The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Cycle of Spring, by Sir Rabindranath Tagore

The stage is on two levels: the higher, at the back, for the Song-preludes alone, concealed by a purple curtain; the lower only being discovered when the drop goes up. Diagonally across the extreme left of the lower stage, is arranged the king's court, with various platforms, for the various dignitaries ascending to the canopied throne.[2] The body of the stage is left free for the "Play" when that develops.

[The names of the speakers are not given in the margin, as they can easily be guessed.]

Can't see the King?—Ah, here is the King at last. Look at him coming this way, with a mirror in his hand. "Long live the King. Long live the King."[4]

The joke is not mine, but His, who has got the whole world by the ear, and is having His jest. Last night, when the Queen was putting a garland of jasmines round my neck, she cried out with alarm, "King, what is this? Here are two grey hairs behind your ear."

Oh, please, Sire, don't worry so much about a little thing like that. Why! The royal physician——

Vizier! The founder of our dynasty had his royal physician, too. But what could he do? Death has left his card of invitation behind my ear. The Queen wanted, then and there, to pluck out the grey hairs. But I said, "Queen, what's the use? You may remove Death's invitation, but[6] can you remove Death, the Inviter?" So, for the present——

Business, Vizier! I have no time for business. Send for the Pundit. Send for Sruti-bhushan.

Vizier, the news has come to me from the last great frontier of all, the frontier of Death. Send for the Pundit.

But if Your Majesty will give me one moment, the Ambassador from the great Emperor of China——

But, if it please you to hear me this once. The poet, Kabi-shekhar, is waiting with his new book called the Garden of Poesy.

Let your poet disport himself, jumping about on the topmost branches of his Garden of Poesy, but send for the Pundit.

Tell him to bring his book of devotions with him, called the Ocean of Renunciation.

But, Vizier. Who are those outside making all that noise? Go out and stop them at once. I must have peace.[8]

If it please Your Majesty, there is a famine in Nagapatam and the headmen of the villages are praying to be allowed to see your face.

They say their time is shorter. They are at death's door. They, too, want peace,—peace from the burning of hunger.

Wretched!—Listen to the advice of a wretched King to his wretched subjects. It is futile to be impatient, and try to break through the net of the inexorable Fisherman. Sooner or later, Death the Fisherman will have his haul.

Vizier! The real scarcity is of time, and not of food. We are all suffering from starvation of time. None of us has enough of it, neither the King, nor his people.

Then know, that our petitions for more time will all go to the last fire of doom. So why strain our voice in prayer?—Ah, here is Sruti-bhushan at last. My reverence to you.

Pundit, do tell the King that the Goddess of Fortune deserts him who gives way to melancholy.

Ah, Pundit. One breath of your teaching blows out the false flame of ambition. Our teacher has said:

Well, King, now that you have introduced the subject of hope, let me give you another verse from the Ocean of Renunciation. It runs as follows:[11]

Ah, Pundit. Your words are priceless. Vizier, give him a hundred gold sequins at once. What's that noise outside?

Let Sruti-bhushan, with his book of devotions, go and try to bring them peace; and, in the meanwhile, Your Majesty might discuss war matters——

King, you said something to me, a moment ago, about a gift of gold.[12] Now mere gold, by itself, does not confer any permanent benefit. It is said in my book of devotions, called the Ocean of Renunciation:

No, King, I don't want gold, but something more permanent, which would make your merit permanent also. I should be quite content, if you gave me the living of Kanchanpur. For it is said in the Renunciation——

No, Pundit, I quite understand. You needn't quote scripture to support your claim. I understand quite well—Vizier!

See that the rich province of Kanchanpur is settled on the Pundit.—What's the matter now outside there? What are they crying for?

Their cry is repeated, I admit, but the reason remains most monotonously the same. They are starving.

But, King, I must tell you before I forget it. It is the one desire of my wife to make her whole body jingle, from head to foot, in praise of your munificence; but, alas, the sound is too feeble for want of proper ornaments.

