KĀDAMBARĪ. (continued 2)

‘“‘“When this tale had been told by me, he thought silently for a moment, and then looking long at me with a steady gaze, as if gently entreating me, he said: ‘Damsel, thy form, young as thou art, is of fair promise, and augurs truth and steadfastness. Grant me, therefore, one request.’ Courteously raising my hands, I reverently replied: (297) ‘Wherefore say this? Who am I? When great-souled men such as thou, meet for the honour of the whole universe, deign to cast even their sin-removing glance on one like me, their act wins merit—much more if they give a command. Say, therefore, freely what is to be done. Let me be honoured by thy bidding.’

‘“‘“Thus addressed, he saluted me with a kindly glance, as a friend, a helper, or a giver of life; and taking a shoot from a tamāla-tree hard by, he crushed it on the stones of the bank, broke off a piece from his upper bark garment as a tablet, and with the tamāla-juice, sweet as the ichor of a gandha elephant, wrote with the nail of the little finger of his lotus-hand, and placed it in my hand, saying, ‘Let this letter be secretly given by thee to that maiden when alone.’” With these words she drew it from the betel-box and showed it to me.

A haṃsa on the Mānas lake, lured by a creeper’s treacherous shine,

(298) ‘“‘By the reading of this, an even greater change for the worse was wrought in my lovesick mind, as in one who has lost his way, by also losing his bearings; as in a blind man, by a night of the dark fortnight; as in a dumb man, by cutting out the tongue; as in an ignorant man, by a conjuror’s waving fan; as in a confused talker, by the delirium of fever; as in one poisoned, by the fatal sleep; as in a wicked man, by atheistic philosophy; as in one distraught, by strong drink; or as in one possessed, by the action of the possessing demon; so that in the turmoil it created in me, I was tossed like a river in flood. I honoured Taralikā for having seen him again, as one who had acquired great merit, or who had tasted the joys of heaven, or had been visited by a god, or had her highest boon granted, or had drunk nectar, or had been anointed queen of the three worlds. I spoke to her reverently, as if, though always by me, she were a rare visitant, and though my familiar friend, she were hitherto unknown. I looked on her, though behind me, as above the world; I tenderly caressed the curls on her cheek, and entirely set at nought the condition of mistress and maid, again and again asking, (299) “How was he seen by thee? What did he say to thee? How long wert thou there? How far did he follow us?” And shutting out all my attendants, I spent the whole day with her in the palace, listening to that tale. The sun’s orb hanging in the sky became crimson, sharing my heart’s glow; the Lakshmī of sunlight longing for the sight of the flushed sun, and preparing her lotus-couch, turned pale as though faint with love; the sunbeams, rosy as they fell on waters dyed with red chalk, rose from the lotus-beds clustering like herds of woodland elephants; the day, with an echo of the joyous neighing of the steeds of the sun’s chariot longing to rest after their descent of the sky, entered the caves of Mount Meru; the lotus-beds, as the bees entered the folded leaves of the red lilies, seemed to close their eyes as though their hearts were darkened by a swoon at the sun’s departure; the pairs of cakravākas, each taking the other’s heart, safely hidden in the hollow lotus-stalks whereof they had eaten together, were now parted; and my umbrella-bearer approaching me, said as follows: (300) “Princess, one of those youthful hermits is at the door, and says he has come to beg for a rosary.” At the hermit’s name, though motionless, I seemed to approach the door, and suspecting the reason of his coming, I summoned another chamberlain, whom I sent, saying, “Go and admit him.” A moment later I beheld the young ascetic Kapiñjala, who is to Puṇḍarīka as youth to beauty, love to youth, spring to love, southern breezes to spring, and who is indeed a friend worthy of him; he followed the hoary chamberlain as sunlight after moonlight. As he drew near his appearance betrayed to me trouble, sadness, distraction, entreaty, and a yearning unfulfilled. With a reverence I rose and respectfully brought him a seat; and when he was reluctantly forced to accept it, I washed his feet and dried them on the silken edge of my upper robe; and then sat by him on the bare ground. For a moment he waited, as if eager to speak, when he cast his eyes on Taralikā close by. Knowing his desire at a glance, I said, “Sir, she is one with me. (301) Speak fearlessly.” At my words Kapiñjala replied: “Princess, what can I say? for through shame my voice does not reach the sphere of utterance. How far is the passionless ascetic who lives on roots in the woods from the illusion of passion that finds its home in restless souls, and is stained with longing for earthly pleasures, and filled with the manifold sports of the Love God. See how unseemly all this is! What has fate begun? God easily turns us into a laughing-stock! I know not if this be fitting with bark garments, or seemly for matted locks, or meet for penance, or consonant with the teaching of holiness! Such a mockery was never known! I needs must tell you the story. No other course is visible; no other remedy is perceived; no other refuge is at hand; no other way is before me. If it remains untold, even greater trouble will arise. A friend’s life must be saved even at the loss of our own; so I will tell the tale:

‘“‘“It was in thy presence that I sternly rebuked Puṇḍarīka, and after that speech I left him in anger and went to another place, leaving my task of gathering flowers. After thy departure, I remained apart a short time, (302) and then, becoming anxious as to what he was doing, I turned back and examined the spot from behind a tree. As I did not see him there, the thought arose within me, ‘His mind was enslaved by love, and perchance he followed her; and now that she is gone, he has regained his senses, and is ashamed to come within my sight; or he has gone from me in wrath, or departed hence to another place in search of me.’ Thus thinking, I waited some time, but, troubled by an absence I had never since my birth suffered for a moment, I again thought, ‘It may be that, in shame at his failure in firmness, he will come to some harm; for shame makes everything possible; he must not, then, be left alone.’ With this resolve, I earnestly made search for him. But as I could not see him, though I sought on all sides, made anxious by love for my friend, I pictured this or that misfortune, and wandered long, examining glades of trees, creeper bowers among the sandal avenues, and the banks of lakes, carefully glancing on every side. (303) At length I beheld him in a thicket of creepers near a lake, a very birthplace for spring, most fair, and in its close growth appearing to be made wholly of flowers, of bees, of cuckoos, and of peacocks. From his entire absence of employment, he was as one painted, or engraved, or paralyzed, or dead, or asleep, or in a trance of meditation; he was motionless, yet wandering from his right course; alone, yet possessed by Love; all aglow, yet raising a pallid face; absent-minded, yet giving his love a place within him; silent, and yet telling a tale of Love’s great woe; seated on a stone, yet standing in face of death. He was tormented by Kāma, who yet, in fear of many a curse, remained unseen. By his great stillness he appeared to be deserted by the senses which had entered into him to behold the love that dwelt in his heart, and had fainted in fear at its unbearable heat, or had left him in wrath at the tossing of his mind. From eyes steadily closed, and dimmed within by the smoke of Love’s keen fire, he ceaselessly poured forth a storm of tears trickling down through his eyelashes. (304) The filaments of the creepers near trembled in the sighs which rushed out, bearing the redness of his lips like the upstarting ruddy flame of Kāma burning his heart. As his hand rested on his left cheek, his brow, from the clear rays of his nails rising upwards, seemed to have a fresh mark of sandal very pure; from the late removal of his earring, the pārijāta flower, his ear was endowed with a tamāla shoot or a blue lotus by the bees that murmured a charm to bewitch love, under the guise of their soft hum as they crept up in longing for what remained of that fragrance. Under the guise of his hair rising in a passionate thrill he seemed to bear on his limbs a mass of broken points of the flowery darts of Love’s arrows discharged into his pores. With his right hand he bore on his breast a string of pearls that, by being interlaced with the flashing rays of his nails, seemed bristling in joy at the pleasure of touching his palm, and that was, as it were, a banner of recklessness. He was pelted by the trees with pollen, like a powder to subdue Love; he was caressed by açoka shoots tossed by the wind, and transferring to him their rosy glow; he was besprinkled by woodland Lakshmī with honey-dew from clusters of fresh flowers, like waters to crown Love; he was struck by Love with campak buds, which, as their fragrance was drunk in by bees, were like fiery barbs all smoking; (305) he was rebuked by the south wind, as if by the hum of the bees maddened by the many scents of the wood; he was bewildered by the honey-month, as by cries of ‘All hail!’ to Spring raised by the cuckoos in their melodious ecstasy. Like the risen moon, he was robed in paleness; like the stream of Ganges in summer, he had dwindled to meagreness; like a sandal-tree with a fire at its heart, he was fading away. He seemed to have entered on another birth, and was as another man, strange and unfamiliar; he was changed into another shape. As one entered by an evil spirit, ruled by a great demon, possessed by a strong devil, drunk, deluded, blind, deaf, dumb, all merged in joy and love, he had reached the climax of the mind’s slavery when possessed by Love, and his old self could no longer be known.

