PART II.

(441) I hail, for the completion of the difficult toil of this unfinished tale, Umā and Çiva, parents of earth, whose single body, formed from the union of two halves, shows neither point of union nor division.

(442) I salute Nārāyaṇa, creator of all, by whom the man-lion form was manifested happily, showing a face terrible with its tossing mane, and displaying in his hand quoit, sword, club and conch.

I do homage to my father, that lord of speech, the creator by whom that story was made that none else could fashion, that noble man whom all honour in every house, and from whom I, in reward of a former life, received my being.

(443) When my father rose to the sky, on earth the stream of the story failed with his voice. And I, as I saw its unfinished state was a grief to the good, began it, but from no poetic pride.

For that the words flow with such beauty is my father’s special gift; a single touch of the ray of the moon, the one source of nectar, suffices to melt the moonstone.

As other rivers at their full enter the Ganges, and by being absorbed in it reach the ocean, so my speech is cast by me for the completion of this story on the ocean-flowing stream of my father’s eloquence.

‘“Moreover,” Kādambarī continued, “if the prince were brought shame itself, put to shame by my weakness, would not allow a sight of him. (446) Fear itself, frightened at the crime of bringing him by force, would not enter his presence. Then all would be over if my friend Patralekhā did her utmost from love to me, and yet could not induce him to come, even by falling at his feet, either perchance from his respect for his parents, or devotion to royal duty, or love of his native land, or reluctance towards me. Nay, more. (448) I am that Kādambarī whom he saw resting on a couch of flowers in the winter palace, and he is that Candrāpīḍa, all ignorant of another’s pain, who stayed but two days, and then departed. I had promised Mahāçvetā not to marry while she was in trouble, though she besought me not to promise, saying, that Kāma often takes our life by love even for one unseen. (449) But this is not my case. For the prince, imaged by fancy, ever presents himself to my sight, and, sleeping or waking, in every place I behold him. Therefore talk not of bringing him.”

‘Then with slightly downcast face Patralekhā continued: “The recent kindness of the princess has given me courage, my prince, and I am grieved for her, and so I say to thee, ‘Didst thou act worthily of thy tender nature in leaving her in this state?’”

‘Thus reproached by Patralekhā, and hearing the words of Kādambarī, so full of conflicting impulses, the prince became confused; (454) and sharing in Kādambarī’s feeling, he asked Patralekhā with tears, “What am I to do? Love has made me a cause of sorrow to Kādambarī, and of reproach to thee. (455) And methinks this was some curse that darkened my mind; else how was my mind deceived when clear signs were given, which would create no doubt even in a dull mind? All this my fault has arisen from a mistake. I will therefore now, by devoting myself to her, even with my life, act so that the princess may know me not to be of so hard a heart.”

‘(456) While he thus spoke a portress hastened in and said: “Prince, Queen Vilāsavatī sends a message saying, ‘I hear from the talk of my attendants that Patralekhā, who had stayed behind, has now returned. And I love her equally with thyself. Do thou therefore come, and bring her with thee. The sight of thy lotus face, won by a thousand longings, is rarely given.’”

‘“How my life now is tossed with doubts!” thought the prince. “My mother is sorrowful if even for a moment she sees me not. (457) My subjects love me; but the Gandharva princess loves me more. Princess Kādambarī is worthy of my winning, and my mind is impatient of delay;” so thinking, he went to the queen, and spent the day in a longing of heart hard to bear; (458) while the night he spent thinking of the beauty of Kādambarī, which was as a shrine of love.

‘(459) Thenceforth pleasant talk found no entrance into him. His friends’ words seemed harsh to him; the conversation of his kinsmen gave him no delight. (460) His body was dried up by love’s fire, but he did not yield up the tenderness of his heart. (461) He despised happiness, but not self-control.

‘While he was thus drawn forward by strong love, which had its life resting on the goodness and beauty of Kādambarī, and held backwards by his very deep affection for his parents, he beheld one day, when wandering on the banks of the Siprā, a troop of horse approaching. (462) He sent a man to inquire what this might be, and himself crossing the Siprā where the water rose but to his thigh, he awaited his messenger’s return in a shrine of Kārtikeya. Drawing Patralekhā to him, he said, “Look! that horse-man whose face can scarce be descried is Keyūraka!”

