‘“One day during his sojourn there he mounted Indrāyudha to hunt, and as he roamed through the wood he beheld a pair of Kinnaras wandering down at will from the mountains. Wondering at the strange sight, and eager to take them, he brought up his horse respectfully near them and approached them. But they hurried on, fearing the unknown sight of a man, and fleeing from him, while he pursued them, doubling Indrāyudha’s speed by frequent pats on his neck, and went on alone, leaving his army far behind. Led on by the idea that he was just catching them, he was borne in an instant fifteen leagues from his own quarters by Indrāyudha’s speed as it were at one bound, and was left companionless. (240) The pair of Kinnaras he was pursuing were climbing a steep hill in front of him. He at length turned away his glance, which was following their progress, and, checked by the steepness of the ascent, reined in Indrāyudha. Then, seeing that both his horse and himself were tired and heated by their toils, he considered for a moment, and laughed at himself as he thought: ‘Why have I thus wearied myself for nothing, like a child? What matters it whether I catch the pair of Kinnaras or not? If caught, what is the good? if missed, what is the harm? What a folly this is of mine! What a love of busying myself in any trifle! What a passion for aimless toil! What a clinging to childish pleasure! The good work I was doing has been begun in vain. The needful rite I had begun has been rendered fruitless. The duty of friendship I undertook has not been performed. The royal office I was employed in has not been fulfilled. The great task I had entered on has not been completed. My earnest labour in a worthy ambition has been brought to nought. Why have I been so mad as to leave my followers behind and come so far? (241) and why have I earned for myself the ridicule I should bestow on another, when I think how aimlessly I have followed these monsters with their horses’ heads? I know not how far off is the army that follows me. For the swiftness of Indrāyudha traverses a vast space in a moment, and his speed prevented my noticing as I came by what path I should turn back, for my eyes were fixed on the Kinnaras; and now I am in a great forest, spread underfoot with dry leaves, with a dense growth of creepers, underwood, and branching trees. Roam as I may here I cannot light on any mortal who can show me the way to Suvarṇapura. I have often heard that Suvarṇapura is the farthest bound of earth to the north, and that beyond it lies a supernatural forest, and beyond that again is Kailāsa. This then is Kailāsa; so I must turn back now, and resolutely seek to make my way unaided to the south. For a man must bear the fruit of his own faults.’
‘“With this purpose he shook the reins in his left hand, and turned the horse’s head. Then he again reflected: (242) ‘The blessed sun with glowing light now adorns the south, as if he were the zone-gem of the glory of day. Indrāyudha is tired; I will just let him eat a few mouthfuls of grass, and then let him bathe and drink in some mountain rill or river; and when he is refreshed I will myself drink some water, and after resting a short time under the shade of a tree, I will set out again.’
‘“So thinking, constantly turning his eyes on every side for water, he wandered till at length he saw a track wet with masses of mud raised by the feet of a large troop of mountain elephants, who had lately come up from bathing in a lotus-pool. (243) Inferring thence that there was water near, he went straight on along the slope of Kailāsa, the trees of which, closely crowded as they were, seemed, from their lack of boughs, to be far apart, for they were mostly pines, çāl, and gum olibanum trees, and were lofty, and like a circle of umbrellas, to be gazed at with upraised head. There was thick yellow sand, and by reason of the stony soil the grass and shrubs were but scanty.
(244) ‘“At length he beheld, on the north-east of Kailāsa, a very lofty clump of trees, rising like a mass of clouds, heavy with its weight of rain, and massed as if with the darkness of a night in the dark fortnight.
‘“The wind from the waves, soft as sandal, dewy, cool from passing over the water, aromatic with flowers, met him, and seemed to woo him; and the cries of kalahaṃsas drunk with lotus-honey, charming his ear, summoned him to enter. So he went into that clump, and in its midst beheld the Acchoda Lake, as if it were the mirror of the Lakshmī of the three worlds, the crystal chamber of the goddess of earth, the path by which the waters of ocean escape, the oozing of the quarters, the avatar of part of the sky, Kailāsa taught to flow, Himavat liquefied, moonlight melted, Çiva’s smile turned to water, (245) the merit of the three worlds abiding in the shape of a lake, a range of hills of lapis lazuli changed into water, or a mass of autumn clouds poured down in one spot. From its clearness it might be Varuṇa’s mirror; it seemed to be fashioned of the hearts of ascetics, the virtues of good men, the bright eyes of deer, or the rays of pearls.
(247) ‘“Like the person of a great man, it showed clearly the signs of fish, crocodile, tortoise, and cakṛa; like the story of Kārtikeya, the lamentations of the wives of Krauñca resounded in it; it was shaken by the wings of white Dhārtarāshṭras, as the Mahābhārata by the rivalry of Pāṇḍavas and Dhārtarāshṭras; and the drinking of poison by Çiva was represented by the drinking of its water by peacocks, as if it were the time of the churning of ocean. It was fair, like a god, with a gaze that never wavers. (248) Like a futile argument, it seemed to have no end; and was a lake most fair and gladdening to the eyes.
‘“The very sight of it seemed to remove Candrāpīḍa’s weariness, and as he gazed he thought:
‘“‘Though my pursuit of the horse-faced pair was fruitless, yet now that I see this lake it has gained its reward. My eyes’ reward in beholding all that is to be seen has now been won, the furthest point of all fair things seen, the limit of all that gladdens us gazed upon, the boundary line of all that charms us descried, the perfection of all that causes joy made manifest, and the vanishing-point of all worthy of sight beheld. (249) By creating this lake water, sweet as nectar, the Creator has made his own labour of creation superfluous. For this, too, like the nectar that gladdens all the senses, produces joy to the eye by its purity, offers the pleasure of touch by its coolness, gladdens the sense of smell by the fragrance of its lotuses, pleases the ear with the ceaseless murmur of its haṃsas, and delights the taste with its sweetness. Truly it is from eagerness to behold this that Çiva leaves not his infatuation for dwelling on Kailāsa. Surely Kṛishṇa no longer follows his own natural desire as to a watery couch, for he sleeps on the ocean, with its water bitter with salt, and leaves this water sweet as nectar! Nor is this, in sooth, the primæval lake; for the earth, when fearing the blows of the tusks of the boar of destruction, entered the ocean, all the waters of which were designed but to be a draught for Agastya; whereas, if it had plunged into this mighty lake, deep as many deep hells, it could not have been reached, I say not by one, but not even by a thousand boars. (250) Verily it is from this lake that the clouds of doom at the seasons of final destruction draw little by little their water when they overwhelm the interstices of the universe, and darken all the quarters with their destroying storm. And methinks that the world, Brahmā’s egg, which in the beginning of creation was made of water, was massed together and placed here under the guise of a lake.’ So thinking, he reached the south bank, dismounted and took off Indrāyudha’s harness; (251) and the latter rolled on the ground, arose, ate some mouthfuls of grass, and then the prince took him down to the lake, and let him drink and bathe at will. After that, the prince took off his bridle, bound two of his feet by a golden chain to the lower bough of a tree hard by, and, cutting off with his dagger some dūrvā grass from the bank of the lake, threw it before the horse, and went back himself to the water. He washed his hands, and feasted, like the cātaka, on water; like the cakravāka, he tasted pieces of lotus-fibre; like the moon with its beams, he touched the moon-lotuses with his finger-tips; like a snake, he welcomed the breeze of the waves; like one wounded with Love’s arrows, he placed a covering of lotus-leaves on his breast; like a mountain elephant, when the tip of his trunk is wet with spray, he adorned his hands with spray-washed lotuses. Then with dewy lotus-leaves, with freshly-broken fibres, he made a couch on a rock embowered in creepers, and rolling up his cloak for a pillow, lay down to sleep. After a short rest, he heard on the north bank of the lake a sweet sound of unearthly music, borne on the ear, and blent with the chords of the vīnā. (252) Indrāyudha heard it first, and letting fall the grass he was eating, with ears fixed and neck arched, turned towards the voice. The prince, as he heard it, rose from his lotus-couch in curiosity to see whence this song could arise in a place deserted by men, and cast his glance towards the region; but, from the great distance, he was unable, though he strained his eyes to the utmost, to discern anything, although he ceaselessly heard the sound. Desiring in his eagerness to know its source, he determined to depart, and saddling and mounting Indrāyudha, he set forth by the western forest path, making the song his goal; the deer, albeit unasked, were his guides, as they rushed on in front, delighting in the music.
(253–256 condensed) ‘“Welcomed by the breezes of Kailāsa, he went towards that spot, which was surrounded by trees on all sides, and at the foot of the slope of Kailāsa, on the left bank of the lake, called Candraprabhā, which whitened the whole region with a splendour as of moonlight, he beheld an empty temple of Çiva.
(257) ‘“As he entered the temple he was whitened by the falling on him of ketakī pollen, tossed by the wind, as if for the sake of seeing Çiva he had been forcibly made to perform a vow of putting on ashes, or as if he were robed in the pure merits of entering the temple; and, in a crystal shrine resting on four pillars, he beheld Çiva, the four-faced, teacher of the world, the god whose feet are honoured by the universe, with his emblem, the linga, made of pure pearl. Homage had been paid to the deity by shining lotuses of the heavenly Ganges, that might be mistaken for crests of pearls, freshly-plucked and wet, with drops falling from the ends of their leaves, like fragments of the moon’s disc split and set upright, or like parts of Çiva’s own smile, or scraps of Çesha’s hood, or brothers of Kṛishṇa’s conch, or the heart of the Milky Ocean.
(258) ‘“But, seated in a posture of meditation, to the right of the god, facing him, Candrāpīḍa beheld a maiden vowed to the service of Çiva, who turned the region with its mountains and woods to ivory by the brightness of her beauty. For its lustre shone far, spreading through space, white as the tide of the Milky Ocean, overwhelming all things at the day of doom, or like a store of penance gathered in long years and flowing out, streaming forth massed together like Ganges between the trees, giving a fresh whiteness to Kailāsa, and purifying the gazer’s soul, though it but entered his eye. The exceeding whiteness of her form concealed her limbs as though she had entered a crystal shrine, or had plunged into a sea of milk, or were hidden in spotless silk, or were caught on the surface of a mirror, or were veiled in autumn clouds. She seemed to be fashioned from the quintessence of whiteness, without the bevy of helps for the creation of the body that consist of matter formed of the five gross elements.
(259) She was like sacrifice impersonate, come to worship Çiva, in fear of being seized by the unworthy; or Rati, undertaking a rite of propitiation to conciliate him, for the sake of Kāma’s body; or Lakshmī, goddess of the Milky Ocean, longing for a digit of Çiva’s moon, her familiar friend of yore when they dwelt together in the deep; or the embodied moon seeking Çiva’s protection from Rāhu; or the beauty of Airāvata, come to fulfil Çiva’s wish to wear an elephant’s skin; or the brightness of the smile on the right face of Çiva become manifest and taking a separate abode; or the white ash with which Çiva besprinkles himself, in bodily shape; or moonlight made manifest to dispel the darkness of Çiva’s neck; or the embodied purity of Gaurī’s mind; or the impersonate chastity of Kārtikeya; or the brightness of Çiva’s bull, dwelling apart from his body; (260) or the wealth of flowers on the temple trees come of themselves to worship Çiva; or the fulness of Brahmā’s penance come down to earth; or the glory of the Prajāpatis of the Golden Age, resting after the fatigue of wandering through the seven worlds; or the Three Vedas, dwelling in the woods in grief at the overthrow of righteousness in the Kali Age; or the germ of a future Golden Age, in the form of a maiden; or the fulness of a muni’s contemplation, in human shape; or a troop of heavenly elephants, falling into confusion on reaching the heavenly Ganges; or the beauty of Kailāsa, fallen in dread of being uprooted by Rāvaṇa; or the Lakshmī of the Çvetadvīpa come to behold another continent; or the grace of an opening kāça-blossom looking for the autumn; or the brightness of Çesha’s body leaving hell and come to earth; or the brilliance of Balarāma, which had left him in weariness of his intoxication; or a succession of bright fortnights massed together.
‘“She seemed from her whiteness to have taken a share from all the haṃsas; (261) or to have come from the heart of righteousness; or to have been fashioned from a shell; or drawn from a pearl; or formed from lotus-fibres; or made of flakes of ivory; or purified by brushes of moonbeams; or inlaid with lime; or whitened with foam-balls of ambrosia; or laved in streams of quicksilver; or rubbed with melted silver; or dug out from the moon’s orb; or decked with the hues of kuṭaja, jasmine, and sinduvāra flowers. She seemed, in truth, to be the very furthest bound of whiteness. Her head was bright with matted locks hanging on her shoulders, made, as it were, of the brightness of morning rays taken from the sun on the Eastern Mountain, tawny like the quivering splendour of flashing lightning, and, being wet from recent bathing, marked with the dust of Çiva’s feet clasped in her devotion; she bore Çiva’s feet marked with his name in jewels on her head, fastened with a band of hair; (262)and her brow had a sectarial mark of ashes pure as the dust of stars ground by the heels of the sun’s horses. (266) She was a goddess, and her age could not be known by earthly reckoning, but she resembled a maiden of eighteen summers.
‘“Having beheld her, Candrāpīḍa dismounted, tied his horse to a bough, and then, reverently bowing before the blessed Çiva, gazed again on that heavenly maiden with a steady unswerving glance. And as her beauty, grace, and serenity stirred his wonder, the thought arose in him: ‘How in this world each matter in its turn becomes of no value! For when I was pursuing the pair of Kinnaras wantonly and vainly I beheld this most beautiful place, inaccessible to men, and haunted by the immortals. (267) Then in my search for water I saw this delightful lake sought by the Siddhas. While I rested on its bank I heard a divine song; and as I followed the sound, this divine maiden, too fair for mortal sight, met my eyes. For I cannot doubt her divinity. Her very beauty proclaims her a goddess. And whence in the world of men could there arise such harmonies of heavenly minstrelsy? If, therefore, she vanishes not from my sight, nor mounts the summit of Kailāsa, nor flies to the sky, I will draw near and ask her, “Who art thou, and what is thy name, and why hast thou in the dawn of life undertaken this vow?” This is all full of wonder.’ With this resolve he approached another pillar of the crystal shrine, and sat there, awaiting the end of the song.
‘“Then when she had stilled her lute, like a moon-lotus bed when the pleasant hum of the bees is silenced, (268)the maiden rose, made a sunwise turn and an obeisance to Çiva, and then turning round, with a glance by nature clear, and by the power of penance confident, she, as it were, gave courage to Candrāpīḍa, as if thereby she were sprinkling him with merits, laving him with holy water, purifying him with penance, freeing him from stain, giving him his heart’s desire, and leading him to purity.
‘“‘Hail to my guest!’ said she. ‘How has my lord reached this place? Rise, draw near, and receive a guest’s due welcome.’ So she spake; and he, deeming himself honoured even by her deigning to speak with him, reverently arose and bowed before her. ‘As thou biddest, lady,’ he replied, and showed his courtesy by following in her steps like a pupil. And on the way he thought: ‘Lo, even when she beheld me she did not vanish! Truly a hope of asking her questions has taken hold of my heart. And when I see the courteous welcome, rich in kindness, of this maiden, fair though she be with a beauty rare in ascetics, I surely trust that at my petition she will tell me all her story.’
