ACT V.--It now appears that Queen Dharini has relented and is willing

to unite Malavika with the king; for she invites him to meet her under

the ashoka-tree, and includes Malavika among her attendants. Word is

brought that the army despatched against the king of Vidarbha has been

completely successful, and that in the spoil are included two maids

with remarkable powers of song. These maids are brought before the

company gathered at the tree, where they surprise every one by falling

on their faces before Malavika with the exclamation, "Our princess!"

Here the Buddhist nun takes up the tale. She tells how her brother,

the counsellor of the captive prince, had rescued her and Malavika

from the king of Vidarbha, and had started for Agnimitra's court.

On the way they had been overpowered by robbers, her brother killed,

and she herself separated from Malavika. She had thereupon become a

nun and made her way to Agnimitra's court, and had there found

Malavika, who had been taken from the robbers by Agnimitra's general

and sent as a present to Queen Dharini. She had not divulged the

matter sooner, because of a prophecy that Malavika should be a servant

for just one year before becoming a king's bride. This recital removes

any possible objection to a union of Malavika and Agnimitra. To

complete the king's happiness, there comes a letter announcing that

his son by Dharini has won a victory over a force of Greek cavalry,

and inviting the court to be present at the sacrifice which was to

follow the victory. Thus every one is made happy except the jealous

young Queen Iravati, now to be supplanted by Malavika; yet even she

consents, though somewhat ungraciously, to the arrangements made.

Criticism of the large outlines of this plot would be quite unjust,

for it is completely conventional. In dozens of plays we have the same

story: the king who falls in love with a maid-servant, the jealousy of

his harem, the eventual discovery that the maid is of royal birth, and

the addition of another wife to a number already sufficiently large.

In writing a play of this kind, the poet frankly accepts the

conventions; his ingenuity is shown in the minor incidents, in stanzas

of poetical description, and in giving abundant opportunity for

graceful music and dancing. When the play is approached in this way,

it is easy to see the _griffe du lion_ in this, the earliest work of

the greatest poet who ever sang repeatedly of love between man and

woman, troubled for a time but eventually happy. For though there is

in Agnimitra, as in all heroes of his type, something contemptible,

there is in Malavika a sweetness, a delicacy, a purity, that make her

no unworthy precursor of Sita, of Indumati, of the Yaksha's bride, and

of Shakuntala.

* * * * *

II.--"URVASHI"

The second of the two inferior dramas may be conveniently called

_Urvashi_, though the full title is _The Tale of Urvashi won by

Valour_. When and where the play was first produced we do not know,

for the prologue is silent as to these matters. It has been thought

that it was the last work of Kalidasa, even that it was never produced

in his lifetime. Some support is lent to this theory by the fact that

the play is filled with reminiscences of Shakuntala, in small matters

as well as in great; as if the poet's imagination had grown weary, and

he were willing to repeat himself. Yet _Urvashi_ is a much more

ambitious effort than _Malavika_, and invites a fuller criticism,

after an outline of the plot has been given.

In addition to the stage-director and his assistant, who appear in the

prologue, the characters of the play are these:

PURURAVAS, _king in Pratishthana on the Ganges_.

AYUS, _his son_.

MANAVAKA, _a clown, his friend_.

URVASHI, _a heavenly nymph_.

CHITRALEKHA, _another nymph, her friend_.

AUSHINARI, _queen of Pururavas_.

NIPUNIKA, _her maid_.

_A charioteer, a chamberlain, a hermit-woman, various nymphs and other

divine beings, and attendants_.

The scene shifts as indicated in the following analysis. The time of

the first four acts is a few days. Between acts four and five several

years elapse.

ACT I.--The prologue only tells us that we may expect a new play of

Kalidasa. A company of heavenly nymphs then appear upon Mount

Gold-peak wailing and calling for help. Their cries are answered by

King Pururavas, who rides in a chariot that flies through the air. In

response to his inquiries, the nymphs inform him that two of their

number, Urvashi and Chitralekha, have been carried into captivity by a

demon. The king darts in pursuit, and presently returns, victorious,

with the two nymphs. As soon as Urvashi recovers consciousness, and

has rejoined her joyful friends, it is made plain that she and the

king have been deeply impressed with each other's attractions. The

king is compelled to decline an invitation to visit Paradise, but he

and Urvashi exchange loving glances before they part.

ACT II.--The act opens with a comic scene in the king's palace. The

clown appears, bursting with the secret of the king's love for

Urvashi, which has been confided to him. He is joined by the maid

Nipunika, commissioned by the queen to discover what it is that

occupies the king's mind. She discovers the secret ingeniously, but

without much difficulty, and gleefully departs.

The king and the clown then appear in the garden, and the king

expresses at some length the depth and seeming hopelessness of his

passion. The latter part of his lament is overheard by Urvashi

herself, who, impelled by love for the king, has come down to earth

with her friend Chitralekha, and now stands near, listening but

invisible. When she has heard enough to satisfy her of the king's

passion, she writes a love-stanza on a birch-leaf, and lets it fall

before him. His reception of this token is such that Urvashi throws

aside the magic veil that renders her invisible, but as soon as she

has greeted the king, she and her friend are called away to take their

parts in a play that is being presented in Paradise.

The king and the clown hunt for Urvashi's love-letter, which has been

neglected during the past few minutes. But the leaf has blown away,

only to be picked up and read by Nipunika, who at that moment enters

with the queen. The queen can hardly be deceived by the lame excuses

which the king makes, and after offering her ironical congratulations,

jealously leaves him.

ACT III.--The act opens with a conversation between two minor

personages in Paradise. It appears that Urvashi had taken the

heroine's part in the drama just presented there, and when asked, "On

whom is your heart set?" had absentmindedly replied, "On Pururavas."

Heaven's stage-director had thereupon cursed her to fall from

Paradise, but this curse had been thus modified: that she was to live

on earth with Pururavas until he should see a child born of her, and

was then to return.

The scene shifts to Pururavas' palace. In the early evening, the

chamberlain brings the king a message, inviting him to meet the queen

on a balcony bathed in the light of the rising moon. The king betakes

himself thither with his friend, the clown. In the midst of a dialogue

concerning moonlight and love, Urvashi and Chitralekha enter from

Paradise, wearing as before veils of invisibility. Presently the queen

appears and with humble dignity asks pardon of the king for her

rudeness, adding that she will welcome any new queen whom he genuinely

loves and who genuinely returns his love. When the queen departs,

Urvashi creeps up behind the king and puts her hands over his eyes.

Chitralekha departs after begging the king to make her friend forget

Paradise.

ACT IV.--From a short dialogue in Paradise between Chitralekha and

another nymph, we learn that a misfortune has befallen Pururavas and

Urvashi. During their honeymoon in a delightful Himalayan forest,

Urvashi, in a fit of jealousy, had left her husband, and had

inadvertently entered a grove forbidden by an austere god to women.

She was straightway transformed into a vine, while Pururavas is

wandering through the forest in desolate anguish.

The scene of what follows is laid in the Himalayan forest. Pururavas

enters, and in a long poetical soliloquy bewails his loss and seeks

for traces of Urvashi. He vainly asks help of the creatures whom he

meets: a peacock, a cuckoo, a swan, a ruddy goose, a bee, an elephant,

a mountain-echo, a river, and an antelope. At last he finds a

brilliant ruby in a cleft of the rocks, and when about to throw it

away, is told by a hermit to preserve it: for this is the gem of

reunion, and one who possesses it will soon be reunited with his love.

With the gem in his hand, Pururavas comes to a vine which mysteriously

reminds him of Urvashi, and when he embraces it, he finds his beloved

in his arms. After she has explained to him the reason of her

transformation, they determine to return to the king's capital.

ACT V.--The scene of the concluding act is the king's palace. Several

years have passed in happy love, and Pururavas has only one

sorrow--that he is childless.

One day a vulture snatches from a maid's hand the treasured gem of

reunion, which he takes to be a bit of bloody meat, and flies off with

it, escaping before he can be killed. While the king and his

companions lament the gem's loss, the chamberlain enters, bringing the

gem and an arrow with which the bird had been shot. On the arrow is

written a verse declaring it to be the property of Ayus, son of

Pururavas and Urvashi. A hermit-woman is then ushered in, who brings a

lad with her. She explains that the lad had been entrusted to her as

soon as born by Urvashi, and that it was he who had just shot the bird

and recovered the gem. When Urvashi is summoned to explain why she had

concealed her child, she reminds the king of heaven's decree that she

should return as soon as Pururavas should see the child to be born to

them. She had therefore sacrificed maternal love to conjugal

affection. Upon this, the king's new-found joy gives way to gloom. He

determines to give up his kingdom and spend the remainder of his life

as a hermit in the forest. But the situation is saved by a messenger

from Paradise, bearing heaven's decree that Urvashi shall live with

the king until his death. A troop of nymphs then enter and assist in

the solemn consecration of Ayus as crown prince.

The tale of Pururavas and Urvashi, which Kalidasa has treated

dramatically, is first made known to us in the Rigveda. It is thus one

of the few tales that so caught the Hindu imagination as to survive

the profound change which came over Indian thinking in the passage

from Vedic to classical times. As might be expected from its history,

it is told in many widely differing forms, of which the oldest and

best may be summarised thus.

Pururavas, a mortal, sees and loves the nymph Urvashi. She consents to

live with him on earth so long as he shall not break certain trivial

conditions. Some time after the birth of a son, these conditions are

broken, through no fault of the man, and she leaves him. He wanders

disconsolate, finds her, and pleads with her, by her duty as a wife,

by her love for her child, even by a threat of suicide. She rejects

his entreaties, declaring that there can be no lasting love between

mortal and immortal, even adding: "There are no friendships with

women. Their hearts are the hearts of hyenas." Though at last she

comforts him with vague hopes of a future happiness, the story

remains, as indeed it must remain, a tragedy--the tragedy of love

between human and divine.

This splendid tragic story Kalidasa has ruined. He has made of it an

ordinary tale of domestic intrigue, has changed the nymph of heaven

into a member of an earthly harem. The more important changes made by

Kalidasa in the traditional story, all have the tendency to remove the

massive, godlike, austere features of the tale, and to substitute

something graceful or even pretty. These principal changes are: the

introduction of the queen, the clown, and the whole human

paraphernalia of a court; the curse pronounced on Urvashi for her

carelessness in the heavenly drama, and its modification; the

invention of the gem of reunion; and the final removal of the curse,

even as modified. It is true that the Indian theatre permits no

tragedy, and we may well believe that no successor of Kalidasa could

hope to present a tragedy on the stage. But might not Kalidasa, far

overtopping his predecessors, have put on the stage a drama the story

of which was already familiar to his audience as a tragic story?

