets by laying them aside, and depart hence.’ Equally effective is the expression of the admirable advice tendered to Mādhava and Mālatī at the moment when Kāmandakī has succeeded in securing their union:

‘Know, my dear children, that to a wife her husband and to a husband his lawful wife are, each to each, the dearest of friends, the sum total of relationships, the completeness of desire, the [199]perfection of treasures, even life itself.’ Pretty again are the terms in which Kāmandakī laments Mālatī in Act X when she learns of her disappearance:

‘My body is aflame and my heart torn in sunder by the memory of thy childish movements which grew more delightful every hour from thy birth, and of the beauty and sweetness of thy loving words.’

It is, therefore, the more to be regretted that Bhavabhūti was not content with simplicity, but is often too fond of elaborate and overloaded descriptions, which are fatally lacking in simplicity and intelligibility and can be fully comprehended only after careful study and examination. We must, however, it is clear, admit that Bhavabhūti definitely improved in taste as the years went on. The latest of his dramas, the Uttararāmacarita, is far less obnoxious to criticism for defects of judgement than the Mālatīmādhava, which may be set down as an adventure in a genre unsuited to the poet’s talent. There is an admirable touch in the scene in Act I of the play where Sītā, wearied, falls to rest on the pillow of Rāma’s arm, that arm which no other woman can claim and which has ever lulled her to sleep, and he gazes on her in fond admiration:21

‘She is Fortune herself in my home; she is a pencil of ambrosia for the eyes; her touch here on my body is as fragrant as sandal juice; her arm round my neck is cool and soft as a necklace of pearls; what in her is there that is not dear, save only the misery of separation from her?’ Scarcely are the words said than the attendant enters with the word, ‘It has come’, which on her lips is to announce the advent of the spy whose report is to lead to Sītā’s banishment, while the audience, following the words, applies it at once to the separation which Rāma was deploring, [200]and which to him was the parting in the past when Rāvaṇa stole his bride.

The spontaneous regard which springs up for each other in the hearts of the two princes Lava and Candraketu when they meet is admirably depicted:22

‘Is it this chance encounter, or his wealth of splendid qualities, or an ancient love, firm bound in a former birth, or a common tie of blood unknown through the might of fate, which draws close my heart to him even at first sight?’

The rebuke which Vāsantī addresses to Rāma for his treatment of Sītā, despite the loyalty of the queen, is effectively broken off by a faint:23

‘ “Thou art my life, my second heart, thou the moonlight of my eyes, the ambrosia for my body thou”: with these and a hundred other endearments didst thou win her simple soul, and now alas—but what need to say more?’

Elsewhere we have less simplicity, but in these cases we must distinguish carefully between those instances in which the difficulty and complexity of expression serve to illustrate the thought, and those in which the words are made to stand in lieu of ideas. In many cases Bhavabhūti may justly claim to have achieved substantial success, even when he is not precisely simple. The effect of love on Mādhava is effectively expressed:24

‘An emotion, evading determination, inexpressible by words, never before experienced in this birth of mine, wholly confusing [201]because of the impossibility of examination, is at once numbing me within and filling me with a torment of fire.’

The poet’s command of the philosophical conceptions of his day is shown in the verse following:

‘Though an object be before one’s gaze, determination is not easy; brought back, memory intervenes to introduce an element of falsity; neither in the cool lake nor in the moonbeams can passion be quenched; my mind, powerless to attain a fixed result, wanders, and yet records something.’

We have a further effective picture of the physical effect of love on Mādhava when he seeks to assuage his sorrows by depicting his beloved from memory:25

‘Time after time the tears that stream from my eyes blind my sight; my body is paralysed by the numbness born of the thought of her; when I seek to draw, my hand grows moist and trembles incessantly; ah, what is there that I can do?’

It is, however, easy to pass into exaggeration, as in:26

‘So have I grasped my dear one that she is as it were merged in me, reflected in me, depicted in me, her form mingled in me, cast into me, cemented with adamant to me, planted within me, pinned to my soul by the five arrows of love, firmly sewn into the fabric of my thought continuum.’

A stanza like this, whatever credit it may do to the ingenuity of its author, hardly gives any high opinion of his literary taste, but we are undoubtedly forced to assume that he believed deliberately in the merits of the style he adopted, which as [202]contrasted with that of Kālidāsa belongs to the Gauḍī type,27 which loves compounds in prose, and aims at the grandiose rather than sweetness and grace. The adoption of such a style, possibly under the influence of the reputation of Bāṇa, is wholly unjustified in drama; the prose, which normally in the plays moves freely and easily, is hampered by compounds of ridiculous length which must have been nearly as unintelligible to his audiences as they are now without careful study. The defect, it is true, gradually diminishes; the Uttararāmacarita is far freer from sins of this type. In the verse the theory does not make such demands for compounds, so that the poetry is often better than the prose; especially in his latest drama it gains clearness and intelligibility. Sanskrit, however, was clearly in large measure an artificial language to Bhavabhūti; he employs far too freely rare terms culled from the lexicons, honourable to his scholarship but not to his taste, and the same lack of taste is displayed in the excess of his exaggerations. Of the sweetness and charm of Kālidāsa he has as little as of the power of suggestion displayed by his predecessor; but he excels in drawing with a few strokes the typical features of a situation or emotion. He seeks propriety in his characters’ utterances; Janaka shows his philosophical training, as do the two ascetics in Act IV; Lava manifests his religious pupilship under Vālmīki; Tamasā as a river goddess uses similes from the waters. Effective is the speech of the old chamberlain who addresses the newly-crowned Rāma as ‘Rāma dear’ to remember the change and fall back on ‘Your Majesty’. It may be admitted also that in many passages Bhavabhūti does produce effective concatenations of sounds, but only at the expense of natural expression and clearness of diction. The appreciation which he has excited in India is often due not to his real merits, but to admiration of these linguistic tours de force, such as the following:

‘The twang, emanating from the broken staff of Çiva’s bow, bent by his staff-like arms, is the trumpet sound proclaiming to the [203]world the youthful prowess of my noble brother; it ceases not yet, its reverberations enhanced by its rumbling through the interstices of the fragments of the universe rent asunder by the dread explosion.’ It may readily be admitted that the sound effect of such a verse is admirable, but it is attained only at the sacrifice of clearness and propriety of diction.

A curious vagueness besets our knowledge of Viçākhadatta or Viçākhadeva, son of the Mahārāja Bhāskaradatta or the minister Pṛthu, grandson of the feudatory Vaṭeçvaradatta. None of these persons are elsewhere known, and for his date we are reduced to conjectures. The play ends with a stanza mentioning Candragupta as would be natural in a play of which he is hero, but there are variants in the manuscripts, including Dantivarman, Rantivarman, and (A)vantivarman. The last has been utilized to fix the date, but in two different ways; Avantivarman might be the Maukhari king whose son married Harṣa’s daughter, or the king of Kashmir (A.D. 855–83); Jacobi1 identifies the eclipse referred to in the play as that of December 2, 860, when, he holds, Çūra, the king’s minister, had the play performed. There is no conclusive argument for or against this clever combination. Konow2 sees in Candragupta the ruler of the Gupta line, and would make the poet a younger contemporary of Kālidāsa, but this is fantasy. We have some evidence of imitation of Ratnākara by Viçākhadatta, but it is possibly not conclusive as to date. Still less weight attaches to the fact that in one manuscript the Nāndī is supposed to be over before the play begins, for that is merely a habit of South Indian manuscripts, true to the Bhāsa tradition. There is nothing that prevents a date in the ninth century, though the work may be earlier.3 [205]

Whatever its date, the Mudrārākṣasa4 is one of the great Sanskrit dramas, although in India itself its merits have long been underrated, because it does not conform to the normal model. It is a drama of political intrigue, centred in the person of Rākṣasa, formerly minister of the Nandas, who is now sworn to revenge their destruction on Cāṇakya, the Brahmin who vowed to ruin them, and who, in pursuance of this end, secured an alliance between Candragupta, their rival, and Parvateça5 and attacked Pāṭaliputra. Rākṣasa seeing resistance vain surrendered the city; the last of the royal house, Sarvārthasiddhi, retired to an ascetic life, and Rākṣasa left to weave plots elsewhere. His effort by a poison maiden to slay Candragupta miscarried; instead, Parvateça fell a victim through Cāṇakya’s cunning. This so far aided Rākṣasa that his son Malayaketu left Candragupta and is now his ally, preparing with the aid of a host of motley origin, including princes of Kulūta, Malaya, Kashmir, Scind, and Persia to attack the capital. Act I shows Cāṇakya’s schemes; in a monologue he expresses his detestation of the Nandas and his determination to secure Rākṣasa as minister for his lord, for he is convinced of Rākṣasa’s worth and has no desire himself to rule. Nipuṇaka, his spy, enters; he has found a Jain Jīvasiddhi hostile to the king—he is in reality Cāṇakya’s agent; the scribe Çakaṭadāsa is a real enemy, as is the jeweller Candanadāsa, in whose house are Rākṣasa’s wife and child; by good fortune he has secured the signet ring of Rākṣasa, dropped by the former in pulling indoors the child. Cāṇakya sees his chance; he writes a letter, has it copied in good faith by Çakaṭadāsa and sealed with Rākṣasa’s seal; Çakaṭadāsa is then arrested, but on the point of impalement is rescued by Siddhārthaka, another spy of the minister’s, who flees to Rākṣasa; Jīvasiddhi is banished in ignominy to the same destination, and Candanadāsa is flung into prison, to await death for having harboured Rākṣasa’s family, which has escaped. Finally, it is reported that Bhāgurāyaṇa and others of the court are also fled, [206]news received by Cāṇakya with admirable composure, for they are also his emissaries.

