महावीरचरितम् (महाकवि भवभूति - वीररस-प्रधान रामकथा नाटक सम्पूर्ण ७ अङ्क सटीक)

Introduction [lxx to link the main plot more closely to the by-plot, since it is the event of which the union of the two pairs of lovers is the immediate sequel. The purpose of the second episode is merely to thrill the audience and to satisfy the human craving for the marvellous and even the gruesome. The first episode comes about in this way. A clandestine marriage between Mālatī and Mādhava having been decided upon, Kāmandakī secures the opportunity as follows: It was announced that the marriage of Mālatī and Nandana would be celebrated in the evening; and, according to the custom, Mālatī was to go just before the marriage to one of the city temples and there duly worship the Goddess. It is prearranged that Mādhava and Makaranda should go beforehand into the temple and there remain hidden. Mālatī, who however is quite in ignorance of what was to follow, approaches; the attendants stand outside, only her trusty com- panion and confidante, Lavaṅgikā, going with her into the interior. Then after a scene (act vi) which is one of the best in the play, the whole plot is revealed. Makaranda was to put on the dress of Mālatī¹ and join the marriage procession and be married to the unsuspecting Nandana, Mādhava in the meantime taking the real Mālatī with him to a place prepared for them and being formally married to her. 33, E.—The same stratagem was to give Makaranda his wife—Mada- yantikā, sister of Nandana. For, after the marriage of the pseudo-Mālatī with Nandana, when the latter meets his supposed wife and makes her advances of love, he receives a cold rebuff, and finally a kick. The bride- groom walks away in high dudgeon. Now Madayantikā, the bridegroom's sister, hearing of the infamous treatment her brother received at the hands of the new bride, comes to her room to expostulate with her. What follows is easily imagined. Makaranda throws off his disguise and elopes with Madayantikā. Had he been able to reach the appointed place in safety and solemnize the marriage, the play would have ended smoothly but much too early (end of act viii). The only difficulty then would have been to pacify the king, which would not have been very difficult perhaps. What actually happens is that, as Makaranda is escaping from Nandana's house, he unexpectedly comes upon certain night-watches who challenge him. A skirmish ensues. More guards are sent, and Mādhava, hearing of the news, runs to his friend's rescue. The two friends fight so bravely that the king, who was aroused and was watching their valour, is moved to pardon them; and, coming to know of all the facts, he even acknowledges the two marriages. ¹ In judging the verisimilitude of this inci- Mālatī herself was very probably taken dent, we must consider that the part of by a man (see appendix 11).

lxxi] Early Plays : Mālatī-Mādhava 33, F.—Here at any rate the play might very naturally end ; but no. The poet wants (see i. 6) to make as diversified an appeal as he can, and so he has introduced the second episode. It seems that at Padmāvatī, in the cremation-ground close by the river, there was a temple of the Goddess Karālā (the Terrible). This Goddess is very fond of blood, and her votaries wear garlands of skulls, and offer her animal sacrifices (sometimes even human sacrifices), and in return she grants them magic powers, such as flying through the air, rendering oneself invisible, and so forth.¹ On the very night of the day when Mālatī and Mādhava meet in the garden, and Makaranda kills the tiger—it being the uncanny night that precedes the new moon—a certain Kāpālika, Aghoraghaṇṭa by name, has arranged to offer a human sacrifice, and Mālatī is chosen as the victim. Kapālakuṇḍalā, the female disciple of Aghoraghaṇṭa, has all in readiness, and they are about to immolate Mālatī, when Mādhava, hearing Mālatī's cry, appears on the scene and rescues her. The opportune presence of Mādhava in the dead of night, and upon the cremation-ground, was, the poet frankly admits (v. 28), the merest chance. Mādhava was there trying to propitiate in some occult way the ghouls and other uncanny beings who infest such places. Mādhava kills Aghoraghaṇṭa, though he permits Kapālakuṇḍalā— as she was a woman—to escape. 33, G.—Out of this escape comes the second hairbreadth escape of Mālatī. Kapālakuṇḍalā longs to avenge the death of her master ; and just when everything seems to be going well—Mādhava married to Mālatī, Makaranda securely in possession of Madayantikā, and even the king himself induced to pardon the two lovers,—she finds an opportunity to pounce upon Mālatī and lead her off with intent to kill her. There is general grief and lamentation, which fills the whole of act ix and a part of act x. This time Mālatī is saved by another fortuitous coincidence. We have already spoken (§ 33, A) of Saudāminī, the pupil of Kāmandakī. She apparently had become an adept in occult sciences, and having by chance come upon Kapālakuṇḍalā, she reproves her, rescues Mālatī from her hands, and restores her to her sorrowing relatives, and the play ends happily. 34. Mālatī-Mādhava : criticism of the plot.—It would be easy, of course, to criticize the plot by saying that it is no more than a loose patchwork : it lacks the consistency, the inevitableness, that should belong to every dramatic action. The poet evidently wishes to represent Kāman- dakī as an expert in underhand diplomacy. She is in fact the arch-plotter ¹ Bhavabhūti, like other people of his time (see Bāṇa, Harsha-charita, iii, story of Bhairavāchārya), implicitly believed in these powers, so that we cannot reason- ably charge him with an illicit intro- duction of the supernatural.