I understand you, Pundit. Vizier! Order ornaments from the Court Jeweller for Sruti-bhushan's wife immediately.[14]

And, King, while he is about it, would you tell the Vizier, that we are both of us distracted in our devotions by house-repairs. Let him ask the royal masons to put up a thoroughly well-built house, where we can practise our devotions in peace.

Pooh! That's an old story. I hear that every year. It is your business to increase the funds, and mine to increase the wants. What do you say, Sruti-bhushan?

King, I cannot blame the Vizier. He is looking after your treasures in this world. We are looking after your treasures in the next. So where[15] he sees want, we see wealth. Now, if you would only let me dive deep once more into the Ocean of Renunciation you will find it written as follows:

Your Majesty, Sruti-bhushan knows its value to a farthing. Come, Sruti-bhushan, make haste. Let us collect all the wealth you need for your Treasury of Devotion. For wealth has the ugly habit of diminishing fast. If we are not quick about it, little will remain to enable us to observe our renunciation with all splendour.

Yes, Vizier, let us go at once. (To the King.) When he is making such a fuss about a tiny matter like this, it is best to pacify him first and then return to you afterwards.[16]

Pundit, I am afraid that, some day, you will leave my royal protection altogether, and retire to the forest.

King, so long as I find contentment in a King's palace, it is as good as a hermitage for my peace of mind. I must now leave you, King. Vizier, let us go.

Oh, dear me! Whatever shall I do? Here's the Poet coming. I am afraid he'll make me break all my good resolutions.—Oh, my grey hairs, cover my ears, so that the Poet's allurements may not enter.

Poet, Nature is trying to rub out the green of youth, and to paint everything white.

No, no, King. You haven't understood the artist. On that white ground, Nature will paint new colours.

They are all within. In the heart of the white dwell all the colours of the rainbow.

King, if this youth fades, let it fade. Another Queen of Youth is coming. And she is putting a garland of pure white jasmines round your head, in order to be your bride. The[18] wedding festival is being made ready, behind the scene.

Oh, dear, Poet. You will undo everything. Do go away. Ho there, Guard. Go at once and call Sruti-bhushan.

Ah, King, when I heard that news, I came at once. For I can be your companion in this practice of renunciation.

Yes, I, King. We Poets exist for this very purpose. We set men free from their desires.

What? You don't understand me?[19] And yet you have been reading my poems all this while!—There is renunciation in our words, renunciation in the metre, renunciation in our music. That is why fortune always forsakes us; and we, in turn always forsake fortune. We go about, all day long, initiating the youths in the sacred cult of fortune-forsaking.

But, Poet, do you really mean to say that the highway of the open world is the pathway of renunciation?[20]

Why not, King? In the open world all is change, all is life, all is movement. And he who ever moves and journeys with this life-movement, dancing and playing on his flute as he goes, he is the true Renouncer. He is the true disciple of the minstrel Poet.

What do you mean? Oh, dear, Poet, you will undo everything, if you talk like that. You are destroying my peace of mind. Call Sruti[21]-bhushan. Let some one call the Pundit.

What I mean, King, is this. We are the true Renouncers, because change is our very secret. We lose, in order to find. We have no faith in the never-changing.

Haven't you noticed the detachment of the rushing river, as it runs splashing from its mountain cave? It gives itself away so swiftly, and only thus it finds itself. What is never-changing, for the river, is the desert sand, where it loses its course.

Ah, but listen, Poet—listen to those cries there outside. That is your world. How do you deal with that?

My people, Poet? Why do you call them that? They are the world's[22] people, not mine. Have I created their miseries? What can your youthful Poet Renouncers do to relieve sufferings like theirs? Tell me that.

King, it is we alone who can truly bear those sufferings, because we are like the river that flows on in gladness, thus lightening our burden, and the burden of the world. But the hard, metalled road is fixed and never-changing. And so it makes the burden more burdensome. The heavy loads groan and creak along it, and cut deep gashes in its breast. We Poets call to every one to carry all their joys and sorrows lightly, in a rhythmic measure. Our call is the Renouncers' call.

