Translations Of Shakuntala And Other Works Part 35

Him too the princess rejects, "not that he was unworthy of love, or she lacking in discernment, but tastes differ." She is then conducted to the King of Avanti:

And if this youthful prince your fancy pleases, Bewitching maiden, you and he may play In those unmeasured gardens that the breezes From Sipra's billows ruffle, cool with spray.

The inducement is insufficient, and a new candidate is presented, the King of Anupa,

A prince whose fathers' glories cannot fade, By whom the love of learned men is wooed, Who proves that Fortune is no fickle jade When he she chooses is not fickly good.

But alas!

She saw that he was brave to look upon, Yet could not feel his love would make her gay; Full moons of autumn nights, when clouds are gone, Tempt not the lotus-flowers that bloom by day.

The King of Shurasena has no better fortune, in spite of his virtues and his wealth. As a river hurrying to the sea pa.s.ses by a mountain that would detain her, so the princess pa.s.ses him by. She is next introduced to the king of the Kalinga country;

His palace overlooks the ocean dark With windows gazing on the unresting deep, Whose gentle thunders drown the drums that mark The hours of night, and wake him from his sleep.

But the maiden can no more feel at home with him than the G.o.ddess of fortune can with a good but unlucky man. She therefore turns her attention to the king of the Pandya country in far southern India. But she is unmoved by hearing of the magic charm of the south, and rejects him too.

And every prince rejected while she sought A husband, darkly frowned, as turrets, bright One moment with the flame from torches caught, Frown gloomily again and sink in night.

The princess then approaches Aja, who trembles lest she pa.s.s him by, as she has pa.s.sed by the other suitors. The maid who accompanies Indumati sees that Aja awakens a deeper feeling, and she therefore gives a longer account of his kingly line, ending with the recommendation:

High lineage is his, fresh beauty, youth, And virtue shaped in kingly breeding's mould; Choose him, for he is worth your love; in truth, A gem is ever fitly set in gold.

The princess looks lovingly at the handsome youth, but cannot speak for modesty. She is made to understand her own feelings when the maid invites her to pa.s.s on to the next candidate. Then the wreath is placed round Aja's neck, the people of the city shout their approval, and the disappointed suitors feel like night-blooming lotuses at daybreak.

_Seventh canto. Aja's marriage_.--While the suitors retire to the camps where they have left their retainers, Aja conducts Indumati into the decorated and festive city. The windows are filled with the faces of eager and excited women, who admire the beauty of the young prince and the wisdom of the princess's choice. When the marriage ceremony has been happily celebrated, the disappointed suitors say farewell with pleasant faces and jealous hearts, like peaceful pools concealing crocodiles. They lie in ambush on the road which he must take, and when he pa.s.ses with his young bride, they fall upon him. Aja provides for the safety of Indumati, marshals his attendants, and greatly distinguishes himself in the battle which follows. Finally he uses the magic weapon, given him by the demiG.o.d, to benumb his adversaries, and leaving them in this helpless condition, returns home. He and his young bride are joyfully welcomed by King Raghu, who resigns the kingdom in favour of Aja.

_Eighth canto. Aja's lament_.--As soon as King Aja is firmly established on his throne, Raghu retires to a hermitage to prepare for the death of his mortal part. After some years of religious meditation he is released, attaining union with the eternal spirit which is beyond all darkness. His obsequies are performed by his dutiful son.

Indumati gives birth to a splendid boy, who is named Dasharatha. One day, as the queen is playing with her husband in the garden, a wreath of magic flowers falls upon her from heaven, and she dies. The stricken king clasps the body of his dead beloved, and laments over her.

If flowers that hardly touch the body, slay it, The simplest instruments of fate may bring Destruction, and we have no power to stay it; Then must we live in fear of everything?

No! Death was right. He spared the sterner anguish; Through gentle flowers your gentle life was lost As I have seen the lotus fade and languish When smitten by the slow and silent frost.

Yet G.o.d is hard. With unforgiving rigour He forged a bolt to crush this heart of mine; He left the st.u.r.dy tree its living vigour, But stripped away and slew the clinging vine.

Through all the years, dear, you would not reprove me, Though I offended. Can you go away Sudden, without a word? I know you love me, And I have not offended you to-day.

You surely thought me faithless, to be banished As light-of-love and gambler, from your life, Because without a farewell word, you vanished And never will return, sweet-smiling wife.

