‘“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[259] 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.[260] (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[261] 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[262] 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[263] 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[264] 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,’[265] 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[266] 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.