Translations Of Shakuntala And Other Works Part 10

ACT III

THE LOVE-MAKING

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

_Pupil_ (_with meditative astonishment_). How great is the power of King Dushyanta! Since his arrival our rites have been undisturbed.

He does not need to bend the bow; For every evil thing, Awaiting not the arrow, flees From the tw.a.n.ging of the string.

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

_King_ (_with a meditative sigh_).

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

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

s.h.i.+va's devouring wrath still burns in thee, As burns the eternal fire beneath the sea; Else how couldst thou, thyself long since consumed, Kindle the fire that flames so ruthlessly?

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

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

And yet

If Love will trouble her Whose great eyes madden me, I greet him unafraid, Though wounded ceaselessly.

O mighty G.o.d, wilt thou not show me mercy after such reproaches?

With tenderness unending I cherished thee when small, In vain--thy bow is bending; On me thine arrows fall.

My care for thee to such a plight Has brought me; and it serves me right.

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

The stems from which she gathered flowers Are still unhealed; The sap where twigs were broken off Is uncongealed.

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

Limbs that love's fever seizes, Their fervent welcome pay To lotus-fragrant breezes That bear the river-spray.

(_He studies the ground_.) Ah, Shakuntala must be in this reedy bower.

For

In white sand at the door Fresh footprints appear, The toe lightly outlined, The heel deep and clear.

I will hide among the branches, and see what happens. (_He does so.

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

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

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

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

_King_. She is seriously ill. (_Doubtfully_.) Is it the heat, or is it as I hope? (_Decidedly_.) It _must_ be so.

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

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

_Priyamvada_ (_aside to_ a.n.u.sUYA). a.n.u.suya, since she first saw the good king, she has been greatly troubled. I do not believe her fever has any other cause.

_a.n.u.suya_. I suspect you are right. I am going to ask her. My dear, I must ask you something. You are in a high fever.

_King_. It is too true.

Her lotus-chains that were as white As moonbeams s.h.i.+ning in the night, Betray the fever's awful pain, And fading, show a darker stain.

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

_a.n.u.suya_. Shakuntala dear, you have not told us what is going on in your mind. But I have heard old, romantic stories, and I can't help thinking that you are in a state like that of a lady in love. Please tell us what hurts you. We have to understand the disease before we can even try to cure it.

_King_. a.n.u.suya expresses my own thoughts.

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

_Priyamvada_. a.n.u.suya is right, dear. Why do you hide your trouble?

You are wasting away every day. You are nothing but a beautiful shadow.

_King_. Priyamvada is right. See!

Her cheeks grow thin; her breast and shoulders fail; Her waist is weary and her face is pale: She fades for love; oh, pitifully sweet!

As vine-leaves wither in the scorching heat.

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

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

_King_.

To friends who share her joy and grief She tells what sorrow laid her here; She turned to look her love again When first I saw her--yet I fear!

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

_The two friends_. Go on, dear.

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

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