Perhaps not. If not, one can but wish that he had chosen another

subject.

This violent twisting of an essentially tragic story has had a further

ill consequence in weakening the individual characters. Pururavas is a

mere conventional hero, in no way different from fifty others, in

spite of his divine lineage and his successful wooing of a goddess.

Urvashi is too much of a nymph to be a woman, and too much of a woman

to be a nymph. The other characters are mere types.

Yet, in spite of these obvious objections, Hindu critical opinion has

always rated the _Urvashi_ very high, and I have long hesitated to

make adverse comments upon it, for it is surely true that every nation

is the best judge of its own literature. And indeed, if one could but

forget plot and characters, he would find in _Urvashi_ much to attract

and charm. There is no lack of humour in the clever maid who worms the

clown's secret out of him. There is no lack of a certain shrewdness in

the clown, as when he observes:

"Who wants heaven? It is nothing to eat or drink. It is just a place

where they never shut their eyes--like fishes!"

Again, the play offers an opportunity for charming scenic display. The

terrified nymphs gathered on the mountain, the palace balcony bathed

in moonlight, the forest through which the king wanders in search of

his lost darling, the concluding solemn consecration of the crown

prince by heavenly beings--these scenes show that Kalidasa was no

closet dramatist. And finally, there is here and there such poetry as

only Kalidasa could write. The fourth act particularly, undramatic as

it is, is full of a delicate beauty that defies transcription. It was

a new and daring thought--to present on the stage a long lyrical

monologue addressed to the creatures of the forest and inspired by

despairing passion. Nor must it be forgotten that this play, like all

Indian plays, is an opera. The music and the dancing are lost. We

judge it perforce unfairly, for we judge it by the text alone. If, in

spite of all, the _Urvashi_ is a failure, it is a failure possible

only to a serene and mighty poet.

* * * * *

THE DYNASTY OF RAGHU

_The Dynasty of Raghu_ is an epic poem in nineteen cantos. It consists

of 1564 stanzas, or something over six thousand lines of verse. The

subject is that great line of kings who traced their origin to the

sun, the famous "solar line" of Indian story. The bright particular

star of the solar line is Rama, the knight without fear and without

reproach, the Indian ideal of a gentleman. His story had been told

long before Kalidasa's time in the _Ramayana_, an epic which does not

need to shun comparison with the foremost epic poems of Europe. In

_The Dynasty of Raghu_, too, Rama is the central figure; yet in

Kalidasa's poem there is much detail concerning other princes of the

line. The poem thus naturally falls into three great parts: first, the

four immediate ancestors of Rama (cantos 1-9); second, Rama (cantos

10-15); third, certain descendants of Rama (cantos 16-19). A somewhat

detailed account of the matter of the poem may well precede criticism

and comment.

_First canto. The journey to the hermitage_.--The poem begins with the

customary brief prayer for Shiva's favour:

God Shiva and his mountain bride,

Like word and meaning unified,

The world's great parents, I beseech

To join fit meaning to my speech.

Then follow nine stanzas in which Kalidasa speaks more directly of

himself than elsewhere in his works:

How great is Raghu's solar line!

How feebly small are powers of mine!

As if upon the ocean's swell

I launched a puny cockle-shell.

The fool who seeks a poet's fame

Must look for ridicule and blame,

Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would try

To pluck the fruit for giants high.

Yet I may enter through the door

That mightier poets pierced of yore;

A thread may pierce a jewel, but

Must follow where the diamond cut.

Of kings who lived as saints from birth,

Who ruled to ocean-shore on earth,

Who toiled until success was given,

Whose chariots stormed the gates of heaven,

Whose pious offerings were blest,

Who gave his wish to every guest,

Whose punishments were as the crimes,

Who woke to guard the world betimes,

Who sought, that they might lavish, pelf,

Whose measured speech was truth itself,

Who fought victorious wars for fame,

Who loved in wives the mother's name,

Who studied all good arts as boys,

Who loved, in manhood, manhood's joys,

Whose age was free from worldly care,

Who breathed their lives away in prayer,

Of these I sing, of Raghu's line,

Though weak mine art, and wisdom mine.

Forgive these idle stammerings

And think: For virtue's sake he sings.

The good who hear me will be glad

To pluck the good from out the bad;

When ore is proved by fire, the loss

Is not of purest gold, but dross.

After the briefest glance at the origin of the solar line, the poet

tells of Rama's great-great-grandfather, King Dilipa. The detailed

description of Dilipa's virtues has interest as showing Kalidasa's

ideal of an aristocrat; a brief sample must suffice here:

He practised virtue, though in health;

Won riches, with no greed for wealth;

Guarded his life, though not from fear;

Prized joys of earth, but not too dear.

His virtuous foes he could esteem

Like bitter drugs that healing seem;

The friends who sinned he could forsake

Like fingers bitten by a snake.

Yet King Dilipa has one deep-seated grief: he has no son. He therefore

journeys with his queen to the hermitage of the sage Vasishtha, in

order to learn what they must do to propitiate an offended fate. Their

chariot rolls over country roads past fragrant lotus-ponds and

screaming peacocks and trustful deer, under archways formed without

supporting pillars by the cranes, through villages where they receive

the blessings of the people. At sunset they reach the peaceful forest

hermitage, and are welcomed by the sage. In response to Vasishtha's

benevolent inquiries, the king declares that all goes well in the

kingdom, and yet:

Until from this dear wife there springs

A son as great as former kings,

The seven islands of the earth

And all their gems, are nothing worth.

The final debt, most holy one,

Which still I owe to life--a son--

Galls me as galls the cutting chain

An elephant housed in dirt and pain.

Vasishtha tells the king that on a former occasion he had offended the

divine cow Fragrant, and had been cursed by the cow to lack children

until he had propitiated her own offspring. While the sage is

speaking, Fragrant's daughter approaches, and is entrusted to the care

of the king and queen.

_Second canto. The holy cow's gift_.--During twenty-one days the king

accompanies the cow during her wanderings in the forest, and each

night the queen welcomes their return to the hermitage. On the

twenty-second day the cow is attacked by a lion, and when the king

hastens to draw an arrow, his arm is magically numbed, so that he

stands helpless. To increase his horror, the lion speaks with a human

voice, saying that he is a servant of the god Shiva, set on guard

there and eating as his appointed food any animals that may appear.

Dilipa perceives that a struggle with earthly weapons is useless, and

begs the lion to accept his own body as the price of the cow's

release. The lion tries sophistry, using the old, hollow arguments:

Great beauty and fresh youth are yours; on earth

As sole, unrivalled emperor you rule;

Should you redeem a thing of little worth

At such a price, you would appear a fool.

If pity moves you, think that one mere cow

Would be the gainer, should you choose to die;

Live rather for the world! Remember how

The father-king can bid all dangers fly.

And if the fiery sage's wrath, aglow

At loss of one sole cow, should make you shudder,

Appease his anger; for you can bestow

Cows by the million, each with pot-like udder.

Save life and youth; for to the dead are given

No long, unbroken years of joyous mirth;

But riches and imperial power are heaven--

The gods have nothing that you lack on earth.

The lion spoke and ceased; but echo rolled

Forth from the caves wherein the sound was pent,

As if the hills applauded manifold,

Repeating once again the argument.

Dilipa has no trouble in piercing this sophistical argument, and again

offers his own life, begging the lion to spare the body of his fame

rather than the body of his flesh. The lion consents, but when the

king resolutely presents himself to be eaten, the illusion vanishes,

and the holy cow grants the king his desire. The king returns to his

capital with the queen, who shortly becomes pregnant.

_Third canto. Raghu's consecration_.--The queen gives birth to a

glorious boy, whom the joyful father names Raghu. There follows a

description of the happy family, of which a few stanzas are given

here:

The king drank pleasure from him late and soon

With eyes that stared like windless lotus-flowers;

Unselfish joy expanded all his powers

As swells the sea responsive to the moon.

The rooted love that filled each parent's soul

For the other, deep as bird's love for the mate,

Was now divided with the boy; and straight

The remaining half proved greater than the whole.

He learned the reverence that befits a boy;

Following the nurse's words, began to talk;

And clinging to her finger, learned to walk:

These childish lessons stretched his father's joy,

Who clasped the baby to his breast, and thrilled

To feel the nectar-touch upon his skin,

Half closed his eyes, the father's bliss to win

Which, more for long delay, his being filled.

The baby hair must needs be clipped; yet he

Retained two dangling locks, his cheeks to fret;

And down the river of the alphabet

He swam, with other boys, to learning's sea.

Religion's rites, and what good learning suits

A prince, he had from teachers old and wise;

Not theirs the pain of barren enterprise,

For effort spent on good material, fruits.

This happy childhood is followed by a youth equally happy. Raghu is

married and made crown prince. He is entrusted with the care of the

horse of sacrifice,[1] and when Indra, king of the gods, steals the

horse, Raghu fights him. He cannot overcome the king of heaven, yet he

acquits himself so creditably that he wins Indra's friendship. In

consequence of this proof of his manhood, the empire is bestowed upon

Raghu by his father, who retires with his queen to the forest, to

spend his last days and prepare for death.

_Fourth canto. Raghu conquers the world_.--The canto opens with

several stanzas descriptive of the glory of youthful King Raghu.

He manifested royal worth

By even justice toward the earth,

Beloved as is the southern breeze,

Too cool to burn, too warm to freeze.

The people loved his father, yet

For greater virtues could forget;

The beauty of the blossoms fair

Is lost when mango-fruits are there.

But the vassal kings are restless

For when they knew the king was gone

And power was wielded by his son,

The wrath of subject kings awoke,

Which had been damped in sullen smoke.

Raghu therefore determines to make a warlike progress through all

India. He marches eastward with his army from his capital Ayodhya (the

name is preserved in the modern Oudh) to the Bay of Bengal, then south

along the eastern shore of India to Cape Comorin, then north along the

western shore until he comes to the region drained by the Indus,

finally east through the tremendous Himalaya range into Assam, and

thence home. The various nations whom he encounters, Hindus, Persians,

Greeks, and White Huns, all submit either with or without fighting. On

his safe return, Raghu offers a great sacrifice and gives away all his

wealth.[2]

_Fifth canto. Aja goes wooing_.--While King Raghu is penniless, a

young sage comes to him, desiring a huge sum of money to give to the

teacher with whom he has just finished his education. The king,

unwilling that any suppliant should go away unsatisfied, prepares to

assail the god of wealth in his Himalayan stronghold, and the god,

rather than risk the combat, sends a rain of gold into the king's

treasury. This gold King Raghu bestows upon the sage, who gratefully

uses his spiritual power to cause a son to be born to his benefactor.

In course of time, the son is born and the name Aja is given to him.