(269) ‘“Having gone about a hundred paces, he beheld a cave, with its entrance veiled by dense tamālas, showing even by day a night of their own; its edge was vocal with the glad bees’ deep murmur on the bowers of creepers with their opening blossoms; it was bedewed with torrents that in their sheer descent fell in foam, dashing against the white rock, and cleft by the axe-like points of the jagged cliff, with a shrill crash as the cold spray rose up and broke; it was like a mass of waving cowries hanging from a door, from the cascades streaming down on either side, white as Çiva’s smile, or as pearly frost. Within was a circle of jewelled pitchers; on one side hung a veil worn in sacred meditation; a clean pair of shoes made of cocoanut matting hung on a peg; one corner held a bark bed gray with dust scattered by the ashes the maiden wore; the place of honour was filled by a bowl of shell carved with a chisel, like the orb of the moon; and close by there stood a gourd of ashes.
‘“On the rock at the entrance Candrāpīḍa took his seat, and when the maiden, having laid her lute on the pillow of the bark bed, took in a leafy cup some water from the cascade to offer to her guest, and he said as she approached (270): ‘Enough of these thy great toils. Cease this excess of grace. Be persuaded, lady. Let this too great honour be abandoned. The very sight of thee, like the aghamarshaṇa hymn, stills all evil and sufficeth for purification. Deign to take thy seat!’ Yet being urged by her, he reverently, with head bent low, accepted all the homage she gave to her guest. When her cares for her guest were over, she sat down on another rock, and after a short silence he told, at her request, the whole story of his coming in pursuit of the pair of Kinnaras, beginning with his expedition of conquest. The maiden then rose, and, taking a begging bowl, wandered among the trees round the temple; and ere long her bowl was filled with fruits that had fallen of their own accord. As she invited Candrāpīḍa to the enjoyment of them, the thought arose in his heart: ‘Of a truth, there is nought beyond the power of penance. For it is a great marvel how the lords of the forest, albeit devoid of sense, yet, like beings endowed with sense, gain honour for themselves by casting down their fruits for this maiden. A wondrous sight is this, and one never seen before.’
‘“So, marvelling yet more, he brought Indrāyudha to that spot, unsaddled him, and tied him up hard by. (271)Then, having bathed in the torrent, he partook of the fruits, sweet as ambrosia, and drank the cool water of the cascade, and having rinsed his mouth, he waited apart while the maiden enjoyed her repast of water, roots, and fruit.
‘“When her meal was ended and she had said her evening prayer, and taken her seat fearlessly on the rock, the Prince quietly approached her, and sitting down near her, paused awhile and then respectfully said:
‘“‘Lady, the folly that besets mankind impels me even against my will to question thee, for I am bewildered by a curiosity that has taken courage from thy kindness. For even the slightest grace of a lord emboldens a weak nature: even a short time spent together creates intimacy. Even a slight acceptance of homage produces affection. Therefore, if it weary thee not, I pray thee to honour me with thy story. For from my first sight of thee a great eagerness has possessed me as to this matter. Is the race honoured by thy birth, lady, that of the Maruts, or Ṛishis, or Gandharvas, or Guhyakas, or Apsarases? And wherefore in thy fresh youth, tender as a flower, has this vow been taken? (272) For how far apart would seem thy youth, thy beauty, and thine exceeding grace, from this thy peace from all thoughts of earth! This is marvellous in mine eyes! And wherefore hast thou left the heavenly hermitages that gods may win, and that hold all things needful for the highest saints, to dwell alone in this deserted wood? And whereby hath thy body, though formed of the five gross elements, put on this pure whiteness? Never have I heard or seen aught such as this. I pray thee dispel my curiosity, and tell me all I ask.’
‘“For a little time she pondered his request in silence, and then she began to weep noiselessly, and her eyes were blinded by tears which fell in large drops, carrying with them the purity of her heart, showering down the innocence of her senses, distilling the essence of asceticism, dropping in a liquid form the brightness of her eyes, most pure, falling on her white cheeks like a broken string of pearls, unceasing, splashing on her bosom covered by the bark robe.
(273) ‘“And as he beheld her weeping Candrāpīḍa reflected: ‘How hardly can misfortune be warded off, if it takes for its own a beauty like this, which one might have deemed beyond its might! Of a truth there is none whom the sorrows of life in the body leave untouched. Strong indeed is the working of the opposed powers of pleasure and pain. These her tears have created in me a further curiosity, even greater than before. It is no slight grief that can take its abode in a form like hers. For it is not a feeble blow that causes the earth to tremble.’
‘“While his curiosity was thus increased he felt himself guilty of recalling her grief, and rising, brought in his folded hand from the torrent some water to bathe her face. But she, though the torrent of her tears was in nowise checked by his gentleness, yet bathed her reddened eyes, and drying her face with the edge of her bark robe, slowly said with a long and bitter sigh:
(274) ‘“‘Wherefore, Prince, wilt thou hear the story of my ascetic life, all unfit for thy ears? for cruel has been my heart, hard my destiny, and evil my condition, even from my birth. Still, if thy desire to know be great, hearken. It has come within the range of our hearing, usually directed to auspicious knowledge, that there are in the abode of the gods maidens called Apsarases. Of these there are fourteen families: one sprung from the mind of Brahmā, another from the Vedas, another from fire, another from the wind, another from nectar when it was churned, another from water, another from the sun’s rays, another from the moon’s beams, another from earth, and another from lightning; one was fashioned by Death, and another created by Love; besides, Daksha, father of all, had among his many daughters two, Muni and Arishṭā, and from their union with the Gandharvas were sprung the other two families. These are, in sum, the fourteen races. But from the Gandharvas and the daughters of Daksha sprang these two families. Here Muni bore a sixteenth son, by name Citraratha, who excelled in virtues Sena and all the rest of his fifteen brothers. For his heroism was famed through the three worlds; his dignity was increased by the name of Friend, bestowed by Indra, whose lotus feet are caressed by the crests of the gods cast down before him; and even in childhood he gained the sovereignty of all the Gandharvas by a right arm tinged with the flashing of his sword. (275) Not far hence, north of the land of Bharata, is his dwelling, Hemakūṭa, a boundary mountain in the Kimpurusha country. There, protected by his arm, dwell innumerable Gandharvas. By him this pleasant wood, Caitraratha, was made, this great lake Acchoda was dug out, and this image of Çiva was fashioned. But the son of Arishṭā, in the second Gandharva family, was as a child anointed king by Citraratha, lord of the Gandharvas, and now holds royal rank, and with a countless retinue of Gandharvas dwells likewise on this mountain. Now, from that family of Apsarases which sprang from the moon’s nectar was born a maiden, fashioned as though by the grace of all the moon’s digits poured in one stream, gladdening the eyes of the universe, moonbeam-fair, in name and nature a second Gaurī. (276) Her Haṃsa, lord of the second family, wooed, as the Milky Ocean the Ganges; with him she was united, as Rati with Kāma, or the lotus-bed with the autumn; and enjoying the great happiness of such a union she became the queen of his zenana. To this noble pair I was born as only daughter, ill-omened, a prey for grief, and a vessel for countless sorrows; my father, however, having no other child, greeted my birth with a great festival, surpassing that for a son, and on the tenth day, with the customary rites he gave me the fitting name of Mahāçvetā. In his palace I spent my childhood, passed from lap to lap of the Gandharva dames, like a lute, as I murmured the prattle of babyhood, ignorant as yet of the sorrows of love; but in time fresh youth came to me as the honey-month to the spring, fresh shoots to the honey-month, flowers to the fresh shoots, bees to the flowers, and honey to the bees.
(278) ‘“‘I worshipped the pictures of Çiva, attended by Bṛingiriṭi, which were carved on the rocks of the bank by Pārvatī when she came down to bathe, and which had the reverential attendance of ascetics portrayed by the thin footprints left in the dust. “How beautiful!” I cried, “is this bower of creepers, with its clusters of flowers of which the bees’ weight has broken the centre and bowed the filaments; this mango is fully in flower, and the honey pours through the holes in the stalks of its buds, which the cuckoo’s sharp claws have pierced; how cool this sandal avenue, which the serpents, terrified at the murmur of hosts of wild peacocks, have deserted; how delightful the waving creepers, which betray by their fallen blossoms the swinging of the wood-nymphs upon them; how pleasant the foot of the trees on the bank where the kalahaṃsas have left the line of their steps imprinted in the pollen of many a flower!” Drawn on thus by the ever-growing charms of the wood, I wandered with my companions. (279) And at a certain spot I smelt the fragrance of a flower strongly borne on the wind, overpowering that of all the rest, though the wood was in full blossom; it drew near, and by its great sweetness seemed to anoint, to delight, and to fill the sense of smell. Bees followed it, seeking to make it their own: it was truly a perfume unknown heretofore, and fit for the gods. I, too, eager to learn whence it came, with eyes turned into buds, and drawn on like a bee by that scent, and attracting to me the kalahaṃsas of the lake by the jangling of my anklets loudly clashed in the tremulous speed of my curiosity, advanced a few steps and beheld a graceful youthful ascetic coming down to bathe. He was like Spring doing penance in grief for Love made the fuel of Çiva’s fire, or the crescent on Çiva’s brow performing a vow to win a full orb, or Love restrained in his eagerness to conquer Çiva: by his great splendour he appeared to be girt by a cage of quivering lightning, embosomed in the globe of the summer sun, or encircled in the flames of a furnace: (280) by the brightness of his form, flashing forth ever more and more, yellow as lamplight, he made the grove a tawny gold; his locks were yellow and soft like an amulet dyed in gorocanā. The line of ashes on his brow made him like Ganges with the line of a fresh sandbank, as though it were a sandal-mark to win Sarasvatī, and played the part of a banner of holiness; his eyebrows were an arch rising high over the abode of men’s curses; his eyes were so long that he seemed to wear them as a chaplet; he shared with the deer the beauty of their glance; his nose was long and aquiline; the citron of his lower lip was rosy as with the glow of youth, which was refused an entrance to his heart; with his beardless cheek he was like a fresh lotus, the filaments of which have not yet been tossed by the bees in their sport; he was adorned with a sacrificial thread like the bent string of Love’s bow, or a filament from the lotus grove of the pool of penance; in one hand he bore a pitcher like a kesara fruit with its stalk; in the other a crystal rosary, strung as it were with the tears of Rati wailing in grief for Love’s death. (281) His loins were girt with a muñja-grass girdle, as though he had assumed a halo, having outvied the sun by his innate splendour; the office of vesture was performed by the bark of the heavenly coral-tree, bright as the pink eyelid of an old partridge, and washed in the waves of the heavenly Ganges; he was the ornament of ascetic life, the youthful grace of holiness, the delight of Sarasvatī, the chosen lord of all the sciences, and the meeting-place of all divine tradition. He had, like the summer season, his āshāḍha; he had, like a winter wood, the brightness of opening millet, and he had like the month of honey, a face adorned with white tilaka. With him there was a youthful ascetic gathering flowers to worship the gods, his equal in age and a friend worthy of himself.
(282) ‘“‘Then I saw a wondrous spray of flowers which decked his ear, like the bright smile of woodland Çrī joying in the sight of spring, or the grain-offering of the honey-month welcoming the Malaya winds, or the youth of the Lakshmī of flowers, or the cowrie that adorns Love’s elephant; it was wooed by the bees; the Pleiads lent it their grace; and its honey was nectar. “Surely,” I decided, “this is the fragrance which makes all other flowers scentless,” and gazing at the youthful ascetic, the thought arose in my mind: “Ah, how lavish is the Creator who has skill to produce the highest perfection of form, for he has compounded Kāma of all miraculous beauty, excelling the universe, and yet has created this ascetic even more fair, surpassing him, like a second love-god, born of enchantment. (283) Methinks that when Brahmā made the moon’s orb to gladden the world, and the lotuses to be Lakshmī’s palace of delight, he was but practising to gain skill for the creation of this ascetic’s face; why else should such things be created? Surely it is false that the sun with its ray Sushumnā drinks all the digits of the moon as it wanes in the dark fortnight, for their beams are cast down to enter this fair form. How otherwise could there be such grace in one who lives in weary penance, beauty’s destroyer?” As I thus thought, Love, beauty’s firm adherent, who knows not good from ill, and who is ever at hand to the young, enthralled me, together with my sighs, as the madness of spring takes captive the bee. Then with a right eye gazing steadily, the eyelashes half closed, the iris darkened by the pupil’s tremulous sidelong glance, I looked long on him. With this glance I, as it were, drank him in, besought him, told him I was wholly his, offered my heart, tried to enter into him with my whole soul, sought to be absorbed in him, implored his protection to save Love’s victim, showed my suppliant state that asked for a place in his heart; (284) and though I asked myself, “What is this shameful feeling that has arisen in me, unseemly and unworthy a noble maiden?” yet knowing this, I could not master myself, but with great difficulty stood firm, gazing at him. For I seemed to be paralyzed, or in a picture, or scattered abroad, or bound, or in a trance, and yet in wondrous wise upheld, as though when my limbs were failing, support was at the same moment given; for I know not how one can be certain in a matter that can neither be told nor taught, and that is not capable of being told, for it is only learnt from within. Can it be ascertained as presented by his beauty, or by my own mind, or by love, or by youth or affection, or by any other causes? I cannot tell. Lifted up and dragged towards him by my senses, led forward by my heart, urged from behind by Love, I yet by a strong effort restrained my impulse. (285) Straightway a storm of sighs went forth unceasingly, prompted by Love as he strove to find a place within me; and my bosom heaved as longing to speak earnestly to my heart, and then I thought to myself: “What an unworthy action is this of vile Kāma, who surrenders me to this cold ascetic free from all thoughts of love! Truly, the heart of woman is foolish exceedingly, since it cannot weigh the fitness of that which it loves. For what has this bright home of glory and penance to do with the stirrings of love that meaner men welcome? Surely in his heart he scorns me for being thus deceived by Kāma! Strange it is that I who know this cannot restrain my feeling! (286) Other maidens, indeed, laying shame aside, have of their own accord gone to their lords; others have been maddened by that reckless love-god; but not as I am here alone! How in that one moment has my heart been thrown into turmoil by the mere sight of his form, and passed from my control! for time for knowledge and good qualities always make Love invincible. It is best for me to leave this place while I yet have my senses, and while he does not clearly see this my hateful folly of love. Perchance if he sees in me the effects of a love he cannot approve, he will in wrath make me feel his curse. For ascetics are ever prone to wrath.” Thus having resolved, I was eager to depart, but, remembering that holy men should be reverenced by all, I made an obeisance to him with eyes turned to his face, eyelashes motionless, not glancing downwards, my cheek uncaressed by the flowers dancing in my ears, my garland tossing on my waving hair, and my jewelled earrings swinging on my shoulders.
‘“‘As I thus bent, the irresistible command of love, the inspiration of the spring, the charm of the place, the frowardness of youth, the unsteadiness of the senses, (287) the impatient longing for earthly goods, the fickleness of the mind, the destiny that rules events — in a word, my own cruel fate, and the fact that all my trouble was caused by him, were the means by which Love destroyed his firmness by the sight of my feeling, and made him waver towards me like a flame in the wind. He too was visibly thrilled, as if to welcome the newly-entering Love; his sighs went before him to show the way to his mind which was hastening towards me; the rosary in his hand trembled and shook, fearing the breaking of his vow; drops rose on his cheek, like a second garland hanging from his ear; his eyes, as his pupils dilated and his glance widened in the joy of beholding me, turned the spot to a very lotus-grove, so that the ten regions were filled by the long rays coming forth like masses of open lotuses that had of their own accord left the Acchoda lake and were rising to the sky.
‘“‘By the manifest change in him my love was redoubled, and I fell that moment into a state I cannot describe, all unworthy of my caste. “Surely,” I reflected, “Kāma himself teaches this play of the eye, though generally after a long happy love, else whence comes this ascetic’s gaze? (288) For his mind is unversed in the mingled feelings of earthly joys, and yet his eyes, though they have never learnt the art, pour forth the stream of love’s sweetness, rain nectar, are half closed by joy, are slow with distress, heavy with sleep, roaming with pupils tremulous and languid with the weight of gladness, and yet bright with the play of his eyebrows. Whence comes this exceeding skill that tells the heart’s longing wordlessly by a glance alone?”