The warmth and blush that followed after kisses Is still upon her face, to madden me; For life is gone, 'tis only life she misses.

A curse upon such life's uncertainty!

I never wronged you with a thought unspoken, Still less with actions. Whither are you flown?

Though king in name, I am a man heartbroken, For power and love took root in you alone.

Your bee-black hair from which the flowers are peeping, Dear, wavy hair that I have loved so well, Stirs in the wind until I think you sleeping, Soon to return and make my glad heart swell.

Awake, my love! Let only life be given, And choking griefs that stifle now, will flee As darkness from the mountain-cave is driven By magic herbs that glitter brilliantly.

The silent face, round which the curls are keeping Their scattered watch, is sad to look upon As in the night some lonely lily, sleeping When musically humming bees are gone.

The girdle that from girlhood has befriended You, in love-secrets wise, discreet, and true, No longer tinkles, now your dance is ended, Faithful in life, in dying faithful too.

Your low, sweet voice to nightingales was given; Your idly graceful movement to the swans; Your grace to fluttering vines, dear wife in heaven; Your trustful, wide-eyed glances to the fawns:

You left your charms on earth, that I, reminded By them, might be consoled though you depart; But vainly! Far from you, by sorrow blinded, I find no prop of comfort for my heart.

Remember how you planned to make a wedding, Giving the vine-bride to her mango-tree; Before that happy day, dear, you are treading The path with no return. It should not be.

And this ashoka-tree that you have tended With eager longing for the blossoms red-- How can I twine the flowers that should have blended With living curls, in garlands for the dead?

The tree remembers how the anklets, tinkling On graceful feet, delighted other years; Sad now he droops, your form with sorrow sprinkling, And sheds his blossoms in a rain of tears.

Joy's sun is down, all love is fallen and perished, The song of life is sung, the spring is dead, Gone is the use of gems that once you cherished, And empty, ever empty, is my bed.

You were my comrade gay, my home, my treasure, You were my bosom's friend, in all things true, My best-loved pupil in the arts of pleasure: Stern death took all I had in taking you.

Still am I king, and rich in kingly fas.h.i.+on, Yet lacking you, am poor the long years through; I cannot now be won to any pa.s.sion, For all my pa.s.sions centred, dear, in you.

Aja commits the body of his beloved queen to the flames. A holy hermit comes to tell the king that his wife had been a nymph of heaven in a former existence, and that she has now returned to her home. But Aja cannot be comforted. He lives eight weary years for the sake of his young son, then is reunited with his queen in Paradise.

_Ninth canto. The hunt_.--This canto introduces us to King Dasharatha, father of the heroic Rama. It begins with an elaborate description of his glory, justice, prowess, and piety; then tells of the three princesses who became his wives: Kausalya, Kaikeyi, and Sumitra. In the beautiful springtime he takes an extended hunting-trip in the forest, during which an accident happens, big with fate.

He left his soldiers far behind one day In the wood, and following where deer-tracks lay, Came with his weary horse adrip with foam To river-banks where hermits made their home.

And in the stream he heard the water fill A jar; he heard it ripple clear and shrill, And shot an arrow, thinking he had found A trumpeting elephant, toward the gurgling sound.

Such actions are forbidden to a king, Yet Dasharatha sinned and did this thing; For even the wise and learned man is minded To go astray, by selfish pa.s.sion blinded.

He heard the startling cry, "My father!" rise Among the reeds; rode up; before his eyes He saw the jar, the wounded hermit boy: Remorse transfixed his heart and killed his joy.

He left his horse, this monarch famous far, Asked him who drooped upon the water-jar His name, and from the stumbling accents knew A hermit youth, of lowly birth but true.

The arrow still undrawn, the monarch bore Him to his parents who, afflicted sore With blindness, could not see their only son Dying, and told them what his hand had done.

The murderer then obeyed their sad behest And drew the fixed arrow from his breast; The boy lay dead; the father cursed the king, With tear-stained hands, to equal suffering.

"In sorrow for your son you too shall die, An old, old man," he said, "as sad as I."

Poor, trodden snake! He used his venomous sting, Then heard the answer of the guilty king:

"Your curse is half a blessing if I see The longed-for son who shall be born to me: The scorching fire that sweeps the well-ploughed field, May burn indeed, but stimulates the yield.

The deed is done; what kindly act can I Perform who, pitiless, deserve to die?"

"Bring wood," he begged, "and build a funeral pyre, That we may seek our son through death by fire."