(319) ‘“‘The firmament was now flooded with moonlight, as if the moon’s orb, which had not yet risen far, was, like the waterpipe of the temple of the universe, discharging a thousand streams of the heavenly Ganges, pouring forth the waves of an ambrosial ocean, shedding many a cascade of sandal-juice, and bearing floods of nectar; the world seemed to learn what life was in the White Continent, and the pleasures of seeing the land of Soma; the round earth was being poured out from the depths of a Milky Ocean by the moon, which was like the rounded tusk of the Great Boar; the moonrise offerings were being presented in every house by the women with sandal-water fragrant with open lotuses; the highways were crowded with thousands of women-messengers sent by fair ladies; girls going to meet their lovers ran hither and thither, veiled in blue silk and fluttered by the dread of the bright moonlight as if they were the nymphs of the white day lotus groves concealed in the splendours of the blue lotuses; the sky became an alluvial island in the river of night, with its centre whitened by the thick pollen of the groves of open night lotuses; while the night lotus-beds in the house-tanks were waking, encircled by bees which clung to every blossom; (320) the world of mortals was, like the ocean, unable to contain the joy of moonrise, and seemed made of love, of festivity, of mirth, and of tenderness: evening was pleasant with the murmur of peacocks garrulous in gladness at the cascade that fell from the waterpipes of moonstone.

(324) ‘“‘Such were the words I heard Kapiñjala utter; and as I heard them I uttered a loud cry, while yet far off, as if my life had fallen; and with my silk cloak torn as it clung to the creepers by the lake’s bank, and my feet placed on the ground regardless of its being rough or even, and as hastily as I could, I went on to that place, stumbling at every step, and yet as if led on by one who lifted me up again.

‘“‘With arms sturdy as the trunk of Airāvata, and fingers white as lotus-fibres and cool to the touch, he lifted my dead lord, (333) and, in a voice deep as a drum, he said to me: “Mahāçvetā, my child, thou must not die; for thou shalt again be united with him!” And with these words, tender as a father’s, he flew into the sky with Puṇḍarīka.

‘“‘But this sudden event filled me with fear, dismay, and eager anxiety, and with upraised face I asked Kapiñjala what it might mean. He, however, started up hastily without replying, and with the cry, “Monster, whither goest thou with my friend?” with uplifted eyes and sudden wrath he hastily girt up his loins, and following him in his flight, in hot pursuit he rose into the sky; and while I yet gazed they all entered amongst the stars. But the departure of Kapiñjala was to me like a second death of my beloved, and it redoubled my grief, so that my heart was rent asunder. Bewildered what to do, I cried to Taralikā: “Knowest thou not? Tell me what this means!” But she, with all a woman’s timidity at the sight, was at that very moment trembling in all her limbs, overcome by a fear stronger than her grief, and was frightened, moreover, by the dread of my death; and so with downcast heart she piteously replied: “Princess, wretch that I am, I know not! Yet this is a great miracle. The man is of no mortal mould, and thou wert pityingly comforted by him in his flight as by a father. Such godlike beings are not wont to deceive us, even in sleep, much less face to face; and when I think it over I cannot see the least cause for his speaking falsely. (334) It is meet, therefore, that thou shouldst weigh it, and restrain thy longing for death. In thy present state it is in truth a great ground for comfort. Moreover, Kapiñjala has gone in pursuit of Puṇḍarīka. From him thou canst learn whence and who this being is, and why Puṇḍarīka on his death was by him raised and carried off, and whither he is carried, and wherefore thou wert consoled by him with the boon of a hope of reunion that exceeds thought; then thou canst devote thyself either to life or death. For when death is resolved upon, it is easy to compass. But this can wait; for Kapiñjala, if he lives, will certainly not rest without seeing thee; therefore let thy life be preserved till his return.” Thus saying, she fell at my feet. And I, from the thirst for life that mortals find so hard to overcome, and from the weakness of woman’s nature, and from the illusion his words had created, and from my anxiety for Kapiñjala’s return, thought that that plan was best for the time, and did not die. For what will not hope achieve?

‘“‘At dawn I arose and bathed in the lake, and having formed my resolve, I took, for love of Puṇḍarīka, his pitcher and his bark garments and his rosary; for I clearly knew the worthlessness of the world. I perceived my own lack of merit; I pictured to myself the remediless cruelty of the blows of fate; I pondered the inevitableness of grief; I beheld the harshness of destiny; I meditated the course of love, rich in sorrow; I learnt the inconstancy of earthly things; I considered the frailness of all joys. Father and mother were disregarded; kinsfolk and followers abandoned; the joys of earth were banished from my mind; the senses held in firm restraint.