Act II shows Rākṣasa’s counter-plots. Virādhaka, in a serpent-charmer’s disguise, bears him news of ill import: the scheme to murder Candragupta, as he passed under a coronation arch, has failed, Vairodhaka, uncle of Malayaketu, who stayed when his nephew fled and had been crowned also as lord of half the realm, being slain in lieu of Candragupta; Abhayadatta, who offered him poison, has been forced to drink the draught; Pramodaka, the chamberlain, has flaunted the wealth sent to him to use in bribes, and is dead in misery; the bold spirits, who were to issue from a subterranean passage into the king’s bedchamber, have been detected by the king through the sight of ants bearing a recent meal, and burnt in agony in their hiding place; Jīvasiddhi is banished, Çakaṭadāsa condemned to the stake, Candanadāsa to the same fate. The tale of woe is interrupted by the advent of Çakaṭadāsa with Siddhārthaka, who restores his seal to Rākṣasa, saying he had picked it up at Candanadāsa’s house, and begs permission to remain in his train. Virādhaka now gives the one piece of good news: Candragupta is tired of Cāṇakya. At this moment Rākṣasa is asked if he will buy some precious jewels, and hastily bids Çakaṭadāsa see to the price, little knowing that they are sent by Cāṇakya to entrap him. Act III displays Cāṇakya at his ablest; a fine scene takes place between him and Candragupta, on the score that he has forbidden all feasting without telling the king; the monarch finally upbraids him, the minister taunts him with ingratitude and insolence, resigns office, and leaves in high dudgeon; none but the chief actors know the whole is but a ruse, and Rākṣasa’s fortunes seem again fair. In Act IV the bright prospect begins to darken; Bhāgurāyaṇa, for the officials who have deserted to Malayaketu, explains to that monarch that they desire to deal direct with him, not Rākṣasa; the latter, they suggest, is no real foe of Candragupta; if Cāṇakya were out of the way, there would be nothing to hinder his allying himself with Candragupta. The king is perplexed, and his doubt increases when he overhears a conversation between Rākṣasa and a courier who bears the glad tidings of the split between the king and Cāṇakya; Rākṣasa eagerly exclaims that Candragupta is now in the palms of his hands [207](hastatalagata), a phrase which unhappily lends itself to the suspicious interpretation that he meditates alliance with that king. Malayaketu’s conversation with Rākṣasa, which ensues, leaves him half-hearted for an advance, for he cannot rid himself of his suspicions of the minister. The Act ends with Jīvasiddhi’s admission to see Rākṣasa, who asks him in vain for intelligible advice as to the time for an advance, receiving in lieu much astrological lore and what is really a presage of disaster. This is achieved in Act V. First Jīvasiddhi approaches Bhāgurāyaṇa, who is entrusted with the grant of permits to leave the camp, and admits—with feigned reluctance—in order to get a permit, that he fears Rākṣasa, who used him formerly when he was arranging for the poisoning of Parvateça, but now seeks to slay him. The king, who overhears this, is wild with rage; he had deemed his father slain by Cāṇakya, and Bhāgurāyaṇa has great difficulty in persuading him that Rākṣasa’s action might be deemed justifiable, and that at any rate vengeance must wait. Siddhārthaka, however, now appears a prisoner, caught trying to escape without a passport; beaten, he finally gives evidence against Rākṣasa in the shape of the letter written in Act I by Çakaṭadāsa, which he asserts he was to bear from Rākṣasa to Candragupta, a jewel sealed, like the letter, with Rākṣasa’s seal—one given by Malayaketu to Rākṣasa and by him to Siddhārthaka for rescuing Çakaṭadāsa, and a verbal message, stating the terms demanded by the allied kings for their treachery, and Rākṣasa’s own demand, the removal of Cāṇakya. The king confronts Rākṣasa with the proofs, and the minister has made his case worse from the start, for, asked the order of march proposed, he assigns to the allied kings the proud duty of guarding the king’s person, which Malayaketu interprets as a device to facilitate their treachery. Rākṣasa is bewildered; he can deny the message, but the seal and the writing are genuine; can Çakaṭadāsa have turned traitor through fear? The argument against him is clinched by the king’s seeing that he wears a fine jewel, one of those purchased at the close of Act II; it was the king’s father’s, and must, he insists, be the price of the minister’s treachery. Incensed, the foolish king gives orders to bury alive those allied kings who craved territory as their reward, and to trample under elephants those who sought them as their share. [208]All is confusion, and Rākṣasa, insolently spared, slips away to fulfil his duty of rescuing his friend Candanadāsa.

Act VI reveals Rākṣasa in the capital deeply soliloquizing on the failure of all his ends, and the fate of his friend. A spy of Candragupta’s approaches him, and passes himself off as one seeking death, in despair for Candanadāsa’s fate, on which Candragupta’s mind is relentlessly set. He warns Rākṣasa that he may not attempt a rescue, for, when they fear one, the executioners slay the victim out of hand, and Rākṣasa sees that nothing save self-sacrifice is left for him. The net is now firmly cast; Act VII sees Candanadāsa led out to death, his wife and child beside him, a scene manifestly imitated from the Mṛcchakaṭikā; the wife is determined to die also, but Rākṣasa intervenes; Cāṇakya and Candragupta come on the scene, and Rākṣasa decides to accept the office of minister pressed on him by both, when thus alone he can save, not his own life, but that of Candanadāsa and his friends. They, indeed, are in sore case, for Malayaketu’s massacre of the kings has broken the host into fragments, and the apparent rebels have taken the moment to capture him and his court. As minister, Rākṣasa is permitted to free Malayaketu and restore his lands, Candanadāsa is rewarded, and a general amnesty approved.

The interest in the action never flags; the characters of Cāṇakya and Rākṣasa are excellent foils. Each in his own way is admirable; Cāṇakya in his undying and just hatred of the Nandas, and Rākṣasa in his unsparing devotion to their cause, his noble desire to save Candanadāsa, and his fine submission, for the sake of others, to a yoke he had purposed never to bear. The maxims of politics in which both delight may amuse us; they are essentially the Indian views of polity and give the play a contact with reality which Professor Lévi6 wrongly denies; the plots and counterplots of both ministers are the type in which Indian polity has ever delighted. The minor figures are all interesting; Siddhārthaka and Samiddhārthaka, gentlemen who even disguise themselves as Caṇḍālas in the last Act, so that they may serve Cāṇakya’s aims; Nipuṇaka, whose cleverness in finding the seal justifies the name he bears; the disguised Virādhaka, the honest Çakaṭadāsa, the noble Candanadāsa and [209]his wife, the one female figure in the play. The kings Candragupta and Malayaketu represent the contrast of ripe intelligence with youthful ardour, and the weak petulance of one who does not know men’s worth, and who rashly and cruelly slays his allies on the faith of treachery. Bhāgurāyaṇa, who is the false friend deluding Malayaketu in Candragupta’s interest, is a carefully drawn figure; he dislikes the work, but dismisses his repulsion as essentially the result of dependence which forbids a man to judge between right and wrong.

Viçākhadatta’s diction is admirably forcible and direct; the martial character of his dramas reflects itself in the clearness and rapidity of his style, which eschews the deplorable compounds which disfigure Bhavabhūti’s works. An artist in essentials, he uses images, metaphors, and similes with tasteful moderation; alone of the later dramatists, he realizes that he is writing a drama, not composing sets7 of elegant extracts. Hence is explained the paucity of citations from him in the anthologies, which naturally find little to their purpose in an author of a more manly strain than is usual in the drama. It is significant that the Subhāṣitāvali cites but two stanzas, under his name, as Viçākhadeva, both pretty but undistinguished; the second8 is graceful:

‘The mountains, with their leaping waterfalls, girt with rainbow clouds, shone like rutting elephants clad in raiment of bright hue.’

More characteristic is the terse and effective phraseology in which he describes the dilemma of Malayaketu when his mind has been poisoned against Rākṣasa:9

‘His loyalty was founded on his love for the family of Nanda, it rested on a scion of that house; now that the cunning Maurya is severed from Cāṇakya, will he make terms with him? Or, [210]faithful ever in loyalty, will he keep his pact with me? Perplexed with these thoughts my mind revolves as on a potter’s wheel.’

There is effective gravity in the manner in which the aged chamberlain handles the regular topic of his failing powers in old age:10

‘Sight, alas, and the other organs, wherewith aforetime I was wont to grasp for myself the sights and objects of desire which I beheld, have lost their power of action. My limbs obey me not and suddenly have lost their cunning; thy foot is placed on my head, old age; vainly, O desire, dost thou weary thyself.’

Rākṣasa’s name inevitably demands the usual play on its sense of demoniac, but Malayaketu’s feeling redeems the use from triviality:11

‘My father’s mind rested secure in thy friendship; in his confidence he entrusted to thee the whole burden of his affairs; when, then, thou didst bring him low midst the tears of all his kin, didst thou not act, O Rākṣasa, like the demon whose name thou dost bear?’

The martial spirit of Rākṣasa is admirably brought out in Act II:12

‘Around the ramparts be the archers set at once; station at the portals the elephants, strong to overthrow the host of the foeman’s herd; lay fear aside, in eagerness to smite the host of the foe that cannot withstand us, and issue forth with me with one [211]accord, all to whom glory is dear.’ The burden of duty is expressed admirably:13

‘Is it because Çeṣa feels not the pain of the burden of the earth that he flings it not aside? Is it that the sun feels no weariness that he does not stand still in his course? Nay, a noble man feels shame to lay aside the duty he has taken on him, like a meaner creature; for the good this is the one common law, to be faithful to what one has undertaken.’ The minister’s resolve to save his friend is forcibly put:14

‘Indifference is impossible since my dear friend has fallen into this disaster for my sake; I have it: my own life do I set as ransom for his.’ There is grim humour in the command of the infuriated Malayaketu:15 ‘Those who desired my land, take and cast into a pit and cover with dust; those two who sought my army of elephants slay by an elephant,’ and in the Caṇḍāla’s remark16 when he bids his friend impale Candanadāsa: ‘His family will go off quickly enough of their own accord.’ The revelation of Jīvasiddhi’s treachery wrings from Rākṣasa the cry:17 ‘My very heart has been made their own by my foes (hṛdayam api me ripubhiḥ svīkṛtam).’ Proverbs are aptly used, as in the same context the Sanskrit equivalent for an accumulation of evils (ayam aparo gaṇḍasyopari sphoṭaḥ).

