The Little Clay Cart: Act the Fifth: The Storm

THE STORM

[The love-lorn Chārudatta appears, seated.]

Chārudatta. [Looks up.]

AN untimely storm 1 is gathering. For see!

The peacocks gaze and lift their fans on high;
The swans forget their purpose to depart;
The untimely storm afflicts the blackened sky,
And the wistful lover's heart.

And again:

The wet bull's belly wears no deeper dye;
In flashing lightning's golden mantle clad,
While cranes, his buglers, make the heaven glad,
The cloud, a second Vishnu, 2 mounts the sky.

And yet again:

As dark as Vishnu's form, with circling cranes
To trumpet him, instead of bugle strains,
And garmented in lightning's silken robe,
Approaches now the harbinger of rains.

When lightning's lamp is lit, the silver river
Impetuous falls from out the cloudy womb;
Like severed lace from heaven-cloaking gloom,
It gleams an instant, then is gone forever.

Like shoaling fishes, or like dolphins shy,
Or like to swans, toward heaven's vault that fly,
Like paired flamingos, male and mate together,
Like mighty pinnacles that tower on high,

The sky is black as Dhritarāshtra's face;
Proud as the champion of Kuru's race,
The haughty peacock shrills his joy abroad;
The cuckoo, in Yudhishthira's sad case,
Is forced to wander if he would not die;
The swans must leave their forest-homes and fly,
Like Pāndu's sons, to seek an unknown place.

[Reflecting.] It is long since Maitreya went to visit Vasantasenā. And even yet he does not come.

[Enter Maitreya.]

Maitreya. Confound the courtezan's avarice and her incivility! To think of her making so short a story of it! Over and over she repeats something about the affection she feels, and then without more ado she pockets the necklace. She is rich enough so that she might at least have said: "Good Maitreya, rest a little. You must not go until you have had a cup to drink." Confound the courtezan! I hope I'll never set eyes on her again. [Wearily.] The proverb is right. " It is hard to find a lotus-plant without a root, a merchant who never cheats, a goldsmith who never steals, a village-gathering without a fight, and a courtezan without avarice." Well, I'll find my friend and persuade him to have nothing more to do with this courtezan. [He walks about until he discovers Chārudatta.] Ah, my good friend is sitting in the orchard. I'll go to him. [Approaching.] Heaven bless you! May happiness be yours.

Chārudatta. [Looking up.] Ah, my friend Maitreya has returned. You are very welcome, my friend. Pray be seated.

Maitreya. Thank you.

Chārudatta. Tell me of your errand, my friend.

Maitreya. My errand went all wrong.

1 and took it.

Chārudatta. Then why do you say "went wrong"?

Maitreya. Why not, when we lost a necklace that was the pride of the four seas for a cheap golden casket, that was stolen before we had a bite or a drink out of it?

Chārudatta. Not so, my friend.

She showed her trust in leaving us her treasure;
The price of confidence has no less measure.

Maitreya. Now look here! I have a second grievance. She tipped her friend the wink, covered her face with the hem of her dress, and laughed at me. And so, Brahman though I am, I hereby fall on my face before you and beg you not to have anything more to do with this courtezan. That sort of society does any amount of damage. A courtezan is like a pebble in your shoe. It hurts before you get rid of it. And one thing more, my friend. A courtezan, an elephant, a scribe, a mendicant friar, a swindler, and an ass—where these dwell, not even rogues are born.

Chārudatta. Oh, my friend, a truce to all your detraction! My poverty of itself prevents me. For consider:

The horse would gladly hasten here and there,
But his legs fail him, for his breath departs.
So men's vain wishes wander everywhere,
Then, weary grown, return into their hearts.

Then too, my friend:

If wealth is thine, the maid is thine,
For maids are won by gold;

[Aside. And not by virtue cold. Aloud.]

But wealth is now no longer mine,
And her I may not hold.

Aloud.] Well, she told me to tell you that she would have to come here this evening. I suppose she isn't satisfied with the necklace and is coming to look for something else.

Chārudatta. Let her come, my friend. She shall not depart unsatisfied.

[Enter Kumbhīlaka.]

Kumbhīlaka. Listen, good people.

The more it rains in sheets,
The more my skin gets wet;
The more the cold wind beats,
The more I shake and fret.

[He bursts out laughing.]

I make the sweet flute speak from seven holes,
I make the loud lute speak on seven strings;
In singing, I essay the donkey's rôles:
No god can match my music when he sings.

My mistress Vasantasenā said to me "Kumbhīlaka, go and tell Chārudatta that I am coming." So here I am, on my way to Chārudatta's house. [He walks about, and, as he enters, discovers Chārudatta.] Here is Chārudatta in the orchard. And here is that wretched jackanapes, too. Well, I'll go up to them. What! the orchard-gate is shut? Good! I'll give this jackanapes a hint. [He throws lumps of mud.]

Maitreya. Well! Who is this pelting me with mud, as if I were an apple-tree inside of a fence?

Chārudatta. Doubtless the pigeons that play on the roof of the garden-house.

Maitreya. Wait a minute, you confounded pigeon! With this stick I'll bring you down from the roof to the ground, like an over-ripe mango. [He raises his stick and starts to run.]