We are here introduced to Prince Aja, who is a kind of secondary hero

in the poem, inferior only to his mighty grandson, Rama. To Aja are

devoted the remainder of this fifth canto and the following three

cantos; and these Aja-cantos are among the loveliest in the epic. When

the prince has grown into young manhood, he journeys to a neighbouring

court to participate in the marriage reception of Princess

Indumati.[3]

One evening he camps by a river, from which a wild elephant issues and

attacks his party. When wounded by Aja, the elephant strangely changes

his form, becoming a demigod, gives the prince a magic weapon, and

departs to heaven. Aja proceeds without further adventure to the

country and the palace of Princess Indumati, where he is made welcome

and luxuriously lodged for the night. In the morning, he is awakened

by the song of the court poets outside his chamber. He rises and

betakes himself to the hall where the suitors are gathering.

_Sixth canto. The princess chooses_.--The princely suitors assemble in

the hall; then, to the sound of music, the princess enters in a

litter, robed as a bride, and creates a profound sensation.

For when they saw God's masterpiece, the maid

Who smote their eyes to other objects blind,

Their glances, wishes, hearts, in homage paid,

Flew forth to her; mere flesh remained behind.

The princes could not but betray their yearning

By sending messengers, their love to bring,

In many a quick, involuntary turning,

As flowering twigs of trees announce the spring.

Then a maid-servant conducts the princess from one suitor to another,

and explains the claim which each has upon her affection. First is

presented the King of Magadha, recommended in four stanzas, one of

which runs:

Though other kings by thousands numbered be,

He seems the one, sole governor of earth;

Stars, constellations, planets, fade and flee

When to the moon the night has given birth.

But the princess is not attracted.

The slender maiden glanced at him; she glanced

And uttered not a word, nor heeded how

The grass-twined blossoms of her garland danced

When she dismissed him with a formal bow.

They pass to the next candidate, the king of the Anga country, in

whose behalf this, and more, is said:

Learning and wealth by nature are at strife,

Yet dwell at peace in him; and for the two

You would be fit companion as his wife,

Like wealth enticing, and like learning true.

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 passes by a mountain

that would detain her, so the princess passes 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 goddess 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 pass him by,

as she has passed 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 pass 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 passes 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 demigod, 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 God is hard. With unforgiving rigour

He forged a bolt to crush this heart of mine;

He left the sturdy 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 fashion,

Yet lacking you, am poor the long years through;

I cannot now be won to any passion,

For all my passions 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 passion 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 fixèd 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."

The king fulfilled their wish; and while they burned,

In mute, sin-stricken sorrow he returned,

Hiding death's seed within him, as the sea

Hides magic fire that burns eternally.

Thus is foreshadowed in the birth of Rama, his banishment, and the

death of his father.

Cantos ten to fifteen form the kernel of the epic, for they tell the

story of Rama, the mighty hero of Raghu's line. In these cantos

Kalidasa attempts to present anew, with all the literary devices of a

more sophisticated age, the famous old epic story sung in masterly

fashion by the author of the _Ramayana_. As the poet is treading

ground familiar to all who hear him, the action of these cantos is

very compressed.

_Tenth canto. The incarnation of Rama_.--While Dasharatha, desiring a

son, is childless, the gods, oppressed by a giant adversary, betake

themselves to Vishnu, seeking aid. They sing a hymn of praise, a part

of which is given here.

O thou who didst create this All,

Who dost preserve it, lest it fall,

Who wilt destroy it and its ways--

To thee, O triune Lord, be praise.

As into heaven's water run

The tastes of earth--yet it is one,

So thou art all the things that range

The universe, yet dost not change.

Far, far removed, yet ever near;

Untouched by passion, yet austere;

Sinless, yet pitiful of heart;

Ancient, yet free from age--Thou art.

Though uncreate, thou seekest birth;

Dreaming, thou watchest heaven and earth;

Passionless, smitest low thy foes;

Who knows thy nature, Lord? Who knows?

Though many different paths, O Lord,

May lead us to some great reward,

They gather and are merged in thee

Like floods of Ganges in the sea.

The saints who give thee every thought,

Whose every act for thee is wrought,

Yearn for thine everlasting peace,

For bliss with thee, that cannot cease.

Like pearls that grow in ocean's night,

Like sunbeams radiantly bright,

Thy strange and wonder-working ways

Defeat extravagance of praise.

If songs that to thy glory tend

Should weary grow or take an end,

Our impotence must bear the blame,

And not thine unexhausted name.

Vishnu is gratified by the praise of the gods, and asks their desire.

They inform him that they are distressed by Ravana, the giant king of

Lanka (Ceylon), whom they cannot conquer. Vishnu promises to aid them

by descending to earth in a new avatar, as son of Dasharatha. Shortly

afterwards, an angel appears before King Dasharatha, bringing in a

golden bowl a substance which contains the essence of Vishnu. The king

gives it to his three wives, who thereupon conceive and dream

wonderful dreams. Then Queen Kausalya gives birth to Rama; Queen

Kaikeyi to Bharata; Queen Sumitra to twins, Lakshmana and Shatrughna.

Heaven and earth rejoice. The four princes grow up in mutual

friendship, yet Rama and Lakshmana are peculiarly drawn to each other,

as are Bharata and Shatrughna. So beautiful and so modest are the four

boys that they seem like incarnations of the four things worth living

for--virtue, money, love, and salvation.

_Eleventh canto. The victory over Rama-with-the-axe_.--At the request

of the holy hermit Vishvamitra, the two youths Rama and Lakshmana

visit his hermitage, to protect it from evil spirits. The two lads

little suspect, on their maiden journey, how much of their lives will

be spent in wandering together in the forest. On the way they are

attacked by a giantess, whom Rama kills; the first of many giants who

are to fall at his hand. He is given magic weapons by the hermit, with

which he and his brother kill other giants, freeing the hermitage from

all annoyance. The two brothers then travel with the hermit to the

city of Mithila, attracted thither by hearing of its king, his

wonderful daughter, and his wonderful bow. The bow was given him by

the god Shiva; no man has been able to bend it; and the beautiful

princess's hand is the prize of any man who can perform the feat. On

the way thither, Rama brings to life Ahalya, a woman who in a former

age had been changed to stone for unfaithfulness to her austere

husband, and had been condemned to remain a stone until trodden by

Rama's foot. Without further adventure, they reach Mithila, where the

hermit presents Rama as a candidate for the bending of the bow.

The king beheld the boy, with beauty blest

And famous lineage; he sadly thought

How hard it was to bend the bow, distressed

Because his child must be so dearly bought.

He said: "O holy one, a mighty deed

That full-grown elephants with greatest pain

Could hardly be successful in, we need

Not ask of elephant-cubs. It would be vain.

For many splendid kings of valorous name,

Bearing the scars of many a hard-fought day,

Have tried and failed; then, covered with their shame,

Have shrugged their shoulders, cursed, and strode away."

Yet when the bow is given to the youthful Rama, he not only bends, but

breaks it. He is immediately rewarded with the hand of the Princess

Sita, while Lakshmana marries her sister. On their journey home with

their young brides, dreadful portents appear, followed by their cause,

a strange being called Rama-with-the-axe, who is carefully to be

distinguished from Prince Rama. This Rama-with-the-axe is a Brahman

who has sworn to exterminate the entire warrior caste, and who

naturally attacks the valorous prince. He makes light of Rama's

achievement in breaking Shiva's bow, and challenges him to bend the

mightier bow which he carries. This the prince succeeds in doing, and

Rama-with-the-axe disappears, shamed and defeated. The marriage party

then continues its journey to Ayodhya.

_Twelfth canto. The killing of Ravana_.--King Dasharatha prepares to

anoint Rama crown prince, when Queen Kaikeyi interposes. On an earlier

occasion she had rendered the king a service and received his promise

that he would grant her two boons, whatever she desired. She now

demands her two boons: the banishment of Rama for fourteen years, and

the anointing of her own son Bharata as crown prince. Rama thereupon

sets out for the Dandaka forest in Southern India, accompanied by his

faithful wife Sita and his devoted brother Lakshmana. The stricken

father dies of grief, thus fulfilling the hermit's curse. Now Prince

Bharata proves himself more generous than his mother; he refuses the

kingdom, and is with great difficulty persuaded by Rama himself to act

as regent during the fourteen years. Even so, he refuses to enter the

capital city, dwelling in a village outside the walls, and preserving

Rama's slippers as a symbol of the rightful king. Meanwhile Rama's

little party penetrates the wild forests of the south, fighting as

need arises with the giants there. Unfortunately, a giantess falls in

love with Rama, and

In Sita's very presence told

Her birth--love made her overbold:

For mighty passion, as a rule,

Will change a woman to a fool.

Scorned by Rama, laughed at by Sita, she becomes furious and

threatening.

Laugh on! Your laughter's fruit shall be

Commended to you. Gaze on me!

I am a tigress, you shall know,

Insulted by a feeble doe.

Lakshmana thereupon cuts off her nose and ears, rendering her

redundantly hideous. She departs, to return presently at the head of

an army of giants, whom Rama defeats single-handed, while his brother

guards Sita. The giantess then betakes herself to her brother, the

terrible ten-headed Ravana, king of Ceylon. He succeeds in capturing

Sita by a trick, and carries her off to his fortress in Ceylon. It is

plainly necessary for Rama to seek allies before attempting to cross

the straits and attack the stronghold. He therefore renders an

important service to the monkey king Sugriva, who gratefully leads an

army of monkeys to his assistance. The most valiant of these, Hanumat,

succeeds in entering Ravana's capital, where he finds Sita, gives her

a token from Rama, and receives a token for Rama. The army thereupon

sets out and comes to the seashore, where it is reinforced by the

giant Vibhishana, who has deserted his wicked brother Ravana. The

monkeys hurl great boulders into the strait, thus forming a bridge

over which they cross into Ceylon and besiege Ravana's capital. There

ensue many battles between the giants and the monkeys, culminating in

a tremendous duel between the champions, Rama and Ravana. In this duel

Ravana is finally slain. Rama recovers his wife, and the principal

personages of the army enter the flying chariot which had belonged to

Ravana, to return to Ayodhya; for the fourteen years of exile are now

over.

_Thirteenth canto. The return from the forest_.--This canto describes

the long journey through the air from Ceylon over the whole length of

India to Ayodhya. As the celestial car makes its journey, Rama points

out the objects of interest or of memory to Sita. Thus, as they fly

over the sea:

The form of ocean, infinitely changing,

Clasping the world and all its gorgeous state,

Unfathomed by the intellect's wide ranging,

Is awful like the form of God, and great.

He gives his billowy lips to many a river

That into his embrace with passion slips,

Lover of many wives, a generous giver

Of kisses, yet demanding eager lips.

