Sakoontala | Page 5

been admitted when the
subject-matter seemed to call for such a change. Perhaps the chief
consideration that induced me to adopt this mode of metrical translation
was, that the free and unfettered character of the verse enabled me to
preserve more of the freshness and vigour of the original. If the poetical
ideas of Kálidása have not been expressed in language as musical as his
own, I have at least done my best to avoid diluting them by
unwarrantable paraphrases or additions. If the English verses are

prosaic, I have the satisfaction of knowing that by resisting the
allurements of rhyme, I have done all in my power to avoid substituting
a fictitious and meagre poem of my own for the grand, yet simple and
chaste creation of Kálidása.
The unrestricted liberty of employing hypermetrical lines of eleven
syllables, sanctioned by the highest authority in dramatic composition,
has, I think, facilitated the attainment of this object. One of our own
poets has said in relation to such lines: 'Let it be remembered that they
supply us with another cadence; that they add, as it were, a string to the
instrument; and--by enabling the poet to relax at pleasure, to rise and
fall with his subject--contribute what most is wanted, compass and
variety. They are nearest to the flow of an unstudied eloquence, and
should therefore be used in the drama[4].' Shakespeare does not scruple
to avail himself of this licence four or five times in succession, as in the
well-known passage beginning--
'To be or not to be, that is the question';
and even Milton uses the same freedom once or twice in every page.
The poetical merit of Kálidása's '[S']akoontalá' is so universally
admitted that any remarks on this head would be superfluous. I will
merely observe that, in the opinion of learned natives, the Fourth Act,
which describes the departure of [S']akoontalá from the hermitage,
contains the most obvious beauties; and that no one can read this Act,
nor indeed any part of the play, without being struck with the richness
and elevation of its author's genius, the exuberance and glow of his
fancy, his ardent love of the beautiful, his deep sympathy with Nature
and Nature's loveliest scenes, his profound knowledge of the human
heart, his delicate appreciation of its most refined feelings, his
familiarity with its conflicting sentiments and emotions. But in
proportion to the acknowledged excellence of Kálidása's composition,
and in proportion to my own increasing admiration of its beauties, is
the diffidence I feel lest I may have failed to infuse any of the poetry of
the original into the present version. Translation of poetry must, at the
best, resemble the process of pouring a highly volatile and evanescent
spirit from one receptacle into another. The original fluid will always
suffer a certain amount of waste and evaporation.
The English reader will at least be inclined to wonder at the analogies
which a thoroughly Eastern play offers to our own dramatic

compositions written many centuries later. The dexterity with which
the plot is arranged and conducted, the ingenuity with which the
incidents are connected, the skill with which the characters are
delineated and contrasted with each other, the boldness and felicity of
the diction, are scarcely unworthy of the great dramatists of European
countries. Nor does the parallel fail in the management of the business
of the stage, in minute directions to the actors, and various scenic
artifices. The asides and aparts, the exits and the entrances, the manner,
attitude, and gait of the speakers, the tone of voice with which they are
to deliver themselves, the tears, the smiles, and the laughter, are as
regularly indicated as in a modern drama.
In reference to the constitution and structure of the play here translated,
a few general remarks on the dramatic system of the Hindús may be
needed[5].
Dramatic poetry is said to have been invented by the sage Bharata, who
lived at a very remote period of Indian history, and was the author of a
system of music. The drama of these early times was probably nothing
more than the Indian Nách-dance (Nautch) of the present day. It was a
species of rude pantomime, in which dancing and movements of the
body were accompanied by mute gestures of the hands and face, or by
singing and music. Subsequently, dialogue was added, and the art of
theatrical representation was brought to great perfection. Elaborate
treatises were written which laid down minute regulations for the
construction and conduct of plays, and subjected dramatic composition
to highly artificial rules of poetical and rhetorical style. For example,
the Sáhitya-darpana divides Sanskrit plays into two great classes, the
Rúpaka or principal dramas, and the Uparúpaka or minor dramas. At
the head of the ten species of Rúpaka stands the Nátaka,