Agnimitra, King in Vidisha.Sri Aurobindo
Translations
CWSA.- Volume 5
Part One. Translations from Sanskrit
Section Three.
Kalidasa
In the Gardens of Vidisha or Malavica and the King
Dramatis Personae
Agnimitra, King in Vidisha.
Horodutta, Master of the Stage to the King.
Ganadasa, Master of the Stage to the Queen.
Maudgalya, the King’s Chamberlain.
Iravatie, a royal princess, wife of Agnimitra.
Malavica,daughter of the Prince Madhavsena of Vidurbha, disguised as a maid in waiting on the Queen.
Cowshiqie, a female anchorite, sister of Madhavsena’s Minister.
Vocoolavalica, maid in waiting on the Queen, friend of Malavica.
[Comudica, maid in waiting on the Queen, friend of Vocoolavalica.]
Scene I
Place.
Outside the Hall of Music in the Palace grounds.
The One who is Almighty, He Who showers
Upon His worshippers all wealth, all joy,
Yet wears Himself a hide, nought richer; – Who
With His belovèd is one body and yet
The first of passionless ascetics stands;
Who in His eightfold body bears the world
Yet knows not egoism, may He from you
Dispel the darkness and reveal the light,
The paths of righteousness to reillume.
And after the invocation the Manager speaks.
Here, friend.
Behold me.
Friend, the audience bid me
Stage for this high and jovial feast of Spring
The drama, Malavica and the King,
Plotted by Kalidasa. Therefore begin
The overture.
But, Sir, ’tis very strange.
Are there not classics old, are there not works
Of Bhasa and Saumilla, famous plays,
Great Kaviputra’s name and more to match
That thus the audience honours, all these scorned,
A living poet’s work?
Not well hast thou
Spoken in this nor like a judging man.
For learn, not all that’s old is therefore good
Nor must a poem straightway be condemned
Because ’tis new. The critic watches, hears,
Weighs patiently, then judges, but the fool
Follows opinion’s beaten track and walks
By others’ seeing.
Well, Sir, you are the judge.
Haste then, for since with bended head I took
The learnèd audience’ will, I have no ease
Till its performance, to which my forward mind
Speeds like yon maiden, Dharinie’s attendant,
Light-footed to her royal mistress’ will.
My lady bids me seek out Ganadasa,
Her Master of the Stage, from him to learn
How in the Dance of Double Entendre progresses
Our Malavica, a recent scholar yet
Here in this Hall of Music.
Enter Comudica, a ring in the palm of her hand.
What, have you taken to religion then
That you go sailing past me with an eye
Abstracted, nor one glance for me?
What, you,
In the delightful jewel on this ring
Fresh from the jeweller’s hands for our great lady.
O heavens, how lovely!
Well might you have no eyes for aught besides.
Your fingers are all blossoming with the jewel!
These rays of light are golden filaments
Just breaking out of bud.
Sweet, whither bound?
To the Stage-Master. Our lady seeks to know
What sort of pupil Malavica proves,
How quick to learn.
O tell me, is it true
That Malavica by this study kept
Far from his eye, was by our lord the King
Seen lately?
Seen, but in a picture,– close
Beside my lady.
How chanced it?
I will tell you.
My lady in the Painting-School was seated
Studying the marvellous colours that enhue
The Master’s great design; when suddenly
My lord comes on her.
Well, what followed?
Greetings;
Then sitting down by her he scanned the painting,
There saw of all the attendants Malavica
Nearest the Queen and asked of her.
Marked you the words?
“This face the like of which I not remember,
And yet she stands just by you – who is she?”
Beauty’s indeed a magnet to the affections
And seizes at first sight. My lady?
Made
No answer. He in some astonishment
Urged her with questions. Then my lady’s sister
The princess Vasouluxmy all in wonder
Breaks out, “Why, brother, this is Malavica!”
Oh good! How like the child’s sweet innocence!