‘(463) He then beheld Keyūraka throw himself from his horse while yet far off, gray with dust from swift riding, while by his changed appearance, his lack of adornment, his despondent face, and his eyes that heralded his inward grief, he announced, even without words, the evil plight of Kādambarī. Candrāpīḍa lovingly called him as he hastily bowed and drew near, and embraced him. And when he had drawn back and paid his homage, the prince, having gratified his followers by courteous inquiries, looked at him eagerly, and said, “By the sight of thee, Keyūraka, the well-being of the lady Kādambarī and her attendants is proclaimed. When thou art rested and at ease, thou shalt tell me the cause of thy coming;” and he took Keyūraka and Patralekhā home with him on his elephant. (464) Then he dismissed his followers, and only accompanied by Patralekhā, he called Keyūraka to him, and said: “Tell me the message of Kādambarī, Madalekhā and Mahāçvetā.”

‘Then, awakening from his swoon, he lamented that he was thought too hard of heart to receive a message from Kādambarī or her friends, and blamed them for not telling him of her love while he was there.

‘(484) But next morning he heard a report that his army had reached Daçapura, and thinking with joy that he was now to receive the favour of Fate, in that Vaiçampāyana was now at hand, he joyfully told the news to Keyūraka. (485) “This event,” replied the latter, “surely announces thy going. Doubtless thou wilt gain the princess. For when was the moon ever beheld by any without moonlight, or a lotus-pool without a lotus, or a garden without creeper? Yet there must be delay in the arrival of Vaiçampāyana, and the settling with him of thy plans. But I have told thee the state of the princess, which admits of no delay. Therefore, my heart, rendered insolent by the grace bestowed by thy affection, desires that favour may be shown me by a command to go at once to announce the joy of my lord’s coming.” (486) Whereat the prince, with a glance that showed his inward satisfaction, replied: “Who else is there who so well knows time and place, or who else is so sincerely loyal? This, therefore, is a happy thought. Go to support the life of the princess and to prepare for my return. But let Patralekhā go forward, too, with thee to the feet of the princess. For she is favoured by the princess.” Then he called Meghanāda, and bade him escort Patralekhā, (487) while he himself would overtake them when he had seen Vaiçampāyana. Then he bade Patralekhā tell Kādambarī that her noble sincerity and native tenderness preserved him, even though far away and burnt by love’s fire, (489) and requested her bidding to come. (491) After their departure, he went to ask his father’s leave to go to meet Vaiçampāyana. The king lovingly received him, and said to Çukanāsa: (492) “He has now come to the age for marriage. So, having entered upon the matter with Queen Vilāsavatī, let some fair maiden be chosen. For a face like my son’s is not often to be seen. Let us then gladden ourselves now by the sight of the lotus face of a bride.” Çukanāsa agreed that as the prince had gained all knowledge, made royal fortune firmly his own, and wed the earth, there remained nothing for him to do but to marry a wife. “How fitly,” thought Candrāpīḍa, “does my father’s plan come for my thoughts of a union with Kādambarī! (493) The proverb ‘light to one in darkness,’ or ‘a shower of nectar to a dying man,’ is coming true in me. After just seeing Vaiçampāyana, I shall win Kādambarī.” Then the king went to Vilāsavatī, and playfully reproached her for giving no counsel as to a bride for her son. (494) Meanwhile the prince spent the day in awaiting Vaiçampāyana’s return. And after spending over two watches of the night sleepless in yearning for him, (495) the energy of his love was redoubled, and he ordered the conch to be sounded for his going. (497) Then he started on the road to Daçapura, and after going some distance he beheld the camp, (501) and rejoiced to think he would now see Vaiçampāyana; and going on alone, he asked where his friend was. But weeping women replied: “Why ask? How should he be here?” And in utter bewilderment he hastened to the midst of the camp. (502) There he was recognised, and on his question the chieftains besought him to rest under a tree while they related Vaiçampāyana’s fate. He was, they said, yet alive, and they told what had happened. (505) “When left by thee, he halted a day, and then gave the order for our march. ‘Yet,’ said he, ‘Lake Acchoda is mentioned in the Purāṇa as very holy. Let us bathe and worship Çiva in the shrine on its bank. For who will ever, even in a dream, behold again this place haunted by the gods?’ (506) But beholding a bower on the bank he gazed at it like a brother long lost to sight, as if memories were awakened in him. And when we urged him to depart, he made as though he heard us not; but at last he bade us go, saying that he would not leave that spot. (508) ‘Do I not know well’ said he, ‘all that you urge for my departure? But I have no power over myself, and I am, as it were, nailed to the spot, and cannot go with you.’ (510) So at length we left him, and came hither.”