Kumbhīlaka. And what makes you hoot like an owl with your "whowhowho"?

Maitreya. All right. Tell me.

Kumbhīlaka. [Aside.] Suppose I say it this way. [Aloud.] I'll give you a riddle, man.

Maitreya. And I'll give you the answer with my foot on your bald spot.

Kumbhīlaka. Not till you've guessed it. In what season do the mango-trees blossom?

Maitreya. In summer, you jackass.

Kumbhīlaka. [Laughing.] Wrong!

Maitreya. [Aside.] What shall I say now? [Reflecting.] Good! I'll go and ask Chārudatta. [Aloud.] Just wait a moment. [Approaching Chārudatta.] My friend, I just wanted to ask you in what season the mango-trees blossom.

[Exit.

Maitreya. Do you see why she comes in a storm like this?

Chārudatta. I do not quite understand, my friend.

Maitreya. I know. She has an idea that the pearl necklace is cheap, and the golden casket expensive. She isn't satisfied, and she has come to look for something more.

Chārudatta. [Aside.] She shall not depart unsatisfied.

[Then enter the love-lorn Vasantasenā, in a splendid garment, fit for a woman who goes to meet her lover, a maid with an umbrella, and the courtier.]

Courtier. [Referring to Vasantasenā.]

Lakshmī 1 without the lotus-flower is she,
Loveliest arrow of god Kāma's bow, 2
The sweetest blossom on love's magic tree.

See how she moves, so gracefully and slow!
In passion's hour she still loves modesty;
In her, good wives their dearest sorrow know.

When passion's drama shall enacted be,
When on love's stage appears the passing show,
A host of wanderers shall bend them low,
Glad to be slaves in such captivity.

The clouds hang drooping to the mountain peaks,
Like a maiden's heart, that distant lover seeks:
The peacocks startle, when the thunder booms,
And fan the heaven with all their jeweled plumes.

And again:

Mud-stained, and pelted by the streaming rain,
To drink the falling drops the frogs are fain;
Full-throated peacocks love's shrill passion show,
And nīpa flowers like brilliant candles glow;
Unfaithful clouds obscure the hostage moon,
Like knaves, unworthy of so dear a boon;
Like some poor maid of better breeding bare,
The impatient lightning rests not anywhere.

Vasantasenā. 1 Sir, what you say is most true. For

The night, an angry rival, bars my way;
Her thunders fain would check and hinder me:
"Fond fool! with him I love thou shalt not stay,
’Tis I, ’tis I, he loves," she seems to say,
"Nor from my swelling bosom shall he flee."

Courtier. Yes, yes. That is right. Scold the night.

Vasantasenā. And yet, sir, why scold one who is so ignorant of woman's nature? For you must remember:

The clouds may rain, may thunder ne’er so bold,
May flash the lightning from the sky above;
That woman little reeks of heat or cold,
Who journeys to her love.

Courtier. But see, Vasantasenā! Another cloud,

Sped by the fickle fury of the air
A flood of arrows in his rushing streams,
His drum, the roaring thunder's mighty blare,
His banner, living lightning's awful gleams—

Vasantasenā. True, true. And more than this:

As dark as elephants, these clouds alone
Fall like a cruel dart—
With streaks of lightning and with white birds strewn—
To wound my wretched heart.
But, oh, why should the heron, bird of doom,
With that perfidious sound 1
Of "Rain! Rain! Rain!"—grim summons to the tomb
For her who spends her lonely hours in gloom—
Strew salt upon the wound?

Courtier. Very true, Vasantasenā. And yet again:

It seems as if the sky would take the guise
Of some fierce elephant to service bred;
The lightning like a waving streamer flies,
And white cranes serve to deck his mighty head.

Vasantasenā. But look, sir, look!

Clouds, black as wet tamāla-leaves, the ball
Of heaven hide from our sight;
Rain-smitten homes of ants decay and fall
Like beasts that arrows smite;
Like golden lamps within a lordly hall
Wander the lightnings bright;
As when men steal the wife of some base thrall,
Clouds rob the moon of light.

Courtier. See, Vasantasenā, see!

Clouds, harnessed in the lightning's gleams,
Like charging elephants dash by;

And look yonder!

As herds of buffaloes the clouds are black;
The winds deny them ease;
They fly on lightning wings and little lack
Of seeming troubled seas.

Smitten with falling drops, the fragrant sod,
Upon whose bosom greenest grasses nod,
Seems pierced with pearls, each pearl an arrowy rod.

Vasantasenā. And here is yet another cloud.

The peacock's shrill-voiced cry
Implores it to draw nigh;
And ardent cranes on high
Embrace it lovingly.

The wistful swans espy
The lotus-sweeter sky;
The darkest colors lie
On heaven clingingly.

Courtier. True. For see!

A thousand lotuses that bloom by night,
A thousand blooming when the day is bright,
Nor close nor ope their eyes to heaven's sight;
There is no night nor day.

The face of heaven, thus shrouded in the night,
Is only for a single instant bright,
When momentary lightning gives us sight;
Else is it dark alway.