Look back, my darling, with your fawn-like glances

Upon the path that from your prison leads;

See how the sight of land again entrances,

How fair the forest, as the sea recedes.

Then, as they pass over the spot where Rama searched for his stolen

wife:

There is the spot where, sorrowfully searching,

I found an anklet on the ground one day;

It could not tinkle, for it was not perching

On your dear foot, but sad and silent lay.

I learned where you were carried by the giant

From vines that showed themselves compassionate;

They could not utter words, yet with their pliant

Branches they pointed where you passed of late.

The deer were kind; for while the juicy grasses

Fell quite unheeded from each careless mouth,

They turned wide eyes that said, "'Tis there she passes

The hours as weary captive" toward the south.

There is the mountain where the peacocks' screaming,

And branches smitten fragrant by the rain,

And madder-flowers that woke at last from dreaming,

Made unendurable my lonely pain;

And mountain-caves where I could scarce dissemble

The woe I felt when thunder crashed anew,

For I remembered how you used to tremble

At thunder, seeking arms that longed for you.

Rama then points out the spots in Southern India where he and Sita had

dwelt in exile, and the pious hermitages which they had visited;

later, the holy spot where the Jumna River joins the Ganges; finally,

their distant home, unseen for fourteen years, and the well-known

river, from which spray-laden breezes come to them like cool,

welcoming hands. When they draw near, Prince Bharata comes forth to

welcome them, and the happy procession approaches the capital city.

_Fourteenth canto. Sita is put away_.--The exiles are welcomed by

Queen Kausalya and Queen Sumitra with a joy tinged with deep

melancholy. After the long-deferred anointing of Rama as king, comes

the triumphal entry into the ancestral capital, where Rama begins his

virtuous reign with his beloved queen most happily; for the very

hardships endured in the forest turn into pleasures when remembered in

the palace. To crown the king's joy, Sita becomes pregnant, and

expresses a wish to visit the forest again. At this point, where an

ordinary story would end, comes the great tragedy, the tremendous test

of Rama's character. The people begin to murmur about the queen,

believing that she could not have preserved her purity in the giant's

palace. Rama knows that she is innocent, but he also knows that he

cannot be a good king while the people feel as they do; and after a

pitiful struggle, he decides to put away his beloved wife. He bids his

brother Lakshmana take her to the forest, in accordance with her

request, but to leave her there at the hermitage of the sage Valmiki.

When this is done, and Sita hears the terrible future from Lakshmana,

she cries:

Take reverent greeting to the queens, my mothers,

And say to each with honour due her worth:

"My child is your son's child, and not another's;

Oh, pray for him, before he comes to birth."

And tell the king from me: "You saw the matter,

How I was guiltless proved in fire divine;

Will you desert me for mere idle chatter?

Are such things done in Raghu's royal line?

Ah no! I cannot think you fickle-minded,

For you were always very kind to me;

Fate's thunderclap by which my eyes are blinded

Rewards my old, forgotten sins, I see.

Oh, I could curse my life and quickly end it,

For it is useless, lived from you apart,

But that I bear within, and must defend it,

Your life, your child and mine, beneath my heart.

When he is born, I'll scorn my queenly station,

Gaze on the sun, and live a hell on earth,

That I may know no pain of separation

From you, my husband, in another birth.

My king! Eternal duty bids you never

Forget a hermit who for sorrow faints;

Though I am exiled from your bed for ever,

I claim the care you owe to all the saints."

So she accepts her fate with meek courage. But

When Rama's brother left her there to languish

And bore to them she loved her final word,

She loosed her throat in an excess of anguish

And screamed as madly as a frightened bird.

Trees shed their flowers, the peacock-dances ended,

The grasses dropped from mouths of feeding deer,

As if the universal forest blended

Its tears with hers, and shared her woeful fear.

While she laments thus piteously, she is discovered by the poet-sage

Valmiki, who consoles her with tender and beautiful words, and

conducts her to his hermitage, where she awaits the time of her

confinement. Meanwhile Rama leads a dreary life, finding duty but a

cold comforter. He makes a golden statue of his wife, and will not

look at other women.

_Fifteenth canto. Rama goes to heaven_.--The canto opens with a rather

long description of a fight between Rama's youngest brother and a

giant. On the journey to meet the giant, Shatrughna spends a night in

Valmiki's hermitage, and that very night Sita gives birth to twin

sons. Valmiki gives them the names Kusha and Lava, and when they grow

out of childhood he teaches them his own composition, the _Ramayana_,

"the sweet story of Rama," "the first path shown to poets." At this

time the young son of a Brahman dies in the capital, and the father

laments at the king's gate, for he believes that the king is unworthy,

else heaven would not send death prematurely. Rama is roused to stamp

out evil-doing in the kingdom, whereupon the dead boy comes to life.

The king then feels that his task on earth is nearly done, and

prepares to celebrate the great horse-sacrifice.[4]

At this sacrifice appear the two youths Kusha and Lava, who sing the

epic of Rama's deeds in the presence of Rama himself. The father

perceives their likeness to himself, then learns that they are indeed

his children, whom he has never seen. Thereupon Sita is brought

forward by the poet-sage Valmiki and in the presence of her husband

and her detractors establishes her constant purity in a terrible

fashion.

"If I am faithful to my lord

In thought, in action, and in word,

I pray that Earth who bears us all

May bid me in her bosom fall."

The faithful wife no sooner spoke

Than earth divided, and there broke

From deep within a flashing light

That flamed like lightning, blinding-bright.

And, seated on a splendid throne

Upheld by serpents' hoods alone,

The goddess Earth rose visibly,

And she was girded with the sea.

Sita was clasped in her embrace,

While still she gazed on Rama's face:

He cried aloud in wild despair;

She sank, and left him standing there.

Rama then establishes his brothers, sons, and nephews in different

cities of the kingdom, buries the three queens of his father, and

awaits death. He has not long to wait; Death comes, wearing a hermit's

garb, asks for a private interview, and threatens any who shall

disturb their conference. Lakshmana disturbs them, and so dies before

Rama. Then Rama is translated.

Cantos sixteen to nineteen form the third division of the epic, and

treat of Rama's descendants. The interest wanes, for the great hero is

gone.

_Sixteenth canto. Kumudvati's wedding_.--As Kusha lies awake one

night, a female figure appears in his chamber; and in answer to his

question, declares that she is the presiding goddess of the ancient

capital Ayodhya, which has been deserted since Rama's departure to

heaven. She pictures the sad state of the city thus:

I have no king; my towers and terraces

Crumble and fall; my walls are overthrown;

As when the ugly winds of evening seize

The rack of clouds in helpless darkness blown.

In streets where maidens gaily passed at night,

Where once was known the tinkle and the shine

Of anklets, jackals slink, and by the light

Of flashing fangs, seek carrion, snarl, and whine.

The water of the pools that used to splash

With drumlike music, under maidens' hands,

Groans now when bisons from the jungle lash

It with their clumsy horns, and roil its sands.

The peacock-pets are wild that once were tame;

They roost on trees, not perches; lose desire

For dancing to the drums; and feel no shame

For fans singed close by sparks of forest-fire.

On stairways where the women once were glad

To leave their pink and graceful footprints, here

Unwelcome, blood-stained paws of tigers pad,

Fresh-smeared from slaughter of the forest deer.

Wall-painted elephants in lotus-brooks,

Receiving each a lily from his mate,

Are torn and gashed, as if by cruel hooks,

By claws of lions, showing furious hate.

I see my pillared caryatides

Neglected, weathered, stained by passing time,

Wearing in place of garments that should please,

The skins of sloughing cobras, foul with slime.

The balconies grow black with long neglect,

And grass-blades sprout through floors no longer tight;

They still receive but cannot now reflect

The old, familiar moonbeams, pearly white.

The vines that blossomed in my garden bowers,

That used to show their graceful beauty, when

Girls gently bent their twigs and plucked their flowers,

Are broken by wild apes and wilder men.

The windows are not lit by lamps at night,

Nor by fair faces shining in the day,

But webs of spiders dim the delicate, light

Smoke-tracery with one mere daub of grey.

The river is deserted; on the shore

No gaily bathing men and maidens leave

Food for the swans; its reedy bowers no more

Are vocal: seeing this, I can but grieve.

The goddess therefore begs Kusha to return with his court to the old

capital, and when he assents, she smiles and vanishes. The next

morning Kusha announces the vision of the night, and immediately sets

out for Ayodhya with his whole army. Arrived there, King Kusha quickly

restores the city to its former splendour. Then when the hot summer

comes, the king goes down to the river to bathe with the ladies of the

court. While in the water he loses a great gem which his father had

given him. The divers are unable to find it, and declare their belief

that it has been stolen by the serpent Kumuda who lives in the river.

The king threatens to shoot an arrow into the river, whereupon the

waters divide, and the serpent appears with the gem. He is accompanied

by a beautiful maiden, whom he introduces as his sister Kumudvati, and

whom he offers in marriage to Kusha. The offer is accepted, and the

wedding celebrated with great pomp.

_Seventeenth canto. King Atithi_.--To the king and queen is born a

son, who is named Atithi. When he has grown into manhood, his father

Kusha engages in a struggle with a demon, in which the king is killed

in the act of killing his adversary. He goes to heaven, followed by

his faithful queen, and Atithi is anointed king. The remainder of the

canto describes King Atithi's glorious reign.

_Eighteenth canto. The later princes_.--This canto gives a brief,

impressionistic sketch of the twenty-one kings who in their order

succeeded Atithi.

_Nineteenth canto. The loves of Agnivarna_.--After the twenty-one

kings just mentioned, there succeeds a king named Agnivarna, who gives

himself to dissipation. He shuts himself up in the palace; even when

duty requires him to appear before his subjects, he does so merely by

hanging one foot out of a window. He trains dancing-girls himself, and

has so many mistresses that he cannot always call them by their right

names. It is not wonderful that this kind of life leads before long to

a consuming disease; and as Agnivarna is even then unable to resist

the pleasures of the senses, he dies. His queen is pregnant, and she

mounts the throne as regent in behalf of her unborn son. With this

strange scene, half tragic, half vulgar, the epic, in the form in

which it has come down to us, abruptly ends.

If we now endeavour to form some critical estimate of the poem, we are

met at the outset by this strangely unnatural termination. We cannot

avoid wondering whether the poem as we have it is complete. And we

shall find that there are good reasons for believing that Kalidasa did

not let the glorious solar line end in the person of the voluptuous

Agnivarna and his unborn child. In the first place, there is a

constant tradition which affirms that _The Dynasty of Raghu_

originally consisted of twenty-five cantos. A similar tradition

concerning Kalidasa's second epic has justified itself; for some time

only seven cantos were known; then more were discovered, and we now

have seventeen. Again, there is a rhetorical rule, almost never

disregarded, which requires a literary work to end with an epilogue in

the form of a little prayer for the welfare of readers or auditors.