Ah, Poet, now I don't care a straw for Sruti-bhushan. Let the Pundit go hang. But, do you know what my trouble is now? Though I can't, for the life of me, understand your[23] words, the music haunts me. Now, it's just the other way round with the Pundit. His words are clear enough, and they obey the rules of syntax quite correctly. But the tune!—No, it's no use telling you any further.

King, I'm going to have a race through those cries, which are rising outside your gate.

What do you mean? Famine relief is for men of business. Poets oughtn't to have anything to do with things like that.

King, business men always make their business so out of tune. That is why we Poets hasten to tune it.

King, they work, because they must. We work, because we are in love with life. That is why they condemn us as unpractical, and we condemn them as lifeless.

King, the greatest things in the world disdain proof. But if you could for a time wipe out all the poets and all their poetry from the world, then you would soon discover, by their very absence, where the men of action got their energy from, and who really supplied the life-sap to their harvest-field. It is not those who have plunged deep down into the Pundit's Ocean of Renunciation, nor those who are always clinging to their possessions; it is not those who have[25] become adepts in turning out quantities of work, nor those who are ever telling the dry beads of duty,—it is not these who win at last. But it is those who love, because they live. These truly win, for they truly surrender. They accept pain with all their strength and with all their strength they remove pain. It is they who create, because they know the secret of true joy, which is the secret of detachment.

I ask you, King, to rise up and move. That cry outside yonder is the cry of life to life. And if the life within you is not stirred, in response to that call without, then there is cause for anxiety indeed,—not because duty has been neglected, but because you are dying.[26]

No, King, that's a lie. When we feel for certain that we are alive, then we know for certain that we shall go on living. Those who have never put life to the test, in all possible ways, these keep on crying out:

Only because its movement is unceasing. The moment you stop this movement, that moment you begin to play the drama of Death.

Then, Poet, if we are going to go on living, we must make our life worth its eternity. Is not that so?[27]

Why should you dismiss the General? We have got to discuss war matters with him.

And arrangements had to be made for the state-departure of the Chinese Ambassador.

Vizier! You surprise me. Is this the way you manage state affairs? What has happened to you? Have you lost your senses?

Then, again. Sire, I was trying to find a way to pull down the Poet's house. At first, no one would undertake it. Then, at last, all the Pundits of the Royal School of Grammar and Logic came up with their proper tools and set to work.

Vizier! Are you mad this morning? Pull down the Poet's house? Why, you might as well kill all the birds in the garden and make them up into a pie.

If it please Your Majesty, you need not be annoyed. We shan't have to pull down the house after all; for the[29] moment Sruti-bhushan heard it was to be demolished, he decided to take possession of it himself.

What, Vizier! That's worse still. Why! The Goddess of Music would break her harp in pieces against my head, if she even heard of such a thing. No, that can't be.

Then, Your Majesty, there was another thing to be got through. We had to deliver over the province of Kanchanpur to the Pundit.

And, last of all, Sire. I have issued orders to the soldiers to disperse the crowd of famine-stricken people.

Vizier, you are doing nothing but[30] blunder. The best way to disperse the famished people is with food, not force.

May it please Your Royal Highness, here is Sruti-bhushan, the Pundit, coming back with his Book of Devotions.

Oh, stop him, Vizier, stop him. He will undo everything. Don't let him come upon me unawares like this. In a moment of weakness, I may suddenly find myself out of my depths in the Ocean of Renunciation. Poet! Don't give me time for that. Do something. Do anything. Have you got anything ready to hand? Any play toward? Any poem? Any masque? Any——

Yes, King. I have got the very[31] thing. But whether it is a drama, or a poem, or a play, or a masque, I cannot say.

King, it says "I exist." Don't you know the meaning of the first cry of the new-born child? The child, when it is born, hears at once the cries of the earth and water and sky, which surround him,—and they all cry to him, "We exist," and his tiny little heart responds, and cries out in its[32] turn, "I exist." My poetry is like the cry of that new-born child. It is a response to the cry of the Universe.

