KALIDASA

Translations of Shakuntala & Other Works

BY ARTHUR W. RYDER
UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA LONDON & TORONTO
PUBLISHED BY J.M. DENT & SONS LTD & IN NEW YORK
BY E.P. DUTTON &. CO]
FIRST ISSUE OF THIS EDITION 1912
REPRINTED 1920, 1928
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
INTRODUCTION
KALIDASA--HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS
Kalidasa probably lived in the fifth century of the Christian era. This date, approximate as
it is, must yet be given with considerable hesitation, and is by no means certain. No truly
biographical data are preserved about the author, who nevertheless enjoyed a great popularity
during his life, and whom the Hindus have ever regarded as the greatest of Sanskrit poets.
We are thus confronted with one of the remarkable problems of literary history. For our
ignorance is not due to neglect of Kalidasa's writings on the part of his countrymen, but to their
strange blindness in regard to the interest and importance of historic fact. No European nation
can compare with India in critical devotion to its own literature. During a period to be reckoned
not by centuries but by millenniums, there has been in India an unbroken line of savants
unselfishly dedicated to the perpetuation and exegesis of the native masterpieces. Editions,
recensions, commentaries abound; poets have sought the exact phrase of appreciation for their
predecessors: yet when we seek to reconstruct the life of their greatest poet, we have no
materials except certain tantalising legends, and such data as we can gather from the writings
of a man who hardly mentions himself. One of these legends deserves to be recounted for its
intrinsic interest, although it contains, so far as we can see, no grain of historic truth, and
although it places Kalidasa in Benares, five hundred miles distant from the only city in which
we certainly know that he spent a part of his life. According to this account, Kalidasa was a
Brahman's child. At the age of six months, he was left an orphan and was adopted by an
ox-driver. He grew to manhood without formal education, yet with remarkable beauty
and grace of manner. Now it happened that the Princess of Benares was a blue-stocking,
who rejected one suitor after another, among them her father's counsellor, because they
failed to reach her standard as scholars and poets. The rejected counsellor planned a
cruel revenge. He took the handsome ox-driver from the street, gave him the garments of
a savant and a retinue of learned doctors, then introduced him to the princess, after
warning him that he was under no circumstances to open his lips. The princess was struck
with his beauty and smitten to the depths of her pedantic soul by his obstinate silence,
which seemed to her, as indeed it was, an evidence of profound wisdom. She desired to
marry Kalidasa, and together they went to the temple. But no sooner was the ceremony
performed than Kalidasa perceived an image of a bull. His early training was too much
for him; the secret came out, and the bride was furious. But she relented in response to
Kalidasa's entreaties, and advised him to pray for learning and poetry to the goddess
Kali. The prayer was granted; education and poetical power descended miraculously to
dwell with the young ox-driver, who in gratitude assumed the name Kalidasa, servant of
Kali. Feeling that he owed this happy change in his very nature to his princess, he swore
that he would ever treat her as his teacher, with profound respect but without familiarity.
This was more than the lady had bargained for; her anger burst forth anew, and she
cursed Kalidasa to meet his death at the hands of a woman. At a later date, the story
continues, this curse was fulfilled. A certain king had written a half-stanza of verse, and
had offered a large reward to any poet who could worthily complete it. Kalidasa
completed the stanza without difficulty; but a woman whom he loved discovered his lines,
and greedy of the reward herself, killed him.
Another legend represents Kalidasa as engaging in a pilgrimage to a shrine of Vishnu in
Southern India, in company with two other famous writers, Bhavabhuti and Dandin. Yet
another pictures Bhavabhuti as a contemporary of Kalidasa, and jealous of the less austere
poet's reputation. These stories must be untrue, for it is certain that the three authors were not
contemporary, yet they show a true instinct in the belief that genius seeks genius, and is rarely
isolated. This instinctive belief has been at work with the stories which connect Kalidasa with
King Vikramaditya and the literary figures of his court. It has doubtless enlarged, perhaps
partly falsified the facts; yet we cannot doubt that there is truth in this tradition, late though it
be, and impossible though it may ever be to separate the actual from the fanciful. Here then we
are on firmer ground. King Vikramaditya ruled in the city of Ujjain, in West-central India. He
was mighty both in war and in peace, winning especial glory by a decisive victory over the
barbarians who pressed into India through the northern passes. Though it has not proved
possible to identify this monarch with any of the known rulers, there can be no doubt that he
existed and had the character attributed to him. The name Vikramaditya--Sun of Valour--is
probably not a proper name, but a title like Pharaoh or Tsar. No doubt Kalidasa intended to pay
a tribute to his patron, the Sun of Valour, in the very title of his play, _Urvashi won by Valour_.
King Vikramaditya was a great patron of learning and of poetry. Ujjain during his reign was
the most brilliant capital in the world, nor has it to this day lost all the lustre shed upon it by
that splendid court. Among the eminent men gathered there, nine were particularly
distinguished, and these nine are known as the "nine gems." Some of the nine gems were poets,
others represented science--astronomy, medicine, lexicography. It is quite true that the details
of this late tradition concerning the nine gems are open to suspicion, yet the central fact is not
doubtful: that there was at this time and place a great quickening of the human mind, an artistic
impulse creating works that cannot perish. Ujjain in the days of Vikramaditya stands worthily
beside Athens, Rome, Florence, and London in their great centuries.
Here is the substantial fact behind Max Müller's often ridiculed theory of the renaissance of
Sanskrit literature. It is quite false to suppose, as some appear to do, that this theory has been
invalidated by the discovery of certain literary products which antedate Kalidasa. It might even
be said that those rare and happy centuries that see a man as great as Homer or Vergil or
Kalidasa or Shakespeare partake in that one man of a renaissance. It is interesting to observe
that the centuries of intellectual darkness in Europe have sometimes coincided with centuries
of light in India. The Vedas were composed for the most part before Homer; Kalidasa and his
contemporaries lived while Rome was tottering under barbarian assault. To the scanty and
uncertain data of late traditions may be added some information about Kalidasa's life gathered
from his own writings. He mentions his own name only in the prologues to his three plays,
and here with a modesty that is charming indeed, yet tantalising. One wishes for a portion
of the communicativeness that characterises some of the Indian poets. He speaks in the first
person only once, in the verses introductory to his epic poem _The Dynasty of Raghu_[1]. Here
also we feel his modesty, and here once more we are balked of details as to his life. We know
from Kalidasa's writings that he spent at least a part of his life in the city of Ujjain. He refers
to Ujjain more than once, and in a manner hardly possible to one who did not know and love
the city. Especially in his poem _The Cloud-Messenger_ does he dwell upon the city's charms,
and even bids the cloud make a détour in his long journey lest he should miss making its
acquaintance.[2]
We learn further that Kalidasa travelled widely in India. The fourth canto of _The Dynasty
of Raghu_ describes a tour about the whole of India and even into regions which are beyond
the borders of a narrowly measured India. It is hard to believe that Kalidasa had not himself
made such a "grand tour"; so much of truth there may be in the tradition which sends him on a
pilgrimage to Southern India. The thirteenth canto of the same epic and _The Cloud-
Messenger_ also describe long journeys over India, for the most part through regions far from
Ujjain. It is the mountains which impress him most deeply. His works are full of the Himalayas.
Apart from his earliest drama and the slight poem called _The Seasons_, there is not one of
them which is not fairly redolent of mountains. One, _The Birth of the War-god_, might be
said to be all mountains. Nor was it only Himalayan grandeur and sublimity which attracted
him; for, as a Hindu critic has acutely observed, he is the only Sanskrit poet who has described
a certain flower that grows in Kashmir. The sea interested him less. To him, as to most Hindus,
the ocean was a beautiful, terrible barrier, not a highway to adventure. The "sea-belted earth"
of which Kalidasa speaks means to him the mainland of India.
Another conclusion that may be certainly drawn from Kalidasa's writing is this, that he was a
man of sound and rather extensive education. He was not indeed a prodigy of learning, like
Bhavabhuti in his own country or Milton in England, yet no man could write as he did without
hard and intelligent study. To begin with, he had a minutely accurate knowledge of the
Sanskrit language, at a time when Sanskrit was to some extent an artificial tongue.
Somewhat too much stress is often laid upon this point, as if the writers of the classical period
in India were composing in a foreign language. Every writer, especially every poet, composing
in any language, writes in what may be called a strange idiom; that is, he does not write as he
talks. Yet it is true that the gap between written language and vernacular was wider in
Kalidasa's day than it has often been. The Hindus themselves regard twelve years' study as
requisite for the mastery of the "chief of all sciences, the science of grammar." That Kalidasa
had mastered this science his works bear abundant witness.
He likewise mastered the works on rhetoric and dramatic theory--subjects which Hindu savants
have treated with great, if sometimes hair-splitting, ingenuity. The profound and subtle systems
of philosophy were also possessed by Kalidasa, and he had some knowledge of astronomy and
law.
But it was not only in written books that Kalidasa was deeply read. Rarely has a man walked
our earth who observed the phenomena of living nature as accurately as he, though his
accuracy was of course that of the poet, not that of the scientist. Much is lost to us who
grow up among other animals and plants; yet we can appreciate his "bee-black hair," his
ashoka-tree that "sheds his blossoms in a rain of tears," his river wearing a sombre veil of mist:
Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dress
To hide her charms;
his picture of the day-blooming water-lily at sunset:
The water-lily closes, but
With wonderful reluctancy;
As if it troubled her to shut
Her door of welcome to the bee.

The religion of any great poet is always a matter of interest, especially the religion of a Hindu
poet; for the Hindus have ever been a deeply and creatively religious people. So far as we can
judge, Kalidasa moved among the jarring sects with sympathy for all, fanaticism for none. The
dedicatory prayers that introduce his dramas are addressed to Shiva. This is hardly more than
a convention, for Shiva is the patron of literature. If one of his epics, _The Birth of the War-
god_, is distinctively Shivaistic, the other, _The Dynasty of Raghu_, is no less Vishnuite in
tendency. If the hymn to Vishnu in _The Dynasty of Raghu_ is an expression of Vedantic
monism, the hymn to Brahma in _The Birth of the War-god_ gives equally clear expression to
the rival dualism of the Sankhya system. Nor are the Yoga doctrine and Buddhism left without
sympathetic mention. We are therefore justified in concluding that Kalidasa was, in matters
of religion, what William James would call "healthy-minded," emphatically not a "sick
soul." (Referred to both Shiva and Vishnu) There are certain other impressions of Kalidasa's
life and personality which gradually become convictions in the mind of one who reads and re-
reads his poetry, though they are less easily susceptible of exact proof. One feels certain that
he was physically handsome, and the handsome Hindu is a wonderfully fine type of
manhood. One knows that he possessed a fascination for women, as they in turn
fascinated him. One knows that children loved him. One becomes convinced that he never
suffered any morbid, soul-shaking experience such as besetting religious doubt brings
with it, or the pangs of despised love; that on the contrary he moved among men and
women with a serene and godlike tread, neither self-indulgent nor ascetic, with mind and
senses ever alert to every form of beauty. We know that his poetry was popular while he
lived, and we cannot doubt that his personality was equally attractive, though it is
probable that no contemporary knew the full measure of his greatness. For his nature
was one of singular balance, equally at home in a splendid court and on a lonely mountain,
with men of high and of low degree. Such men are never fully appreciated during life.
They continue to grow after they are dead.
II
Kalidasa left seven works which have come down to us: three dramas, two epics, one
elegiac poem, and one descriptive poem. Many other works, including even an astronomical
treatise, have been attributed to him; they are certainly not his. Perhaps there was more than
one author who bore the name Kalidasa; perhaps certain later writers were more concerned for
their work than for personal fame. On the other hand, there is no reason to doubt that the seven
recognised works are in truth from Kalidasa's hand. The only one concerning which there is
reasonable room for suspicion is the short poem descriptive of the seasons, and this is
fortunately the least important of the seven. Nor is there evidence to show that any considerable
poem has been lost, unless it be true that the concluding cantos of one of the epics have
perished. We are thus in a fortunate position in reading Kalidasa: we have substantially
all that he wrote, and run no risk of ascribing to him any considerable work from another
hand. (Sophocles (495 BC-405 BC) was a famous and successful Athenian writer of tragedies in his
own lifetime.)

Of these seven works, four are poetry throughout; the three dramas, like all Sanskrit dramas,
are written in prose, with a generous mingling of lyric and descriptive stanzas. The poetry, even
in the epics, is stanzaic; no part of it can fairly be compared to English blank verse. Classical
Sanskrit verse, so far as structure is concerned, has much in common with familiar Greek and
Latin forms: it makes no systematic use of rhyme; it depends for its rhythm not upon accent,
but upon quantity. The natural medium of translation into English seems to be the rhymed
stanza;[3] in the present work the rhymed stanza has been used, with a consistency perhaps too
rigid, wherever the original is in verse.
Kalidasa's three dramas bear the names: Malavika and Agnimitra, Urvashi, and
Shakuntala. The two epics are The Dynasty of Raghu Sophocles (495 BC-405 BC) was a famous
and successful Athenian writer of tragedies in his own lifetime and The Birth of the War-god.
The elegiac poem is called The Cloud-Messenger, and the descriptive poem is entitled The
Seasons. It may be well to state briefly the more salient features of the Sanskrit genres to which
these works belong.
The drama proved in India, as in other countries, a congenial form to many of the most eminent
poets. The Indian drama has a marked individuality, but stands nearer to the modern
European theatre than to that of ancient Greece; for the plays, with a very few exceptions,
have no religious significance, and deal with love between man and woman. Although
tragic elements may be present, a tragic ending is forbidden. Indeed, nothing regarded as
disagreeable, such as fighting or even kissing, is permitted on the stage; here Europe may
perhaps learn a lesson in taste. Stage properties were few and simple, while particular
care was lavished on the music. The female parts were played by women. The plays very
rarely have long monologues, even the inevitable prologue being divided between two
speakers, but a Hindu audience was tolerant of lyrical digression.
It may be said, though the statement needs qualification in both directions, that the Indian
dramas have less action and less individuality in the characters, but more poetical charm
than the dramas of modern Europe.
On the whole, Kalidasa was remarkably faithful to the ingenious but somewhat over-elaborate
conventions of Indian dramaturgy. His first play, the Malavika and Agnimitra, is entirely
conventional in plot. The Shakuntala is transfigured by the character of the heroine. The
Urvashi, in spite of detail beauty, marks a distinct decline. The Dynasty of Raghu and The Birth
of the War-God belong to a species of composition which it is not easy to name accurately.
The Hindu name kavya has been rendered by artificial epic. It is best perhaps to use the term
epic, and to qualify the term by explanation.
The _kavyas_ differ widely from the _Mahabharata_ and the _Ramayana_, epics which
resemble the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ less in outward form than in their character as truly
national poems. The _kavya_ is a narrative poem written in a sophisticated age by a learned
poet, who possesses all the resources of an elaborate rhetoric and metric. The subject is drawn
from time-honoured mythology. The poem is divided into cantos, written not in blank verse
but in stanzas. Several stanza-forms are commonly employed in the same poem, though not in
the same canto, except that the concluding verses of a canto are not infrequently written in a
metre of more compass than the remainder. I have called _The Cloud-Messenger_ an elegiac
poem, though it would not perhaps meet the test of a rigid definition. The Hindus class it with
_The Dynasty of Raghu_ and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a _kavya_, but this classification
simply evidences their embarrassment. In fact, Kalidasa created in _The Cloud-Messenger_ a
new _genre_. No further explanation is needed here, as the entire poem is translated below.
The short descriptive poem called _The Seasons_ has abundant analogues in other literatures,
and requires no comment. It is not possible to fix the chronology of Kalidasa's writings, yet we
are not wholly in the dark. _Malavika and Agnimitra_ was certainly his first drama, almost
certainly his first work. It is a reasonable conjecture, though nothing more, that Urvashi was
written late, when the poet's powers were waning. The introductory stanzas of _TheDynasty of
Raghu_ suggest that this epic was written before _The Birth of the War-god_, though the
inference is far from certain. Again, it is reasonable to assume that the great works on which
Kalidasa's fame chiefly rests--_Shakuntala_, _The Cloud-Messenger_, _The Dynasty of
Raghu_, the first eight cantos of _The Birth of the War-god_--were composed when he was in
the prime of manhood. But as to the succession of these four works we can do little but guess.
Kalidasa's glory depends primarily upon the quality of his work, yet would be much diminished
if he had failed in bulk and variety. In India, more than would be the case in Europe, the extent
of his writing is an indication of originality and power; for the poets of the classical period
underwent an education that encouraged an exaggerated fastidiousness, and they wrote for a
public meticulously critical. Thus, the great Bhavabhuti spent his life in constructing three
dramas; mighty spirit though he was, he yet suffers from the very scrupulosity of his labour. In
this matter, as in others, Kalidasa preserves his intellectual balance and his spiritual initiative:
what greatness of soul is required for this, every one knows who has ever had the misfortune
to differ in opinion from an intellectual clique.
III
It is hardly possible to say anything true about Kalidasa's achievement which is not already
contained in this appreciation. Yet one loves to expand the praise, even though realising that
the critic is by his very nature a fool. Here there shall at any rate be none of that cold-blooded
criticism which imagines itself set above a world-author to appraise and judge, but a generous
tribute of affectionate admiration. The best proof of a poet's greatness is the inability of men to
live without him; in other words, his power to win and hold through centuries the love and
admiration of his own people, especially when that people has shown itself capable of high
intellectual and spiritual achievement.
For something like fifteen hundred years, Kalidasa has been more widely read in India than
any other author who wrote in Sanskrit. There have also been many attempts to express in
words the secret of his abiding power: such attempts can never be wholly successful, yet they
are not without considerable interest. Thus Bana, a celebrated novelist of the seventh century,
has the following lines in some stanzas of poetical criticism which he prefixes to a historical
romance:
Where find a soul that does not thrill
In Kalidasa's verse to meet
The smooth, inevitable lines
Like blossom-clusters, honey-sweet?
A later writer, speaking of Kalidasa and another poet, is more laconic in this alliterative line:
_Bhaso hasah, Kalidaso vilasah_--Bhasa is mirth, Kalidasa is grace.
These two critics see Kalidasa's grace, his sweetness, his delicate taste, without doing justice
to the massive quality without which his poetry could not have survived.
Though Kalidasa has not been as widely appreciated in Europe as he deserves, he is the
only Sanskrit poet who can properly be said to have been appreciated at all. Here he must
struggle with the truly Himalayan barrier of language. Since there will never be many
Europeans, even among the cultivated, who will find it possible to study the intricate Sanskrit
language, there remains only one means of presentation. None knows the cruel inadequacy of
poetical translation like the translator. He understands better than others can, the significance
of the position which Kalidasa has won in Europe. When Sir William Jones first translated
the _Shakuntala_ in 1789, his work was enthusiastically received in Europe, and most
warmly, as was fitting, by the greatest living poet of Europe. Since that day, as is testified by
new translations and by reprints of the old, there have been many thousands who have read at
least one of Kalidasa's works; other thousands have seen it on the stage in Europe and America.
How explain a reputation that maintains itself indefinitely and that conquers a new continent
after a lapse of thirteen hundred years? None can explain it, yet certain contributory causes can
be named.
No other poet in any land has sung of happy love between man and woman as Kalidasa
sang. Every one of his works is a love-poem, however much more it may be. Yet the theme
is so infinitely varied that the reader never wearies. If one were to doubt from a study of
European literature, comparing the ancient classics with modern works, whether romantic love
be the expression of a natural instinct, be not rather a morbid survival of decaying chivalry, he
has only to turn to India's independently growing literature to find the question settled.
Kalidasa's love-poetry rings as true in our ears as it did in his countrymen's ears fifteen
hundred years ago.
It is of love eventually happy, though often struggling for a time against external
obstacles, that Kalidasa writes. There is nowhere in his works a trace of that not quite healthy
feeling that sometimes assumes the name "modern love." If it were not so, his poetry could
hardly have survived; for happy love, blessed with children, is surely the more fundamental
thing. In his drama _Urvashi_ he is ready to change and greatly injure a tragic story, given him
by long tradition, in order that a loving pair may not be permanently separated. One apparent
exception there is--the story of Rama and Sita in _The Dynasty of Raghu_. In this case it must
be remembered that Rama is an incarnation of Vishnu, and the story of a mighty god incarnate
is not to be lightly tampered with.
It is perhaps an inevitable consequence of Kalidasa's subject that his women appeal more
strongly to a modern reader than his men. The man is the more variable phenomenon,
and though manly virtues are the same in all countries and centuries, the emphasis has
been variously laid. But the true woman seems timeless, universal. I know of no poet,
unless it be Shakespeare, who has given the world a group of heroines so individual yet
so universal; heroines as true, as tender, as brave as are Indumati, Sita, Parvati, the
Yaksha's bride, and Shakuntala.
Kalidasa could not understand women without understanding children. It would be
difficult to find anywhere lovelier pictures of childhood than those in which our poet presents
the little Bharata, Ayus, Raghu, Kumara. It is a fact worth noticing that Kalidasa's children are
all boys. Beautiful as his women are, he never does more than glance at a little girl.
Another pervading note of Kalidasa's writing is his love of external nature. No doubt it is
easier for a Hindu, with his almost instinctive belief in reincarnation, to feel that all life,
from plant to god, is truly one; yet none, even among the Hindus, has expressed this
feeling with such convincing beauty as has Kalidasa. It is hardly true to say that he
personifies rivers and mountains and trees; to him they have a conscious individuality as
truly and as certainly as animals or men or Gods. Fully to appreciate Kalidasa's poetry
one must have spent some weeks at least among wild mountains and forests untouched
by man; there the conviction grows that trees and flowers are indeed individuals, fully
conscious of a personal life and happy in that life. The return to urban surroundings
makes the vision fade; yet the memory remains, like a great love or a glimpse of mystic
insight, as an intuitive conviction of a higher truth.
Kalidasa's knowledge of nature is not only sympathetic, it is also minutely accurate. Not
only are the snows and windy music of the Himalayas, the mighty current of the sacred
Ganges, his possession; his too are smaller streams and trees and every littlest flower. It
is delightful to imagine a meeting between Kalidasa and Darwin. They would have understood
each other perfectly; for in each the same kind of imagination worked with the same wealth of
observed fact.
I have already hinted at the wonderful balance in Kalidasa's character, by virtue of which he
found himself equally at home in a palace and in a wilderness. I know not with whom to
compare him in this; even Shakespeare, for all his magical insight into natural beauty, is
primarily a poet of the human heart. That can hardly be said of Kalidasa, nor can it be said that
he is primarily a poet of natural beauty. The two characters unite in him, it might almost be
said, chemically. The matter which I am clumsily endeavouring to make plain is beautifully
epitomised in _The Cloud-Messenger_. The former half is a description of external nature, yet
interwoven with human feeling; the latter half is a picture of a human heart, yet the picture is
framed in natural beauty. So exquisitely is the thing done that none can say which half is
superior. Of those who read this perfect poem in the original text, some are more moved by the
one, some by the other. Kalidasa understood in the fifth century what Europe did not learn
until the nineteenth, and even now comprehends only imperfectly: that the world was not
made for man, that man reaches his full stature only as he realises the dignity and worth
of life that is not human.
That Kalidasa seized this truth is a magnificent tribute to his intellectual power, a quality quite
as necessary to great poetry as perfection of form. Poetical fluency is not rare; intellectual grasp
is not very uncommon: but the combination has not been found perhaps more than a dozen
times since the world began. Because he possessed this harmonious combination, Kalidasa
ranks not with Anacreon and Horace and Shelley, but with Sophocles, Vergil, Milton.
He would doubtless have been somewhat bewildered by Wordsworth's gospel of nature. "The
world is too much with us," we can fancy him repeating. "How can the world, the beautiful
human world, be too much with us? How can sympathy with one form of life do other than
vivify our sympathy with other forms of life?"
It remains to say what can be said in a foreign language of Kalidasa's style. We have seen
that he had a formal and systematic education; in this respect he is rather to be compared
with Milton and Tennyson than with Shakespeare or Burns. He was completely master
of his learning. In an age and a country which reprobated carelessness but were tolerant
of pedantry, he held the scales with a wonderfully even hand, never heedless and never
indulging in the elaborate trifling with Sanskrit diction which repels the reader from
much of Indian literature. It is true that some western critics have spoken of his
disfiguring conceits and puerile plays on words. One can only wonder whether these
critics have ever read Elizabethan literature; for Kalidasa's style is far less obnoxious to
such condemnation than Shakespeare's. That he had a rich and glowing imagination,
"excelling in metaphor," as the Hindus themselves affirm, is indeed true; that he may,
both in youth and age, have written lines which would not have passed his scrutiny in the
vigour of manhood, it is not worthwhile to deny: yet the total effect left by his poetry is
one of extraordinary sureness and delicacy of taste. This is scarcely a matter for
argument; a reader can do no more than state his own subjective impression, though he
is glad to find that impression confirmed by the unanimous authority of fifty generations
of Hindus, surely the most competent judges on such a point.
Analysis of Kalidasa's writings might easily be continued, but analysis can never explain life.
The only real criticism is subjective. We know that Kalidasa is a very great poet, because the
world has not been able to leave him alone.
ARTHUR W. RYDER.
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
On Kalidasa's life and writings may be consulted A.A. Macdonell's _History of Sanskrit
Literature_ (1900); the same author's article "Kalidasa" in the eleventh edition of the
_Encyclopædia Britannica_ (1910); and Sylvain Lévi's _Le Théâtre Indien_ (1890).
The more important translations in English are the following: of the _Shakuntala_, by Sir
William Jones (1789) and Monier Williams (fifth edition, 1887); of the _Urvashi_, by H.H.
Wilson (in his _Select Specimens of the Theatre of the Hindus_, third edition, 1871); of _The
Dynasty of Raghu_, by P. de Lacy Johnstone (1902); of _The Birth of The War-god_ (cantos
one to seven), by Ralph T.H. Griffith (second edition, 1879); of _The Cloud-Messenger_, by
H.H. Wilson (1813).
There is an inexpensive reprint of Jones's _Shakuntala_ and Wilson's _Cloud-Messenger_ in
one volume in the Camelot Series.
KALIDASA
An ancient heathen poet, loving more
God's creatures, and His women, and His flowers
Than we who boast of consecrated powers;
Still lavishing his unexhausted store
Of love's deep, simple wisdom, healing o'er
The world's old sorrows, India's griefs and ours;
That healing love he found in palace towers,
On mountain, plain, and dark, sea-belted shore,
In songs of holy Raghu's kingly line
Or sweet Shakuntala in pious grove,
In hearts that met where starry jasmines twine
Or hearts that from long, lovelorn absence strove
Together. Still his words of wisdom shine:
All's well with man, when man and woman love.
GOETHE.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: These verses are translated on pp. 123, 124.]
[Footnote 2: The passage will be found on pp. 190-192.]
[Footnote 3: This matter is more fully discussed in the introduction to my translation of _The
Little Clay Cart_ (1905).]
[Footnote 4: Lévi, _Le Théâtre Indien_, p. 163.]