‘Amazed at this story, which he could not have even in a dream imagined, Candrāpīḍa wondered: “What can be the cause of his resolve to leave all and dwell in the woods? I see no fault of my own. He shares everything with me. Has anything been said that could hurt him by my father or Çukanāsa?” (517) He at length returned to Ujjayinī, thinking that where Vaiçampāyana was there was Kādambarī also, and resolved to fetch him back. (518) He heard that the king and queen had gone to Çukanāsa’s house, and followed them thither. (519) There he heard Manoramā lamenting the absence of the son without whose sight she could not live, and who had never before, even in his earliest years, shown neglect of her. (520) On his entrance the king thus greeted him: “I know thy great love for him. Yet when I hear thy story my heart suspects some fault of thine.” But Çukanāsa, his face darkened with grief and impatience, said reproachfully: “If, O king, there is heat in the moon or coolness in fire, then there may be fault in the prince. (521) Men such as Vaiçampāyana are portents of destruction, (522) fire without fuel, polished mirrors that present everything the reverse way; (523) for them the base are exalted, wrong is right, and ignorance wisdom. All in them makes for evil, and not for good. Therefore Vaiçampāyana has not feared thy wrath, nor thought that his mother’s life depends on him, nor that he was born to be a giver of offerings for the continuance of his race. (524) Surely the birth of one so evil and demoniac was but to cause us grief.” (525) To this the king replied: “Surely for such as I to admonish thee were for a lamp to give light to fire, or daylight an equal splendour to the sun. Yet the mind of the wisest is made turbid by grief as the Mānasa Lake by the rainy season, and then sight is destroyed. Who is there in this world who is not changed by youth? When youth shows itself, love for elders flows away with childhood. (528) My heart grieves when I hear thee speak harshly of Vaiçampāyana. Let him be brought hither. Then we can do as is fitting.” (529) Çukanāsa persisted in blaming his son; but Candrāpīḍa implored leave to fetch him home, and Çukanāsa at length yielded. (532) Then Candrāpīḍa summoned the astrologers, and secretly bade them name the day for his departure, when asked by the king or Çukanāsa, so as not to delay his departure. “The conjunction of the planets,” they answered him, “is against thy going. (533) Yet a king is the determiner of time. On whatever time thy will is set, that is the time for every matter.” Then they announced the morrow as the time for his departure; and he spent that day and night intent on his journey, and deeming that he already beheld Kādambarī and Vaiçampāyana before him.

