The Little Clay Cart – Act VIII
Act, the Eighth
THE STRANGLING OF VASANTASENA
[Enter a monk, with a wet garment in his hand.]
Monk.
Restrain the belly; watch eternally,
Heeding the beat of contemplation’s drum,
For else the senses—fearful thieves they be—
Will steal away all virtue’s hoarded sum.1
And further: I have seen that all things are transitory, so that now I am become the abode of virtues alone.
By whom protection to the Town is given,
By whom the Outcaste impotent is slain,
He cannot fail to enter into heaven.2
The heart unshorn, why should man shave him?
But he whose inmost heart is shorn
Needs not the shaven head to save him.3
I have dyed this robe of mine yellow. And now I will go into the garden of the king’s brother-in-law, wash it in the pond, and go away as soon as I can. [He walks about and washes the robe.]
A voice behind the scenes. Shtop, you confounded monk, shtop!
Monk. [Discovers the speaker. Fearfully. ] Heaven help me! Here is the king’s brother-in-law, Sansthānaka. Where shall a defenseless man find a defender? But after all, the blessèd Lord Buddha is my defender.
[119.90. S.
[Enter the courtier, carrying a sword, and Sansthānaka.]
Sansthānaka. Shtop, you confounded monk, shtop! [He strikes him.]
Courtier. Why heed him? Look rather upon this garden, which offers itself to pleasure.
Do works of mercy, granting joy and ease;
Like a sinner’s heart, the park unguarded lies,
Like some new-founded realm, an easy prize.4
Monk. Heaven bless you! Be merciful, servant of the Blessèd One!
Sansthānaka. Did you hear that, shir? He’s inshulting me.
Courtier. What does he say?
Sansthānaka. Shays I’m a shervant. What do you take me for? a barber?
Courtier. A servant of the Blessèd One he calls you, and this is praise.
Sansthānaka. Praise me shome more, monk!
Monk. You are virtuous!
Sansthānaka. Shee? He shays I’m virtuous. He shays I’m a brick. What do you think I am? a materialistic philosopher? or a watering-trough? or a pot-maker?
Courtier.
Sansthānaka. Well, shir, what did he come here for?
Monk. To wash this robe.
Sansthānaka. Confound the monk! My shishter’s husband gave me the finesht garden there is, the garden Pushpakaranda. Dogs and jackals drink the water in thish pond. Now I’m an arishtocrat. I’m a man, and I don’t even take a bath. And here you bring your shtinking clothes, all shtained with shtale bean-porridge, and wash ’em! I think one good shtroke will finish you.
P. 187.7]
Courtier. You jackass, I am sure he has not long been a monk.
Sansthānaka. How can you tell, shir?
Courtier. It doesn’t take much to tell that, See!
The rough cloak has not yet the shoulder scarred;
He wears it awkwardly; it clings not tight;
And here above, the fit is sadly marred.5
Monk. True, servant of the Blessèd One. I have been a monk but a short time.
Sansthānaka. Then why haven’t you been one all your life? [He beats him.]
Monk. Buddha be praised!
Courtier. Stop beating the poor fellow. Leave him alone. Let him go.
Sansthānaka. Jusht