SHAKUNTALA
A PLAY IN SEVEN ACTS
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
KING DUSHYANTA.
BHARATA, _nicknamed_ All-tamer, _his son_.
MADHAVYA, _a clown, his companion_.
His charioteer.
RAIVATAKA, _a door-keeper_.
BHADRASENA, _a general_.
KARABHAKA, _a servant_.
PARVATAYANA, _a chamberlain_.
SOMARATA, _a chaplain_.

KANVA, _hermit-father_.
SHARNGARAVA }
SHARADVATA } _his pupils_.
HARITA }
DURVASAS, _an irascible sage_.
The chief of police.
SUCHAKA }
} _policemen_.
JANUKA }
A fisherman.
SHAKUNTALA, _foster-child of Kanva_.
ANUSUVA } } _her friends_.
PRIYAMVADA }
GAUTAMI, _hermit-mother_.
KASHYAPA, _father of the gods_.
ADITI, _mother of the gods_.
MATALI, _charioteer of heaven's king_.
GALAVA, _a pupil in heaven_.
MISHRAKESHI, _a heavenly nymph_.
Stage-director and actress (in the prologue), hermits and hermit-women, two court poets, palace
attendants, invisible fairies_.
The first four acts pass in Kanva's forest hermitage; acts five and six in the king's palace;
act seven on a heavenly mountain. The time is perhaps seven years.
SHAKUNTALA
PROLOGUE
BENEDICTION UPON THE AUDIENCE
Eight forms has Shiva, lord of all and king:
And these are water, first created thing;
And fire, which speeds the sacrifice begun;
The priest; and time's dividers, moon and sun;
The all-embracing ether, path of sound;
The earth, wherein all seeds of life are found;
And air, the breath of life: may he draw near,
Revealed in these, and bless those gathered here.
_The stage-director_. Enough of this! (_Turning toward the dressing-room_.) Madam, if you
are ready, pray come here. (_Enter an actress_.)
_Actress_. Here I am, sir. What am I to do?
_Director_. Our audience is very discriminating, and we are to offer them a new play, called
_Shakuntala and the ring of recognition_, written by the famous Kalidasa. Every member of
the cast must be on his mettle.
_Actress_. Your arrangements are perfect. Nothing will go wrong.
_Director_ (_smiling_). To tell the truth, madam,
Until the wise are satisfied,
I cannot feel that skill is shown;
The best-trained mind requires support,
And does not trust itself alone.
_Actress_. True. What shall we do first?
_Director_. First, you must sing something to please the ears of the audience.
_Actress_. What season of the year shall I sing about?
_Director_. Why, sing about the pleasant summer which has just begun. For at this time
of year
A mid-day plunge will temper heat;
The breeze is rich with forest flowers;
To slumber in the shade is sweet;
And charming are the twilight hours.
Actress_ (_sings_).
The siris-blossoms fair,
With pollen laden,
Are plucked to deck her hair
By many a maiden,
But gently; flowers like these
Are kissed by eager bees.
_Director_. Well done! The whole theatre is captivated by your song, and sits as if painted.
What play shall we give them to keep their good-will?
_Actress_. Why, you just told me we were to give a new play called _Shakuntala and the ring_.
_Director_. Thank you for reminding me. For the moment I had quite forgotten.
Your charming song had carried me away
As the deer enticed the hero of our play.

ACT I
THE HUNT
(_Enter, in a chariot, pursuing a deer_, KING DUSHYANTA, _bow and arrow in hand; and a
charioteer_.)
_Charioteer_ (_Looking at the king and the deer_). Your Majesty,
I see you hunt the spotted deer
With shafts to end his race,
As though God Shiva should appear
In his immortal chase.
_King_. Charioteer, the deer has led us a long chase. And even now
His neck in beauty bends
As backward looks he sends
At my pursuing car
That threatens death from far.
Fear shrinks to half the body small;
See how he fears the arrow's fall!
The path he takes is strewed
With blades of grass half-chewed
From jaws wide with the stress
Of fevered weariness.
He leaps so often and so high,
He does not seem to run, but fly.
(_In surprise_.) Pursue as I may, I can hardly keep him in sight.

_Charioteer_. Your Majesty, I have been holding the horses back

because the ground was rough. This checked us and gave the deer a
lead. Now we are on level ground, and you will easily overtake him.
_King_. Then let the reins hang loose.
_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits rapid motion_.)
Look, your Majesty!
The lines hang loose; the steeds unreined
Dart forward with a will.
Their ears are pricked; their necks are strained;
Their plumes lie straight and still.
They leave the rising dust behind;
They seem to float upon the wind.

_King_ (_joyfully_). See! The horses are gaining on the deer.

As onward and onward the chariot flies,

The small flashes large to my dizzy eyes.
What is cleft in twain, seems to blur and mate;
What is crooked in nature, seems to be straight.
Things at my side in an instant appear
Distant, and things in the distance, near.

_A voice behind the scenes_. O King, this deer belongs to the

hermitage, and must not be killed.

_Charioteer_ (_listening and looking_). Your Majesty, here are two

hermits, come to save the deer at the moment when your arrow was about
to fall.

_King_ (_hastily_). Stop the chariot.

_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He does so. Enter a hermit with his
pupil_.)

_Hermit_ (_lifting his hand_). O King, this deer belongs to the

hermitage.

Why should his tender form expire,

As blossoms perish in the fire?
How could that gentle life endure
The deadly arrow, sharp and sure?

Restore your arrow to the quiver;

To you were weapons lent
The broken-hearted to deliver,
Not strike the innocent.

_King_ (_bowing low_). It is done. (_He does so_.)

_Hermit_ (_joyfully_). A deed worthy of you, scion of Puru's race, and

shining example of kings. May you beget a son to rule earth and
heaven.

_King_ (_bowing low_). I am thankful for a Brahman's blessing.

_The two hermits_. O King, we are on our way to gather firewood. Here,
along the bank of the Malini, you may see the hermitage of Father
Kanva, over which Shakuntala presides, so to speak, as guardian deity.
Unless other deities prevent, pray enter here and receive a welcome.
Besides,

Beholding pious hermit-rites

Preserved from fearful harm,
Perceive the profit of the scars
On your protecting arm.

_King_. Is the hermit father there?

_The two hermits_. No, he has left his daughter to welcome guests, and
has just gone to Somatirtha, to avert an evil fate that threatens her.

_King_. Well, I will see her. She shall feel my devotion, and report
it to the sage.

_The two hermits_. Then we will go on our way. (_Exit hermit with
pupil_.)

_King_. Charioteer, drive on. A sight of the pious hermitage will

purify us.

_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He counterfeits motion again_.)

_King_ (_looking about_). One would know, without being told, that
this is the precinct of a pious grove.

_Charioteer_. How so? _King_. Do you not see? Why, here

 Are rice-grains, dropped from bills of parrot chicks
Beneath the trees; and pounding-stones where sticks
A little almond-oil; and trustful deer
That do not run away as we draw near;
And river-paths that are besprinkled yet
From trickling hermit-garments, clean and wet.

Besides,

The roots of trees are washed by many a stream

That breezes ruffle; and the flowers' red gleam
Is dimmed by pious smoke; and fearless fawns
Move softly on the close-cropped forest lawns.

_Charioteer_. It is all true.

_King_ (_after a little_). We must not disturb the hermitage. Stop

here while I dismount.

_Charioteer_. I am holding the reins. Dismount, your Majesty.

_King_ (_dismounts and looks at himself_). One should wear modest

garments on entering a hermitage. Take these jewels and the bow. (_He
gives them to the charioteer_.) Before I return from my visit to the
hermits, have the horses' backs wet down.

_Charioteer_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_King_ (_walking and looking about_). The hermitage! Well, I will

enter. (_As he does so, he feels a throbbing in his arm_.)

A tranquil spot! Why should I thrill?

Love cannot enter there--
Yet to inevitable things
Doors open everywhere.

_A voice behind the scenes_. This way, girls!

_King_ (_listening_). I think I hear some one to the right of the grove. I must find out. (_He
walks and looks about_.) Ah, here are hermit-girls, with watering-pots just big enough for them
to handle. They are coming in this direction to water the young trees. They are charming!

The city maids, for all their pains,

Seem not so sweet and good;
Our garden blossoms yield to these
Flower-children of the wood.

I will draw back into the shade and wait for them. (_He stands, gazing toward them. Enter_
SHAKUNTALA, _as described, and her two friends_.)

_First friend_. It seems to me, dear, that Father Kanva cares more for the hermitage trees than
he does for you. You are delicate as a jasmine blossom, yet he tells you to fill the trenches
about the trees.

_Shakuntala_. Oh, it isn't Father's bidding so much. I feel like a

real sister to them. (_She waters the trees_.)

_Priyamvada_. Shakuntala, we have watered the trees that blossom in the summer-time. Now
let's sprinkle those whose flowering-time is past. That will be a better deed, because we shall
not be working for a reward.
_Shakuntala_. What a pretty idea! (_She does so_.)
_King_ (_to himself_). And this is Kanva's daughter, Shakuntala. (_In surprise_.) The good
Father does wrong to make her wear the hermit's dress of bark.
The sage who yokes her artless charm
With pious pain and grief,
Would try to cut the toughest vine
With a soft, blue lotus-leaf.
Well, I will step behind a tree and see how she acts with her friends. (_He conceals himself_.)
_Shakuntala_. Oh, Anusuya! Priyamvada has fastened this bark dress so tight that it hurts.
Please loosen it. (ANUSUYA _does so_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_laughing_). You had better blame your own budding charms for that.

_King_. She is quite right.

Beneath the barken dress

Upon the shoulder tied,
In maiden loveliness
Her young breast seems to hide,

As when a flower amid

The leaves by autumn tossed--
Pale, withered leaves--lies hid,
And half its grace is lost.

Yet in truth the bark dress is not an enemy to her beauty. It serves as an added ornament. For

The meanest vesture glows

On beauty that enchants:
The lotus lovelier shows
Amid dull water-plants;
 The moon in added splendour
Shines for its spot of dark;
Yet more the maiden slender
Charms in her dress of bark.

_Shakuntala_ (_looking ahead_). Oh, girls, that mango-tree is trying to tell me something
with his branches that move in the wind like fingers. I must go and see him. (_She does
so_.)
_Priyamvada_. There, Shakuntala, stand right where you are a minute.

_Shakuntala_. Why?

_Priyamvada_. When I see you there, it looks as if a vine were clinging to the mango-tree.

_Shakuntala_. I see why they call you the flatterer.

_King_. But the flattery is true.

Her arms are tender shoots; her lips

Are blossoms red and warm;
Bewitching youth begins to flower
In beauty on her form.

_Anusuya_. Oh, Shakuntala! Here is the jasmine-vine that you named

Light of the Grove. She has chosen the mango-tree as her husband.

_Shakuntala_ (_approaches and looks at it, joyfully_). What a pretty pair they make. The
jasmine shows her youth in her fresh flowers, and the mango-tree shows his strength in his
ripening fruit. (_She stands gazing at them_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_smiling_). Anusuya, do you know why Shakuntala looks so hard at the Light
of the Grove?
_Anusuya_. No. Why?

_Priyamvada_. She is thinking how the Light of the Grove has found a good tree, and hoping
that she will meet a fine lover.

_Shakuntala_. That's what you want for yourself. (_She tips her watering-pot_.)

_Anusuya_. Look, Shakuntala! Here is the spring-creeper that Father Kanva tended with
his own hands--just as he did you. You are forgetting her.

_Shakuntala_. I'd forget myself sooner. (_She goes to the creeper and looks at it,
joyfully_.) Wonderful! Wonderful! Priyamvada, I have something pleasant to tell you.

_Priyamvada_. What is it, dear?

_Shakuntala_. It is out of season, but the spring-creeper is covered with buds down to the
very root.

_The two friends_ (_running up_). Really?

_Shakuntala_. Of course. Can't you see?

_Priyamvada_ (_looking at it joyfully_). And I have something pleasant to tell _you_. You are
to be married soon.

_Shakuntala_ (_snappishly_). You know that's just what you want for yourself.

_Priyamvada_. I'm not teasing. I really heard Father Kanva say that this flowering vine was to
be a symbol of your coming happiness.

_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, that is why Shakuntala waters the spring-creeper so lovingly.

_Shakuntala_. She is my sister. Why shouldn't I give her water? (_She tips her watering-
pot_.)

_King_. May I hope that she is the hermit's daughter by a mother of a different caste? But it
_must_ be so.

Surely, she may become a warrior's bride;

Else, why these longings in an honest mind?
The motions of a blameless heart decide
Of right and wrong, when reason leaves us blind.

Yet I will learn the whole truth.

_Shakuntala_ (_excitedly_). Oh, oh! A bee has left the jasmine-vine and is flying into my face.
(_She shows herself annoyed by the bee_.)

_King_ (_ardently_).

As the bee about her flies,

Swiftly her bewitching eyes
Turn to watch his flight.
She is practising to-day
Coquetry and glances' play
Not from love, but fright.

(_Jealously_.)

Eager bee, you lightly skim

O'er the eyelid's trembling rim
Toward the cheek aquiver.
 Gently buzzing round her cheek,
Whispering in her ear, you seek
Secrets to deliver.

While her hands that way and this

Strike at you, you steal a kiss,
Love's all, honeymaker.
I know nothing but her name,
Not her caste, nor whence she came--
You, my rival, take her.

_Shakuntala_. Oh, girls! Save me from this dreadful bee!

_The two friends_ (_smiling_). Who are we, that we should save you?
Call upon Dushyanta. For pious groves are in the protection of the king.

_King_. A good opportunity to present myself. Have no--(_He checks himself. Aside_.) No,
they would see that I am the king. I prefer to appear as a guest.

_Shakuntala_. He doesn't leave me alone! I am going to run away.

(_She takes a step and looks about_.) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! He is following me. Please save me.

_King_ (_hastening forward_). Ah!

A king of Puru's mighty line

Chastises shameless churls;
What insolent is he who baits
These artless hermit-girls?

(_The girls are a little flurried on seeing the king_.)

_Anusuya_. It is nothing very dreadful, sir. But our friend (_indicating_ SHAKUNTALA) was
teased and frightened by a bee.

_King_ (_to_ SHAKUNTALA). I hope these pious days are happy ones.

(SHAKUNTALA's _eyes drop in embarrassment_.)

_Anusuya_. Yes, now that we receive such a distinguished guest.

_Priyamvada_. Welcome, sir. Go to the cottage, Shakuntala, and bring fruit. This water will do
to wash the feet.

_King_. Your courteous words are enough to make me feel at home.

_Anusuya_. Then, sir, pray sit down and rest on this shady bench.

_King_. You, too, are surely wearied by your pious task. Pray be seated a moment.

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ SHAKUNTALA). My dear, we must be polite to our guest. Shall
we sit down? (_The three girls sit_.)

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Oh, why do I have such feelings when I see this man? They seem
wrong in a hermitage.

_King_ (_looking at the girls_). It is delightful to see your friendship. For you are all young
and beautiful.

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ ANUSUYA). Who is he, dear? With his mystery, and his dignity,
and his courtesy? He acts like a king and a gentleman.

_Anusuya_. I am curious too. I am going to ask him. (_Aloud_.) Sir, you are so very courteous
that I make bold to ask you something. What royal family do you adorn, sir? What country is
grieving at your absence? Why does a gentleman so delicately bred submit to the weary journey
into our pious grove?
_Shakuntala_ (_aside_). Be brave, my heart. Anusuya speaks your very
thoughts.

_King_ (_aside_). Shall I tell at once who I am, or conceal it? (_He reflects_.) This will do.
(_Aloud_.) I am a student of Scripture.
It is my duty to see justice done in the cities of the king.
And I have come to this hermitage on a tour of inspection.

_Anusuya_. Then we of the hermitage have some one to take care of us.

(SHAKUNTALA _shows embarrassment_.)

_The two friends_ (_observing the demeanour of the pair. Aside to_
SHAKUNTALA). Oh, Shakuntala! If only Father were here to-day.

_Shakuntala_. What would he do?

_The two friends_. He would make our distinguished guest happy, if it

took his most precious treasure.

_Shakuntala_ (_feigning anger_). Go away! You mean something. I'll not listen to you.

_King_. I too would like to ask a question about your friend.

_The two friends_. Sir, your request is a favour to us.

_King_. Father Kanva lives a lifelong hermit. Yet you say that your friend is his daughter. How
can that be?

_Anusuya_. Listen, sir. There is a majestic royal sage named Kaushika----

_King_. Ah, yes. The famous Kaushika.

_Anusuya_. Know, then, that he is the source of our friend's being.

But Father Kanva is her real father, because he took care of her when she was abandoned.

_King_. You waken my curiosity with the word "abandoned." May I hear the whole
story?

_Anusuya_. Listen, sir. Many years ago, that royal sage was leading a life of stern
austerities, and the gods, becoming strangely jealous, sent the nymph Menaka to disturb
his devotions.
_King_. Yes, the gods feel this jealousy toward the austerities of
others. And then--

_Anusuya_. Then in the lovely spring-time he saw her intoxicating beauty--(_She stops in
embarrassment_.)

_King_. The rest is plain. Surely, she is the daughter of the nymph.

_Anusuya_. Yes.

_King_. It is as it should be.

To beauty such as this

No woman could give birth;
The quivering lightning flash
Is not a child of earth.

(SHAKUNTALA _hangs her head in confusion_.) _King_ (_to himself_).

Ah, my wishes become hopes.
_Priyamvada_ (_looking with a smile at_ SHAKUNTALA). Sir, it seems as if you had more
to say. (SHAKUNTALA _threatens her friend with her finger_.)

