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 Kādambarī[1] 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.[2]
‘“Moreover,” Kādambarī 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 Patralekhā 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 Kādambarī whom he saw resting on a couch of flowers in the winter palace, and he is that Candrāpīḍa, all ignorant of another’s pain, who stayed but two days, and then departed. I had promised Mahāçvetā not to marry while she was in trouble, though she besought me not to promise, saying, that Kāma 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[3] 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 Kādambarī 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, Patralekhā. (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 Patralekhā 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?’”