Part 10 (1/2)

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_.)