_King_. You are right. Your pious life interests me, and I have another question.

_Priyamvada_. Do not hesitate. We hermit people stand ready to answer all demands.

_King_. My question is this:

Does she, till marriage only, keep her vow

As hermit-maid, that shames the ways of love?
Or must her soft eyes ever see, as now,
Soft eyes of friendly deer in peaceful grove?

_Priyamvada_. Sir, we are under bonds to lead a life of virtue. But it is her father's wish to give
her to a suitable lover.

_King_ (_joyfully to himself_).

O heart, your wish is won!

All doubt at last is done;
The thing you feared as fire,
Is the jewel of your desire.

_Shakuntala_ (_pettishly_). Anusuya, I'm going.

_Anusuya_. What for?

_Shakuntala_. I am going to tell Mother Gautami that Priyamvada is talking nonsense. (_She
rises_.)
_Anusuya_. My dear, we hermit people cannot neglect to entertain a distinguished guest, and
go wandering about.

(SHAKUNTALA _starts to walk away without answering_.)

_King_ (_aside_). She is going! (_He starts up as if to detain her, then checks his desires_.) A
thought is as vivid as an act, to a lover.

Though nurture, conquering nature, holds

Me back, it seems
As had I started and returned
In waking dreams.

_Priyamvada_ (_approaching_ SHAKUNTALA). You dear, peevish girl! You mustn't go.

_Shakuntala_ (_turns with a frown_). Why not?

_Priyamvada_. You owe me the watering of two trees. You can go when
you have paid your debt. (_She forces her to come back_.)

_King_. It is plain that she is already wearied by watering the trees.

See!

Her shoulders droop; her palms are reddened yet;

Quick breaths are struggling in her bosom fair;
The blossom o'er her ear hangs limply wet;
One hand restrains the loose, dishevelled hair.

I therefore remit her debt. (_He gives the two friends a ring. They take it, read the name
engraved on it, and look at each other_.)
_King_. Make no mistake. This is a present--from the king.

_Priyamvada_. Then, sir, you ought not to part with it. Your word is enough to remit the debt.

_Anusuya_. Well, Shakuntala, you are set free by this kind gentleman--or rather, by the king
himself. Where are you going now?

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). I would never leave him if I could help myself.

_Priyamvada_. Why don't you go now?

_Shakuntala_. I am not _your_ servant any longer. I will go when I like.

_King_ (_looking at_ SHAKUNTALA. _To himself_). Does she feel toward
me as I do toward her? At least, there is ground for hope.

Although she does not speak to me,

She listens while I speak;
Her eyes turn not to see my face,
But nothing else they seek.

_A voice behind the scenes_. Hermits! Hermits! Prepare to defend the creatures in our pious
grove. King Dushyanta is hunting in the neighbourhood.

The dust his horses' hoofs have raised,

Red as the evening sky,
Falls like a locust-swarm on boughs
Where hanging garments dry.

_King_ (_aside_). Alas! My soldiers are disturbing the pious grove in

their search for me.
_The voice behind the scenes_. Hermits! Hermits! Here is an elephant who is terrifying old
men, women, and children.

One tusk is splintered by a cruel blow

Against a blocking tree; his gait is slow,
For countless fettering vines impede and cling;
He puts the deer to flight; some evil thing
He seems, that comes our peaceful life to mar,
Fleeing in terror from the royal car.

(_The girls listen and rise anxiously_.)

_King_. I have offended sadly against the hermits. I must go back.

_The two friends_. Your Honour, we are frightened by this alarm of the
elephant. Permit us to return to the cottage.

_Anusuya_ (_to_ SHAKUNTALA). Shakuntala dear, Mother Gautami will be

anxious. We must hurry and find her.

_Shakuntala_ (_feigning lameness_). Oh, oh! I can hardly walk.

_King_. You must go very slowly. And I will take pains that the
hermitage is not disturbed.

_The two friends_. Your honour, we feel as if we knew you very well.
Pray pardon our shortcomings as hostesses. May we ask you to seek
better entertainment from us another time?

_King_. You are too modest. I feel honoured by the mere sight of you.
_Shakuntala_. Anusuya, my foot is cut on a sharp blade of grass, and
my dress is caught on an amaranth twig. Wait for me while I loosen it.

(_She casts a lingering glance at the king, and goes out with her two
friends_.)

_King_ (_sighing_). They are gone. And I must go. The sight of
Shakuntala has made me dread the return to the city. I will make my
men camp at a distance from the pious grove. But I cannot turn my own
thoughts from Shakuntala.

It is my body leaves my love, not I;

My body moves away, but not my mind;
For back to her my struggling fancies fly
Like silken banners borne against the wind. (_Exit_.)

ACT II

THE SECRET

(_Enter the clown_.)

_Clown_ (_sighing_). Damn! Damn! Damn! I'm tired of being friends with
this sporting king. "There's a deer!" he shouts, "There's a boar!" And
off he chases on a summer noon through woods where shade is few and
far between. We drink hot, stinking water from the mountain streams,
flavoured with leaves--nasty! At odd times we get a little tepid meat
to eat. And the horses and the elephants make such a noise that I
can't even be comfortable at night. Then the hunters and the
bird-chasers--damn 'em--wake me up bright and early. They do make an
ear-splitting rumpus when they start for the woods. But even that
isn't the whole misery. There's a new pimple growing on the old boil.
He left us behind and went hunting a deer. And there in a hermitage
they say he found--oh, dear! oh, dear! he found a hermit-girl named
Shakuntala. Since then he hasn't a thought of going back to town. I
lay awake all night, thinking about it. What can I do? Well, I'll see
my friend when he is dressed and beautified. (_He walks and looks
about_.) Hello! Here he comes, with his bow in his hand, and his girl
in his heart. He is wearing a wreath of wild flowers! I'll pretend to
be all knocked up. Perhaps I can get a rest that way. (_He stands,
leaning on his staff. Enter the king, as described_.)

_King_ (_to himself_).

Although my darling is not lightly won,

She seemed to love me, and my hopes are bright;
Though love be balked ere joy be well begun,
A common longing is itself delight.

(_Smiling_.) Thus does a lover deceive himself. He judges his love's

feelings by his own desires.

Her glance was loving--but 'twas not for me;

Her step was slow--'twas grace, not coquetry;
Her speech was short--to her detaining friend.
In things like these love reads a selfish end!
_Clown_ (_standing as before_). Well, king, I can't move my hand. I
can only greet you with my voice.

_King_ (_looking and smiling_). What makes you lame?

_Clown_. Good! You hit a man in the eye, and then ask him why the
tears come.

_King_. I do not understand you. Speak plainly.

_Clown_. When a reed bends over like a hunchback, do you blame the
reed or the river-current?

_King_. The river-current, of course.

_Clown_. And you are to blame for my troubles.

_King_. How so?

_Clown_. It's a fine thing for you to neglect your royal duties and
such a sure job--to live in the woods! What's the good of talking?
Here I am, a Brahman, and my joints are all shaken up by this eternal
running after wild animals, so that I can't move. Please be good to
me. Let us have a rest for just one day.

_King_ (_to himself_). He says this. And I too, when I remember

Kanva's daughter, have little desire for the chase. For

The bow is strung, its arrow near;

And yet I cannot bend
 That bow against the fawns who share
Soft glances with their friend.

_Clown_ (_observing the king_). He means more than he says. I might as

well weep in the woods.

_King_ (_smiling_). What more could I mean? I have been thinking that
I ought to take my friend's advice.

_Clown_ (_cheerfully_). Long life to you, then. (_He unstiffens_.)

_King_. Wait. Hear me out.

_Clown_. Well, sir?

_King_. When you are rested, you must be my companion in another

task--an easy one.

_Clown_. Crushing a few sweetmeats?

_King_. I will tell you presently.

_Clown_. Pray command my leisure.

_King_. Who stands without? (_Enter the door-keeper_.)

_Door-keeper_. I await your Majesty's commands.

_King_. Raivataka, summon the general.

_Door-keeper_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He goes out, then returns with the
general_.) Follow me, sir. There is his Majesty, listening to our
conversation. Draw near, sir.

_General_ (_observing the king, to himself_). Hunting is declared to

be a sin, yet it brings nothing but good to the king. See!

He does not heed the cruel sting

Of his recoiling, twanging string;
The mid-day sun, the dripping sweat
Affect him not, nor make him fret;
His form, though sinewy and spare,
Is most symmetrically fair;
No mountain-elephant could be
More filled with vital strength than he.

(_He approaches_.) Victory to your Majesty! The forest is full of

deer-tracks, and beasts of prey cannot be far off. What better
occupation could we have?

_King_. Bhadrasena, my enthusiasm is broken. Madhavya has been

preaching against hunting.

_General_ (_aside to the clown_). Stick to it, friend Madhavya. I will

humour the king a moment. (_Aloud_.) Your Majesty, he is a chattering
idiot. Your Majesty may judge by his own case whether hunting is an
evil. Consider:

The hunter's form grows sinewy, strong, and light;

He learns, from beasts of prey, how wrath and fright
 Affect the mind; his skill he loves to measure
With moving targets. 'Tis life's chiefest pleasure.

_Clown_ (_angrily_). Get out! Get out with your strenuous life! The
king has come to his senses. But you, you son of a slave-wench, can go
chasing from forest to forest, till you fall into the jaws of some old
bear that is looking for a deer or a jackal.

_King_. Bhadrasena, I cannot take your advice, because I am in the

vicinity of a hermitage. So for to-day

The hornèd buffalo may shake

The turbid water of the lake;
Shade-seeking deer may chew the cud,
Boars trample swamp-grass in the mud;
The bow I bend in hunting, may
Enjoy a listless holiday.

_General_. Yes, your Majesty.

_King_. Send back the archers who have gone ahead. And forbid the
soldiers to vex the hermitage, or even to approach it. Remember:

There lurks a hidden fire in each

Religious hermit-bower;
Cool sun-stones kindle if assailed
By any foreign power.

_General_. Yes, your Majesty.

_Clown_. Now will you get out with your strenuous life? (_Exit
general_.)

_King_ (_to his attendants_). Lay aside your hunting dress. And you,
Raivataka, return to your post of duty.

_Raivataka_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_Clown_. You have got rid of the vermin. Now be seated on this flat
stone, over which the trees spread their canopy of shade. I can't sit
down till you do.

_King_. Lead the way.

_Clown_. Follow me. (_They walk about and sit down_.)

_King_. Friend Madhavya, you do not know what vision is. You have not
seen the fairest of all objects.

_Clown_. I see you, right in front of me.

_King_. Yes, every one thinks himself beautiful. But I was speaking of
Shakuntala, the ornament of the hermitage.

_Clown_ (_to himself_). I mustn't add fuel to the flame. (_Aloud_.)

But you can't have her because she is a hermit-girl. What is the use
of seeing her?

_King_. Fool!
 And is it selfish longing then,
That draws our souls on high
Through eyes that have forgot to wink,
As the new moon climbs the sky?

Besides, Dushyanta's thoughts dwell on no forbidden object.

_Clown_. Well, tell me about her.

_King_.

Sprung from a nymph of heaven

Wanton and gay,
Who spurned the blessing given,
Going her way;

By the stern hermit taken

In her most need:
So fell the blossom shaken,
Flower on a weed.

_Clown_ (_laughing_). You are like a man who gets tired of good dates
and longs for sour tamarind. All the pearls of the palace are yours,
and you want this girl!

_King_. My friend, you have not seen her, or you could not talk so.

_Clown_. She must be charming if she surprises _you_.

_King_. Oh, my friend, she needs not many words.

 She is God's vision, of pure thought
Composed in His creative mind;
His reveries of beauty wrought
The peerless pearl of womankind.
So plays my fancy when I see
How great is God, how lovely she.

_Clown_. How the women must hate her!

_King_. This too is in my thought.

She seems a flower whose fragrance none has tasted,

A gem uncut by workman's tool,
A branch no desecrating hands have wasted,
Fresh honey, beautifully cool.

No man on earth deserves to taste her beauty,

Her blameless loveliness and worth,
Unless he has fulfilled man's perfect duty--
And is there such a one on earth?

_Clown_. Marry her quick, then, before the poor girl falls into the
hands of some oily-headed hermit.

_King_. She is dependent on her father, and he is not here.

_Clown_. But how does she feel toward you? _King_. My friend,
hermit-girls are by their very nature timid. And yet
 When I was near, she could not look at me;
She smiled--but not to me--and half denied it;
She would not show her love for modesty,
Yet did not try so very hard to hide it.

_Clown_. Did you want her to climb into your lap the first time she
saw you?

_King_. But when she went away with her friends, she almost showed
that she loved me.

When she had hardly left my side,

"I cannot walk," the maiden cried,
And turned her face, and feigned to free
The dress not caught upon the tree.

_Clown_. She has given you some memories to chew on. I suppose that is
why you are so in love with the pious grove.

_King_. My friend, think of some pretext under which we may return to

the hermitage.

_Clown_. What pretext do you need? Aren't you the king?

_King_. What of that?

_Clown_. Collect the taxes on the hermits' rice.

_King_. Fool! It is a very different tax which these hermits pay--one

that outweighs heaps of gems.
 The wealth we take from common men,
Wastes while we cherish;
These share with us such holiness
As ne'er can perish.

_Voices behind the scenes_. Ah, we have found him.

_King_ (_Listening_). The voices are grave and tranquil. These must be
hermits. (_Enter the door-keeper_.)

_Door-keeper_. Victory, O King. There are two hermit-youths at the

gate.

_King_. Bid them enter at once.

_Door-keeper_. Yes, your Majesty. (_He goes out, then returns with the
youths_.) Follow me.

_First youth_ (_looking at the king_). A majestic presence, yet it

inspires confidence. Nor is this wonderful in a king who is half a
saint. For to him

The splendid palace serves as hermitage;

His royal government, courageous, sage,
Adds daily to his merit; it is given
To him to win applause from choirs of heaven
Whose anthems to his glory rise and swell,
Proclaiming him a king, and saint as well.
_Second youth_. My friend, is this Dushyanta, friend of Indra?

_First youth_. It is.

_Second youth_.

Nor is it wonderful that one whose arm

Might bolt a city gate, should keep from harm
The whole broad earth dark-belted by the sea;
For when the gods in heaven with demons fight,
Dushyanta's bow and Indra's weapon bright
Are their reliance for the victory.

_The two youths_ (_approaching_). Victory, O King!

_King_ (_rising_). I salute you.

_The two youths_. All hail! (_They offer fruit_.)

_King_ (_receiving it and bowing low_). May I know the reason of your
coming?

_The two youths_. The hermits have learned that you are here, and they
request----

_King_. They command rather.

_The two youths_. The powers of evil disturb our pious life in the
absence of the hermit-father. We therefore ask that you will remain a
few nights with your charioteer to protect the hermitage.
_King_. I shall be most happy to do so.

_Clown_ (_to the king_). You rather seem to like being collared this
way.

_King_. Raivataka, tell my charioteer to drive up, and to bring the

bow and arrows.

_Raivataka_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_)

_The two youths_.

Thou art a worthy scion of

The kings who ruled our nation
And found, defending those in need,
Their truest consecration.

_King_. Pray go before. And I will follow straightway.

_The two youths_. Victory, O King! (_Exeunt_.)

_King_. Madhavya, have you no curiosity to see Shakuntala?

_Clown_. I _did_ have an unending curiosity, but this talk about the
powers of evil has put an end to it.

_King_. Do not fear. You will be with me.

_Clown_. I'll stick close to your chariot-wheel. (_Enter the

door-keeper_.)

_Door-keeper_. Your Majesty, the chariot is ready, and awaits your

departure to victory. But one Karabhaka has come from the city, a
messenger from the queen-mother.

_King_ (_respectfully_). Sent by my mother?

_Door-keeper_. Yes.

_King_. Let him enter.

_Door-keeper_ (_goes out and returns with_ KARABHAKA). Karabhaka, here

is his Majesty. You may draw near.

_Karabhaka_ (_approaching and bowing low_). Victory to your Majesty.

The queen-mother sends her commands----

_King_. What are her commands?

_Karabhaka_. She plans to end a fasting ceremony on the fourth day

from to-day. And on that occasion her dear son must not fail to wait
upon her.

_King_. On the one side is my duty to the hermits, on the other my

mother's command. Neither may be disregarded. What is to be done?

_Clown_ (_laughing_). Stay half-way between, like Trishanku.

_King_. In truth, I am perplexed.

 Two inconsistent duties sever
My mind with cruel shock,
As when the current of a river
Is split upon a rock.

(_He reflects_.) My friend, the queen-mother has always felt toward

you as toward a son. Do you return, tell her what duty keeps me here,
and yourself perform the offices of a son.

_Clown_. You don't think I am afraid of the devils?

_King_ (_smiling_). O mighty Brahman, who could suspect it?

_Clown_. But I want to travel like a prince.

_King_. I will send all the soldiers with you, for the pious grove
must not be disturbed. _Clown_ (_strutting_). Aha! Look at the
heir-apparent!

_King_ (_to himself_). The fellow is a chatterbox. He might betray my

longing to the ladies of the palace. Good, then! (_He takes the clown
by the hand. Aloud_.) Friend Madhavya, my reverence for the hermits
draws me to the hermitage. Do not think that I am really in love with
the hermit-girl. Just think:

A king, and a girl of the calm hermit-grove,

Bred with the fawns, and a stranger to love!
Then do not imagine a serious quest;
The light words I uttered were spoken in jest.
_Clown_. Oh, I understand that well enough. (_Exeunt ambo_.)

ACT III

THE LOVE-MAKING

(_Enter a pupil, with sacred grass for the sacrifice_.)

_Pupil_ (_with meditative astonishment_). How great is the power of

King Dushyanta! Since his arrival our rites have been undisturbed.

He does not need to bend the bow;

For every evil thing,
Awaiting not the arrow, flees
From the twanging of the string.

Well, I will take this sacred grass to the priests, to strew the
altar. (_He walks and looks about, then speaks to some one not
visible_.) Priyamvada, for whom are you carrying this cuscus-salve and
the fibrous lotus-leaves? (_He listens_.) What do you say? That
Shakuntala has become seriously ill from the heat, and that these
things are to relieve her suffering? Give her the best of care,
Priyamvada. She is the very life of the hermit-father. And I will give
Gautami the holy water for her. (_Exit. Enter the lovelorn king_.)

_King_ (_with a meditative sigh_).

 I know that stern religion's power
Keeps guardian watch my maiden o'er;
Yet all my heart flows straight to her
Like water to the valley-floor.

Oh, mighty Love, thine arrows are made of flowers. How can they be so
sharp? (_He recalls something_.) Ah, I understand.

Shiva's devouring wrath still burns in thee,

As burns the eternal fire beneath the sea;
Else how couldst thou, thyself long since consumed,
Kindle the fire that flames so ruthlessly?

Indeed, the moon and thou inspire confidence, only to deceive the host
of lovers.

Thy shafts are blossoms; coolness streams

From moon-rays: thus the poets sing;
But to the lovelorn, falsehood seems
To lurk in such imagining;
The moon darts fire from frosty beams;
Thy flowery arrows cut and sting.

And yet

If Love will trouble her

Whose great eyes madden me,
I greet him unafraid,
Though wounded ceaselessly.
O mighty god, wilt thou not show me mercy after such reproaches?

With tenderness unending

I cherished thee when small,
In vain--thy bow is bending;
On me thine arrows fall.
My care for thee to such a plight
Has brought me; and it serves me right.

I have driven off the powers of evil, and the hermits have dismissed
me. Where shall I go now to rest from my weariness? (_He sighs_.)
There is no rest for me except in seeing her whom I love. (_He looks
up_.) She usually spends these hours of midday heat with her friends
on the vine-wreathed banks of the Malini. I will go there. (_He walks
and looks about_.) I believe the slender maiden has just passed
through this corridor of young trees. For

The stems from which she gathered flowers

Are still unhealed;
The sap where twigs were broken off
Is uncongealed.

(_He feels a breeze stirring_.) This is a pleasant spot, with the wind
among the trees.

Limbs that love's fever seizes,

Their fervent welcome pay
To lotus-fragrant breezes
That bear the river-spray.
(_He studies the ground_.) Ah, Shakuntala must be in this reedy bower.
For

In white sand at the door

Fresh footprints appear,
The toe lightly outlined,
The heel deep and clear.

I will hide among the branches, and see what happens. (_He does so.
Joyfully_.) Ah, my eyes have found their heaven. Here is the darling
of my thoughts, lying upon a flower-strewn bench of stone, and
attended by her two friends. I will hear what they say to each other.

(_He stands gazing. Enter_ SHAKUNTALA _with her two friends_.)

_The two friends_ (_fanning her_). Do you feel better, dear, when we
fan you with these lotus-leaves?

_Shakuntala_ (_wearily_). Oh, are you fanning me, my dear girls? (_The
two friends look sorrowfully at each other_.)

_King_. She is seriously ill. (_Doubtfully_.) Is it the heat, or is it

as I hope? (_Decidedly_.) It _must_ be so.

With salve upon her breast,

With loosened lotus-chain,
My darling, sore oppressed,
Is lovely in her pain.

Though love and summer heat

 May work an equal woe,
No maiden seems so sweet
When summer lays her low.

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ ANUSUYA). Anusuya, since she first saw the
good king, she has been greatly troubled. I do not believe her fever
has any other cause.

_Anusuya_. I suspect you are right. I am going to ask her. My dear, I

must ask you something. You are in a high fever.

_King_. It is too true.

Her lotus-chains that were as white

As moonbeams shining in the night,
Betray the fever's awful pain,
And fading, show a darker stain.

_Shakuntala_ (_half rising_.) Well, say whatever you like.

_Anusuya_. Shakuntala dear, you have not told us what is going on in

your mind. But I have heard old, romantic stories, and I can't help
thinking that you are in a state like that of a lady in love. Please
tell us what hurts you. We have to understand the disease before we
can even try to cure it.

_King_. Anusuya expresses my own thoughts.

_Shakuntala_. It hurts me terribly. I can't tell you all at once.

_Priyamvada_. Anusuya is right, dear. Why do you hide your trouble?
You are wasting away every day. You are nothing but a beautiful
shadow.

_King_. Priyamvada is right. See!

Her cheeks grow thin; her breast and shoulders fail;

Her waist is weary and her face is pale:
She fades for love; oh, pitifully sweet!
As vine-leaves wither in the scorching heat.