‘“‘Impelled by these thoughts I advanced, and bowing to the second young ascetic, his companion, I asked: “What is the name of his Reverence? Of what ascetic is he the son? From what tree is this garland woven? For its scent, hitherto unknown, and of rare sweetness, kindles great curiosity in me.”
‘“‘With a slight smile, he replied: “Maiden, what needs this question? But I will enlighten thy curiosity. Listen!
‘“‘“There dwells in the world of gods a great sage, Çvetaketu; his noble character is famed through the universe; his feet are honoured by bands of siddhas, gods, and demons; (289) his beauty, exceeding that of Nalakūbara, is dear to the three worlds, and gladdens the hearts of goddesses. Once upon a time, when seeking lotuses for the worship of the gods, he went down to the Heavenly Ganges, which lay white as Çiva’s smile, while its water was studded as with peacocks’ eyes by the ichor of Airāvata. Straightway Lakshmī, enthroned on a thousand-petalled white lotus close by, beheld him coming down among the flowers, and looking on him, she drank in his beauty with eyes half closed by love, and quivering with weight of joyous tears, and with her slender fingers laid on her softly-opening lips; and her heart was disturbed by Love; by her glance alone she won his affection. A son was born, and taking him in her arms with the words, ‘Take him, for he is thine,’ she gave him to Çvetaketu, who performed all the rites of a son’s birth, and called him Puṇḍarīka, because he was born in a puṇḍarīka lotus. Moreover, after initiation, he led him through the whole circle of the arts. (290) This is Puṇḍarīka whom you see. And this spray comes from the pārijāta tree, which rose when the Milky Ocean was churned by gods and demons. How it gained a place in his ear contrary to his vow, I will now tell. This being the fourteenth day of the month, he started with me from heaven to worship Çiva, who had gone to Kailāsa. On the way, near the Nandana Wood, a nymph, drunk with the juice of flowers, wearing fresh mango shoots in her ear, veiled completely by garlands falling to the knees, girt with kesara flowers, and resting on the fair hand lent her by the Lakshmī of spring, took this spray of pārijāta, and bending low, thus addressed Puṇḍarīka: ‘Sir, let, I pray, this thy form, that gladdens the eyes of the universe, have this spray as its fitting adornment; let it be placed on the tip of thy ear, for it has but the playfulness that belongs to a garland; let the birth of the pārijāta now reap its full blessing!’ At her words, his eyes were cast down in modesty at the praise he so well deserved, and he turned to depart without regarding her; but as I saw her following us, I said, ‘What is the harm, friend. Let her courteous gift be accepted!’ and so by force, against his will, the spray adorns his ear. Now all has been told: who he is, whose son, and what this flower is, and how it has been raised to his ear.” (291) When he had thus spoken, Puṇḍarīka said to me with a slight smile: “Ah, curious maiden, why didst thou take the trouble to ask this? If the flower, with its sweet scent, please thee, do thou accept it,” and advancing, he took it from his own ear and placed it in mine, as though, with the soft murmur of the bees on it, it were a prayer for love. At once, in my eagerness to touch his hand, a thrill arose in me, like a second pārijāta flower, where the garland lay; while he, in the pleasure of touching my cheek, did not see that from his tremulous fingers he had dropped his rosary at the same time as his timidity; but before it reached the ground I seized it, and playfully placed it on my neck, where it wore the grace of a necklace unlike all others, while I learnt the joy of having my neck clasped, as it were, by his arm.
‘“‘As our hearts were thus occupied with each other, my umbrella-bearer addressed me: “Princess, the Queen has bathed. It is nearly time to go home. Do thou, therefore, also bathe.” At her words, like a newly-caught elephant, rebellious at the first touch of the new hook, I was unwillingly dragged away, and as I went down to bathe, I could hardly withdraw my eyes, for they seemed to be drowned in the ambrosial beauty of his face, or caught in the thicket of my thrilling cheek, or pinned down by Love’s shafts, or sewn fast by the cords of his charms.
(292) ‘“‘Meanwhile, the second young ascetic, seeing that he was losing his self-control, gently upbraided him: “Dear Puṇḍarīka, this is unworthy of thee. This is the way trodden by common men. For the good are rich in self-control. Why dost thou, like a man of low caste, fail to restrain the turmoil of thy soul? Whence comes this hitherto unknown assault of the senses, which so transforms thee? Where is thine old firmness? Where thy conquest of the senses? Where thy self-control? Where thy calm of mind, thine inherited holiness, thy carelessness of earthly things? Where the teaching of thy guru, thy learning of the Vedas, thy resolves of asceticism, thy hatred of pleasure, thine aversion to vain delights, thy passion for penance, thy distaste for enjoyments, thy rule over the impulses of youth? Verily all knowledge is fruitless, study of holy books is useless, initiation has lost its meaning, pondering the teaching of gurus avails not, proficiency is worthless, learning leads to nought, since even men like thee are stained by the touch of passion, and overcome by folly. (293) Thou dost not even see that thy rosary has fallen from thy hand, and has been carried away. Alas! how good sense fails in men thus struck down. Hold back this heart of thine, for this worthless girl is seeking to carry it away.”
‘“‘To these words he replied, with some shame: “Dear Kapiñjala, why dost thou thus misunderstand me? I am not one to endure this reckless girl’s offence in taking my rosary!” and with his moonlike face beautiful in its feigned wrath, and adorned the more by the dread frown he tried to assume, while his lip trembled with longing to kiss me, he said to me, “Playful maiden, thou shalt not move a step from this place without giving back my rosary.” Thereupon I loosed from my neck a single row of pearls as the flower-offering that begins a dance in Kāma’s honour, and placed it in his outstretched hand, while his eyes were fixed on my face, and his mind was far away. I started to bathe, but how I started I know not, for my mother and my companions could hardly lead me away by force, like a river driven backwards, and I went home thinking only of him.
(294) ‘“‘And entering the maidens’ dwelling, I began straightway to ask myself in my grief at his loss: “Am I really back, or still there? Am I alone, or with my maidens? Am I silent, or beginning to speak? Am I awake or asleep? Do I weep or hold back my tears? Is this joy or sorrow, longing or despair, misfortune or gladness, day or night? Are these things pleasures or pains?” All this I understood not. In my ignorance of Love’s course, I knew not whither to go, what to do, hear, see, or speak, whom to tell, nor what remedy to seek. Entering the maidens’ palace, I dismissed my friends at the door, and shut out my attendants, and then, putting aside all my occupations, I stood alone with my face against the jewelled window. I gazed at the region which, in its possession of him, was richly decked, endowed with great treasure, overflowed by the ocean of nectar, adorned with the rising of the full moon, and most fair to behold, I longed to ask his doings even of the breeze wafted from thence, or of the scent of the woodland flowers, or of the song of the birds. (295) I envied even the toils of penance for his devotion to them. For his sake, in the blind adherence of love, I took a vow of silence. I attributed grace to the ascetic garb, because he accepted it, beauty to youth because he owned it, charm to the pārijāta flower because it touched his ear, delight to heaven because he dwelt there, and invincible power to love because he was so fair. Though far away, I turned towards him as the lotus-bed to the sun, the tide to the moon, or the peacock to the cloud. I bore on my neck his rosary, like a charm against the loss of the life stricken by his absence. I stood motionless, though a thrill made the down on my cheek like a kadamba flower ear-ring, as it rose from the joy of being touched by his hand, and from the pārijāta spray in my ear, which spoke sweetly to me of him.
‘“‘Now my betel-bearer, Taralikā, had been with me to bathe; she came back after me rather late, and softly addressed me in my sadness: “Princess, one of those godlike ascetics we saw on the bank of Lake Acchoda — (296) he by whom this spray of the heavenly tree was placed in thy ear — as I was following thee, eluded the glance of his other self, and approaching me with soft steps between the branches of a flowering creeper, asked me concerning thee, saying, ‘Damsel, who is this maiden? Whose daughter is she? What is her name? And whither goes she?’ I replied: ‘She is sprung from Gaurī, an Apsaras of the moon race, and her father Haṃsa is king of all the Gandharvas; the nails of his feet are burnished by the tips of the jewelled aigrettes on the turbans of all the Gandharvas; his tree-like arms are marked by the cosmetics on the cheeks of his Gandharva wives, and the lotus-hand of Lakshmī forms his footstool. The princess is named Mahāçvetā, and she has set out now for the hill of Hemakūṭa, the abode of the Gandharvas.’
‘“‘“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.
‘“‘As I took from her hand that bark letter, I was filled with this talk about him, which, though but a sound, produced the joy of contact, and though for the ears alone, had its pervading presence in all my limbs manifested by a thrill, as if it were a spell to invoke Love; and in his letter I beheld these lines:
(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.
‘“‘“As with a steady glance I long examined his sad state, I became despondent, and thought in my trembling heart: ‘This is of a truth that Love whose force none can resist; for by him Puṇḍarīka has been in a moment brought to a state for which there is no cure. For how else could such a storehouse of learning become straightway unavailing? (306) It is, alas! a miracle in him who from childhood has been firm of nature and unswerving in conduct, and whose life was the envy of myself and the other young ascetics. Here, like a mean man, despising knowledge, contemning the power of penance, he has rooted up his deep steadfastness, and is paralyzed by Love. A youth which has never swerved is indeed rare!’ I went forward, and sitting down by him on the same stone, with my hand resting on his shoulder, I asked him, though his eyes were still closed: ‘Dear Puṇḍarīka, tell me what this means.’ Then with great difficulty and effort he opened his eyes, which seemed fastened together by their long closing, and which were red from incessant weeping and overflowing with tears as if shaken and in pain, while their colour was that of a red lotus-bed veiled in white silk. He looked at me long with a very languid glance, and then, deeply sighing, in accents broken by shame, he slowly and with pain murmured: ‘Dear Kapiñjala, why ask me what thou knowest?’ Hearing this, and thinking that Puṇḍarīka was suffering in this way a cureless ill, but that still, as far as possible, a friend who is entering a wrong course should be held back to the utmost by those who love him, I replied: ‘Dear Puṇḍarīka, I know it well. (307) I will only ask this question: Is this course you have begun taught by your gurus, or read in the holy books? or is this a way of winning holiness, or a fresh form of penance, or a path to heaven, or a mystic vow, or a means of salvation, or any other kind of discipline? Is this fitting for thee even to imagine, much less to see or tell? Like a fool, thou seest not that thou art made a laughing-stock by that miscreant Love. For it is the fool who is tormented by Love. For what is thy hope of happiness in such things as are honoured by the base, but blamed by the good? He truly waters a poison tree under the idea of duty, or embraces the sword plant for a lotus-wreath, or lays hold on a black snake, taking it for a line of smoke of black aloes, or touches a burning coal for a jewel, or tries to pull out the club-like tusk of a wild elephant, thinking it a lotus-fibre; he is a fool who places happiness in the pleasures of sense which end in sorrow. And thou, though knowing the real nature of the senses, why dost thou carry thy knowledge as the firefly his light, only to be concealed, in that thou restrainest not thy senses when they start out of their course like streams turbid in their passionate onrush? Nor dost thou curb thy tossing mind. (308) Who, forsooth, is this Love-god? Relying on thy firmness, do thou revile this miscreant.’
‘“‘“As I thus spoke he wiped with his hand his eyes streaming with tears poured through his eyelashes, and while he yet leant on me, replied, rebuking my speech: ‘Friend, what need of many words? Thou at least art untouched! Thou hast not fallen within the range of Love’s shafts, cruel with the poison of snakes! It is easy to teach another! and when that other has his senses and his mind, and sees, hears, and knows what he has heard, and can discern good and evil, he is then fit for advice. But all this is far from me; all talk of stability, judgment, firmness, reflection, has come to an end. How do I even breathe but by strong effort? The time for advice is long past. The opportunity for firmness has been let slip; the hour for reflection is gone; the season for stability and judgment has passed away. Who but thee could give advice at this time, or could attempt to restrain my wandering? To whom but thee should I listen? or who else in the world is a friend like thee? What ails me that I cannot restrain myself? Thou sawest in a moment my wretched plight. The time, then, for advice is now past. (309) While I breathe, I long for some cure for the fever of love, violent as the rays of twelve suns at the end of the world. My limbs are baked, my heart is seething, my eyes are burning, and my body on fire. Do, therefore, what the time demands.’ He then became silent, and after this speech I tried again and again to rouse him; but as he did not listen even when tenderly and affectionately exhorted in the words of the pure teaching of the çāstras full of cases like his own, together with the legendary histories, I thought, ‘He is gone too far; he cannot be turned back. Advice is now useless, so I will make an effort just to preserve his life.’ With this resolve I rose and went, and tore up some juicy lotus-fibres from the lake; then, taking some lotus-petals marked by water, I plucked lotuses of all kinds, sweet with the fragrance of the aromatic pollen within, and prepared a couch on that same rock in the bower. And as he rested there at ease (310), I crushed soft twigs of the sandal-trees hard by, and with its juice, naturally sweet and cold as ice, made a mark on his brow, and anointed him from head to foot. I allayed the perspiration by camphor-dust powdered in my hand, broken from the interstices of the split bark of the trees near, and fanned him with a plantain-leaf dripping with pure water, while the bark robe he wore was moist with the sandal placed on his breast; and as I again and again strewed fresh lotus couches, and anointed him with sandal, and removed the perspiration, and constantly fanned him, the thought arose in my mind, ‘Surely nothing is too hard for Love! For how far apart would seem Puṇḍarīka, by nature simple and content with his woodland home, like a fawn, and Mahāçvetā, the Gandharva princess, a galaxy of graces: surely there is nothing for Love in the world hard, or difficult, or unsubdued, or impossible. He scornfully attempts the hardest tasks, nor can any resist him. For why speak of beings endowed with sense when, if it so please him, he can bring together even things without sense? For the night lotus-bed falls in love with the sun’s ray, and the day-lotus leaves her hatred of the moon, and night is joined to day, (311) and moonlight waits on darkness, and shade stands in the face of light, and lightning stays firm in the cloud, and old age accompanies youth; and what more difficult thing can there be than that one like Puṇḍarīka, who is an ocean of unfathomable depth, should thus be brought to the lightness of grass? Where is his former penance, and where his present state? Truly it is a cureless ill that has befallen him! What must I now do or attempt, or whither go, or what refuge or resource, or help or remedy, or plan, or recourse, is there by which his life may be sustained? Or by what skill, or device, or means, or support, or thought, or solace, may he yet live?’ These and other such thoughts arose in my downcast heart. But again I thought, ‘What avails dwelling on this useless thought? His life must be preserved by any means, good or bad, (312) and there is no other way to save it but by her union with him; and as he is timid by reason of his youth, and moreover thinks the affairs of love contrary to his vow, unseemly, and a mockery in himself, he certainly, even at his last breath, will not gratify his longing by himself approaching her. This his disease of love admits no delay. Good men always hold that a friend’s life must be saved even by a blameworthy deed; so that though this is a shameful and wrong action, it has yet become imperative for me. What else can be done? What other course is there? I will certainly go to her. I will tell her his state.’ Thus thinking, I left the place on some pretext, and came hither without telling him, lest perchance he should feel that I was engaged in an unseemly employment, and should in shame hold me back. This being the state of affairs, thou, lady, art the judge of what action is needful for the time, worthy of so great a love, fitting for my coming, and right for thyself.” With these words he became silent, fixing his eyes on my face to see what I should say. But I, having heard him, was plunged, as it were, into a lake of ambrosial joy, or immersed in an ocean of the sweets of love, floating above all joys, mounting to the pinnacle of all desires, resting at the utmost bound of gladness. I showed my happiness by joyful tears pouring clear, large, and heavy, because my eyelashes were not closed, strung like a garland by their unceasing succession, and not touching my cheek, because my face was somewhat bent in sudden shame; (313) and I thought at once: “O joy, that Love entangles him as well as me, so that even while tormenting me, he has in part showed me kindness; and if Puṇḍarīka is indeed in such a plight, what help has not Love given me, or what has he not done for me, or what friend is like him, or how could a false tale, even in sleep, pass the lips of the calm-souled Kapiñjala? And if this be so, what must I do, and what must I say in his presence?” While I was thus deliberating, a portress hastily entered, and said to me: “Princess, the Queen has learnt from her attendants that thou art ill, and is now coming.” On hearing this, Kapiñjala, fearing the contact of a great throng, quickly rose, saying: “Princess, a cause of great delay has arisen. The sun, the crest-jewel of the three worlds, is now sinking, so I will depart. But I raise my hands in salutation as a slight offering for the saving of my dear friend’s life; that is my greatest treasure.” (314) Then, without awaiting my reply, he with difficulty departed, for the door was blocked by the entrance of the attendants that heralded my Lady Mother. There were the portresses bearing golden staves; the chamberlains with unguents, cosmetics, flowers, and betel, holding waving cowries; and in their train were humpbacks, barbarians, deaf men, eunuchs, dwarfs, and deaf mutes.