Introduction [lxxii in the play; but her own scheming contributes far less to the ultimate result than does mere chance. In this connexion the Kapālakuṇḍalā episode is what is most frequently criticized. It gives the poet the chance to describe the cemetery-scenes, or to indulge (acts ix and x) in a pathetic outpouring of song, but it serves no other purpose. Some go so far as to suppose that this entire episode is a later addition by the poet, prompted by a desire to emulate Kālidāsa (see § 7 above): it did not belong to the poet's original conception of the plot. It would seem that a good case could be made in favour of this theory, especially if we take into account the number of lines and stanzas and parts of stanzas that we find common¹ to this play and to the Uttara-Rāma-charita, after the completion of which latter play Bhavabhūti is believed to have reverted to the former play and enlarged it. Now although it be true (see appendixes 6 and 8) that Bhavabhūti did revise his own plays, I

lxxiii] Early Plays : Mālatī-Mādhava been inserted later into the M. M. But we must remember that much of the talk of love and grief in the M. M. is purely conventional, and it need not surprise us if the stanza after all did originally belong to it. Compare in this connexion M. M. act i, stanza 34ᶜ, where the hero talks of the moon, when it is full day. 35. Technique of the Mālatī-Mādhava.—From the preceding analysis of the plot it is clear that in sheer inventiveness of incidents Bhavabhūti has now attained considerable power, although he does not quite realize that a mere string of incidents, however exciting or dramatic, does not necessarily lead to a climax nor give a real unity of plot. Secondly, the poet recognizes the value of suspense, but it is the sort of suspense which results from an incipient fatalism. Neither in the situation, nor in the characters, nor again in the background on which they are thrown in the early part of the play, is there a foreshadowing of the final dénouement as a thing inevitable or even antecedently probable. In defence it may be urged that, after all, chances do occur in the world as it is constituted, and that the dramatist has really no right to rule chance entirely out of his creation and make the latter a rational system conformable to the demands of his own philosophy. Consider, for instance, Shakespeare's Hamlet or Romeo and Juliet. It is not antecedently necessary for the dénouement of these plays that Ophelia should die, or that Friar John be ‘stay'd by accident’ and not deliver the letter. Laertes might just as well have avenged the death of his father without Ophelia's drowning, and the Capulets and the Montagues might just as well have been induced to join hands and merge old feuds at the wedding of their children as at their funeral. But these irrational accidents came to Shakespeare as parts of the story proper, and the audience was willing to accept the dramatist’s statement, just as we should accept that of a traveller, provided it did not overtax our credulity. More important it is to inquire if there is any dramatic justification for these accidents: any attempt, in other words, to place us in that frame of mind in which we instinctively seem to scent dangers long before they come—scent dangers that do not come. Bhavabhūti has done something of the kind. Compare, for instance, passages like iv. 4ᵇ, iv. 7; v. 27³, v. 28; viii. 10, viii. 14; ix. 8ᵈ, ix. 39, ix. 49; x. 13; &c. Here the poet seems to be purposely dwelling on the fickleness of Fortune, the instability of all mundane existence. This gives us the necessary mood. Stanza viii. 10 is particularly significant in this connexion. 36. Mālatī-Mādhava : its advance over the Mahāvīra-charita.—We found (see § 31) the Mahāvīra-charita weak in characterization. In the k [H.O.S. 21]

Introduction [lxxiv Mālatī-Mādhava Bhavabhūti is, for the first time, truly creating character, and developing it by making it react upon its environment. This will be evident if we compare Mālyavant with Kāmandakī, Sītā with Mālatī. Mālyavant, the diplomat of the Mahāvīra-charita, is purely an academic figure. He chops logic rather too freely, and shows a preternatural insight as to the future success or failure of his schemes. There is no feeling in his strategy, and his very lamentations in act vi seem to be 'made to order'. Contrast with him Kāmandakī, who plays a similar rôle in the Mālatī-Mādhava. In her we find a genuine old lady, shrewd and resourceful, and full of learning and devotion and affection (see especially act vi, end), although one often wishes that her knowledge had not been so versatile.¹ Compare again Sītā, as she is depicted in the Mahāvīra-charita, with the Mālatī of this play. Sītā, the moment she sees Rāma, feels a striking partiality for him, just as Sītā's sister feels for Rāma's brother. All seems to be pre-arranged: a sort of pre-natal relation, a falling in love at first sight reduced to a wooden mechanism. The same is true of the passage of love and tenderness in the second act of the Mahāvīra-charita, where Sītā seems, in a few minutes, to grow from a demure bride into a matron of phenomenal maturity of thought and sentiment. How different from her is Mālatī—tossed in the conflict between her love (intense but never obtru- sive) for Mādhava and her duty of submission to her parents' wishes, a duty to which, in spite of all the artful machinations of Kāmandakī (§ 33, B) and even after the incident in the temple of Karālā (§ 33, F), she holds firmly, so that she is ready rather to commit suicide (cp. M. M. ii. 2, vi. 8¹⁻⁵) than do anything unworthy of a modest, well-bred girl! The same traits of her character are again brought out in that admirable love-scene² between Mādhava and Mālatī in the beginning of act viii. Among other merits of the Mālatī-Mādhava we may mention that the language—particularly of the three or four best scenes in the play—is extremely good, and we also find some genuinely poetic imagery and feeling. The description of the cremation-ground at night (act v) and of the forest scenery (act ix) are some of the best that the poet ever wrote, although they may here and there seem to be overdrawn and out of place ¹ She had studied the Kāma-śāstra, and, what is more, she liked to make a display of her learning; or rather it is Bhavabhūti who speaks through her and Lavaṅgikā and Madayantikā. We will return to this point presently. ² It does not seem to have been sufficiently realized that Bhavabhūti is in this scene following very closely the instruc- tions in Kāma-sūtra, iii. 2, even to such details as Mālatī's reply (nāhaṁ kiṁ pi jānāmi: viii. 4¹³) and her earlier gestures.