Kalidasa himself complies with this rule, certainly in five of his

other six books. Once again, Kalidasa has nothing of the tragedian in

his soul; his works, without exception, end happily. In the drama

_Urvashi_ he seriously injures a splendid old tragic story for the

sake of a happy ending. These facts all point to the probability that

the conclusion of the epic has been lost. We may even assign a

natural, though conjectural, reason for this. _The Dynasty of Raghu_

has been used for centuries as a text-book in India, so that

manuscripts abound, and commentaries are very numerous. Now if the

concluding cantos were unfitted for use as a text-book, they might

very easily be lost during the centuries before the introduction of

printing-presses into India. Indeed, this very unfitness for use as a

school text seems to be the explanation of the temporary loss of

several cantos of Kalidasa's second epic.

On the other hand, we are met by the fact that numerous commentators,

living in different parts of India, know the text of only nineteen

cantos. Furthermore, it is unlikely that Kalidasa left the poem

incomplete at his death; for it was, without serious question, one of

his earlier works. Apart from evidences of style, there is the

subject-matter of the introductory stanzas, in which the poet presents

himself as an aspirant for literary fame. No writer of established

reputation would be likely to say:

The fool who seeks a poet's fame,

Must look for ridicule and blame,

Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would try

To pluck the fruit for giants high.

In only one other of his writings, in the drama which was undoubtedly

written earlier than the other two dramas, does the poet thus present

his feeling of diffidence to his auditors.

It is of course possible that Kalidasa wrote the first nineteen cantos

when a young man, intending to add more, then turned to other matters,

and never afterwards cared to take up the rather thankless task of

ending a youthful work.

The question does not admit of final solution. Yet whoever reads and

re-reads _The Dynasty of Raghu_, and the other works of its author,

finds the conviction growing ever stronger that our poem in nineteen

cantos is mutilated. We are thus enabled to clear the author of the

charge of a lame and impotent conclusion.

Another adverse criticism cannot so readily be disposed of; that of a

lack of unity in the plot. As the poem treats of a kingly dynasty, we

frequently meet the cry: The king is dead. Long live the king! The

story of Rama himself occupies only six cantos; he is not born until

the tenth canto, he is in heaven after the fifteenth. There are in

truth six heroes, each of whom has to die to make room for his

successor. One may go farther and say that it is not possible to give

a brief and accurate title to the poem. It is not a _Ramayana_, or

epic of Rama's deeds, for Rama is on the stage during only a third of

the poem. It is not properly an epic of Raghu's line, for many kings

of this line are unmentioned. Not merely kings who escape notice by

their obscurity, but also several who fill a large place in Indian

story, whose deeds and adventures are splendidly worthy of epic

treatment. _The Dynasty of Raghu_ is rather an epic poem in which Rama

is the central figure, giving it such unity as it possesses, but which

provides Rama with a most generous background in the shape of selected

episodes concerning his ancestors and his descendants.

Rama is the central figure. Take him away and the poem falls to pieces

like a pearl necklace with a broken string. Yet it may well be doubted

whether the cantos dealing with Rama are the most successful. They are

too compressed, too briefly allusive. Kalidasa attempts to tell the

story in about one-thirtieth of the space given to it by his great

predecessor Valmiki. The result is much loss by omission and much loss

by compression. Many of the best episodes of the _Ramayana_ are quite

omitted by Kalidasa: for example, the story of the jealous humpback

who eggs on Queen Kaikeyi to demand her two boons; the beautiful scene

in which Sita insists on following Rama into the forest; the account

of the somnolent giant Pot-ear, a character quite as good as

Polyphemus. Other fine episodes are so briefly alluded to as to lose

all their charm: for example, the story of the golden deer that

attracts the attention of Rama while Ravana is stealing his wife; the

journey of the monkey Hanumat to Ravana's fortress and his interview

with Sita.

The Rama-story, as told by Valmiki, is one of the great epic stories

of the world. It has been for two thousand years and more the story

_par excellence_ of the Hindus; and the Hindus may fairly claim to be

the best story-tellers of the world. There is therefore real matter

for regret in the fact that so great a poet as Kalidasa should have

treated it in a way not quite worthy of it and of himself. The reason

is not far to seek, nor can there be any reasonable doubt as to its

truth. Kalidasa did not care to put himself into direct competition

with Valmiki. The younger poet's admiration of his mighty predecessor

is clearly expressed. It is with especial reference to Valmiki that he

says in his introduction:

Yet I may enter through the door

That mightier poets pierced of yore;

A thread may pierce a jewel, but

Must follow where the diamond cut.

He introduces Valmiki into his own epic, making him compose the

_Ramayana_ in Rama's lifetime. Kalidasa speaks of Valmiki as "the

poet," and the great epic he calls "the sweet story of Rama," "the

first path shown to poets," which, when sung by the two boys, was

heard with motionless delight by the deer, and, when sung before a

gathering of learned men, made them heedless of the tears that rolled

down their cheeks.

Bearing these matters in mind, we can see the course of Kalidasa's

thoughts almost as clearly as if he had expressed them directly. He

was irresistibly driven to write the wonderful story of Rama, as any

poet would be who became familiar with it. At the same time, his

modesty prevented him from challenging the old epic directly. He

therefore writes a poem which shall appeal to the hallowed association

that cluster round the great name of Rama, but devotes two-thirds of

it to themes that permit him greater freedom. The result is a formless

plot.

This is a real weakness, yet not a fatal weakness. In general,

literary critics lay far too much emphasis on plot. Of the elements

that make a great book, two, style and presentation of character,

hardly permit critical analysis. The third, plot, does permit such

analysis. Therefore the analyst overrates its importance. It is fatal

to all claim of greatness in a narrative if it is shown to have a bad

style or to be without interesting characters. It is not fatal if it

is shown that the plot is rambling. In recent literature it is easy to

find truly great narratives in which the plot leaves much to be

desired. We may cite the _Pickwick Papers, Les Misérables, War and

Peace_.

We must then regard _The Dynasty of Raghu_ as a poem in which single

episodes take a stronger hold upon the reader than does the unfolding

of an ingenious plot. In some degree, this is true of all long poems.

The _Æneid_ itself, the most perfect long poem ever written, has dull

passages. And when this allowance is made, what wonderful passages we

have in Kalidasa's poem! One hardly knows which of them makes the

strongest appeal, so many are they and so varied. There is the

description of the small boy Raghu in the third canto, the choice of

the princess in the sixth, the lament of King Aja in the eighth, the

story of Dasharatha and the hermit youth in the ninth, the account of

the ruined city in the sixteenth. Besides these, the Rama cantos, ten

to fifteen, make an epic within an epic. And if Kalidasa is not seen

at his very best here, yet his second best is of a higher quality than

the best of others. Also, the Rama story is so moving that a mere

allusion to it stirs like a sentimental memory of childhood. It has

the usual qualities of a good epic story: abundance of travel and

fighting and adventure and magic interweaving of human with

superhuman, but it has more than this. In both hero and heroine there

is real development of character. Odysseus and Æneas do not grow; they

go through adventures. But King Rama, torn between love for his wife

and duty to his subjects, is almost a different person from the

handsome, light-hearted prince who won his bride by breaking Shiva's

bow. Sita, faithful to the husband who rejects her, has made a long,

character-forming journey since the day when she left her father's

palace, a youthful bride. Herein lies the unique beauty of the tale of

Rama, that it unites romantic love and moral conflict with a splendid

story of wild adventure. No wonder that the Hindus, connoisseurs of

story-telling, have loved the tale of Rama's deeds better than any

other story.

If we compare _The Dynasty of Raghu_ with Kalidasa's other books, we

find it inferior to _The Birth of the War-god_ in unity of plot,

inferior to _Shakuntala_ in sustained interest, inferior to _The

Cloud-Messenger_ in perfection of every detail. Yet passages in it are

as high and sweet as anything in these works. And over it is shed the

magic charm of Kalidasa's style. Of that it is vain to speak. It can

be had only at first hand. The final proof that _The Dynasty of Raghu_

is a very great poem, is this: no one who once reads it can leave it

alone thereafter.{}

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: If a king aspired to the title of emperor, or king of

kings, he was at liberty to celebrate the horse-sacrifice. A horse was

set free to wander at will for a year, and was escorted by a band of

noble youths who were not permitted to interfere with his movements.

If the horse wandered into the territory of another king, such king

must either submit to be the vassal of the horse's owner, or must

fight him. If the owner of the horse received the submission, with or

without fighting, of all the kings into whose territories the horse

wandered during the year of freedom, he offered the horse in sacrifice

and assumed the imperial title.]

[Footnote 2: This is not the place to discuss the many interesting

questions of geography and ethnology suggested by the fourth canto.

But it is important to notice that Kalidasa had at least superficial

knowledge of the entire Indian peninsula and of certain outlying

regions.]

[Footnote 3: A girl of the warrior caste had the privilege of choosing

her husband. The procedure was this. All the eligible youths of the

neighbourhood were invited to her house, and were lavishly

entertained. On the appointed day, they assembled in a hall of the

palace, and the maiden entered with a garland in her hand. The suitors

were presented to her with some account of their claims upon her

attention, after which she threw the garland around the neck of him

whom she preferred.]

[Footnote 4: See footnote, p. 128.]

* * * * *

THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD

_The Birth of the War-god_ is an epic poem in seventeen cantos. It

consists of 1096 stanzas, or about 4400 lines of verse. The subject is

the marriage of the god Shiva, the birth of his son, and the victory

of this son over a powerful demon. The story was not invented by

Kalidasa, but taken from old mythology. Yet it had never been told in

so masterly a fashion as had been the story of Rama's deeds by

Valmiki. Kalidasa is therefore under less constraint in writing this

epic than in writing _The Dynasty of Raghu_. I give first a somewhat

detailed analysis of the matter of the poem.

_First canto. The birth of Parvati_.--The poem begins with a

description of the great Himalaya mountain-range.

God of the distant north, the Snowy Range

O'er other mountains towers imperially;

Earth's measuring-rod, being great and free from change,

Sinks to the eastern and the western sea.

Whose countless wealth of natural gems is not

Too deeply blemished by the cruel snow;

One fault for many virtues is forgot,

The moon's one stain for beams that endless flow.

Where demigods enjoy the shade of clouds

Girding his lower crests, but often seek,

When startled by the sudden rain that shrouds

His waist, some loftier, ever sunlit peak.

Where bark of birch-trees makes, when torn in strips

And streaked with mountain minerals that blend

To written words 'neath dainty finger-tips,

Such dear love-letters as the fairies send.