‘(534) And when the time came, Vilāsavatī bade him farewell in deep sorrow: “I grieved not so for thy first going as I do now. My heart is torn; my body is in torture; my mind is overwhelmed. (535) I know not why my heart so suffers. Stay not long away.” He tried to console her, and then went to his father, who received him tenderly, (539) and finally dismissed him, saying: “My desire is that thou shouldst take a wife and receive the burden of royalty, so that I may enter on the path followed by royal sages; but this matter of Vaiçampāyana is in the way of it, and I have misgivings that my longing is not to be fulfilled; else how could he have acted in so strange a way? Therefore, though thou must go, my son, return soon, that my heart’s desire may not fail.” (540) At length he started, and spent day and night on his journey in the thought of his friend and of the Gandharva world. (544) And when he had travelled far the rainy season came on, and all the workings of the storms found their counterpart in his own heart. (548) Yet he paused not on his way, nor did he heed the entreaties of his chieftains to bestow some care on himself, but rode on all day. (549) But a third part of the way remained to traverse when he beheld Meghanāda, and, asking him eagerly concerning Vaiçampāyana, (550) he learnt that Patralekhā, sure that the rains would delay his coming, had sent Meghanāda to meet him, and that the latter had not been to the Acchoda lake. (552) With redoubled grief the prince rode to the lake, and bade his followers guard it on all sides, lest Vaiçampāyana should in shame flee from them; but all his search found no traces of his friend. (553) “My feet,” thought he, “cannot leave this spot without him, and yet Kādambarī has not been seen. Perchance Mahāçvetā may know about this matter; I will at least see her.” So he mounted Indrāyudha, and went towards her hermitage. There dismounting, he entered; but in the entrance of the cave he beheld Mahāçvetā, with difficulty supported by Taralikā, weeping bitterly. (554) “May no ill,” thought he, “have befallen Kādambarī, that Mahāçvetā should be in this state, when my coming should be a cause of joy.” Eagerly and sorrowfully he questioned Taralikā, but she only gazed on Mahāçvetā’s face. Then the latter at last spoke falteringly: “What can one so wretched tell thee? Yet the tale shall be told. When I heard from Keyūraka of thy departure, my heart was torn by the thought that the wishes of Kādambarī’s parents, my own longing, and the sight of Kādambarī’s happiness in her union with thee had not been brought about, and, cleaving even the bond of my love to her, I returned home to yet harsher penance than before. (555) Here I beheld a young Brahman, like unto thee, gazing hither and thither with vacant glance. But at the sight of me his eyes were fixed on me alone, as if, though unseen before, he recognised me, though a stranger, he had long known me, and gazing at me like one mad or possessed, he said at last: ‘Fair maiden, only they who do what is fitting for their birth, age, and form escape blame in this world. Why toilest thou thus, like perverse fate, in so unmeet an employment, in that thou wastest in stern penance a body tender as a garland? (556) The toil of penance is for those who have enjoyed the pleasures of life and have lost its graces, but not for one endowed with beauty. If thou turnest from the joys of earth, in vain does Love bend his bow, or the moon rise. Moonlight and the Malaya wind serve for naught.’”

‘“But I, caring for nothing since the loss of Puṇḍarīka, asked no questions about him, (557) and bade Taralikā keep him away, for some evil would surely happen should he return. But in spite of being kept away, whether from the fault of love or the destiny of suffering that lay upon us, he did not give up his affection; and one night, while Taralikā slept, and I was thinking of Puṇḍarīka, (559) I beheld in the moonlight, clear as day, that youth approaching like one possessed. The utmost fear seized me at the sight. ‘An evil thing,’ I thought, ‘has befallen me. If he draw near, and but touch me with his hand, this accursed life must be destroyed; and then that endurance of it, which I accepted in the hope of again beholding Puṇḍarīka, will have been in vain.’ While I thus thought he drew near, and said: ‘Moon-faced maiden, the moon, Love’s ally, is striving to slay me. Therefore I come to ask protection. Save me, who am without refuge, and cannot help myself, for my life is devoted to thee. (560) It is the duty of ascetics to protect those who flee to them for protection. If, then, thou deign not to bestow thyself on me, the moon and love will slay me.’ At these words, in a voice choked by wrath, I exclaimed: ‘Wretch, how has a thunderbolt failed to strike thy head in the utterance of these thy words? Surely the five elements that give witness of right and wrong to mortals are lacking in thy frame, in that earth and air and fire and the rest have not utterly destroyed thee. Thou hast learnt to speak like a parrot, without thought of what was right or wrong to say. Why wert thou not born as a parrot? (561) I lay on thee this fate, that thou mayest enter on a birth suited to thine own speech, and cease to make love to one such as I.’ So saying, I turned towards the moon, and with raised hands prayed: ‘Blessed one, lord of all, guardian of the world, if since the sight of Puṇḍarīka my heart has been free from the thought of any other man, may this false lover by the truth of this my saying, fall into the existence pronounced by me.’ Then straightway, I know not how, whether from the force of love, or of his own sin, or from the power of my words, he fell lifeless, like a tree torn up by the roots. And it was not till he was dead that I learnt from his weeping attendants that he was thy friend, noble prince.” Having thus said, she bent her face in shame and silently wept. But Candrāpīḍa, with fixed glance and broken voice, replied: “Lady, thou hast done thine utmost, and yet I am too ill-fated to have gained in this life the joy of honouring the feet of the lady Kādambarī. Mayest thou in another life create this bliss for me.” (562) With these words his tender heart broke, as if from grief at failing to win Kādambarī, like a bud ready to open when pierced by a bee.

