Full of such reflections, the king took pleasure in nothing,[3] and burnt with the fever of love so that his attendants were full of anxiety. And the warder Bhadráyudha asked the afflicted king in private the cause of his grief, whereupon he spake as follows:
“Listen, I will tell you, my friend. So much at any rate you know, that that painter gave me the picture of a girl. And I fell asleep thinking on her, and I remember that in my dream I crossed the sea, and reached and entered a very beautiful city. There I saw many armed maidens in front of me, and they, as soon as they saw me, raised a tumultuous cry of ‘Kill, kill.’[4] Then a certain female ascetic came and with great precipitation made me enter her house, and briefly said to me this, ‘My son, here is the man-hating princess Malayavatí come this way, diverting herself as she pleases. And the moment she sees a man, she makes these maidens of hers kill him: so I brought you in here to save your life.’[5]
“When the female ascetic had said this, she immediately made me put on female attire; and I submitted to that, knowing that it was not lawful to slay those maidens. But, when the princess entered into the house with her maidens, I looked at her, and lo! she was the very lady that had been shewn me in a picture. And I said to myself, ‘Fortunate am I in that, after first seeing this lady in a picture, I now behold her again in flesh and blood, dear as my life.’
“In the meanwhile the princess, at the head of her maidens, said to that female ascetic, ‘We saw some male enter here.’ The ascetic shewed me, and answered, ‘I know of no male; here is my sister’s daughter, who is with me as a guest.’ Then the princess seeing me, although I was disguised as a woman, forgot her dislike of men, and was at once overcome by love. She remained for a moment, with every hair on her body erect, motionless as if in thought, being, so to speak, nailed to the spot at once with arrows by Love, who had spied his opportunity. And in a moment the princess said to the ascetic, ‘Then, noble lady, why should not your sister’s daughter be my guest also? Let her come to my palace; I will send her back duly honoured.’ Saying this, she took me by the hand, and led me away to her palace. And I remember, I discerned her intention, and consented, and went there, and that sly old female ascetic gave me leave to depart.
“Then I remained there with that princess, who was diverting herself with the amusement of marrying her maidens to one another, and so forth. Her eyes were fixed on me, and she would not let me out of her sight for an instant, and no occupation pleased her in which I did not take part. Then those maidens, I remember, made the princess a bride, and me her husband, and married us in sport. And when we had been married, we entered at night the bridal chamber, and the princess fearlessly threw her arms round my neck. And then I told her who I was, and embraced her, and delighted at having attained her object, she looked at me and then remained a long time with her eyes bashfully fixed on the ground. And at that moment that villain of a watchman woke me up. So, Bhadráyudha, the upshot of the whole matter is that I can no longer live without that Malayavatí, whom I have seen in a picture and in a dream.”
When the king said this, the warder Bhadráyudha perceived that it was a true dream, and he consoled the monarch, and said to him, “If the king remembers it all exactly, let him draw that city on a piece of canvas in order that some expedient may be devised in this matter.” The moment the king heard this suggestion of Bhadráyudha’s, he proceeded to draw that splendid city on a piece of canvas, and all the scene that took place there. Then the warder at once took the drawing, and had a new monastery[6] made, and hung it up there on the wall. And he directed that in relief-houses attached to the monastery, a quantity of food, with pairs of garments and gold, should be given to bards coming from distant countries. And he gave this order to the dwellers in the monastery, “If any one comes here, who knows the city represented here in a picture, let me be informed of it.”
In the meanwhile the fierce elephant of the rainy season with irresistible loud deep thunder-roar and long ketaka tusks came down upon the forest of the heats, a forest the breezes of which were scented with the perfume of the jasmine, in which travellers sat down on the ground in the shade, and trumpet-flowers bloomed. At that time the forest-fire of separation of that king Vikramáditya began to burn more fiercely, fanned by the eastern breeze.[7] Then the following cries were heard among the ladies of his court, “Háralatá, bring ice! Chitrángí, sprinkle him with sandal-wood juice! Patralekhá, make a bed cool with lotus-leaves! Kandarpasená, fan him with plantain-leaves!” And in course of time the cloudy season terrible with lightning passed away for that king, but the fever of love burning[8] with the sorrow of separation did not pass away.
Then the autumn with her open lotus-face, and smile of unclosed flowers, came, vocal with the cries of swans,[9] seeming to utter this command, “Let travellers advance on their journey; let pleasant tidings be brought about absent dear ones; happy may their merry meetings be!” On a certain day in that season a bard, who had come from a distance, of the name of Śanvarasiddhi, having heard the fame of that monastery, built by the warder, entered it to get food. After he had been fed, and presented with a pair of garments, he saw that painting on the wall of the monastery. When the bard had carefully scanned the city delineated there, he was astonished, and said, “I wonder who can have drawn this city? For I alone have seen it, I am certain, and no other; and here it is drawn by some second person.” When the inhabitants of the monastery heard that, they told Bhadráyudha; then he came in person, and took that bard to the king. The king said to Śanvarasiddhi, “Have you really seen that city?” Then Śanvarasiddhi gave him the following answer.
“When I was wandering about the world, I crossed the sea that separates the dvípas, and beheld that great city Malayapura. In that city there dwells a king of the name of Malayasinha, and he has a matchless daughter, named Malayavatí, who used to abhor males. But one night she somehow or other saw in a dream a great hero in a convent.[10] The moment she saw him, that evil spirit of detestation of the male sex fled from her mind, as if terrified. Then she took him to her palace, and in her dream married him, and entered with him the bridal chamber. And at that moment the night came to an end, and an attendant in her room woke her up. Then she banished that servant in her anger, and thinking upon that dear one, whom she had seen in her dream, seeing no way of escape owing to the blazing fire of separation, utterly overpowered by love, she never rose from her couch except to fall back upon it again with relaxed limbs. She was dumb, as if possessed by a demon, as if stunned by a blow,[11] for when her attendants questioned her, she gave them no answer.
“Then her father and mother came to hear of it, and questioned her; and at last she was, with exceeding difficulty, persuaded to tell them what happened to her in the dream, by the mouth of a confidential female friend. Then her father comforted her, but she made a solemn vow that, if she did not obtain her beloved in six months, she would enter the fire. And already five months are past; who knows what will become of her? This is the story that I heard about her in that city.”