_Shakuntala_ (_sighing_). I could not tell any one else. But I shall
be a burden to you.

_The two friends_. That is why we insist on knowing, dear. Grief must
be shared to be endured.

_King_.

To friends who share her joy and grief

She tells what sorrow laid her here;
She turned to look her love again
When first I saw her--yet I fear!

_Shakuntala_. Ever since I saw the good king who protects the pious
grove--(_She stops and fidgets_.)

_The two friends_. Go on, dear.

_Shakuntala_. I love him, and it makes me feel like this.

_The two friends_. Good, good! You have found a lover worthy of your
devotion. But of course, a great river always runs into the sea.

_King_ (_joyfully_). I have heard what I longed to hear.

'Twas love that caused the burning pain;

'Tis love that eases it again;
As when, upon a sultry day,
Rain breaks, and washes grief away.

_Shakuntala_. Then, if you think best, make the good king take pity
upon me. If not, remember that I was. _King_. Her words end all
doubt.

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ ANUSUYA). Anusuya, she is far gone in love

and cannot endure any delay.

_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, can you think of any scheme by which we could

carry out her wishes quickly and secretly?

_Priyamvada_. We must plan about the "secretly." The "quickly" is not

hard.

_Anusuya_. How so?

_Priyamvada_. Why, the good king shows his love for her in his tender
glances, and he has been wasting away, as if he were losing sleep.

_King_. It is quite true.

 The hot tears, flowing down my cheek
All night on my supporting arm
And on its golden bracelet, seek
To stain the gems and do them harm.

The bracelet slipping o'er the scars

Upon the wasted arm, that show
My deeds in hunting and in wars,
All night is moving to and fro.

_Priyamvada_ (_reflecting_). Well, she must write him a love-letter.

And I will hide it in a bunch of flowers and see that it gets into the
king's hand as if it were a relic of the sacrifice.

_Anusuya_. It is a pretty plan, dear, and it pleases me. What does

Shakuntala say?

_Shakuntala_. I suppose I must obey orders.

_Priyamvada_. Then compose a pretty little love-song, with a hint of

yourself in it.

_Shakuntala_. I'll try. But my heart trembles, for fear he will

despise me.

_King_.

Here stands the eager lover, and you pale

For fear lest he disdain a love so kind:
 The seeker may find fortune, or may fail;
But how could fortune, seeking, fail to find?

And again:

The ardent lover comes, and yet you fear

Lest he disdain love's tribute, were it brought,
The hope of which has led his footsteps here--
Pearls need not seek, for they themselves are sought.

_The two friends_. You are too modest about your own charms. Would
anybody put up a parasol to keep off the soothing autumn moonlight?

_Shakuntala_ (_smiling_). I suppose I shall have to obey orders. (_She

meditates_.)

_King_. It is only natural that I should forget to wink when I see my

darling. For

One clinging eyebrow lifted,

As fitting words she seeks,
Her face reveals her passion
For me in glowing cheeks.

_Shakuntala_. Well, I have thought out a little song. But I haven't

anything to write with.

_Priyamvada_. Here is a lotus-leaf, glossy as a parrot's breast. You

can cut the letters in it with your nails.
_Shakuntala_. Now listen, and tell me whether it makes sense.

_The two friends_. Please.

_Shakuntala_ (_reads_).

I know not if I read your heart aright;

Why, pitiless, do you distress me so?
I only know that longing day and night
Tosses my restless body to and fro,
That yearns for you, the source of all its woe.

_King_ (_advancing_).

Though Love torments you, slender maid,

Yet he consumes me quite,
As daylight shuts night-blooming flowers
And slays the moon outright.

_The two friends_ (_perceive the king and rise joyfully_). Welcome to
the wish that is fulfilled without delay. (SHAKUNTALA _tries to
rise_.)

_King_.

Do not try to rise, beautiful Shakuntala.

Your limbs from which the strength is fled,
That crush the blossoms of your bed
And bruise the lotus-leaves, may be
Pardoned a breach of courtesy.
_Shakuntala_ (_sadly to herself_). Oh, my heart, you were so
impatient, and now you find no answer to make.

_Anusuya_. Your Majesty, pray do this stone bench the honour of

sitting upon it. (SHAKUNTALA _edges away_.)

_King_ (_seating himself_). Priyamvada, I trust your friend's illness

is not dangerous.

_Priyamvada_ (_smiling_). A remedy is being applied and it will soon

be better. It is plain, sir, that you and she love each other. But I
love her too, and I must say something over again.

_King_. Pray do not hesitate. It always causes pain in the end, to

leave unsaid what one longs to say.

_Priyamvada_. Then listen, sir.

_King_. I am all attention.

_Priyamvada_. It is the king's duty to save hermit-folk from all

suffering. Is not that good Scripture?

_King_. There is no text more urgent.

_Priyamvada_. Well, our friend has been brought to this sad state by
her love for you. Will you not take pity on her and save her life?

_King_. We cherish the same desire. I feel it a great honour.

_Shakuntala_ (_with a jealous smile_). Oh, don't detain the good king.
He is separated from the court ladies, and he is anxious to go back to
them.

_King_.

Bewitching eyes that found my heart,

You surely see
It could no longer live apart,
Nor faithless be.
I bear Love's arrows as I can;
Wound not with doubt a wounded man.

_Anusuya_. But, your Majesty, we hear that kings have many favourites.
You must act in such a way that our friend may not become a cause of
grief to her family.

_King_. What more can I say?

Though many queens divide my court,

But two support the throne;
Your friend will find a rival in
The sea-girt earth alone.

_The two friends_. We are content. (SHAKUNTALA _betrays her joy_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ ANUSUYA). Look, Anusuya! See how the dear
girl's life is coming back moment by moment--just like a peahen in
summer when the first rainy breezes come.
_Shakuntala_. You must please ask the king's pardon for the rude
things we said when we were talking together.

_The two friends_ (_smiling_). Anybody who says it was rude, may ask
his pardon. Nobody else feels guilty.

_Shakuntala_. Your Majesty, pray forgive what we said when we did not
know that you were present. I am afraid that we say a great many
things behind a person's back.

_King_ (_smiling_).

Your fault is pardoned if I may

Relieve my weariness
By sitting on the flower-strewn couch
Your fevered members press.

_Priyamvada_. But that will not be enough to satisfy him.

_Shakuntala_ (_feigning anger_). Stop! You are a rude girl. You make
fun of me when I am in this condition.

_Anusuya_ (_looking out of the arbour_). Priyamvada, there is a little

fawn, looking all about him. He has probably lost his mother and is
trying to find her. I am going to help him.

_Priyamvada_. He is a frisky little fellow. You can't catch him alone.

I'll go with you. (_They start to go_.)

_Shakuntala_. I will not let you go and leave me alone.

_The two friends_ (_smiling_). You alone, when the king of the world
is with you! (_Exeunt_.)

_Shakuntala_. Are my friends gone?

_King_ (_looking about_). Do not be anxious, beautiful Shakuntala.

Have you not a humble servant here, to take the place of your friends?
Then tell me:

Shall I employ the moistened lotus-leaf

To fan away your weariness and grief?
Or take your lily feet upon my knee
And rub them till you rest more easily?

_Shakuntala_. I will not offend against those to whom I owe honour.

(_She rises weakly and starts to walk away_.) _King_ (_detaining
her_). The day is still hot, beautiful Shakuntala, and you are
feverish.

Leave not the blossom-dotted couch

To wander in the midday heat,
With lotus-petals on your breast,
With fevered limbs and stumbling feet.

(_He lays his hand upon her_.)

_Shakuntala_. Oh, don't! Don't! For I am not mistress of myself. Yet

what can I do now? I had no one to help me but my friends.
_King_. I am rebuked.

_Shakuntala_. I was not thinking of your Majesty. I was accusing fate.

_King_. Why accuse a fate that brings what you desire?

_Shakuntala_. Why not accuse a fate that robs me of self-control and

tempts me with the virtues of another?

_King_ (_to himself_).

Though deeply longing, maids are coy

And bid their wooers wait;
Though eager for united joy
In love, they hesitate.

Love cannot torture them, nor move

Their hearts to sudden mating;
Perhaps they even torture love
By their procrastinating.

(SHAKUNTALA _moves away_.)

_King_. Why should I not have my way? (_He approaches and seizes her
dress_.)

_Shakuntala_. Oh, sir! Be a gentleman. There are hermits wandering

about.

_King_. Do not fear your family, beautiful Shakuntala. Father Kanva

knows the holy law. He will not regret it.

For many a hermit maiden who

By simple, voluntary rite
Dispensed with priest and witness, yet
Found favour in her father's sight.

(_He looks about_.) Ah, I have come into the open air. (_He leaves_
SHAKUNTALA _and retraces his steps_.) _Shakuntala_ (_takes a step,
then turns with an eager gesture_).

O King, I cannot do as you would have me. You hardly know me after
this short talk. But oh, do not forget me.

_King_.

When evening comes, the shadow of the tree

Is cast far forward, yet does not depart;
Even so, belovèd, wheresoe'er you be,
The thought of you can never leave my heart.

_Shakuntala_ (_takes a few steps. To herself_). Oh, oh! When I hear

him speak so, my feet will not move away. I will hide in this amaranth
hedge and see how long his love lasts. (_She hides and waits_.)

_King_. Oh, my belovèd, my love for you is my whole life, yet you
leave me and go away without a thought.

Your body, soft as siris-flowers,

Engages passion's utmost powers;
 How comes it that your heart is hard
As stalks that siris-blossoms guard?

_Shakuntala_. When I hear this, I have no power to go.

_King_. What have I to do here, where she is not? (_He gazes on the
ground_.) Ah, I cannot go.

The perfumed lotus-chain

That once was worn by her
Fetters and keeps my heart
A hopeless prisoner. (_He lifts it reverently_.)

_Shakuntala_ (_looking at her arm_). Why, I was so weak and ill that
when the lotus-bracelet fell off, I did not even notice it.

_King_ (_laying the lotus-bracelet on his heart_). Ah!

Once, dear, on your sweet arm it lay,

And on my heart shall ever stay;
Though you disdain to give me joy,
I find it in a lifeless toy.

_Shakuntala_. I cannot hold back after that. I will use the bracelet
as an excuse for my coming. (_She approaches_.)

_King_ (_seeing her. Joyfully_). The queen of my life! As soon as I

complained, fate proved kind to me.

No sooner did the thirsty bird

 With parching throat complain,
Than forming clouds in heaven stirred
And sent the streaming rain.

_Shakuntala_ (_standing before the king_). When I was going away, sir,
I remembered that this lotus-bracelet had fallen from my arm, and I
have come back for it. My heart seemed to tell me that you had taken
it. Please give it back, or you will betray me, and yourself too, to
the hermits.

_King_. I will restore it on one condition.

_Shakuntala_. What condition?

_King_. That I may myself place it where it belongs.

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). What can I do? (_She approaches_.)

_King_. Let us sit on this stone bench. (_They walk to the bench and
sit down_.)

_King_ (_taking_ SHAKUNTALA'S _hand_). Ah!

When Shiva's anger burned the tree

Of love in quenchless fire,
Did heavenly fate preserve a shoot
To deck my heart's desire?

_Shakuntala_ (_feeling his touch_). Hasten, my dear, hasten.

_King_ (_joyfully to himself_). Now I am content. She speaks as a wife
to her husband. (_Aloud_.) Beautiful Shakuntala, the clasp of the
bracelet is not very firm. May I fasten it in another way?

_Shakuntala_ (_smiling_). If you like.

_King_ (_artfully delaying before he fastens it_). See, my beautiful

girl!

The lotus-chain is dazzling white

As is the slender moon at night.
Perhaps it was the moon on high
That joined her horns and left the sky,
Believing that your lovely arm
Would, more than heaven, enhance her charm.

_Shakuntala_. I cannot see it. The pollen from the lotus over my ear
has blown into my eye.

_King_ (_smiling_). Will you permit me to blow it away?

_Shakuntala_. I should not like to be an object of pity. But why

should I not trust you? _King_. Do not have such thoughts. A new
servant does not transgress orders.

_Shakuntala_. It is this exaggerated courtesy that frightens me.

_King_ (_to himself_). I shall not break the bonds of this sweet
servitude. (_He starts to raise her face to his_. SHAKUNTALA _resists
a little, then is passive_.)
_King_. Oh, my bewitching girl, have no fear of me.

(SHAKUNTALA _darts a glance at him, then looks down. The king raises
her face. Aside_.)

Her sweetly trembling lip

With virgin invitation
Provokes my soul to sip
Delighted fascination.

_Shakuntala_. You seem slow, dear, in fulfilling your promise.

_King_. The lotus over your ear is so near your eye, and so like it,
that I was confused. (_He gently blows her eye_.)

_Shakuntala_. Thank you. I can see quite well now. But I am ashamed
not to make any return for your kindness.

_King_. What more could I ask?

It ought to be enough for me

To hover round your fragrant face;
Is not the lotus-haunting bee
Content with perfume and with grace?

_Shakuntala_. But what does he do if he is not content?

_King_. This! This! (_He draws her face to his_.)

_A voice behind the scenes_. O sheldrake bride, bid your mate
farewell. The night is come.

_Shakuntala_ (_listening excitedly_). Oh, my dear, this is Mother

Gautami, come to inquire about me. Please hide among the branches.

(_The king conceals himself. Enter _GAUTAMI, _with a bowl in her

hand_.)

_Gautami_. Here is the holy water, my child. (_She sees_ SHAKUNTALA

_and helps her to rise_.) So ill, and all alone here with the gods?

_Shakuntala_. It was just a moment ago that Priyamvada and Anusuya

went down to the river.

_Gautami_ (_sprinkling_ SHAKUNTALA _with the holy water_). May you

live long and happy, my child. Has the fever gone down? (_She touches
her_.)

_Shakuntala_. There is a difference, mother.

_Gautami_. The sun is setting. Come, let us go to the cottage.

_Shakuntala_ (_weakly rising. To herself_). Oh, my heart, you delayed

when your desire came of itself. Now see what you have done. (_She
takes a step, then turns around. Aloud_.) O bower that took away my
pain, I bid you farewell until another blissful hour. (_Exeunt_
SHAKUNTALA _and_ GAUTAMI.)

_King_ (_advancing with a sigh_.) The path to happiness is strewn with

obstacles.

Her face, adorned with soft eye-lashes,

Adorable with trembling flashes
Of half-denial, in memory lingers;
The sweet lips guarded by her fingers,
The head that drooped upon her shoulder--
Why was I not a little bolder?

Where shall I go now? Let me stay a moment in this bower where my

belovèd lay. (_He looks about_.)

The flower-strewn bed whereon her body tossed;

The bracelet, fallen from her arm and lost;
The dear love-missive, in the lotus-leaf
Cut by her nails: assuage my absent grief
And occupy my eyes--I have no power,
Though she is gone, to leave the reedy bower.

(_He reflects_.) Alas! I did wrong to delay when I had found my love.
So now

If she will grant me but one other meeting,

I'll not delay; for happiness is fleeting;
So plans my foolish, self-defeated heart;
But when she comes, I play the coward's part.

_A voice behind the scenes_. O King!

The flames rise heavenward from the evening altar;

 And round the sacrifices, blazing high,
Flesh-eating demons stalk, like red cloud-masses,
And cast colossal shadows on the sky.

_King_ (_listens. Resolutely_). Have no fear, hermits. I am here.

(_Exit_.)

ACT IV

SHAKUNTALA'S DEPARTURE

SCENE I

(_Enter the two friends, gathering flowers_.)

_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, dear Shakuntala has been properly married by

the voluntary ceremony and she has a husband worthy of her. And yet I
am not quite satisfied.

_Priyamvada_. Why not?

_Anusuya_. The sacrifice is over and the good king was dismissed
to-day by the hermits. He has gone back to the city and there he is
surrounded by hundreds of court ladies. I wonder whether he will
remember poor Shakuntala or not.

_Priyamvada_. You need not be anxious about that. Such handsome men
are sure to be good. But there is something else to think about. I
don't know what Father will have to say when he comes back from his
pilgrimage and hears about it.

_Anusuya_. I believe that he will be pleased.

_Priyamvada_. Why?

_Anusuya_. Why not? You know he wanted to give his daughter to a lover
worthy of her. If fate brings this about of itself, why shouldn't
Father be happy?

_Priyamvada_. I suppose you are right. (_She looks at her

flower-basket_.) My dear, we have gathered flowers enough for the
sacrifice.

_Anusuya_. But we must make an offering to the gods that watch over
Shakuntala's marriage. We had better gather more.

_Priyamvada_. Very well. (_They do so_.)

_A voice behind the scenes_. Who will bid me welcome?

_Anusuya_ (_listening_). My dear, it sounds like a guest announcing

himself.

_Priyamvada_. Well, Shakuntala is near the cottage. (_Reflecting_.)

Ah, but to-day her heart is far away. Come, we must do with the
flowers we have. (_They start to walk away_.)
_The voice_.

Do you dare despise a guest like me?

Because your heart, by loving fancies blinded,
Has scorned a guest in pious life grown old,
Your lover shall forget you though reminded,
Or think of you as of a story told.

(_The two girls listen and show dejection_.)

_Priyamvada_. Oh, dear! The very thing has happened. The dear,
absent-minded girl has offended some worthy man.

_Anusuya_ (_looking ahead_). My dear, this is no ordinary somebody. It

is the great sage Durvasas, the irascible. See how he strides away!

_Priyamvada_. Nothing burns like fire. Run, fall at his feet, bring
him back, while I am getting water to wash his feet.

_Anusuya_. I will. (_Exit_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_stumbling_). There! I stumbled in my excitement, and

the flower-basket fell out of my hand. (_She collects the scattered
flowers_. ANUSUYA _returns_.)

_Anusuya_. My dear, he is anger incarnate. Who could appease him? But

I softened him a little.

_Priyamvada_. Even that is a good deal for him. Tell me about it.
_Anusuya_. When he would not turn back, I fell at his feet and prayed
to him. "Holy sir," I said, "remember her former devotion and pardon
this offence. Your daughter did not recognise your great and holy
power to-day."

_Priyamvada_. And then----

_Anusuya_. Then he said: "My words must be fulfilled. But the curse
shall be lifted when her lover sees a gem which he has given her for a
token." And so he vanished.

_Priyamvada_. We can breathe again. When the good king went away, he
put a ring, engraved with his own name, on Shakuntala's finger to
remember him by. That will save her.

_Anusuya_. Come, we must finish the sacrifice for her. (_They walk
about_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_gazing_). Just look, Anusuya! There is the dear girl,

with her cheek resting on her left hand. She looks like a painted
picture. She is thinking about him. How could she notice a guest when
she has forgotten herself?

_Anusuya_. Priyamvada, we two must keep this thing to ourselves. We

must be careful of the dear girl. You know how delicate she is.

_Priyamvada_. Would any one sprinkle a jasmine-vine with scalding

water? (_Exeunt ambo_.)
SCENE II.--_Early Morning_

(_Enter a pupil of_ KANVA, _just risen from sleep_.)

_Pupil_. Father Kanva has returned from his pilgrimage, and has bidden
me find out what time it is. I will go into the open air and see how
much of the night remains. (_He walks and looks about_.) See! The dawn
is breaking. For already

The moon behind the western mount is sinking;

The eastern sun is heralded by dawn;
From heaven's twin lights, their fall and glory linking,
Brave lessons of submission may be drawn.

And again:

Night-blooming lilies, when the moon is hidden,

Have naught but memories of beauty left.
Hard, hard to bear! Her lot whom heaven has bidden
To live alone, of love and lover reft.

And again:

On jujube-trees the blushing dewdrops falter;

The peacock wakes and leaves the cottage thatch;
A deer is rising near the hoof-marked altar,
And stretching, stands, the day's new life to catch.

And yet again:

 The moon that topped the loftiest mountain ranges,
That slew the darkness in the midmost sky,
Is fallen from heaven, and all her glory changes:
So high to rise, so low at last to lie!

_Anusuya_ (_entering hurriedly. To herself_). That is just what

happens to the innocent. Shakuntala has been treated shamefully by the
king. _Pupil_. I will tell Father Kanva that the hour of morning
sacrifice is come. (_Exit_.)

_Anusuya_. The dawn is breaking. I am awake bright and early. But what
shall I do now that I am awake? My hands refuse to attend to the
ordinary morning tasks. Well, let love take its course. For the dear,
pure-minded girl trusted him--the traitor! Perhaps it is not the good
king's fault. It must be the curse of Durvasas. Otherwise, how could
the good king say such beautiful things, and then let all this time
pass without even sending a message? (_She reflects_.) Yes, we must
send him the ring he left as a token. But whom shall we ask to take
it? The hermits are unsympathetic because they have never suffered. It
seemed as if her friends were to blame and so, try as we might, we
could not tell Father Kanva that Shakuntala was married to Dushyanta
and was expecting a baby. Oh, what shall we do? (_Enter_ PRIYAMVADA.)

_Priyamvada_. Hurry, Anusuya, hurry! We are getting Shakuntala ready

for her journey.

_Anusuya_ (_astonished_). What do you mean, my dear?

_Priyamuada_. Listen. I just went to Shakuntala, to ask if she had

slept well.
_Anusuya_. And then----

_Priyamvada_. I found her hiding her face for shame, and Father Kanva
was embracing her and encouraging her. "My child," he said, "I bring
you joy. The offering fell straight in the sacred fire, and auspicious
smoke rose toward the sacrificer. My pains for you have proved like
instruction given to a good student; they have brought me no regret.
This very day I shall give you an escort of hermits and send you to
your husband."

_Anusuya_. But, my dear, who told Father Kanva about it?

_Priyamvada_. A voice from heaven that recited a verse when he had

entered the fire-sanctuary.

_Anusuya_ (_astonished_). What did it say?

_Priyamvada_. Listen. (_Speaking in good Sanskrit_.)

Know, Brahman, that your child,

Like the fire-pregnant tree,
Bears kingly seed that shall be born
For earth's prosperity.

_Anusuya_ (_hugging_ PRIYAMVADA). I am so glad, dear. But my joy is

half sorrow when I think that Shakuntala is going to be taken away
this very day.

_Priyamvada_. We must hide our sorrow as best we can. The poor girl
must be made happy to-day.