Why, what else? Since then still more
Is Malavica from the royal eye
Kept close secluded.
Well, I should not stop you
Upon your errand. I too will to my lady
Carry the ring.
Who comes out from the Hall
Of Music? Oh, ’tis Ganadas himself.
Each worker doubtless his own craft exalts
Practised by all his sires before him. Yet not
A mere vain-glory is the drama’s praise.
For drama is to the immortal Gods
A sacrifice of beauty visible.
The Almighty in his body most divine
Where Male and Female meet, disparted it
Twixt sweet and terrible. Drama unites
In one fair view the whole conflicting world,
Pictures man’s every action, his complex
Emotions infinite makes harmony;
So that each temperament, in its own taste
However various, gathers from the stage,
Rapt with some pleasing echo of itself,
Peculiar pleasure. Thus one self-same art
Meets in their nature’s wants most various minds.
Vocoolavalica (coming forward)
Obeisance to the noble Ganadasa.
Live long, my child.
My lady sent me here
To ask how Malavica makes progress. Sir,
Does she learn quickly yet?
Tell my lady,
No swifter brain, no apter delicate taste
Has ever studied with me. In one word,
Whate’er emotion to the dance translated
I show the child, that she improving seems
To teach her teacher.
Iravatie already conquered. (aloud) Sir,
The pupil gains his every aim of study
Of whom a Master says so much.
Vocoola,
Because such genius is most rare, I ask thee,–
Whence did my lady bring this matchless wonder?
The brother of my lady in a womb
Less noble got, who for my lord commands
His watchful frontier fortress by the stream
Mundaqinie, Verosegn, to his great sister,
For mistresshood and office in the arts
Deemed worthy, sent her.
So rare her form and face,
Her nature too so modest and so noble,
I cannot but conceive that of no mean
Material was composed this beauty. (aloud) Child,
I shall be famous by her. The Master’s art
Into a brilliant mind projected turns
To power original, as common rain
Dropping into that Ocean-harboured shell
Empearls and grows a rareness.
Where is she now?
Tired with long studying the five parts of gesture
Yonder she rests; enjoying the cool breeze
Against the window that o’erlooks these waters,
There you shall find her.
Sir, will you permit me
To tell her how much you are pleased with her?
Such praise will be a spur indeed.
Go, child,
Embrace your friend. I too will to my house,
Taking the boon of this permitted leisure.
In a room of the Palace the King is seated with the Minister, Vahatava in attendance, Vahatava reading a letter.
The attendants at some distance in the background of the stage.
Well, Vahatava, what answers the Vidurbhan?
His own destruction.
Let me hear this letter.
Thus runs his present missive: – In these terms
Your Highness writes to me, “Prince Madhavsen,
Thy uncle’s son, then journeying to my court
For the fulfilment of contracted bonds,
Within thy dungeons lies; for by the way
The governor of thy frontiers leaped on him
And prisoned. Thou, if thou regardest me,
Unbind him with his wife and sister straight.”
To which I answer thus, “Your Highness knows
What conduct kings should use to princes born
Their equals. In this quarrel then I look
From your great name for just neutrality.
Touching his sister, she in the quick scuffle
Of capture disappeared, whom to seek out
I shall not want in my endeavours. Yet if
Your Highness wills indeed to free my cousin,
Hear then my only terms. First from your dungeons
The Premier of the Maurya princes loose
And brother of my queen: this done, at once
Are Madhavsena’s farther bonds excused.”
How! dares the weakling trade with me in favours?
Knows he himself so little? Vahatava,
Command towards Vidurbha the division
That under Verosegn new-mobilized
Stands prompt to arms. I will exterminate
This man who rises up my enemy.
Vidurbha was my natural foeman first
But now grows such in action.
As the King wills.
Nay, Vahatava, but what thinkst thou in this?
Your Highness speaks by the strict rule of statecraft.
