‘Thus reproached by Patralekhā, and hearing the words of Kādambarī, so full of conflicting impulses, the prince became confused; (454) and sharing in Kādambarī’s feeling, he asked Patralekhā with tears, “What am I to do? Love has made me a cause of sorrow to Kādambarī, and of reproach to thee. (455) And methinks this was some curse that darkened my mind; else how was my mind deceived when clear signs were given, which would create no doubt even in a dull mind? All this my fault has arisen from a mistake. I will therefore now, by devoting myself to her, even with my life, act so that the princess may know me not to be of so hard a heart.”
‘(456) While he thus spoke a portress hastened in and said: “Prince, Queen Vilāsavatī sends a message saying, ‘I hear from the talk of my attendants that Patralekhā, who had stayed behind, has now returned. And I love her equally with thyself. Do thou therefore come, and bring her with thee. The sight of thy lotus face, won by a thousand longings, is rarely given.’”
‘“How my life now is tossed with doubts!” thought the prince. “My mother is sorrowful if even for a moment she sees me not. (457) My subjects love me; but the Gandharva princess loves me more. Princess Kādambarī is worthy of my winning, and my mind is impatient of delay;” so thinking, he went to the queen, and spent the day in a longing of heart hard to bear; (458) while the night he spent thinking of the beauty of Kādambarī, which was as a shrine of love.
‘(459) Thenceforth pleasant talk found no entrance into him. His friends’ words seemed harsh to him; the conversation of his kinsmen gave him no delight. (460) His body was dried up by love’s fire, but he did not yield up the tenderness of his heart. (461) He despised happiness, but not self-control.
‘While he was thus drawn forward by strong love, which had its life resting on the goodness and beauty of Kādambarī, and held backwards by his very deep affection for his parents, he beheld one day, when wandering on the banks of the Siprā, a troop of horse approaching. (462) He sent a man to inquire what this might be, and himself crossing the Siprā where the water rose but to his thigh, he awaited his messenger’s return in a shrine of Kārtikeya. Drawing Patralekhā to him, he said, “Look! that horse-man whose face can scarce be descried is Keyūraka!”
‘(463) He then beheld Keyūraka throw himself from his horse while yet far off, gray with dust from swift riding, while by his changed appearance, his lack of adornment, his despondent face, and his eyes that heralded his inward grief, he announced, even without words, the evil plight of Kādambarī. Candrāpīḍa lovingly called him as he hastily bowed and drew near, and embraced him. And when he had drawn back and paid his homage, the prince, having gratified his followers by courteous inquiries, looked at him eagerly, and said, “By the sight of thee, Keyūraka, the well-being of the lady Kādambarī and her attendants is proclaimed. When thou art rested and at ease, thou shalt tell me the cause of thy coming;” and he took Keyūraka and Patralekhā home with him on his elephant. (464) Then he dismissed his followers, and only accompanied by Patralekhā, he called Keyūraka to him, and said: “Tell me the message of Kādambarī, Madalekhā and Mahāçvetā.”
‘“What shall I say?” replied Keyūraka; “I have no message from any of these. For when I had entrusted Patralekhā to Meghanāda, and returned, and had told of thy going to Ujjayinī, Mahāçvetā looked upwards, sighed a long, hot sigh, and saying sadly, ‘It is so then,’ returned to her own hermitage to her penance. Kādambarī, as though bereft of consciousness, ignorant of Mahāçvetā’s departure, only opened her eyes after a long time, scornfully bidding me tell Mahāçvetā; and asking Madalekhā (465) if anyone ever had done, or would do, such a deed as Candrāpīḍa, she dismissed her attendants, threw herself on her couch, veiled her head, and spent the day without speaking even to Madalekhā, who wholly shared her grief. When early next morning I went to her, she gazed at me long with tearful eyes, as if blaming me. And I, when thus looked at by my sorrowing mistress, deemed myself ordered to go, and so, without telling the princess, I have approached my lord’s feet. Therefore vouchsafe to hear attentively the bidding of Keyūraka, whose heart is anxious to save the life of one whose sole refuge is in thee. For, as by thy first coming that virgin[4] forest was stirred as by the fragrant Malaya wind, so when she beheld thee, the joy of the whole world, like the spring, love entered her as though she were a red açoka creeper. (466) But now she endures great torture for thy sake.” (466–470) Then Keyūraka told at length all her sufferings, till the prince, overcome by grief, could bear it no longer and swooned.
‘Then, awakening from his swoon, he lamented that he was thought too hard of heart to receive a message from Kādambarī or her friends, and blamed them for not telling him of her love while he was there.