_Anusuya_. Well, here is a cocoa-nut casket, hanging on a branch of

the mango-tree. I put flower-pollen in it for this very purpose. It
keeps fresh, you know. Now you wrap it in a lotus-leaf, and I will get
yellow pigment and earth from a sacred spot and blades of panic grass
for the happy ceremony. (PRIYAMVADA _does so. Exit_ ANUSUYA.)

_A voice behind the scenes_. Gautami, bid the worthy Sharngarava and
Sharadvata make ready to escort my daughter Shakuntala.

_Priyamvada_ (_listening_). Hurry, Anusuya, hurry! They are calling

the hermits who are going to Hastinapura. (_Enter_ ANUSUYA, _with
materials for the ceremony_.)

_Anusuya_. Come, dear, let us go. (_They walk about_.)

_Priyamvada_ (_looking ahead_). There is Shakuntala. She took the

ceremonial bath at sunrise, and now the hermit-women are giving her
rice-cakes and wishing her happiness. Let's go to her. (_They do so.
Enter_ SHAKUNTALA _with attendants as described, and_ GAUTAMI.)

_Shakuntala_. Holy women, I salute you.

_Gautami_. My child, may you receive the happy title "queen," showing
that your husband honours you.

_Hermit-women_. My dear, may you become the mother of a hero. (_Exeunt

all but_ GAUTAMI.)
_The two friends_ (_approaching_). Did you have a good bath, dear?

_Shakuntala_. Good morning, girls. Sit here.

_The two friends_ (_seating themselves_). Now stand straight, while we

go through the happy ceremony.

_Shakuntala_. It has happened often enough, but I ought to be very

grateful to-day. Shall I ever be adorned by my friends again? (_She
weeps_.)

_The two friends_. You ought not to weep, dear, at this happy time.

(_They wipe the tears away and adorn her_.)

_Priyamvada_. You are so beautiful, you ought to have the finest gems.
It seems like an insult to give you these hermitage things. (_Enter_
HARITA, _a hermit-youth with ornaments_.) _Harita_. Here are
ornaments for our lady. (_The women look at them in astonishment_.)

_Gautami_. Harita, my son, whence come these things?

_Harita_. From the holy power of Father Kanva.

_Gautami_. A creation of his mind?

_Harita_. Not quite. Listen. Father Kanva sent us to gather blossoms

from the trees for Shakuntala, and then

One tree bore fruit, a silken marriage dress

 That shamed the moon in its white loveliness;
Another gave us lac-dye for the feet;
From others, fairy hands extended, sweet
Like flowering twigs, as far as to the wrist,
And gave us gems, to adorn her as we list.

_Priyamvada_ (_Looking at_ SHAKUNTALA). A bee may be born in a hole in

a tree, but she likes the honey of the lotus.

_Gautami_. This gracious favour is a token of the queenly happiness

which you are to enjoy in your husband's palace. (SHAKUNTALA _shows
embarrassment_.)

_Harita_. Father Kanva has gone to the bank of the Malini, to perform
his ablutions. I will tell him of the favour shown us by the trees.

(_Exit_.)

_Anusuya_. My dear, we poor girls never saw such ornaments. How shall
we adorn you? (_She stops to think, and to look at the ornaments_.)
But we have seen pictures. Perhaps we can arrange them right.

_Shakuntala_. I know how clever you are. (_The two friends adorn her.
Enter_ KANVA, _returning after his ablutions_.)

_Kanva_.

Shakuntala must go to-day;

I miss her now at heart;
I dare not speak a loving word
 Or choking tears will start.

My eyes are dim with anxious thought;

Love strikes me to the life:
And yet I strove for pious peace--
I have no child, no wife.

What must a father feel, when come

The pangs of parting from his child at home?

(_He walks about_.) _The two friends_. There, Shakuntala, we have

arranged your ornaments. Now put on this beautiful silk dress.

(SHAKUNTALA _rises and does so_.)

_Gautami_. My child, here is your father. The eyes with which he seems
to embrace you are overflowing with tears of joy. You must greet him
properly. (SHAKUNTALA _makes a shamefaced reverence_.)

_Kanva_. My child,

Like Sharmishtha, Yayati's wife,

Win favour measured by your worth;
And may you bear a kingly son
Like Puru, who shall rule the earth.

_Gautami_. My child, this is not a prayer, but a benediction.

_Kanva_. My daughter, walk from left to right about the fires in which
the offering has just been thrown. (_All walk about_.)
 The holy fires around the altar kindle,
And at their margins sacred grass is piled;
Beneath their sacrificial odours dwindle
Misfortunes. May the fires protect you, child!

(SHAKUNTALA _walks about them from left to right_.)

_Kanva_. Now you may start, my daughter. (_He glances about_.) Where
are Sharngarava and Sharadvata? (_Enter the two pupils_.)

_The two pupils_. We are here, Father.

_Kanva_. Sharngarava, my son, lead the way for your sister.

_Sharngarava_. Follow me. (_They all walk about_.)

_Kanva_. O trees of the pious grove, in which the fairies dwell,

She would not drink till she had wet

Your roots, a sister's duty,
Nor pluck your flowers; she loves you yet
Far more than selfish beauty.

'Twas festival in her pure life

When budding blossoms showed;
And now she leaves you as a wife--
Oh, speed her on her road!

_Sharngarava_ (_listening to the song of koïl-birds_). Father,

 The trees are answering your prayer
In cooing cuckoo-song,
Bidding Shakuntala farewell,
Their sister for so long.

_Invisible beings_,

May lily-dotted lakes delight your eye;

May shade-trees bid the heat of noonday cease;
May soft winds blow the lotus-pollen nigh;
May all your path be pleasantness and peace.

(_All listen in astonishment_.)

_Gautami_. My child, the fairies of the pious grove bid you farewell.
For they love the household. Pay reverence to the holy ones.

_Shakuntala_ (_does so. Aside to_ PRIYAMVADA). Priyamvada, I long to

see my husband, and yet my feet will hardly move. It is hard, hard to
leave the hermitage.

_Priyamvada_. You are not the only one to feel sad at this farewell.
See how the whole grove feels at parting from you.

The grass drops from the feeding doe;

The peahen stops her dance;
Pale, trembling leaves are falling slow,
The tears of clinging plants.
_Shakuntala_ (_recalling something_). Father, I must say good-bye to
the spring-creeper, my sister among the vines.

_Kanva_. I know your love for her. See! Here she is at your right
hand.

_Shakuntala_ (_approaches the vine and embraces it_). Vine sister,

embrace me too with your arms, these branches. I shall be far away
from you after to-day. Father, you must care for her as you did for
me.

_Kanva_.

My child, you found the lover who

Had long been sought by me;
No longer need I watch for you;
I'll give the vine a lover true,
This handsome mango-tree.

And now start on your journey. _Shakuntala_ (_going to the two

friends_). Dear girls, I leave her in your care too.

_The two friends_. But who will care for poor us? (_They shed tears_.)

_Kanva_. Anusuya! Priyamvada! Do not weep. It is you who should cheer

Shakuntala. (_All walk about_.)

_Shakuntala_. Father, there is the pregnant doe, wandering about near

the cottage. When she becomes a happy mother, you must send some one
to bring me the good news. Do not forget.
_Kanva_. I shall not forget, my child.

_Shakuntala_ (_stumbling_) Oh, oh! Who is it that keeps pulling at my

dress, as if to hinder me? (_She turns round to see_.)

_Kanva_.

It is the fawn whose lip, when torn

By kusha-grass, you soothed with oil;
The fawn who gladly nibbled corn
Held in your hand; with loving toil
You have adopted him, and he
Would never leave you willingly.

_Shakuntala_. My dear, why should you follow me when I am going away

from home? Your mother died when you were born and I brought you up.
Now I am leaving you, and Father Kanva will take care of you. Go back,
dear! Go back! (_She walks away, weeping_.)

_Kanva_. Do not weep, my child. Be brave. Look at the path before you.

Be brave, and check the rising tears

That dim your lovely eyes;
Your feet are stumbling on the path
That so uneven lies.

_Sharngarava_. Holy Father, the Scripture declares that one should

accompany a departing loved one only to the first water. Pray give us
your commands on the bank of this pond, and then return.
_Kanva_. Then let us rest in the shade of this fig-tree. (_All do
so_.) What commands would it be fitting for me to lay on King
Dushyanta? (_He reflects_.)

_Anusuya_. My dear, there is not a living thing in the whole

hermitage that is not grieving to-day at saying good-bye to you. Look!

The sheldrake does not heed his mate

Who calls behind the lotus-leaf;
He drops the lily from his bill
And turns on you a glance of grief.

_Kanva_. Son Sharngarava, when you present Shakuntala to the king,

give him this message from me.

Remembering my religious worth,

Your own high race, the love poured forth
By her, forgetful of her friends,
Pay her what honour custom lends
To all your wives. And what fate gives
Beyond, will please her relatives.

_Sharngarava_. I will not forget your message, Father.

_Kanva_ (_turning to_ SHAKUNTALA). My child, I must now give you my

counsel. Though I live in the forest, I have some knowledge of the
world.

_Sharngarava_. True wisdom, Father, gives insight into everything.

_Kanva_. My child, when you have entered your husband's home,

Obey your elders; and be very kind

To rivals; never be perversely blind
And angry with your husband, even though he
Should prove less faithful than a man might be;
Be as courteous to servants as you may,
Not puffed with pride in this your happy day:
Thus does a maiden grow into a wife;
But self-willed women are the curse of life.

But what does Gautami say?

_Gautami_. This is advice sufficient for a bride. (_To_ SHAKUNTALA.)

You will not forget, my child.

_Kanva_. Come, my daughter, embrace me and your friends.

_Shakuntala_. Oh, Father! Must my friends turn back too?

_Kanva_. My daughter, they too must some day be given in marriage.

Therefore they may not go to court. Gautami will go with you.

_Shakuntala_ (_throwing her arms about her father_). I am torn from

my father's breast like a vine stripped from a sandal-tree on the
Malabar hills. How can I live in another soil? (_She weeps_.)

_Kanva_. My daughter, why distress yourself so?

 A noble husband's honourable wife,
You are to spend a busy, useful life
In the world's eye; and soon, as eastern skies
Bring forth the sun, from you there shall arise
A child, a blessing and a comfort strong--
You will not miss me, dearest daughter, long.

_Shakuntala_ (_falling at his feet_). Farewell, Father.

_Kanva_. My daughter, may all that come to you which I desire for you.

_Shakuntala_ (_going to her two friends_). Come, girls! Embrace me,

both of you together.

_The two friends_ (_do so_). Dear, if the good king should perhaps be
slow to recognise you, show him the ring with his own name engraved on
it.

_Shakuntala_. Your doubts make my heart beat faster.

_The two friends_. Do not be afraid, dear. Love is timid.

_Sharngarava_ (_looking about_). Father, the sun is in mid-heaven. She

must hasten.

_Shakuntala_ (_embracing_ KANVA _once more_). Father, when shall I see

the pious grove again?

_Kanva_. My daughter,
 When you have shared for many years
The king's thoughts with the earth,
When to a son who knows no fears
You shall have given birth,

When, trusted to the son you love,

Your royal labours cease,
Come with your husband to the grove
And end your days in peace.

_Gautami_. My child, the hour of your departure is slipping by. Bid

your father turn back. No, she would never do that. Pray turn back,
sir.

_Kanva_. Child, you interrupt my duties in the pious grove.

_Shakuntala_. Yes, Father. You will be busy in the grove. You will not
miss me. But oh! I miss you. _Kanva_. How can you think me so
indifferent? (_He sighs_.)

My lonely sorrow will not go,

For seeds you scattered here
Before the cottage door, will grow;
And I shall see them, dear.

Go. And peace go with you. (_Exit_ SHAKUNTALA, _with_ GAUTAMI,

SHARNGARAVA, _and_ SHARADVATA.)

_The two friends_ (_gazing long after her. Mournfully_). Oh, oh!
Shakuntala is lost among the trees.
_Kanva_. Anusuya! Priyamvada! Your companion is gone. Choke down your
grief and follow me. (_They start to go back_.)

_The two friends_. Father, the grove seems empty without Shakuntala.

_Kanva_. So love interprets. (_He walks about, sunk in thought_.) Ah!

I have sent Shakuntala away, and now I am myself again. For

A girl is held in trust, another's treasure;

To arms of love my child to-day is given;
And now I feel a calm and sacred pleasure;
I have restored the pledge that came from heaven.

(_Exeunt omnes_.)

ACT V

SHAKUNTALA'S REJECTION

(_Enter a chamberlain_.)

_Chamberlain_ (_sighing_). Alas! To what a state am I reduced!

I once assumed the staff of reed

For custom's sake alone,
As officer to guard at need
The ladies round the throne.
 But years have passed away and made
It serve, my tottering steps to aid.

The king is within. I will tell him of the urgent business which
demands his attention. (_He takes a few steps_.) But what is the
business? (_He recalls it_.) Yes, I remember. Certain hermits, pupils
of Kanva, desire to see his Majesty. Strange, strange!

The mind of age is like a lamp

Whose oil is running thin;
One moment it is shining bright,
Then darkness closes in.

(_He walks and looks about_.) Here is his Majesty.

He does not seek--until a father's care

Is shown his subjects--rest in solitude;
As a great elephant recks not of the sun
Until his herd is sheltered in the wood.

In truth, I hesitate to announce the coming of Kanva's pupils to the

king. For he has this moment risen from the throne of justice. But
kings are never weary. For

The sun unyokes his horses never;

Blows night and day the breeze;
Shesha upholds the world forever:
And kings are like to these.

(_He walks about. Enter the king, the clown, and retinue according to
rank_.) _King_ (_betraying the cares of office_). Every one is happy
on attaining his desire--except a king. His difficulties increase with
his power. Thus:

Security slays nothing but ambition;

With great possessions, troubles gather thick;
Pain grows, not lessens, with a king's position,
As when one's hand must hold the sunshade's stick.

_Two court poets behind the scenes_. Victory to your Majesty.

_First poet_.

The world you daily guard and bless,

Not heeding pain or weariness;
Thus is your nature made.
A tree will brave the noonday, when
The sun is fierce, that weary men
May rest beneath its shade.

_Second poet_.

Vice bows before the royal rod;

Strife ceases at your kingly nod;
You are our strong defender.
Friends come to all whose wealth is sure,
But you, alike to rich and poor,
Are friend both strong and tender.

_King_ (_listening_). Strange! I was wearied by the demands of my

office, but this renews my spirit.

_Clown_. Does a bull forget that he is tired when you call him the
leader of the herd?

_King_ (_smiling_). Well, let us sit down. (_They seat themselves, and
the retinue arranges itself. A lute is heard behind the scenes_.)

_Clown_ (_listening_). My friend, listen to what is going on in the

music-room. Some one is playing a lute, and keeping good time. I
suppose Lady Hansavati is practising.

_King_. Be quiet. I wish to listen.

_Chamberlain_ (_looks at the king_). Ah, the king is occupied. I must

await his leisure. (_He stands aside_.)

_A song behind the scenes_.

You who kissed the mango-flower,

Honey-loving bee,
Gave her all your passion's power,
Ah, so tenderly!

How can you be tempted so

By the lily, pet?
Fresher honey's sweet, I know;
But can you forget?

_King_. What an entrancing song!

_Clown_. But, man, don't you understand what the words mean?

_King_ (_smiling_). I was once devoted to Queen Hansavati. And the

rebuke comes from her. Friend Madhavya, tell Queen Hansavati in my
name that the rebuke is a very pretty one.

_Clown_. Yes, sir. (_He rises_.) But, man, you are using another
fellow's fingers to grab a bear's tail-feathers with. I have about as
much chance of salvation as a monk who hasn't forgotten his passions.

_King_. Go. Soothe her like a gentleman.

_Clown_. I suppose I must. (_Exit_.)

_King_ (_to himself_). Why am I filled with wistfulness on hearing

such a song? I am not separated from one I love. And yet

In face of sweet presentment

Or harmonies of sound,
Man e'er forgets contentment,
By wistful longings bound.

There must be recollections

Of things not seen on earth,
Deep nature's predilections,
Loves earlier than birth.

(_He shows the wistfulness that comes from unremembered things_.)

_Chamberlain_ (_approaching_). Victory to your Majesty. Here are
hermits who dwell in the forest at the foot of the Himalayas. They
bring women with them, and they carry a message from Kanva. What is
your pleasure with regard to them?

_King_ (_astonished_). Hermits? Accompanied by women? From Kanva?

_Chamberlain_. Yes.

_King_. Request my chaplain Somarata in my name to receive these

hermits in the manner prescribed by Scripture, and to conduct them
himself before me. I will await them in a place fit for their
reception.

_Chamberlain_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_King_ (_rising_). Vetravati, conduct me to the fire-sanctuary.

_Portress_. Follow me, your Majesty. (_She walks about_) Your Majesty,
here is the terrace of the fire-sanctuary. It is beautiful, for it has
just been swept, and near at hand is the cow that yields the milk of
sacrifice. Pray ascend it.

_King_ (_ascends and stands leaning on the shoulder of an attendant_.)

Vetravati, with what purpose does Father Kanva send these hermits to
me?

Do leaguèd powers of sin conspire

To balk religion's pure desire?
Has wrong been done to beasts that roam
 Contented round the hermits' home?
Do plants no longer bud and flower,
To warn me of abuse of power?
These doubts and more assail my mind,
But leave me puzzled, lost, and blind.

_Portress_. How could these things be in a hermitage that rests in the

fame of the king's arm? No, I imagine they have come to pay homage to
their king, and to congratulate him on his pious rule.

(_Enter the chaplain and the chamberlain, conducting the two pupils
of_ KANVA, _with_ GAUTAMI _and_ SHAKUNTALA.)

_Chamberlain_. Follow me, if you please.

_Sharngarava_. Friend Sharadvata,

The king is noble and to virtue true;

None dwelling here commit the deed of shame;
Yet we ascetics view the worldly crew
As in a house all lapped about with flame.

_Sharadvata_. Sharngarava, your emotion on entering the city is quite

just. As for me,

Free from the world and all its ways,

I see them spending worldly days
As clean men view men smeared with oil,
As pure men, those whom passions soil,
As waking men view men asleep,
 As free men, those in bondage deep.
_Chaplain_. That is why men like you are great.

_Shakuntala_ (_observing an evil omen_). Oh, why does my right eye

throb?

_Gautami_. Heaven avert the omen, my child. May happiness wait upon
you. (_They walk about_.)

_Chaplain_ (_indicating the king_). O hermits, here is he who protects

those of every station and of every age. He has already risen, and
awaits you. Behold him.

_Sharngarava_. Yes, it is admirable, but not surprising. For

Fruit-laden trees bend down to earth;

The water-pregnant clouds hang low;
Good men are not puffed up by power--
The unselfish are by nature so.

_Portress_. Your Majesty, the hermits seem to be happy. They give you
gracious looks.

_King_ (_observing_ SHAKUNTALA). Ah!

Who is she, shrouded in the veil

That dims her beauty's lustre,
Among the hermits like a flower
Round which the dead leaves cluster?
_Portress_. Your Majesty, she is well worth looking at.

_King_. Enough! I must not gaze upon another's wife.

_Shakuntala_ (_laying her hand on her breast. Aside_). Oh, my heart,

why tremble so? Remember his constant love and be brave.

_Chaplain_ (_advancing_). Hail, your Majesty. The hermits have been

received as Scripture enjoins. They have a message from their teacher.
May you be pleased to hear it.

_King_ (_respectfully_). I am all attention.

_The two pupils_ (_raising their right hands_). Victory, O King.

_King_ (_bowing low_). I salute you all.

_The two pupils_. All hail.

_King_. Does your pious life proceed without disturbance?

_The two pupils_.

How could the pious duties fail

While you defend the right?
Or how could darkness' power prevail
O'er sunbeams shining bright?
_King_ (_to himself_). Indeed, my royal title is no empty one.
(_Aloud_.) Is holy Kanva in health?
_Sharngarava_. O King, those who have religious power can command
health. He asks after your welfare and sends this message.

_King_. What are his commands?

_Sharngarava_. He says: "Since you have met this my daughter and have
married her, I give you my glad consent. For

You are the best of worthy men, they say;

And she, I know, Good Works personified;
The Creator wrought for ever and a day,
In wedding such a virtuous groom and bride.

She is with child. Take her and live with her in virtue."

_Gautami_. Bless you, sir. I should like to say that no one invites me
to speak.

_King_. Speak, mother.

_Gautami_.

Did she with father speak or mother?

Did you engage her friends in speech?
Your faith was plighted each to other;
Let each be faithful now to each.

_Shakuntala_. What will my husband say?

_King_ (_listening with anxious suspicion_). What is this insinuation?

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Oh, oh! So haughty and so slanderous!

_Sharngarava_. "What is this insinuation?" What is your question?

Surely you know the world's ways well enough.

Because the world suspects a wife

Who does not share her husband's lot,
Her kinsmen wish her to abide
With him, although he love her not.

_King_. You cannot mean that this young woman is my wife.

_Shakuntala_ (_sadly to herself_). Oh, my heart, you feared it, and

now it has come. _Sharngarava_. O King,

A king, and shrink when love is done,

Turn coward's back on truth, and flee!

_King_. What means this dreadful accusation?

_Sharngarava_ (_furiously_).

O drunk with power! We might have known

That you were steeped in treachery.

_King_. A stinging rebuke!

_Gautami_ (_to_ SHAKUNTALA). Forget your shame, my child. I will

remove your veil. Then your husband will recognise you. (_She does
so_.)

_King_ (_observing_ SHAKUNTALA. _To himself_).

As my heart ponders whether I could ever

Have wed this woman that has come to me
In tortured loveliness, as I endeavour
To bring it back to mind, then like a bee

That hovers round a jasmine flower at dawn,

While frosty dews of morning still o'erweave it,
And hesitates to sip ere they be gone,
I cannot taste the sweet, and cannot leave it.

_Portress_ (_to herself_). What a virtuous king he is! Would any other
man hesitate when he saw such a pearl of a woman coming of her own
accord?

_Sharngarava_. Have you nothing to say, O King?

_King_. Hermit, I have taken thought. I cannot believe that this woman
is my wife. She is plainly with child. How can I take her, confessing
myself an adulterer?

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Oh, oh, oh! He even casts doubt on our
marriage. The vine of my hope climbed high, but it is broken now.