The Sanskrit of the Mudrārākṣasa is classical, and the Prākrits number three, for, in addition to the normal Çaurasenī and Māhārāṣṭrī, Māgadhī is used by the Jain monk, by Siddhārthaka and Samiddhārthaka as Caṇḍālas, by a servant and an envoy. We may take it that Viçākhadatta wrote from the grammars, and this is confirmed by the fact that we find in some [212]of the manuscripts traces of the carrying through of characteristic Māgadhī features, ññ for ṇṇ for Sanskrit ny; ẖk for kṣ; çc for cch, st for sth, sṭ for ṣṭ and for ṣṭh, and the usual ç, l, and e. It is possible, of course, that these are no more than restorations by scribes, but they may easily be more venerable. It is also interesting to note that there appear traces of Çaurasenī verses, which is perfectly possible, as the theory does not necessitate all persons who use Çaurasenī in prose singing in Māhārāṣṭrī; that is given as requisite for women only, and in this play they are men who use these Çaurasenī verses.

The metres most used are Çārdūlavikrīḍita (39), Sragdharā (24), Vasantatilaka (19), and Çikhariṇī (18); the Çloka occurs also 22 times. Other metres are sporadic, save Prākrit Āryās; they include Upajāti, Aupacchandasika, Puṣpitāgrā, Praharṣiṇī, Mālinī, Mandākrāntā, Rucirā, Vaṅçasthā, Suvadanā (iv. 16), and Hariṇī.

The age of Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa, Mṛgarājalakṣman is unknown. But he is cited by Vāmana (iv. 3. 28) and Ānandavardhana18 and so is before A.D. 800. Tradition, preserved in the Tagore family, makes him out to be a Brahmin summoned from Kanyakubja to Bengal by Ādisūra, the founder of a dynasty of eleven kings, who are supposed to have reigned before the Pāla dynasty came to the throne in the middle of the eighth century A.D. It has been suggested19 that it was identical with the Guptas of Magadha since Ādityasena, son of Mādhavagupta of Magadha, made himself independent of Kanyakubja; this would make Ādisūra Ādityasena, who was alive in A.D. 671. The date, however, is clearly conjectural for the present.

Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa has chosen as his topic20 one episode from the great epic and has endeavoured to make it capable of dramatic representation. One of the worst of the insults heaped on Draupadī in the gambling scene of the epic is the dragging of her by the hair before the assembly by Duḥçāsana, one of the [213]Kauravas. Draupadī vows never to braid her hair again until the insult is avenged, as it ultimately is.

Act I shows Bhīma in conversation with Sahadeva as they await the result of Kṛṣna’s visit as an envoy to seek to settle the feud between Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas; Bhīma shows his insolent confidence in his power and his bitter anger, by declaring that he will break with Yudhiṣṭhira if he makes peace before the insult to Draupadī has been avenged. Sahadeva in vain seeks to appease him, and Draupadī adds to his bitterness by relating a fresh insult in a careless allusion by Duryodhana’s queen. Kṛṣṇa returns, nothing effected; indeed he has had to use his magic arms to escape detention in the enemies’ camp. War is inevitable, but Draupadī, more human now, bids her husbands take care of their lives against the enemy. Act II opens with an ominous dream of Bhānumatī, Duryodhana’s queen; an ichneumon (nakula) has slain a hundred serpents; it is a presage that the Pāṇḍavas—of whom Nakula is one—will slay the hundred Kauravas. The king, overhearing but not understanding, thinks he is betrayed; learning the truth, at first he inclines to fear, but shakes off the temporary depression. The queen offers oblation to the sun to remove the evil omen; the king appears to comfort her: a storm arises, and they seek security in a pavilion, where they indulge in passages of love. Then appears the mother of Jayadratha of Sindhu, slayer of Abhimanyu, son of Arjuna, who fears the revenge of the Pāṇḍavas; Duryodhana makes light of her fears; he despises the resentment of the Pāṇḍavas, gloating over the remembrance of the insults heaped on Draupadī. Finally he mounts his chariot for the battle. Act III presents an episode of horror but also of power; a Rākṣasī and her husband feed on the blood and flesh of the dead on the battlefield; they have been summoned thither, for Ghaṭotkaca, son of Hiḍimbā by Bhīma, is dead, and his demon mother has bidden them attend Bhīma in his revenge on the Kuru host. They see the first-fruits in Droṇa’s death at the hands of Dhṛṣṭadyumna, when he lets fall his arms, deceived by the lie of his son’s death. They retire before Açvatthāman who advances, but is filled with grief when he learns of the treacherous device which cost his father’s life. His uncle Kṛpa consoles him, and bids him ask Duryodhana for the command in the battle. But in the meantime Karṇa has poisoned Duryodhana’s mind; Droṇa had fought, [214]only to win the imperial authority for his son, and has sacrificed his life in disappointment at the failure of his plans. Kṛpa and Açvatthāman come up; Duryodhana condoles, Karṇa sneers, Açvatthāman asks for the command, but is refused it, as Karṇa has been promised it. Açvatthāman quarrels with Karṇa, and a duel is barely prevented; Açvatthāman accuses Duryodhana of partiality, and will fight no more. Their disputes are interrupted by Bhīma’s boast that he will now slay Duḥçāsana; Karṇa at Açvatthāman’s instigation makes ready to rescue him, Duryodhana follows suit, Açvatthāman would go also, but is stayed by a voice from heaven and can only bid Kṛpa lend his aid.

In Act IV Duryodhana is brought in wounded; recovering, he learns of Duḥçāsana’s death and a Kuru disaster; a messenger from Karṇa tells in a long Prākrit speech of the death of Karṇa’s son, and gives an appeal for aid written in Karṇa’s blood. Duryodhana makes ready for battle, but is interrupted by the arrival of his parents, Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī with Sañjaya, whose advent begins Act V. The aged couple and Sañjaya urge in vain Duryodhana to peace; he refuses, and again, hearing of Karṇa’s death, unaided, is ready to part for the field, when Arjuna and Bhīma appear; Bhīma insists on their saluting with insults their uncle; Duryodhana reproves them, but Arjuna insists that it is just retribution for the acquiescence of the aged king in Draupadī’s ill-treatment. Duryodhana defies Bhīma, who would fight, but Arjuna forbids, and Yudhiṣṭhira’s summons takes them away. Açvatthāman arrives, and seeks reconciliation with Duryodhana, who receives him coldly; he withdraws, followed by Sañjaya, bidden by Dhṛtarāṣṭra to appease him.

Act VI tells us from an announcement to Yudhiṣṭhira and Draupadī of Duryodhana’s death at Bhīma’s hands. But a Cārvāka comes in, who tells a very different story; Bhīma and Arjuna are dead. Yudhiṣṭhira and Draupadī resolve on death, and the Cārvāka, who is really a Rākṣasa, departs in glee. When, however, they are about to die, a noise is heard; Yudhiṣṭhira, deeming it Duryodhana, rushes to arms, while Draupadī runs away, and is caught by her hair by Bhīma, whom Yudhiṣṭhira seizes. The ludicrous error is discovered, and Draupadī binds up at last her locks. Arjuna and Vāsudeva arrive, the Cārvāka has been slain by Nakula, and all is well.

The play is on the whole undramatic, for the action is choked [215]by narrative, and the vast abundance of detail served up in this form confuses and destroys interest. Yet the characterization is good; Duryodhana, as in the later Indian tradition, is unlovable; he is proud and arrogant, self-confident, vain, and selfish; he laughs at Bhānumatī’s fears and has no sympathy for the maternal anxiety of Jayadratha’s mother. He is suspicious of Droṇa and Açvatthāman, and thus deprives himself of their effective aid; Karṇa, whose jealous advice he accepts, he leaves to perish. Bhīma again is a bloodthirsty and boastful bully; Arjuna is equally valiant, but he is less an undisciplined savage, while Kṛṣṇa intervenes with wise moderation. Yudhiṣṭhira is, as ever, grave and more concerned with the interest of his subjects than his personal feelings. Horror and pathos are not lacking, but the love interest is certainly not effective, and it may be that it was forced on the author by tradition rather than any thought of producing a real interest of itself. Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa’s slavish fidelity to rule brought him censure even from Indian critics.