‘“‘Then the Queen came to me, and after a long visit, went home; but I observed nothing of what she did, said, or attempted while with me, for my heart was far away. When she went the sun, with his steeds bright as haritāla pigeons, lord of life to the lotuses, and friend of the cakravākas, had sunk to rest, and the face of the West was growing crimson, and the lotus-beds were turning green, and the East was darkening to blue; and the world of mortals was overcome by a blackness like a wave of the ocean of final destruction turbid with the mud of hell. I knew not what to do, and asked Taralikā, “Seest thou not, Taralikā, how confused is my mind? My senses are bewildered with uncertainty, and I am unable myself to see in the least what I should do. (315) Do thou tell me what is right to do, for Kapiñjala is now gone, and he told his tale in thy presence. What if, like a base-born maiden, I cast away shame, relinquish self-control, desert modesty, contemn the reproach of men, transgress good behaviour, trample on conduct, despise noble birth, accept the disgrace of a course blinded by love, and without my father’s leave, or my mother’s approval, I were to go to him myself and offer him my hand? This transgression against my parents would be a great wrong. But if, taking the other alternative, I follow duty, I shall in the first place accept death, and even so I shall break the heart of his reverence Kapiñjala, who loved him first, and who came hither of his own accord. And again, if perchance that man’s death is brought about by my deed in destroying his hopes, then causing the death of an ascetic would be a grave sin.” While I thus considered, the East became gray with the glimmering light of moonrise, like a line of woods in spring with the pollen of flowers. And in the moonlight the eastern quarter showed white as if with the powdered pearls from the frontal bone of the elephant of darkness torn open by the lion-moon, (316) or pale with sandal-dust falling from the breast of the nymphs of the eastern mountain, or light with the rising of sand in an island left by the tide, stirred by the wind on the waves of the ever-moving ocean. Slowly the moonlight glided down, and made bright the face of night, as if it were the flash of her teeth as she softly smiled at the sight of the moon; then evening shone with the moon’s orb, as if it were the circle of Çesha’s hoods breaking through the earth as it rose from hell; after that, night became fair with the moon, the gladdener of the world of mortals, the delight of lovers, now leaving its childhood behind and becoming the ally of Love, with a youthful glow arising within it, the only fitting light for the enjoyment of Love’s pleasures, ambrosial, climbing the sky like youth impersonate. Then I beheld the risen moon as if flushed with the coral of the ocean it had just left, crimsoned with the blood of its deer struck by the paw of the lion of the Eastern Mountain, marked with the lac of Rohiṇī’s feet, as she spurned her lord in a love quarrel, (317) and ruddy with his newly-kindled glow. And I, though the fire of Love burnt within me, had my heart darkened; though my body rested on the lap of Taralikā, I was a captive in the hands of Love; though my eyes were fixed on the moon, I was looking on death, and I straightway thought, “There are the honey-month, the Malaya winds, and all other such things brought together, and in the same place to have this evil miscreant moon cannot be endured. My heart cannot bear it. Its rising now is like a shower of coals to one consumed by fever, or a fall of snow to one ill from cold, or the bite of a black snake to one faint with the swelling of poison.” And as I thus thought, a swoon closed my eyes, like the sleep brought by moonlight that withers the lotuses of the day. Soon, however, I regained consciousness by means of the fanning and sandal unguents of the bewildered Taralikā, and I saw her weeping, her face dimmed with ceaseless tears, pressing the point of a moist moonstone to my brow, and seeming possessed by despair impersonate. As I opened my eyes, she fell at my feet, and said, raising hands yet wet with the thick sandal ointment: “Princess, why think of shame or disrespect to parents? Be kind; send me, and I will fetch the beloved of thy heart; (318) rise, or go thither thyself. Henceforth thou canst not bear this Love that is an ocean whose manifold passionate waves are swelling at the rise of a strong moon.” To this speech I replied: “Mad girl, what is love to me? The moon it is, even the lord of the night lotuses, who removes all scruples, undermines all search for means of escape, conceals all difficulties, takes away all doubts, contemns all fears, roots out all shame, veils the sinful levity of going myself to my lover, avoids all delay, and has come merely to lead me either to Puṇḍarīka or to death. Rise, therefore; for while I have life I will follow him and honour him who, dear as he is, tortures my heart.” Thus saying, I rose, leaning on her, for my limbs were yet unsteady with the weakness of the swoon caused by Love, and as I rose my right eye throbbed, presaging ill, and in sudden terror I thought: “What new thing is this threatened by Destiny?”
(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.
‘“‘Taralikā accompanied me, holding powders, perfumes, unguents, betel, and various flowers, and I had also that napkin, wet with the sandal ointment which had been applied in my swoon, and which had its nap slightly disordered and gray with the partly-dried mark of sandalwood clinging to it; the rosary was on my neck; the pārijāta spray was kissing the tip of my ear; veiled in red silk that seemed fashioned from rays of rubies, I went down from the top of that palace, unseen by any of my devoted attendants. On my way I was pursued by a swarm of bees, which hastened, leaving lotus-beds and deserting gardens, drawn by the scent of the pārijāta spray, sportively forming a blue veil round me. I departed through the door of the pleasure-grove and set out to meet Puṇḍarīka. (321) As I went, I thought, seeing myself attended by Taralikā only: “What needs pomp of retinue when we seek our dearest! Surely our servants then but play a mockery of attendance, for Love follows me with shaft fitted to the strung bow; the moon, stretching out a long ray, draws me on like a hand; passion supports me at every step from fear of a fall; my heart rushes on with the senses, leaving shame behind; longing has gained certainty, and leads me on.” Aloud I said: “Oh, Taralikā, would that this miscreant moon would with its beams seize him by the hair and draw him forward like myself!” As I thus spoke, she smilingly replied: “Thou art foolish, my princess! What does the moon want with Puṇḍarīka? Nay, rather, he himself, as though wounded by Love, does all these things for thee; for under the guise of his image he kisses thy cheeks marked with drops of perspiration; with trembling ray he falls on thy fair breast; he touches the gems of thy girdle; entangled in thy bright nails, he falls at thy feet; moreover, the form of this lovesick moon wears the pallor of a sandal unguent dried by fever; (322) he stretches out his rays white as lotus-fibres; under the guise of his reflection he falls on crystal pavements; with rays gray as the dust from the filaments inside the ketakī, he plunges into lotus-pools; he touches with his beams the moonstones wet with spray; he hates the day lotus-groves with their pairs of cakravākas once severed.” With such discourse fitting for the time I approached that spot in her company. I then bathed my feet, gray with pollen from the creeper flowers on our path, in a spot near Kapiñjala’s abode which had a stream of moonstone, liquefied by moonrise, flowing from Kailāsa’s slope; and there, on the left bank of the lake, I heard the sound of a man’s weeping, softened by distance. Some fear had arisen within me at first, from the quivering of my right eye, and now that my heart was yet more torn by this cry, as if my downcast mind were telling some dreadful tidings within, I cried in terror: “Taralikā, what means this?” And with trembling limbs I breathlessly hastened on.
‘“‘Then I heard afar a bitter cry, clear in the calm of night: “Alas, I am undone! I am consumed! I am deceived! What is this that has befallen me? What has happened? I am uprooted! (323) Cruel demon Love, evil and pitiless, what shameful deed hast thou brought to pass? Ah, wicked, evil, wanton Mahāçvetā, how had he harmed thee? Ah, evil, wanton, monstrous moon, thou hast gained thy desire. Cruel soft breeze of the South, thy softness is gone, and thy will is fulfilled. That which was to be done is done. Go now as thou wilt! Ah, venerable Çvetaketu, tender to thy son, thou knowest not that thy life is stolen from thee! Dharma, thou art dispossessed! Penance, thou art protectorless! Eloquence, thou art widowed! Truth, thou art lordless! Heaven, thou art void! Friend, protect me! Yet I will follow thee! I cannot remain even a moment without thee, alone! How canst thou now suddenly leave me, and go thy way like a stranger on whom my eyes had never rested? Whence comes this thy great hardness? Say, whither, without thee, shall I go? Whom shall I implore? What refuge shall I seek? I am blinded! For me space is empty! Life is aimless, penance vain, the world void of joy! With whom shall I wander, to whom speak, with whom hold converse? Do thou arise! Grant me an answer. Friend, where is thine old love to me? Where that smiling welcome that never failed me?”
(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.
‘“‘There I beheld Puṇḍarīka lying on a couch made on a slab of moonstone wet with showers of cool spray, close to the lake; it was made of lotus-fibres like a garland of tender flowers from all lilies, and seemed to be formed wholly of the points of Love’s arrows. Puṇḍarīka seemed from his great stillness to be listening for the sound of my step. He seemed to have gained a moment’s happiness in sleep, as if Love’s pain had been quenched by inward wrath; he seemed engaged in a yoga penance of holding his breath, as an atonement for his breach of ascetic duty; he seemed to murmur, with bright yet trembling lip: “By thy deed am I come to this pass.” He seemed pierced by the moonbeams which, under the guise of his bright finger-nails placed on a heart throbbing with Love’s fire, fell on his back as he lay averted in hatred of the moon. (325) He bore a mark on his brow of a line of sandal, which, by its being pale from dryness, was like a digit of Love’s waning moon portending his own destruction. Life seemed to leave him in anger, saying: “Fool, another is dearer to thee than I!” His eyes were not wholly closed; their pupils were slightly turned to look; they were red with ceaseless weeping; they seemed to drop blood, since by failure of breath his tears were exhausted; and they were partly curved in pain at Love’s darts. He now experienced the pain of unconsciousness, as if together with the torment of love he were also yielding life itself; he seemed to meditate a new version of Love’s mystery, and to practise an unwonted retention of breath. His life seemed to be carried off as a prize by Love, who had in kindness arranged my coming. On his brow was a sandal tripuṇḍraka mark; he wore a sacrificial thread of juicy lotus-fibre; his dress clung to his shoulder beautiful as the leaf that ensheathes a plantain; his rosary had only the thickness of a single row; the ashes on his brow were of abundant white camphor-powder; he was fair with the string of lotus-fibre, bound on his arm as an amulet; he seemed to wear the garb of Love’s vow, as if completing a charm for my coming. With his eye he tenderly uttered the reproach: “Hard-hearted! I was but followed by one glance, and never again received thy favour.” (326) His lips were slightly open, so that his form gleamed white in the rays of his teeth, which came forth as if they were moonbeams that had entered him to take away his life; with his left hand placed on a heart breaking with the pain of love, he seemed to say: “Be kind, depart not with my life, thou that art dear as life!” and so to hold me firmly in his heart; his right hand, which from the uneven rays of his nails jutting forth seemed to drop sandal, was raised as if to ward off the moonlight; near him stood his pitcher, the friend of his penance, with neck upright, as if it gazed at the path by which his life was just rising; the garland of lotus-fibres which adorned his neck bound him as if with a rope of moonbeams to lead him to another world; and when, at the sight of me, Kapiñjala, with a cry of “Help, help!” raised his hands, and crying aloud with redoubled tears, fell on his neck, at that very moment I, wicked and ill-fated as I was, beheld that noble youth yield up his life. The darkness of a swoon came upon me, and I descended into hell; nor knew I anything of whither I then went, or what I did or said. Neither knew I why my life did not at that moment leave me; (327) whether from the utter hardness of my stupefied heart, or from the callousness to bear thousands of troubles of my wretched body, or from being fated to endure a long grief, or from being a vessel of evil earned in another birth, or from the skill of my cruel destiny in bestowing sorrow, or from the singular perversity of malign accursed love. Only this I know: that when at length in my misery I regained consciousness, I found myself writhing on the ground, tortured, as if I had fallen on a fire, by a grief too hard to bear. I could not believe aught so impossible as that he should die and I yet live, and rising with a bitter cry of “Alas, what is this — mother, father, friends?” I exclaimed: “Ah, my Lord, thou who upholdest my life, speak to me! Whither goest thou, pitilessly leaving me alone and protectorless? Ask Taralikā what I have suffered for thy sake. Hardly have I been able to pass the day, drawn out into a thousand ages. Be gracious! Utter but one word! Show tenderness to her that loves thee! Look but a little on me! Fulfil my longing! I am wretched! I am loyal! I am thine in heart! I am lordless! I am young! I am helpless! I am unhappy! I am bereft of other refuge! I am vanquished by Love! Why showest thou no pity? Say what I have done or left undone, what command I have neglected, or in what thing pleasing to thee I have not shown affection, that thou art wroth. (328) Fearest thou not the reproach of men in that thou goest, deserting me, thy handmaid, without cause? Yet why think of me, perverse and wicked, and skilled to deceive by false shows of love! Alas, I yet live! Alas, I am accursed and undone! For why? I have neither thee, nor honour, nor kinsfolk, nor heaven. Shame on me, a worker of evil deeds, for whose sake this fate hath befallen thee. There is none of so murderous a heart as I who went home, leaving one so peerless as thou. What to me were home, mother, father, kinsfolk, followers? Alas, to what refuge shall I flee? Fate, show pity to me! I entreat thee. Lady of destiny, give me a boon of mercy! Show compassion! Protect a lordless lady! Ye woodland goddesses, be kind! Give back his life! Help, Earth, that bringest favours to all! Night, showest thou no mercy? Father Kailāsa, thy protection I implore. Show thy wonted pity!” Such were my laments, so far as I remember, and I murmured incoherently as one held by a demon, or possessed or mad, or struck down by an evil spirit. In the tears that fell in torrents upon me I was turned to water, I melted away, I took upon me a shape of water; my laments, followed by the sharp rays of my teeth, fell as if with showers of tears; (329) my hair, with its flowers ever falling, seemed to shed teardrops, and my very ornaments by the tears of pure gemlight that sprang from them seemed to raise their lament. I longed for my own death as for his life; I yearned to enter his heart with my whole soul, dead though he were; with my hand I touched his cheeks, and his brow with the roots of his hair, white with dry sandal, and his shoulders with the lotus-fibres on them, and his heart covered with lotus-leaves and flecks of sandal-juice. With the tender reproach, “Thou art cruel, Puṇḍarīka! Thou carest nought that I am thus wretched!” I again sought to win him back. I again embraced him, I again clasped his neck, and wept aloud. Then I rebuked that string of pearls, saying: “Ah, wicked one, couldst not even thou have preserved his life till my coming?” Then again I fell at Kapiñjala’s feet with the prayer, “Be kind, my lord; restore him to life!” and again, clinging to Taralikā’s neck, I wept. Even now, when I think of it, I know not how these piteous, tender words came forth from my ill-fated heart — words all unthought, unlearnt, untaught, unseen before; nor whence these utterances arose; nor whence these heart-rending cries of despair. My whole being was changed. (330) For there rose a deluge wave of inward tears, the springs of weeping were set loose, the buds of wailing came forth, the peaks of sorrow grew lofty and a long line of madness was begun.’ And so, as she thus told her own tale, she seemed again to taste the bitterness of that former plight, so cruel, and so hardly endured, and a swoon bereft her of sense. In the force of her swoon she fell on the rock, and Candrāpīḍa hastily stretched out his hand, like her servant, and supported her, full of sorrow. At length he brought her back to consciousness by fanning her with the edge of her own bark garment, wet with tears. Filled with pity, and with his cheeks bathed in tears, he said to her, as she came to life: ‘Lady, it is by my fault that thy grief has been brought back to its first freshness, and that thou hast come to this pass. Therefore no more of this tale. Let it be ended. Even I cannot bear to hear it. For the story even of past sorrow endured by a friend pains us as if we ourselves were living through it. Thou wilt not therefore surely place on the fire of grief that life so precious and so hardly preserved?’ (331) Thus addressed, with a long, hot sigh and eyes dissolved in tears, she despairingly replied: ‘Prince, even in that dreadful night my hated life did not desert me; it is not likely that it will leave me now. Even blessed Death turns away his eyes from one so ill-fated and wicked. Whence could one so hard-hearted feel grief? all this can be but feigned in a nature so vile. But be that as it may, that shameless heart has made me chief among the shameless. For to one so adamantine as to have seen love in all his power, and yet to have lived through this, what can mere speaking of it matter?