No, nothing more. There is life in my song, which cries, "In joy and in sorrow, in work and in rest, in life and in death, in victory and in defeat, in this world and in the next, all hail to the 'I exist.'"

Well, Poet, I can assure you, if your play hasn't got any philosophy in it, it won't pass muster in these days.

That's true, King. The newer people, of this modern age, are more eager to amass than to realize. They are, in their generation, wiser than the children of light.

Whom shall we ask, then, for an audience? Shall we ask the young students of our royal school?[33]

No, King, they cut up poetry with their logic. They are like the young-horned deer trying their new horns on the flower-beds.

The youth of these middle-aged people is a youth of detachment. They have just crossed the waters of pleasure, and are in sight of the land of pure gladness. They don't want to eat fruit, but to produce it.

I, at least, have now reached that age of discretion, and ought to be able to appreciate your songs. Shall I ask the General?

No, King, no. Decidedly, no. I have no grudge against him. Why should I inflict this on him?

No, King. We are going to act this play without any special preparations. Truth looks tawdry when she is overdressed.

No. Our only background is the mind. On that we shall summon[35] up a picture with the magic wand of music.

In the world-myth this song comes round in its turn. In the play of the seasons, each year, the mask of the Old Man, Winter, is pulled off, and the form of Spring is revealed in all its beauty. Thus we see that the old is ever new.

This is how it runs: A band of[36] young companions has run off in pursuit of one Old Man. They have taken a vow to catch him. They enter into a cave; they take hold of him, and then——

But, I haven't understood one thing. Your drama and your songs,—have they different subjects, or the same?

The same, King. The play of Spring in nature is the counterpart of the play of Youth in our lives. It is simply from the lyrical drama of the World Poet that I have stolen this plot.

Because he does not see with his eyes, therefore he sees with his whole body and mind and soul.

Yes, you, King. For if you stayed out of it, instead of coming into it, then the King would begin to abuse[38] the Poet and send for Sruti-bhushan again. And then there would be no hope of salvation for him. For the World Poet himself would be defeated. And the South Wind of Spring would have to retire, without receiving its homage.

ACT I

The Heralds of Spring are abroad. There are songs in the rustling bamboo leaves, in birds' nests, and in blossoming branches.

SONG-PRELUDE

The purple secondary curtain [1] goes up, disclosing the elevated rear stage with a skyey background of dark blue, on which appear the horn of the crescent moon and the silver points of stars. Trees in the foreground, with two rope swings entwined with garlands of flowers. Flowers every[40]where in profusion. On the extreme left the mouth of a dark cavern dimly seen. Boys representing the "Bamboo" disclosed, swinging.

(Disclosed among the branches of trees, suddenly lighted up, boys representing champak blossoms.)[42]

[The rear stage is now darkened. On the main stage, bright, enter a band of youths whose number may be anything between three and thirty. They sing.][43]

[In the following dialogue only the names of the principal characters are given. Wherever the name is not given the speaker is one or other of the Youths.]

Well, I declare. Here is Dada, our cargo-boat of moral-maxims, towed against the current of his own pen and ink.

But you mustn't give April all the credit for that. For I, Chandra, have hidden the yellow leaves of his manuscript book among the young buds of the pial forest, and Dada is out looking for it.

Yes, the very dust of the earth is tingling with youth, and yet there's not a single touch of Spring in the whole of Dada's body.[45]

Oh, do stop this fooling. What a nuisance you are making of yourselves! We aren't children any longer.

Dada, the age of this earth is scarcely less than yours; and yet it is not ashamed to look fresh.

Dada, you are always struggling with those quatrains of yours, full of advice that is as old as death, while the earth and the water are ever striving to be new.

Dada, how in the world can you go on writing verses like that, sitting in your den?

Well, you see, I don't cultivate poetry, as an amateur gardener cultivates flowers. My poems have substance and weight in them.[46]

To all passers-by I give notice that Dada's quatrains have gone mad, and are running amuck.

Dada! Don't take any notice of their fun. Go on with your reading. If no one else can survive it, I think I can. I am not a coward like these fellows.

