Then the princess left her parents’ presence, and immediately ascended in eager longing a jewelled terrace in the women’s apartments, which had pillars of precious stone standing in it, and lattices of pearl fastened to them, and had placed on its pavement, of costly mosaic, luxurious couches and splendid thrones, and was rendered still more delightful by means of the various enjoyments which there presented themselves as soon as thought of. Even when there, she was exceedingly tortured with the fire of separation. And she saw from the top of this terrace a magnificent heavenly garden, planted with trees and creepers of gold, and full of hundreds of tanks adorned with costly stone. And when she saw it, she said to herself, “Wonderful! This splendid city of ours is more beautiful even than the world of the moon in which I was born. And yet I have not explored this city which is the very crest-jewel of the Himálayas, in which there is such a splendid suburban garden excelling Nandana. So I will go into this lovely shrubbery, cool with the shade of trees, and alleviate a little the scorching of the fires of separation.”
After the young maiden had gone through these reflections, she dexterously managed to descend slowly from the terrace alone, and prepared to go to that city garden. And as she could not go on foot, she was carried there by some birds that were brought to her by her power, and served as her conveyance. When she reached the garden, she sat in an arbour formed of plantains growing together, on a carpet of flowers, with heavenly singing and music sounding in her ears. And even there she did not obtain relief, and her passion did not abate; on the contrary, the fire of her love increased still more, as she was separated from her beloved.
Then in her longing she was eager to behold that loved one, though only in a picture, so by her magic power she summoned for herself a tablet for painting and colour-pencils. And she said to herself, “Considering even the Disposer is unable to create a second like my beloved, how can I, reed[1] in hand, produce a worthy likeness of him? Nevertheless, I will paint him as well as I can for my own consolation.” After going through these reflections she proceeded to paint him on a tablet, and while she was thus engaged, her confidante Manoháriká, who had been troubled at not seeing her, came to that place to look for her. She stood behind the princess, and saw her languishing alone in the bower of creepers, with her painting-tablet in her hand. She said to herself, “I will just see now what the princess is doing here alone.” So the princess’s confidante remained there concealed.
And then Padmávatí, with her lotus-like eyes gushing with tears, began to address in the following words her beloved in the painting. “When thou didst slay the formidable Asuras and deliver Indra, how comes it that thou dost not deliver me from my woe, though near me, by speaking to me at any rate? To one whose merits in a former life are small, even a wishing-tree is ungenerous, even Buddha is wanting in compassion, and even gold becomes a stone. Thou knowest not the fever of love, and canst not comprehend my pain; what could the poor archer Love, whose arrows are but flowers, do against one whom the Daityas found invincible? But what am I saying? Truly Fate is adverse to me, for Fate stops my eyes with tears, and will not allow me to behold thee for long together, even in a picture.” When the princess had said this, she began to weep with teardrops that were so large that it appeared as if her necklace were broken, and great pearls were falling from it.
At that moment her friend Manoháriká advanced towards her, and the princess concealed the picture and said to her, “My friend, I have not seen you for ever so long; where have you been?” When Manoháriká heard this, she laughed and said, “I have been wandering about, my friend, for a long time to look for you; so, why do you hide the picture? I saw a moment ago a wonderful picture.”[2]
When Padmávatí’s friend said this to her, she seized her hand, and said to her with a face cast down from shame, and a voice choked with tears, “My friend, you knew it all long ago; why should I try to conceal it?[3] The fact is, that prince, though on that occasion, in the sacred enclosure of Gaurí, he delivered me from the terrible fire of the Rákshasí’s wrath, plunged me nevertheless in the fire of love, with its intolerable flame of separation. So I do not know, where to go, whom to speak to, what to do, or what expedient I must have recourse to, since my heart is fixed on one hard to obtain.”
When the princess said this, her friend answered her, “My dear, this attachment of your mind is quite becoming and suitable; your union would certainly be to the enhancement of one another’s beauty, as the union of the digit of the new moon with the hair of Śiva matted into the form of a diadem. And do not be despondent about this matter: of a truth he will not be able to live without you; did you not see that he was affected in the same way as yourself? Even women, who see you,[4] are so much in love with your beauty that they desire to become men; so what man would not be a suitor for your hand? Much more will he be, who is equal to you in beauty. Do you suppose that Śiva, who declared that you should be man and wife, can say what is false? However, what afflicted one feels quite patient about an object much desired, even though it is soon to be attained? So cheer up! He will soon become your husband. It is not hard for you to win any husband, but all men must feel that you are a prize hard to win.”
When the princess’s attendant said this to her, she answered her, “My friend, though I know all this, what am I to do? My heart cannot endure to remain for a moment without that lord of my life, to whom it is devoted, and Cupid will not bear to be trifled with any further. For when I think of him, my mind is immediately refreshed,[5] but my limbs burn, and my breath seems to leave my body with glowing heat.”
Even as the princess was saying this, she, being soft as a flower, fell fainting with distraction into the arms of that friend of hers. Then her weeping friend gradually brought her round by sprinkling her with water and fanning her with plantain-leaves. Her friend employed with her the usual remedies of a necklace and bracelet of lotus-fibres, a moist anointing with sandal-wood unguent, and a bed of lotus-leaves; but these contracted heat by coming in contact with her body, and seemed by their heating and withering to feel the same pain as she felt.
Then Padmávatí, in her agitation, said to that friend, “Why do you weary yourself in vain? My suffering cannot be alleviated in this way. It would be a happy thing, if you would take the only step likely to alleviate it.” When she said this in her pain, her friend answered her, “What would not I do for your sake? Tell me, my friend, what that step is.”