‘“‘I took the ascetic vow, and sought the protection of Çiva, lord of the three worlds and helper of the helpless. Next day my father came, having somehow learnt my story, bringing with him my mother and kinsfolk. Long he wept, and strove with all his might and by every means—prayers, admonitions, and tender words of every kind—to lead me home. (336) And when he understood my firm resolve, and knew that I could not be turned from that infatuation, he could not, even though without hope, part with his love for his child; and though I often bade him go, he stayed for some days, and went home at length full of grief, and with his heart hot within him.

‘“‘After his going, it was only by empty tears that I could show my gratitude to my lord; by many a penance I wasted my hated body, worn away by love of him, rich in ill, devoid of shame, ill-omened, and the home of a thousand tortures of grief; I lived but on water and the roots and fruits of the wood; under the guise of telling my beads I counted his virtues; thrice a day I bathed in the lake; I daily worshipped Çiva, and in this cell I dwelt with Taralikā, tasting the bitterness of a long grief. Such am I, evil, ill-omened, shameless, cruel, cold, murderous, contemptible, useless, fruitless, helpless, and joyless. (337) Why should one so noble as thou deign to look on or speak with me, the doer of that monstrous crime, the slaughter of a Brahman?’ Thus saying, she covered her face with the white edge of her bark garment, as if veiling the moon with a fleck of autumn cloud, and, unable to quell the irresistible torrent of her tears, she gave way to her sobs, and began to weep loud and long.

‘“Then at dawn, when Mahāçvetā had honoured the twilight and was murmuring the aghamarshaṇa, and Candrāpīḍa had said his morning prayer, Taralikā was seen coming with a Gandharva boy named Keyūraka (348). As she drew near, she looked long at Candrāpīḍa, wondering who he might be, and approaching Mahāçvetā, she bowed low and sat respectfully by her. Then Keyūraka, with head low bent even from afar, took his place on a rock some way off, assigned to him by a glance from Mahāçvetā, and was filled with wonder at the sight of Candrāpīḍa’s marvellous beauty, rare, mocking that of gods, demons, Gandharvas, and Vidyādharas, and surpassing even the god of love.

‘“‘Lady,’ replied Candrāpīḍa, ‘from the first moment of seeing thee I have been devoted to thy service. Let thy will be imposed without hesitation’; so saying, he started in her company.

‘“And as her reflection fell, she seemed on the jewelled pavement below to be borne away by serpents; on the walls hard by to be led by the guardians of space; on the roof above to be cast upwards by the gods; to be received by the pillars into their inmost heart; to be drunk in by the palace mirrors, to be lifted to the sky by the Vidyādharas scattered in the pavilion, looking down from the roof; to be surrounded by the universe concealed in the guise of pictures, all thronging together to see her; to be gazed at by the palace itself, which had gained a thousand eyes to behold her, in that the eyes of its peacocks’ tails were outspread as they danced to the clashing of her gems; and to be steadily looked on by her own attendants, who seemed in their eagerness to behold her to have gained a divine insight.

‘“Her beauty bore the impress of awakening love, though but yet in promise, and she seemed to be casting childhood aside like a thing of no worth.

(365) ‘“Such was Kādambarī as the prince beheld her. Before her was seated Keyūraka, loud in praise of Candrāpīḍa’s beauty, as Kādambarī questioned him, saying, ‘Who is he, and what are his parentage, name, appearance, and age? What did he say, and what didst thou reply? How long didst thou see him? how has he become so close a friend to Mahāçvetā? and why is he coming hither?’

‘“Now, on beholding the moonlike beauty of Kādambarī’s face, the prince’s heart was stirred like the tide of ocean. ‘Why,’ thought he, ‘did not the Creator make all my senses into sight, or what noble deed has my eye done that it may look on her unchecked? Surely it is a wonder! The Creator has here made a home for every charm! Whence have the parts of this exceeding beauty been gathered? Surely from the tears that fell from the Creator’s eyes in the labour of thought, as he gently moulded her with his hands, all the lotuses in the world have their birth.’

(376) ‘“Candrāpīḍa went away at her departure, followed by maidens, sent for his amusement by the portress at Kādambarī’s bidding, players on lute and pipe, singers, skilful dice and draught players, practised painters and reciters of graceful verses; he was led by his old acquaintance Keyūraka to the jewelled hall on the playing hill.

