The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (best fiction books to read TXT) 📕

  And Wept Above The Lifeless Head,

  Still Faithful To His Master Dead.

  Two Lancers Fell With Mortal Wound

  And Still They Struggled On The Ground;

  With Bristling Hair,  With Brandished Knife,

  Each Strove To End The Other'S Life.

  Two Slew Each Other In The Fight;

  To Paradise They Took Their Flight;

  There With A Nymph They Fell In Love,

  And Still They Fought In Heaven Above.

  Two Souls There Were That Reached The Sky;

  From Heights Of Heaven They Could Spy

  Two Writhing Corpses On The Plain,

  And Knew Their Headless Forms Again.

As The Struggle Comes To No Decisive Issue,  Taraka Seeks Out The Chief

Gods,  And Charges Upon Them.

_Seventeenth Canto. Taraka Is Slain_.--Taraka Engages The Principal

Gods And Defeats Them With Magic Weapons. When They Are Relieved By

Kumara,  The Demon Turns To The Youthful God Of War,  And Advises Him To

Retire From The Battle.

  Stripling,  You Are The Only Son

    Of Shiva And Of Parvati.

  Go Safe And Live! Why Should You Run

    On Certain Death? Why Fight With Me?

  Withdraw! Let Sire And Mother Blest

  Clasp Living Son To Joyful Breast.

  Flee,  Son Of Shiva,  Flee The Host

    Of Indra Drowning In The Sea

  That Soon Shall Close Upon His Boast

    In choking Waves Of Misery.

  For Indra Is A Ship Of Stone;

  Withdraw,  And Let Him Sink Alone.

Kumara Answers With Modest Firmness.

  The Words You Utter In Your Pride,

    O Demon-Prince,  Are Only Fit;

  Yet I Am Minded To Abide

    The Fight,  And See The End Of It.

  The Tight-Strung Bow And Brandished Sword

  Decide,  And Not The Spoken Word.

And With This The Duel Begins. When Taraka Finds His Arrows Parried By

Kumara,  He Employs The Magic Weapon Of The God Of Wind. When This Too

Is Parried,  He Uses The Magic Weapon Of The God Of Fire,  Which Kumara

Neutralises With The Weapon Of The God Of Water. As They Fight On,

Kumara Finds An Opening,  And Slays Taraka With His Lance,  To The

Unbounded Delight Of The Universe.

Here The Poem Ends,  In The Form In Which It Has Come Down To Us. It

Has Been Sometimes Thought That We Have Less Than Kalidasa Wrote,

Partly Because Of A Vague Tradition That There Were Once Twenty-Three

Cantos,  Partly Because The Customary Prayer Is Lacking At The End.

These Arguments Are Not Very Cogent. Though The Concluding Prayer Is

Not Given In Form,  Yet The Stanzas Which Describe The Joy Of The

Universe Fairly Fill Its Place. And One Does Not See With What Matter

Further Cantos Would Be Concerned. The Action Promised In The Earlier

Part Is Completed In The Seventeenth Canto.

It Has Been Somewhat More Formidably Argued That The Concluding Cantos

Are Spurious,  That Kalidasa Wrote Only The First Seven Or Perhaps The

First Eight Cantos. Yet,  After All,  What Do These Arguments Amount To?

Hardly More Than This,  That The First Eight Cantos Are Better Poetry

Than The Last Nine. As If A Poet Were Always At His Best,  Even When

Writing On A Kind Of Subject Not Calculated To Call Out His Best.

Fighting Is Not Kalidasa'S _Forte_; Love Is. Even So,  There Is Great

Vigour In The Journey Of Taraka,  The Battle,  And The Duel. It May Not

Be The Highest Kind Of Poetry,  But It Is Wonderfully Vigorous Poetry

Of Its Kind. And If We Reject The Last Nine Cantos,  We Fall Into A

Very Much Greater Difficulty. The Poem Would Be Glaringly Incomplete,

Its Early Promise Obviously Disregarded. We Should Have A _Birth Of

The War-God_ In Which The Poet Stopped Before The War-God Was Born.