The style of the play is clear and not lacking either in force or dignity: dismayed by the dream of Bhānumatī Duryodhana comforts himself.21 An̄giras says:

‘The movements of the planets, dreams, omens, oblations, bear fruit by accident; therefore wise men fear them not.’ Graceful is his address to Bhānumatī if out of place:22

‘O firm-limbed one, make slow thy steps; stay thy trembling gait; thou dost fall into the shelter of my arms; clasp me closely in thine embrace.’ But any display of tenderness is abnormal in Duryodhana; he rebukes his aged mother when she urges him to save his life by coming to terms with the enemy:23

[216]

‘O mother, strange and unseemly is thy bidding. Ill accord thy noble birth and this faintness of spirit. Shame on thee, without natural affection, in that thou dost forget the cruel fate of thy hundred sons in seeking to save my life.’ In vain is Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s manly appeal to him:24

‘Slain are Droṇa and Bhīṣma whose peers none were deemed in might; all shrank in terror before Arjuna as he slew Karṇa’s son before his eyes; my dear ones slain, the foe’s whole aim is against thee now; lay aside thine anger with thy foes, and guard these thy blind parents.’ Admirably expressed is Bhīma’s wild fury when he disdains Yudhiṣṭhira’s effort to secure peace:25

‘Shall I not in anger crush the hundred Kauravas in battle; shall I not drink the blood from Duḥçāsana’s breast; shall I not break with my club the thighs of Duryodhana, although your master buy peace at a price?’ Admirable also is his description of the sacrifice of battle:26

‘We are the four priests, and the blessed Hari himself directs the rite; the king has consecrated himself for the sacrament of battle, the queen has taken on herself the vow; the Kauravyas are the victims, the end to be achieved the extinction of our loved one’s bitterness of shame at the insult done her; loudly the drum of fame summons the warrior to the fray.’ Equally effective is his summing up of his feat:27

‘His body is cast upon the ground; his blood is smeared as sandal paste on Bhīma’s limbs; the goddess of fortune, with the earth bounded by the waters of the four oceans, rests on my noble brother’s lap; servants, friends, warriors, the whole house of the Kurus has been burned in this fire of battle; the name alone, O king, is left of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s race.’ Effective is the appeal which Dhṛtarāṣṭra bids the faithful Sañjaya address to the righteously indignant Açvatthāman:28

‘Forget not the milk which thou didst so long drink from the same breast with him; forget not my robe that thy childish feet so often soiled in play; his grief is bitter for the death of the younger brother whom he loved so dearly; be not, therefore, wroth for the unjust words he hath spoken to thee.’

On the other hand, we find in Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa many of the defects of Bhavabhūti, in special the fondness for long compounds both in Prākrit and in Sanskrit prose29 and the same straining after effect which gives such a description of the battle as that vouchsafed to Draupadī by Bhīma, when she warns him nor to be overrash in battle:30

‘The sons of Pāṇḍu are well skilled to disport in the waters of the ocean of the battle, wherein dance headless corpses to the music of the unholy jackals, that yell in joy as they drink the thick blood of the dead, and the footmen in their valour leap over the chariots that are sunk in the mud of the blood, fat, [218]flesh, and brains of the elephants shattered in mutual onslaught.’ The adaptation of sound to sense here is doubtless admirable, and the picture drawn is vivid in a painful degree, but the style is too laboured to be attractive to modern taste.

None the less Nārāyaṇa has the merit, shared by Viçākhadatta, of fire and energy; much of the fierce dialogue is brutal and violent, but it lives with a reality and warmth which is lacking in the tedious contests in boasting, which burden all the descriptions in the Rāma dramas of the meeting of Rāma and Paraçurāma. Duryodhana is not behind Bhīma himself in insolence, though perhaps more subtle than that of the violent son of the Wind-god:31

‘Thy wife—whether thine, O beast, or that king’s or the twins’—was seized by the hair, in the presence of all the princes, by my command as lord of the earth, she won as my slave at the dice. With this abiding cause of hatred between us, say what wrong was wrought by the kings whom thou hast slain? When thou hast not conquered me, why vainly dost thou boast of the cumbrous strength of thy huge arms?’

Violent as is the language, there is some excuse for it in the extraordinarily heartless character of Bhīma’s address to the ill-fated Dhṛtarāṣṭra, which almost justifies the recalling of the disgraceful slight put on Draupadī:32

‘Bhīma bows low his head before thy feet, Bhīma who has slain all the scions of Kuru, who is drunk with the blood of Duḥçāsana, and who shall shatter the thighs of Duryodhana.’ Effectively contrasted is the stern, but courteous rebuke addressed by Yudhiṣṭhira to Kṛṣṇa’s elder brother:33

[219]

‘Thou hast forgotten the love due to kindred blood, thou hast violated the law of the warrior, thou hast ignored the deep friendship between thy younger brother and Arjuna. Granted that thy love for both thy pupils may be equal, nevertheless what is the cause that thou dost show hostility to me in my misfortune?’

These and many other passages are cited by the writers on poetics who find in the Veṇīsaṁhāra an inexhaustible mine of illustration of the theory which doubtless deeply affected the author in his composition. They do not, however, eulogize him blindly; the love scene with Bhānumatī is definitely treated as out of place.34

We know definitely of very few dramatists of the eighth and ninth centuries. Kalhaṇa1 mentions expressly Yaçovarman of Kanyakubja as a patron of literature, who, as we have seen, patronized Bhavabhūti and Vākpati, and we learn of his drama Rāmābhyudaya, which is mentioned by Ānandavardhana in the Dhvanyāloka, by Dhanika and Viçvanātha, but has not yet been found. To Kalhaṇa2 also we are indebted for knowledge of the period of Çivasvāmin, who lived under Avantivarman of Kashmir (A.D. 855–83) and was a contemporary of the poet Ratnākara. He wrote many Nāṭakas and Nāṭikās, and also Prakaraṇas, but save an occasional verse in the anthologies his fame is lost.

Anan̄gaharṣa Mātrarāja,3 on the other hand, is known to Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta, and his play Tāpasavatsarājacarita is a variation on the theme of the ruse of Yaugandharāyaṇa to secure the marriage of Vatsa and Padmāvatī, in face of the deep love of the king for Vāsavadattā. Vatsa in this drama, which is of little poetic or dramatic value, becomes an ascetic on learning of his queen’s supposed fate, whence the title of the play. Padmāvatī, who had become enamoured of the king from a portrait sent by the minister, follows suit. Eventually Vāsavadattā and Vatsa are united in Prayāga when each is about to commit suicide in sorrow at separation, and the usual victory is reported by Rumaṇvant to give a happy ending. [221]There seems little doubt that the author used the Ratnāvalī, which gives the upper limit of his date. His father’s name is given as Narendravardhana.

Māyurājā4 has been less fortunate in that his Udāttarāghava is known only by reference. Rājaçekhara represents him as a Karaculi or Kulicuri, which suggests the possibility that he was a king of the Kalacuri dynasty, of which unhappily we know little during the period in which he is probably to be set. He seems to have known Bhavabhūti. Like him he eliminated treachery from the slaying of Vālin by Rāma, and he represents Lakṣmaṇa as first to follow the magic gazelle, and Rāma as going later in pursuit. He is cited more than once in Dhanika’s commentary on the Daçarūpa.

No other dramatist of this period is known with any certainty; the Pārvatīpariṇaya once ascribed to Bāṇa is now allotted to Vāmana Bhaṭṭa Bāṇa (c. A.D. 1400), and the Mallikāmāruta, wrongly thought to be Daṇḍin’s, is the work of one Uddaṇḍin of the seventeenth century.

Of these dramatists Yaçovarman has had the honour of being considered worthy of quotation by the writers on theory who have preserved for us some interesting verses:5

‘My moans are like thy thunder, the floods of my tears thy ever-streaming showers, the flame of my sorrow at severance from my beloved thy flickering lightning, in my mind is her face reflected, in thee the moon; like is our condition; why then, O friend, O cloud, dost thou ever seek to consume me with the burning pangs of love?’

This is decidedly pretty, and there is elegance and beauty in another verse:6

[222]

‘The blue lotus which rivalled thine eyes in beauty is now sunk in the lake; the moon which imitated the fairness of thy face, beloved, is hidden by the clouds; the royal swans which aped thy lovely gait are departed; cruel fate will not grant me even the consolation of thy similitude.’

This verse is appropriated by the Mahānāṭaka, and so is the following,7 which deals elegantly enough with the commonplace contrast between the sad lover and the Açoka tree, whose name is interpreted as ‘sorrowless’, and which flowers, as the poets never weary in telling us, when touched by the foot of a fair lady, especially one young:

‘Thou are proud in thy new shoots, I in the glorious excellences of my beloved; the bees resort to thee, to me the arrows shot from love’s bow; like me thou dost delight in the touch of thy dear one’s foot; all is alike for us both save only that, O tree Sorrowless, the creator hath made me a man of sorrows.’

‘I have not recked of the wound given by love, the hunter, for the memory of thee hath been my elixir; the fire of separation hath not consumed me straightway because of the nectar of the hope of union with thee; all this day hath been spent by me in limning thy fancied form; nought else have I done, as thou thyself art witness, for dost thou not live in my heart?’ We may regret the loss of a work which contained verses as pretty as these, even on the outworn topic of Rāma and Sītā.

It might be interesting to know whether Yaçovarman was successful in introducing any new element into the established plot. The play is cited in the commentary on the Daçarūpa9 to illustrate the device called deception or humiliation (chalana) and the parallel cited is that of the treatment of Vāsavadattā in the [223]Ratnāvalī. The definitions of the theory leave this idea far from clear; Viçvanātha seems to treat it as the bearing of insult for the sake of the end to be reached, and the allusion in the case of Sītā may be to her abandonment by Rāma as an act of duty.

A much less favourable impression is left by the few fragments of the Udāttarāghava which are preserved. The poet seems to have affected the horrible, as two of his few stanzas deal with it; the better is:10

‘The victors are vanquished; thick darkness invades the sky and triumphs over the brilliant rays of the sun; why this inexplicable event? Why do these jackals, whose bellies are swollen with the blood sucked from the wounds of bleeding corpses, and whose gaping jaws belch flame, utter these piercing cries?’

A somewhat flat passage illustrates the conflict of thought in Rāma’s mind when appealed to by Citramāya on the score that Lakṣmaṇa is in danger from a Rākṣasa:11

‘The boy is an ocean of valour; how can I fear danger for him from a Rākṣasa? Yet the sage here is terrified and calls for aid, and my own mind is confused; my master too in his affection ever begs me not to leave Janaka’s daughter alone; my heart is troubled, and in my confusion I cannot resolve either to go or to stay.’