‘“When he was gone the Gandharva princess dismissed her girl-friends and attendants, and followed only by a few, went into the palace. There she fell on her couch, while her maidens stayed some way off, full of respect, and tried to comfort her. At length she came to herself, and remaining alone, she was filled with shame. For Modesty censured her: ‘Light one, what hast thou begun?’ Self-respect reproached her: ‘Gandharva Princess, how is this fitting for thee?’ Simplicity mocked her: ‘Where has thy childhood gone before its day was over?’ Youth warned her: ‘Wilful girl, do not carry out alone any wild plan of thine own!’ Dignity rebuked her: ‘Timid child, this is not the course of a high-born maiden.’ Conduct blamed her: ‘Reckless girl, avoid this unseemly behaviour!’ High Birth admonished her: ‘Foolish one, love hath led thee into lightness.’ Steadfastness cried shame on her: ‘Whence comes thine unsteadiness of nature?’ Nobility rebuked her: ‘Self-willed, my authority is set at nought by thee.’

‘“But Candrāpīḍa went down, and dismissing Kādambarī’s followers, performed the rites of bathing, and worshipped the deity honoured throughout the mountain, and did all the duties of the day, including his meal, on the pleasure hill. There he sat on an emerald seat which commanded the front of the pleasure hill, pleasant, green as a pigeon, bedewed with foam from the chewing of fawns, shining like Yamunā’s waters standing still in fear of Balarāma’s plough, glowing crimson with lac-juice from the girls’ feet, sanded with flower-dust, hidden in a bower, a concert-house of peacocks. He suddenly beheld day eclipsed by a stream of white radiance, rich in glory, (383) light drunk up as by a garland of lotus-fibres, earth flooded as by a Milky Ocean, space bedewed as by a storm of sandal-juice, and the sky painted as with white chunam.

‘“‘What!’ thought he, ‘is our lord, the Moon, king of plants, suddenly risen, or are a thousand shower-baths set going with their white streams let loose by a spring, or is it the heavenly Ganges, whitening the earth with her wind-tossed spray, that has come down to earth in curiosity?’

‘“Then the moon, source of nectar, gladdener of all eyes, arose with his rays gathered in; he seemed to be worshipped by the night-lotuses, to calm the quarters whose faces were dark as if with anger, and to avoid the day-lotuses as if from fear of waking them; under the guise of his mark he wore night on his heart; he bore in the glow of rising the lac that had clung to him from the spurning of Rohiṇī’s feet; he pursued the sky, in its dark blue veil, like a mistress; and by reason of his great goodwill, spread beauty everywhere.

‘“Madalekhā smilingly replied to this speech of his: ‘Enough, Prince. My friend Kādambarī is pained by thy too great ceremony. Why speakest thou thus? She accepts thy words without further talk. And why, too, is she brought to suspense by these too flattering speeches?’ and then, waiting a short time, she began afresh: ‘How is King Tārāpīḍa, how Queen Vilāsavatī, how the noble Çukanāsa? What is Ujjayinī like, and how far off is it? What is the land of Bharata? And is the world of mortals pleasant?’ So she questioned him. (393) After spending some time in such talk, Kādambarī rose, and summoning Keyūraka, who was lying near Candrāpīḍa, and her attendants, she went up to her sleeping-chamber. There she adorned a couch strewn with a coverlet of white silk. Candrāpīḍa, however, on his rock passed the night like a moment in thinking, while his feet were rubbed by Keyūraka, of the humility, beauty, and depth of Kādambarī’s character, the causeless kindness of Mahāçvetā, the courtesy of Madalekhā, the dignity of the attendants, the great splendour of the Gandharva world, and the charm of the Kimpurusha land.

(395) ‘“He beheld Kādambarī also giving her attention to the recitation of the Mahābhārata, that transcends all good omens, by Nārada’s sweet-voiced daughter, with an accompaniment of flutes soft as the murmur of bees, played by a pair of Kinnaras sitting behind her. She was looking in a mirror fixed before her at her lip, pale as beeswax when the honey is gone, bathed in the moonlight of her teeth, though within it was darkened by betel. She was being honoured by a sunwise turn in departing by a tame goose wandering like the moon in a fixed circle, with wide eyes raised to her sirīsha earrings in its longing for vallisneria. Here the prince approached, and, saluting her, sat down on a seat placed on the dais. After a short stay he looked at Mahāçvetā’s face with a gentle smile that dimpled his cheek, and she, at once knowing his wish, said to Kādambarī: ‘Dear friend, Candrāpīḍa is softened by thy virtues as the moonstone by the moon, and cannot speak for himself. He wishes to depart; for the court he has left behind is thrown into distress, not knowing what has happened. Moreover, however far apart you may be from each other, this your love, like that of the sun and the day lotus, or the moon and the night lotus, will last till the day of doom. Therefore let him go.’