lxxv] Early Plays: Mālatī-Mādhava in a play proper.¹ Taken as a whole the play may unhesitatingly be pronounced to be, both in substance and in form, a decided advance over the Mahāvīra-charita. It was written with the distinct purpose of avoiding some of the faults of his earlier work (see M. M. i. 8), and its technique is much more conscious and deliberate. 37. Defects of the Mālatī-Mādhava.—We have already commented upon the defects in the structure of the plot. In a word the play may be said to give us a particularly vivid form of story-telling, with a number of conscious critical approaches to dramatic technique. What the poet needs now is practice and, as a natural result of it, a toning down of the youthful exuberances that still mar the play. Thus we find here a constant tendency to exaggerate, to over-emphasize so as to drive a thing home, and this cannot have been wholly the result of the dullness, the tardy responsiveness, of his audience; a part of it at least must be charged to the poet's lack of restraint. He gives us dozens of long descriptions, full of lengthy compounds and mouth-filling phrases, where his delight in words as words is quite evident. It may be that his audience also shared his delight, and if only the passage as a whole conveyed an emotional mood and if that mood was adequately interpreted in suitable action, they did not care what the passage really meant. We may also note that the compounds though long are not usually involved, so that on the whole it is fairly smooth sailing. Another characteristic defect of the play is its sentimentality. In the first act, for instance, Mādhava's love seems to be a purely intellectual affair. He loves being in love and talking about his love; and throughout the play he seems to be intent on showing how ‘we that are true lovers’² love and run into risks and get separated and weep and even commit suicide à la mode de Kāma-śāstra or some other Śāstra. The long Prākrit descriptions (iii. 12⁸⁻⁴³, vii. 0⁷⁹⁻⁹¹, vii. 1²⁰⁻⁴⁷, and elsewhere) might just as well have been, like the love-scene in act viii, taken bodily over from some ancient treatise;³ and it is quite conceivable, seeing that the descriptions are in the vernacular, that they were expressly meant for the ‘groundlings’ who perhaps had a special relish for such topics; and in that case the long

¹ We must, however, remember that such descriptions have a value and a purpose, especially if the stage-properties be meagre. To me Hamlet's '’Tis now the very witching time of night' (iii. 2. 406 ff.) is more blood-curdling than all the stage- effects that electricity and modern science can produce. For a detailed statement as to the stage-conditions in Ancient India, see appendix 11. ² As You Like It, ii. 4. 55. ³ Such as that of Aṅgiras which Bhavabhūti quotes in M. M. ii. 2¹⁵. Vātsyāyana’s Kāma-sūtra gives the quoted passage as an anonymous view in iii. 1 (Durgāpra- sāda's ed., p. 194). We have already (§ 31) commented upon the poet’s fond- ness for displaying his learning.

Introduction [lxxvi compounds would rather show that Bhavabhūti did not care to make the thing too easily understood. The standards and limits of propriety as well as of prudery are different for different people, and for different epochs in the social development of the same people; and since Bhavabhūti was in this play evidently straining for effect and eager to secure from every different element of his audience all possible emotional response, any wholesale condemnation of the poet on this score would be as unfair as a similar condemnation of certain free passages in Shakespeare's poems and plays, or of the erotic verse of some of the early Christian writers.¹ The Present Play: Uttara-Rāma-charita 38. Transition to the Uttara-Rāma-charita.—Between the two plays that we have been hitherto considering and the play before us we must assume an interval of time sufficient to account for its almost perfect development in form and technique. The poet himself calls this play a product of his mature genius.² Presumably therefore in the interval the poet was acquiring more practice—writing more dramas; but unfortunately none of these intervening attempts have survived. We have given above (§ 15) the external evidence that inclines us to assume such lost works; but were this evidence entirely lacking, it would yet be hard to believe that the transition from the earlier to the later work—a transition which is no ess significant than the transition from Love's Labour's Lost to Romeo and Juliet—was all made without any intermediate steps; and when we remember that there was no printing in those days and that even the manuscripts themselves (especially of works not produced for the court and not patronized by the king) did not command any extensive circulation; and when we recall further that, even with more favourable conditions, nearly half the Elizabethan dramatic literature is now almost entirely lost to us,— we need not wonder at this regrettable loss, nor grow sceptical about the existence of works other than those that have actually survived the ravages of human and non-human enemies of letters. We turn now to a consideration of the present play, which is Bhava- bhūti's masterpiece and which has earned for him, by a consensus of opinion among scholars ancient and modern, a position at least equal to

¹ I would therefore entirely dissent from     Dr. Gray when, in an otherwise very     kindly intentioned passage, he says (Vāsa-     vadattā, introduction, p. 28): ‘There     are personal descriptions more de-     tailed than would be desirable in the     Occidental literature, together with evi-     dent approval of relations and ideals which     the less sensual Western mind rightly condemns.’     The italics are mine. ² Compare U. R. C. vii. 20ᵈ. The allusion is     purposely veiled.

lxxvii] Uttara-Rāma-Charita: Critical Estimate that of Kālidāsa, the current view being¹ that in the Uttara-Rāma-charita Bhavabhūti has even surpassed the so-called ‘Shakespeare of India’. We have given for this play in the sequel (pp. 4–14) a synoptic analysis of its plot act by act, and have tried to show the bearing of every act (and scene) upon the dénouement of the play. We will here limit ourselves to a few general criticisms. 39. Special features of the Uttara-Rāma-charita.—The play, as its title shows, treats of the later history of Rāma, from his coronation and the abandonment of Sītā to the final reunion. As we have seen (pp. liv– lxviii), the main incidents of the story—the circumstances leading to the abandonment of Sītā, her rescue, the birth of the twins and their education, the horse-sacrifice and the heroism displayed by the boys in capturing the horse, their recognition by Rāma, the final ordeal of Sītā, and presumably also the final reunion,—these were all given to the poet, not excepting even the Śambūka episode (act ii) and the Lavaṇa affair (end of act i and of act vii). The poet’s task therefore was not to create a plot, nor even to make any considerable change in the sequence of given events and connect them causally, as was the case in the two earlier plays. The problem to be answered was briefly this: How could Rāma ever think of abandoning such a wife as Sītā? and, having abandoned her—for whatever cause—how could they be again united in any real sense until all clouds, all vestiges of doubt and distrust, had been entirely banished from their minds? The Dushyanta of Kālidāsa not only repudiates Śakuntalā, but actually insults her to her face (Śākuntala, act v, Vyapadeśam āvilayitum, &c.); and yet, when the reunion comes in act vii, Śakuntalā has no other proof as to the penitence of the king than the indirect report coming from her mother’s friend, and presumably the sad and wasted form of her husband when she first beholds him after a separation of years. True, the king begs her to forgive him (act vii: Sutanu hṛdayāt pratyā- deśa-vyalīkam, &c.), but Śakuntalā has already acknowledged and accepted him quietly before that, although her early experience of ‘that jar of poison with honey on top’ might have taught her a lesson.² Similarly

