The Collected Plays. Rabindranath TagoreЧитать онлайн книгу.
to have any sense.
What then?
To have the tune itself.
What do you mean? Is there no philosophy in it?
No, none at all, thank goodness.
What does it say, then?
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 turn, "I exist." My poetry is like the cry of that new-born child. It is a response to the cry of the Universe.
Is it nothing more than that, Poet?
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?
No, King, they cut up poetry with their logic. They are like the young-horned deer trying their new horns on the flower-beds.
Whom should I ask, then?
Ask those whose hair is turning grey.
What do you mean, Poet?
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?
Yes, ask him.
And the Chinese Ambassador?
Yes, ask him too.
I hear my father-in-law has come.
Well, ask him too, but I have my doubts about his youthful sons.
But don't forget his daughter.
Don't worry about her. She won't let herself be forgotten.
And Sruti-bhushan? Shall I ask him?
No, King, no. Decidedly, no. I have no grudge against him. Why should I inflict this on him?
Very well, Poet. Off with you. Make your stage preparations.
No, King. We are going to act this play without any special preparations. Truth looks tawdry when she is overdressed.
But, Poet, there must be some canvas for a background.
No. Our only background is the mind. On that we shall summon up a picture with the magic wand of music.
Are there any songs in the play?
Yes, King. The door of each act will be opened by the key of song.
What is the subject of the songs?
The Disrobing of Winter.
But, Poet, we haven't read about that in any Mythology.
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.
Well, Poet, so much for the songs: but what about the remainder?
Oh, that is all about life.
Life? What is life?
This is how it runs: A band of 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——
Then, what? What did they see?
Ah. That will be told in its own good time.
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.
Who, then, are the chief characters?
One is called the Leader.
Who is he, Poet?
He is the guiding impulse in our life. Another is Chandra.
Who is he?
He who makes life dear to us.
And who else?
Then there is Dada, to whom duty is the essence of life, not joy.
Is there any one else?
Yes, the blind Minstrel.
Blind?
Because he does not see with his eyes, therefore he sees with his whole body and mind and soul.
Who else is there, in your play, among the chief actors?
You are there, King.
I?
Yes, you, King. For if you stayed out of it, instead of coming into it, then the King would begin to abuse 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 curtain1 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 everywhere in profusion. On the extreme left the mouth of a dark cavern dimly seen. Boys representing the "Bamboo" disclosed, swinging.
SONG OF THE BAMBOO
O South Wind, the Wanderer, come and rock me,
Rouse me into the rapture of new leaves.
I am the wayside bamboo tree, waiting for your breath
To tingle life into my branches.
O South Wind, the Wanderer, my dwelling is in the end of the lane.
I know your wayfaring, and the language of your footsteps.
Your least touch thrills me out of my slumber,
Your whisper gleans my secrets.
(Enter a troop of girls, dancing, representing birds.)
SONG OF THE BIRD
The sky pours its light into our hearts,
We fill the sky with songs in answer.
We pelt the air with our notes
When the air stirs our wings with its madness.
O Flame of the Forest,
All your flower-torches are ablaze;
You have kissed our songs red with the passion