(396) ‘“‘Dear Mahāçvetā,’ replied Kādambarī, ‘I and my retinue belong as wholly to the prince as his own soul. Why, then, this ceremony?’ So saying, and summoning the Gandharva princes, she bade them escort the prince to his own place, and he, rising, bowed before Mahāçvetā first, and then Kādambarī, and was greeted by her with eyes and heart softened by affection; and with the words, ‘Lady, what shall I say? For men distrust the multitude of words. Let me be remembered in the talk of thy retinue,’ he went out of the zenana; and all the maidens but Kādambarī, drawn by reverence for Candrāpīḍa’s virtues, followed him on his way like his subjects to the outer gate.

‘“On their return, he mounted the steed brought by Keyūraka, and, escorted by the Gandharva princes, turned to leave Hemakūṭa. His whole thoughts on the way were about Kādambarī in all things both within and without. With a mind wholly imbued with her, he beheld her behind him, dwelling within him in his bitter grief for the cruel separation; or before him, stopping him in his path; or cast on the sky, as if by the force of longing in his heart troubled by parting, so that he could perfectly see her face; he beheld her very self resting on his heart, as if her mind were wounded with his loss. When he reached Mahāçvetā’s hermitage, he there beheld his own camp, which had followed the tracks of Indrāyudha.

(397) ‘“Dismissing the Gandharva princes, he entered his own abode amidst the salutations of his troops full of joy, curiosity, and wonder; and after greeting the rest of the court, he spent the day mostly in talk with Vaiçampāyana and Patralekhā, saying, ‘Thus said Mahāçvetā, thus Kādambarī, thus Madalekhā, thus Tamālikā, thus Keyūraka.’ No longer did royal Glory, envious at the sight of Kādambarī’s beauty, find in him her joy; for him night passed in wakefulness as he thought, with a mind in ceaseless longing, of that bright-eyed maiden. Next morning, at sunrise, he went to his pavilion with his mind still fixed on her, and suddenly saw Keyūraka entering with a doorkeeper; and as the latter, while yet far off, cast himself on the ground, so that his crest swept the floor, Candrāpīḍa cried, ‘Come, come,’ greeting him first with a sidelong glance, then with his heart, then with a thrill. Then at last he hastened forward to give him a hearty and frank embrace, and made him sit down by himself. Then, in words brightened by the nectar of a smile, and transfused with overflowing love, he reverently asked: ‘Say, Keyūraka, is the lady Kādambarī well, and her friends, and her retinue, and the lady Mahāçvetā?’ With a low bow, Keyūraka, as though he had been bathed, anointed, and refreshed by the smile that the prince’s deep affection had prompted, replied respectfully:

‘“‘She is now well, in that my lord asks for her.’ And then he showed a folded lotus-leaf, wrapped in wet cloth, with its opening closed by lotus filaments, and a seal of tender lotus filaments set in a paste of wet sandal. (398) This he opened, and showed the tokens sent by Kādambarī, such as milky betel-nuts of emerald hue, with their shells removed and surrounded with fresh sprays, betel-leaves pale as the cheek of a hen-parrot, camphor like a solid piece of Çiva’s moon, and sandal ointment pleasant with rich musk scent. ‘The lady Kādambarī,’ said he, ‘salutes thee with folded hands that kiss her crest, and that are rosy with the rays of her tender fingers; Mahāçvetā with a greeting and embrace; Madalekhā with a reverence and a brow bathed in the moonlight of the crest-gem she has let fall; the maidens with the points of the fish-ornaments and the parting of their hair resting on the ground; and Taralikā, with a prostration to touch the dust of thy feet. Mahāçvetā sends thee this message: “Happy truly are they from whose eyes thou art never absent. For in truth thy virtues, snowy, cold as the moon when thou art by, in thine absence burn like sunlight. Truly all yearn for the past day as though it were that day whereon fate with such toil brought forth amṛita. Without thee the royal Gandharva city is languid as at the end of a feast. (399) Thou knowest that I have surrendered all things; yet my heart, in my despite, desires to see thee who art so undeservedly kind. Kādambarī, moreover, is far from well. She recalls thee with thy smiling face like Love himself. Thou, by the honour of thy return, canst make her proud of having some virtues of her own. For respect shown by the noble must needs confer honour. And thou must forgive the trouble of knowing such as we. For thine own nobility gives this boldness to our address. And here is this Çesha necklace, which was left by thee on thy couch.”’ So saying, he loosed it from his band, where it was visible by reason of the long rays that shot through the interstices of the fine thread, and placed it in the fan-bearer’s hand.