Come on, then, Dada. We won't[47] be cowards. We will keep our ground, and not yield an inch, but only listen.

We will receive the spear-thrusts of the quatrains on our breast, not on our back.

Please, gentlemen, don't laugh. Have patience while I explain. The meaning is——

What? Must the infantry charge of meaning follow the cannonading[48] of your quatrains, to complete the rout?

Just one word to make you understand. It means, that if the bamboos were no better than those noisy instruments——

Dada, if you use force to make us understand we shall use force to force ourselves not to understand.

The gist of the quatrain is this, that if we do no good to the world, then——

I see we must make clearer our meaning. Catch him. Let's raise him up, shoulder high, and take him back to his den.

Why remain indoors? This outer world has been made with a lavish expenditure of sun and moon and stars. Let us enjoy it, and then we can save God's face for indulging in such extravagance.

But surely, Dada, you are talking nonsense. Time itself is Play. Its only object is Pas-time.

No. I never give answers. I lead on from one question to another. That is my leadership.

Do you know the reason? It is because we are really nothing but children. And everything else has its limitations except the child.

When we meet Age, we shall shave his head, and put him on a donkey, and send him across the river.

We can tell, by his looks, that Dada will some day go to that Old Man, to receive his lessons.

Some say he is white, like the skull of a dead man. And some say he is dark, like the socket of a skeleton's eye.

Well, that goes entirely against current opinion. That Old Man is more existent than anything else. He lives within the ribs of creation.

According to our Pundit, it is we who have no existence. You can't be certain whether we are, or are not.

We? Oh, we are too brand new[57] altogether. We haven't yet got our credentials to prove that we exist.

You will become pale, like the white mist in autumn. Even the least colour of blood will disappear from your mind. I have a suggestion.

We thought it over so vigorously, that people had to run to the King's court to lodge a complaint.[58]

That will be a great relief to me. You have made all my bones out of joint already. Very well, then it's all settled?

Oh no, that will be outrageous.[60] Then the mango flowers will run to seed at once.

And the bees will go about reciting Sanskrit verses, making the air hum with m's and n's.

And your skull will be so top-heavy with prudence, that it will be difficult for you to keep on your feet.

And you will become your own elder[61] brothers, pulling your own ears to set yourselves right.

We will put it off till the cold weather. In this Springtime, your company will be enough for us.

You have no enthusiasm. You[62] back out at the very start. Why don't you make a trial?

Let us go after the Old Man. We will pluck him out, like a grey hair, wherever we find him.

But the Old Man is an adept in the business of plucking out. His best weapon is the hoe.

You needn't try to frighten us like that. When we are out for adventure, we must leave behind all fears, all quatrains, all Pundits, and all Scriptures.

ACT II

SONG-PRELUDE

Rear stage lighted up, disclosing Old Winter teased by the boys and girls representing Spring's Heralds.

[The rear stage is darkened. The band of Youths enters on the main stage. No actual change in the scenery is necessary—this being left to the imagination of the audience.]

You ply your boat from one landing stage to another. Surely you know where——

My business is limited only to the path. But whose path it is, and what it means, I have no occasion to enquire. For my goal is the landing-stage, not the house.

There comes the Watchman. Ask him. I know about the way; but he knows about the wayfarers.

We'll give him a warm enough reception. All we want is to see him. Have you seen him?

My watch is at night. I see my[72] people, but don't know their features. But, look here, every one knows that he is the great kidnapper; and you want to kidnap him! It's midsummer madness.

I am the Watchman. The people I see passing along the road are all very much alike. Therefore, when I see anything queer, it always strikes me.

Just listen to him. All the respectable people of our neighbourhood say just the same thing—that we are queer.

And we have a leader, who is a perfect veteran in childhood. He rushes along so recklessly, that he drops off his age at every step he runs.

No, no. There's no need to do that. I don't hope to understand you any better, even if you do sing.

Oh, there's no need for things to get on with us, so long as we ourselves get on.

Don't you know? We are free as the wind, because we have no substance in us. But Dada is like the rain-cloud of August. He must stop, every now and then, to unburden himself.