There Seems Then No Good Reason To Doubt That We Have The Epic

Substantially As Kalidasa Wrote It. Plainly,  It Has A Unity Which Is

Lacking In Kalidasa'S Other Epic,  _The Dynasty_ _Of Raghu_,  Though In

This Epic,  Too,  The Interest Shifts. Parvati'S Love-Affair Is The

Matter Of The First Half,  Kumara'S Fight With The Demon The Matter Of

The Second Half. Further,  It Must Be Admitted That The Interest Runs A

Little Thin. Even In India,  Where The World Of Gods Runs Insensibly

Into The World Of Men,  Human Beings Take More Interest In The

Adventures Of Men Than Of Gods. The Gods,  Indeed,  Can Hardly Have

Adventures; They Must Be Victorious. _The Birth Of The War-God_ Pays

For Its Greater Unity By A Poverty Of Adventure.

It Would Be Interesting If We Could Know Whether This Epic Was Written

Before Or After _The Dynasty Of Raghu_. But We Have No Data For

Deciding The Question,  Hardly Any For Even Arguing It. The

Introduction To _The Dynasty Of Raghu_ Seems,  Indeed,  To Have Been

Written By A Poet Who Yet Had His Spurs To Win. But This Is All.

As To The Comparative Excellence Of The Two Epics,  Opinions Differ. My

Own Preference Is For _The Dynasty Of Raghu_,  Yet There Are Passages

In _The Birth Of The War-God_ Of A Piercing Beauty Which The World Can

Never Let Die.

The Cloud-Messenger

In _The Cloud-Messenger_ Kalidasa Created A New _Genre_ In Sanskrit

Literature. Hindu Critics Class The Poem With _The Dynasty Of Raghu_

And _The Birth Of The War-God_ As A _Kavya_,  Or Learned Epic. This It

Obviously Is Not. It Is Fair Enough To Call It An Elegiac Poem,  Though

A Precisian Might Object To The Term.

We Have Already Seen,  In Speaking Of _The Dynasty Of Raghu_,  What

Admiration Kalidasa Felt For His Great Predecessor Valmiki,  The Author

Of The _Ramayana_; And It Is Quite Possible That An Episode Of The

Early Epic Suggested To Him The Idea Which He Has Exquisitely Treated

In _The Cloud-Messenger_. In The _Ramayana_,  After The Defeat And

Death Of Ravana,  Rama Returns With His Wife And Certain Heroes Of The

Struggle From Ceylon To His Home In Northern India. The Journey,  Made

In An Aerial Car,  Gives The Author An Opportunity To Describe The

Country Over Which The Car Must Pass In Travelling From One End Of

India To The Other. The Hint Thus Given Him Was Taken By Kalidasa; A

Whole Canto Of _The Dynasty Of Raghu_ (The Thirteenth) Is Concerned

With The Aerial Journey. Now If,  As Seems Not Improbable,  _The Dynasty

Of Raghu_ Was The Earliest Of Kalidasa'S More Ambitious Works,  It Is

Perhaps Legitimate To Imagine Him,  As He Wrote This Canto,  Suddenly

Inspired With The Plan Of _The Cloud-Messenger_.

Thilong In His

Fifties,  With A Wife Twelve Years His Junior. He Pretended To Cultivate

His Small Farm In Merrytown,  But As A Matter Of Fact He Lived Off Of A

Comfortable Income Left Him By His Very Capable Father. He Spent Most Of

His Time Reading The Eighteenth-Century Essayists,  John Donne'S Poetry,

The "Atlantic Monthly," The "Boston Transcript," And Playing Mozart On

His Violin. He Did Not Understand His Wife And Was Thoroughly Afraid Of

His Son; Hugh Had An Animal Vigor That At Times Almost Terrified Him.