‘“‘Or what could there be harder to tell than this very thing, which is supposed to be impossible to hear or say? I will at least briefly tell the marvel that followed on that thunderbolt, and I will tell, too, what came as a tiny dim cause of my prolonging my life, which by its mirage so deludes me that I bear about a hated body, almost dead, alien to me, burdensome, unfitted to my needs, and thankless for my care. That shall suffice. Afterwards, in a sudden change of feeling, with resolve firmly set on death, lamenting bitterly, I cried to Taralikā: “Rise, cruel-hearted girl; how long wilt thou weep? Bring together wood and make a pile. I will follow the lord of my life.”
(332) ‘“‘Straightway a being swiftly left the moon’s orb and descended from the sky. Behind him he trailed a silken vesture hanging from his crest, white as the foam of nectar, and waving in the wind; his cheeks were reddened with the bright gems that swayed in his ears; on his breast he bore a radiant necklace, from the size of its pearls like a cluster of stars; his turban was tied with strips of white silk; his head was thick with curling locks, and dark as bees; his earring was an open moon lotus; on his shoulder was the impress of the saffron lines that adorned his wives; he was white as a moon lotus, lofty in stature, endowed with all the marks of greatness, and godlike in form; he seemed to purify space by the light shed round him clear as pure water, and to anoint it as by a thick frost with a dewy ambrosial shower that created a chill as he shed it from his limbs, cool and fragrant, and to besprinkle it with a rich store of goçīrsha sandal-juice.
‘“‘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?
‘“‘That night I spent in Taralikā’s company on the bank of the lake. To my wretchedness it was like a night of doom, drawn out to a thousand years, all torment, all grief, all hell, all fire. (335) Sleep was rooted out, and I tossed on the ground; my face was hidden by the loosened and dishevelled tresses that clung to my cheeks, wet with tears and gray with dust, and my throat was weak, for my voice failed, broken with piteous weeping.
‘“‘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.
‘“From the very first Candrāpīḍa had been filled with reverence by her beauty, modesty, and courtesy; by the charm of her speech, her unselfishness and her austerity; and by her serenity, humility, dignity, and purity. But now he was carried away both by the story of her life, which showed her noble character, and by her devoted spirit, and a fresh tenderness arose in him. With softened heart he gently said: ‘Lady, those may weep who fear pain, and are devoid of gratitude, and love pleasure, for they are unable to do anything worthy of love, and show their affection merely by vain tears. But thou who hast done all rightly, what duty of love hast thou left undone, that thou weepest? For Puṇḍarīka’s sake, thy kinsfolk who from thy birth have been around thee, dear as they were, have been forsaken as if they were strangers. (338) Earthly pleasures, though at thy feet, have been despised and reckoned light as grass. The joys of power, though their riches excelled the empire of Indra, have been resigned. Thy form has been emaciated by dread penances, even though by nature it was slender as a lotus-stalk. Thou hast taken the ascetic vow. Thy soul has been devoted to great penance. Thou hast dwelt in the woods, hard though it be for a woman. Moreover, life is easily resigned by those whom sorrow has overwhelmed, but it needs a greater effort not to throw away life in heavy grief. This following another to death is most vain! It is a path followed by the ignorant! It is a mere freak of madness, a path of ignorance, an enterprise of recklessness, a view of baseness, a sign of utter thoughtlessness, and a blunder of folly, that one should resign life on the death of father, brother, friend, or husband. If life leaves us not of itself, we must not resign it. For this leaving of life, if we examine it, is merely for our own interest, because we cannot bear our own cureless pain. To the dead man it brings no good whatever. For it is no means of bringing him back to life, or heaping up merit, or gaining heaven for him, or saving him from hell, or seeing him again, or being reunited with him. (339) For he is led helplessly, irresistibly to another state meet for the fruits of his own deeds. And yet he shares in the guilt of the friend who has killed himself. But a man who lives on can help greatly, by offerings of water and the like, both the dead man and himself; but by dying he helps neither. Remember how Rati, the sole and beloved wife of Love, when her noble husband, who won the hearts of all women, was burnt up by the fire of Çiva, yet did not yield her life; and remember also Kuntī, of the race of Vṛishṇi, daughter of Sūrasena, for her lord was Pāṇḍu the wise; his seat was perfumed by the flowers in the crests of all the kings whom he had conquered without an effort, and he received the tribute of the whole earth, and yet when he was consumed by Kindama’s curse she still remained alive. Uttarā, too, the young daughter of Virāṭa, on the death of Abhimanyu, gentle and heroic, and joyful to the eyes as the young moon, yet lived on. And Duḥçalyā, too, daughter of Dhṛitarāshṭra, tenderly cared for by her hundred brothers; when Jayadratha, king of Sindhu, was slain by Arjuna, fair as he was and great as he had become by Çiva’s gift, yet made no resignation of her life. (340) And others are told of by thousands, daughters of Rākshasas, gods, demons, ascetics, mortals, siddhas and Gandharvas, who when bereft of their husbands yet preserved their lives. Still, where reunion is doubtful, life might be yielded. But for thee, thou hast heard from that great being a promise of reunion. What doubt can there be in a matter of thine own experience, and how could falsehood find a place in the words of such noble truth-speaking saints, even when there might be greater cause? And what union could there be between the dead and the living? Therefore of a surety that wondrous being was filled with pity and carried away Puṇḍarīka to heaven solely to bring him back to life. For the power of great men transcends thought. Life has many aspects. Destiny is manifold. Those skilled in penance are fitted for wondrous miracles. Many are the forms of power gained by previous actions. Moreover, however subtly we may consider the matter, what other cause can we imagine for Puṇḍarīka’s being taken away, but the gift of fresh life. And this, thou must know, is not impossible. It is a path often trodden. (341) For Pramadvarā, daughter of Viçvāvasu, king of the Gandharvas and Menakā, lost her life through a poisonous snake at the hermitage of Sthūlakeça, and the young ascetic Ruru, son of Pramati and grandson of the Bhṛigu Cyavana, provided her with half his own life. And when Arjuna was following the Açvamedha steed, he was pierced in the van of the battle by an arrow from his own son Babhruvāhana, and a Nāga maiden, Ulūpā, brought him back to life. When Parīkshit, Abhimanyu’s son, was consumed by Açvatthāma’s fiery dart, though he had already died at birth, Kṛishṇa, filled with pity by Uttarā’s lament, restored his precious life. And at Ujjayinī, he whose steps are honoured by the three worlds, carried off from the city of death the son of Sandīpani the Brahman, and brought him back. And in thy case, too, the same will somehow come to pass. For by thy present grief, what is effected or what won? Fate is all-powerful. Destiny is strong. We cannot even draw a breath at our own will. The freaks of that accursed and most harsh destiny are exceeding cruel. A love fair in its sincerity is not allowed long to endure; for joys are wont to be in their essence frail and unlasting, while sorrows by their nature are long-lived. (342) For how hardly are mortals united in one life, while in a thousand lives they are separated. Thou canst not surely then blame thyself, all undeserving of blame. For these things often happen to those who enter the tangled path of transmigration, and it is the brave who conquer misfortune.’ With such gentle and soothing words he consoled her, and made her, albeit reluctantly, bathe her face with water brought in his joined hands from the cascade.
‘“Straightway the sun began to sink, as if he were leaving the day’s duties from grief at hearing Mahāçvetā’s story. Then day faded away; the sun hung shining red as the pollen of a cluster of priyangu in full blossom; the quarters of space were losing the glow of sunset soft as silk dyed in the juice of many lotuses; (343) the sky was tinged with red, glowing like the pupils of a partridge, while its blue was hidden; twilight was reddening and lighting up the earth, tawny as a pigeon’s eye; the clusters of stars shone forth, vying with each other; the darkness of night was deepening into black, and stealing away the broad path of the stars with its form dark as a forest buffalo; the woodland avenues seemed massed together as their green was hidden by deep gloom; the wind wandered cooled by night-dew, with its path tracked by the perfume of the wild flowers as it stirred the tangle of trees and creepers; and when night had its birds all still in sleep Mahāçvetā slowly rose, and saying her evening prayers, washed her feet with water from the pitcher and sat down with a hot, sorrowful sigh on her bark couch. Candrāpīḍa, too, rose and poured a libation of water strewn with flowers, said his evening prayer, and made a couch on the other rock with soft creeper boughs. As he rested upon it he went over Mahāçvetā’s story again in his mind. ‘This evil Love,’ thought he, ‘has a power hard alike to cure and to endure. For even great men, when overcome by him, regard not the course of time, but suddenly lose all courage and surrender life. Yet all hail to Love, whose rule is honoured throughout the three worlds!’ (344) And again he asked her: ‘She that was thy handmaiden, thy friend in the resolve to dwell in the woods, and the sharer of the ascetic vow taken in thy sorrow — Taralikā, where is she?’ ‘Noble sir,’ she replied, ‘from the race of Apsarases sprung from ambrosia of which I told you, there was born a fair-eyed daughter named Madirā, who married King Citraratha, the king whose footstool was formed of the buds in the crests of all the Gandharvas. Charmed by her countless virtues, he showed his favour by giving her the title of Chief Queen, bearing with it cowrie, sceptre and umbrella, marked by a golden throne, and placing all the zenana below her — a woman’s rarest glory! And, as they pursued together the joys of youth in their utter devotion to each other, a priceless daughter was in due time born to them, by name Kādambarī, most wondrous, the very life of her parents, and of the whole Gandharva race, and even of all living beings. From her birth she was the friend of my childhood, and shared with me seat, couch, meat and drink; on her my deepest love was set, and she was the home of all my confidence, and like my other heart. Together we learnt to dance and sing, and our childhood passed away free from restraint in the sports that belong to it. (345) From sorrow at my unhappy story she made a resolve that she would in nowise accept a husband while I was still in grief, and before her girl friends she took an oath, saying: “If my father should in anywise or at any time wish to marry me against my will and by force, I will end my life by hunger, fire, cord, or poison.” Citraratha himself heard all the resolution of his daughter, spoken of positively in the repeated gossip of her attendants, and as time went on, seeing that she was growing to full youth, he became prey to great vexation, and for a time took pleasure in nothing, and yet, as she was his only child and he dearly loved her, he could say nothing to her, though he saw no other resource. But as he deemed the time now ripe, he considered the matter with Queen Madirā, and sent the herald Kshīroda to me at early dawn with the message: “Dear Mahāçvetā, our hearts were already burnt up by thy sad fate, and now this new thing has come upon us. To thee we look to win back Kādambarī.” Thereupon, in reverence to the words of one so respected, and in love to my friend, I sent Taralikā with Kshīroda to bid Kādambarī not add grief to one already sad enough; (346) for if she wished me to live she must fulfil her father’s words; and ere Taralikā had been long gone, thou, noble sir, camest to this spot.’ So saying she was silent.
‘“Then the moon arose, simulating by his mark the heart of Mahāçvetā, burnt through by the fire of grief, bearing the great crime of the young ascetic’s death, showing the long ingrained scar of the burning of Daksha’s curse, white with thick ashes, and half covered by black antelope skin, like the left breast of Durgā, the crest-jewel of Çiva’s thick locks. (347) Then at length Candrāpīḍa beheld Mahāçvetā asleep, and quietly lay down himself on his leafy couch and fell asleep while thinking what Vaiçampāyana and sorrowing Patralekhā and his princely compeers would then be imagining about him.
‘“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.
(349) ‘“When she had finished her prayers, Mahāçvetā asked Taralikā, ‘Didst thou see my dear Kādambarī well? and will she do as I said?’ ‘Princess,’ said Taralikā, in a very sweet voice, with head respectfully inclined, ‘I saw Princess Kādambarī well in all respects, and told her all thine advice; and what was her reply, when with a continuous stream of thick tears she had heard it, that her lute-player Keyūraka, whom she has sent, shall tell thee;’ and as she ceased Keyūraka said, ‘Princess Mahāçvetā, my lady Kādambarī, with a close embrace, sends this message, “Is this, that Taralikā has been sent to tell me, said to please my parents or to test my feelings, or to subtly reproach me for my crime in dwelling at home; or is it a desire to break our friendship, or a device to desert one who loves her, or is it simply anger? Thou knowest that my heart overflows with a love that was inborn in me. How wert thou not ashamed to send so cruel a message? Thou, erst so soft of speech, from whom hast thou learnt to speak unkindness and utter reproach? Who in his senses would, even if happy, make up his mind to undertake even a slight matter that would end in pain? how much less one like me, whose heart is struck down by deep grief? For in a heart worn by a friend’s sorrow, what hope is there of joy, what contentment, what pleasures or what mirth? (350) How should I fulfil the desire of Love, poisonous, pitiless, unkind, who has brought my dear friend to so sad a plight? Even the hen cakravāka, when the lotus-beds are widowed by the sun’s setting, renounces from the friendship that arises from dwelling among them, the joys of union with her lord; how much more, then, should women! While my friend dwells day and night sorrowing for the loss of her lord and avoiding the sight of mankind, how could anyone else enter my heart; and while my friend in her sorrow tortures herself with penances and suffers great pain, how could I think so lightly of that as to seek my own happiness and accept a husband, or how could any happiness befall me? For from love of thee I have in this matter accepted disgrace by embracing an independent life contrary to the wont of maidens. I have despised noble breeding, transgressed my parent’s commands, set at nought the gossip of mankind, thrown away modesty, a woman’s inborn grace; how, tell me, should such a one go back? Therefore I salute thee, I bow before thee, I embrace thy feet; be gracious to me. As thou hast gone hence into the forest, taking my life with thee, make not this request in thy mind, even in a dream.”’ (351) Thus having said, he became silent, and Mahāçvetā thought long, and then dismissed Keyūraka, saying, ‘Do thou depart; I will go to her and do what is fitting.’ On his departure she said to Candrāpīḍa, ‘Prince, Hemakūṭa is pleasant and the royal city of Citraratha marvellous; the Kinnara country is curious, the Gandharva world beautiful, and Kādambarī is noble and generous of heart. If thou deemest not the journey too tedious, if no serious business is hindered, if thy mind is curious to behold rare sights, if thou art encouraged by my words, if the sight of wonders gives thee joy, if thou wilt deign to grant my request, if thou thinkest me worthy of not being denied, if any friendship has grown up between us, or if I am deserving of thy favour, then thou canst not disdain to fulfil this prayer. Thou canst go hence with me, and see not only Hemakūṭa, that treasure of beauty, but my second self, Kādambarī; and having removed this foolish freak of hers, thou canst rest for one day, and return hither the next morn. For by the sight of thy kindness so freely given, my grief has become bearable, since I have told thee my story, breathed out as it was from a heart long overwhelmed with the darkness of grief. (352) For the presence of the good gives joy even to those who are sad at heart, and a virtue springs from such as thou art that wholly tends to make others happy.’