Whose organ-pipes are stems of bamboo, which

Are filled from cavern-winds that know no rest,

As if the mountain strove to set the pitch

For songs that angels sing upon his crest.

Where magic herbs that glitter in the night

Are lamps that need no oil within them, when

They fill cave-dwellings with their shimmering light

And shine upon the loves of mountain men.

Who offers roof and refuge in his caves

To timid darkness shrinking from the day;

A lofty soul is generous; he saves

Such honest cowards as for protection pray,

Who brings to birth the plants of sacrifice;

Who steadies earth, so strong is he and broad.

The great Creator, for this service' price,

Made him the king of mountains, and a god.

Himalaya marries a wife, to whom in course of time a daughter is born,

as wealth is born when ambition pairs with character. The child is

named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain. Her father takes

infinite delight in her, as well he may; for

She brought him purity and beauty too,

As white flames to the lamp that burns at night;

Or Ganges to the path whereby the true

Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.

She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and

little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.

As pictures waken to the painter's brush,

Or lilies open to the morning sun,

Her perfect beauty answered to the flush

Of womanhood when childish days were done.

Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray;

Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid:

Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay,

That round her red, red lips for ever played.

And when she spoke, the music of her tale

Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit,

Till listeners felt as if the nightingale

Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.

It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the

wife of the god Shiva. This prediction awakens her father's pride, and

also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances. For the destined

bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and

self-denial upon a mountain peak. Himalaya therefore bids his daughter

wait upon Shiva. She does so, but without being able to divert him

from his austerities.

_Second canto. Brahma's self-revelation_.--At this time, the gods

betake themselves to Brahma, the Creator, and sing a hymn of praise, a

part of which is given here.

Before creation, thou art one;

Three, when creation's work is done:

All praise and honour unto thee

In this thy mystic trinity.

Three various forms and functions three

Proclaim thy living majesty;

Thou dost create, and then maintain,

And last, destroyest all again.

Thy slow recurrent day and night

Bring death to all, or living light.

We live beneath thy waking eye;

Thou sleepest, and thy creatures die.

Solid and fluid, great and small,

And light and heavy--Thou art all;

Matter and form are both in thee:

Thy powers are past discovery.[]

Thou art the objects that unroll

Their drama for the passive soul;

Thou art the soul that views the play

Indifferently, day by day.

Thou art the knower and the known;

Eater and food art thou alone;

The priest and his oblation fair;

The prayerful suppliant and the prayer.

Brahma receives their worship graciously, and asks the reason of their

coming. The spokesman of the gods explains to Brahma how a great demon

named Taraka is troubling the world, and how helpless they are in

opposing him. They have tried the most extravagant propitiation, and

found it useless.

The sun in heaven dare not glow

With undiminished heat, but so

As that the lilies may awake

Which blossom in his pleasure-lake.

The wind blows gently as it can

To serve him as a soothing fan,

And dare not manifest its power,

Lest it should steal a garden flower.

The seasons have forgotten how

To follow one another now;

They simultaneously bring

Him flowers of autumn, summer, spring.

Such adoration makes him worse;

He troubles all the universe:

Kindness inflames a rascal's mind;

He should be recompensed in kind.

And all the means that we have tried

Against the rogue, are brushed aside,

As potent herbs have no avail

When bodily powers begin to fail.

We seek a leader, O our Lord,

To bring him to his just reward--

As saints seek evermore to win

Virtue, to end life's woe and sin--

That he may guide the heavenly host,

And guard us to the uttermost,

And from our foe lead captive back

The victory which still we lack.

Brahma answers that the demon's power comes from him, and he does not

feel at liberty to proceed against it; "for it is not fitting to cut

down even a poison-tree that one's own hand has planted." But he

promises that a son shall be born to Shiva and Parvati, who shall lead

the gods to victory. With this answer the gods are perforce content,

and their king, Indra, waits upon the god of love, to secure his

necessary co-operation.

_Third canto. The burning of Love_.--Indra waits upon Love, who asks

for his commands. Indra explains the matter, and asks Love to inflame

Shiva with passion for Parvati. Love thereupon sets out, accompanied

by his wife Charm and his friend Spring. When they reach the mountain

where Shiva dwells, Spring shows his power. The snow disappears; the

trees put forth blossoms; bees, deer, and birds waken to new life. The

only living being that is not influenced by the sudden change of

season is Shiva, who continues his meditation, unmoved. Love himself

is discouraged, until he sees the beauty of Parvati, when he takes

heart again. At this moment, Shiva chances to relax his meditation,

and Parvati approaches to do him homage. Love seizes the lucky moment,

and prepares to shoot his bewildering arrow at Shiva. But the great

god sees him, and before the arrow is discharged, darts fire from his

eye, whereby Love is consumed. Charm falls in a swoon, Shiva vanishes,

and the wretched Parvati is carried away by her father.

_Fourth canto. The lament of Charm_.--This canto is given entire.

The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon,

Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting

Was preparation of herself full soon

To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.

Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought

On every spot where he might be, in vain,

Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought,

The lover she should never see again.

She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live,

Lord of my life?" And at the last she found

Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive,

Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.

With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained

By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair,

She wept and to the forest world complained,

As if the forest in her grief might share.

"Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish;

Perfect its loveliness in every part;

I saw that beauty fade away and perish,

Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!

Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only

Endured, and I for ever need its power;

Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely,

When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.

Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish;

I never did a thing to work thee harm;

Why should I thus in vain affliction languish?

Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?

Of playful chastisements art thou reminded,

Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands,

Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded,

Held for thy meet correction in these hands?

I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often

'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true,

But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften:

Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.

Think not that on the journey thou hast taken

So newly, I should fail to find thy track;

Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken,

For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.

Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden

Through veils of midnight darkness in the town

To the eager heart with loving fancies laden,

And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?

The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances,

That bids the love-word trippingly to glide,

Is now deception; for if flashing glances

Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.

And when he knows thy life is a remembrance,

Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain,

Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance,

And even in his waxing time, will wane.

Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding

On twigs where pink is struggling with the green,

Greeted by koïl-birds sweet concert holding--

Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?

Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention,

To speed the missile when the bow is bent?

They buzz about me now with kind intention,

And mortify the grief which they lament.

Arise! Assume again thy radiant beauty!

Rebuke the koïl-bird, whom nature taught

Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty

As messenger to bosoms passion-fraught.

Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion,

Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest

By fervent, self-surrendering devotion--

And memories like these deny me rest.

Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland,

Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm!

Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land

Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.

Thy service by the cruel gods demanded,

Meant service to thy wife left incomplete,

My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded--

Return to end the adorning of my feet.

No, straight to thee I fly, my body given,

A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire,

Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven,

Awake in thee an answering desire.

Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated

For evermore a deep reproach to prove,

A stain that may not be obliterated,

If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.

And how can I perform the last adorning

Of thy poor body, as befits a wife?

So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning

Thy body followed still the spirit's life.

I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow,

The bow slung careless on thy breast the while,

Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow,

Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.

But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fashion

The flowery arrow for thee? Has the wrath

Of dreadful Shiva, in excess of passion,

Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path?"

Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief

Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm,

Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief

As friendship can, to sore-lamenting Charm.

And at the sight of him, she wept the more,

And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast;

For lamentation finds an open door

In the presence of the friends we love the best.

Stifling, she cried: "Behold the mournful matter!

In place of him thou seekest, what is found?

A something that the winds of heaven scatter,

A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.

Arise, O Love! For Spring knows no estranging,

Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot;

Man's love for wife is ever doubtful, changing;

Man's love for man abides and changes not.

With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion

Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string,

Reduced men, giants, gods to thy dominion--

The triple world has felt that arrow sting.

But Love is gone, far gone beyond returning,

A candle snuffed by wandering breezes vain;

And see! I am his wick, with Love once burning,

Now blackened by the smoke of nameless pain.

In slaying Love, fate wrought but half a slaughter,

For I am left. And yet the clinging vine

Must fall, when falls the sturdy tree that taught her

Round him in loving tenderness to twine.

So then, fulfil for me the final mission

Of him who undertakes a kinsman's part;

Commit me to the flames (my last petition)

And speed the widow to her husband's heart.

The moonlight wanders not, the moon forsaking;

Where sails the cloud, the lightning is not far;

Wife follows mate, is law of nature's making,

Yes, even among such things as lifeless are.

My breast is stained; I lay among the ashes

Of him I loved with all a woman's powers;

Now let me lie where death-fire flames and flashes,

As glad as on a bed of budding flowers.

Sweet Spring, thou camest oft where we lay sleeping

On blossoms, I and he whose life is sped;

Unto the end thy friendly office keeping,

Prepare for me the last, the fiery bed.

And fan the flame to which I am committed

With southern winds; I would no longer stay;

Thou knowest well how slow the moments flitted

For Love, my love, when I was far away.

And sprinkle some few drops of water, given

In friendship, on his ashes and on me;

That Love and I may quench our thirst in heaven

As once on earth, in heavenly unity.

And sometimes seek the grave where Love is lying;

Pause there a moment, gentle Spring, and shower

Sweet mango-clusters to the winds replying;

For he thou lovedst, loved the mango-flower."

As Charm prepared to end her mortal pain

In fire, she heard a voice from heaven cry,

That showed her mercy, as the early rain

Shows mercy to the fish, when lakes go dry:

"O wife of Love! Thy lover is not lost

For evermore. This voice shall tell thee why

He perished like the moth, when he had crossed

The dreadful god, in fire from Shiva's eye.

When darts of Love set Brahma in a flame,

To shame his daughter with impure desire,

He checked the horrid sin without a name,

And cursed the god of love to die by fire.

But Virtue interceded in behalf

Of Love, and won a softening of the doom:

'Upon the day when Shiva's heart shall laugh

In wedding joy, for mercy finding room,

He shall unite Love's body with the soul,

A marriage-present to his mountain bride.'

As clouds hold fire and water in control,

Gods are the fount of wrath, and grace beside.

So, gentle Charm, preserve thy body sweet

For dear reunion after present pain;

The stream that dwindles in the summer heat,

Is reunited with the autumn rain."

Invisibly and thus mysteriously

The thoughts of Charm were turned away from death;

And Spring, believing where he might not see,

Comforted her with words of sweetest breath.

The wife of Love awaited thus the day,

Though racked by grief, when fate should show its power,

As the waning moon laments her darkened ray

And waits impatient for the twilight hour.

