[S']AKOONTALÁ
Whatever pleases you, dear girls, will please me. I have perfect confidence In your taste.
[They commence dressing her.
Enter KANWA, having just finished his ablutions.
KANWA.
This day my loved one leaves me, and my heart
Is heavy with its grief; the streams of sorrow,
Choked at the source, repress my faltering voice,
I have no words to speak; mine eyes are dimmed
By the dark shadows of the thoughts that rise
Within my soul. If such the force of grief
In an old hermit parted from his nursling,
What anguish must the stricken parent feel—
Bereft for ever of an only daughter.
[Advances towards [S']AKOONTALÁ
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.
Now, dearest [S']akoontalá, we have finished decorating you. You have only to put on the two linen mantles.
[S']AKOONTALÁ rises and puts them on.
GAUTAMÍ.
Daughter, see, here comes thy foster-father; he is eager to fold thee in his arms; his eyes swim with tears of joy. Hasten to do him reverence.
[S']AKOONTALÁ [Reverently.
My father, I salute you.
KANWA.
My daughter,
May'st thou be highly honoured by thy lord,
E'en as Yayáti [S']armishthá adored[64]!
And, as she bore him Puru, so may'st thou
Bring forth a son to whom the world shall bow!
GAUTAMÍ.
Most venerable father, she accepts your benediction as if she already possessed the boon it confers.
KANWA.
Now come this way, my child, and walk reverently round these sacrificial fires.
[They all walk round.
KANWA.
[Repeats a prayer in the metre of the Rig-veda.
Holy flames, that gleam around
Every altar's hallowed ground;
Holy flames, whose frequent food
Is the consecrated wood,
And for whose encircling bed,
Sacred Ku[s']a-grass is spread [65];
Holy flames, that waft to heaven
Sweet oblations daily given,
Mortal guilt to purge away,
Hear, oh hear me, when I pray—
Purify my child this day!
Now then, my daughter, set out on thy journey.
[Looking on one side.]
Where are thy attendants. [S']árngarava and the others?
YOUNG HERMIT. [Entering.
Here we are, most venerable father.
KANWA.
Lead the way for thy sister.
[S']ÁRNGARAVA.
Come, [S']akoontalá, let us proceed.
[All move away.
KANWA.
Hear me, ye trees that surround our hermitage!
[S']akoontalá ne'er moistened in the stream
Her own parched lips, till she had fondly poured
Its purest water on your thirsty roots;
And oft, when she would fain have decked her hair
With your thick-clustering blossoms, in her love
She robbed you not e'en of a single flower.
Her highest joy was ever to behold
The early glory of your opening buds;
Oh, then, dismiss her with a kind farewell.
This very day she quits her father's home,
To seek the palace of her wedded lord.
[The note of a Koïl[66] is heard.
Hark! heard'st thou not the answer of the trees,
Our sylvan sisters, warbled in the note
Of the melodious Koïl[66]? they dismiss
Their dear [S']akoontalá with loving wishes.
VOICES IN THE AIR.
Fare thee well, journey pleasantly on amid streams
Where the lotuses bloom, and the sun's glowing beams
Never pierce the deep shade of the wide-spreading trees,
While gently around thee shall sport the cool breeze;
Then light be thy footsteps and easy thy tread,
Beneath thee shall carpets of lilies be spread;
Journey on to thy lord, let thy spirit be gay,
For the smiles of all Nature shall gladden thy way.
[All listen with astonishment.
GAUTAMÍ.
Daughter! the nymphs of the wood, who love thee with the affection of a sister, dismiss thee with kind wishes for thy happiness. Take thou leave of them reverentially.
[S']AKOONTALÁ.
[Bowing respectfully and walking on. Aside to her friend.
Eager as I am, dear Priyamvadá, to see my husband once more, yet my feet refuse to move, now that I am quitting for ever the home of my girlhood.
PRIYAMVADÁ.
You are not the only one, dearest, to feel the bitterness of parting. As the time of separation approaches, the whole grove seems to share your anguish.
In sorrow for thy loss, the herd of deer
Forget to browse; the peacock on the lawn
Ceases its dance[67]; the very trees around
Shed their pale leaves, like tears, upon the ground.
[S']AKOONTALÁ. [Recollecting herself.
My father, let me, before I go, bid adieu to my pet jasmine, the
Moonlight of the Grove[68]. I love the plant almost as a sister.
KANWA.
Yes, yes, my child, I remember thy sisterly affection for the creeper. Here it is on the right.
[S']AKOONTALÁ. [Approaching the jasmine.
My beloved jasmine! most brilliant of climbing plants, how sweet it is to see thee cling thus fondly to thy husband, the mango-tree; yet, prithee, turn thy twining arms for a moment in this direction to embrace thy sister; she is going far away, and may never see thee again.