I am delighted to see you. I want to read you something that I have written. It contains nothing frivolous, but only the most important lessons.

Our master used to tell us that there are plenty of men to say good things, but very few to listen. That requires[80] strength of mind. Now, go on, Sir, go on.

I saw, in the street, one of the King's officers dragging along a merchant. The King had made up a false charge, in order to get his money. This gave me an inspiration. You must know that I never write a single line which is not inspired by some actual fact. You can put my verses to the test in the open streets and markets——

You will understand that the sugar-cane gets into trouble, simply because it tries to keep its juice. But nobody is so foolish as to kill the tree that freely gives fruit.

It gives me food for thought. If only I had here our neighbour, the Scribe! I should like to take this down. Do send round to tell the people of the place to assemble.

But, Ferryman, you promised to come out with us. Yet, if once Dada[82] begins to quote his quatrains, there will be——

Go along with you. None of your madness here. We are fortunate now in having met our master. Let us improve the occasion with good words. We are all of us getting old. Who knows when we shall die?

You can always find another Dada. But when once we are dead, God will never repeat the blunder of another absurdity like us again.

Black. More black than our brother here, the Watchman. Black as night, with two eyes on his breast shining like two glow-worms.

We shall have to change our date from the full moon to the dark moon.[85] For the dark moon has no end of eyes on her breast.

We are found out again. We never do anything wisely. It is contrary to our habit.

Ah, Sir, you spoke about some Leader. Where is he? He could have kept you in order, if he were with you.

He is never concerned about his leadership. That is why we recognize him as our Leader.

You read your verses, Sir, to us. Our neighbours will be here soon. They will be greatly profited.[88]

No. We commit all kinds of atroci[89]ties, but not that. This one merit will bring us salvation.

We only say things which we perfectly understand ourselves, and they are riddles to you. Dada repeats to you things which you understand perfectly and these sound to you the very essence of wisdom.

I couldn't make out exactly. The dust raised by his wheels is still whirling in the air.

ACT III

SONG-PRELUDE

[The rear stage is darkened; the light on the main stage dimmed to the greyness of dark.][93]

They all cry, "There, there," and when we look for it, we find nothing but dust and dry leaves.

We have made a mistake. The morning light whispered in our ears, "Bravo, march on." And now, the evening light is mocking us for that.

I am afraid we have been deceived. I am beginning to feel greater respect[94] for Dada's quatrains than before. We shall all be soon sitting down on the ground composing quatrains.

And then the whole neighbourhood will come, swarming round us. And they will get such immense benefit from our wisdom that they will never leave us.

I am sure it is our Leader, who has led us astray. He makes us toil for nothing, while he himself remains idle.

Let us go back and fight with him. We will tell him that we won't move a step further, but sit with our legs tucked under us. These legs are[95] wretched vagabonds. They are always trudging the road.

When we are young, that braggart breast is a great swell; but, in the end, we can only rely on our back.

The little stream that flows past our village comes to my mind. That morning we thought that it said to us, "Forward! Forward!" But what it really said was, "False! False!" The world is all false.

But really not to move, that is heroic, because it is defying the whole moving world.

Brave rebels that we are, we shall not move. We shall have the audacity to sit still, and never move an inch.

"Life and youth are fleeting," the Scripture says. Let life and youth go to the dogs, we shall not move.

"Our minds and wealth are fleeting," adds the Scripture. "Give them up and sit still," say we.

Yes, yes, that will keep our minds still. If we know that we have come from somewhere else, then the mind longs for that somewhere else.

What a marvellous gift of laughter he has! It is like a waterfall. It dashes all the black stones out of the path.

From this moment there will be nothing but work for us. As the Scripture says, "Everything in this world is fleeting, and he only lives who does his duty and achieves fame."

What do you mean by fame? Does the river take any heed of its foam? Fame is that foam on life's stream.

They all started up with fear, when I asked about the Old Man. Only this Minstrel seemed to have no fear. I suppose because he cannot see, he is not afraid.[101]

Do you know why I have no fear? When the sun of my life set, and I became blind, the dark night revealed all its lights, and, from that day forward, I have been no more afraid of the dark.