¹ Uttare Rāma-charite Bhavabhūtir viśishyate. ² Of course, Kālidāsa, with the instinct of an artist, has tried to lessen the suddenness of the transition in various ways. One in particular must here be noted, since its artistic significance has not been suffi- ciently recognized; namely the difference in the background of act vii of the play as contrasted with that of the first and the following two acts. That of act vii is a hermitage in the sky far removed from the world, its passions, its hopes (Yat kāṅkshanti tapobhir anya-munayas tas- miṁs tapasyanty amī); that of acts i–iii is a forest on earth, a penance-grove if you will, but it is in the full bloom of spring. The wild infuriated elephant which breaks in at the end of act i, and the mild forgiving lioness in act vii which Sarvadamana robs of her cub, express

Introduction. [lxxviii in The Winter's Tale it is a much grosser insult and far too unkind a treatment which Hermione receives, and yet she is reconciled to her husband on the evidence of hearsay reports of Paulina, and possibly his expressions of remorse in the statue-scene. Apparently, Bhavabhūti was not satisfied with such inadequate motivation: he was not content to bring somehow the estranged pair together and then leave them to settle their causes of dispute later—amicably or otherwise. He felt that a reunion, to be perfect, must first be a reunion of hearts; and this was the psychological problem which he deliberately proposed to himself in this play, especially in the first three acts. The complicated chain of events leading to the actual reunion and the recognition of the princes forms the burden of the last four acts. 40. Technical perfection of the opening act of the Uttara-Rāma- charita.—Nothing can show more clearly the advance which Bhavabhūti had made in his technique than a careful study of the first act of the Uttara-Rāma-charita in relation to its significance for the final dénouement. This is the act in which Rāma abandons Sītā. The prologue has already informed us (i. 6) of the circulation of a rumour which, when it reaches Rāma, makes him decide upon the abandonment of his wife. Before the rumour actually reaches him, however, it was necessary for the poet to make clear to the audience several essential points. (1) That Rāma himself would put no faith in the rumour; this is effected by U. R. C. i. 12⁸–i. 14. Lakshmaṇa might just as well have said that the pictures ended with ‘our return from Laṅkā’, or ‘our meeting with Bharata in Nandigrāma’; but he (unintentionally) happens to mention Sītā’s fire- ordeal, and that gives the poet his chance. (2) That in nevertheless abandoning his wife on the basis of this false rumour, Rāma was obeying the higher call of what he owed as a king to his subjects. A king and his affairs must be above even the faintest possibility of suspicion. This stern conception of duty, and the readiness to sacrifice everything for it, is illustrated not only by i. 12 or i. 41, 42, 44, but even in the very first speech that Rāma makes (i. 7⁴–i. 8). We here get the first distant echoes, as it were, of a storm that is brewing. (3) That Sītā would understand Rāma’s higher motive, and would have gone herself voluntarily into exile if necessary (i. 12¹). What Sītā did resent was not that she was abandoned, but that she was abandoned in so heartless a fashion (i. 49) without her having the faintest inkling of whither she was being led and why. symbolically this difference in atmo- sphere. It is for a similar purpose that Bhavabhūti has placed the great reconciliation scene of U. R. C. act iii in the Pañchavaṭī, ‘every spot in which, unto those manifold expressions of our unreserved endear- ments, can bear testimony.’

lxxix]    Uttara-Rāma-Charita: Critical Estimate Wherefore did Rāma follow this unstraightforward course? In order to motivate this act adequately the poet (4) places Rāma in a peculiar situation: He is newly crowned (i. 8⁶) and has just taken upon himself the heavy responsibilities of the state; and every man who knows what it is to take charge of a new and important office will fully understand Rāma's conscientiousness, his anxious care not to seem to be wanting in the due discharge of his duties. Further Rāma is alone (i. 3); the elders and advisers, who presumably might have restrained him from such im- petuous acts, are away (ii. 6¹⁰); and his forlornness has been brought home to him (i. 11) and has thrown him into a sort of nervous excitement just a little before the crisis comes which calls for immediate action. If the matter to be decided upon had been some non-personal affair of state, Rāma might have settled it in the way best for all; but where it was a personal affair of state, it was to be expected that he would be more rigorously self-exacting than was either right or just to himself. Finally, it was necessary to make clear (5) that, having abandoned his wife, Rāma would nevertheless suffer, and so would Sītā. The picture-gallery episode serves to show how dearly they loved each other, how they could not bear even the thought of living away from each other (i. 27²⁻⁶, i. 30, i. 33¹⁴).   To bring out vividly these five points would have been achievement enough for one act, but Bhavabhūti is not content with that. In act i he is thinking of act vii, and so, besides giving us the dohada affair (i. 10¹, i. 33³) which serves as the immediate pretext for Sītā's banishment, the act gives us also the jṛimbhaka incident (i. 15²), which plays such a signal part in the recognition of the princes, as well as the allusions to Bhāgīrathī (i. 23¹) and Pṛithivī (i. 51), who later take charge of the abandoned Sītā¹ and bring her into the action at the proper time. Two more points, which perhaps are not so very obvious at first sight: When we learn that Rāma has caused to be painted, on the walls of his palace, scenes from his past career—that career wherein Sītā was so prominent a figure,—and when we see the intense feeling and devoutness with which he looks at the pictures and recalls the memory of his past life with his beloved,—we can then readily understand his passionate clinging to these dear memories (iii. 14⁴, iii. 43¹³, vi. 38), and the source of mournful comfort that he will find therein even after the loss of his wife, so that we do not have to be actually told that Rāma did not marry a second time. Of course, he did not and would