KANWA.
Daughter, the cherished purpose of my heart
Has ever been to wed thee to a man
That should be worthy of thee; such a spouse
Hast thou thyself, by thine own merits, won.
To him thou goest, and about his neck
Soon shalt thou cling confidingly, as now
Thy favourite jasmine twines its loving arms
Around the sturdy mango. Leave thou it
To its protector—e'en as I consign
Thee to thy lord, and henceforth from my mind
Banish all anxious thought on thy behalf.
Proceed on thy journey, my child.
[S']AKOONTALÁ. [To PRIYAMVADÁ and ANASÚYÁ.
To you, my sweet companions, I leave it as a keepsake. Take charge of it when I am gone.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ. [Bursting into tears.
And to whose charge do you leave us, dearest? Who will care for us when you are gone?
KANWA.
For shame, Anasúyá! dry your tears. Is this the way to cheer your friend at a time when she needs your support and consolation?
[All move on.
[S']AKOONTALÁ.
My father, see you there my pet deer, grazing close to the hermitage? She expects soon to fawn, and even now the weight of the little one she carries hinders her movements. Do not forget to send me word when she becomes a mother.
KANWA.
I will not forget it.
[S']AKOONTALÁ. [Feeling herself drawn back.
What can this be, fastened to my dress?
[Turns round.
KANWA.
My daughter,
It is the little fawn, thy foster-child,
Poor helpless orphan! it remembers well
How with a mother's tenderness and love
Thou didst protect it, and with grains of rice
From thine own hand didst daily nourish it;
And, ever and anon, when some sharp thorn
Had pierced its mouth, how gently thou didst tend
The bleeding wound, and pour in healing balm.
The grateful nursling clings to its protectress,
Mutely imploring leave to follow her.
[S']AKOONTALÁ.
My poor little fawn! dost thou ask to follow an ungrateful wretch who hesitates not to desert her companions! When thy mother died, soon after thy birth, I supplied her place, and reared thee with my own hand; and now that thy second mother is about to leave thee, who will care for thee? My father, be thou a mother to her. My child, go back, and be a daughter to my father.
[Moves on, weeping.
KANWA.
Weep not, my daughter, check the gathering tear
That lurks beneath thine eyelid, ere it flow
And weaken thy resolve; be firm and true—
True to thyself and me; the path of life
Will lead o'er hill and plain, o'er rough and smooth,
And all must feel the steepness of the way;
Though rugged be thy course, press boldly on.
[S']ÁRNGARAVA.
Venerable Sire! the sacred precept is:—'Accompany thy friend as far as the margin of the first stream.' Here, then, we are arrived at the border of a lake. It is time for you to give us your final instructions and return.
KANWA.
Be it so; let us tarry for a moment under the shade of this fig-tree[69].
[They do so.
KANWA [Aside.
I must think of some appropriate message to send to his Majesty
King Dushyanta.
[Reflects. .
[S']AKOONTALÁ. [Aside to ANASÚYÁ.
See, see, dear Anasúyá, the poor female Chakraváka-bird[70], whom cruel fate dooms to nightly separation from her mate, calls to him in mournful notes from the other side of the stream, though he is only hidden from her view by the spreading leaves of the water-lily. Her cry is so piteous that I could almost fancy she was lamenting her hard lot in intelligible words.
ANASÚYÁ
Say not so, dearest:
Fond bird! though sorrow lengthen out her night
Of widowhood, yet with a cry of joy
She hails the morning light that brings her mate
Back to her side. The agony of parting
Would wound us like a sword, but that its edge
Is blunted by the hope of future meeting.
KANWA.
[S']árngarava! when you have introduced [S']akoontalá into the presence of the King, you must give him this message from me:—
[S']ÁRNGARAVA
Let me hear it, venerable father.
KANWA.
This is it:—
Most puissant prince! we here present before thee
One thou art bound to cherish and receive
As thine own wife; yea, even to enthrone
As thine own queen—worthy of equal love
With thine imperial consorts. So much, Sire,
We claim of thee as justice due to us,
In virtue of our holy character,
In virtue of thine honourable rank,
In virtue of the pure spontaneous love
That secretly grew up 'twixt thee and her,
Without consent or privity of us.
We ask no more—the rest we freely leave
To thy just feeling and to destiny.
[S']ÁRNGARAVA.
A most suitable message! I will take care to deliver it correctly.
KANWA.
And, now, my child, a few words of advice for thee. We hermits, though we live secluded from the world are not ignorant of worldly matters.
[S']ÁRNGARAVA.
No, indeed. Wise men are conversant with all subjects.
KANWA.