‘Then Taralikā burst into laments over his lifeless body and into reproaches to Mahāçvetā. And as the chieftains, too, raised their cry of grief and wonder, (564) there entered, with but few followers, Kādambarī herself, attired as to meet her lover, though a visit to Mahāçvetā was the pretext of her coming, and while she leant on Patralekhā’s hand, she expressed her doubts of the prince’s promised return, (565) and declared that if she again beheld him she would not speak to him, nor be reconciled either by his humility or her friend’s endeavours. Such were her words; but she counted all the toil of the journey light in her longing to behold him again. But when she beheld him dead, with a sudden cry she fell to the ground. And when she recovered from her swoon, she gazed at him with fixed eyes and quivering mouth, like a creeper trembling under the blow of a keen axe, and then stood still with a firmness foreign to her woman’s nature. (566) Madalekhā implored her to give her grief the relief of tears, lest her heart should break, and remember that on her rested the hopes of two races. “Foolish girl,” replied Kādambarī, with a smile, “how should my adamantine heart break if it has not broken at this sight? These thoughts of family and friends are for one who wills to live, not for me, who have chosen death; for I have won the body of my beloved, which is life to me, and which, whether living or dead, whether by an earthly union, or by my following it in death, suffices to calm every grief. It is for my sake that my lord came hither and lost his life; how, then, could I, by shedding tears, make light of the great honour to which he has raised me? or how bring an ill-omened mourning to his departure to heaven? or how weep at the joyous moment when, like the dust of his feet, I may follow him? Now all sorrow is far away. (567) For him I neglected all other ties; and now, when he is dead, how canst thou ask me to live? In dying now lies my life, and to live would be death to me. Do thou take my place with my parents and my friends, and mayest thou be the mother of a son to offer libations of water for me when I am in another world. Thou must wed the young mango in the courtyard, dear to me as my own child, to the mādhavī creeper. Let not a twig of the açoka-tree that my feet have caressed be broken, even to make an earring. Let the flowers of the mālatī creeper I tended be plucked only to offer to the gods. Let the picture of Kāma in my room near my pillow be torn in pieces. The mango-trees I planted must be tended so that they may come to fruit. (568) Set free from the misery of their cage the maina Kālindī and the parrot Parihāsa. Let the little mongoose that rested in my lap now rest in thine. Let my child, the fawn Taralaka, be given to a hermitage. Let the partridges on the pleasure-hill that grew up in my hand be kept alive. See that the haṃsa that followed my steps be not killed. Let my poor ape be set free, for she is unhappy in the house. Let the pleasure-hill be given to some calm-souled hermit, and let the things I use myself be given to Brahmans. My lute thou must lovingly keep in thine own lap, and anything else that pleases thee must be thine own. But as for me, I will cling to my lord’s neck, and so on the funeral pyre allay the fever which the moon, sandal, lotus-fibres, and all cool things have but increased.” (569) Then she embraced Mahāçvetā, saying: “Thou indeed hast some hope whereby to endure life, even though its pains be worse than death; but I have none, and so I bid thee farewell, dear friend, till we meet in another birth.”