(476) ‘“Why should there be shame concerning one who is her servant, ever at her feet, that grief should have made its home in one so tender, and my desires be unfulfilled? (477) Now, what can I do when at some days’ distance from her. Her body cannot even endure the fall of a flower upon it, while even on adamantine hearts like mine the arrows of love are hard to bear. When I see the unstable works began by cruel Fate, I know not where it will stop. (478) Else where was my approach to the land of the immortals, in my vain hunt for the Kinnaras? where my journey to Hemakūṭa with Mahāçvetā, or my sight of the princess there, or the birth of her love for me, or my father’s command, that I could not transgress, for me to return, though my longing was yet unfulfilled? It is by evil destiny that we have been raised high, and then dashed to the ground. Therefore let us do our utmost to console[5] the princess.” (479) Then in the evening he asked Keyūraka, “What thinkest thou? Will Kādambarī support life till we arrive? (480) Or shall I again behold her face, with its eyes like a timid fawn’s?” “Be firm, prince,” he replied. “Do thine utmost to go.” The prince had himself begun plans for going; but what happiness or what content of heart would there be without his father’s leave, and how after his long absence could that be gained? A friend’s help was needed here, but Vaiçampāyana was away.
‘(484) But next morning he heard a report that his army had reached Daçapura, and thinking with joy that he was now to receive the favour of Fate, in that Vaiçampāyana was now at hand, he joyfully told the news to Keyūraka. (485) “This event,” replied the latter, “surely announces thy going. Doubtless thou wilt gain the princess. For when was the moon ever beheld by any without moonlight, or a lotus-pool without a lotus, or a garden without creeper? Yet there must be delay in the arrival of Vaiçampāyana, and the settling with him of thy plans. But I have told thee the state of the princess, which admits of no delay. Therefore, my heart, rendered insolent by the grace bestowed by thy affection, desires that favour may be shown me by a command to go at once to announce the joy of my lord’s coming.” (486) Whereat the prince, with a glance that showed his inward satisfaction, replied: “Who else is there who so well knows time and place, or who else is so sincerely loyal? This, therefore, is a happy thought. Go to support the life of the princess and to prepare for my return. But let Patralekhā go forward, too, with thee to the feet of the princess. For she is favoured by the princess.” Then he called Meghanāda, and bade him escort Patralekhā, (487) while he himself would overtake them when he had seen Vaiçampāyana. Then he bade Patralekhā tell Kādambarī that her noble sincerity and native tenderness preserved him, even though far away and burnt by love’s fire, (489) and requested her bidding to come. (491) After their departure, he went to ask his father’s leave to go to meet Vaiçampāyana. The king lovingly received him, and said to Çukanāsa: (492) “He has now come to the age for marriage. So, having entered upon the matter with Queen Vilāsavatī, let some fair maiden be chosen. For a face like my son’s is not often to be seen. Let us then gladden ourselves now by the sight of the lotus face of a bride.” Çukanāsa agreed that as the prince had gained all knowledge, made royal fortune firmly his own, and wed the earth, there remained nothing for him to do but to marry a wife. “How fitly,” thought Candrāpīḍa, “does my father’s plan come for my thoughts of a union with Kādambarī! (493) The proverb ‘light to one in darkness,’ or ‘a shower of nectar to a dying man,’ is coming true in me. After just seeing Vaiçampāyana, I shall win Kādambarī.” Then the king went to Vilāsavatī, and playfully reproached her for giving no counsel as to a bride for her son. (494) Meanwhile the prince spent the day in awaiting Vaiçampāyana’s return. And after spending over two watches of the night sleepless in yearning for him, (495) the energy of his love was redoubled, and he ordered the conch to be sounded for his going. (497) Then he started on the road to Daçapura, and after going some distance he beheld the camp, (501) and rejoiced to think he would now see Vaiçampāyana; and going on alone, he asked where his friend was. But weeping women replied: “Why ask? How should he be here?” And in utter bewilderment he hastened to the midst of the camp. (502) There he was recognised, and on his question the chieftains besought him to rest under a tree while they related Vaiçampāyana’s fate. He was, they said, yet alive, and they told what had happened. (505) “When left by thee, he halted a day, and then gave the order for our march. ‘Yet,’ said he, ‘Lake Acchoda is mentioned in the Purāṇa as very holy. Let us bathe and worship Çiva in the shrine on its bank. For who will ever, even in a dream, behold again this place haunted by the gods?’ (506) But beholding a bower on the bank he gazed at it like a brother long lost to sight, as if memories were awakened in him. And when we urged him to depart, he made as though he heard us not; but at last he bade us go, saying that he would not leave that spot. (508) ‘Do I not know well’ said he, ‘all that you urge for my departure? But I have no power over myself, and I am, as it were, nailed to the spot, and cannot go with you.’ (510) So at length we left him, and came hither.”