Note 267 — KĀDAMBARĪ. (continued 2)

(377) ‘“And she thought within herself, ‘What shameful conduct is this of mine, in that I cast away all fear, and show my unsteadiness and am blinded by folly. In my audacity I never thought he was a stranger; in my shamelessness I did not consider that he would think me light of nature; I never examined his character; I never thought in my folly if I were worthy of his regard; I had no dread of an unexpected rebuff; I had no fear of my parents, no anxiety about gossip. Nay, more, I did not in my unkindness267 remember that Mahāçvetā was in sorrow; in my stupidity I did not notice that my friends stood by and beheld me; in my utter dullness I did not see that my servants behind were observing me. Even grave minds would mark such utter forgetfulness of seemliness; how much more Mahāçvetā, who knows the course of love; and my friends skilled in all its ways, and my attendants who know all its symptoms, and whose wits are sharpened by life at court. The slaves of a zenana have keen eyes in such matters. My evil fate has undone me! Better were it for me now to die than live a shameful life. What will my father and mother and the Gandharvas say when they hear this tale? What can I do? What remedy is there? How can I cover this error? To whom can I tell this folly of my undisciplined senses, (378) and where shall I go, consumed by Kāma, the five-arrowed god? I had made a promise in Mahāçvetā’s sorrow, I had announced it before my friends, I had sent a message of it by the hands of Keyūraka, and how it has now come about that that beguiling Candrāpīḍa has been brought hither, I know not, ill-fated that I am; whether it be by cruel fate or proud love, or nemesis of my former deeds, or accursed death, or anything else. But some power unseen, unknown, unheard of, unthought of and unimagined before, has come to delude me. At the mere sight of him I am a captive in bonds; I am cast into a cage and handed over by my senses; I am enslaved and led to him by Love; I am sent away by affection; I am sold at a price by my feelings; I am made as a household chattel by my heart. I will have nothing to do with this worthless one!’ Thus for a moment she resolved. But having made this resolve, she was mocked by Candrāpīḍa’s image stirred by the trembling of her heart, ‘If thou, in thy false reserve, will have nought to do with me, I will go.’ She was asked by her life, which clung to her in a farewell embrace before starting at the moment of her determination to give up Candrāpīḍa; (379) she was addressed by a tear that rose at that moment, ‘Let him be seen once more with clearer eyes, whether he be worthy of rejection or no’; she was chidden by Love, saying, ‘I will take away thy pride together with thy life;’ and so her heart was again turned to Candrāpīḍa. Overwhelmed, when the force of her meditation had collapsed, by the access of love, she rose, under its sway, and stood looking through the window at the playing hill. And there, as if bewildered by a veil of joyful tears, she saw with her memory, not her eyes; as if fearing to soil with a hot hand her picture, she painted with her fancy, not with her brush; dreading the intervention of a thrill, she offered an embrace with her heart, not her breast; unable to bear his delay in coming, she sent her mind, not her servants, to meet him.