Chapter IX: Part 9

(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 Kadambari, 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] 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] 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 Candrapida went to a couch prepared for him by his retinue, and pointed out to him by his porters, in front of the place where Indrayudha 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 Hemakuta. He thought on the spontaneous kindness of Mahaçveta's favours. [327] He constantly longed for the sight of Kadambari as his life's highest fruit. He continually desired the converse of Madalekha, so charming in its absence of pride. He wished to see Tamalika. He looked forward to Keyuraka'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 Patralekha 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 Ujjayini. 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] hastening to be first to tell him that Candrapida 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] linen robes, bracelets, turbans, crests and wreaths, bearing swords, staves, umbrellas and cowries, making the earth appear rich in Kailasas 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 Vilasavati'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 Çukanasa. Having duly stayed there some time, he told him that Vaiçampayana was at the camp and well, and saw Manorama; and then returning, he mechanically [330] performed the ceremonies of bathing, and so forth, in Vilasavati'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 Kadambari, and so, in his longing to hear news of her, he awaited the return of Patralekha, as though it were a festival, or the winning of a boon, or the time of the rising of amrita.

'"A few days later Meghanada came with Patralekha, and led her in; and as she made obeisance from afar, Candrapida 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 Kadambari's presence. He laid his slender hand on Meghanada's back as he bent before him, and then, sitting down, he said: 'Tell me, Patralekha, is all well with Mahaçveta and Madalekha, and the lady Kadambari? (430) And are all her retinue well, with Tamalika and Keyuraka?' 'Prince,' she replied, 'all is well, as thou sayest. The lady Kadambari, 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 Patralekha 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 hamsas 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, Patralekha, 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] Thus questioned, she told him: 'Give thy mind and hear all. When thou wert gone, I returned with Keyuraka, 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 Jamuna's [332] 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] 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 ketaki 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. "Patralekha," she said to me, "by reason of my great favour for thee, neither father, mother, Mahaçveta, Madalekha, 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 Candrapida. 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 Candrapida 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] In his utter love madness, he says: 'Tell me, Patralekha, 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 Candrapida. If this indeed be true, he shows in visible form, under the guise of Kadambari, 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 Kama. These truly are the sports of Love, the god of the Flowery Bow, not of a wanton Candrapida."

'"'As I said this, she eagerly asked me: "As for this Kama, 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, Patralekha, 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? [335] 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 svayamvara in our law-books [336] 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. [337] 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 çirisha-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, [338] 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. [339] '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, Uma 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 Narayana, creator of all, by whom the man-lion form was manifested happily, showing a face terrible with its tossing mane, and displaying in his hand quoit, sword, club and conch.

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

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

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

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

Reeling under the strong sweetness of Kadambari [340] as one intoxicated, I am bereft of sense, in that I fear not to compose an ending in my own speech devoid of sweetness and colour.

(444) The seeds that promise fruit and are destined to flower are forced by the sower with fitting toils; scattered in good ground, they grow to ripeness; but it is the sower's son who gathers them. [341]

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

'(450) Thereupon I [342] reflected, "Truly the beloved, as shaped in the imagination, is a great support to women separated from their loves, especially to maidens of noble birth." (451) And I promised Kadambari that I would bring thee, O Prince. (452) Then she, roused by my speech full of thy name, as by a charm to remove poison, suddenly opened her eyes, and said, "I say not that thy going pleases me, Patralekha. (453) It is only when I see thee that I can endure my life; yet if this desire possess thee, do what thou wilt!" So saying, she dismissed me with many presents.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'"What shall I say?" replied Keyuraka; "I have no message from any of these. For when I had entrusted Patralekha to Meghanada, and returned, and had told of thy going to Ujjayini, Mahaçveta looked upwards, sighed a long, hot sigh, and saying sadly, 'It is so then,' returned to her own hermitage to her penance. Kadambari, as though bereft of consciousness, ignorant of Mahaçveta's departure, only opened her eyes after a long time, scornfully bidding me tell Mahaçveta; and asking Madalekha (465) if anyone ever had done, or would do, such a deed as Candrapida, she dismissed her attendants, threw herself on her couch, veiled her head, and spent the day without speaking even to Madalekha, who wholly shared her grief. When early next morning I went to her, she gazed at me long with tearful eyes, as if blaming me. And I, when thus looked at by my sorrowing mistress, deemed myself ordered to go, and so, without telling the princess, I have approached my lord's feet. Therefore vouchsafe to hear attentively the bidding of Keyuraka, whose heart is anxious to save the life of one whose sole refuge is in thee. For, as by thy first coming that virgin [343] forest was stirred as by the fragrant Malaya wind, so when she beheld thee, the joy of the whole world, like the spring, love entered her as though she were a red açoka creeper. (466) But now she endures great torture for thy sake." (466-470) Then Keyuraka told at length all her sufferings, till the prince, overcome by grief, could bear it no longer and swooned.

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

(476) '"Why should there be shame concerning one who is her servant, ever at her feet, that grief should have made its home in one so tender, and my desires be unfulfilled? (477) Now, what can I do when at some days' distance from her. Her body cannot even endure the fall of a flower upon it, while even on adamantine hearts like mine the arrows of love are hard to bear. When I see the unstable works began by cruel Fate, I know not where it will stop. (478) Else where was my approach to the land of the immortals, in my vain hunt for the Kinnaras? where my journey to Hemakuta with Mahaçveta, or my sight of the princess there, or the birth of her love for me, or my father's command, that I could not transgress, for me to return, though my longing was yet unfulfilled? It is by evil destiny that we have been raised high, and then dashed to the ground. Therefore let us do our utmost to console [344] the princess." (479) Then in the evening he asked Keyuraka, "What thinkest thou? Will Kadambari support life till we arrive? (480) Or shall I again behold her face, with its eyes like a timid fawn's?" "Be firm, prince," he replied. "Do thine utmost to go." The prince had himself begun plans for going; but what happiness or what content of heart would there be without his father's leave, and how after his long absence could that be gained? A friend's help was needed here, but Vaiçampayana was away.

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

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

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

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

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

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