‘As though she felt the joy of reunion, she honoured the feet of Candrāpīḍa with bent head, and placed them in her lap. (570) At her touch a strange bright light arose from Candrāpīḍa’s body, and straightway a voice was heard in the sky: “Dear Mahāçvetā, I will again console thee. The body of thy Puṇḍarīka, nourished in my world and by my light, free from death, awaits its reunion with thee. The other body, that of Candrāpīḍa, is filled with my light, and so is not subject to death, both from its own nature, and because it is nourished by the touch of Kādambarī; it has been deserted by the soul by reason of a curse, like the body of a mystic whose spirit has passed into another form. Let it rest here to console thee and Kādambarī till the curse be ended. Let it not be burnt, nor cast into water, nor deserted. It must be kept with all care till its reunion.”

‘All but Patralekhā were astounded at this saying, and fixed their gaze on the sky; but she, recovering, at the cool touch of that light, from the swoon brought on by seeing the death of Candrāpīḍa, rose, hastily seizing Indrāyudha from his groom, saying: “However it may be for us, thou must not for a moment leave thy master to go alone without a steed on his long journey;” and plunged, together with Indrāyudha, into the Acchoda Lake. (571) Straightway there rose from the lake a young ascetic, and approaching Mahāçvetā, said mournfully: “Princess of the Gandharvas, knowest thou me, now that I have passed through another birth?” Divided between joy and grief, she paid homage to his feet, and replied: “Blessed Kapiñjala, am I so devoid of virtue that I could forget thee? And yet this thought of me is natural, since I am so strangely ignorant of myself and deluded by madness that when my lord Puṇḍarīka is gone to heaven I yet live. (572) Tell me of Puṇḍarīka.” He then recalled how he had flown into the sky in pursuit of the being who carried off Puṇḍarīka, and passing by the wondering gods in their heavenly cars, he had reached the world of the moon. “Then that being,” he continued, “placed Puṇḍarīka’s body on a couch in the hall called Mahodaya, and said: ‘Know me to be the moon! (573) When I was rising to help the world I was cursed by thy friend, because my beams were slaying him before he could meet his beloved; and he prayed that I, too, might die in the land of Bharata, the home of all sacred rites, knowing myself the pains of love. But I, wrathful at being cursed for what was his own fault, uttered the curse that he should endure the same lot of joy or sorrow as myself. When, however, my anger passed away, I understood what had happened about Mahāçvetā. Now, she is sprung from the race that had its origin in my beams, and she chose him for her lord. Yet he and I must both be born twice in the world of mortals, else the due order of births will not be fulfilled. I have therefore carried the body hither, and I nourish it with my light lest it should perish before the curse is ended, and I have comforted Mahāçvetā. (574) Tell the whole matter to Puṇḍarīka’s father. His spiritual power is great, and he may find a remedy.’ And I, rushing away in grief, leapt off another rider in a heavenly chariot, and in wrath he said to me: ‘Since in the wide path of heaven thou hast leapt over me like a horse in its wild course, do thou become a horse, and descend into the world of mortals.’ To my tearful assurance that I had leapt over him in the blindness of grief, and not from contempt, he replied: ‘The curse, once uttered, cannot be recalled. But when thy rider shall die, thou shalt bathe and be freed from the curse.’ Then I implored him that as my friend was about to be born with the moon-god, in the world of mortals, I might, as a horse, constantly dwell with him. (575) Softened by my affection, he told me that the moon would be born as a son to King Tārāpīḍa at Ujjayinī, Puṇḍarīka would be the son of his minister, Çukanāsa, and that I should be the prince’s steed. Straightway I plunged into the ocean, and rose as a horse, but yet lost not consciousness of the past. I it was who purposely brought Candrāpīḍa hither in pursuit of the kinnaras. And he who sought thee by reason of the love implanted in a former birth, and was consumed by a curse in thine ignorance, was my friend Puṇḍarīka come down to earth.”