¹ Herein Bhavabhūti departs from his sources.    in his hermitage. Bhavabhūti wanted to   It was Vālmīki who, both according to     keep the twins ignorant of their parent-   the Rāmāyaṇa and the Padma-Purāṇa,     age; hence the change.   took charge of Sītā and gave her a shelter

Introduction [lxxx not and could not. Secondly, there is, to my mind, a peculiarly dramatic appropriateness in the fact that the play—I mean the play proper—should open with a speech of Rāma (i. 8⁴) that was meant to console his wife for a thing which had happened and which could not but happen: the separation from her dear relatives and elders. Here we have the very keynote of the play struck once and for all. When to all this we add that the language of the entire act is exceptionally rich and poetic, that there is hardly a sentence or even a phrase which we would wish were not there,¹ hardly a word which is not just the right word, that the poet affords us a deep insight into the workings of the human heart so that the emotional tone is genuine and not mawkish or sentimental (as it was in some parts of his earlier plays), and that the whole is arranged in a sequence which is entirely natural and clearly shows that Bhavabhūti has at last mastered the art of condensing and enlarging, of choosing and omitting, and above all has learned the value of restraint,—with that we have said our last word in praise of this act and of the dramatic technique that is involved in the writing of it. 41. The Uttara-Rāma-charita as a psychological study.—In acts ii and iii we have Bhavabhūti in yet another light. Vālmīki's Rāmāyaṇa gives the story of Śambūka in vii. 74–82, and the Padma-Purāṇa gives it in v. 32, 33 and elsewhere. Both these works tell us that Rāma, after killing the Śūdra ascetic, visited the hermitage of Agastya in the Pañcha- vaṭī, but neither is alive to the great poetic opportunity afforded by Rāma's reappearance in the old familiar scenes after the great event of Sītā's abandonment. The Padma-Purāṇa does perhaps vaguely realize the poetic possibilities of the theme (cp. v. 35²⁶ ff.), but the treatment is not to be compared with the splendid descriptive and reflective passages that we find in the Uttara-Rāma-charita, acts ii and iii. For all practical purposes then these acts might be said to be an original work of Bhavabhūti, and we have seen (§ 39) that he had a strong psychological reason for the invention. Let us now see what the poet makes of his opportunities. ¹ For the stage-omission of i. 30⁹ to i. 31ᵈ see appendix 8. With this single ex- ception the themes of the pictures are all well chosen. Each has a distinct purpose. The poet's treatment, of course, is necessarily allusive and the audience could easily fill in the details. His dramatic sense is shown as much by what he keeps as by what he omits; e.g. the Ahalyā incident and the fight with Vālin. Note also that Rāma does not in the play, as he does in the epic (vii. 43 f.), expressly seek information about the kimvadantī (rumour); and he abandons Sītā immediately after his interview with the spy, not the next morning, as in the epic. That the cry for help (i. 49³) should come just at the right moment to remind him of his kingly duty, while at the same time the allusion to Rākshasa- trāsa (fear of demons) should make his heart soften, is also highly artistic. So far as we know, the episode of the picture-gallery is original with Bhava- bhūti.

lxxxi] Uttara-Rāma-Charita: Critical Estimate To begin with, in Rāma there is no change of mood, no development of character. His grief is of the steady abiding kind, only made more intense and alive by the sight of Pañchavaṭī. It is Sītā who passes through a progressive emotional experience, wherein from a feeling of apathy and even resentment towards her husband she, after many a swing of the pendulum, reaches finally a state of confidence and perfect reconciliation. The various psychological moments in this process will be duly set forth in our Notes to the several passages. We will here review them briefly. In iii. 7⁶ Sītā is so thoroughly estranged from Rāma that she finds it impossible to speak of him as ‘My noble Lord (ajjaütta)’, but simply as ‘The King (rāā)’. In iii. 46¹³ she admits that ‘the dart of disgraceful abandonment’¹ has been removed from her heart. What has happened in the interval is that she has seen Rāma, has heard him, has received ample apology for her wrongs. The important point to note, however, is that Sītā did not expect to get this apology, and yet she has it offered to her, and that too in a manner precluding all possibility of Rāma’s being insincere, for he does not know that he is overheard by his wife, or even that his wife is alive. It is also creditable to the poet that all through this mental evolution Sītā does not appear as the stern jurist who refuses to be convinced until the last shred of evidence is in, but always as the true woman and the loving wife that she had never ceased to be. There are three main stages in this process of rapprochement:

1. Seeing Rāma faint and following the impulse of the moment, Sītā runs to his rescue (iii. 10¹), but upon brief reflection she turns to withdraw (iii. 12⁵), and settles down slowly into a mood of despondency and resignation to fate (iii. 22²ᶠᶠ.). Sītā has, however, made sure of one thing: Rāma has not forgotten her, although why he abandoned her is yet a mystery. 2. In the second stage she goes one step further, and, when Vāsantī begins to reprove Rāma for his cruelty to his wife, it is Sītā herself who, with a truly feminine instinct, takes her husband’s part against all attacks from without (iii. 26⁶, iii. 27¹). This self-effacement (iii. 36¹) almost reaches a total surrender of self-respect in iii. 40⁸, but Tamasā’s words (iii. 43) recall her to a truer estimate of her present position. 3. Then follows a second reaction (iii. 43⁹, ¹⁵, iii. 45¹), not so violent as the first; and this is immediately followed by a counter- reaction, especially when she has the assurance that her husband not only loves her as passionately as ever, but will never love or marry another. The inward reconciliation is now complete (iii. 46¹³). ¹ Observe that it is no longer a ‘causeless’ abandonment as it was in iii. 14² and elsewhere. 1 [H.O.S. 21]