‘“‘Tell me, Keyūraka, what has happened in the Gandharva court since my departure? In what occupation has the Gandharva princess spent the time? What were Mahāçvetā and Madalekhā doing? What talk was there? How were you and the retinue employed? And was there any talk about me?’ Then Keyūraka told him all: ‘Listen, prince. On thy departure, the lady Kādambarī, with her retinue, climbed to the palace roof, making in the maidens’ palace with the sound of anklets the beat of farewell drums that rose from a thousand hearts; (401) and she gazed on thy path, gray with the dust of the cavalcade. When thou wert out of sight, she laid her face on Mahāçvetā’s shoulder, and, in her love, sprinkled the region of thy journey with glances fair as the Milky Ocean, and, warding off the sun’s touch, as it were, with the moon assuming in jealousy the guise of a white umbrella, she long remained there. Thence she reluctantly tore herself away and came down, and after but a short rest in the pavilion, she arose and went to the pleasaunce where thou hadst been. She was guided by bees murmuring in the flowers of oblation; startled by the cry of the house peacocks, she checked their note as they looked up at the shower-like rays of her nails, by the circlets which lay loose round her throat; at every step she let her hand rest on creeper-twigs white with flowers, and her mind on thy virtues. When she reached the pleasaunce, her retinue needlessly told her: “Here the prince stayed on the spray-washed rock, with its creeper-bower bedewed by the stream from a pipe that ends in an emerald fish-head; here he bathed in a place covered by bees absorbed in the fragrance of the scented water; here he worshipped Çiva on the bank of the mountain stream, sandy with flower-dust; here he ate on a crystal stone which eclipsed moonlight; and here he slept on a pearly slab with a mark of sandal-juice imprinted on it.” (402) And so she passed the day, gazing on the signs of thy presence; and at close of day Mahāçvetā prepared for her, though against her will, a meal in that crystal dwelling. And when the sun set and the moon rose, soon, as though she were a moonstone that moonlight would melt, and therefore dreaded the entrance of the moon’s reflection, she laid her hands on her cheeks, and, as if in thought, remained for a few minutes with closed eyes; and then rising, went to her sleeping-chamber, scarcely raising her feet as they moved with graceful, languid gait, seemingly heavy with bearing the moon’s reflection on their bright nails. Throwing herself on her couch, she was racked by a severe headache, and overcome by a burning fever, and, in company with the palace-lamps, the moon-lotuses, and the cakravākas, she passed the night open-eyed in bitter grief. And at dawn she summoned me, and reproachfully bade me seek for tidings of thee.’

‘“And Candrāpīḍa, approaching, bowed first before Mahāçvetā, then courteously saluted Kādambarī, and when she had returned his obeisance, and seated herself again on the couch, and the portress had brought him a gold stool with legs gleaming with gems, he pushed it away with his foot, and sat down on the ground. Then Keyūraka presented Patralekhā, saying: ‘This is Prince Candrāpīḍa’s betel-box bearer and most favoured friend.’ And Kādambarī, looking on her, thought: ‘How great partiality does Prajāpati bestow on mortal women!’ And as Patralekhā bowed respectfully, she bade her approach, and placed her close behind herself, amidst the curious glances of all her retinue. (412) Filled even at first sight with great love for her, Kādambarī often touched her caressingly with her slender hand.

‘“Then Kādambarī, though naturally simple by reason of her youth, yet, from a knowledge taught by love, understood all the meaning of this darkly-expressed speech. (413) Yet, not realizing that she had come to such a point in her desires, supported by her modesty, she remained silent. She sent forth, however, the radiance of a smile at that moment on some pretext, as though to see his face darkened by the bees which were gathered round its sweetness. Madalekhā therefore replied: ‘Prince, what shall I say? This pain is cruel beyond words. Moreover, in one of so delicate a nature what does not tend to pain? Even cool lotus-fibres turn to fire and moonlight burns. Seest thou not the pain produced in her mind by the breezes of the fans? Only her strength of mind keeps her alive.’ But in heart alone did Kādambarī admit Madalekhā’s words as an answer to the prince. His mind, however, was in suspense from the doubtfulness of her meaning, and after spending some time in affectionate talk with Mahāçvetā, at length with a great effort he withdrew himself, and left Kādambarī’s palace to go to the camp.

