The Kādambarī of Bāṇa

‘“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,[290 - The cakora, or Greek partridge, was said to have its eyes turned red in the presence of poison.] 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,[291 - Madirā, intoxicating, bewitching; so called because her eyes were madirāḥ.] 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,[292 - Daksha cursed the moon with consumption at the appeal of his forty-nine daughters, the moon’s wives, who complained of his special favour to the fiftieth sister.] 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[293 - Lit., ‘without cause.’] 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[294 - Lit., ‘going by machinery.’] 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.[295 - Trees of paradise.] (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[296 - A pun on pīḍā, 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[297 - A pun on pīḍā, a chaplet.] 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[298 - Read īrshyāṃ, vyathāṃ, and roshaṃ, as the Calcutta edition.] 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[299 - ‘All the rasas,’ the ten emotions of love, fear, etc., enumerated by writers on rhetoric.] 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,’[300 - Because water was poured out to ratify a gift.] 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[301 - Bhāshitā, literally, ‘addressed by’; or read, bhāvitā, ‘entering into the spirit of.’] 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[302 - Read nirdākshiṇyayā.] 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,[303 - A bundle of peacock feathers waved by the conjuror to bewilder the audience.] 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[304 - The dark blue of the bees was like the blue veil worn by women going to meet their lovers.] 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?’

[305 - This passage is condensed.]‘“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[306 - Read musho.] 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,[307 - I.e., ‘relic,’ or ‘remaining.’] 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[308 - Read Mahāçvetāṃ.] 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[309 - Cf. ‘Harsha Carita’ (Bombay edition, p. 272), ‘Parameçvarottamāngapātadurlalitāngām’.] 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,[310 - Read Kumudamayyā.] 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,[311 - A tree of paradise.] 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,[312 - Tālī, a kind of palm; Kandala, a plantain.] cool with the breeze from the hardly stirred[313 - Or, reading avirala, thick coming.] 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.[314 - The Vishṇu Purāṇa, Bk. ii., ch. ii., calls Mandara the Mountain of the East; Gandhamādana, of the South; Vipula, of the West; and Supārçva, of the North.] (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,[315 - Father of Kuvera.] Kṛishṇa, Avalokiteçvara, the Arhat, Viriñca.[316 - Brahmā.] 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[317 - A phrase denoting readiness to obey. V. supra, p. 15.] 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[318 - Pouring water into the hand was the confirmation of a gift. V. supra, p. 150.] 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.’[319 - Transpose iti.] 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[320 - Hybiscus mutabilis changes colour thrice a day.] 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,[321 - Or, at a wrong time.] 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,[322 - Remove the stop after asyāḥ and Candrāpīḍaḥ, and place one after gantum.] and her favour holds it fast[323 - ‘It is not allowed by her favour to move.’] 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[324 - Read suhṛidāpi gantavyam, ‘his friend must go.’] 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[325 - Or, sampanna, ‘full-grown, having fruit and flowers,’ according to the commentary.] 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[326 - Read khinne.] 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.[327 - Read prasādānām.] 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[328 - Read °janāt, etc.] 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[329 - V. supra, p. 12, where the robes of the chiefs are torn by their ornaments in their hasty movements.] 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[330 - Paravaça iva, or, ‘with mind enslaved to other thoughts.’] 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?’[331 - Read garīgasī.] 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[332 - The Jamunā is a common comparison for blue or green.] 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.[333 - Placing a stop after gaditum instead of after niḥçesham.] 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.[334 - An allusion to the idea that the açoka would bud when touched by the foot of a beautiful woman.] 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.