Introduction [lxxxii] It is clear that a poet who could fathom so deeply the inmost recesses of the human heart and produce a result which, from beginning to end, is so perfectly artistic because it is so perfectly natural, was a dramatist of no mean order. Similar genuinely human touches are found on almost every page of the drama. 42. Recognition-scene in the sixth act of the Uttara-Rāma-charita.— So far the poet has given us a brilliant opening and a real psychological climax, but the climax of situations is yet to come. In the latter part of the play the great act of course is the sixth, and the poet has been preparing us for it ever since the interlude to act ii. There we hear of the horse-sacrifice for the first time; Rāma confirms the news in iii. 46¹², and towards the end of act iv we actually see the horse. Similarly at the end of act iii Rāma is just starting in his pushpaka car to return to Ayodhyā, and we naturally expect him to see what was happening in Vālmīki's penance-grove on the banks of the Ganges, seeing that it lay just on the way from the south. Thus Rāma's appearance on the scene exactly when he does appear (vi. 6⁴) is adequately explained. Finally, that Lava should see and capture the horse and that a battle should ensue was also quite inevitable. The recognition itself is very artistically conceived and carried out except that here and there a point is rather over-laboured¹—at least so it seems to us, however it may have seemed to Bhavabhūti's audience. The various steps in the process are summarized in our Notes to vi. 27¹, and here we may call attention particularly to the very natural way in which Lava is led to talk of his twin-brother (iv. 22¹⁵⁻⁴¹ and again vi. 15⁴ff.). Notice also how, in regard to the similarity of looks between the father and the sons, which is one of the links in the argument, the poet has tried to gain dramatic probability for the fact by letting at least three other persons besides Rāma himself be impressed by it. The whole recognition scene is worthy to be put on a par with the analogous scene in Kālidāsa's Śākuntala (act vii); in some respects it would seem that Bhavabhūti has made a distinct advance over the latter. A sort of suspense is also created by making the recognition not complete until the very end of the last act. **43. Other merits of the Uttara-Rāma-charita.—**If we compare the interludes in the Uttara-Rāma-charita with those in the Mahāvīra-charita or in the Mālatī-Mādhava, we notice another great advance which the poet has made: he has now recognized the full dramatic value of the interlude. We have no longer some person or persons brought on the stage expressly to give us information (cp. interludes to M. M. ii and vii), nor ¹ I have in mind Rāma's long soliloquy in movement against soliloquies is, however, act vi, particularly vi. 27¹-vi. 28⁴. The distinctly modern.

lxxxiii] Uttara-Rāma-Charita: Critical Estimate a tedious soliloquizer like Mālyavant (cp. interludes to M. V. C. ii and vi) who reveals to us the exact situation of things; neither do the characters begin, as is sometimes done, by expressly telling us who they are and what they are doing (cp. interludes to M. M. v and ix; also M. V. C. iv. 40⁴); but rather we find a group of persons with an individuality of their own who conduct the dialogue and give us the necessary information without seeming to do so. We have some approaches to this in the Mahāvīra- charita (cp. interludes to acts v and vii); but the best interludes are those to acts iv and ii of the Uttara-Rāma-charita. In these interludes there is hardly a word wasted, and they are entirely natural and adequate. The least successful is the one to U. R. C. act vi. Secondly, the poet has developed in this play some remarkable instances of dramatic irony. Thus in that picture-gallery scene of act i, while Rāma and Sītā are enjoying the ‘bliss of sorrows remembered’,¹ looking upon them more or less as things of the past the memory of which is to be revived only to season the cup of present joy, the audience has already heard (i. 6) of the rumour and partly divines the fate that is hanging over the two, so that it fully understands why it is that almost in spite of himself Rāma strikes a sorrowful note ² and seems to have a foreboding of he knows not what. And just at the moment when Rāma bursts into that sublime apostrophe to his sleeping wife (i. 38)—‘What of hers is not dear, save only that unendurable separation?’—the Female-warder's ‘Is come’ does indeed startle Rāma,³ but on the audience it is calculated to produce an impression not unlike that made by Iago’s aside after a similar outburst of Othello (ii. 1. 185).⁴ There is also some clever irony in acts iv and v, and throughout the recognition scene of act vi. Finally, consider how skilfully the author has tried to bridge over the twelve-year interval that separates the first act from the rest of the play.⁵ He brings the fact home to us in various ways. The nature-descriptions in act ii (especially stanza 27) and the account of the young peacock (iii. 19, 20, 21) and the elephant-cub now grown to full maturity (iii. 16, 17) make us realize that during this period growth and change were in constant

¹ Cp. Raghuvaṁśa, xiv. 25. ² Cp. i. 27² to i. 33ᵈ. It is worthy of remark that stanza i. 23, where Rāma invokes the blessings of the Bhāgīrathī, is in the sad dirge-like hariṇī metre. See appendix 1. ³ Cp. note to the English Translation of the passage. ⁴ Othello. O my soul’s joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken’d death! • • • • • Iago (aside). O, you are well tun’d now! But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music. ⁵ Under similar conditions Shakespeare has introduced Time as the Chorus who turns his glass, and leaves ‘the growth untri’d’ (The Winter’s Tale, iv. 1).