‘“As he was about to mount his horse, Keyūraka came up behind him, and said: ‘Prince, Madalekhā bids me say that Princess Kādambarī, ever since she beheld Patralekhā, has been charmed by her, and wishes to keep her. She shall return later. (414) Having heard her message, thou must decide’ ‘Happy,’ replied the prince, ‘and enviable is Patralekhā, in that she is honoured by so rare a favour by the princess. Let her be taken in.’ So saying, he went to the camp.

(417–426 condensed) ‘“And on the way he beheld in the forest a red flag, near which was a shrine of Durgā, guarded by an old Draviḍian hermit, who made his abode thereby.

‘“‘At last, often turning her glance to my face, she seemed to purify, with the tears that fell from her brimming eyes, the voice that the smoke of Love’s fire had dimmed. And, in the guise of tears, she bound up with the rays of her teeth, flashing in a forced smile, the strange syllables of what she had meant to say, but forgotten in her tremor, and with great difficulty betook herself to speech. “Patralekhā,” she said to me, “by reason of my great favour for thee, neither father, mother, Mahāçvetā, Madalekhā, nor life itself is dear to me as thou hast been since I first beheld thee. (434) I know not why my heart has cast off all my friends and trusts in thee alone. To whom else can I complain, or tell my humiliation, or give a share in my woe? When I have shown thee the unbearable burden of my woe, I will die. By my life I swear to thee I am put to shame by even my own heart’s knowledge of my story; how much more by another’s? How should such as I stain by ill report a race pure as moonbeams, and lose the honour which has descended from my sires, and turn my thoughts on unmaidenly levity, acting thus without my father’s will, or my mother’s bestowal, or my elders’ congratulations, without any announcement, without sending of gifts, or showing of pictures? Timidly, as one unprotected, have I been led to deserve my parents’ blame by that overweening Candrāpīḍa. Is this, I pray, the conduct of noble men? Is this the fruit of our meeting, that my heart, tender as a lotus filament, is now crushed? For maidens should not be lightly treated by youths; the fire of love is wont to consume first their reserve and then their heart; the arrows of love pierce first their dignity and then their life. Therefore, I bid thee farewell till our meeting in another birth, for none is dearer to me than thou. (435) By carrying out my resolve of death, I shall cleanse my own stain.” So saying, she was silent.

‘“‘A sweet joy filled me as I heard her say this, and I thought, (437) “Surely Love has led her far in her feelings for Candrāpīḍa. If this indeed be true, he shows in visible form, under the guise of Kādambarī, his tender feeling towards the prince, and he is met by the prince’s innate and carefully-trained virtues. The quarters gleam with his glory; a rain of pearls is cast by his youth on the waves of the ocean of tenderness; his name is written by his youthful gaiety on the moon; his own fortune is proclaimed by his happy lot; and nectar is showered down by his grace as by the digits of the moon.”

‘“‘Moreover, the Malaya wind has at length its season; moonrise has gained its full chance; the luxuriance of spring flowers has won a fitting fruit; the sharpness of wine has mellowed to its full virtue, and the descent of love’s era is now clearly manifest on earth.

‘“‘Then I smiled, and said aloud: “If it be so, princess, cease thy wrath. Be appeased. Thou canst not punish the prince for the faults of Kāma. These truly are the sports of Love, the god of the Flowery Bow, not of a wanton Candrāpīḍa.”

‘“‘As I said this, she eagerly asked me: “As for this Kāma, whoever he may be, tell me what forms he assumes.”

‘“‘“How can he have forms?” replied I. “He is a formless fire. For without flame he creates heat; without smoke he makes tears flow; without the dust of ashes he shows whiteness. Nor is there a being in all the wide universe who is not, or has not been, or will not be, the victim of his shaft. Who is there that fears him not? (438) Even a strong man is pierced by him when he takes in hand his flowery bow.

‘“‘“Moreover, when tender women are possessed by him, they gaze, and the sky is crowded with a thousand images of their beloved. They paint the loved form; the earth is a canvas all too small. They reckon the virtues of their hero; number itself fails them. They listen to talk about their dearest; the Goddess of Speech herself seems all too silent. They muse on the joys of union with him who is their life; and time itself is all too short to their heart.”

‘“‘She pondered a moment on this ere she replied: “As thou sayest, Patralekhā, Love has led me into tenderness for the prince. For all these signs and more are found in me. Thou art one with my own heart, and I ask thee to tell me what I should now do? I am all unversed in such matters. Moreover, if I were forced to tell my parents, I should be so ashamed that my heart would choose death rather than life.”