_Sharngarava_. Not so.

You scorn the sage who rendered whole

 His child befouled, and choked his grief,
Who freely gave you what you stole
And added honour to a thief!

_Sharadvata_. Enough, Sharngarava. Shakuntala, we have said what we

were sent to say. You hear his words. Answer him.

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). He loved me so. He is so changed. Why

remind him? Ah, but I must clear my own character. Well, I will try.
(_Aloud_.) My dear husband--(_She stops_.) No, he doubts my right to
call him that. Your Majesty, it was pure love that opened my poor
heart to you in the hermitage. Then you were kind to me and gave me
your promise. Is it right for you to speak so now, and to reject me?

_King_ (_stopping his ears_). Peace, peace!

A stream that eats away the bank,

Grows foul, and undermines the tree.
So you would stain your honour, while
You plunge me into misery.

_Shakuntala_. Very well. If you have acted so because you really fear
to touch another man's wife, I will remove your doubts with a token
you gave me.

_King_. An excellent idea!

_Shakuntala_ (_touching her finger_). Oh, oh! The ring is lost. (_She
looks sadly at_ GAUTAMI.)
_Gautami_. My child, you worshipped the holy Ganges at the spot where
Indra descended. The ring must have fallen there.

_King_. Ready wit, ready wit!

_Shakuntala_. Fate is too strong for me there. I will tell you

something else.

_King_. Let me hear what you have to say.

_Shakuntala_. One day, in the bower of reeds, you were holding a

lotus-leaf cup full of water.

_King_. I hear you.

_Shakuntala_. At that moment the fawn came up, my adopted son. Then
you took pity on him and coaxed him. "Let him drink first," you said.
But he did not know you, and he would not come to drink water from
your hand. But he liked it afterwards, when I held the very same
water. Then you smiled and said: "It is true. Every one trusts his own
sort. You both belong to the forest."

_King_. It is just such women, selfish, sweet, false, that entice

fools.
_Gautami_. You have no right to say that. She grew up in the
pious grove. She does not know how to deceive.

_King_. Old hermit woman,

The female's untaught cunning may be seen

 In beasts, far more in women selfish-wise;
The cuckoo's eggs are left to hatch and rear
By foster-parents, and away she flies.

_Shakuntala_ (_angrily_). Wretch! You judge all this by your own false
heart. Would any other man do what you have done? To hide behind
virtue, like a yawning well covered over with grass!

_King_ (_to himself_). But her anger is free from coquetry, because
she has lived in the forest. See!

Her glance is straight; her eyes are flashing red;

Her speech is harsh, not drawlingly well-bred;
Her whole lip quivers, seems to shake with cold;
Her frown has straightened eyebrows arching bold.

No, she saw that I was doubtful, and her anger was feigned. Thus

When I refused but now

Hard-heartedly, to know
Of love or secret vow,
Her eyes grew red; and so,
Bending her arching brow,
She fiercely snapped Love's bow.

(_Aloud_.) My good girl, Dushyanta's conduct is known to the whole

kingdom, but not this action.

_Shakuntala_. Well, well. I had my way. I trusted a king, and put

myself in his hands. He had a honey face and a heart of stone. (_She
covers her face with her dress and weeps_.)

_Sharngarava_. Thus does unbridled levity burn.

Be slow to love, but yet more slow

With secret mate;
With those whose hearts we do not know,
Love turns to hate.

_King_. Why do you trust this girl, and accuse me of an imaginary

crime?
_Sharngarava_ (_disdainfully_). You have learned your wisdom
upside down.

It would be monstrous to believe

A girl who never lies;
Trust those who study to deceive
And think it very wise.

_King_. Aha, my candid friend! Suppose I were to admit that I am such

a man. What would happen if I deceived the girl?

_Sharngarava_. Ruin.

_King_. It is unthinkable that ruin should fall on Puru's line.

_Sharngarava_. Why bandy words? We have fulfilled our Father's

bidding. We are ready to return.

Leave her or take her, as you will;

 She is your wife;
Husbands have power for good or ill
O'er woman's life.

Gautami, lead the way. (_They start to go_.)

_Shakuntala_. He has deceived me shamelessly. And will you leave me

too? (_She starts to follow_.)

_Gautami_ (_turns around and sees her_). Sharngarava, my son,

Shakuntala is following us, lamenting piteously. What can the poor
child do with a husband base enough to reject her?

_Sharngarava_ (_turns angrily_). You self-willed girl! Do you dare

show independence? (SHAKUNTALA _shrinks in fear_.) Listen.

If you deserve such scorn and blame,

What will your father with your shame?
But if you know your vows are pure,
Obey your husband and endure.

Remain. We must go.

_King_. Hermit, why deceive this woman? Remember:

Night-blossoms open to the moon,

Day-blossoms to the sun;
A man of honour ever strives
Another's wife to shun.
_Sharngarava_. O King, suppose you had forgotten your former actions
in the midst of distractions. Should you now desert your wife--you who
fear to fail in virtue?

_King_. I ask _you_ which is the heavier sin:

Not knowing whether I be mad

Or falsehood be in her,
Shall I desert a faithful wife
Or turn adulterer?

_Chaplain_ (_considering_). Now if this were done----

_King_. Instruct me, my teacher.

_Chaplain_. Let the woman remain in my house until her child is born.

_King_. Why this?

_Chaplain_. The chief astrologers have told you that your first child
was destined to be an emperor. If the son of the hermit's daughter is
born with the imperial birthmarks, then welcome her and introduce her
into the palace. Otherwise, she must return to her father.

_King_. It is good advice, my teacher.

_Chaplain_ (_rising_). Follow me, my daughter.

_Shakuntala_. O mother earth, give me a grave! (_Exit weeping, with

the chaplain, the hermits, and_ GAUTAMI. _The king, his memory clouded
by the curse, ponders on_ SHAKUNTALA.)
_Voices behind the scenes_. A miracle! A miracle!

_King_ (_listening_). What does this mean? (_Enter the chaplain_.)

_Chaplain_ (_in amazement_). Your Majesty, a wonderful thing has

happened.

_King_. What?

_Chaplain_. When Kanva's pupils had departed,

She tossed her arms, bemoaned her plight,

Accused her crushing fate----

_King_. What then?

_Chaplain_.

Before our eyes a heavenly light

In woman's form, but shining bright,
Seized her and vanished straight.

(_All betray astonishment_.)

_King_. My teacher, we have already settled the matter. Why speculate

in vain? Let us seek repose. _Chaplain_. Victory to your Majesty.

(_Exit_.)
_King_. Vetravati, I am bewildered. Conduct me to my apartment.

_Portress_. Follow me, your Majesty.

_King_ (_walks about. To himself_).

With a hermit-wife I had no part,

All memories evade me;
And yet my sad and stricken heart
Would more than half persuade me.

(_Exeunt omnes_.)

ACT VI

SEPARATION FROM SHAKUNTALA

SCENE I.--_In the street before the Palace_

(_Enter the chief of police, two policemen, and a man with his hands
bound behind his back_.)

_The two policemen_ (_striking the man_). Now, pickpocket, tell us

where you found this ring. It is the king's ring, with letters
engraved on it, and it has a magnificent great gem.

_Fisherman_ (_showing fright_). Be merciful, kind gentlemen. I am not

guilty of such a crime.
_First policeman_. No, I suppose the king thought you were a pious
Brahman, and made you a present of it.

_Fisherman_. Listen, please. I am a fisherman, and I live on the

Ganges, at the spot where Indra came down.

_Second policeman_. You thief, we didn't ask for your address or your
social position.

_Chief_. Let him tell a straight story, Suchaka. Don't interrupt.

_The two policemen_. Yes, chief. Talk, man, talk.

_Fisherman_. I support my family with things you catch fish

with--nets, you know, and hooks, and things.

_Chief_ (_laughing_). You have a sweet trade.

_Fisherman_. Don't say that, master.

You can't give up a lowdown trade

That your ancestors began;
A butcher butchers things, and yet
He's the tenderest-hearted man.

_Chief_. Go on. Go on.

_Fisherman_. Well, one day I was cutting up a carp. In its maw I see
this ring with the magnificent great gem. And then I was just trying
to sell it here when you kind gentlemen grabbed me. That is the only
way I got it. Now kill me, or find fault with me.

_Chief_ (_smelling the ring_). There is no doubt about it, Januka.

It has been in a fish's maw. It has the real perfume of raw meat. Now
we have to find out how he got it. We must go to the palace.

_The two policemen_ (_to the fisherman_). Move on, you cutpurse, move
on. (_They walk about_.)

_Chief_. Suchaka, wait here at the big gate until I come out of the
palace. And don't get careless.

_The two policemen_. Go in, chief. I hope the king will be nice to
you.

_Chief_. Good-bye. (_Exit_.)

_Suchaka_. Januka, the chief is taking his time.

_Januka_. You can't just drop in on a king.

_Suchaka_. Januka, my fingers are itching (_indicating the fisherman_)

to kill this cutpurse.

_Fisherman_. Don't kill a man without any reason, master.

_Januka_ (_looking ahead_). There is the chief, with a written order

from the king. (_To the fisherman_.) Now you will see your family, or
else you will feed the crows and jackals. (_Enter the chief_.)
_Chief_. Quick! Quick! (_He breaks off_.)

_Fisherman_. Oh, oh! I'm a dead man. (_He shows dejection_.)

_Chief_. Release him, you. Release the fishnet fellow. It is all

right, his getting the ring. Our king told me so himself.

_Suchaka_. All right, chief. He is a dead man come back to life. (_He
releases the fisherman_.)

_Fisherman_ (_bowing low to the chief_). Master, I owe you my life.

(_He falls at his feet_.)

_Chief_. Get up, get up! Here is a reward that the king was kind
enough to give you. It is worth as much as the ring. Take it. (_He
hands the fisherman a bracelet_.)

_Fisherman_ (_joyfully taking it_). Much obliged.

_Januka_. He _is_ much obliged to the king. Just as if he had been

taken from the stake and put on an elephant's back.

_Suchaka_. Chief, the reward shows that the king thought a lot of the
ring. The gem must be worth something.

_Chief_. No, it wasn't the fine gem that pleased the king. It was this
way.
_The two policemen_. Well?

_Chief_. I think, when the king saw it, he remembered somebody he

loves. You know how dignified he is usually. But as soon as he saw it,
he broke down for a moment.

_Suchaka_. You have done the king a good turn, chief.

_Januka_. All for the sake of this fish-killer, it seems to me. (_He
looks enviously at the fisherman_.)

_Fisherman_. Take half of it, masters, to pay for something to drink.

_Januka_. Fisherman, you are the biggest and best friend I've got. The
first thing we want, is all the brandy we can hold. Let's go where
they keep it. (_Exeunt omnes_.)

SCENE II.--_In the Palace Gardens_

(_Enter_ MISHRAKESHI, _flying through the air_.)

_Mishrakeshi_. I have taken my turn in waiting upon the nymphs. And

now I will see what this good king is doing. Shakuntala is like a
second self to me, because she is the daughter of Menaka. And it was
she who asked me to do this. (_She looks about_.) It is the day of the
spring festival. But I see no preparations for a celebration at court.
I might learn the reason by my power of divination. But I must do as
my friend asked me. Good! I will make myself invisible and stand near
these girls who take care of the garden. I shall find out that way.
(_She descends to earth. Enter a maid, gazing at a mango branch, and
behind her, a second_.)

_First maid_.

First mango-twig, so pink, so green,

First living breath of spring,
You are sacrificed as soon as seen,
A festival offering.

_Second maid_. What are you chirping about to yourself, little cuckoo?

_First maid_. Why, little bee, you know that the cuckoo goes crazy
with delight when she sees the mango-blossom.

_Second maid_ (_joyfully_). Oh, has the spring really come?

_First maid_. Yes, little bee. And this is the time when you too buzz
about in crazy joy. _Second maid_. Hold me, dear, while I stand on
tiptoe and offer this blossom to Love, the divine.

_First maid_. If I do, you must give me half the reward of the
offering.

_Second maid_. That goes without saying, dear. We two are one. (_She
leans on her friend and takes the mango-blossom_.) Oh, see! The
mango-blossom hasn't opened, but it has broken the sheath, so it is
fragrant. (_She brings her hands together_.) I worship mighty Love.
 O mango-twig I give to Love
As arrow for his bow,
Most sovereign of his arrows five,
Strike maiden-targets low.

(_She throws the twig. Enter the chamberlain_.)

_Chamberlain_ (_angrily_). Stop, silly girl. The king has strictly

forbidden the spring festival. Do you dare pluck the mango-blossoms?

_The two maids_ (_frightened_). Forgive us, sir. We did not know.

_Chamberlain_. What! You have not heard the king's command, which is
obeyed even by the trees of spring and the creatures that dwell in
them. See!

The mango branches are in bloom,

Yet pollen does not form;
The cuckoo's song sticks in his throat,
Although the days are warm;

The amaranth-bud is formed, and yet

Its power of growth is gone;
The love-god timidly puts by
The arrow he has drawn.

_Mishrakeshi_. There is no doubt of it. This good king has wonderful

power.

_First maid_. A few days ago, sir, we were sent to his Majesty by his
brother-in-law Mitravasu to decorate the garden. That is why we have
heard nothing of this affair.

_Chamberlain_. You must not do so again.

_The two maids_. But we are curious. If we girls may know about it,
pray tell us, sir. Why did his Majesty forbid the spring festival?
_Mishrakeshi_. Kings are fond of celebrations. There must be some good
reason.

_Chamberlain_ (_to himself_). It is in everybody's mouth. Why should I

not tell it? (_Aloud_.) Have you heard the gossip concerning
Shakuntala's rejection?

_The two maids_. Yes, sir. The king's brother-in-law told us, up to
the point where the ring was recovered.

_Chamberlain_. There is little more to tell. When his Majesty saw the
ring, he remembered that he had indeed contracted a secret marriage
with Shakuntala, and had rejected her under a delusion. And then he
fell a prey to remorse.

He hates the things he loved; he intermits

The daily audience, nor in judgment sits;
Spends sleepless nights in tossing on his bed;
At times, when he by courtesy is led
To address a lady, speaks another name,
Then stands for minutes, sunk in helpless shame.

_Mishrakeshi_. I am glad to hear it.

_Chamberlain_. His Majesty's sorrow has forbidden the festival.

_The two maids_. It is only right.

_A voice behind the scenes_. Follow me.

_Chamberlain_ (_listening_). Ah, his Majesty approaches. Go, and

attend to your duties. (_Exeunt the two maids. Enter the king, wearing
a dress indicative of remorse; the clown, and the portress_.)

_Chamberlain_ (_observing the king_). A beautiful figure charms in

whatever state. Thus, his Majesty is pleasing even in his sorrow. For

All ornament is laid aside; he wears

One golden bracelet on his wasted arm;
His lip is scorched by sighs; and sleepless cares
Redden his eyes. Yet all can work no harm
On that magnificent beauty, wasting, but
Gaining in brilliance, like a diamond cut.

_Mishrakeshi_ (_observing the king_). No wonder Shakuntala pines for

him, even though he dishonoured her by his rejection of her.

_King_ (_walks about slowly, sunk in thought_).

Alas! My smitten heart, that once lay sleeping,

Heard in its dreams my fawn-eyed love's laments,
And wakened now, awakens but to weeping,
To bitter grief, and tears of penitence.
_Mishrakeshi_. That is the poor girl's fate.

_Clown_ (_to himself_). He has got his Shakuntala-sickness again. I

wish I knew how to cure him.

_Chamberlain (advancing)_. Victory to your Majesty. I have examined

the garden. Your Majesty may visit its retreats.

_King_. Vetravati, tell the minister Pishuna in my name that a

sleepless night prevents me from mounting the throne of judgment. He
is to investigate the citizens' business and send me a memorandum.

_Portress_. Yes, your Majesty. _(Exit.)_

_King_. And you, Parvatayana, return to your post of duty.

_Chamberlain_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_Clown_. You have got rid of the vermin. Now amuse yourself in this
garden. It is delightful with the passing of the cold weather.

_King_ (_sighing_). My friend, the proverb makes no mistake.

Misfortune finds the weak spot. See!

No sooner did the darkness lift

That clouded memory's power,
Than the god of love prepared his bow
And shot the mango-flower.
 No sooner did the ring recall
My banished maiden dear,
No sooner do I vainly weep
For her, than spring is here.

_Clown_. Wait a minute, man. I will destroy Love's arrow with my

stick. (_He raises his stick and strikes at the mango branch_.)

_King_ (_smiling_). Enough! I see your pious power. My friend, where

shall I sit now to comfort my eyes with the vines? They remind me
somehow of her.

_Clown_. Well, you told one of the maids, the clever painter, that
you would spend this hour in the bower of spring-creepers. And you
asked her to bring you there the picture of the lady Shakuntala which
you painted on a tablet.

_King_. It is my only consolation. Lead the way to the bower of

spring-creepers.

_Clown_. Follow me. (_They walk about_. MISHRAKESHI _follows_.) Here

is the bower of spring-creepers, with its jewelled benches. Its
loneliness seems to bid you a silent welcome. Let us go in and sit
down. (_They do so_.)

_Mishrakeshi_. I will hide among the vines and see the dear girl's
picture. Then I shall be able to tell her how deep her husband's love
is. (_She hides_.)

_King_ (_sighing_). I remember it all now, my friend. I told you how I

first met Shakuntala. It is true, you were not with me when I rejected
her. But I had told you of her at the first. Had you forgotten, as I
did?

_Mishrakeshi_. This shows that a king should not be separated a single

moment from some intimate friend.

_Clown_. No, I didn't forget. But when you had told the whole story,
you said it was a joke and there was nothing in it. And I was fool
enough to believe you. No, this is the work of fate.

_Mishrakeshi_. It must be.

_King_ (_after meditating a moment_). Help me, my friend.

_Clown_. But, man, this isn't right at all. A good man never lets
grief get the upper hand. The mountains are calm even in a tempest.

_King_. My friend, I am quite forlorn. I keep thinking of her pitiful

state when I rejected her. Thus:

When I denied her, then she tried

To join her people. "Stay," one cried,
Her father's representative.
She stopped, she turned, she could but give
A tear-dimmed glance to heartless me--
That arrow burns me poisonously.

_Mishrakeshi_. How his fault distresses him!

_Clown_. Well, I don't doubt it was some heavenly being that carried
her away.

_King_. Who else would dare to touch a faithful wife? Her friends told
me that Menaka was her mother. My heart persuades me that it was
she, or companions of hers, who carried Shakuntala away.

_Mishrakeshi_. His madness was wonderful, not his awakening reason.

_Clown_. But in that case, you ought to take heart. You will meet her
again.

_King_. How so?

_Clown_. Why, a mother or a father cannot long bear to see a daughter

separated from her husband.

_King_. My friend,

And was it phantom, madness, dream,

Or fatal retribution stern?
My hopes fell down a precipice
And never, never will return.

_Clown_. Don't talk that way. Why, the ring shows that incredible
meetings do happen.

_King_ (_looking at the ring_). This ring deserves pity. It has fallen
from a heaven hard to earn.
 Your virtue, ring, like mine,
Is proved to be but small;
Her pink-nailed finger sweet
You clasped. How could you fall?

_Mishrakeshi_. If it were worn on any other hand, it would deserve

pity. My dear girl, you are far away. I am the only one to hear these
delightful words.

_Clown_. Tell me how you put the ring on her finger.

_Mishrakeshi_. He speaks as if prompted by my curiosity.

_King_. Listen, my friend. When I left the pious grove for the city,
my darling wept and said: "But how long will you remember us, dear?"

_Clown_. And then you said----

_King_. Then I put this engraved ring on her finger, and said to
her----

_Clown_. Well, what?

_King_.

Count every day one letter of my name;

Before you reach the end, dear,
Will come to lead you to my palace halls
A guide whom I shall send, dear.
Then, through my madness, it fell out cruelly.

_Mishrakeshi_. It was
too charming an agreement to be frustrated by fate.

_Clown_. But how did it get into a carp's mouth, as if it had been a
fish-hook?

_King_. While she was worshipping the Ganges at Shachitirtha, it fell.

_Clown_. I see.

_Mishrakeshi_. That is why the virtuous king doubted his marriage with
poor Shakuntala. Yet such love does not ask for a token. How could it
have been?

_King_. Well, I can only reproach this ring.

_Clown_ (_smiling_). And I will reproach this stick of mine. Why are
you crooked when I am straight?

_King_ (_not hearing him_).

How could you fail to linger

On her soft, tapering finger,
And in the water fall?

And yet

Things lifeless know not beauty;

 But I--I scorned my duty,
The sweetest task of all.

_Mishrakeshi_. He has given the answer which I had ready.

_Clown_. But that is no reason why I should starve to death.

_King_ (_not heeding_). O my darling, my heart burns with repentance

because I abandoned you without reason. Take pity on me. Let me see
you again. (_Enter a maid with a tablet_.)

_Maid_. Your Majesty, here is the picture of our lady. (_She produces
the tablet_.)

_King_ (_gazing at it_). It is a beautiful picture. See!

A graceful arch of brows above great eyes;

Lips bathed in darting, smiling light that flies
Reflected from white teeth; a mouth as red
As red karkandhu-fruit; love's brightness shed
O'er all her face in bursts of liquid charm--
The picture speaks, with living beauty warm.

_Clown_ (_looking at it_). The sketch is full of sweet meaning. My

eyes seem to stumble over its uneven surface. What more can I say? I
expect to see it come to life, and I feel like speaking to it.

_Mishrakeshi_. The king is a clever painter. I seem to see the dear

girl before me.
_King_. My friend,

What in the picture is not fair,

Is badly done;
Yet something of her beauty there,
I feel, is won.

_Mishrakeshi_. This is natural, when love is increased by remorse.

_King_ (_sighing_).

I treated her with scorn and loathing ever;

Now o'er her pictured charms my heart will burst:
A traveller I, who scorned the mighty river.
And seeks in the mirage to quench his thirst.

_Clown_. There are three figures in the picture, and they are all
beautiful. Which one is the lady Shakuntala?

_Mishrakeshi_. The poor fellow never saw her beauty. His eyes are
useless, for she never came before them.

_King_. Which one do you think?