Introduction [lxxxiv progress. Men also had grown and witnessed changes of station. Thus king Janaka has for some years given up the offices of state and sought solace in retirement (iv. 12⁷); the demon Lavaṇa, who broke upon us at the close of act i, has been killed and his · kingdom is now in the hands of Śatrughna (vii. 19²⁹; cp. Rāmāyaṇa, vii. 70–71); and the twelve-year session of the sacrifice (i. 4¹, ii. 6¹²) has come to an end. But amid this fluctuation there were also elements of constancy. The mountains remain unchanged (ii. 27ᵈ); the deer still remember her who used to feed them in the kadalī grove in the Pañchavaṭī (iii. 22⁵, 26; cp. also Kādambarī, p. 21, ll. 19–20); Rāma is constant and devoted to the memory of his wife;¹ and above all, the holy pair, Vasiṣṭha and Arundhatī, still continue to guard the interests of the Raghu family, and, out of the calamities that have happened and that they in part had foreseen (iv. 17⁶), they succeed in working a prosperous issue. 44. Defects of the Uttara-Rāma-charita.—The play, in spite of its great excellence, is not entirely free from faults. Thus the poet still retains—though in a far less degree—his old fondness for long descriptions and alliterative compounds. These are particularly obtrusive in acts v and vi. Elsewhere also the poet would have done better to condense and omit so as to secure a general quickening of the action; and if the results of appendixes 6 and 8 are correct, it would seem that the author himself sanctioned such curtailment for stage-purposes. Secondly, Bhavabhūti has not yet quite got over his fondness for display, and his points are sometimes laboured. The sentiment of the play is on the whole very real, but in its expression we sometimes catch a jarring note. Thus Rāma brings his ‘heart’s vitals’ rather too frequently into his speeches, and not all the faintings in the play are as inevitable and as artistically necessary as that of Rāma at iii. 39¹. Particularly infelicitous are the Vidyādhara- Vidyādharī sentiments at vi. 4 ff. and especially vi. 5. Finally, we may mention that in none of Bhavabhūti’s extant plays do we (except in U. R. C., act iv) find any pronounced humour. Bhavabhūti’s humour, what little there is of it, is of the purely intellectual character and springs more from situation and irony (e. g. U. R. C. vi. 19¹² ᶠ, iv. 22²⁰, iii. 46¹⁶). Only once does Sītā herself indulge in a joke (i. 18²) and even then it is of the sober matronly kind quite in accord with her character. This absence in Bhavabhūti’s plays of anything like a pervading lighter vein² may be due to the fact that the poet took his subject too seriously, felt in other ¹ Cp. p. lxxix, above, and also U. R. C. iii. 14⁶;    that Bhavabhūti was a conscious imi-   iii. 43¹⁴; vi. 38⁶; &c.            tator of Śūdraka in the ‘Clay Cart’. ² This by itself would rule out the theory

lxxxv] Common Characteristics of Bhavabhūti's Plays words that he had a lesson to teach; or finally that he was tempera- mentally incapable of dwelling long on the sunny side of life. A few more defects of a minor nature could also be pointed out; but in this connexion the more important thing is to see how many of his earlier shortcomings he has in this play successfully overcome, and so to realize, as Bhavabhūti did, that the key to consummate success lies in a constant practice in the light of earlier failures. 45. Some common characteristics¹ of Bhavabhūti's plays.—The three plays were all given as open-air performances on the occasion of a religious fair, and they end happily. The hero in all cases is devoted to one wife, and there is no illicit love of any kind. Pathos is the prevailing sentiment in the U. R. C., and it is not wholly absent in the other two plays. In all of them there appears at least one aged mourner. They show only one kind of Prākrit, Śaurasenī, and it is all prose and no verse.² All the three plays have characters flying through the air (two of them have aerial cars), and this circumstance, as well as the effect of light and shade given by the stanza vyatikara iva,³ is of importance in connexion with the stage- properties.⁴ We have already spoken (§ 37) of the long Prākrit passages in the Mālatī-Mādhava as an indication of the nature of Bhavabhūti's audience; we may further note that all the three plays contain a number of learned allusions to different Śāstras, and this must be meant as an appeal to another element of the audience. Finally, what are called unities of time and place are entirely absent in the plays. The action moves in a rapid succession from the interior of a house or a palace to the garden surrounding it, the street, the cemetery, the river, or the forest, sometimes indeed the high regions of the atmosphere. Then as to time, the first play covers a period of some fifteen years, the last about twelve years. The action of the Mālatī-Mādhava occupies nearly three months. The only unity recognized is the unity of plot. About that we have spoken elsewhere. All these circumstances make it likely that the plays were given by one and the same company of actors; and this is an important factor in determining the authorship of the stage-emendations discussed in appendix 8. ¹ Mere parallelisms in words, images, and sentiments will be found collected in appendix 3. ² M. M. vi. 10 and 11 are so worded as to have one form both in Sanskrit and in Prākrit. ³ M. M. ix. 54; x. 8; U. R. C. v. 13; M. V. C. has the thing (i. 43) but not the words. This last circumstance might be additional proof that the M. V. C. was the earliest of the three plays. ⁴ See appendix 11.

Introduction [lxxxvi]

Bhavabhūti as a Poet

46. Bhavabhūti's shortcomings.—So far as it is possible to separate the functions of a dramatist from those of a poet, we will now try to bring out some of the special qualities of Bhavabhūti's poetry; and first we will speak of his shortcomings because they are so very few. Most of them are on the surface, and are the more often felt because critics attempt to apply to the poet standards which belong neither to his country nor to his time; but some are radical defects, and belong as much to the man as to his works. Thus, especially in his early works, the poet does not seem to have risen above the standards imposed upon him from without. He came after Bāṇa, or at least at a time when long mouth-filling words were regarded as the very essence of poetic composition. Words had to be arranged in a particular way so as to give a particular rīti, a particular kind of alliterative effect, which was supposed to represent a particular kind of emotional mood. Softer emotions were expressed in simpler words, the more fiery or warlike emotions in harsh, guttural sounds, uttered in rapid succession.¹ The result has been those long descriptive passages in the Mālatī-Mādhava and elsewhere, which do not even contain ideas sufficiently poetic to offer a sort of a justification for the poet. It may be that his own audience was trained to such language, and grasped it more readily than we can do now, but the very fact that, as he advanced in his work, he gave up his earlier and more cumbrous style in favour of the simpler style of the Uttara- Rāma-charita, is an argument against such a supposition. Where there is such a deliberate straining after effect we need not be surprised if here and there we meet some infelicities of expression.² Secondly, Bhavabhūti now and then exhibits a tendency to exaggerate, and so to transcend the bounds of what is poetically probable. We must not, however, in this case judge the poet too harshly. Almost all romantic writers, Oriental or non- Oriental, modern or ancient, not infrequently indulge in exaggeration for the sake of deeper colour and stronger effect. A third fault in Bhavabhūti is pithily expressed by the formula that he has more passion than poetry. As Dr. Bhandarkar puts it, where Kālidāsa suggests, Bhavabhūti expresses. ‘The characters of the latter, overcome by the force of passion, often weep bitterly, while those of the former simply shed a few tears, if they do so at all.’³ Now with an external manifestation of emotions as such, we need