‘“‘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.
‘“In due time he reached Hemakūṭa, the royal city of the Gandharvas, and passing through the seven inner courts with their golden arches, the prince approached the door of the maidens’ dwelling. Escorted by porters, who ran forward at the sight of Mahāçvetā, bowing while yet far off, and holding their golden staves, he entered and beheld the inside of the maidens’ palace. It seemed a new woman’s world, consisting wholly of women in countless numbers, as if the womankind of the three worlds had been gathered together to make such a total; or it might be a fresh manless creation, a yet unborn continent of girls, a fifth women’s era, a fresh race created by Prajāpati out of hatred for men, or a treasury of women prepared for the making of many yugas. The wave of girlish beauty which surrounded it on all sides, which flooded space, sprinkled nectar on the day, rained splendour on the interstices of the world, and shone lustrous as an emerald, made the place all aglow as if with thousands of moons; (353) it seemed modelled in moonlight; jewels made another sky; service was done by bright glances; every part was made for youthful pleasures; here was an assemblage for Rati’s sports, a material for Love’s practice; here the entrance of all was made smooth by Love; here all was affection, beauty, the supreme deity of passion, the arrows of Love, here all was wonder, marvel, and tenderness of youth. (356) When he had gone a little way in he heard the pleasant talk of the maidens round Kādambarī as they wandered hither and thither. Such as ‘Lavalikā, deck the lavalī trenches with ketakī pollen. Sāgarikā, sprinkle jewelled dust in the tanks of scented water. Mṛiṇālikā, inlay with saffron dust the pairs of toy cakravākas in the artificial lotus-beds. Makarikā, scent the pot-pourri with camphor-juice. Rajanikā, place jewelled lamps in the dark tamāla avenues. Kumudikā, cover the pomegranates with pearly nets to keep off the birds. Nipuṇikā, draw saffron lines on the breasts of the jewelled dolls. Utpalikā, sweep with golden brooms the emerald arbour in the plaintain house. Kesarikā, sprinkle with wine the houses of bakul flowers. Mālatikā, redden with red lead the ivory roof of Kāma’s shrine. Nalinikā, give the tame kalahaṃsas lotus-honey to drink. Kadalikā, take the tame peacocks to the shower-bath. Kamalinikā, give some sap from the lotus-fibres to the young cakravākas. Cūtalatikā, give the caged pigeons their meal of mango-buds. Pallavikā, distribute to the tame haritāla pigeons some topmost leaves of the pepper-tree. Lavaṅgikā, throw some pieces of pippalī leaves into the partridges’ cages. Madhukarikā, make some flowery ornaments. Mayūrikā, dismiss the pairs of kinnaras in the singing-room. Kandalikā, bring up the pairs of partridges to the top of the playing hill. Hariṇikā, give the caged parrots and mainas their lesson.’
(358) ‘“Then he beheld Kādambarī herself in the midst of her pavilion encircled by a bevy of maidens sitting by her, whose glittering gems made them like a cluster of kalpa trees. (359) She was resting on her bent arms, which lay on a white pillow placed on a small couch covered with blue silk; she was fanned by cowrie-bearers, that in the motion of their waving arms were like swimmers in the wide-flowing stream of her beauty, as if it covered the earth, which was only held up by the tusks of Mahāvarāha.
‘“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.’
(366) ‘“And as he thus thought his eye met hers, and she, thinking, ‘This is he of whom Keyūraka spoke,’ let her glance, widened by wonder at his exceeding beauty, dwell long and quietly on him. Confused by the sight of Kādambarī, yet illumined by the brightness of her gaze, he stood for a moment like a rock, while at the sight of him a thrill rose in Kādambarī, her jewels clashed, and she half rose. Then love caused a glow, but the excuse was the effort of hastily rising; trembling hindered her steps — the haṃsas around, drawn by the sound of the anklets, got the blame; the heaving of a sigh stirred her robe — it was thought due to the wind of the cowries; her hand fell on her heart, as if to touch Candrāpīḍa’s image that had entered in — it pretended to cover her bosom; she let fall tears of joy — the excuse was the pollen falling from the flowers in her ear. Shame choked her voice — the swarm of bees hastening to the lotus sweetness of her mouth was the cause; (367) the pain of the first touch of Love’s arrow caused a sigh — the pain of the ketakī thorns amidst the flowers shared the guilt; a tremor shook her hand — keeping off the portress who had come with a message was her pretence; and while love was thus entering into Kādambarī, a second love, as it were, arose, who with her entered the heart of Candrāpīḍa. For he thought the flash of her jewels but a veil, her entrance into his heart a favour, the tinkling of her gems a conversation, her capture of all his senses a grace, and contact with her bright beauty the fulfilment of all his wishes. Meanwhile Kādambarī, advancing with difficulty a few steps, affectionately and with yearning embraced her friend, who also yearned for the sight of her so long delayed; and Mahāçvetā returned her embrace yet more closely, and said, ‘Dear Kādambarī, in the land of Bharata there is a king named Tārāpīḍa, who wards off all grief from his subjects, and who has impressed his seal on the Four Oceans by the edge of the hoofs of his noble steeds; and this his son, named Candrāpīḍa, decked with the orb of earth resting on the support of his own rock-like arms, has, in pursuit of world conquest, approached this land; and he, from the moment I first beheld him, has instinctively become my friend, though there was nought to make him so; and, though my heart was cold from its resignation of all ties, yet he has attracted it by the rare and innate nobility of his character. (368) For it is rare to find a man of keen mind who is at once true of heart, unselfish in friendship, and wholly swayed by courtesy. Wherefore, having beheld him, I brought him hither by force. For I thought thou shouldst behold as I have done a wonder of Brahmā’s workmanship, a peerless owner of beauty, a supplanter of Lakshmī, earth’s joy in a noble lord, the surpassing of gods by mortals, the full fruition of woman’s eyes, the only meeting-place of all graces, the empire of nobility, and the mirror of courtesy for men. And my dear friend has often been spoken of to him by me. Therefore dismiss shame on the ground of his being unseen before, lay aside diffidence as to his being a stranger, cast away suspicion rising from his character being unknown, and behave to him as to me. He is thy friend, thy kinsman, and thy servant.’ At these words of hers Candrāpīḍa bowed low before Kādambarī, and as she glanced sideways at him affectionately there fell from her eyes, with their beautiful pupils turned towards the corner of their long orbs, a flood of joyous tears, as though from weariness. The moonlight of a smile, white as nectar, darted forth, as if it were the dust raised by the heart as it hastily set out; one eyebrow was raised as if to bid the head honour with an answering reverence the guest so dear to the heart; (369) her hand crept to her softly parting lips, and might seem, as the light of an emerald ring flashed between the fingers, to have taken some betel. She bowed diffidently, and then sat down on the couch with Mahāçvetā, and the attendants quickly brought a stool with gold feet and a covering of white silk, and placed it near the couch, and Candrāpīḍa took his seat thereon. To please Mahāçvetā, the portresses, knowing Kādambarī’s wishes, and having by a hand placed on closed lips received an order to stop all sounds, checked on every side the sound of pipe, lute and song, and the Magadha women’s cry of ‘All hail!’ (370) When the servants had quickly brought water, Kādambarī herself washed Mahāçvetā’s feet, and, drying them with her robe, sat on the couch again; and Madalekhā, a friend worthy of Kādambarī, dear as her own life and the home of all her confidence, insisted on washing Candrāpīḍa’s feet, unwilling though he were. Mahāçvetā meanwhile asked Kādambarī how she was, and lovingly touched with her hand the corner of her friend’s eyes, which shone with the reflected light of her earrings; she lifted the flowers in Kādambarī’s ear, all covered with bees, and softly stroked the coils of her hair, roughened by the wind of the cowries. And Kādambarī, ashamed, from love to her friend, of her own well-being, as though feeling that in still dwelling at home she had committed a crime, said with an effort that all was well with her. Then, though filled with grief and intent on gazing at Mahāçvetā’s face, yet her eye, with its pupil dark and quivering as it looked out sideways, was, under the influence of love, with bow fully bent, irresistibly drawn by Candrāpīḍa’s face, and she could not turn it away. At that same moment she felt jealousy of his being pictured on the cheek of her friend standing near — the pain of absence as his reflection faded away on her own breast, pierced by a thrill — the anger of a rival wife as the image of the statues fell on him — the sorrow of despair as he closed his eyes, and blindness as his image was veiled by tears of joy.
(371) ‘“At the end of a moment Mahāçvetā said to Kādambarī as she was intent on giving betel: ‘Dear Kādambarī, the moment has approached for us to show honour to our newly arrived guest, Candrāpīḍa. Therefore give him some.’ But averting her bent face, Kādambarī replied slowly and indistinctly, ‘Dear friend, I am ashamed to do so, for I do not know him. Do thou take it, for thou canst without the forwardness there would be in me, and give it him’; and it was only after many persuasions, that with difficulty, and like a village maiden, she resolved to give it. Her eyes were never drawn from Mahāçvetā’s face, her limbs trembled, her glance wavered, she sighed deeply, she was stunned by Love with his shaft, and she seemed a prey to terror as she stretched forth her hand, holding the betel as if trying to cling to something under the idea she was falling. The hand Candrāpīḍa stretched out, by nature pink, as if red lead had fallen upon it from the flapping of his triumphal elephant, was darkened by the scars of the bowstring, and seemed to have drops of collyrium clinging to it from touching the eyes of his enemies’ Lakshmī, weeping as he drew her by the hair; (372) its fingers by the forth-flashing rays of his nails seemed to run up hastily, to grow long and to laugh, and the hand seemed to raise five other fingers in the five senses that, in desire to touch her, had just made their entry full of love. Then contending feelings took possession of Kādambarī as if they had gathered together in curiosity to see the grace at that moment so easy of access. Her hand, as she did not look whither it was going, was stretched vainly forth, and the rays of its nails seemed to hasten forward to seek Candrāpīḍa’s hand; and with the murmur of the line of bracelets stirred by her trembling, it seemed to say, as drops of moisture arose on it, ‘Let this slave offered by Love be accepted,’ as if she were offering herself, and ‘Henceforth it is in thy hand,’ as if she were making it into a living being, and so she gave the betel. And in drawing back her hand she did not notice the fall of her bracelet, which had slipped down her arm in eagerness to touch him, like her heart pierced by Love’s shaft; and taking another piece of betel, she gave it to Mahāçvetā.
(373) ‘“Then there came up with hasty steps a maina, a very flower, in that her feet were yellow as lotus filaments, her beak was like a campak bud, and her wings blue as a lotus petal. Close behind her came a parrot, slow in gait, emerald-winged, with a beak like coral and neck bearing a curved, three-rayed rainbow. Angrily the maina began: ‘Princess Kādambarī, why dost thou not restrain this wretched, ill-mannered, conceited bird from following me? If thou overlookest my being oppressed by him, I will certainly destroy myself. I swear it truly by thy lotus feet.’ At these words Kādambarī smiled; but Mahāçvetā, not knowing the story, asked Madalekhā what she was saying, and she told the following tale: ‘This maina, Kālindī, is a friend of Princess Kādambarī, and was given by her solemnly in marriage to Parihāsa, the parrot. And to-day, ever since she saw him reciting something at early dawn to Kādambarī’s betel-bearer, Tamālikā, alone, she has been filled with jealousy, and in frowardness of wrath will not go near him, or speak, or touch, or look at him; and though we have all tried to soothe her, she will not be soothed.’ (374) Thereat a smile spread over Candrāpīḍa’s face, and he softly laughed and said, ‘This is the course of gossip. It is heard in the court; by a succession of ears the attendants pass it on; the outside world repeats it; the tale wanders to the ends of the earth, and we too hear how this parrot Parihāsa has fallen in love with Princess Kādambarī’s betel-bearer, and, enslaved by love, knows nothing of the past. Away with this ill-behaved, shameless deserter of his wife, and away with her too! But is it fitting in the Princess not to restrain her giddy slave? Perhaps her cruelty, however, was shown at the first in giving poor Kālindī to this ill-conducted bird. What can she do now? For women feel that a shared wifehood is the bitterest matter for indignation, the chief cause for estrangement, and the greatest possible insult. Kālindī has been only too patient that in the aversion caused by this weight of grief she has not slain herself by poison, fire, or famine. For nothing makes a woman more despised; and if, after such a crime, she is willing to be reconciled and to live with him again, shame on her! enough of her! let her be banished and cast out in scorn! Who will speak to her or look at her again, and who will mention her name?’ A laugh arose among Kādambarī’s women as they heard his mirthful words. (375) But Parihāsa, hearing his jesting speech, said: ‘Cunning Prince, she is clever. Unsteady as she is, she is not to be taken in by thee or anyone else. She knows all these crooked speeches. She understands a jest. Her mind is sharpened by contact with a court. Cease thy jests. She is no subject for the talk of bold men. For, soft of speech as she is, she knows well the time, cause, measure, object, and topic for wrath and for peace.’ Meanwhile, a herald came up and said to Mahāçvetā: ‘Princess, King Citraratha and Queen Madirā send to see thee,’ and she, eager to go, asked Kādambarī, ‘Friend, where should Candrāpīḍa stay?’ The latter, inwardly smiling at the thought that he had already found a place in the heart of thousands of women, said aloud, ‘Dear Mahāçvetā, why speak thus? Since I beheld him I have not been mistress of myself, far less than of my palace and my servants. Let him stay wherever it pleases him and my dear friend’s heart.’ Thereon Mahāçvetā replied, ‘Let him stay in the jewelled house on the playing hill of the royal garden near thy palace,’ and went to see the king.
(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.’
(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 unkindness 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.