Another Rāma drama, the Chalitarāma, is also referred to by Dhanika in his comment on the Daçarūpa; it may belong to this period, or fall somewhat later; we have from it a picture of the leading captive of Lava:12

[224]

‘He who caused such trouble to the Sāman reciters turning to look at him in his childish play, who amused himself by stealing and giving back strings of beads and bracelets, he, your heart’s joy, his shoulder pierced by arrows, powerless through entry into the dread darkness of fainting, is being led away bound, even Lava.’

Another stanza refers to Bharata; Rāma returning to Ayodhyā in the celestial chariot declines thus to enter the town, since it is not his, but under the rule of Bharata; scarcely has he descended when he sees before him his brother:13

‘There stands some one, below the lion throne, before a pair of sandals, wearing his hair long, bearing a rosary, resplendent beneath the chowrie.’

The same play14 contains an amusing slip by Sītā where she bids her boys go to Ayodhyā and tender their respects to the king. Lava naturally replies by asking why they should become members of the king’s entourage, and Sītā answers because the king is their father, a slip which she explains away as well as she can by saying that the king is father of the whole earth.

Yet another drama of which we know nothing else is revealed to us by Dhanika, the Pāṇḍavānanda, from which is cited a stanza interesting in its series of questions and answers, a literary form of which the dramatists are fond:15

‘For the good what is there praiseworthy? Patience. What is disgrace? That which is wrought by those of one’s own blood. What is misery? Recourse to another’s protection. Who in the world is enviable? He to whom one resorts for aid. What is death? Misfortune. Who escape sorrow? Those who conquer their foes. Who learned this lesson? The Pāṇḍavas when they dwelt in concealment in the city of Virāṭa.’

We learn also from Dhanika of two further dramas, of unknown [225]authorship and date; they are mentioned16 as illustrating the two kinds of Prakaraṇa as a dramatic form, the basis of distinction being whether the heroine is the wife of the hero and therefore a lady of good family or whether she is a courtesan. Of the latter class we have an example in the Taran̄gadatta, and of the former in the Puṣpadūṣitaka; the latter name occurs in the slightly altered form of Puṣpabhūṣita in the Sāhityadarpaṇa. As an example of the Samavakāra the Daçarūpa17 mentions the Samudramanthana, a title doubtless as well as the description of the drama in question.

Murāri tells us that he was the son of Çrīvardhamānaka of the Maudgalya Gotra and of Tantumatī; he claims to be a Mahākavi, and arrogates the style of Bāla-Vālmīki. His date is uncertain; he is certainly later than Bhavabhūti since he cites from the Uttararāmacarita,18 while we have evidence from the anthologies that he was reckoned by some as superior to Bhavabhūti, apparently his predecessor. A further suggestion as to date may be derived from the Kashmirian poet Ratnākara,19 who in his Haravijaya makes a clear reference to Murāri as a dramatist, for the effort of Bhattanatha Svamin to disprove the reference must be deemed completely unsuccessful. As Ratnākara belongs to the middle of the ninth century A.D., this gives us that period as the latest date for Murāri. Curiously enough, Professor Konow,20 who accepts the disproof of the reference to Murāri in Ratnākara, admits that the reference to Murāri in Man̄kha’s Çrīkaṇṭhacarita21 (c. A.D. 1135) suggests that he was regarded by that author as earlier than Rājaçekhara, a fact which accords excellently with his priority to Ratnākara, and is far more important than the fact that he is not cited by the authors on theory of the eleventh century A.D. A further effort to place him late is that of Dr. Hultzsch,22 who infers from verse 3 of the Kaumudīmitrāṇanda of Rāmacandra, pupil of Hemacandra, that that [226]dramatist was a contemporary of Murāri. But the evidence is clearly inadequate; the words used are perfectly compatible with the fact that Murāri was dead, and there are grave chronological difficulties in the way of the theory. It is practically impossible that a contemporary of Rāmacandra could have been cited by Man̄kha at the date of the Çrīkaṇṭhacarita. Moreover Murāri seems to have been imitated by Jayadeva in the Prasannarāghava.23

Of his place of activity we know nothing definite. He mentions, however, Māhiṣmatī as the seat of the Kalacuris, and it has been suggested that this indicates that he lived under the patronage of a prince of that dynasty at Māhiṣmatī, now Māndhātā on the Narmadā.

Murāri declares in the prologue to the solitary drama, the Anargharāghava24 which has come down to us, though quotations show that he wrote other works, that his aim is to please a public tired of terror, horror, violence, and marvels, by a composition elevated, heroic, and marvellous throughout, not merely at the close. He defends his choice of the banal subject of Rāma; his character adds elevation and charm to the poet’s work, and it would be folly to lay aside so splendid a theme. The Anargharāghava, however, does little to justify the poet’s confidence in his choice of topic. The theme, treated already at length by Bhavabhūti, offered no chance of success save for a great poet, and Murāri was not such a poet save in the estimate of occasional later writers who extol his depth (gambhīratā) without any shadow of justification.

Act I shows us Daçaratha in conversation with Vāmadeva. The arrival of the sage Viçvāmitra is announced; he exchanges with the king hyperbolic compliments of the most tedious type, but proceeds to business by demanding the aid of Rāma against the Rākṣasas which are troubling his hermitage. The king hesitates to send one so young and dear into danger. The sage insists on his obeying the call of duty, and he hands over Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to the care of the ascetic. The herald announces [227]midday, and the king mourns the loss of his son. In Act II we have first a long-drawn-out conversation between Çunaḥçepha and Paçumeḍhra, two pupils of Viçvāmitra, which serves to enlighten us on the history of Vālin, Rāvaṇa, the Rākṣasas, Jāmbavant, Hanumant, and Tāḍakā. The entr’acte is followed by the appearance of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa who describe the hermitage and the doings of its occupants, and then the heat of midday. Time, however, does not trouble the dramatist; though there is no further action and no interruption in the dialogue, we find ourselves transported to the evening; Viçvāmitra enters and describes in converse with the boys the sunset. A cry behind the scene announces the approach of the demoness Tāḍakā; Rāma hesitates to slay a female, but finally departs for the necessary duty; on his return he has to describe the rising of the moon. Viçvāmitra then suggests a visit to Janaka of Mithilā, affording an opportunity for a description of the city and its ruler.

In Act II only do we reach the motif which Bhavabhūti with far greater skill made the leading idea of the drama, thus giving it effective unity, so far as the story permits. The chamberlain of Janaka in conversation with Kalahaṅsikā, one of Sītā’s suite, lets us know that the princess is now ripe for marriage, and Rāvaṇa seeks her hand. In the scene that follows the king accompanied by Çatānanda receives Rāma, but hesitates to put him to the severe test involved in bending Çiva’s bow. Çauṣkala, Rāvaṇa’s envoy, arrives to demand the maiden’s hand, but indignantly declines the request that his master should bend the bow. He eulogizes Rāvaṇa whom Rāma depreciates. Rāma is at last allowed to make the trial; those who remain on the stage describe his wonderful deed in breaking the bow. He is promised Sītā’s hand, while the other sons of Daçaratha are also awarded consorts. Çauṣkala departs, menacing revenge. Act IV shows us Rāvaṇa’s minister Mālyavant lamenting the failure of his scheme to win Sītā. Çūrpaṇakhā arrives from Videha and tells of the union of Rāma and Sītā. Mālyavant recognizes that Rāvaṇa will insist on seeking to separate the pair, and he counsels Çūrpaṇakhā to assume the disguise of Mantharā, the maid of Kaikeyī, with the view of securing the banishment of Rāma to the forest, where he will be more vulnerable to attack. [228]He is also cheered by the news given by Çūrpaṇakhā of the approach of Paraçurāma to Mithilā, whence some gain may accrue to his cause. The following scene shows us Rāma and Paraçurāma in verbal contest; Rāma is even more polite than in the Mahāvīracarita which is obviously imitated, while the friends of Rāma carry on a vituperative dialogue behind the scene without actually appearing. Finally they resolve to fight, for Rāma has annoyed his rival by reminding him that the flag of his fame won by his destruction of the Kṣatriyas is worn out and challenging him to mount a new one. The fight itself takes place off the stage; Sītā, we learn from a voice behind the scenes, is apprehensive lest Rāma be drawing again his bow to win another maiden. The rivals then appear on excellent terms; Paraçurāma exchanges farewells with his former interlocutors and disappears. Then enter Janaka and Daçaratha. The latter is determined to resign his kingdom to Rāma, but Lakṣmaṇa enters introducing Mantharā who bears a fatal missive from Kaikeyī, bidding the king grant the two boons of the banishment of Rāma and the coronation of Bharata. The kings faint; Rāma sends Lakṣmaṇa to tell Sītā, and commends his father to Janaka.

In Act V a conversation between Jāmbavant and an ascetic lady, Çravaṇā, tells of the doings of Rāma until his advent in the forest. Çravaṇā goes to Sugrīva to bespeak a kindly welcome for the wayfarers, while Jāmbavant overhears a dialogue between Rāvaṇa, disguised as a juggler, and Lakṣmaṇa. The vulture Jaṭāyu then appears with the grave news that he has seen Rāvaṇa and Mārīca in the forest; Jāmbavant goes to warn Sugrīva of the danger, while Jaṭāyu sees the rape of Sītā and pursues the ravisher. After this entr’acte Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa enter, wandering in grief in vain search. They are interrupted by a cry and see the friendly forest chief, Guha, assailed by the headless Kabandha. Lakṣmaṇa rescues him, but, in doing so, knocks off the tree, on which it was suspended, the skeleton of Dundubhi, to the annoyance of Vālin, who appears, and after a lengthy conversation challenges Rāma to battle. The fight is described from the stage by Lakṣmaṇa and Guha; the enemy is slain. Voices from behind the scenes report the coronation of Sugrīva and his determination to aid Rāma in the recovery of [229]Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa and his friend leave the stage to rejoin their party. In Act VI Sāraṇa and Çuka, two spies of Rāvaṇa’s describe to Mālyavant the building of the bridge over the ocean and the advent of Rāma’s army. Voices from behind announce the departure of Kumbhakarṇa and Meghanāda for battle; in the same way we learn of their fall and the last exit of Rāvaṇa, whom Mālyavant decides to follow to the field. The final struggle is described with tedious and tasteless prolixity by two Vidyādharas, Ratnacūḍa and Hemān̄gada, and with this the Act closes.