Then is a foeman easiest to pluck out
When new upon his throne; for then his roots
Have not sunk deep into his people’s hearts,
And he is like an infant shooting tree
Loose in its native earth; soon therefore uprooted.
Wise is the Tuntra’s author and his word
A gospel; we will seize this plea to set
Our war in motion.
I shall so give order.
Exit. The attendants resume their places each in consonance with his office. To them enter Gautama.
Now can I tell the King that not in vain
He looked to me for counsel, when he said
“Gautama, know you not some exquisite cunning,
Whereby that face of Malavica by chance
At first beheld and in dumb counterfeit
With the dear life may bless my vision?” By this
I think I have planned somewhat worth the telling.
Here comes my premier in another branch
Of politics.
I greet the King.
Be seated.
Well, Gautama? What, was your wisdom’s eye
Busy with plan and purpose, has its roving
Caught somewhere any glimpse?
Ask me, my lord,
Of your desire’s accomplishment.
So soon!
I’ll tell you in your ear, sir.
Gautama,
Most admirable. Thou hast indeed devised
The cunningest adroitness. Now I dare
To hope for things impossible, since thou
Art of my counsels part.
In difficulty
How necessary is a helpful friend;
For when one is befriended, every hindrance
Turns to a nothing. Even so without a lamp
The eye beholds not in night’s murky gloom
Its usual objects.
Enough, enough, thou braggart.
Before the King himself shall be decision
Of less and greater twixt us twain.
Listen!
Here is the flower on your good tree of counsel.
Nor will the fruit lag far behind.
Enter the Chamberlain, Maudgalya.
The Premier
Sends word, Sire, that Your Highness’ will ere now
Is set in motion. Here besides the great
Stage-Masters, Horodutt and Ganadasa,
Storming with anger, mad with emulation,
Themselves like two incarnate passions, seek
Your Highness’ audience.
Admit them instantly.
Exit Maudgalya and re-enter ushering in the Stage-masters.
This way, high sirs, most noble, worthy signiors.
How quelling-awful in its majesty
Is the great brow and aspect of a King.
For nowise unfamiliar is this face
Of Agnimitra,– no, nor stern, but full
Of beauty and kindness; yet with awe I near him.
So Ocean in its vast unresting surge
Stales never, but each changing second brings
New aspects of its grandeur to the eye
That lives with waves, even as this kingly brow
Each time I see it.
For ’tis no mortal greatness
But God’s own glory in an earthly dwelling.
Thus I, admitted by this janitor
Of princes, led to the foot of his high throne
By one that in his eye and puissance moves,
Feel wordlessly forbidden by his glories
That force me to avert my dazzled gaze.
Here sits my lord; approach him, worthies.
Greeting,
Our sovereign!
O welcome, both! Chairs for these signiors.
What brings into the presence at this hour
Usual to study both the high Stage-Masters?
Sire, hear me. From a great and worshipped Master
My art was studied; I have justified
My genius in the scenic pomps of dance;
The King and Queen approve me.
Surely we know this.
Yet being what I am, I have been taxed,
Insulted, censured by this Horodutta.
“You are not worth the dust upon my shoes”; –
Before the greatest subject in the land
Thus did he scorn me.
He first began detraction;
Crying to me, “As well, sir, might your worship
Compete with me as one particular puddle
Equal itself to ocean.” Judge, my lord,
Betwixt my art and his as well in science
As in the execution. Than Your Highness
Where can we find a more discerning critic
Or just examiner?
A good proposal.
Most excellent. Attend, my lord, and judge.
A moment’s patience, gentlemen. The Queen
Might in our verdict tax a partial judgment.
Were it not better then she too should watch
This trial? The most learnèd Cowshiqie
Shall give her aid too.
This is well-urged, my lord.
Your Highness’ pleasure shall command our patience.
Then go, Maudgalya, tell Her Highness all
That here has chanced and let her come to us
With the holy Mother.
Sire, I go.