Listen, then, my daughter. When thou reachest thy husband's palace, and art admitted into his family,
Honour thy betters; ever be respectful
To those above thee; and, should others share
Thy husband's love, ne'er yield thyself a prey
to jealousy; but ever be a friend,
A loving friend, to those who rival thee
In his affections. Should thy wedded lord
Treat thee with harshness, thou most never be
Harsh in return, but patient and submissive;
Be to thy menials courteous, and to all
Placed under thee, considerate and kind;
Be never self-indulgent, but avoid
Excess in pleasure; and, when fortune smiles,
Be not puffed up. Thus to thy husband's house
Wilt thou a blessing prove, and not a curse.
What thinks Gautamí of this advice?
GAUTAMÍ.
An excellent compendium, truly, of every wife's duties! Lay it well to heart, my daughter.
KANWA.
Come, my beloved child, one parting embrace for me and for thy companions, and then we leave thee.
[S']AKOONTALÁ.
My father, must Priyamvadá and Anasúyá really return with you?
They are very dear to me.
KANWA.
Yes, my child; they, too, in good time, will be given in marriage to suitable husbands. It would not be proper for them to accompany thee to such a public place. But Gautamí shall be thy companion.
[S']AKOONTALÁ. [Embracing him.
Removed from thy bosom, my beloved father, like a young tendril of the sandal-tree torn from its home in the western mountains[71], how shall I be able to support life in a foreign soil?
KANWA.
Daughter, thy fears are groundless.
Soon shall thy lord prefer thee to the rank
Of his own consort; and unnumbered cares
Befitting his imperial dignity
Shall constantly engross thee. Then the bliss
Of bearing him a son—a noble boy,
Bright as the day-star, shall transport thy soul
With new delights, and little shalt thou reck
Of the light sorrow that afflicts thee now
At parting from thy father and thy friends.
[S']AKOONTALÁ throws herself at her foster-father's feet.
KANWA.
Blessings on thee, my child! May all my hopes of thee be realized!
[S']AKOONTALÁ [Approaching her friends.
Come, my two loved companions, embrace me both of you together.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ. [Embracing her.
Dear [S']akoontalá, remember, if the King should by any chance be slow in recognizing you, you have only to show him this ring, on which his own name is engraved.
[S']AKOONTALÁ.
The bare thought of it puts me in a tremor.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.
There is no real cause for fear, dearest. Excessive affection is too apt to suspect evil where none exists.
[S']AKOONTALÁ.
Come, lady, we must hasten on. The sun is rising in the heavens.
[S']AKOONTALÁ. [Looking towards the hermitage.
Dear father, when shall I ever see this hallowed grove again?
KANWA.
I will tell thee; listen:—
When thou hast passed a long and blissful life
As King Dushyanta's queen, and jointly shared
With all the earth his ever-watchful care;
And hast beheld thine own heroic son,
Matchless in arms, united to a bride
In happy wedlock; when his aged sire,
Thy faithful husband, hath to him resigned
The helm of state; then, weary of the world,
Together with Dushyanta thou shalt seek
The calm seclusion of thy former home[72];
There amid holy scenes to be at peace,
Till thy pure spirit gain its last release.
GAUTAMÍ.
Come, my child, the favourable time for our journey is fast passing. Let thy father return. Venerable Sire, be thou the first to move homewards, or these last words will never end.
KANWA.
Daughter, detain me no longer. My religious duties must not be interrupted.
[S']AKOONTALÁ. [Again embracing her foster-father.
Beloved father, thy frame is much enfeebled by penitential exercises. Do not, oh! do not, allow thyself to sorrow too much on my account.
KANWA. [Sighing.
How, O my child, shall my bereaved heart
Forget its bitterness, when, day by day,
Full in my sight shall grow the tender plants
Reared by thy care, or sprang from hallowed grain
Which thy loved hands have strewn around the door—
A frequent offering to our household gods[73]?
Go, my daughter, and may thy journey be prosperous.
[Exit [S']AKOONTALÁ with her escort.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ. [Gazing after [S']AKOONTALÁ.
Alas! alas! she is gone, and now the trees hide our darling from our view.
KANWA. [Sighing.
Well, Anasúyá, your sister has departed. Moderate your grief, both of you, and follow me, I go back to the hermitage.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.
Holy father, the sacred grove will be a desert without
[S']akoontalá. How can we ever return to it?
KANWA.
It is natural enough that your affection should make you view it in this light.
[Walking pensively on.]
As for me, I am quite surprised at myself. Now that I have fairly dismissed her to her husband's house, my mind is easy; for, indeed,
A daughter is a loan—a precious jewel
Lent to a parent till her husband claim her.
And now that to her rightful lord and master
I have delivered her, my burdened soul
Is lightened, and I seem to breathe more freely.
[Exeunt.
* * * * *