Читать книгу Sakoontala; Or, The Lost Ring - Kalidasa - Страница 5

INTRODUCTION

About a century has elapsed since the great English Orientalist, Sir William Jones, astonished the learned world by the discovery of a Sanskrit Dramatic Literature. He has himself given us the history of this discovery. It appears that, on his arrival in Bengal, he was very solicitous to procure access to certain books called Nátaks, of which he had read in one of the 'Lettres Édifiantes et Curieuses' written by the Jesuit Missionaries of China. But, although he sought information by consulting both Bráhmans and Europeans, he was wholly unable for some time to satisfy his curiosity as to the nature of these books. It was reported to him that they were not histories, as he had hoped, but that they abounded with fables, and consisted of conversations in prose and verse held before ancient Rájás, in their public assemblies. Others, again, asserted that they were discourses on dancing, music, and poetry. At length, a sensible Bráhman, conversant with European manners, removed all his doubts, and gave him no less delight than surprise, by telling him that the English nation had compositions of the same sort, which were publicly represented at Calcutta in the cold season, and bore the name of 'plays.' The same Bráhman, when asked which of these Nátaks was most universally esteemed, answered without hesitation, '[S']akoontalá.'

It may readily be imagined with what interest, the keen Orientalist received this communication; with what rapidity he followed up the clue; and, when at length his zeal was rewarded by actual possession of a MS. copy of one of these dramas, with what avidity he proceeded to explore the treasures which for eighteen hundred years had remained as unknown to the European world as the gold-fields of Australia.

The earliest Sanskrit drama with which we are acquainted, the 'Clay-cart,' translated by my predecessor in the Boden Chair at Oxford, Professor H.H. Wilson, is attributed to a regal author, King [S']údraka, the date of whose reign cannot be fixed with any certainty, though some have assigned it to the first or second century B.C. Considering that the nations of Europe can scarcely be said to have possessed a dramatic literature before the fourteenth or fifteenth century of the present era, the great age of the Hindú plays would of itself be a most interesting and attractive circumstance, even if their poetical merit were not of a very high order. But when to the antiquity of these productions is added their extreme beauty and excellence as literary compositions, and when we also take into account their value as representations of the early condition of Hindú society—which, notwithstanding the lapse of two thousand years, has in many particulars obeyed the law of unchangeableness ever stamped on the manners and customs of the East—we are led to wonder that the study of the Indian drama has not commended itself in a greater degree to the attention of Europeans, and especially of Englishmen. The English student, at least, is bound by considerations of duty, as well as curiosity, to make himself acquainted with a subject which elucidates and explains the condition of the millions of Hindús who owe allegiance to his own Sovereign, and are governed by English laws.

Of all the Indian dramatists, indeed of all Indian poets, the most celebrated is Kálidása, the writer of the present play. The late Professor Lassen thought it probable that he flourished about the middle of the third century after Christ. Professor Kielhorn of Göttingen has proved that the composer of the Mandasor Inscription (A.D. 472) knew Kálidása's Ritusamhára. Hence it may be inferred that Lassen was not far wrong[1]. Possibly some King named Vikramáditya received Kálidása at his Court, and honoured him by his patronage about that time. Little, however, is known of the circumstances of his life. There is certainly no satisfactory evidence to be adduced in support of the tradition current in India that he lived in the time of the great King Vikramáditya I., whose capital was Ujjayiní, now Oujein.

From the absence of historical literature in India, our knowledge of the state of Hindústán between the incursion of Alexander and the Muhammadan conquest is very slight. But it is ascertained with tolerable accuracy that, after the invasion of the kingdoms of Bactria and Afghánistán, the Tartars or Scythians (called by the Hindús '[S']akas') overran the north-western provinces of India, and retained possession of them. The great Vikramáditya or Vikramárka succeeded in driving back the barbaric hordes beyond the Indus, and so consolidated his empire that it extended over the whole of Northern Hindústán. His name is even now cherished among the Hindús with pride and affection. His victory over the Scythians is believed to have taken place about B.C. 57. At any rate this is the starting-point of the Vikrama (also called the Málava and in later times the Samvat) era, one of the epochs from which the Hindús still continue to count. There is good authority for affirming that the reign of this Vikramárka or Vikramáditya was equal in brilliancy to that of any monarch in any age. He was a liberal patron of science and literature, and gave splendid encouragement to poets, philologists, astronomers, and mathematicians. Nine illustrious men of genius are said to have adorned his Court, and to have been supported by his bounty. They were called the 'Nine Gems'; and a not unnatural tradition, which, however, must be considered untrustworthy, included Kálidása among the Nine.