Let me sing, and walk on as I sing, and you follow me. I cannot find my way, if I do not sing.

ACT IV

SONG-PRELUDE

[There enter a troupe of young things, and they introduce themselves in a song as follows:]

[Winter is revealed as Spring and answers to the questions put by the chorus of young things.]

[The rear stage is darkened, and the light on the main stage dimmed to the heavy purple blackness of mourning.][107]

He has gone across the river with the blind minstrel, in whose depth of blindness Chandra is seeking the invisible light.

This little stream of water is trickling through the casuarina grove. It seems like the tears of midnight.[108]

When we run forward at full speed, our eyes keep gazing in front of us, and we see nothing on either side of us.

If youth had only the heat of movement, it would get parched and withered. But there is ever the hidden tear, which keeps it fresh.

The cry of the world is not only "I have," but also "I give." In the first dawning light of creation, "I have" was wedded to "I give." If this bond of union were to snap, then everything would go to ruin.

It seems as though these stars in[109] the sky above us are the gazing of countless eyes we met in all forgotten ages. It seems as if, through the flowers, there came the whisper of those we have forgotten, saying Remember us.

Ah, the dear earth! The beautiful earth! She wants all that we have—the touch of our hands, the song of our hearts.

This is her sorrow, that she finds out some things only to know that[111] she has not found all. She loses before she attains.

We came out to capture somebody, but now we feel the longing to be captured ourselves.

Ah, here comes the Minstrel. Where have you brought us? The breath of the wayfaring world touches us here,—the breath of the starry sky.

And everybody said that he was terrifying, a bodiless head, a gaping mouth, a dragon eager to swallow the moon of the youth of the world. But now we are no longer afraid. The flowers go, the leaves go, the waves in the river go, and we shall also follow them. Ah, blind Minstrel, strike your lute and sing to us. Who knows what is the hour of the night?[113]

Ah, that was fine.—Dada goes to read his quatrains to the village people, and Chandra has disappeared,—for what purpose nobody knows.

He said, "Men have always been fighting for a cause. It is the shock of that, which ruffles the breeze of this Spring."

Yes. Those, who have been made immortal by death, have sent their message in these fresh leaves of Spring. It said, "We never doubted the way. We never counted the cost: we rushed out: we blossomed. If we had sat down to debate, then where would be the Spring?"

He said, "I cannot keep waiting by the wayside any longer. I must go and meet him, and conquer him."

How is that? It is so fearfully dark. Did he, without making any enquiries—[117]—

Everything appears darkly ominous. I didn't notice before the hooting of the owl. But now——

Oh, the women, the women. They are ever crying and weeping. But[120] they cannot turn those back, who must go forward.

It is getting unbearable to sit still like this. Men imagine all sorts of things when they sit still. Let us go also. As soon as we are started on our way fear will leave us.

We never knew that we loved Chandra so intensely. We made light of him all these days.[121]

When we are in the playing mood, we become so intent on the play, that we neglect the playmate.

Yet his love rose above all that. We never knew how beautiful he was, when we could see him every day.

It seems as if some messages were striking his forehead. His body appears to espy some one in the distance. There seem to be eyes on the tips of his fingers.

Look. He is standing up. He is turning towards the East, and making his obeisance.[123]

The Old Man who would like to drink up the sea of youth in his insatiable thirst.[126]

Was it the One who is like the dark night, whose eyes are fixed on his breast, whose feet are turned the wrong way round, who walks backwards?

Was it the One who wears the garland of skulls, and lives in the burning-ground of the dead?

[The light strengthens and gradually throughout the scene grows to a culminating brilliance at the close.]

We shall colour your quatrains with such a thick brush, that no one will know whether they have any meaning at all.

[In which all the persons of the drama, not excepting Sruti-bhushan, unite on the main stage in the dance of Spring.]

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INTRODUCTION	1
ACT I	39
ACT II	65
ACT III	91
ACT IV	103