_Fifth canto. The reward of self-denial_.--Parvati reproaches her own

beauty, for "loveliness is fruitless if it does not bind a lover." She

therefore resolves to lead a life of religious self-denial, hoping

that the merit thus acquired will procure her Shiva's love. Her mother

tries in vain to dissuade her; her father directs her to a fit

mountain peak, and she retires to her devotions. She lays aside all

ornaments, lets her hair hang unkempt, and assumes the hermit's dress

of bark. While she is spending her days in self-denial, she is visited

by a Brahman youth, who compliments her highly upon her rigid

devotion, and declares that her conduct proves the truth of the

proverb: Beauty can do no wrong. Yet he confesses himself bewildered,

for she seems to have everything that heart can desire. He therefore

asks her purpose in performing these austerities, and is told how her

desires are fixed upon the highest of all objects, upon the god Shiva

himself, and how, since Love is dead, she sees no way to win him

except by ascetic religion. The youth tries to dissuade Parvati by

recounting all the dreadful legends that are current about Shiva: how

he wears a coiling snake on his wrist, a bloody elephant-hide upon his

back, how he dwells in a graveyard, how he rides upon an undignified

bull, how poor he is and of unknown birth. Parvati's anger is awakened

by this recital. She frowns and her lip quivers as she defends herself

and the object of her love.

Shiva, she said, is far beyond the thought

Of such as you: then speak no more to me.

Dull crawlers hate the splendid wonders wrought

By lofty souls untouched by rivalry.

They search for wealth, whom dreaded evil nears,

Or they who fain would rise a little higher;

The world's sole refuge neither hopes nor fears

Nor seeks the objects of a small desire.

Yes, he is poor, yet he is riches' source;

This graveyard-haunter rules the world alone;

Dreadful is he, yet all beneficent force:

Think you his inmost nature can be known?

All forms are his; and he may take or leave

At will, the snake, or gem with lustre white;

The bloody skin, or silk of softest weave;

Dead skulls, or moonbeams radiantly bright.

For poverty he rides upon a bull,

While Indra, king of heaven, elephant-borne,

Bows low to strew his feet with beautiful,

Unfading blossoms in his chaplet worn.

Yet in the slander spoken in pure hate

One thing you uttered worthy of his worth:

How could the author of the uncreate

Be born? How could we understand his birth?

Enough of this! Though every word that you

Have said, be faithful, yet would Shiva please

My eager heart all made of passion true

For him alone. Love sees no blemishes.

In response to this eloquence, the youth throws off his disguise,

appearing as the god Shiva himself, and declares his love for her.

Parvati immediately discontinues her religious asceticism; for

"successful effort regenerates."

_Sixth canto. Parvati is given in marriage_.--While Parvati departs to

inform her father of what has happened, Shiva summons the seven sages,

who are to make the formal proposal of marriage to the bride's

parents. The seven sages appear, flying through the air, and with them

Arundhati, the heavenly model of wifely faith and devotion. On seeing

her, Shiva feels his eagerness for marriage increase, realising that

All actions of a holy life

Are rooted in a virtuous wife.

Shiva then explains his purpose, and sends the seven sages to make the

formal request for Parvati's hand. The seven sages fly to the

brilliant city of Himalaya, where they are received by the mountain

god. After a rather portentous interchange of compliments, the seven

sages announce their errand, requesting Parvati's hand in behalf of

Shiva. The father joyfully assents, and it is agreed that the marriage

shall be celebrated after three days. These three days are spent by

Shiva in impatient longing.

_Seventh canto. Parvati's wedding_.--The three days are spent in

preparations for the wedding. So great is Parvati's unadorned beauty

that the waiting-women can hardly take their eyes from her to inspect

the wedding-dress. But the preparations are complete at last; and the

bride is beautiful indeed.

As when the flowers are budding on a vine,

Or white swans rest upon a river's shore,

Or when at night the stars in heaven shine,

Her lovely beauty grew with gems she wore.

When wide-eyed glances gave her back the same

Bright beauty--and the mirror never lies--

She waited with impatience till he came:

For women dress to please their lovers' eyes.

Meanwhile Shiva finishes his preparations, and sets out on his wedding

journey, accompanied by Brahma, Vishnu, and lesser gods. At his

journey's end, he is received by his bride's father, and led through

streets ankle-deep in flowers, where the windows are filled with the

faces of eager and excited women, who gossip together thus:

For his sake it was well that Parvati

Should mortify her body delicate;

Thrice happy might his serving-woman be,

And infinitely blest his bosom's mate.

Shiva and his retinue then enter the palace, where he is received with

bashful love by Parvati, and the wedding is celebrated with due pomp.

The nymphs of heaven entertain the company with a play, and Shiva

restores the body of Love.

_Eighth canto. The honeymoon_.--The first month of marital bliss is

spent in Himalaya's palace. After this the happy pair wander for a

time among the famous mountain-peaks. One of these they reach at

sunset, and Shiva describes the evening glow to his bride. A few

stanzas are given here.

See, my belovèd, how the sun

With beams that o'er the water shake

From western skies has now begun

A bridge of gold across the lake.

Upon the very tree-tops sway

The peacocks; even yet they hold

And drink the dying light of day,

Until their fans are molten gold.

The water-lily closes, but

With wonderful reluctancy;

As if it troubled her to shut

Her door of welcome to the bee.

The steeds that draw the sun's bright car,

With bended neck and falling plume

And drooping mane, are seen afar

To bury day in ocean's gloom.

The sun is down, and heaven sleeps:

Thus every path of glory ends;

As high as are the scaled steeps,

The downward way as low descends.

Shiva then retires for meditation. On his return, he finds that his

bride is peevish at being left alone even for a little time, and to

soothe her, he describes the night which is now advancing. A few

stanzas of this description run as follows.

The twilight glow is fading far

And stains the west with blood-red light,

As when a reeking scimitar

Slants upward on a field of fight.

And vision fails above, below,

Around, before us, at our back;

The womb of night envelops slow

The world with darkness vast and black.

Mute while the world is dazed with light,

The smiling moon begins to rise

And, being teased by eager night,

Betrays the secrets of the skies.

Moon-fingers move the black, black hair

Of night into its proper place,

Who shuts her eyes, the lilies fair,

As he sets kisses on her face.

Shiva and Parvati then drink wine brought them by the guardian goddess

of the grove, and in this lovely spot they dwell happily for many

years.

_Ninth canto. The journey to Mount Kailasa_.--One day the god of fire

appears as a messenger from the gods before Shiva, to remonstrate with

him for not begetting the son upon whom heaven's welfare depends.

Shiva deposits his seed in Fire, who departs, bent low with the

burden. Shortly afterwards the gods wait upon Shiva and Parvati, who

journey with them to Mount Kailasa, the splendid dwelling-place of the

god of wealth. Here also Shiva and Parvati spend happy days.

_Tenth canto. The birth of Kumara_.--To Indra, king of the gods, Fire

betakes himself, tells his story, and begs to be relieved of his

burden. Indra advises him to deposit it in the Ganges. Fire therefore

travels to the Ganges, leaves Shiva's seed in the river, and departs

much relieved. But now it is the turn of Ganges to be distressed,

until at dawn the six Pleiades come to bathe in the river. They find

Shiva's seed and lay it in a nest of reeds, where it becomes a child,

Kumara, the future god of war.

_Eleventh canto. The birth of Kumara, continued_.--Ganges suckles the

beautiful infant. But there arises a dispute for the possession of the

child between Fire, Ganges, and the Pleiades. At this point Shiva and

Parvati arrive, and Parvati, wondering at the beauty of the infant and

at the strange quarrel, asks Shiva to whom the child belongs. When

Shiva tells her that Kumara is their own child, her joy is unbounded.

Because her eyes with happy tears were dim,

'Twas but by snatches that she saw the boy;

Yet, with her blossom-hand caressing him,

She felt a strange, an unimagined joy.

The vision of the infant made her seem

A flower unfolding in mysterious bliss;

Or, billowy with her joyful tears, a stream;

Or pure affection, perfect in a kiss.

Shiva conducts Parvati and the boy back to Mount Kailasa, where gods

and fairies welcome them with music and dancing. Here the divine child

spends the days of a happy infancy, not very different from human

infancy; for he learns to walk, gets dirty in the courtyard, laughs a

good deal, pulls the scanty hair of an old servant, and learns to

count: "One, nine, two, ten, five, seven." These evidences of healthy

development cause Shiva and Parvati the most exquisite joy.

_Twelfth canto. Kumara is made general_.--Indra, with the other gods,

waits upon Shiva, to ask that Kumara, now a youth, may be lent to them

as their leader in the campaign against Taraka. The gods are

graciously received by Shiva, who asks their errand. Indra prefers

their request, whereupon Shiva bids his son assume command of the

gods, and slay Taraka. Great is the joy of Kumara himself, of his

mother Parvati, and of Indra.

_Thirteenth canto. Kumara is consecrated general_.--Kumara takes an

affectionate farewell of his parents, and sets out with the gods. When

they come to Indra's paradise, the gods are afraid to enter, lest they

find their enemy there. There is an amusing scene in which each

courteously invites the others to precede him, until Kumara ends their

embarrassment by leading the way. Here for the first time Kumara sees

with deep respect the heavenly Ganges, Indra's garden and palace, and

the heavenly city. But he becomes red-eyed with anger on beholding the

devastation wrought by Taraka.

He saw departed glory, saw the state

Neglected, ruined, sad, of Indra's city,

As of a woman with a cowardly mate:

And all his inmost heart dissolved in pity.

He saw how crystal floors were gashed and torn

By wanton tusks of elephants, were strewed

With skins that sloughing cobras once had worn:

And sadness overcame him as he viewed.

He saw beside the bathing-pools the bowers

Defiled by elephants grown overbold,

Strewn with uprooted golden lotus-flowers,

No longer bright with plumage of pure gold,

Rough with great, jewelled columns overthrown,

Rank with invasion of the untrimmed grass:

Shame strove with sorrow at the ruin shown,

For heaven's foe had brought these things to pass.

Amid these sorrowful surroundings the gods gather and anoint Kumara,

thus consecrating him as their general.

_Fourteenth canto. The march_.--Kumara prepares for battle, and

marshals his army. He is followed by Indra riding on an elephant, Agni

on a ram, Yama on a buffalo, a giant on a ghost, Varuna on a dolphin,

and many other lesser gods. When all is ready, the army sets out on

its dusty march.

_Fifteenth canto. The two armies clash_.--The demon Taraka is informed

that the hostile army is approaching, but scorns the often-conquered

Indra and the boy Kumara. Nevertheless, he prepares for battle,

marshals his army, and sets forth to meet the gods. But he is beset by

dreadful omens of evil.

For foul birds came, a horrid flock to see,

Above the army of the foes of heaven,

And dimmed the sun, awaiting ravenously

The feast of demon corpses to be given.

And monstrous snakes, as black as powdered soot,

Spitting hot poison high into the air,

Brought terror to the army underfoot,

And crept and coiled and crawled before them there.

The sun a sickly halo round him had;

Coiling within it frightened eyes could see

Great, writhing serpents, enviously glad

Because the demon's death so soon should be.