To Kálidása (as to another celebrated Indian Dramatist, Bhavabhúti, who probably flourished in the eighth century) only three plays are attributed; and of these the '[S']akoontalá' (here translated) has acquired the greatest celebrity [2].

Indeed, the popularity of this play with the natives of India exceeds that of any other dramatic, and probably of any other poetical composition [3]. But it is not in India alone that the '[S']akoontalá' is known and admired. Its excellence is now recognized in every literary circle throughout the continent of Europe; and its beauties, if not yet universally known and appreciated, are at least acknowledged by many learned men in every country of the civilized world. The four well-known lines of Goethe, so often quoted in relation to the Indian drama, may here be repeated:

'Willst du die Blüthe des frühen, die Früchte des

späteren Jahres,

Willst du was reizt und entzückt, willst du was sättigt

und nährt,

Willst du den Himmel, die Erde, mit einem Namen

begreifen:

Nenn' ich, [S']akoontalá, Dich, und so ist Alles gesagt.'

'Would'st thou the young year's blossoms and the fruits

of its decline,

And all by which the soul is charmed, enraptured,

feasted, fed?

Would'st thou the Earth and Heaven itself in one sole

name combine?

I name thee, O [S']akoontalá! and all at once is said.'

E.B. Eastwick.

Augustus William von Schlegel, in his first Lecture on Dramatic Literature, says: 'Among the Indians, the people from whom perhaps all the cultivation of the human race has been derived, plays were known long before they could have experienced any foreign influence. It has lately been made known in Europe that they have a rich dramatic literature, which ascends back for more than two thousand years. The only specimen of their plays (Nátaks) hitherto known to us is the delightful [S']akoontalá, which, notwithstanding the colouring of a foreign clime, bears in its general structure a striking resemblance to our romantic drama.'

Alexander von Humboldt, in treating of Indian poetry, observes: 'Kálidása, the celebrated author of the [S']akoontalá, is a masterly describer of the influence which Nature exercises upon the minds of lovers. This great poet flourished at the splendid court of Vikramáditya, and was, therefore, cotemporary with Virgil and Horace. Tenderness in the expression of feeling, and richness of creative fancy, have assigned to him his lofty place among the poets of all nations'.

These considerations induced me, in 1853, to compile and publish an edition of the text of the '[S']akoontalá' from various original MSS., with English translations of the metrical passages, and explanatory notes. A second edition of this work has since been published by the Delegates of the Oxford University Press. To the notes of that edition I must refer all students of Sanskrit literature who desire a close and literal translation of the present drama, and in the Preface will be found an account of various other editions and translations.

The following pages contain a free translation, and the first English version in prose and metre, of the purest recension of the most celebrated drama of the Shakespeare of India.

The need felt by the British public for some such translation as I have here offered can scarcely be questioned. A great people, who, through their empire in India, command the destinies of the Eastern world, ought surely to be conversant with the most popular of Indian dramas, in which the customs of the Hindús, their opinions, prejudices, and fables, their religious rites, daily occupations and amusements, are reflected as in a mirror. Nor is the prose translation of Sir W. Jones (excellent though it be) adapted to meet the requirements of modern times. That translation was unfortunately made from corrupt manuscripts (the best that could then be procured), in which the bold phraseology of Kálidása has been occasionally weakened, his delicate expressions of refined love clothed in an unbecoming dress, and his ideas, grand in their simplicity, diluted by repetition or amplification. It is, moreover, altogether unfurnished with explanatory annotations. The present translation, on the contrary, while representing the purest version of the drama, has abundant notes, sufficient to answer the exigencies of the non-oriental scholar.