Exit and re-enter with the Queen and Cowshiqie.
My lady, Dharinie.
Tell me, Mother,
What think you of this hot and sudden passion
Between the two Stage-Masters?
Idly, daughter,
You fear your side’s defeat, since in no point
Is Ganadasa less than his opponent.
’Tis so, but the King’s favour weighs him down
Wresting preeminence to that other.
Forget not
That you too bear the style of Majesty.
Think that you are an Empress. For if fire
From the sun’s grace derive his flaming glories,
Night too, the imperial darkness, solemnizes
The moon with splendour.
Ware hawk, my lord the King.
Look where the Queen comes and with her our own
Back-scratcher in Love’s wrestling-match, the learnèd
Dame Cowshiqie.
I see her. How fair, how noble
My lady shines adorned with holy symbols
And Cowshiqie before her anchorite.
Religion’s self incarnate so might move
When high Philosophy comes leading her
Into the hearts of men.
Greeting, Your Highness.
Mother, I greet thee.
Live a hundred years
Blessed with two queens alike in sweet submission
And mothers of heroic births, the Earth
That bears all creatures and the wife who loves thee.
Victory attend my lord.
Welcome, my Queen.
Pray you, be seated, Mother; in this collision
Of two great masters, it is just that you
Should take the critic’s chair.
Your Highness seeks
To laugh at me; for who is the fond man
Would leave the opulent, great metropolis
To test his jewels in some petty village?
No, no, you are the learnèd Cowshiqie.
Then too the Queen and I are both suspect
For partial judges.
It is no more than truth.
Unbiassed is the learnèd Mother’s mind;
Her censure by defect and merit swayed
Leaves no reserves behind.
Begin debate then.
The soul of drama in performance lies
And not for tilting theories is a field.
If I have any voice,
I say I quite mislike the whole debate.
Her Highness must not dwarf me in her thinkings
Misdeeming me inferior to my equal.
Come, come, my lady, do not let us lose
The sport of these great rams butting each other.
Why should they draw their salaries for nothing?
You always loved a quarrel.
Good mouse, no.
Rather I am your only peacemaker.
When two great elephants go mad with strength
And counter, until one of them is beaten,
There’s no peace in the forest.
But surely, Mother,
You have already seen them in performance,
Judged of their action’s each particular
And every studied grace of movement.
Surely.
What else is’t then of which yet uninstructed
You need conviction?
Another science: performance admirable
Distinguishes the first, but in himself
Is rooted and confined; the other’s skill,
Ranging, in swift transmission lightens forth,
At home inert or poor. In both who’s perfect,
Him at the head we put of art’s instructors.
Sirs, you have heard the Mother’s argument,
The brief and marrow being this, that judgment
Goes by some visible proof of your instruction.
We both consent.
Thus then it stands, my lady.
Then if a pupil brainless or inapt
Blur in the act the Master’s fine instruction,
Reflects the blot upon her teacher?
Madam,
So still ’tis judged.
For who, a block unworthy
Accepting, hews from it a masterpiece,
Shows the quick marrow of his genius.
What more?
Too much already I give my lord the rein,
Feeding his eagerness with my indulgence.
Desist, desist, this is an idle movement
And leads to nothing worth.
Well said, my lady.
Come, Ganadasa, eat in peace your sweetmeats
Upon the Muse’s day, a safe renown
Enjoying, while you teach our girls the dance.
But in this path of rugged emulation
To stumble’s easy and disgrace expects you.
Indeed my lady’s words
Lend themselves to no other fair construction.
To all which hear the just and sole reply.
That man, styled artist, who, of his mere wage
Careful or place established, censure brooks,
Most cowardlike withdrawing from debate,
To whom the noble gains of learning serve
Merely for livelihood,– that man they call
A hawker trafficking in glorious art,
No artist.
But your pupil, recently
Initiate, just begins to learn. Teaching
Yet inchoate, art of itself not sure
’Tis ’gainst all canons to make public yet.
