King (looking down). Matali, our quick descent gives the world of men a mysterious look. For
The plains appear to melt and fall
From mountain peaks that grow more tall;
The trunks of trees no longer hide
Nor in their leafy nests abide;
The river network now is clear,
For smaller streams at last appear:
It seems as if some being threw
The world to me, for clearer view.
Matali. You are a good observer, O King. (He looks down, awe-struck.) There is a noble loveliness in the earth.
King. Matali, what mountain is this, its flanks sinking into the eastern and into the western sea? It drips liquid gold like a cloud at sunset.
Matali. O King, this is Gold Peak, the mountain of the fairy centaurs.
Here it is that ascetics most fully attain to magic powers. See!
The ancient sage, Marichi’s son,
Child of the Uncreated One,
Father of superhuman life,
Dwells here austerely with his wife.
King (reverently). I must not neglect the happy chance. I cannot go farther until I have walked humbly about the holy one.
Matali. It is a worthy thought, O King. (The chariot descends.) We have come down to earth.
King (astonished). Matali,
The wheels are mute on whirling rim;
Unstirred, the dust is lying there;
We do not bump the earth, but skim:
Still, still we seem to fly through air.
Matali. Such is the glory of the chariot which obeys you and Indra.
King. In which direction lies the hermitage of Marichi’s son?
Matali (pointing). See!
Where stands the hermit, horridly austere,
Whom clinging vines are choking, tough and sere;
Half-buried in an ant-hill that has grown
About him, standing post-like and alone;
Sun-staring with dim eyes that know no rest,
The dead skin of a serpent on his breast:
So long he stood unmoved, insensate there
That birds build nests within his mat of hair.
King (gazing). All honour to one who mortifies the flesh so terribly.
Matali (checking the chariot). We have entered the hermitage of the ancient sage, whose wife Aditi tends the coral-trees.
King. Here is deeper contentment than in heaven. I seem plunged in a pool of nectar.
Matali (stopping the chariot). Descend, O King.
King (descending). But how will you fare?
Matali. The chariot obeys the word of command. I too will descend.
(He does so.) Before you, O King, are the groves where the holiest hermits lead their self-denying life.
King. I look with amazement both at their simplicity and at what they might enjoy.
Their appetites are fed with air
Where grows whatever is most fair;
They bathe religiously in pools
Which golden lily-pollen cools;
They pray within a jewelled home,
Are chaste where nymphs of heaven roam:
They mortify desire and sin
With things that others fast to win.
Matali. The desires of the great aspire high. (He walks about and speaks to some one not visible.) Ancient Shakalya, how is Marichi’s holy son occupied? (He listens.) What do you say? That he is explaining to Aditi, in answer to her question, the duties of a faithful wife? My matter must await a fitter time. (He turns to the king.) Wait here, O King, in the shade of the ashoka tree, till I have announced your coming to the sire of Indra.
King. Very well. (Exit Matali. The king’s arm throbs, a happy omen.) I dare not hope for what I pray;
Why thrill - in vain?
For heavenly bliss once thrown away
Turns into pain.
A voice behind the scenes. Don’t! You mustn’t be so foolhardy. Oh, you are always the same.
King (listening). No naughtiness could feel at home in this spot. Who draws such a rebuke upon himself? (He looks towards the sound. In surprise.) It is a child, but no child in strength. And two hermit-women are trying to control him.
He drags a struggling lion cub,
The lioness’ milk half-sucked, half-missed,
Towzles his mane, and tries to drub
Him tame with small, imperious fist.
(Enter a small boy, as described, and two hermit-women.) Boy. Open your mouth, cub. I want to count your teeth.
First woman. Naughty boy, why do you torment our pets? They are like children to us. Your energy seems to take the form of striking something. No wonder the hermits call you All-tamer.
King. Why should my heart go out to this boy as if he were my own son? (He reflects.) No doubt my childless state makes me sentimental.
Second woman. The lioness will spring at you if you don’t let her baby go.
Boy (smiling). Oh, I’m dreadfully scared. (He bites his lip.) King (in surprise).
The boy is seed of fire
Which, when it grows, will burn;
A tiny spark that soon
To awful flame may turn.
First woman. Let the little lion go, dear. I will give you another plaything.
Boy. Where is it? Give it to me. (He stretches out his hand.) King (looking at the hand.) He has one of the imperial birthmarks! For Between the eager fingers grow
The close-knit webs together drawn,
Like some lone lily opening slow
To meet the kindling blush of dawn.
Second woman. Suvrata, we can’t make him stop by talking. Go. In my cottage you will find a painted clay peacock that belongs to the hermit-boy Mankanaka. Bring him that.
First woman. I will. (Exit.)
Boy. Meanwhile I’ll play with this one.
Hermit-woman (looks and laughs). Let him go.
King. My heart goes out to this wilful child. (Sighing.) They show their little buds of teeth
In peals of causeless laughter;
They hide their trustful heads beneath Your heart. And stumbling after
Come sweet, unmeaning sounds that sing
To you. The father warms
And loves the very dirt they bring
Upon their little forms.
Hermit-woman (shaking her finger). Won’t you mind me? (She looks about.) Which one of the hermit-boys is here? (She sees the king.) Oh, sir, please come here and free this lion cub. The little rascal is tormenting him, and I can’t make him let go.
King. Very well. (He approaches, smiling.) O little son of a great sage!
Your conduct in this place apart,
Is most unfit;
‘Twould grieve your father’s pious heart
And trouble it.
To animals he is as good
As good can be;
You spoil it, like a black snake’s brood
In sandal tree.
Hermit-woman. But, sir, he is not the son of a hermit.
King. So it would seem, both from his looks and his actions. But in this spot, I had no suspicion of anything else. (He loosens the boy’s hold on the cub, and touching him, says to himself.)
It makes me thrill to touch the boy,
The stranger’s son, to me unknown;
What measureless content must fill
The man who calls the child his own!
Hermit-woman (looking at the two). Wonderful! wonderful!