‘“Meanwhile, Candrāpīḍa willingly entered the jewelled house, as if it were a second heart of Kādambarī. On the rock was strewn a blanket, with pillows piled on it at either end, and thereon he lay down, with his feet in Keyūraka’s lap, while the maidens sat round him in the places appointed for them. With a heart in turmoil he betook himself to reflection: ‘Are these graces of Princess Kādambarī, that steal all men’s hearts, innate in her, or has Love, with kindness won by no service of mine, ordained them for me? (380) For she gave me a sidelong glance with loving, reddened eyes half curved as if they were covered with the pollen of Love’s flowery darts as they fell on her heart. She modestly veiled herself with a bright smile fair as silk as I looked at her. She offered the mirror of her cheek to receive my image, as in shame at my gaze she averted her face. She sketched on the couch with her nail the first trace of wilfulness of a heart that was giving me entrance. Her hand, moist with the fatigue of bringing me the betel, seemed in its trembling to fan her hot face, as if it were a tamāla branch she had taken, for a swarm of bees hovered round it, mistaking it for a rosy lotus. Perhaps,’ he went on to reflect, ‘the light readiness to hope so common among mortals is now deceiving me with a throng of vain desires; and the glow of youth, devoid of judgment, or Love himself, makes my brain reel; whence the eyes of the young, as though struck by cataract, magnify even a small spot; and a tiny speck of affection is spread far by youthful ardour as by water. An excited heart like a poet’s imagination is bewildered by the throng of fancies that it calls up of itself, and draws likenesses from everything; youthful feelings in the hand of cunning love are as a brush, and shrink from painting nothing; and imagination, proud of her suddenly gained beauty, turns in every direction. (381) Longing shows as in a dream what I have felt. Hope, like a conjuror’s wand, sets before us what can never be. Why, then,’ thought he again, ‘should I thus weary my mind in vain? If this bright-eyed maiden is indeed thus inclined towards me, Love, who is so kind without my asking, will ere long make it plain to me. He will be the decider of this doubt.’ Having at length come to this decision, he rose, then sat down, and merrily joined the damsels in gentle talk and graceful amusements — with dice, song, lute, tabor, concerts of mingled sound, and murmur of tender verse. After resting a short time he went out to see the park, and climbed to the top of the pleasure hill.
‘“Kādambarī saw him, and bade that the window should be opened to watch for Mahāçvetā’s return, saying, ‘She tarries long,’ and, with a heart tossed by Love, mounted to the roof of the palace. There she stayed with a few attendants, protected from the heat by a gold-handled umbrella, white as the full moon, and fanned by the waving of four yaks’ tails pure as foam. She seemed to be practising an adornment fit for going to meet Candrāpīḍa, by means of the bees which hovered round her head, eager for the scent of the flowers, which veiled her even by day in darkness. Now she leaned on the point of the cowrie, now on the stick of the umbrella; now she laid her hands on Tamālikā’s shoulder, (382), now she clung to Madalekhā; now she hid herself amidst her maidens, looking with sidelong glance; now she turned herself round; now she laid her cheek on the tip of the portress’s staff; now with a steady hand she placed betel on her fresh lips; now she laughingly ran a few steps in pursuit of her maidens scattered by the blows of the lotuses she threw at them. And in looking at the prince, and being gazed at by him, she knew not how long a time had passed. At last a portress announced Mahāçvetā’s return, and she went down, and albeit unwilling, yet to please Mahāçvetā she bathed and performed the wonted duties of the day.
‘“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, turning his eyes in the direction of the light, he beheld Kādambarī, and with her Madalekhā and Taralikā bearing a pearl necklace on a tray covered with white silk. (384) Thereupon Candrāpīḍa decided that it was this necklace that eclipsed moonlight, and was the cause of the brightness, and by rising while she was yet far off, and by all wonted courtesies, he greeted the approach of Madalekhā. For a moment she rested on that emerald seat, and then, rising, anointed him with sandal perfume, put on him two white robes, (385) crowned him with mālatī flowers, and then gave him the necklace, saying, ‘This thy gentleness, my Prince, so devoid of pride, must needs subjugate every heart. Thy kindness gives an opening even to one like me; by thy form thou art lord of life to all; by that tenderness shown even where there is no claim on thee, thou throwest on all a bond of love; the innate sweetness of thy bearing makes every man thy friend; these thy virtues, manifested with such natural gentleness, give confidence to all. Thy form must take the blame, for it inspires trust even at first sight; else words addressed to one of such dignity as thou would seem all unmeet. For to speak with thee would be an insult; our very respect would bring on us the charge of forwardness; our very praise would display our boldness; our subservience would manifest lightness, our love self-deception, our speech to thee audacity, our service impertinence, our gift an insult. Nay, more, thou hast conquered our hearts; what is left for us to give thee? Thou art lord of our life; what can we offer thee? Thou hast already bestowed the great favour of thy presence; what return could we make? Thou by thy sight hast made our life worth having; how can we reward thy coming? (386) Therefore Kādambarī with this excuse shows her affection rather than her dignity. Noble hearts admit no question of mine and thine. Away with the thought of dignity. Even if she accepted slavery to one like thee, she would do no unworthy act; even if she gave herself to thee, she would not be deceived; if she gave her life, she would not repent. The generosity of a noble heart is always bent on kindness, and does not willingly reject affection, and askers are less shamefaced than givers. But it is true that Kādambarī knows she has offended thee in this matter. Now, this necklace, called Çesha, because it was the only jewel left of all that rose at the churning of nectar, was for that reason greatly valued by the Lord of Ocean, and was given by him to Varuṇa on his return home. By the latter it was given to the Gandharva king, and by him to Kādambarī. And she, thinking thy form worthy of this ornament, in that not the earth, but the sky, is the home of the moon, hath sent it to thee. And though men like thee, who bear no ornament but a noble spirit, find it irksome to wear the gems honoured by meaner men, yet here Kādambarī’s affection is a reason for thee to do so. (387) Did not Vishṇu show his reverence by wearing on his breast the kaustubha gem, because it rose with Lakshmī; and yet he was not greater than thee, nor did the kaustubha gem in the least surpass the Çesha in worth; nor, indeed, does Lakshmī approach in the slightest degree to imitating Kādambarī’s beauty. And in truth, if her love is crushed by thee, she will grieve Mahāçvetā with a thousand reproaches, and will slay herself. Mahāçvetā therefore sends Taralikā with the necklace to thee, and bids me say thus: “Let not Kādambarī’s first impulse of love be crushed by thee, even in thought, most noble prince.”’ Thus having said, she fastened on his breast the necklace that rested like a bevy of stars on the slope of the golden mountain. Filled with amazement, Candrāpīḍa replied: ‘What means this, Madalekhā? Thou art clever, and knowest how to win acceptance for thy gifts. By leaving me no chance of a reply, thou hast shown skill in oratory. Nay, foolish maiden, what are we in respect of thee, or of acceptance and refusal; truly this talk is nought. Having received kindness from ladies so rich in courtesy, let me be employed in any matter, whether pleasing or displeasing to me. But truly there lives not the man whom the virtues of the most courteous lady Kādambarī do not discourteously enslave.’ (388) Thus saying, after some talk about Kādambarī, he dismissed Madalekhā, and ere she had long gone the daughter of Citraratha dismissed her attendants, rejected the insignia of wand, umbrella, and cowrie, and accompanied only by Tamālikā, again mounted to the roof of her palace to behold Candrāpīḍa, bright with pearls, silk raiment and sandal, go to the pleasure hill, like the moon to the mount of rising. There, with passionate glances imbued with every grace, she stole his heart. (390) And when it became too dark to see, she descended from the roof, and Candrāpīḍa, from the slope of the hill.
‘“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.
‘“And when the moon, the umbrella of the supreme rule of Kāma, the lord of the lotuses, the ivory earring that decks the night, had risen, and when the world was turned to whiteness, as though overlaid with ivory, Candrāpīḍa lay down on a cool moonlit slab, pearl white, pointed out by Kādambarī’s servants. It was washed with fresh sandal, garlanded with pure sinduvāra flowers, and carved round with a leafy tracery of lotus petals. It lay on the shore of a palace lotus tank, that seemed from the full moonlight to be made of night-lotuses, with steps white with bricks washed by the waves, as it wafted a breeze fanned by the ripples; (391) pairs of haṃsas lay there asleep, and pairs of cakravākas kept up their dirge of separation thereon. And while the Prince yet rested there Keyūraka approached him, and told him that Princess Kādambarī had come to see him. Then Candrāpīḍa rose hastily, and beheld Kādambarī drawing near. Few of her friends were with her; all her royal insignia were removed; she was as it were a new self, in the single necklace she wore; her slender form was white with the purest sandal-juice; an earring hung from one ear; she wore a lotus-petal in the ear, soft as a budding digit of the moon; she was clad in robes of the kalpa-tree, clear as moonlight; and in the garb that consorted with that hour she stood revealed like the very goddess of moonrise, as she rested on the hand offered by Madalekhā. Drawing near, she showed a grace prompted by love, and took her seat on the ground, where servants are wont to sit, like a maiden of low degree; and Candrāpīḍa, too, though often entreated by Madalekhā to sit on the rocky seat, took his place on the ground by Madalekhā; and when all the women were seated he made an effort to speak, saying, ‘Princess, to one who is thy slave, and whom even a glance gladdens, there needs not the favour of speech with thee, far less so great a grace as this. (392) For, deeply as I think, I cannot see in myself any worth that this height of favour may befit. Most noble and sweet in its laying aside of pride is this thy courtesy, in that such grace is shown to one but newly thy servant. Perchance thou thinkest me a churl that must be won by gifts. Blessed, truly, is the servant over whom is thy sway! How great honour is bestowed on the servants deemed worthy of the bestowal of thy commands. But the body is a gift at the service of any man, and life is light as grass, so that I am ashamed in my devotion to greet thy coming with such a gift. Here am I, here my body, my life, my senses! Do thou, by accepting one of them, raise it to honour.’
‘“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.
‘“Then the moon, lord of stars, weary of being kept awake by the sight of Kādambarī, descended, as if to sleep, to the forest on the shore, with its palms and tamālas, tālis, banyans, and kandalas, cool with the breeze from the hardly stirred ripples. As though with the feverish sighs of a woman grieving for her lover’s approaching absence, the moonlight faded away. Lakshmī, having passed the night on the moon lotuses, lay on the sun lotuses, as though love had sprung up in her at the sight of Candrāpīḍa. At the close of night, when the palace lamps grew pale, as if dwindling in longing as they remembered the blows of the lotuses in maidens’ ears, the breezes of dawn, fragrant with creeper-flowers, were wafted, sportive with the sighs of Love weary from ceaselessly discharging his shafts; the stars were eclipsed by the rising dawn, and took their abode, as through fear, in the thick creeper bowers of Mount Mandara. (394) Then when the sun arose, with its orb crimson as if a glow remained from dwelling in the hearts of the cakravākas, Candrāpīḍa, rising from the rock, bathed his lotus face, said his morning prayer, took his betel, and then bade Keyūraka see whether Princess Kādambarī was awake or no, and where she was; and when it was announced to him by the latter on his return that she was with Mahāçvetā in the bower of the courtyard below the Mandara palace, he started to see the daughter of the Gandharva king. There he beheld Mahāçvetā surrounded by wandering ascetic women like visible goddesses of prayer, with marks of white ash on their brow, and hands quickly moving as they turned their rosaries; bearing the vow of Çiva’s followers, clad in robes tawny with mineral dyes, bound to wear red cloth, robed in the ruddy bark of ripe cocoanuts, or girdled with thick white cloth; with fans of white cloth; with staves, matted locks, deer-skins, and bark dresses; with the marks of male ascetics; reciting the pure praises of Çiva, Durgā, Kārtikeya, Viçravasa, Kṛishṇa, Avalokiteçvara, the Arhat, Viriñca. Mahāçvetā herself was showing honour to the elder kinswomen of the king, the foremost of the zenana, by salutes, courteous speeches, by rising to meet them and placing reed seats for them.
(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.
‘“‘This, indeed, is the reward of doing homage at Mahāçvetā’s feet, that the lady Kādambarī should lay so great a weight of honour on her slave as to remember him,” said Candrāpīḍa, as he placed all on his head and accepted it. The necklace he put round his neck, after anointing it with an ointment cool, pleasant, and fragrant, as it were with the beauty of Kādambarī’s cheeks distilled, or the light of her smile liquefied, or her heart melted, or her virtues throbbing forth. (400) Taking some betel, he rose and stood, with his left arm on Keyūraka’s shoulder, and then dismissed the courtiers, who were gladly paying their wonted homage, and at length went to see his elephant Gandhamādana. There he stayed a short time, and after he had himself given to the elephant a handful of grass, that, being jagged with the rays of his nails, was like lotus-fibre, he went to the stable of his favourite steed. On the way he turned his face now on this side, now on that, to glance at his retinue, and the porters, understanding his wish, forbade all to follow him, and dismissed the retinue, so that he entered the stable with Keyūraka alone. The grooms bowed and departed, with eyes bewildered by terror at their dismissal, and the prince set straight Indrāyudha’s cloth, which had fallen a little on one side, pushed back his mane, tawny as a lion’s, which was falling on his eyes and half closing them, and then, negligently resting his foot on the peg of the tethering-rope, and leaning against the stable wall, he eagerly asked:
‘“‘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.’
‘“At these words, Candrāpīḍa, all eager to depart, shouted: ‘A horse! a horse!’ and left the palace. Indrāyudha was hastily saddled, and brought round by the grooms, and Candrāpīḍa mounted, placing Patralekhā behind him, leaving Vaiçampāyana in charge of the camp, dismissing all his retinue, and followed by Keyūraka on another steed, he went to Hemakūṭa. (403) On his arrival, he dismounted at the gate of Kādambarī’s palace, giving his horse to the doorkeeper, and, followed by Patralekhā, eager for the first sight of Kādambarī, he entered, and asked a eunuch who came forward where the lady Kādambarī was. Bending low, the latter informed him, that she was in the ice-bower on the bank of the lotus-tank below the Mattamayūra pleasaunce; and then the prince, guided by Keyūraka, went some distance through the women’s garden, and beheld day grow green, and the sunbeams turn into grass by the reflection of the plantain-groves with their emerald glow, and there he beheld Kādambarī. (410) Then she looked with tremulous glance at her retinue, as, coming in one after another, they announced Candrāpīḍa’s approach, and asked each by name: ‘Tell me, has he really come, and hast thou seen him? How far off is he?’ She gazed with eyes gradually brightening as she saw him yet afar off, and rose from her couch of flowers, standing like a newly-caught elephant bound to her post, and trembling in every limb. She was veiled in bees drawn as vassals by the fragrance of her flowery couch, all murmuring; her upper garment was in confusion, and she sought to place on her bosom the shining necklace; (411) she seemed to beg the support of a hand from her own shadow as she laid her left hand on the jewelled pavement; she seemed to receive herself as a gift by sprinkling with her right hand moist with the toil of binding together her falling locks; she poured forth tears of joy cool as though the sandal-juice of her sectarial mark had entered in and been united with them; she washed with a line of glad tears her smooth cheeks, that the pollen from her garland had tinged with gray, as if in eagerness that the image of her beloved might fall thereon; she seemed to be drawn forward by her long eyes fastened on Candrāpīḍa’s face, with its pupil fixed in a sidelong glance, and her head somewhat bent, as if from the weight of the sandal-mark on her brow.
‘“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.
‘“Now, Candrāpīḍa, having quickly performed all the courtesies of arrival, beheld the state of Citraratha’s daughter, and thought: ‘Surely my heart is dull, in that it cannot even now believe. Be it so. I will, nevertheless, ask her with a skilfully-devised speech.’ Then he said aloud: ‘Princess, I know that this pain, with its unceasing torment, has come on thee from love. Yet, slender maiden, it torments thee not as us. I would gladly, by the offering of myself, restore thee to health. For I pity thee as thou tremblest; and as I see thee fallen under the pain of love, my heart, too, falls prostrate. For thine arms are slender and unadorned, and thou bearest in thine eye a red lotus like a hybiscus from the deep wasting of fever. And all thy retinue weep ceaselessly for thy pain. Accept thine ornaments. Take of thine own accord thy richest adornments; for as the creeper shines hidden in bees and flowers, so shouldst thou.’
‘“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.