It may be remarked that in every Sanskrit play the women and inferior characters speak a kind of provincial dialect or patois, called Prákrit—bearing the relation to Sanskrit that Italian bears to Latin, or that the spoken Latin of the age of Cicero bore to the highly polished Latin in which he delivered his Orations. Even the heroine of the drama is made to speak in the vernacular dialect. The hero, on the other hand, and all the higher male characters, speak in Sanskrit; and as if to invest them with greater dignity, half of what they say is in verse. Indeed the prose part of their speeches is often very commonplace, being only introductory to the lofty sentiment of the poetry that follows. Thus, if the whole composition be compared to a web, the prose will correspond to the warp, or that part which is extended lengthwise in the loom, while the metrical portion will answer to the cross-threads which constitute the woof.

The original verses are written in a great variety of Sanskrit metres. For example, the first thirty-four verses of '[S']akoontalá' exhibit eleven different varieties of metre. No English metrical system could give any idea of the almost infinite resources of Sanskrit in this respect. Nor have I attempted it. Blank verse has been employed by me in my translation, as more in unison with the character of our own dramatic writings, and rhyming stanzas have only 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, of which the '[S']akoontalá' is an example. It should consist of from five to ten Acts; it should have a celebrated story for its plot; it should represent heroic or godlike characters and good deeds; it should be written in an elaborate style, and be full of noble sentiments. Moreover, it should be composed like the end of a cow's tail; so that each of the Acts be gradually shorter.

In India, as in Greece, scenic entertainments took place at religious festivals, and on solemn public occasions. Kalidása's '[S']akoontalá' seems to have been acted at the commencement of the summer season—a period peculiarly sacred to Káma-deva, the Indian god of love. We are told that it was enacted before an audience 'consisting chiefly of men of education and discernment.' As the greater part of every play was written in Sanskrit, which, although spoken by the learned in every part of India even at the present day, was certainly not the vernacular language of the country at the time when the Hindú dramas were performed, few spectators would be present who were not of the educated classes. This circumstance is in accordance with the constitution of Hindú society, whereby the productions of literature as well as the offices of state, were reserved for the privileged castes[6].

Every Sanskrit play opens with a prologue, or, to speak more correctly, an introduction, designed to prepare the way for the entrance of the dramatis personæ. The prologue commences with a benediction or prayer (pronounced by a Bráhman, or if the stage-manager happened to be of the Bráhmanical caste, by the manager himself), in which the poet invokes the favour of the national deity in behalf of the audience. The blessing is generally followed by a dialogue between the manager and one or two of the actors, in which an account is given of the author of the drama, a complimentary tribute is paid to the critical acumen of the spectators, and such a reference is made to past occurrences or present circumstances as may be necessary for the elucidation of the plot. At the conclusion of the prologue, the manager, by some abrupt exclamation, adroitly introduces one of the dramatic personages, and the real performance commences.

The play, being thus opened, is carried forward in scenes and Acts; each scene being marked by the entrance of one character and the exit of another, as in the French drama. The dramatis personæ were divided into three classes—the inferior characters (nicha), who were said to speak Prákrit in a monotonous accentless tone of voice (anudáttoktyá); the middling (madhyama), and the superior (pradhána), who were said to speak Sanskrit with accent, emphasis, and expression (udáttoktyá). In general, the stage is never left vacant till the end of an Act, nor does any change of locality take place until then. The commencement of a new Act is often marked, like the commencement of the piece, by an introductory monologue or dialogue spoken by one or more of the dramatis personæ, and called Vishkambha or Prave[S']aka. In this scene allusion is frequently made to events supposed to have occurred in the interval of the Acts, and the audience is the better prepared to take up the thread of the story, which is then skilfully carried on to the concluding scene. The piece closes, as it began, with a prayer for national plenty and prosperity, addressed to the favourite deity, and spoken by one of the principal personages of the drama.

Although, in the conduct of the plot, and the delineation of character, Hindú dramatists show considerable skill, yet they do not appear to have been remarkable for much fertility of invention. Love, according to Hindú notions, is the subject of most of their dramas.