_Clown_ (_observing closely_). I think it is this one, leaning against

the creeper which she has just sprinkled. Her face is hot and the
flowers are dropping from her hair; for the ribbon is loosened. Her
arms droop like weary branches; she has loosened her girdle, and she
seems a little fatigued. This, I think, is the lady Shakuntala, the
others are her friends.
_King_. You are good at guessing. Besides, here are proofs of my love.

See where discolorations faint

Of loving handling tell;
And here the swelling of the paint
Shows where my sad tears fell.

Chaturika, I have not finished the background. Go, get the brushes.

_Maid_. Please hold the picture, Madhavya, while I am gone.

_King_. I will hold it. (_He does so. Exit maid_.)

_Clown_. What are you going to add?

_Mishrakeshi_. Surely, every spot that the dear girl loved.

_King_. Listen, my friend.

The stream of Malini, and on its sands

The swan-pairs resting; holy foot-hill lands
Of great Himalaya's sacred ranges, where
The yaks are seen; and under trees that bear
Bark hermit-dresses on their branches high,
A doe that on the buck's horn rubs her eye.

_Clown_ (_aside_). To hear him talk, I should think he was going to

fill up the picture with heavy-bearded hermits.
_King_. And another ornament that Shakuntala loved I have forgotten to
paint.

_Clown_. What?

_Mishrakeshi_. Something natural for a girl living in the forest.

_King_.

The siris-blossom, fastened o'er her ear,

Whose stamens brush her cheek;
The lotus-chain like autumn moonlight soft
Upon her bosom meek.

_Clown_. But why does she cover her face with fingers lovely as the
pink water-lily? She seems frightened. (_He looks more closely_.) I
see. Here is a bold, bad bee. He steals honey, and so he flies to her
lotus-face.

_King_. Drive him away.

_Clown_. It is your affair to punish evil-doers.

_King_. True. O welcome guest of the flowering vine, why do you waste
your time in buzzing here?

Your faithful, loving queen,

Perched on a flower, athirst,
Is waiting for you still,
Nor tastes the honey first.
_Mishrakeshi_. A gentlemanly way to drive him off!

_Clown_. This kind are obstinate, even when you warn them.

_King_ (_angrily_). Will you not obey my command? Then listen:

'Tis sweet as virgin blossoms on a tree,

The lip I kissed in love-feasts tenderly;
Sting that dear lip, O bee, with cruel power,
And you shall be imprisoned in a flower.

_Clown_. Well, he doesn't seem afraid of your dreadful punishment.

(_Laughing. To himself_.) The man is crazy, and I am just as bad, from
associating with him.

_King_. Will he not go, though I warn him?

_Mishrakeshi_. Love works a curious change even in a brave man.

_Clown_ (_aloud_). It is only a picture, man.

_King_. A picture?

_Mishrakeshi_. I too understand it now. But to him, thoughts are real

experiences.

_King_. You have done an ill-natured thing.

When I was happy in the sight,

 And when my heart was warm,
You brought sad memories back, and made
My love a painted form.

(_He sheds a tear_.)

_Mishrakeshi_. Fate plays strangely with him.

_King_. My friend, how can I endure a grief that has no respite?

I cannot sleep at night

And meet her dreaming;
I cannot see the sketch
While tears are streaming.

_Mishrakeshi_. My friend, you have indeed atoned--and in her friend's

presence--for the pain you caused by rejecting dear Shakuntala.

(_Enter the maid_ CHATURIKA.)

_Maid_. Your Majesty, I was coming back with the box of

paint-brushes----

_King_. Well?

_Maid_. I met Queen Vasumati with the maid Pingalika. And the queen
snatched the box from me, saying: "I will take it to the king myself."

_Clown_. How did you escape?

_Maid_. The queen's dress caught on a vine. And while her maid was
setting her free, I excused myself in a hurry. _A voice behind the
scenes_. Follow me, your Majesty.

_Clown_ (_listening_). Man, the she-tiger of the palace is making a

spring on her prey. She means to make one mouthful of the maid.

_King_. My friend, the queen has come because she feels touched in her
honour. You had better take care of this picture.

_Clown_. "And yourself," you might add. (_He takes the picture and
rises_.) If you get out of the trap alive, call for me at the Cloud
Balcony. And I will hide the thing there so that nothing but a pigeon
could find it. (_Exit on the run_.)

_Mishrakeshi_. Though his heart is given to another, he is courteous

to his early flame. He is a constant friend.

(_Enter the portress with a document_.)

_Portress_. Victory to your Majesty.

_King_. Vetravati, did you not meet Queen Vasumati?

_Portress_. Yes, your Majesty. But she turned back when she saw that I
carried a document.

_King_. The queen knows times and seasons. She will not interrupt
business.
_Portress_. Your Majesty, the minister sends word that in the press of
various business he has attended to only one citizen's suit. This he
has reduced to writing for your Majesty's perusal.

_King_. Give me the document. (_The portress does so_.)

_King_ (_reads_). "Be it known to his Majesty. A seafaring merchant

named Dhanavriddhi has been lost in a shipwreck. He is childless, and
his property, amounting to several millions, reverts to the crown.
Will his Majesty take action?" (_Sadly_.) It is dreadful to be
childless. Vetravati, he had great riches. There must be several
wives. Let inquiry be made. There may be a wife who is with child.

_Portress_. We have this moment heard that a merchant's daughter of

Saketa is his wife. And she is soon to become a mother.

_King_. The child shall receive the inheritance. Go, inform the
minister.

_Portress_. Yes, your Majesty. (_She starts to go_.)

_King_. Wait a moment.

_Portress_ (_turning back_). Yes, your Majesty. _King_. After all,

what does it matter whether he have issue or not?

Let King Dushyanta be proclaimed

To every sad soul kin
That mourns a kinsman loved and lost,
 Yet did not plunge in sin.

_Portress_. The proclamation shall be made. (_She goes out and soon
returns_.) Your Majesty, the royal proclamation was welcomed by the
populace as is a timely shower.

_King_ (_sighing deeply_). Thus, when issue fails, wealth passes, on

the death of the head of the family, to a stranger. When I die, it
will be so with the glory of Puru's line.

_Portress_. Heaven avert the omen!

_King_. Alas! I despised the happiness that offered itself to me.

_Mishrakeshi_. Without doubt, he has dear Shakuntala in mind when he

thus reproaches himself.

_King_.

Could I forsake the virtuous wife

Who held my best, my future life
And cherished it for glorious birth,
As does the seed-receiving earth?

_Mishrakeshi_. She will not long be forsaken.

_Maid_ (_to the portress_). Mistress, the minister's report has

doubled our lord's remorse. Go to the Cloud Balcony and bring Madhavya
to dispel his grief.
_Portress_. A good suggestion. (_Exit_.)

_King_. Alas! The ancestors of Dushyanta are in a doubtful case.

For I am childless, and they do not know,

When I am gone, what child of theirs will bring
The scriptural oblation; and their tears
Already mingle with my offering.

_Mishrakeshi_. He is screened from the light, and is in darkness.

_Maid_. Do not give way to grief, your Majesty. You are in the prime
of your years, and the birth of a son to one of your other wives will
make you blameless before your ancestors. (_To herself_.) He does not
heed me. The proper medicine is needed for any disease. _King_
(_betraying his sorrow_). Surely,

The royal line that flowed

A river pure and grand,
Dies in the childless king,
Like streams in desert sand.

(_He swoons_.)

_Maid_ (_in distress_). Oh, sir, come to yourself.

_Mishrakeski_. Shall I make him happy now? No, I heard the mother of
the gods consoling Shakuntala. She said that the gods, impatient for
the sacrifice, would soon cause him to welcome his true wife. I must
delay no longer. I will comfort dear Shakuntala with my tidings.
(_Exit through the air_.)

_A voice behind the scenes_. Help, help!

_King_ (_comes to himself and listens_). It sounds as if Madhavya were

in distress.

_Maid_. Your Majesty, I hope that Pingalika and the other maids did
not catch poor Madhavya with the picture in his hands.

_King_. Go, Chaturika. Reprove the queen in my name for not

controlling her servants.

_Maid_. Yes, your Majesty. (_Exit_.)

_The voice_. Help, help!

_King_. The Brahman's voice seems really changed by fear. Who waits
without? (_Enter the chamberlain_.)

_Chamberlain_. Your Majesty commands?

_King_. See why poor Madhavya is screaming so.

_Chamberlain_. I will see. (_He goes out, and returns trembling_.)

_King_. Parvatayana, I hope it is nothing very dreadful.

_Chamberlain_. I hope not.

_King_. Then why do you tremble so? For

Why should the trembling, born

Of age, increasing, seize
Your limbs and bid them shake
Like fig-leaves in the breeze?

_Chamberlain_. Save your friend, O King!

_King_. From what?

_Chamberlain_. From great danger.

_King_. Speak plainly, man.

_Chamberlain_. On the Cloud Balcony, open to the four winds of

heaven--

_King_. What has happened there?

_Chamberlain_.

While he was resting on its height,

Which palace peacocks in their flight
Can hardly reach, he seemed to be
Snatched up--by what, we could not see.

_King_ (_rising quickly_). My very palace is invaded by evil

creatures. To be a king, is to be a disappointed man.
 The moral stumblings of mine own,
The daily slips, are scarcely known;
Who then that rules a kingdom, can
Guide every deed of every man?

_The voice_. Hurry, hurry!

_King_ (_hears the voice and quickens his steps_). Have no fear, my
friend.

_The voice_. Have no fear! When something has got me by the back of
the neck, and is trying to break my bones like a piece of sugar-cane!

_King_ (_looks about_). A bow! a bow! (_Enter a Greek woman with a

bow_.)

_Greek woman_. A bow and arrows, your Majesty. And here are the
finger-guards. (_The king takes the bow and arrows_.)

_Another voice behind the scenes_.

Writhe, while I drink the red blood flowing clear

And kill you, as a tiger kills a deer;
Let King Dushyanta grasp his bow; but how
Can all his kingly valour save you now?

_King_ (_angrily_). He scorns me, too! In one moment, miserable demon,

you shall die. (_Stringing his bow_.) Where is the stairway,
Parvatayana?
_Chamberlain_. Here, your Majesty. (_All make haste_.)

_King_ (_Looking about_). There is no one here.

_The Clown's voice_. Save me, save me! I see you, if you can't see me.
I am a mouse in the claws of the cat. I am done for.

_King_. You are

proud of your invisibility. But shall not my arrow see you? Stand
still. Do not hope to escape by clinging to my friend.

My arrow, flying when the bow is bent,

Shall slay the wretch and spare the innocent;
When milk is mixed with water in a cup,
Swans leave the water, and the milk drink up.

(_He takes aim. Enter_ MATALI _and the clown_.)

_Matali_. O King, as Indra, king of the gods, commands,

Seek foes among the evil powers alone;

For them your bow should bend;
Not cruel shafts, but glances soft and kind
Should fall upon a friend.

_King_ (_hastily withdrawing the arrow_). It is Matali. Welcome to the

charioteer of heaven's king.

_Clown_. Well! He came within an inch of butchering me. And you

welcome him.

_Matali_ (_smiling_). Hear, O King, for what purpose Indra sends me to

you.

_King_. I am all attention.

_Matali_. There is a host of demons who call themselves

Invincible--the brood of Kalanemi.

_King_. So Narada has told me.

_Matali_.

Heaven's king is powerless; you shall smite

His foes in battle soon;
Darkness that overcomes the day,
Is scattered by the moon.

Take your bow at once, enter my heavenly chariot, and set forth for
victory.

_King_. I am grateful for the honour which Indra shows me. But why did
you act thus toward Madhavya?

_Matali_. I will tell you. I saw that you were overpowered by some
inner sorrow, and acted thus to rouse you. For

The spurnèd snake will swell his hood;

Fire blazes when 'tis stirred;
 Brave men are roused to fighting mood
By some insulting word.
_King_. Friend Madhavya, I must obey the bidding of heaven's king. Go,
acquaint the minister Pishuna with the matter, and add these words of
mine:

Your wisdom only shall control

The kingdom for a time;
My bow is strung; a distant goal
Calls me, and tasks sublime.

_Clown_. Very well. (_Exit_.)

_Matali_. Enter the chariot. (_The king does so. Exeunt omnes_.)

ACT VII

(_Enter, in a chariot that flies through the air, the king and_
MATALI.)

_King_. Matali, though I have done what Indra commanded, I think

myself an unprofitable servant, when I remember his most gracious
welcome.

_Matali_. O King, know that each considers himself the other's debtor.
For

You count the service given

 Small by the welcome paid,
Which to the king of heaven
Seems mean for such brave aid.

_King_. Ah, no! For the honour given me at parting went far beyond
imagination. Before the gods, he seated me beside him on his throne.
And then

He smiled, because his son Jayanta's heart

Beat quicker, by the self-same wish oppressed,
And placed about my neck the heavenly wreath
Still fragrant from the sandal on his breast.

_Matali_. But what do you not deserve from heaven's king? Remember:

Twice, from peace-loving Indra's sway

The demon-thorn was plucked away:
First, by Man-lion's crooked claws;
Again, by your smooth shafts to-day.

_King_. This merely proves Indra's majesty. Remember:

All servants owe success in enterprise

To honour paid before the great deed's done;
Could dawn defeat the darkness otherwise
Than resting on the chariot of the sun?

_Matali_. The feeling becomes you. (_After a little_.) See, O King!

Your glory has the happiness of being published abroad in heaven.
 With colours used by nymphs of heaven
To make their beauty shine,
Gods write upon the surface given
Of many a magic vine,
As worth their song, the simple story
Of those brave deeds that made your glory.

_King_. Matali, when I passed before, I was intent on fighting the

demons, and did not observe this region. Tell me. In which path of the
winds are we?

_Matali_.

It is the windpath sanctified

By holy Vishnu's second stride;
Which, freed from dust of passion, ever
Upholds the threefold heavenly river;
And, driving them with reins of light,
Guides the stars in wheeling flight.

_King_. That is why serenity pervades me, body and soul. (_He observes
the path taken by the chariot_.) It seems that we have descended into
the region of the clouds.

_Matali_. How do you perceive it?

_King_.

Plovers that fly from mountain-caves,

Steeds that quick-flashing lightning laves,
 And chariot-wheels that drip with spray--
A path o'er pregnant clouds betray.

_Matali_. You are right. And in a moment you will be in the world over
which you bear rule.

_King_ (_looking down_). Matali, our quick descent gives the world of
men a mysterious look. For

The plains appear to melt and fall

From mountain peaks that grow more tall;
The trunks of trees no longer hide
Nor in their leafy nests abide;
The river network now is clear,
For smaller streams at last appear:
It seems as if some being threw
The world to me, for clearer view.

_Matali_. You are a good observer, O King. (_He looks down,

awe-struck_.) There is a noble loveliness in the earth. _King_.
Matali, what mountain is this, its flanks sinking into the eastern and
into the western sea? It drips liquid gold like a cloud at sunset.

_Matali_. O King, this is Gold Peak, the mountain of the fairy

centaurs. Here it is that ascetics most fully attain to magic powers.
See!

The ancient sage, Marichi's son,

Child of the Uncreated One,
Father of superhuman life,
 Dwells here austerely with his wife.

_King_ (_reverently_). I must not neglect the happy chance. I cannot

go farther until I have walked humbly about the holy one.

_Matali_. It is a worthy thought, O King. (_The chariot descends_.) We

have come down to earth.

_King_ (_astonished_). Matali,

The wheels are mute on whirling rim;

Unstirred, the dust is lying there;
We do not bump the earth, but skim:
Still, still we seem to fly through air.

_Matali_. Such is the glory of the chariot which obeys you and Indra.

_King_. In which direction lies the hermitage of Marichi's son?

_Matali_ (_pointing_). See!

Where stands the hermit, horridly austere,

Whom clinging vines are choking, tough and sore;
Half-buried in an ant-hill that has grown
About him, standing post-like and alone;
Sun-staring with dim eyes that know no rest,
The dead skin of a serpent on his breast:
So long he stood unmoved, insensate there
That birds build nests within his mat of hair.
_King_ (_gazing_). All honour to one who mortifies the flesh so
terribly.

_Matali_ (_checking the chariot_). We have entered the hermitage of

the ancient sage, whose wife Aditi tends the coral-trees. _King_.
Here is deeper contentment than in heaven. I seem plunged in a pool of
nectar.

_Matali_ (_stopping the chariot_). Descend, O King.

_King_ (_descending_). But how will you fare?

_Matali_. The chariot obeys the word of command. I too will descend.
(_He does so_.) Before you, O King, are the groves where the holiest
hermits lead their self-denying life.

_King_. I look with amazement both at their simplicity and at what

they might enjoy.

Their appetites are fed with air

Where grows whatever is most fair;
They bathe religiously in pools
Which golden lily-pollen cools;
They pray within a jewelled home,
Are chaste where nymphs of heaven roam:
They mortify desire and sin
With things that others fast to win.

_Matali_. The desires of the great aspire high. (_He walks about and
speaks to some one not visible_.) Ancient Shakalya, how is Marichi's
holy son occupied? (_He listens_.) What do you say? That he is
explaining to Aditi, in answer to her question, the duties of a
faithful wife? My matter must await a fitter time. (_He turns to the
king_.) Wait here, O King, in the shade of the ashoka tree, till I
have announced your coming to the sire of Indra.

_King_. Very well. (_Exit_ MATALI. _The king's arm throbs, a happy
omen_.)

I dare not hope for what I pray;

Why thrill--in vain?
For heavenly bliss once thrown away
Turns into pain.

_A voice behind the scenes_. Don't! You mustn't be so foolhardy. Oh,

you are always the same.

_King_ (_listening_). No naughtiness could feel at home in this spot.

Who draws such a rebuke upon himself? (_He looks towards the sound. In
surprise_.) It is a child, but no child in strength. And two
hermit-women are trying to control him.

He drags a struggling lion cub,

The lioness' milk half-sucked, half-missed,
Towzles his mane, and tries to drub
Him tame with small, imperious fist.

(_Enter a small boy, as described, and two hermit-women_.)

_Boy_. Open your mouth, cub. I want to count your teeth.

_First woman_. Naughty boy, why do you torment our pets? They are like
children to us. Your energy seems to take the form of striking
something. No wonder the hermits call you All-tamer.

_King_. Why should my heart go out to this boy as if he were my own

son? (_He reflects_.) No doubt my childless state makes me
sentimental.

_Second woman_. The lioness will spring at you if you don't let her
baby go.

_Boy_ (_smiling_). Oh, I'm dreadfully scared. (_He bites his lip_.)

_King_ (_in surprise_).

The boy is seed of fire

Which, when it grows, will burn;
A tiny spark that soon
To awful flame may turn.

_First woman_. Let the little lion go, dear. I will give you another
plaything.

_Boy_. Where is it? Give it to me. (_He stretches out his hand_.)

_King_ (_looking at the hand_.) He has one of the imperial birthmarks!

For

Between the eager fingers grow

 The close-knit webs together drawn,
Like some lone lily opening slow
To meet the kindling blush of dawn.

_Second woman_. Suvrata, we can't make him stop by talking. Go. In my

cottage you will find a painted clay peacock that belongs to the
hermit-boy Mankanaka. Bring him that.

_First woman_. I will. (_Exit_.) _Boy_. Meanwhile I'll play with

this one.

_Hermit-woman_ (_looks and laughs_). Let him go.

_King_. My heart goes out to this wilful child. (_Sighing_.)

They show their little buds of teeth

In peals of causeless laughter;
They hide their trustful heads beneath
Your heart. And stumbling after
Come sweet, unmeaning sounds that sing
To you. The father warms
And loves the very dirt they bring
Upon their little forms.

_Hermit-woman_ (_shaking her finger_). Won't you mind me? (_She looks
about_.) Which one of the hermit-boys is here? (_She sees the king_.)
Oh, sir, please come here and free this lion cub. The little rascal is
tormenting him, and I can't make him let go.

_King_. Very well. (_He approaches, smiling_.) O little son of a great

sage!

Your conduct in this place apart,

Is most unfit;
'Twould grieve your father's pious heart
And trouble it.

To animals he is as good
As good can be;
You spoil it, like a black snake's brood
In sandal tree.

_Hermit-woman_. But, sir, he is not the son of a hermit.

_King_. So it would seem, both from his looks and his actions. But in
this spot, I had no suspicion of anything else. (_He loosens the boy's
hold on the cub, and touching him, says to himself_.)

It makes me thrill to touch the boy,

The stranger's son, to me unknown;
What measureless content must fill
The man who calls the child his own!

_Hermit-woman_ (_looking at the two_). Wonderful! wonderful!

_King_. Why do you say that, mother?

_Hermit-woman_. I am astonished to see how much the boy looks like

you, sir. You are not related. Besides, he is a perverse little
creature and he does not know you. Yet he takes no dislike to
you.

_King_ (_caressing the boy_). Mother, if he is not the son of a

hermit, what is his family?

_Hermit-woman_. The family of Puru.

_King_ (_to himself_). He is of one family with me! Then could my

thought be true? (_Aloud_.) But this is the custom of Puru's line:

In glittering palaces they dwell

While men, and rule the country well;
Then make the grove their home in age,
And die in austere hermitage.

But how could human beings, of their own mere motion, attain this
spot?

_Hermit-woman_. You are quite right, sir. But the boy's mother was
related to a nymph, and she bore her son in the pious grove of the
father of the gods.

_King_ (_to himself_). Ah, a second ground for hope. (_Aloud_.) What
was the name of the good king whose wife she was?

_Hermit-woman_. Who would speak his name? He rejected his true wife.

_King_ (_to himself_). This story points at me. Suppose I ask the boy
for his mother's name. (_He reflects_.) No, it is wrong to concern
myself with one who may be another's wife.
(_Enter the first woman, with the clay peacock_.)

_First woman_. Look, All-tamer. Here is the bird, the _shakunta_.

Isn't the _shakunta_ lovely?

_Boy_ (_looks about_). Where is my mamma? (_The two women burst out
laughing_.)

_First woman_. It sounded like her name, and deceived him. He loves
his mother.

_Second woman_. She said: "See how pretty the peacock is." That is
all.

_King_ (_to himself_). His mother's name is Shakuntala! But names are
alike. I trust this hope may not prove a disappointment in the end,
like a mirage.

_Boy_. I like this little peacock, sister. Can it fly? (_He seizes the
toy_.) _First woman_ (_looks at the boy. Anxiously_), Oh, the amulet
is not on his wrist.