‘“At the moment of his arrival he beheld a letter-carrier well known to him, that had come from his father’s presence, and, stopping his horse, he asked from afar, with eyes widened by affection: ‘Is my father well, and all his retinue? and my mother and all the zenana?’ Then the man, approaching with a reverence, saying, ‘As thou sayest, prince,’ gave him two letters. Then the prince, placing them on his head, and himself opening them in order, read as follows: ‘Hail from Ujjayinī. King Tārāpīḍa, king of kings, whose lotus-feet are made the crest on the head of all kings, greets Candrāpīḍa, the home of all good fortune, kissing him on his head, which kisses the circle of the flashing rays of his crest jewels. Our subjects are well. Why has so long a time passed since we have seen thee? Our heart longs eagerly for thee. The queen and the zenana pine for thee. Therefore, let the cutting short of this letter be a cause of thy setting out.’ And in the second letter, sent by Çukanāsa, he read words of like import. Vaiçampāyana, too, at that moment came up, and showed another pair of letters of his own to the same effect. (415) So with the words, ‘As my father commands,’ he at once mounted his horse, and caused the drum of departure to be sounded. He instructed Meghanāda, son of Balāhaka, the commander-in-chief, who stood near him surrounded by a large troop: ‘Thou must come with Patralekhā. Keyūraka will surely bring her as far as here, and by his lips a message must be sent with a salutation to Princess Kādambarī. Truly the nature of mortals deserves the blame of the three worlds, for it is discourteous, unfriendly, and hard to grasp, in that, when the loves of men suddenly clash, they do not set its full value on spontaneous tenderness. Thus, by my going, my love has become a cheating counterfeit; my faith has gained skill in false tones; my self-devotion has sunk into base deceit, having only a pretended sweetness; and the variance of voice and thought has been laid bare. But enough of myself. The princess, though a mate for the gods, has, by showing her favour to an unworthy object, incurred reproach. For the ambrosially kind glances of the great, when they fall in vain on unfitting objects, cause shame afterwards. And yet my heart is not so much weighed down by shame for her as for Mahāçvetā. For the princess will doubtless often blame her for her ill-placed partiality in having painted my virtues with a false imputation of qualities I did not possess. What, then, shall I do? My parents’ command is the weightier. Yet it controls my body alone. (416) But my heart, in its yearning to dwell at Hemakūṭa, has written a bond of slavery for a thousand births to Princess Kādambarī, and her favour holds it fast as the dense thicket holds a forester. Nevertheless, I go at my father’s command. Truly from this cause the infamous Candrāpīḍa will be a byword to the people. Yet, think not that Candrāpīḍa, if he lives, will rest without again tasting the joy of worshipping the lotus-feet of the princess. Salute with bent head and sunwise turn the feet of Mahāçvetā. Tell Madalekhā that a hearty embrace, preceded by an obeisance, is offered her; salute Tamālikā, and inquire on my behalf after all Kādambarī’s retinue. Let blessed Hemakūṭa be honoured by me with upraised hands.’ After giving this message, he set Vaiçampāyana over the camp, instructing his friend to march slowly, without overtasking the army. Then he mounted, accompanied by his cavalry, mostly mounted on young horses, wearing the grace of a forest of spears, breaking up the earth with their hoofs, and shaking Kailāsa with their joyful neighing as they set out; and though his heart was empty, in the fresh separation from Kādambarī, he asked the letter-carrier who clung to his saddle concerning the way to Ujjayinī.
(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.
(426) ‘“Dismounting, he entered, and bent reverently before the goddess, and, bowing again after a sunwise turn, he wandered about, interested in the calm of the place, and beheld on one side the wrathful hermit, howling and shouting at him; and at the sight, tossed as he was by passionate longing in his absence from Kādambarī, he could not forbear smiling a moment; but he checked his soldiers, who were laughing and beginning a quarrel with the hermit; and at length, with great difficulty, he calmed him with many a soothing and courteous speech, and asked him about his birthplace, caste, knowledge, wife and children, wealth, age, and the cause of his ascetic vow. On being asked, the latter described himself, and the prince was greatly interested by him as he garrulously described his past heroism, beauty, and wealth, and thus diverted his mind in its soreness of bereavement; and, having become friendly with him, he caused betel to be offered to him. (427) When the sun set, the princes encamped under the trees that chanced to be near; the golden saddles of the steeds were hung on boughs; the steeds showed the exertions they had gone through, from the tossing of their manes dusty with rolling on the earth, and after they had taken some handfuls of grass and been watered, and were refreshed, they were tethered, with the spears dug into the ground before them; the soldiery, wearied with the day’s march, appointed a watch, and gladly went to sleep on heaps of leaves near the horses; the encampment was bright as day, for the darkness was drunk up by the light of many a bivouac fire, and Candrāpīḍa went to a couch prepared for him by his retinue, and pointed out to him by his porters, in front of the place where Indrāyudha was tethered. But the very moment he lay down restlessness seized his heart, and, overcome by pain, he dismissed the princes, and said nothing even to the special favourites who stood behind him. With closed eyes he again and again went in heart to the Kimpurusha land. With fixed thought he recalled Hemakūṭa. He thought on the spontaneous kindness of Mahāçvetā’s favours. He constantly longed for the sight of Kādambarī as his life’s highest fruit. He continually desired the converse of Madalekhā, so charming in its absence of pride. He wished to see Tamālikā. He looked forward to Keyūraka’s coming. He beheld in fancy the winter palace. He often sighed a long, feverish sigh. He bestowed on the Çesha necklace a kindness beyond that for his kin. (428) He thought he saw fortunate Patralekhā standing behind him. Thus he passed the night without sleep; and, rising at dawn, he fulfilled the hermit’s wish by wealth poured out at his desire, and, sojourning at pleasant spots on the way, in a few days he reached Ujjayinī. A thousand hands, like lotuses of offering to a guest raised in reverent salutation, were raised by the citizens in their confusion and joy at his sudden coming, as he then unexpectedly entered the city. The king heard from the retinue hastening to be first to tell him that Candrāpīḍa was at the gate, and bewildered by sudden gladness, with steps slow from the weight of joy, he went to meet his son. Like Mandara, he drew to himself as a Milky Ocean his spotless silk mantle that was slipping down; like the kalpa-tree, with its shower of choice pearls, he rained tears of gladness; he was followed by a thousand chiefs that were round him — chiefs with topknots white with age, anointed with sandal, wearing untorn linen robes, bracelets, turbans, crests and wreaths, bearing swords, staves, umbrellas and cowries, making the earth appear rich in Kailāsas and Milky Oceans. The prince, seeing his father from afar, dismounted, and touched the ground with a head garlanded by the rays of his crest-jewels. Then his father stretched out his arms, bidding him approach, and embraced him closely; and when he had paid his respects to all the honourable persons who were there, he was led by the king to Vilāsavatī’s palace. (429) His coming was greeted by her and her retinue, and when he had performed all the auspicious ceremonies of arrival, he stayed some time in talk about his expedition of conquest, and then went to see Çukanāsa. Having duly stayed there some time, he told him that Vaiçampāyana was at the camp and well, and saw Manoramā; and then returning, he mechanically performed the ceremonies of bathing, and so forth, in Vilāsavatī’s palace. On the morrow he went to his own palace, and there, with a mind tossed by anxiety, he deemed that not only himself, but his palace and the city, and, indeed, the whole world, was but a void without Kādambarī, and so, in his longing to hear news of her, he awaited the return of Patralekhā, as though it were a festival, or the winning of a boon, or the time of the rising of amṛita.
‘“A few days later Meghanāda came with Patralekhā, and led her in; and as she made obeisance from afar, Candrāpīḍa smiled affectionately, and, rising reverently, embraced her; for though she was naturally dear to him, she was now yet dearer as having won a fresh splendour from Kādambarī’s presence. He laid his slender hand on Meghanāda’s back as he bent before him, and then, sitting down, he said: ‘Tell me, Patralekhā, is all well with Mahāçvetā and Madalekhā, and the lady Kādambarī? (430) And are all her retinue well, with Tamālikā and Keyūraka?’ ‘Prince,’ she replied, ‘all is well, as thou sayest. The lady Kādambarī, with her friends and retinue, do thee homage by making their raised hands into a wreath for their brows.’ At these words the prince dismissed his royal retinue, and went with Patralekhā into the palace. Then, with a tortured heart, no longer able from its intense love to overcome his eagerness to hear, he sent his retinue far away and entered the house. With his lotus-feet he pushed away the pair of haṃsas that were sleeping happily on the slope beneath a leafy bower that made an emerald banner; and, resting in the midst of a fresh bed of hybiscus, that made a sunshade with its broad, long-stalked leaves, he sat down, and asked: ‘Tell me, Patralekhā, how thou hast fared. How many days wert thou there? What favour did the princess show thee? What talk was there, and what conversation arose? Who most remembers us, and whose affection is greatest?’ Thus questioned, she told him: ‘Give thy mind and hear all. When thou wert gone, I returned with Keyūraka, and sat down near the couch of flowers; and there I gladly remained, receiving ever fresh marks of kindness from the princess. What need of words? (431) The whole of that day her eye, her form, her hand, were on mine; her speech dwelt on my name and her heart on my love. On the morrow, leaning on me, she left the winter palace, and, wandering at will, bade her retinue remain behind, and entered the maidens’ garden. By a flight of emerald steps, that might have been formed from Jamunā’s waves, she ascended to a white summer-house, and in it she stayed some time, leaning against a jewelled pillar, deliberating with her heart, wishing to say something, and gazing on my face with fixed pupil and motionless eyelashes. As she looked she formed her resolve, and, as if longing to enter love’s fire, she was bathed in perspiration; whereat a trembling came upon her, so that, shaking in every limb as though fearing to fall, she was seized by despair.
‘“‘But when I, who knew her thoughts, fixed my mind on her, and, fastening my eyes on her face, bade her speak, she seemed to be restrained by her own trembling limbs; with a toe that marked the floor as if for retreat, she seemed to rub out her own image in shame that it should hear her secret; (432) with her lotus foot — its anklets all set jingling by the scratching of the floor — she pushed aside the tame geese; with a strip of silk made into a fan for her hot face, she drove away the bees on her ear-lotuses; to the peacock she gave, like a bribe, a piece of betel broken by her teeth; and gazing often on every side lest a wood-goddess should listen, much as she longed to speak, she was checked in her utterance by shame, and could not speak a word. Her voice, in spite of her greatest efforts, was wholly burnt up by love’s fire, borne away by a ceaseless flow of tears, overwhelmed by onrushing griefs, broken by love’s falling shafts, banished by invading sighs, restrained by the hundred cares that dwelt in her heart, and drunk by the bees that tasted her breath, so that it could not come forth. In brief, she made a pearl rosary to count her many griefs with the bright tears that fell without touching her cheeks, as with bent head she made the very image of a storm. Then from her shame learnt its full grace; modesty, a transcendant modesty; simplicity, simplicity; courtesy, courtesy; (433) fear, timidity; coquetry, its quintessence; despair, its own nature; and charm, a further charm. And so, when I asked her, “Princess, what means this?” she wiped her reddened eyes, and, holding a garland woven by the flowers of the bower with arms which, soft as lotus-fibres, seemed meant to hold her firmly in the excess of her grief, she raised one eyebrow, as if gazing on the path of death, and sighed a long, fevered sigh. And as, in desire to know the cause of her sorrow, I pressed her to tell me, she seemed to write on the ketakī petals scratched by her nails in her shame, and so deliver her message. She moved her lower lip in eagerness to speak, and seemed to be whispering to the bees who drank her breath, and thus she remained some time with eyes fixed on the ground.
‘“‘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.
‘“‘Not knowing the truth of her tale, I sorrowfully, as if ashamed, afraid, bewildered, and bereft of sense, adjured her, saying: “Princess, I long to hear. Tell me what Prince Candrāpīḍa has done. What offence has been committed? By what discourtesy has he vexed that lotus-soft heart of thine, that none should vex? When I have heard this, thou shalt die on my lifeless body.” Thus urged, she again began: “I will tell thee; listen carefully. In my dreams that cunning villain comes daily and employs in secret messages a caged parrot and a starling. In my dreams he, bewildered in mind with vain desires, writes in my earrings to appoint meetings. He sends love-letters with their syllables washed away, filled with mad hopes, most sweet, and showing his own state by the lines of tears stained with pigment falling on them. By the glow of his feelings he dyes my feet against my will. In his reckless insolence he prides himself on his own reflection in my nails. (436) In his unwarranted boldness he embraces me against my will in the gardens when I am alone, and almost dead from fear of being caught, as the clinging of my silken skirts to the branches hinders my steps, and my friends the creepers seize and deliver me to him. Naturally crooked, he teaches the very essence of crookedness to a heart by nature simple by the blazonry he paints on my breast. Full of guileful flattery, he fans with his cool breath my cheeks all wet and shining as with a breeze from the waves of my heart’s longing. He boldly places the rays of his nails like young barley-sheaves on my ear, though his hand is empty, because its lotus has fallen from his grasp relaxed in weariness. He audaciously draws me by the hair to quaff the sweet wine of his breath, inhaled by him when he watered his favourite bakul-flowers. Mocked by his own folly, he demands on his head the touch of my foot, destined for the palace açoka-tree. In his utter love madness, he says: ‘Tell me, Patralekhā, how a madman can be rejected?’ For he considers refusal a sign of jealousy; he deems abuse a gentle jest; he looks on silence as pettishness; he regards the mention of his faults as a device for thinking of him; he views contempt as the familiarity of love; he esteems the blame of mankind as renown.”
‘“‘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.”
‘“‘Then again I answered; “Enough, princess! Why this needless talk of death as a necessary condition? Surely, fair maiden, though thou hast not sought to please him, Love has in kindness given thee this boon. Why tell thy parents? Love himself, like a parent, plans for thee; (439) like a mother, he approves thee; like a father, he bestows thee; like a girl friend, he kindles thine affection; like a nurse, he teaches thy tender age the secrets of love. Why should I tell thee of those who have themselves chosen their lords? For were it not so, the ordinance of the svayaṃvara in our law-books would be meaningless. Be at rest, then, princess. Enough of this talk of death. I conjure thee by touching thy lotus-foot to send me. I am ready to go. I will bring back to thee, princess, thy heart’s beloved.”
‘“‘When I had said this, she seemed to drink me in with a tender glance; she was confused by an ardour of affection which, though restrained, found a path, and burst through the reserve that Love’s shafts had pierced. In her pleasure at my words, she cast off the silken outer robe which clung to her through her weariness, and left it suspended on her thrilling limbs. She loosened the moonbeam necklace on her neck, put there as a noose to hang herself, and entangled in the fish ornaments of her swinging earring. Yet, though her whole soul was in a fever of joy, she supported herself by the modesty which is a maiden’s natural dower, and said: “I know thy great love. But how could a woman, tender of nature as a young çirīsha-blossom, show such boldness, especially one so young as I? (440) Bold, indeed, are they who themselves send messages, or themselves deliver a message. I, a young maiden, am ashamed to send a bold message. What, indeed, could I say? ‘Thou art very dear,’ is superfluous. ‘Am I dear to thee?’ is a senseless question. ‘My love for thee is great,’ is the speech of the shameless. ‘Without thee I cannot live,’ is contrary to experience. ‘Love conquers me,’ is a reproach of my own fault. ‘I am given to thee by Love,’ is a bold offering of one’s self. ‘Thou art my captive,’ is the daring speech of immodesty. ‘Thou must needs come,’ is the pride of fortune. ‘I will come myself,’ is a woman’s weakness. ‘I am wholly devoted to thee,’ is the lightness of obtruded affection. ‘I send no message from fear of a rebuff,’ is to wake the sleeper. ‘Let me be a warning of the sorrow of a service that is despised,’ is an excess of tenderness. ‘Thou shalt know my love by my death,’ is a thought that may not enter the mind.”’”’
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.