In Act VII we have a determined effort to vie with the close of the Mahāvīracarita. Rāma, Sītā, Lakṣmaṇa, Vibhīṣaṇa, and Sugrīva proceed in Kubera’s celestial car to Ayodhyā. But the route is diversified from the simplicity of the model, for the travellers are taken to the celestial regions to view in all its aspects the mythical mountain Sumeru and the world of the moon; only then do they commence their journey in its terrestrial aspect by a description of Siṅhala, distinguished as usual from Lan̄kā; the route then passes over the Malaya mountains, the forest, the mountain Prasravaṇa, the Godāvarī, mount Mālyavant, Kuṇḍinīpura in the Mahārāṣṭra country, Kāñcī, Ujjayinī, Māhiṣmatī, the Yamunā, the Ganges, Vārāṇasī, Mithilā and Campā; the car goes then west to Prayāga, and later turns east to Ayodhyā, where the priest Vasiṣṭha waits with Rāma’s brothers to crown him king.

The demerits of the poem are obvious; there is no attempt to improve on the traditional narrative, though Vālin is honourably killed; the characters are as stereotyped as ever. The author, however, delights to overload and elaborate the theme; hyperbole marks every idea; his mythological knowledge is adequate to enable him to abound in conceits and plays on words, when he does not sink, as largely in Act III, to mere commonplace. The taste which invents the visit to the world of the moon and Sumeru is as deplorable as that which substitutes the dull dialogue between Jāmbavant and Jaṭāyu for the vigorous conversation of Jaṭāyu and Sampāti in the Mahāvīracarita. For dialogue in general Murāri has no taste at all, and what merit his work has lies entirely in the ability which he shows to handle the Sanskrit language and to frame sentences of harmonious [230]sound in effective metrical forms. His knowledge of the lexica is obvious, while his love of the recondite in grammar has won him the fame of being used to illustrate rare forms by the author of the Siddhāntakaumudī. These linguistic merits have secured him the preference shown for him by modern taste. Nor indeed can his power of expression be justly denied:25

‘There are seen the towering slopes as of sand where the pollen tilts off from the mango shoots, shaken by the female cuckoos, maddened by the intoxication of spring; scarce can the antelopes in their fear of the hunter leap over them, but the dust which they raise in showers accords them security by concealing the path of their flight.’ The idea is certainly trivial enough, but the expression, which defies reproduction in English, is in its own way a masterpiece of effect.

A pretty erotic verse is found in Act VII:26

‘When the moon is placed in the scales, fair-limbed one, against thy face, assuredly it is found wanting, and to make good the deficit the stars must shine as make-weights.’

Not a bad example of more elaborate, yet graceful, eulogy is found in the following stanza:27

‘Since manifestly in their family has been born the blessed one, sprung from the lotus; since all day long they delight the bees as they rise from their bed; since their whole faith they devote to the blessed lord of the sharp rays, thus, O lovely one, the flowers that spring from the water attain the likeness of thy face.’ [231]

Happy also is another erotic stanza:28

‘Its painted mark obliterated by the moisture which streams from the wearied brow over the face, the cheek reveals the longing of women, melancholy as the wan moon.’

‘Footprints on pavements of moonstone, marked with the lac that dyes deep the feet, wet with drops that have the radiance of rising cream, made with anxiety at every step as the Cakoras fly up disturbed, mark the departure of ladies who violate decorum.’29

A further stanza in some manuscripts of the poem occurs in the drama, while elsewhere it seems to be treated as a verse about Murāri:30

‘Many serve the goddess speech, but the essence of eloquence Murāri alone knows to the full, that poet who long toiled in the house of his teacher; even so the monkey host leapt over the ocean, but its depth the Mount of Churning alone knows, for its mighty mass penetrated down even to the realms below.’

Rājaçekhara, with the usual prolixity of bad poets, is voluble on his personality; he was of a Mahārāṣṭra Kṣatriya family of the Yāyāvaras, who claimed descent from Rāma; son of the minister Durduka or Duhika, and of Çīlavatī; grandson of Akālajalada, and descendant of Surānanda, Tarala, and Kavirāja, all [232]poets of name. He married Avantisundarī of the Cāhamāna family, and was a moderate Çaiva.31

In the Karpūramañjarī, probably his first play since it was produced at the request of his wife, and not a king, he refers to himself as the teacher of Nirbhaya or Nirbhara, who was clearly the Pratihāra king, Mahendrapāla of Mahodaya or Kanyakubja, of whom we have records in A.D. 893 and 907. The Bālarāmāyaṇa was produced at his request. But he seems then to have visited another court, for the Viddhaçālabhañjikā was produced for the Kalacuri king, Yuvarāja Keyūravarṣa of Tripurī. But, as the unfinished Bālabhārata was written for Mahīpāla, successor of Mahendrapāla, whose records begin in A.D. 914, we may assume that he returned to the court of the Pratihāras and died there. In the Bālarāmāyaṇa he speaks of six of his works, not apparently including the Viddhaçālabhañjikā and the Bālabhārata, and in fact we have many stanzas from him regarding famous authors, though of course the proof of derivation from this Rājaçekara is not always complete.

The Bālarāmāyaṇa shows to perfection Rājaçekhara’s own estimate of himself. He traces his poetic descent from Vālmīki, through Bhartṛmeṇṭha and Bhavabhūti, but it is not clear that Bhartṛmeṇṭha must be assumed to have dramatized the work, and the little we know of this obscure person merely shows that he wrote an epic, the Hayagrīvavadha, while his date is involved in the problems of Vikramāditya and Mātṛgupta.32

The Bālarāmāyaṇa33 is a Mahānāṭaka, that is one in ten acts, and the author, to add to the horror of the length, has expanded the prologue to almost the dimensions of an act, celebrating his non-existent merits, and has expanded each act to almost the dimensions of a Nāṭikā. The whole has 741 stanzas, and of these no less than 203 are in the 19-syllable Çārdūlavikrīḍita and 89 in the Sragdharā, which has two more syllables in each pada or 84 in a stanza. The play has a certain novelty, because [233]the author has made the love of Rāvaṇa the dominating feature. He appears in person in the first act, but declines to test himself by drawing Çiva’s bow, and departs, menacing evil to any husband of Sītā. In Act II he seeks the aid of Paraçurāma, but is insulted instead, and a battle barely prevented by intervention of friends. In Act III the marriage of Sītā is enacted before him to distract his amorous sorrow, but the attempt is as little a success as it deserved to be; he interrupts, and finally the scene has to be broken off. In Act IV the duel of Rāma and Paraçurāma is disposed of, but in Act V we find another ludicrous effort to amuse Rāvaṇa; dolls with parrots in their mouths are presented to him as Sītā and his foster sister; he is deceived until he finds that his grasp is on wood; distracted, he demands his beloved from nature, the seasons, the streams, and the birds, as does Purūravas in the Vikramorvaçī. The arrival of Çūrpaṇakhā, his sister, who has suffered severely from her attack on Rāma, brings him to a condition of more manly rage. A tedious Act then carries matters down to the death of the sorrowing Daçaratha. In Act VII the problem of inducing the ocean to accept the burden of the bridge is solved; Dadhittha and Kapittha, two monkeys, describe at length its construction to Rāma. A momentary terror is caused by a stratagem of Mālyavant; the severed head of Sītā seems to be flung on the shore, but it speaks and reveals the fraud; it is the head of the speaking doll. In Act VIII we have Rāvaṇa’s impressions as disaster after disaster is announced; he sends out Kumbhakarṇa, but sees even him helpless, despite his magic weapons, before Rāma. In Act IX Indra himself describes the last desperate duel of Rāma and Rāvaṇa. In Act X the party of Rāma makes the usual aerial tour of India, including the world of the moon, and ending with the inevitable consecration.

The Bālabhārata34 is mercifully unfinished; it covers the marriage of Draupadī, and the gambling scene with the ill usage of Draupadī. The other two plays are really Nāṭikās, but the first, the Karpūramañjarī35 is classed by the theory as a Saṭṭaka, simply because it is in Prākrit, none of the characters [234]speaking Sanskrit. It is the old story; here the king is Caṇḍapāla, possibly a compliment to Mahendrapāla, and his beloved the Kuntala princess, Karpūramañjarī, who is really a cousin of the queen. In Act I a magician, Bhairavānanda, displays the damsel to the king and queen; the apparition tells her tale, and the queen decides to add her to the number of her attendants. The king and the maiden fall at once in love. In Act II a letter from the maiden avows her passion, and the Vidūṣaka and her friend Vicakṣaṇā arrange to let the king see her swinging and also producing by her touch the blossoming of the Açoka. Between the Acts we must assume that the queen has found out the love, and has confined the maiden, while the king has secured the making of a subterranean passage giving access to her prison. In Act III by this means the princess and the king enjoy a flirtation in the garden, when the queen discovers them. In Act IV we find that the end of the passage giving on the garden has been blocked, but another passage has been made to the sanctuary of Cāmuṇḍā, the entrance concealed behind the statue. Thus the prisoner can play a game of hide-and-seek with the queen, and this enables her to carry out a clever ruse invented by the magician to secure the queen’s blessing for the wedding. The queen is induced to demand that the king shall marry a princess of Lāṭa who will secure him imperial rank. She is still at her home, but the magician will fetch her to the place. The wedding goes on merrily, but the princess is no other than Karpūramañjarī, and the queen has unwittingly accomplished the lovers’ desires.