_King_. Do not be anxious, mother. It fell while he was struggling

with the lion cub. (_He starts to pick it up_.)

_The two women_. Oh, don't, don't! (_They look at him_.) He has
touched it! (_Astonished, they lay their hands on their bosoms, and
look at each other_.)
_King_. Why did you try to prevent me?

_First woman_. Listen, your Majesty. This is a divine and most potent
charm, called the Invincible. Marichi's holy son gave it to the baby
when the birth-ceremony was performed. If it falls on the ground, no
one may touch it except the boy's parents or the boy himself.

_King_. And if another touch it?

_First woman_. It becomes a serpent and stings him.

_King_. Did you ever see this happen to any one else?

_Both women_. More than once.

_King_ (_joyfully_). Then why may I not welcome my hopes fulfilled at

last? (_He embraces the boy_.)

_Second woman_. Come, Suvrata. Shakuntala is busy with her religious

duties. We must go and tell her what has happened. (_Exeunt ambo_.)

_Boy_. Let me go. I want to see my mother.

_King_. My son, you shall go with me to greet your mother.

_Boy_. Dushyanta is my father, not you.

_King_ (_smiling_). You show I am right by contradicting me. (_Enter_

SHAKUNTALA, _wearing her hair in a single braid_.)
_Shakuntala_ (_doubtfully_). I have heard that All-tamer's amulet did
not change when it should have done so. But I do not trust my own
happiness. Yet perhaps it is as Mishrakeshi told me. (_She walks
about_.)

_King_ (_looking at_ SHAKUNTALA. _With plaintive joy_). It is she. It

is Shakuntala.

The pale, worn face, the careless dress,

The single braid,
Show her still true, me pitiless,
The long vow paid.

_Shakuntala_ (_seeing the king pale with remorse. Doubtfully_). It is

not my husband. Who is the man that soils my boy with his caresses?
The amulet should protect him. _Boy_ (_running to his mother_).
Mother, he is a man that belongs to other people. And he calls me his
son.

_King_. My darling, the cruelty I showed you has turned to happiness.

Will you not recognise me?

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Oh, my heart, believe it. Fate struck

hard, but its envy is gone and pity takes its place. It is my husband.

_King_.

Black madness flies;

Comes memory;
Before my eyes
 My love I see.

Eclipse flees far;

Light follows soon;
The loving star
Draws to the moon.

_Shakuntala_. Victory, victo--(_Tears choke her utterance_.)

_King_.

The tears would choke you, sweet, in vain;

My soul with victory is fed,
Because I see your face again--
No jewels, but the lips are red.

_Boy_. Who is he, mother?

_Shakuntala_. Ask fate, my child. (_She weeps_.)

_King_.

Dear, graceful wife, forget;

Let the sin vanish;
Strangely did madness strive
Reason to banish.

Thus blindness works in men,

Love's joy to shake;
Spurning a garland, lest
 It prove a snake. (_He falls at her feet_.)

_Shakuntala_. Rise, my dear husband. Surely, it was some old sin of

mine that broke my happiness--though it has turned again to happiness.
Otherwise, how could you, dear, have acted so? You are so kind. (_The
king rises_.) But what brought back the memory of your suffering
wife? _King_. I will tell you when I have plucked out the dart of
sorrow.

'Twas madness, sweet, that could let slip

A tear to burden your dear lip;
On graceful lashes seen to-day,
I wipe it, and our grief, away. (_He does so_.)

_Shakuntala_ (_sees more clearly and discovers the ring_). My husband,

it is the ring!

_King_. Yes. And when a miracle recovered it, my memory returned.

_Shakuntala_. That was why it was so impossible for me to win your

confidence.

_King_. Then let the vine receive her flower, as earnest of her union
with spring.

_Shakuntala_. I do not trust it. I would rather you wore it.

(_Enter_ MATALI)

_Matali_. I congratulate you, O King, on reunion with your wife and on

seeing the face of your son.

_King_. My desires bear sweeter fruit because fulfilled through a

friend. Matali, was not this matter known to Indra?

_Matali_ (_smiling_.) What is hidden from the gods? Come. Marichi's

holy son, Kashyapa, wishes to see you.

_King_. My dear wife, bring our son. I could not appear without you
before the holy one.

_Shakuntala_. I am ashamed to go before such parents with my husband.

_King_. It is the custom in times of festival. Come. (_They walk

about_. KASHYAPA _appears seated, with_ ADITI.)

_Kashyapa_ (_looking at the king_). Aditi,

'Tis King Dushyanta, he who goes before

Your son in battle, and who rules the earth,
Whose bow makes Indra's weapon seem no more
Than a fine plaything, lacking sterner worth.

_Aditi_. His valour might be inferred from his appearance.

_Matali_. O King, the parents of the gods look upon you with a glance
that betrays parental fondness. Approach them. _King_. Matali,

Sprung from the Creator's children, do I see

Great Kashyapa and Mother Aditi?
 The pair that did produce the sun in heaven,
To which each year twelve changing forms are given;
That brought the king of all the gods to birth,
Who rules in heaven, in hell, and on the earth;
That Vishnu, than the Uncreated higher,
Chose as his parents with a fond desire.

_Matali_. It is indeed they.

_King_ (_falling before them_). Dushyanta, servant of Indra, does

reverence to you both.

_Kashyapa_. My son, rule the earth long.

_Aditi_. And be invincible. (SHAKUNTALA _and her son fall at their

feet_.)

_Kashyapa_. My daughter,

Your husband equals Indra, king

Of gods; your son is like his son;
No further blessing need I bring:
Win bliss such as his wife has won.

_Aditi_. My child, keep the favour of your husband. And may this fine
boy be an honour to the families of both parents. Come, let us be
seated. (_All seat themselves_.)

_Kashyapa_ (_indicating one after the other_).

 Faithful Shakuntala, the boy,
And you, O King, I see
A trinity to bless the world--
Faith, Treasure, Piety.

_King_. Holy one, your favour shown to us is without parallel. You

granted the fulfilment of our wishes before you called us to your
presence. For, holy one,

The flower comes first, and then the fruit;

The clouds appear before the rain;
Effect comes after cause; but you
First helped, then made your favour plain.

_Matali_. O King, such is the favour shown by the parents of the

world. _King_. Holy one, I married this your maid-servant by the
voluntary ceremony. When after a time her relatives brought her to me,
my memory failed and I rejected her. In so doing, I sinned against
Kanva, who is kin to you. But afterwards, when I saw the ring, I
perceived that I had married her. And this seems very wonderful to me.

Like one who doubts an elephant,

Though seeing him stride by,
And yet believes when he has seen
The footprints left; so I.

_Kashyapa_. My son, do not accuse yourself of sin. Your infatuation

was inevitable. Listen.

_King_. I am all attention.

_Kashyapa_. When the nymph Menaka descended to earth and received
Shakuntala, afflicted at her rejection, she came to Aditi. Then I
perceived the matter by my divine insight. I saw that the unfortunate
girl had been rejected by her rightful husband because of Durvasas'
curse. And that the curse would end when the ring came to light.

_King_ (_with a sigh of relief. To himself_). Then I am free from

blame.

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). Thank heaven! My husband did not reject

me of his own accord. He really did not remember me. I suppose I did
not hear the curse in my absent-minded state, for my friends warned me
most earnestly to show my husband the ring.

_Kashyapa_. My daughter, you know the truth. Do not now give way to
anger against your rightful husband. Remember:

The curse it was that brought defeat and pain;

The darkness flies; you are his queen again.
Reflections are not seen in dusty glass,
Which, cleaned, will mirror all the things that pass.

_King_. It is most true, holy one.

_Kashyapa_. My son, I hope you have greeted as he deserves the son

whom Shakuntala has borne you, for whom I myself have performed the
birth-rite and the other ceremonies.

_King_. Holy one, the hope of my race centres in him.

_Kashyapa_. Know then that his courage will make him emperor.

Journeying over every sea,

His car will travel easily;
The seven islands of the earth
Will bow before his matchless worth;
Because wild beasts to him were tame,
All-tamer was his common name;
As Bharata he shall be known,
For he will bear the world alone.

_King_. I anticipate everything from him, since you have performed the
rites for him.

_Aditi_. Kanva also should be informed that his daughter's wishes are
fulfilled. But Menaka is waiting upon me here and cannot be spared.

_Shakuntala_ (_to herself_). The holy one has expressed my own desire.

_Kashyapa_. Kanva knows the whole matter through his divine insight.
(_He reflects_.) Yet he should hear from us the pleasant tidings, how
his daughter and her son have been received by her husband. Who waits
without? (_Enter a pupil_.)

_Pupil_. I am here, holy one.

_Kashyapa_. Galava, fly through the air at once, carrying pleasant

tidings from me to holy Kanva. Tell him how Durvasas' curse has come
to an end, how Dushyanta recovered his memory, and has taken
Shakuntala with her child to himself.

_Pupil_. Yes, holy one. (_Exit_.)

_Kashyapa_ (_to the king_). My son, enter with child and wife the
chariot of your friend Indra, and set out for your capital.

_King_. Yes, holy one.

_Kashyapa_. For now

May Indra send abundant rain,

Repaid by sacrificial gain;
With aid long mutually given,
Rule you on earth, and he in heaven.

_King_. Holy one, I will do my best.

_Kashyapa_. What more, my son, shall I do for you?

_King_. Can there be more than this? Yet may this prayer be fulfilled.

May kingship benefit the land,

And wisdom grow in scholars' band;
May Shiva see my faith on earth
And make me free of all rebirth.

(_Exeunt omnes_.)

* * * * *
THE STORY OF SHAKUNTALA

In the first book of the vast epic poem _Mahabharata_, Kalidasa found
the story of Shakuntala. The story has a natural place there, for
Bharata, Shakuntala's son, is the eponymous ancestor of the princes
who play the leading part in the epic.

With no little abbreviation of its epic breadth, the story runs as

follows:--

THE EPIC TALE

Once that strong-armed king, with a mighty host of men and chariots,
entered a thick wood. Then when the king had slain thousands of wild
creatures, he entered another wood with his troops and his chariots,
intent on pursuing a deer. And the king beheld a wonderful, beautiful
hermitage on the bank of the sacred river Malini; on its bank was the
beautiful hermitage of blessèd, high-souled Kanva, whither the great
sages resorted. Then the king determined to enter, that he might see
the great sage Kanva, rich in holiness. He laid aside the insignia of
royalty and went on alone, but did not see the austere sage in the
hermitage. Then, when he did not see the sage, and perceived that the
hermitage was deserted, he cried aloud, "Who is here?" until the
forest seemed to shriek. Hearing his cry, a maiden, lovely as Shri,
came from the hermitage, wearing a hermit garb. "Welcome!" she said at
once, greeting him, and smilingly added: "What may be done for you?"
Then the king said to the sweet-voiced maid: "I have come to pay
reverence to the holy sage Kanva. Where has the blessèd one gone,
sweet girl? Tell me this, lovely maid." Shakuntala said: "My blessèd
father has gone from the hermitage to gather fruits. Wait a moment.
You shall see him when he returns."

The king did not see the sage, but when the lovely girl of the fair
hips and charming smile spoke to him, he saw that{} she was radiant in
her beauty, yes, in her hard vows and self-restraint all youth and
beauty, and he said to her:

"Who are you? Whose are you, lovely maiden? Why did you come to the
forest? Whence are you, sweet girl, so lovely and so good? Your beauty
stole my heart at the first glance. I wish to know you better. Answer
me, sweet maid."

The maiden laughed when thus questioned by the king in the hermitage,
and the words she spoke were very sweet: "O Dushyanta, I am known as
blessed Kanva's daughter, and he is austere, steadfast, wise, and of a
lofty soul."

Dushyanta said: "But he is chaste, glorious maid, holy, honoured by

the world. Though virtue should swerve from its course, he would not
swerve from the hardness of his vow. How were you born his daughter,
for you are beautiful? I am in great perplexity about this. Pray
remove it."

[Shakuntala here explains how she is the child of a sage and a nymph,
deserted at birth, cared for by birds (_shakuntas_), found and reared
by Kanva, who gave her the name Shakuntala.]

Dushyanta said: "You are clearly a king's daughter, sweet maiden, as

you say. Become my lovely wife. Tell me, what shall I do for you? Let
all my kingdom be yours to-day. Become my wife, sweet maid."

Shakuntala said: "Promise me truly what I say to you in secret. The

son that is born to me must be your heir. If you promise, Dushyanta, I
will marry you."

"So be it," said the king without thinking, and added: "I will bring
you too to my city, sweet-smiling girl."

So the king took the faultlessly graceful maiden by the hand and dwelt
with her. And when he had bidden her be of good courage, he went
forth, saying again and again: "I will send a complete army for you,
and tell them to bring my sweet-smiling bride to my palace." When he
had made this promise, the king went thoughtfully to find Kanva. "What
will he do when he hears it, this holy, austere man?" he wondered, and
still thinking, he went back to his capital.

Now the moment he was gone, Kanva came to the hermitage. And
Shakuntala was ashamed and did not come to meet her father. But
blessed, austere Kanva had divine discernment. He discovered her, and
seeing the matter with celestial vision, he was pleased and said:
"What you have done, dear, to-day, forgetting me and meeting a man,
this does not break the law. A man who loves may marry secretly the
woman who loves him without a ceremony; and Dushyanta is virtuous and
noble, the best of men. Since you have found a loving husband,
Shakuntala, a noble son shall be born to you, mighty in the world."
Sweet Shakuntala gave birth to a boy of unmeasured prowess. His hands
were marked with the wheel, and he quickly grew to be a glorious boy.
As a six years' child in Kanva's hermitage he rode on the backs of
lions, tigers, and boars near the hermitage, and tamed them, and ran
about playing with them. Then those who lived in Kanva's hermitage
gave him a name. "Let him be called All-tamer," they said: "for he
tames everything."

But when the sage saw the boy and his more than human deeds, he said
to Shakuntala: "It is time for him to be anointed crown prince." When
he saw how strong the boy was, Kanva said to his pupils: "Quickly
bring my Shakuntala and her son from my house to her husband's palace.
A long abiding with their relatives is not proper for married women.
It destroys their reputation, and their character, and their virtue;
so take her without delay." "We will," said all the mighty men, and
they set out with Shakuntala and her son for Gajasahvaya.

When Shakuntala drew near, she was recognised and invited to enter,
and she said to the king: "This is your son, O King. You must anoint
him crown prince, just as you promised before, when we met."

When the king heard her, although he remembered her, he said: "I do
not remember. To whom do you belong, you wicked hermit-woman? I do not
remember a union with you for virtue, love, and wealth.[1] Either go
or stay, or do whatever you wish."

When he said this, the sweet hermit-girl half fainted from shame and
grief, and stood stiff as a pillar. Her eyes darkened with passionate
indignation; her lips quivered; she seemed to consume the king as she
gazed at him with sidelong glances. Concealing her feelings and nerved
by anger, she held in check the magic power that her ascetic life had
given her. She seemed to meditate a moment, overcome by grief and
anger. She gazed at her husband, then spoke passionately: "O shameless
king, although you know, why do you say, 'I do not know,' like any
other ordinary man?"

Dushyanta said: "I do not know the son born of you, Shakuntala. Women
are liars. Who will believe what you say? Are you not ashamed to say
these incredible things, especially in my presence? You wicked
hermit-woman, go!"

Shakuntala said: "O King, sacred is holy God, and sacred is a holy
promise. Do not break your promise, O King. Let your love be sacred.
If you cling to a lie, and will not believe, alas! I must go away;
there is no union with a man like you. For even without you,
Dushyanta, my son shall rule this foursquare earth adorned with kingly
mountains."

When she had said so much to the king, Shakuntala started to go. But a
bodiless voice from heaven said to Dushyanta: "Care for your son,
Dushyanta. Do not despise Shakuntala. You are the boy's father.
Shakuntala tells the truth."

When he heard the utterance of the gods, the king joyfully said to his
chaplain and his ministers: "Hear the words of this heavenly
messenger. If I had received my son simply because of her words, he
would be suspected by the world, he would not be pure."

Then the king received his son gladly and joyfully. He kissed his head
and embraced him lovingly. His wife also Dushyanta honoured, as
justice required. And the king soothed her, and said: "This union
which I had with you was hidden from the world. Therefore I hesitated,
O Queen, in order to save your reputation. And as for the cruel words
you said to me in an excess of passion, these I pardon you, my
beautiful, great-eyed darling, because you love me."

Then King Dushyanta gave the name Bharata to Shakuntala's son, and had
him anointed crown prince.

It is plain that this story contains the material for a good play; the
very form of the epic tale is largely dramatic. It is also plain, in a
large way, of what nature are the principal changes which a dramatist
must introduce in the original. For while Shakuntala is charming in
the epic story, the king is decidedly contemptible. Somehow or other,
his face must be saved.

To effect this, Kalidasa has changed the old story in three important
respects. In the first place, he introduces the curse of Durvasas,
clouding the king's memory, and saving him from moral responsibility
in his rejection of Shakuntala. That there may be an ultimate recovery
of memory, the curse is so modified as to last only until the king
shall see again the ring which he has given to his bride. To the
Hindu, curse and modification are matters of frequent occurrence; and
Kalidasa has so delicately managed the matter as not to shock even a
modern and Western reader with a feeling of strong improbability. Even
to us it seems a natural part of the divine cloud that envelops the
drama, in no way obscuring human passion, but rather giving to human
passion an unwonted largeness and universality.
In the second place, the poet makes Shakuntala undertake her journey
to the palace before her son is born. Obviously, the king's character
is thus made to appear in a better light, and a greater probability is
given to the whole story.

The third change is a necessary consequence of the first; for without

the curse, there could have been no separation, no ensuing remorse,
and no reunion.

But these changes do not of themselves make a drama out of the epic
tale. Large additions were also necessary, both of scenes and of
characters. We find, indeed, that only acts one and five, with a part
of act seven, rest upon the ancient text, while acts two, three, four,
and six, with most of seven, are a creation of the poet. As might have
been anticipated, the acts of the former group are more dramatic,
while those of the latter contribute more of poetical charm. It is
with these that scissors must be chiefly busy when the play--rather
too long for continuous presentation as it stands--is performed on the
stage.

In the epic there are but three characters--Dushyanta, Shakuntala,

Kanva, with the small boy running about in the background. To these
Kalidasa has added from the palace, from the hermitage, and from the
Elysian region which is represented with vague precision in the last
act.

The conventional clown plays a much smaller part in this play than in
the others which Kalidasa wrote. He has also less humour. The real
humorous relief is given by the fisherman and the three policemen in
the opening scene of the sixth act. This, it may be remarked, is the
only scene of rollicking humour in Kalidasa's writing.

The forest scenes are peopled with quiet hermit-folk. Far the most
charming of these are Shakuntala's girl friends. The two are
beautifully differentiated: Anusuya grave, sober; Priyamvada
vivacious, saucy; yet wonderfully united in friendship and in devotion
to Shakuntala, whom they feel to possess a deeper nature than theirs.

Kanva, the hermit-father, hardly required any change from the epic
Kanva. It was a happy thought to place beside him the staid, motherly
Gautami. The small boy in the last act has magically become an
individual in Kalidasa's hands. In this act too are the creatures of a
higher world, their majesty not rendered too precise.

Dushyanta has been saved by the poet from his epic shabbiness; it may
be doubted whether more has been done. There is in him, as in some
other Hindu heroes, a shade too much of the meditative to suit our
ideal of more alert and ready manhood.

But all the other characters sink into insignificance beside the
heroine. Shakuntala dominates the play. She is actually on the stage
in five of the acts, and her spirit pervades the other two, the second
and the sixth. Shakuntala has held captive the heart of India for
fifteen hundred years, and wins the love of increasing thousands in
the West; for so noble a union of sweetness with strength is one of
the miracles of art.

Though lovely women walk the world to-day

By tens of thousands, there is none so fair
In all that exhibition and display
 With her most perfect beauty to compare--

because it is a most perfect beauty of soul no less than of outward

form. Her character grows under our very eyes. When we first meet her,
she is a simple maiden, knowing no greater sorrow than the death of a
favourite deer; when we bid her farewell, she has passed through happy
love, the mother's joys and pains, most cruel humiliation and
suspicion, and the reunion with her husband, proved at last not to
have been unworthy. And each of these great experiences has been met
with a courage and a sweetness to which no words can render justice.

Kalidasa has added much to the epic tale; yet his use of the original
is remarkably minute. A list of the epic suggestions incorporated in
his play is long. But it is worth making, in order to show how keen is
the eye of genius. Thus the king lays aside the insignia of royalty
upon entering the grove (Act I). Shakuntala appears in hermit garb, a
dress of bark (Act I). The quaint derivation of the heroine's name
from _shakunta_--bird--is used with wonderful skill in a passage (Act
VII) which defies translation, as it involves a play on words. The
king's anxiety to discover whether the maiden's father is of a caste
that permits her to marry him is reproduced (Act I). The marriage
without a ceremony is retained (Act IV), but robbed of all offence.
Kanva's celestial vision, which made it unnecessary for his child to
tell him of her union with the king, is introduced with great delicacy
(Act IV). The curious formation of the boy's hand which indicated
imperial birth adds to the king's suspense (Act VII). The boy's rough
play with wild animals is made convincing (Act VII) and his very
nickname All-tamer is preserved (Act VII). Kanva's worldly wisdom as
to husband and wife dwelling together is reproduced (Act IV). No small
part of the give-and-take between the king and Shakuntala is given
(Act V), but with a new dignity.

Of the construction of the play I speak with diffidence. It seems

admirable to me, the apparently undue length of some scenes hardly
constituting a blemish, as it was probably intended to give the actors
considerable latitude of choice and excision. Several versions of the
text have been preserved; it is from the longer of the two more
familiar ones that the translation in this volume has been made. In
the warm discussion over this matter, certain technical arguments of
some weight have been advanced in favour of this choice; there is also
a more general consideration which seems to me of importance. I find
it hard to believe that any lesser artist could pad such a
masterpiece, and pad it all over, without making the fraud apparent on
almost every page. The briefer version, on the other hand, might
easily grow out of the longer, either as an acting text, or as a
school-book.

We cannot take leave of Shakuntala in any better way than by quoting

the passage[2] in which Lévi's imagination has conjured up "the
memorable _première_ when Shakuntala saw the light, in the presence of
Vikramaditya and his court."