‘Then Mahāçvetā beat her breast with a bitter cry, saying: “Thou didst keep thy love for me through another birth, Puṇḍarīka; I was all the world to thee; and yet, like a demon, born for thy destruction even in a fresh life, I have received length of years but to slay thee again and again. (576) Even in thee, methinks, coldness must now have sprung up towards one so ill-fated, in that thou answerest not my laments;” and she flung herself on the ground. But Kapiñjala pityingly replied: “Thou art blameless, princess, and joy is at hand. Grieve not, therefore, but pursue the penance undertaken by thee; for to perfect penance naught is impossible, and by the power of thine austerities thou shalt soon be in the arms of my friend.”

‘(577) Then Kādambarī asked Kapiñjala what had become of Patralekhā when she plunged with him into the tank. But he knew naught of what had happened since then, either to her, or his friend, or Candrāpīḍa, and rose to the sky to ask the sage Çvetaketu, Puṇḍarīka’s father, to whom everything in the three worlds was visible.

‘(577–578) Then Mahāçvetā counselled Kādambarī, whose love to her was drawn the closer from the likeness of her sorrow, that she should spend her life in ministering to the body of Candrāpīḍa, nothing doubting that while others, to gain good, worshipped shapes of wood and stone that were but images of invisible gods, she ought to worship the present deity, veiled under the name of Candrāpīḍa. Laying his body tenderly on a rock, Kādambarī put off the adornments with which she had come to meet her lover, keeping but one bracelet as a happy omen. She bathed, put on two white robes, rubbed off the deep stain of betel from her lips, (579) and the very flowers, incense, and unguents she had brought to grace a happy love she now offered to Candrāpīḍa in the worship due to a god. That day and night she spent motionless, holding the feet of the prince, and on the morrow she joyfully saw that his brightness was unchanged, (581) and gladdened her friends and the prince’s followers by the tidings. (582) The next day she sent Madalekhā to console her parents, and they sent back an assurance that they had never thought to see her wed, and that now they rejoiced that she had chosen for her husband the incarnation of the moon-god himself. They hoped, when the curse was over, to behold again her lotus-face in the company of their son-in-law. (583) So comforted, Kādambarī remained to tend and worship the prince’s body. Now, when the rainy season was over, Meghanāda came to Kādambarī, and told her that messengers had been sent by Tārāpīḍa to ask the cause of the prince’s delay, (584) and that he, to spare her grief, had told them the whole story, and bade them hasten to tell all to the king. They, however, had replied that this might doubtless be so; yet, to say nothing of their hereditary love for the prince, the desire to see so great a marvel urged them to ask to be allowed to behold him; their long service deserved the favour; and what would the king say if they failed to see Candrāpīḍa’s body? (585) Sorrowfully picturing to herself what the grief of Tārāpīḍa would be, Kādambarī admitted the messengers, (586) and as they tearfully prostrated themselves, she consoled them, saying that this was a cause for joy rather than sorrow. “Ye have seen the prince’s face, and his body free from change; therefore hasten to the king’s feet. Yet do not spread abroad this story, but say that ye have seen the prince, and that he tarries by the Acchoda Lake. For death must come to all, and is easily believed; but this event, even when seen, can scarce win faith. It profits not now, therefore, by telling this to his parents, to create in them a suspicion of his death; but when he comes to life again, this wondrous tale will become clear to them.” (587) But they replied: “Then we must either not return or keep silence. But neither course is possible; nor could we so greet the sorrowing king.” She therefore sent Candrāpīḍa’s servant Tvaritaka with them, to give credit to the story, for the prince’s royal retinue had all taken a vow to live there, eating only roots and fruits, and not to return till the prince himself should do so.

‘So saying, he gave up all his wonted joys, and betook himself to the unwonted life in the woods; he found a palace beneath the trees; the delights of the zenana, in the creepers; the affection of friends, in the fawns; the pleasure of attire, in rags and bark garments. (611) His weapons were rosaries; his ambition was for another world; his desire for wealth was in penance. He refused all the delicacies that Kādambarī and Mahāçvetā offered him, and so dwelt with his queen and Çukanāsa, counting all pains light, so that every morning and evening he might have the joy of seeing Candrāpīḍa.’