The same motif is repeated in the Viddhaçālabhañjikā,36 which is a regular Nāṭikā. Act I tells us that Candravarman of Lāṭa, vassal of Vidyādharamalla, has sent to the court of his overlord his daughter Mṛgān̄kāvalī in the guise of his son and heir. The king, Vidyādharamalla, recounts a dream in the truthful hours of the morning, in which a beautiful maid had cast a collar of pearls round his neck; he is haunted by her, and next finds her in sculptured form (çālabhañjikā) in the picture gallery. He has a further glimpse of her in the flesh but no more, before the heralds announce midday. In Act II we learn that the queen proposes to marry Kuvalayamālā of Kuntala to the pretended [235]boy, while the Vidūṣaka has been promised by her foster-sister, Mekhalā, marriage with a lady of the seductive name of Ambaramālā, Air Garland. Imagine his disgust when she turns out to be a mere slave; the king has to calm him, and together they watch in hiding Mṛgān̄kāvalī playing in the garden, and hear her reading a letter of love. The heralds proclaim the evening hour. In Act III we are told that the dream of the king was reality, devised by Bhāgurāyaṇa, his minister, who knew that the husband of the heroine would attain imperial rule. The Vidūṣaka punishes Mekhalā’s ruse by another; he bids a woman hide herself and call out a warning to Mekhalā of evil to befall her unless she crawl between a Brahmin’s limbs. The queen begs the Vidūṣaka to permit this ceremony, and, it over, he avows the plot to the great indignation of the queen. The Vidūṣaka and the king then have an interview with the heroine. In Act IV we learn of a plot of the queen to punish the king. She induces him to agree to marry the sister of the pretended boy, meaning that he should find that he has married a boy. The king agrees; the marriage is completed; news comes from Candravarman that a son is born, begging the queen to dispose in marriage of his daughter, who may resume her sex. The queen, tricked and deceived, makes the best of her situation; with dignity and hauteur she bestows on her husband both Mṛgān̄kāvalī and Kuvalayamālā, while news is brought that the last rebels are subdued and the king’s suzerainty is recognized everywhere.

There can be no doubt of the demerits of Rājaçekhara’s works; he is devoid of the power to create a character: Vidyādharamalla is stiff and uninteresting beside his model, the gay and gallant Vatsa; the queen is without the love or the majesty of Vāsavadattā; Bhāgurāyaṇa is a feeble Yaugandharāyaṇa, whose magician is borrowed in the Karpūramañjarī and spoiled in the borrowing. The heroines are without merit; the Vidūṣaka in the Karpūramañjarī is tedious, but Cārāyaṇa in the Viddhaçālabhañjikā has merits; he has plenty of sound common sense, though he is simple and capable of being taken in by others. The intrigue in both Nāṭikās is poorly managed; the confusion of exits and entrances in the Karpūramañjarī is difficult to follow and probably more difficult to act, while in the Viddhaçālabhañjikā the queen is induced to arrange a marriage out of a [236]puerile incident affecting the Vidūṣaka only. The taste of giving two brides to the king at once is deplorable, as is the failure to explain why the king accepts the suggested marriage when ignorant of its true import.

In all his dramas, however, Rājaçekhara is merely concerned with exercises in style. The themes he frankly tells us in the prologue to the Karpūramañjarī are the same; the question is the expression, and the language is indifferent; therefore Prākrit being smooth, while Sanskrit is harsh, the language of women as opposed to men, can be used as a medium of style by one who boasts himself an expert in every kind of language. We have, therefore, elaborate descriptions in equally elaborate verses, of the dawn, midday, sunset, the pleasures of the harem, the game of ball, the swing, a favourite enjoyment of the Indian maidens, and in the Nāṭakas pictures ad nauseam of battles with magic weapons, and appalling mythical geography and topography. His allusions to local practices and customs may be interesting to the antiquarian, but are not poetical. More praiseworthy is his real accomplishment in metres, especially the Çārdūlavikrīḍita, his facility in which Kṣemendra justly praises, the Vasantatilaka, Çloka, and Sragdharā. His ability to handle elaborate Prākrit metres is undeniable; in 144 stanzas in the Karpūramañjarī he has 17 varieties. If poetry consisted merely of harmonious sound, he must be ranked high as a poet. He is fond of proverbs: varaṁ takkālovaṇadā tittirī ṇa uṇa diahantaridā morī, which gives our ‘A bird in hand is worth two in the bush’; he introduces freely words from vernaculars, including Marāthī. But, despite his parade of learning, he cannot distinguish accurately Çaurasenī and Māhārāṣṭrī in his drama; in the former we find such forms as laṭṭhi for yaṣṭi, ammi in the locative and hiṁto in the ablative singular of a-stems, and esa for the pronoun. Important as he is lexicographically for both Sanskrit and Prākrit, it is undeniable that both were utterly dead languages for him, which he had laboriously learned. Forms like ḍhilla equivalent to çithila in the Karpūramañjarī show how far the vernaculars had advanced beyond the Prākrits of the drama.

It would, however, be quite unjust to deny to Rājaçekhara the power of effective expression; like all the later dramatists he is capable of producing elegant and attractive verses, which are [237]largely spoiled in their context by their being embedded in masses of tasteless matter. Thus the benediction of the Viddhaçālabhañjikā is decidedly graceful:

‘Family preceptor of young maidens for the bestowal of the sacrament of love, the bodyless one, dearest friend of Rohiṇī’s lover, he that with his flower arrows overthrew the god of gods, he is victorious ever, the director of the comedy of the play of love’s mysteries.’

The description of summer is also pretty if banal:

‘This is the glorious season of summer, delightful in the length of the days, when the royal plantain fruits are ripened, and the milk in the coco-nut is hardened, and the season bids us enjoy the delight of love in the closing watches of the night.’

The signs of a maiden distracted by unfulfilled affection are quaintly described:

‘Biting her lip, she wipes out the figure of the moon sketched in sandal paste; snapping her finger-tips she mocks at love as barren; to flout his darts, the flowers she gathers she tears in shreds; assuredly the fair one whom thou shouldst love hath been brought by thee to madness.’

‘Rippled on the surface of the pupil, slightly foaming, forming drops on the tips of the lashes, then slowly issuing in streams, [238]betokening by their weight her heart’s sorrow, there pour forth from the lotus-eyed one the floods of her tears.’

Of all the plays the Karpūramañjarī is undoubtedly that which contains the most substantial evidence that Rājaçekhara had some real poetic talent, despite the banality and stupidity of his conception of love in Act III. The swing scene contains really effective lines of word-painting, in harmonious metre:37

‘Paling the face of every beauty here, making the sky’s vault to ripple with the liquid moonlight of her loveliness, and breaking the haughty pride in the hearts of maids that regard her, appeareth the moon-like orb of her face as she moveth straight to and fro in her sport on the swing.’ The effective alliteration and paronomasia of this stanza are surpassed by the metrical perfection of the next but one, where the Pṛthvī metre, with ‘its jingling tribrachs and bell-like, chiming cretics’, is employed in a stanza which admirably conveys by its sound the sense at which it aims:

Excellent also is the king’s address38 to the Açoka when made to blossom by the touch of the foot of his young beloved, but more characteristic in his comment,39 inspired by the Vidūṣaka’s [239]ungallant comparison of the fresh beauty of the maiden with the passée comeliness of his queen:

‘Though maidens in their young zest for life are fickle of faith, yet it is with them—their breasts just budding—that the mystery of the dolphin-bannered doth abide.’

For technique Rājaçekhara is of interest, because he uses in the Karpūramañjarī the old form of prologue quite openly, with the Nāndī recited doubtless by the Sūtradhāra, followed by the advent of the Sthāpaka who recites two verses. It is noteworthy that the manuscripts often alter the Sthāpaka to the Sūtradhāra despite the clear sense of the text. The late Pārvatīpariṇaya likewise has a Nāndī before the Sūtradhāra speaks a verse. It is probable that the older technique long persisted in the south.

Rājaçekhara’s indebtedness to his predecessors is wholesale; the influence of Kālidāsa, Harṣa, and Bhavabhūti is obvious, and it is probably an indication of his contemporaneity with, or slight posteriority to, Murāri that he does not seem to have known his writings. Influence of the vernacular or of Prākrit is to be seen in his occasional use of rhyme, such as is found in the later Gītagovinda or the Mohamudgara.

We have seen already in Murāri and Rājaçekhara the process which was depriving the drama of real dramatic quality. The older poets were, indeed, under the influence of the epic; they lived in the atmosphere of the poetry of the court and their dramatic instincts had always to fight against the tendency to introduce epic and lyric verses into their works, heedless of the ruin thus wrought on the drama. Had the stage been a more popular one, this defect might have been counteracted, but the audience for whose approval a poet looked was essentially one of men of learning, who were intent on discerning poetic beauties or defects, and who, as the theory proves, had singularly little idea of what a drama really means.

Other factors doubtless helped the decline of the drama. The invasion of the Mahomedans into northern India, which began in earnest with the opening of the eleventh century, was a slow process, and it could not immediately affect the progress of the dramatic art. But gradually, by substituting Mahomedan rulers—men who disliked and feared the influence of the national religion, which was closely bound up with the drama—for Hindu princes, the generous and accomplished patrons of the dramatists, it must have exercised a depressing effect on the cultivation of this literary form. The drama doubtless took refuge in those parts of India where Moslem power was slowest to extend, but even there Mahomedan potentates gained authority, and drama can have been seldom worth performing or composing, until the Hindu revival asserted the Indian national spirit, and gave an encouragement to the renewal of an ancient national glory.

