Her friend Málatiká exclaimed, “Alas! the command of Cupid is hard to resist, since it has reduced to this state this friend of mine, who was always laughing at other misguided women, who shewed a want of self-restraint.[5]” Lamenting in these words, she slowly brought Anangamanjarí round with cold water, fanning, and so on, and in order to allay her heat, she made her a bed of lotus-leaves, and placed on her heart a necklace cool as snow. Then Anangamanjarí, with her eyes gushing with tears, said to her friend, “Friend, the necklace and the other applications do not allay my internal heat. But do you by your cleverness accomplish something which will really allay it. Unite me to my beloved, if you wish to preserve my life.” When she said this, Málatiká lovingly answered her, “My friend, the night is now almost at an end, but to-morrow I will make an arrangement with your beloved, and bring him to this very place. So in the meanwhile control yourself, and enter your house.” When she said this, Anangamanjarí was pleased, and drawing the necklace from her neck, she gave it to her as a present. And she said to her, “Now go to your house, and early to-morrow go thence to the house of my beloved, and may you prosper!” Having dismissed her confidante in these words, she entered her own apartments.
And early next morning, her friend Málatiká went, without being seen by any one, to the house of Kamalákara; and searching about in the garden, she saw him at the foot of a tree. He was rolling about, burning with the fire of love, on a bed composed of lotus-leaves moistened with sandal-wood juice, and a confidential friend of his was trying to give him relief by fanning him with a plantain-leaf. She said to herself, “Is it possible that he has been reduced to this stage of love’s malady by separation from her?” So she remained there in concealment, to find out the truth about it.
In the meanwhile that friend of Kamalákara’s said to him, “Cast your eye, my friend, for a moment round this delightful garden, and cheer up your heart. Do not give way to despondency.” When the young Bráhman heard this, he answered his friend, “My friend, my heart has been taken from me by Anangamanjarí the merchant’s daughter, and my breast left empty; so how can I cheer up my heart. Moreover Love, finding me robbed of my heart, has made me a quiver for his arrows; so enable me to get hold of that girl, who stole it.”
When the young Bráhman said that, Málatiká’s doubts were removed, and she was delighted, and showed herself, and went up to him, and said, “Happy man, Anangamanjarí has sent me to you, and I hereby give you her message, the meaning of which is clear, ‘What sort of conduct is this for a virtuous man, to enter a fair one’s bosom by force, and after stealing away her heart, to go off without showing himself.’ It is strange too, that though you have stolen the lady’s heart, she now wishes to surrender to you herself and her life. For day and night she furnaces forth from her hot sighs, which appear like smoke rising from the fire of love in her burning heart. And her tear-drops, black with collyrium, fall frequently, looking like bees attracted by the fragrance of her lotus-like face. So if you like, I will say what will be for the good of both of you.”
When Málatiká said this, Kamalákara answered her, “My good lady, this speech of yours, though it comforts me by shewing that my beloved loves me, terrifies me, as it tells that the fair one is in a state of unhappiness. So you are our only refuge in this matter; do as you think best.” When Kamalákara said this, Málatiká answered, “I will to-night bring Anangamanjarí secretly into the garden belonging to her house, and you must take care to be outside. Then I will manage by some device of mine to let you in, and so you will be able to see one another in accordance with your wishes.” When Málatiká had by these words delighted the young Bráhman, she went away, having accomplished her object, and delighted Anangamanjarí also.
Then the sun, in love with the twilight, departed somewhere or other, together with the day, and the heaven adorned itself, placing the moon on its western quarter, like a patch on the forehead. And the pure white kumuda-cluster laughed joyously with the cheerful faces of its opened flowers, as if to say, “Fortune has left the lotus-cluster and come to me.” Thereupon the lover Kamalákara also adorned himself, and full of impatience, slowly approached the outside of the door that led into the garden of Anangamanjarí’s house. Then Málatiká managed to bring into that garden Anangamanjarí, who had with difficulty got through the day. And she made her sit in the middle of it, in a bower of mango-trees, and went out, and brought in Kamalákara also. And when he entered, he beheld Anangamanjarí in the midst of dense-foliaged trees, as gladly as the traveller beholds the shade.
While he was advancing towards her, she saw him, and as the violence of her passion robbed her of shame, she eagerly ran forward, and threw her arms round his neck. She faltered out, “Where are you going? I have caught you,” and immediately her breath was stopped by the weight of excessive joy, and she died. And she fell on the ground, like a creeper broken by the wind. Alas! strange is the course of love, that is terrible in its consequences. When Kamalákara beheld that misfortune, which was terrible as a thunder-stroke, he said, “Alas! what is this?” and fell senseless on the ground. In a moment he recovered consciousness; and then he took his beloved up in his arms, and embraced and kissed her, and lamented much. And then he was so violently oppressed by excessive weight of sorrow, that his heart burst asunder at once, with a crack. And when Málatiká was lamenting over their corpses, the night, seeing that both these lovers had met their end, came to an end, as if out of grief. And the next day, the relations of both, hearing from the gardeners what had happened, came there distracted with shame, wonder, grief, and bewilderment. And they remained for a long time doubtful what to do, with faces downcast from distress; bad women are a grievous affliction, and a source of calamity to their family.
At this moment Maṇivarman, the husband of Anangamanjarí, came, full of longing to see her, from his father’s house in Támraliptí. When he reached his father-in-law’s house, and heard what had taken place, he came running to that garden, with his eyes blinded with tears. There, beholding his wife lying dead by the side of another man, the passionate man at once yielded up his breath, that was heated with the fire of grief. Then the people there began to cry out, and to make an uproar, and all the citizens heard what had taken place, and came there in a state of astonishment.
Then the goddess Chaṇḍí, who was close at hand, having been called down into that garden long ago by the father of Anangamanjarí, was thus supplicated by her Gaṇas; “Goddess, this merchant Arthadatta, who has established an image of thee in his garden, has always been devoted to thee, so have mercy upon him in this his affliction.” When the beloved of Śiva, the refuge of the distressed, heard this prayer of her Gaṇas, she gave command that the three should return to life, free from passion. So they all, by her favour, immediately arose, as if awaking from sleep, free from the passion of love. Then all the people were full of joy, beholding that marvel; and Kamalákara went home, with his face downcast from shame; and Arthadatta, having recovered his daughter[6] Anangamanjarí, who looked thoroughly ashamed of herself, together with her husband, returned to his house in high spirits.
When the Vetála had told this story that night on the way, he again put a question to king Trivikramasena. He said, “King, tell me, which of those three, who were blinded by passion, was the most infatuated? And remember, the curse before-mentioned will take effect, if you know and do not say.” When the king heard this question of the Vetála’s, he answered him, “It seems to me that Maṇivarman was the most infatuated with passion of the three. For one can understand those two dying, as they were desperately in love with one another, and their amorous condition had been fully developed by lapse of time. But Maṇivarman was terribly infatuated, for when he saw his wife dead of love for another man, and the occasion called for indignation, he was so far from being angry that, in his great love, he died of grief.” When the king had said this, the mighty Vetála again left his shoulder, and departed to his own place, and the king again went in pursuit of him.