At His Wife'S Insistence He Had A Talk With Hugh The Night Before The

Boy Left For College. Hugh Had Wanted To Run When He Met His Father In

The Library After Dinner For That Talk. He Loved The Gentle,  Gray-Haired

Man With The Fine,  Delicate Features And Soft Voice. He Had Often Wished

That He Knew His Father. Mr. Carver Was Equally Eager To Know Hugh,  But

He Had No Idea Of How To Go About Getting Acquainted With His Son.

They Sat On Opposite Sides Of The Fireplace,  And Mr. Carver Gazed

Thoughtfully At The Boy. Why Hadn'T Betty Had This Talk With Hugh? She

Knew Him So Much Better Than He Did; They Were More Like Brother And

Sister Than Mother And Son. Why,  Hugh Called Her Betty Half The Time,

And She Seemed To Understand Him Perfectly.

Hugh Waited Silently. Mr. Carver Ran A Thin Hand Through His Hair And

Then Sharply Desisted; He Mustn'T Let The Boy Know That He Was Nervous.

Then He Settled His Horn-Rimmed Pince-Nez More Firmly On His Nose And

Felt In His Waistcoat For A Cigar. Why Didn'T Hugh Say Something? He

Snipped The End Of The Cigar With A Silver Knife. Slowly He Lighted The

Cigar,  Inhaled Once Or Twice,  Coughed Mildly,  And Finally Found His

Voice.

"Well,  Hugh," He Said In His Gentle Way.

"Well,  Dad." Hugh Grinned Sheepishly. Then They Both Started; Hugh Had

Never Called His Father Dad Before. He Thought Of Him That Way Always,

But He Could Never Bring Himself To Dare Anything But The More Formal

Father. In His Embarrassment He Had Forgotten Himself.

"I--I--I'M Sorry,  Sir," He Stuttered,  Flushing Painfully.

Mr. Carver Laughed To Hide His Own Embarrassment. "That'S All Right,

Hugh." His Smile Was Very Kindly. "Let It Be Dad. I Think I Like It

Better."

"That'S Fine!" Hugh Exclaimed.

The Tension Was Broken,  And Mr. Carver Began To Give The Dreaded Talk.

"I Hardly Know What To Say To You,  Hugh," He Began,  "On The Eve Of Your

Going Away To College. There Is So Much That You Ought To Know,  And I

Have No Idea Of How Much You Know Already."

Hugh Thought Of All The Smutty Stories He Had Heard--And Told.

Instinctively He Knew That His Father Referred To What A Local Doctor

Called "The Facts Of Life."

He Hung His Head And Said Gruffly,  "I Guess I Know A Good Deal--Dad."

"That'S Splendid!" Mr. Carver Felt The Full Weight Of A Father'S

Responsibilities Lifted From His Shoulders. "I Believe Dr. Hanson Gave

You A Talk At School About--Er,  Sex,  Didn'T He?"

"Yes,  Sir." Hugh Was Picking Out The Design In The Rug With The Toe Of

His Shoe And At The Same Time Unconsciously Pinching His Leg. He Pinched

So Hard That He Afterward Found A Black And Blue Spot,  But He Never

Knew How It Got There.

"Excellent Thing,  Excellent Thing,  These Talks By Medical Men." He Was

Beginning To Feel At Ease. "Excellent Thing. I Am Glad That You Are So

Well Informed; You Are Old Enough."

Hugh Wasn'T Well Informed; He Was Pathetically Ignorant. Most Of What He

Knew Had Come From The Smutty Stories,  And He Often Did Not Understand

The Stories That He Laughed At Most Heartily. He Was Consumed With

Curiosity.

"If There Is Anything You Want To Know,  Don'T Hesitate To Ask," His

Father Continued. He Had A Moment Of Panic Lest Hugh Would Ask

Something,  But The Boy Merely Shook His Head--And Pinched His Leg.

Mr. Carver Puffed His Cigar In Great