The hero, who is generally a king, and already the husband of a wife or wives (for a wife or two more or less is no encumbrance in Indian plays), is suddenly smitten with the charms of a lovely woman, sometimes a nymph, or, as in the case of [S']akoontalá, the daughter of a nymph by a mortal father. The heroine is required to be equally impressible, and the first tender glance from the hero's eye reaches her heart. With true feminine delicacy, however, she locks the secret of her passion in her own breast, and by her coyness and reserve keeps her lover for a long period in the agonies of suspense. The hero, being reduced to a proper state of desperation, is harassed by other difficulties. Either the celestial nature of the nymph is in the way of their union, or he doubts the legality of the match, or he fears his own unworthiness, or he is hampered by the angry jealousy of a previous wife. In short, doubts, obstacles, and delays make great havoc of both hero and heroine. They give way to melancholy, indulge in amorous rhapsodies, and become very emaciated. So far, it must be confessed, the story is decidedly dull, and its chain, however, does not commence until the Fourth Act, when the union of the heroine with King Dushyanta, and her acceptance of the marriage-ring as a token of recognition, are supposed to have taken place. Then follows the King's departure and temporary desertion of his bride; the curse pronounced on [S']akoontalá by the choleric Sage; the monarch's consequent loss of memory; the bride's journey to the palace of her husband; the mysterious disappearance of the marriage-token; the public repudiation of [S']akoontalá; her miraculous assumption to closes, as it began, with a prayer for national plenty and prosperity, addressed to the favourite deity, and spoken by one of the principal personages of the drama.

But, by way of relief, an element of life is generally introduced in the character of the Vidúshaka, or Jester, who is the constant companion of the hero; and in the young maidens, who are the confidential friends of the heroine, and soon become possessed of her secret. By a curious regulation, the Jester is always a Bráhman, and therefore of a caste superior to the king himself; yet his business is to excite mirth by being ridiculous in person, age, and attire. He is sometimes represented as grey-haired, hump-backed, lame, and ugly. In fact, he is a species of buffoon, who is allowed full liberty of speech, being himself a universal butt. His attempts at wit, which are rarely very successful, and his allusions to the pleasures of the table, of which he is a confessed votary, are absurdly contrasted with the sententious solemnity of the despairing hero, crossed in the prosecution of his love-suit. His clumsy interference in the intrigues of his friend only serves to augment his difficulties, and occasions many an awkward dilemma. On the other hand, the shrewdness of the heroine's confidantes never seems to fail them under the most trying circumstances; while their sly jokes and innuendos, their love of fun, their girlish sympathy with the progress of the love affair, their warm affection for their friend, heighten the interest of the plot, and contribute not a little to vary its monotony.

Fortunately, in the '[S']akoontalá' the story is diversified and the interest well sustained by a chain of stirring incidents. The first link of the chain, however, does not commence until the Fourth Act, when the union of the heroine with King Dushyanta, and her acceptance of the marriage-ring as a token of recognition, are supposed to have taken place. Then follows the King's departure and temporary desertion of his bride; the curse pronounced on [S']akoontalá by the choleric Sage; the monarch's consequent loss of memory; the bride's journey to the palace of her husband; the mysterious disappearance of the marriage-token; the public repudiation of [S']akoontalá; her miraculous assumption to a celestial asylum; the unexpected discovery of the ring by a poor fisherman; the King's agony on recovering his recollection; his aërial voyage in the car of Indra; his strange meeting with the refractory child in the groves of Kasyapa; the boy's battle with the young lion; the search for the amulet, by which the King is proved to be his father; the return of [S']akoontalá, and the happy reunion of the lovers;—all these form a connected series of moving and interesting incidents. The feelings of the audience are wrought up to a pitch of great intensity; and whatever emotions of terror, grief, or pity may have been excited, are properly tranquillized by the happy termination of the story.