Even therefore is my strong persistence, lady.
If it be so, unto the Mother both
Their show of fair instruction make.
This were
Against all rule; for even with a mind
Omniscient in art it were a fault
To mount the judge’s seat in camera,
Without assessors: the unaided judgment
Was ever fallible.
I am awake, fool,
And see, though you would to my waking eyes
Persuade me that I am asleep and blind.
She turns in jealous anger her face from the King.
Agnimitra, motioning to Cowshiqie, points to the Queen.
Though it be moonlike bright, yet turn not thus
Thy face of beauty, child, from eyes that love,
For a nothing. Even o’er their subject lords
Fair women nobly bred use not to wield,
Causeless, a tyrant wrath.
Not causeless, lady.
The loyal mind must by whate’er device
Save its own party from defeat. You’re lucky,
Good Ganadas,– rescued by woman’s wit
Under this fair pretence of wrath! I see,
Good training always can be bettered, sirs,
And tutoring makes perfect.
Listen, lady,
Thus are we construed! Therefore must I deem
Myself cast off, disowned, discharged my place
Who, challenged in debate and confident
To show the skilful transference of my art,
Stand by my lady interdict.
(rises from his seat as if to go)
What help?
The Master of his school is autocrat,
His pupils’ sovereign. I am dumb.
In vain
Was I so long alarmed then; still I keep
My lady’s favour.
But since the Queen, my lord,
Has given her sanction, name the scenic plot
Whose rendering into studied dance shall prove
The teacher masterly.
You rule here, Mother.
Something still works within my lady’s mind
Yet ireful-unappeased. This gives me pause.
Apprehend nothing, speak. Always I am
Lady and absolute over mine own household.
O’er these and over me too, dearest lady.
Come, Mother, speak.
I choose, my lord, the dance
They call the Dance of Double Entendre, complete
In four brief parts of lyric motion. Both
Shall so enact a single argument
And the gradations twixt these two shall best
Be judged of worse or better point by point.
This we approve.
Let both your factions then
Make in the Theatre-Hall good scenic show
And when all’s ready, send your messenger
To call us, or better the deep tambour’s bruit
Shall draw us from our chairs.
We shall do so.
Go and prevail! Think me not heart-opposed
Or careless of my Master’s victory.
Stay! More to mark each studious grace of limb,
Movement and beauty, let the characters
Enter, not by their stage apparel cumbered,
But loosely robed as in their natural hours.
I speak this in my office as a judge
To both of you.
We had done this, uncounselled.
My lord, my lord, in your affairs of State
Could you but show as deft a management,
As supple a resource, the realm indeed
Would profit!
Let not your swift brain conceive
Misunderstanding merely; not of mine
Is this an acted plot. Ever we see
Equal proficiency in one same art
Breed jealousies emulous of place and justling
Each other’s glory.
The sound of a tambour within.
Hark, the overture!
To the deep Peacock-passion modulated
Twixt high and base, the tambour’s rolling voice
Its melody half-thundrous measures out
To the exultant mind, that lifts itself
To listen. Hark! The peacocks cry, misled,
With rain-expectant throats upraised to heaven,
Thinking a reboant thunder-cloud’s alarum
Is riding on the wind.
We should be swift
To form the audience, madam.
How has my lord
Forgot his breeding!
A gallop and my lady puts the snaffle
Of disappointment on.
I strive for patience,
But the loud tambour thunders haste to me;
It seems the passionate feet of my desire
As it descends to me with armèd tread
Sounding gigantic on the stairs of heaven.
Appendix. A Fragment from Act II
My lord, the dance we show, epode and ode,
Strophe and antistrophe, in four parts
Of middle time compact – Sarmishta made,
Yayati’s wife in the great olden days –
Of which the fourth last act let the Kind Sir
Give all his mind to hear.
From high respect I owe
The great Stage-master I am all attention.