Next day, however, the maiden brought fruits and water, and when I did not touch them she said tenderly: ‘It is unnatural for birds and beasts to refuse food when hungry. If thou, mindful of a former birth, makest distinction of what may or may not be eaten, yet thou art now born as an animal, and canst keep no such distinction. (630) There is no sin in acting in accordance with the state to which thy past deeds have brought thee. Nay, even for those who have a law concerning food, it is lawful, in a time of distress, to eat food not meet for them, in order to preserve life. Much more, then, for thee. Nor needst thou fear this food as coming from our caste; for fruit may be accepted even from us; and water, even from our vessels, is pure, so men say, when it falls on the ground.’ I, wondering at her wisdom, partook of food, but still kept silence.

‘After some time, when I had grown up, I woke one day to find myself in this golden cage, and beheld the Caṇḍāla maiden as thou, O king, hast seen her. (631) The whole barbarian settlement shewed like a city of the gods, and before I could ask what it all meant, the maiden brought me to thy feet. But who she is and why she has become a Caṇḍāla, and why I am bound or brought hither, I am as eager as thou, O king, to learn.’

Thereupon the king, in great amazement, sent for the maiden, and she, entering, overawed the king with her majesty, and said with dignity: ‘Thou gem of earth, lord of Rohiṇī, joy of Kādambarī’s eyes—thou, O moon, hast heard the story of thy past birth, and that of this foolish being. Thou knowest from him how even in this birth he disregarded his father’s command, and set off to seek his bride. Now I am Lakshmī, his mother, and his father, seeing by divine insight that he had started, bade me keep him in safety till the religious rite for him was completed, and lead him to repentance. (632) The rite is now over. The end of the curse is at hand. I brought him to thee that thou mightest rejoice with him thereat. I became a Caṇḍāla to avoid contact with mankind. Do ye both therefore, straightway leave bodies beset with the ills of birth, old age, pain, and death, and win the joy of union with your beloved.’ So saying, she suddenly rose to the sky, followed by the gaze of all the people, while the firmament rang with her tinkling anklets. The king, at her words, remembered his former birth and said: ‘Dear Puṇḍarīka, now called Vaiçampāyana, happy is it that the curse comes to an end at the same moment for us both’; but while he spoke, Love drew his bow, taking Kādambarī as his best weapon, and entered into the king’s heart to destroy his life. (635) The flame of love wholly consumed him, and from longing for Mahāçvetā, Vaiçampāyana, who was in truth Puṇḍarīka, endured the same sufferings as the king.

Now, one day Kādambarī, though her joy was complete, asked her husband with tears: ‘How is it that when we all have died and come to life, and have been united with each other, Patralekhā alone is not here, nor do we know what has become of her?’ ‘How could she be here, my beloved?’ replied the prince tenderly. ‘For she is my wife Rohiṇī, and, when she heard I was cursed, grieving for my grief, she refused to leave me alone in the world of mortals, and though I sought to dissuade her, she accepted birth in that world even before me, that she might wait upon me. (643) When I entered on another birth, she again wished to descend to earth; but I sent her back to the world of the moon. There thou wilt again behold her.’ But Kādambarī, in wonder at Rohiṇī’s nobility, tenderness, loftiness of soul, devotion, and charm, was abashed, and could not utter a word.

The ten nights that Candrāpīḍa spent at Hemakūṭa passed as swiftly as one day; and then, dismissed by Citraratha and Madirā, who were wholly content with him, he approached the feet of his father. There he bestowed on the chieftains who had shared his sufferings a condition like his own, and laying on Puṇḍarīka the burden of government, followed the steps of his parents, who had given up all earthly duties. Sometimes from love of his native land, he would dwell in Ujjayinī, where the citizens gazed at him with wide, wondering eyes; sometimes, from respect to the Gandharva king, at Hemakūṭa, beautiful beyond compare; sometimes, from reverence to Rohiṇī, in the world of the moon, where every place was charming from the coolness and fragrance of nectar; sometimes, from love to Puṇḍarīka, by the lake where Lakshmī dwelt, on which the lotuses ever blossomed night and day, and often, to please Kādambarī, in many another fair spot.