Indeed, if a calamitous conclusion be necessary to constitute a tragedy, the Hindú dramas are never tragedies. They are mixed compositions, in which joy and sorrow, happiness and misery, are woven in a mingled web—tragi-comic representations, in which good and evil, right and wrong, truth and falsehood, are allowed to blend in confusion during the first Acts of the drama. But, in the last Act, harmony is always restored, order succeeds to disorder, tranquillity to agitation; and the mind of the spectator, no longer perplexed by the apparent ascendency of evil, is soothed, and purified, and made to acquiesce in the moral lesson deducible from the plot.

The play of '[S']akoontalá,' as Sir W. Jones observes, must have been very popular when it was first performed. The Indian empire was then in its palmy days, and the vanity of the natives would be flattered by the introduction of those kings and heroes who were supposed to have laid the foundation of its greatness and magnificence, and whose were connected with all that was sacred and holy in their religion, Dushyanta, the hero of the drama, according to Indian legends, was one of the descendants of the Moon, or in other words, belonged to the Lunar dynasty of Indian princes; and, if any dependence may be placed on Hindú chronology, he must have lived in the twenty-first or twenty-second generation after the Flood. Puru, his most celebrated ancestor, was the sixth in descent from the Moon's son Budha, who married a daughter of the good King Satya-vrata, preserved by Vishnu in the Ark at the time of the Deluge. The son of Dushyanta, by [S']akoontalá, was Bharata, from whom India is still called by the natives Bhárata-varsha. After him came Samvarana, Kuru, Sántanu, Bhíshma, and Vyasa. The latter was the father of Dhritaráshtra and Pándu, the quarrels of whose sons form the subject of the great Sanskrit epic poem called Mahá-bhárata, a poem with parts of which the audience would be familiar, and in which they would feel the greatest pride. Indeed the whole story of [S']akoontalá is told in the Mahá-bhárata. The pedigree of [S']akoontalá, the heroine of the drama, was no less interesting, and calculated to awaken the religious sympathies of Indian spectators. She was the daughter of the celebrated Vi[s']wámitra, a name associated with many remarkable circumstances in Hindú mythology and history. His genealogy and the principal events of his life are narrated in the Rámáyana, the first of the two epic poems which were to the Hindús what the Iliad and the Odyssey were to the Greeks. He was originally of the regal caste; and, having raised himself to the rank of a Bráhman by the length and rigour of his penance, he became the preceptor of Rámachandra, who was the hero of the Rámáyana, and one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu. With such an antecedent interest in the particulars of the story, the audience could not fail to bring a sharpened appetite, and a self-satisfied frame of mind, to the performance of the play.

Although in the following translation it has been thought expedient to conform to modern usage, by indicating at the head of each Act the scene in which it is laid, yet it is proper to apprise the English reader that in scenery and scenic apparatus the Hindú drama, must have been very defective. No directions as to changes of scene are given in the original text of the play. This is the more curious, as there are numerous stage directions, which prove that in respect of dresses and decorations the resources of the Indian theatre were sufficiently ample.

It is probable that a curtain suspended across the stage, and divided in the centre, answered all the purposes of scenes. Behind the curtain was the space or room called nepathya, where the decorations were kept, where the actors attired themselves, and remained in readiness before entering the stage, and whither they withdrew on leaving it. When an actor was to enter hurriedly, he was directed to do so 'with a toss of the curtain.'

The machinery and paraphernalia of the Indian theatre were also very limited, contrasting in this respect unfavourably with the ancient Greek theatre, which appears to have comprehended nearly all that modern ingenuity has devised. Nevertheless, seats, thrones, weapons, and chariots, were certainly introduced, and as the intercourse between the inhabitants of heaven and earth was very frequent, it is not improbable that there may have been aërial contrivances to represent the chariots of celestial beings, as on the Greek stage. It is plain, however, from the frequent occurrence of the word nátayitwá, 'gesticulating,' 'acting,' that much had to be supplied by the imagination of the spectator, assisted by the gesticulations of the actors.

For further information relative to the dramatic system of the Hindús, the reader is referred to the notes appended to the present translation. It is hoped that they will be found sufficient to explain every allusion that might otherwise be unintelligible to the English reader.

Подняться наверх