And in the very circle of the sun

Were phantom jackals, snarling to be fed;

And with impatient haste they seemed to run

To drink the demon's blood in battle shed.

There fell, with darting flame and blinding flash

Lighting the farthest heavens, from on high

A thunderbolt whose agonising crash

Brought fear and shuddering from a cloudless sky.

There came a pelting rain of blazing coals

With blood and bones of dead men mingled in;

Smoke and weird flashes horrified their souls;

The sky was dusty grey like asses' skin.

The elephants stumbled and the horses fell,

The footmen jostled, leaving each his post,

The ground beneath them trembled at the swell

Of ocean, when an earthquake shook the host.

And dogs before them lifted muzzles foul

To see the sun that lit that awful day,

And pierced the ears of listeners with a howl

Dreadful yet pitiful, then slunk away.

Taraka's counsellors endeavour to persuade him to turn back, but he

refuses; for timidity is not numbered among his faults. As he advances

even worse portents appear, and finally warning voices from heaven

call upon him to desist from his undertaking. The voices assure him of

Kumara's prowess and inevitable victory; they advise him to make his

peace while there is yet time. But Taraka's only answer is a defiance.

"You mighty gods that flit about in heaven

And take my foeman's part, what would you say?

Have you forgot so soon the torture given

By shafts of mine that never miss their way?

Why should I fear before a six-days child?

Why should you prowl in heaven and gibber shrill,

Like dogs that in an autumn night run wild,

Like deer that sneak through forests, trembling still?

The boy whom you have chosen as your chief

In vain upon his hermit-sire shall cry;

The upright die, if taken with a thief:

First you shall perish, then he too shall die."

And as Taraka emphasises his meaning by brandishing his great sword,

the warning spirits flee, their knees knocking together. Taraka laughs

horribly, then mounts his chariot, and advances against the army of

the gods. On the other side the gods advance, and the two armies

clash.

_Sixteenth canto. The battle between gods and demons_.--This canto is

entirely taken up with the struggle between the two armies. A few

stanzas are given here.

As pairs of champions stood forth

To test each other's fighting worth,

The bards who knew the family fame

Proclaimed aloud each mighty name.

As ruthless weapons cut their way

Through quilted armour in the fray,

White tufts of cotton flew on high

Like hoary hairs upon the sky.

Blood-dripping swords reflected bright

The sunbeams in that awful fight;

Fire-darting like the lightning-flash,

They showed how mighty heroes clash.

The archers' arrows flew so fast,

As through a hostile breast they passed,

That they were buried in the ground,

No stain of blood upon them found.

The swords that sheaths no longer clasped,

That hands of heroes firmly grasped,

Flashed out in glory through the fight,

As if they laughed in mad delight.

And many a warrior's eager lance

Shone radiant in the eerie dance,

A curling, lapping tongue of death

To lick away the soldier's breath.

Some, panting with a bloody thirst,

Fought toward the victim chosen first,

But had a reeking path to hew

Before they had him full in view.

Great elephants, their drivers gone

And pierced with arrows, struggled on,

But sank at every step in mud

Made liquid by the streams of blood.

The warriors falling in the fray,

Whose heads the sword had lopped away,

Were able still to fetch a blow

That slew the loud-exulting foe.

The footmen thrown to Paradise

By elephants of monstrous size,

Were seized upon by nymphs above,

Exchanging battle-scenes for love.

The lancer, charging at his foe,

Would pierce him through and bring him low,

And would not heed the hostile dart

That found a lodgment in his heart.

The war-horse, though unguided, stopped

The moment that his rider dropped,

And wept above the lifeless head,

Still faithful to his master dead.

Two lancers fell with mortal wound

And still they struggled on the ground;

With bristling hair, with brandished knife,

Each strove to end the other's life.

Two slew each other in the fight;

To Paradise they took their flight;

There with a nymph they fell in love,

And still they fought in heaven above.

Two souls there were that reached the sky;

From heights of heaven they could spy

Two writhing corpses on the plain,

And knew their headless forms again.

As the struggle comes to no decisive issue, Taraka seeks out the chief

gods, and charges upon them.

_Seventeenth canto. Taraka is slain_.--Taraka engages the principal

gods and defeats them with magic weapons. When they are relieved by

Kumara, the demon turns to the youthful god of war, and advises him to

retire from the battle.

Stripling, you are the only son

Of Shiva and of Parvati.

Go safe and live! Why should you run

On certain death? Why fight with me?

Withdraw! Let sire and mother blest

Clasp living son to joyful breast.

Flee, son of Shiva, flee the host

Of Indra drowning in the sea

That soon shall close upon his boast

In choking waves of misery.

For Indra is a ship of stone;

Withdraw, and let him sink alone.

Kumara answers with modest firmness.

The words you utter in your pride,

O demon-prince, are only fit;

Yet I am minded to abide

The fight, and see the end of it.

The tight-strung bow and brandished sword

Decide, and not the spoken word.

And with this the duel begins. When Taraka finds his arrows parried by

Kumara, he employs the magic weapon of the god of wind. When this too

is parried, he uses the magic weapon of the god of fire, which Kumara

neutralises with the weapon of the god of water. As they fight on,

Kumara finds an opening, and slays Taraka with his lance, to the

unbounded delight of the universe.

Here the poem ends, in the form in which it has come down to us. It

has been sometimes thought that we have less than Kalidasa wrote,

partly because of a vague tradition that there were once twenty-three

cantos, partly because the customary prayer is lacking at the end.

These arguments are not very cogent. Though the concluding prayer is

not given in form, yet the stanzas which describe the joy of the

universe fairly fill its place. And one does not see with what matter

further cantos would be concerned. The action promised in the earlier

part is completed in the seventeenth canto.

It has been somewhat more formidably argued that the concluding cantos

are spurious, that Kalidasa wrote only the first seven or perhaps the

first eight cantos. Yet, after all, what do these arguments amount to?

Hardly more than this, that the first eight cantos are better poetry

than the last nine. As if a poet were always at his best, even when

writing on a kind of subject not calculated to call out his best.

Fighting is not Kalidasa's _forte_; love is. Even so, there is great

vigour in the journey of Taraka, the battle, and the duel. It may not

be the highest kind of poetry, but it is wonderfully vigorous poetry

of its kind. And if we reject the last nine cantos, we fall into a

very much greater difficulty. The poem would be glaringly incomplete,

its early promise obviously disregarded. We should have a _Birth of

the War-god_ in which the poet stopped before the war-god was born.

There seems then no good reason to doubt that we have the epic

substantially as Kalidasa wrote it. Plainly, it has a unity which is

lacking in Kalidasa's other epic, _The Dynasty_ _of Raghu_, though in

this epic, too, the interest shifts. Parvati's love-affair is the

matter of the first half, Kumara's fight with the demon the matter of

the second half. Further, it must be admitted that the interest runs a

little thin. Even in India, where the world of gods runs insensibly

into the world of men, human beings take more interest in the

adventures of men than of gods. The gods, indeed, can hardly have

adventures; they must be victorious. _The Birth of the War-god_ pays

for its greater unity by a poverty of adventure.

It would be interesting if we could know whether this epic was written

before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_. But we have no data for

deciding the question, hardly any for even arguing it. The

introduction to _The Dynasty of Raghu_ seems, indeed, to have been

written by a poet who yet had his spurs to win. But this is all.

As to the comparative excellence of the two epics, opinions differ. My

own preference is for _The Dynasty of Raghu_, yet there are passages

in _The Birth of the War-god_ of a piercing beauty which the world can

never let die.

* * * * *

THE CLOUD-MESSENGER

In _The Cloud-Messenger_ Kalidasa created a new _genre_ in Sanskrit

literature. Hindu critics class the poem with _The Dynasty of Raghu_

and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a _kavya_, or learned epic. This it

obviously is not. It is fair enough to call it an elegiac poem, though

a precisian might object to the term.

We have already seen, in speaking of _The Dynasty of Raghu_, what

admiration Kalidasa felt for his great predecessor Valmiki, the author

of the _Ramayana_; and it is quite possible that an episode of the

early epic suggested to him the idea which he has exquisitely treated

in _The Cloud-Messenger_. In the _Ramayana_, after the defeat and

death of Ravana, Rama returns with his wife and certain heroes of the

struggle from Ceylon to his home in Northern India. The journey, made

in an aërial car, gives the author an opportunity to describe the

country over which the car must pass in travelling from one end of

India to the other. The hint thus given him was taken by Kalidasa; a

whole canto of _The Dynasty of Raghu_ (the thirteenth) is concerned

with the aërial journey. Now if, as seems not improbable, _The Dynasty

of Raghu_ was the earliest of Kalidasa's more ambitious works, it is

perhaps legitimate to imagine him, as he wrote this canto, suddenly

inspired with the plan of _The Cloud-Messenger_.

This plan is slight and fanciful. A demigod, in consequence of some

transgression against his master, the god of wealth, is condemned to

leave his home in the Himalayas, and spend a year of exile on a peak

in the Vindhya Mountains, which divide the Deccan from the Ganges

basin. He wishes to comfort and encourage his wife, but has no

messenger to send her. In his despair, he begs a passing cloud to

carry his words. He finds it necessary to describe the long journey

which the cloud must take, and, as the two termini are skilfully

chosen, the journey involves a visit to many of the spots famous in

Indian story. The description of these spots fills the first half of

the poem. The second half is filled with a more minute description of

the heavenly city, of the home and bride of the demigod, and with the

message proper. The proportions of the poem may appear unfortunate to

the Western reader, in whom the proper names of the first half will

wake scanty associations. Indeed, it is no longer possible to identify

all the places mentioned, though the general route followed by the

cloud can be easily traced. The peak from which he starts is probably

one near the modern Nagpore. From this peak he flies a little west of

north to the Nerbudda River, and the city of Ujjain; thence pretty

straight north to the upper Ganges and the Himalaya. The geography of

the magic city of Alaka is quite mythical.

_The Cloud-Messenger_ contains one hundred and fifteen four-line

stanzas, in a majestic metre called the "slow-stepper." The English

stanza which has been chosen for the translation gives perhaps as fair

a representation of the original movement as may be, where direct

imitation is out of the question. Though the stanza of the translation

has five lines to four for the slow-stepper, it contains fewer

syllables; a constant check on the temptation to padding.

The analysis which accompanies the poem, and which is inserted in

Italics at the beginning of each stanza, has more than one object. It

saves footnotes; it is intended as a real help to comprehension; and

it is an eminently Hindu device. Indeed, it was my first intention to

translate literally portions of Mallinatha's famous commentary; and

though this did not prove everywhere feasible, there is nothing in the

analysis except matter suggested by the commentary.