Yet a further and most important consideration must have lain in the ever-widening breach between the languages of the [243]drama and those of real life. In Bhāsa’s days and even those of Kālidāsa we may imagine that there was not too great difficulty in following the main features of the drama both in Sanskrit and in Prākrit, but the gulf between the popular languages and those of learning went on widening every year, and Rājaçekhara, as we have seen, was, despite his boasted studies, of which we have no reason to doubt, unable to discriminate correctly his Prākrits. It in no wise disproves this view that the Lalitavigraharājanāṭaka of Somadeva shows a close connexion with the language as laid down in Hemacandra’s grammar, for, as that work preceded the play in date and was produced at the court of Aṇhilvāḍ, which was in close connexion with that of Sambhār, where Somadeva lived, we need not doubt that copies of Hemacandra’s work were available for the production of artificial Prākrit.

It was clearly a very different thing to compose in Sanskrit and Prākrit in A.D. 1000, when the vernaculars were beginning to assume literary form, than in A.D. 400, and the difficulty of composition in any effective manner must have rapidly increased with the years, and the growth of the realization that it was idle to seek fame under modern circumstances by the composition of dramas, for which there was no popular audience and only a limited market. What is amazing is that for centuries the Sanskrit drama continued to be produced in very substantial numbers, as the existence of manuscripts proves, and that so strong was the force of tradition that the first attempt to introduce the vernacular into the drama by Bidyāpati Ṭhākur in Behar took the form of producing works in which the characters use Sanskrit and Prākrit and the songs only are in Maithilī. So powerful has been the strength of the Sanskrit drama that it is only in the nineteenth century that vernacular drama has exhibited itself in Hindi, and in general it is only very recently that the drama has seemed proper for vernacular expression. But the writing in artificial languages has revenged itself on the writers; their works are reminiscent of modern copies of Greek or Latin verses, which only too painfully reveal through all the artifices suggested by careful study the impossibility of the production of real poetry, not to mention drama, in dead languages. It is significant in this regard that perhaps the most interesting of later dramas is the Prabodhacandrodaya of Kṛṣṇamiçra, a [244]drama of allegory on philosophical topics, which claim as their right Sanskrit as a mode of expression. The Sanskrit of the author thus represents the medium of his habitual use in discussions and is appropriate to the matters dealt with.

This is essentially the period when the dramatic rules, strong in their hold earlier over the minds of dramatists, attain even greater sway. It is to this that we owe the few specimens we have of the rarer types of drama which are not represented among the scanty remains of the classical drama. There is no reason to suppose that these types were popular among the earlier dramatists; they had, it seems, their vogue in the time before the Nāṭyaçāstra assumed its present form, but were rejected as unsuitable by the classical drama. We have also specimens of types which may have been regularly produced in classical times, but none of which are represented in the extant literature. Finally, we have specimens of new forms, the result of efforts to introduce into Sanskrit dramatic forms which had sprung up in more popular circles.

The Nāṭaka remains throughout the post-classical period of the drama the natural exponent of the higher form of the dramatic art. No change of importance appears in its character; it merely steadily develops those features which we have seen in full process of production in Murāri and Rājaçekhara, the subordination of action to description, and the degeneration of the description into a mere exercise in style and in the use of sounds.

The character of the decline is obvious enough in the Prasannarāghava,1 a Nāṭaka in seven Acts, in which the logician Jayadeva (c. A.D. 1200), son of Mahādeva and Sumitrā, of Kuṇḍina in Berar, endeavours to tell again the story of the Rāmāyaṇa.2 In Act I a disciple of Yājñavalkya appears and repeats from the speech of two bees heard behind the scene the news they are discussing; the Asura Bāṇa is to rival Rāvaṇa for the hand of [245]Sītā. Two heralds then appear to describe the suitors for the maiden’s hand; they are interrupted and insulted by a gross and rough arrival who casts a contemptuous eye on the bow which the suitor must bend, and would forcibly seize the prize. The heralds soothe him, but he assumes the monstrous form of Rāvaṇa with his ten heads. Bāṇa then appears, tries in vain the bow, insults Rāvaṇa and retires. In Act II we have a ludicrous scene in which Rāma watches Sītā and her friend; both he and she describe the beauties of the union of the Vāsantī creeper and the mango-tree, an allusion to their own state to be, and confronted shyly whisper love. In Act III we have an intolerable series of compliments exchanged by all the parties, Viçvāmitra, Çatānanda, Janaka, Daçaratha, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa; Viçvāmitra bids Rāma bend the bow of Çiva, though a message from Paraçurāma deprecates such an insult. The bow is broken, there is great joy, and the marriage is celebrated. In Act IV Paraçurāma himself arrives; his great feats are set out in a dialogue of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa; he encounters them, exchanges harangues, is dissuaded by Janaka, Çatānanda, and Viçvāmitra from battle, but an insult of his to Viçvāmitra breaks down Rāma’s patience; they fight, Rāma is victor, but falls at his rival’s feet and asks his blessing. In Act V we have a new and picturesque conception and one wholly aloof from drama. The river goddess Yamunā tells Gan̄gā of her grief at Vālin’s act in exiling his brother, Sugrīva. Sarayū joins them and reports the fate of Rāma until his departure for exile; her flamingo arrives to carry on the tale until Rāma’s fatal departure in pursuit of a golden deer. Anxious, the rivers hasten to the ocean, Sāgara, to learn the news; they find Godāvarī in converse with Sāgara; she tells of the rape of Sītā, the death of Jaṭāyu, the fall of Sītā’s jewels and their transport to Ṛṣyamukha. The Tun̄gabhadrā arrives with her tale; Rāma has slain Vālin and made alliance with Sugrīva and Hanumant. Suddenly a great mass flies over the ocean. Is it the Himālaya? the Vindhya? Sāgara goes out to see and the rivers follow. In Act VI we find that sorrow has all but driven Rāma mad; he asks the birds, the moon, for his beloved. Fortunately two Vidyādharas by magic art are able to show him the events in Lan̄kā; Sītā appears, saddened lest Rāma suspect, or be faithless to her; Rāvaṇa seeks her love; she [246]despises him; angry, he reaches out his hand for his sword to slay her, but receives in it the head of his son, Akṣa, slain by Hanumant, who it is who has leaped the ocean and attacked Lan̄kā. Sītā is desperate; she seeks to burn herself on a funeral pyre, but the coal changes to pearl, and Hanumant consoles her by news of Rāma’s fidelity. In Act VII Rāvaṇa is given by Prahasta a picture sent by Mālyavant showing the details of the enemy’s attack and the bridge; he refuses to regard it as more than a painter’s fancy; Mandodarī, his wife, enters; she has received an oracular response which terrifies her and also Prahasta, but Rāvaṇa scorns it. At last, however, he realizes that the city is attacked, sends Kumbhakarṇa and Meghanāda to their death, and at last himself issues forth to die; his fate is described by a Vidyādhara and his mate. Then enter Rāma, Sītā, Lakṣmaṇa, Vibhīṣaṇa, and Sugrīva, who all describe in turn the setting of the sun and the rise of the moon; they mount the aerial car, describe a few points of interest in the country over which they pass in their journey north, and then in turn solemnly describe the rising of the sun.

The play is typical of the later drama; its one merit is Act V where the spectacle of the river goddesses grouped round the ocean affords admirable scope for an effective tableau, but it is wholly out of harmony with dramatic action. As usual, the author is fond of the long metres, though the Vasantatilaka is his favourite; then comes the Çārdūlavikrīḍita, Çloka, Çikhariṇī, and Sragdharā, while he shows decided fondness for the Svāgatā, which occurs a few times in Rājaçekhara and the Mahānāṭaka, but is not employed in the earlier drama. The drama is superior in merit to the other very popular Rāma drama, the Jānakīpariṇaya3 by Rāmabhadra Dīkṣita, who flourished and wrote many bad works at the end of the seventeenth century. The number of Rāma dramas already known is enormous; any one of merit appears still to be unearthed. The commentary on the Daçarūpa knows a Chalitarāma which would probably date before A.D. 1000, but its preservation is problematical. The Adbhutadarpaṇa4 of Mahādeva, son of Kṛṣṇa Sūri, a contemporary of Rāmabhadra Dīkṣita, shows Jayadeva’s influence in that it presents the events [247]at Lan̄kā as happening by means of a magic mirror. Its ten acts cover only the period from An̄gada’s mission to Rāvaṇa to the coronation of Rāma, and it introduces, contrary to the rule in Rāma dramas, the figure of the Vidūṣaka.

The Kṛṣṇa legend naturally attracted not less note; the Kerala prince Ravivarman, born in A.D. 1266, is the author of a Pradyumnābhyudaya.5 The minister of Husain Shāh Rūpa Gosvāmin wrote about A.D. 1532 the Vidagdhamādhava6 and the Lalitamādhava7 in seven and ten Acts respectively on the theme of the loves of Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā, in pursuance of his eager support of the movement of Caitanya. For the son of Ṭodar Mall, Akbar’s minister, Çeṣa Kṛṣṇa wrote the Kaṅsavadha8 which in seven Acts covers the ground of Bhāsa’s Bālacarita, as well as other plays on the Rāma legend. The winning of Rukmiṇī by Kṛṣṇa is the theme of the Rukmiṇīpariṇaya9 by Rāmavarman of Travancore (1735–87), and Kṛṣṇa’s generosity to a poor friend, though in a surprising shape, is recounted by Sāmarāja Dīkṣita in the Çrīdāmacarita10 written in A.D. 1681.

The number of dramas based on the Mahābhārata is decidedly smaller. We have not the Citrabhārata of the indefatigable Kṣemendra of Kashmir, who wrote in the middle of the eleventh century. But from that century probably are the Subhadrādhanaṁjaya and Tapatīsaṁvaraṇa11 of the Kerala king Kulaçekharavarman, and from about A.D. 1200 the Pārthaparākrama,12 a Vyāyoga, to be discussed hereafter, of Prahlādanadeva, a Yuvarāja, brother of Dhārāvarṣa, lord of Candrāvatī.