¹ This is best illustrated in U. R. C. v. 26, where the first half has a different rīti from the last half. Most of the illustra- tions which follow are purposely chosen from this play only. ² Thus guñjat used of an elephant's roar (U. R. C. v. 6ᵃ); ghaṭā used of a flock of owls (U. R. C. ii. 29ᵃ); &c. ³ Mālatī-Mādhava, 2nd ed., preface, p. xii.

lxxxvii] Bhavabhūti as a Poet have no quarrel; it is a characteristic as much of a people as of a man, or of a particular period in the life of a man. Thus the ancient Greeks had it to a great extent, and even Kālidāsa's Dushyanta shows enough of it in the sixth act of the Śākuntala. Is the emotion genuine? is the expression natural? that is the main question. And we saw (§ 37) that such is not always the case in the Mālatī-Mādhava. In the Uttara-Rāma- charita the emotion is genuine, but the expression (especially fainting) is, to say the least, peculiar. A few other defects, such as the poet's use of the miraculous and his fondness for display, have already been mentioned. 47. Bhavabhūti's merits.—The real merits of the poet far outweigh his defects. We have spoken of his cumbrous style; this, however, is true only of his descriptive prose, and of less than a fourth part of his verse. Elsewhere, and whenever something stirring or momentous is happening on the stage, his language becomes notably simpler and simpler, until in some of the most intense situations he seems to have abjured compounds altogether.¹ No writer in fact has succeeded in keeping his prose and his poetry on two so entirely distinct footings. Then as to the ability to suggest the picture by a few, bold strokes, Bhavabhūti is not entirely devoid of such power;² more usually, however, instead of seeking for artistic similes and figures of speech, which were Kālidāsa's forte,³ Bhava- bhūti likes to select a few typical aspects of a situation or an emotion, and state them barely in succession; and this is equally effective in spite of, or rather because of, the absence of any poetic embellishments.⁴ We have already commented sufficiently upon the poet's skill in portraying the deeper emotions of the human heart. This he does quite as much by a cumulation of epithets, as by a solitary word or sentence put into the mouth of some character. Instances of the former kind are not far to seek;⁵ of the latter we may mention the exquisitely self-revealing speech of Sītā as she awakes to find herself alone (i. 51² ff.), or, in the words of Wilson, the truly Shakespearian device (U. R. C. i. 8⁶) of the chamberlain's addressing the newly crowned king first as 'Rāma dear' and then as 'Your Majesty'. Similarly the other chamberlain of the play (act iv), true to his calling, merely repeats or paraphrases the words of his betters. ¹ Cp. U. R. C. ii. 27 ; iii. 31 ff. ; iii. 46 ; iv. 13 ; vi. 11 ; vii. 6 ; &c. ² Compare for instance U. R. C. i. 29, or that beautiful description of the peacock in iii. 19 and 20. ³ 'Upamā Kālidāsasya.' Some of Bhavabhūti's particularly happy similes in our play are : i. 45 ; ii. 4 ; iii. 5 ; iii. 30 ; iii. 43 ; v. 11 ; vi. 4 ; vi. 17 ; &c. ⁴ Compare i. 27 ; i. 43 ; ii. 27 ; iii. 16 ; iii. 38 ; iv. 1 ; iv. 4 ; vi. 19 ; &c. ⁵ As typical ones we may mention U. R. C. i. 35 f. ; ii. 26 ; iii. 11 f. ; iii. 32 ; iii. 36; iii. 39 ; vi. 9 ; &c.

Introduction [lxxxviii It is touches like these¹ that tell us as much about the character of the chamberlain as the two descriptions of it given by Kālidāsa (Śākuntala, v. i; Vikramorvaśīya, iii. 1). In this connexion we may observe that the poet is at pains to put in the mouth of each character words the most appropriate. Thus Lava, pupil of the saint Vālmīki, speaks a language that is tinged with religious learning (v. 31¹), just as the language of Janaka is tinged with the philosophy for which he is so famous in the Upanishads. Tamasā, the River-goddess, is full of similes drawn from her experience in the water.² The two ascetic youths in the interlude to act iv, Uttara-Rāma-charita, take a keen pleasure in logical discussions, attempting to detect fallacies and draw subtle distinctions, just as students might have done in the great mediaeval universities of India. Bhavabhūti has also given us some very beautiful pictures of animals, investing them of course with human feelings.³ 48. Conclusion.—But it is hardly necessary to enumerate all such merits one by one. Appreciative criticisms of this sort are more or less subjective, and it is no longer the fashion for a translator or an editor of an ancient text to take his reader by the button, stop him in front of every picture, and ask him to admire it, and even to tell him how he should admire it. If a modern reader, and especially a foreigner, is given just the help necessary to understand the exact situation, and to get from it the exact implication that was got by a Hindu of Bhavabhūti's time who saw the play acted, that is all that can be expected in an edition like this. Once the preliminary ground has been cleared, and the needful informa- tion given, the play can confidently be left to win its own conquests. It will not lack readers. In India it has never lacked enthusiastic admirers. Never, O never mayest Thou condemn me to sing my song unto hearts that answer not! Such was the prayer of an old Sanskrit poet. A deeper note was struck by Bhavabhūti: It may be that a spirit kindred to mine will some day be born; for time is endless, and the world is wide! ¹ Cp. also our Note to U. R. C. iii. 26². iii. 43ᶜ; and iii. 48. ² Cp. U. R. C. iii. 13ᵈ; iii. 24; iii. 30; iii. 35ᵇ; ³ Cp. iii. 15 f. ; iii. 20 ff. ; iv. 1ᵃᵇ ; iv. 26 ; &c.

TRANSLATION 1 [H.O.S. 21]