Kitobni o'qish: «The Kādambarī of Bāṇa»

To

MRS. COWELL,

WHO FIRST TOLD ME

THE STORY OF KĀDAMBARĪ,

THIS TRANSLATION

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

‘Anenākāraṇāvishkṛitavātsalyena caritena kasya na bandhutvam adhyāropayasi.’

INTRODUCTION.¹

The story of Kādambarī is interesting for several reasons. It is a standard example of classical prose; it has enjoyed a long popularity as a romance; and it is one of the comparatively few Sanskrit works which can be assigned to a certain date, and so it can serve as a landmark in the history of Indian literature and Indian thought.

The Author

Bāṇabhaṭṭa, its author, lived in the reign of Harshavardhana of Thāṇeçar, the great king mentioned in many inscriptions,² who extended his rule over the whole of Northern India, and from whose reign (A.D. 606) dates the Harsha era, used in Nepal. Bāṇa, as he tells us, both in the ‘Harsha-Carita’ and in the introductory verses of ‘Kādambarī,’ was a Vātsyāyana Brahman. His mother died while he was yet young, and his father’s tender care of him, recorded in the ‘Harsha-Carita,’³ was doubtless in his memory as he recorded the unselfish love of Vaiçampāyana’s father in ‘Kādambarī’ (p. 22). In his youth he travelled much, and for a time ‘came into reproach,’ by reason of his unsettled life; but the experience gained in foreign lands turned his thoughts homewards, and he returned to his kin, and lived a life of quiet study in their midst. From this he was summoned to the court of King Harsha, who at first received him coldly, but afterwards attached him to his service; and Bāṇa in the ‘Harsha-Carita’ relates his own life as a prelude to that of his master.

The other works attributed to him are the ‘Caṇḍikāçataka,’⁴ or verses in honour of Caṇḍikā; a drama, ‘The Pārvatīpariṇaya’; and another, called ‘Mukuṭatāḍitaka,’ the existence of which is inferred from Guṇavinayagaṇi’s commentary on the ‘Nalacampū.’ Professor Peterson also mentions that a verse of Bāṇa’s (‘Subhāshitāvali,’ 1087) is quoted by Kshemendra in his ‘Aucityavicāracarcā,’ with a statement that it is part of a description of Kādambarī’s sorrow in the absence of Candrāpīḍa, whence, he adds, ‘it would seem that Bāṇa wrote the story of Kādambarī in verse as well as in prose,’ and he gives some verses which may have come from such a work.

Bāṇa himself died, leaving ‘Kādambarī’ unfinished, and his son Bhūshaṇabhaṭṭa took it up in the midst of a speech in which Kādambarī’s sorrows are told, and continued the speech without a break, save for a few introductory verses in honour of his father, and in apology for his having undertaken the task, ‘as its unfinished state was a grief to the good.’ He continued the story on the same plan, and with careful, and, indeed, exaggerated, imitation of his father’s style.

The Plot of Kādambarī

The story of ‘Kādambarī’ is a very complex one, dealing as it does with the lives of two heroes, each of whom is reborn twice on earth.

(1–47) A learned parrot, named Vaiçampāyana, was brought by a Caṇḍāla maiden to King Çūdraka, and told him how it was carried from its birthplace in the Vindhyā Forest to the hermitage of the sage Jābāli, from whom it learnt the story of its former life.

(47–95) Jābāli’s story was as follows: Tārāpīḍa, King of Ujjayinī, won by penance a son, Candrāpīḍa, who was brought up with Vaiçampāyana, son of his minister, Çukanāsa. In due time Candrāpīḍa was anointed as Crown Prince, and started on an expedition of world-conquest. At the end of it he reached Kailāsa, and, while resting there, was led one day in a vain chase of a pair of kinnaras to the shores of the Acchoda Lake. (95–141) There he beheld a young ascetic maiden, Mahāçvetā, who told him how she, being a Gandharva princess, had seen and loved a young Brahman Puṇḍarīka; how he, returning her feeling, had died from the torments of a love at variance with his vow; how a divine being had carried his body to the sky, and bidden her not to die, for she should be reunited with him; and how she awaited that time in a life of penance. (141–188) But her friend Kādambarī, another Gandharva princess, had vowed not to marry while Mahāçvetā was in sorrow, and Mahāçvetā invited the prince to come to help her in dissuading Kādambarī from the rash vow. Love sprang up between the prince and Kādambarī at first sight; but a sudden summons from his father took him to Ujjayinī without farewell, while Kādambarī, thinking herself deserted, almost died of grief.

(188–195) Meanwhile news came that his friend Vaiçampāyana, whom he had left in command of the army, had been strangely affected by the sight of the Acchoda Lake, and refused to leave it. The prince set out to find him, but in vain; and proceeding to the hermitage of Mahāçvetā, he found her in despair, because, in invoking on a young Brahman, who had rashly approached her, a curse to the effect that he should become a parrot, she learnt that she had slain Vaiçampāyana. At her words the prince fell dead from grief, and at that moment Kādambarī came to the hermitage.

(195–202) Her resolve to follow him in death was broken by the promise of a voice from the sky that she and Mahāçvetā should both be reunited with their lovers, and she stayed to tend the prince’s body, from which a divine radiance proceeded; while King Tārāpīḍa gave up his kingdom, and lived as a hermit near his son.

(202 to end) Such was Jābāli’s tale; and the parrot went on to say how, hearing it, the memory of its former love for Mahāçvetā was reawakened, and, though bidden to stay in the hermitage, it flew away, only to be caught and taken to the Caṇḍāla princess. It was now brought by her to King Çūdraka, but knew no more. The Caṇḍāla maiden thereupon declared to Çūdraka that she was the goddess Lakshmī, mother of Puṇḍarīka or Vaiçampāyana, and announced that the curse for him and Çūdraka was now over. Then Çūdraka suddenly remembered his love for Kādambarī, and wasted away in longing for her, while a sudden touch of Kādambarī restored to life the Moon concealed in the body of Candrāpīḍa, the form that he still kept, because in it he had won her love. Now the Moon, as Candrāpīḍa and Çūdraka, and Puṇḍarīka, in the human and parrot shape of Vaiçampāyana, having both fulfilled the curse of an unsuccessful love in two births on earth, were at last set free, and, receiving respectively the hands of Kādambarī and Mahāçvetā, lived happily ever afterwards.

The plot is involved, and consists of stories within each other after the fashion long familiar to Europeans in the ‘Arabian Nights’; but the author’s skill in construction is shown by the fact that each of the minor stories is essential to the development of the plot, and it is not till quite the end that we see that Çūdraka himself, the hearer of the story, is really the hero, and that his hearing the story is necessary to reawaken his love for Kādambarī, and so at the same time fulfil the terms of the curse that he should love in vain during two lives, and bring the second life to an end by his longing for reunion. It may help to make the plot clear if the threads of it are disentangled. The author in person tells all that happens to Çūdraka (pp. 3–16 and pp. 205 to end). The parrot’s tale (pp. 16–205) includes that of Jābāli (pp. 47–202) concerning Candrāpīḍa, and Vaiçampāyana the Brahman, with the story told by Mahāçvetā (pp. 101–136) of her love for Puṇḍarīka.

The Story as told in the Kathā-Sarit-Sāgara

The story as told in the Kathā-Sarit-Sāgara of Somadeva⁵ differs in some respects from this. There a Nishāda princess brought to King Sumanas a learned parrot, which told its life in the forest, ended by a hunt in which its father was killed, and the story of its past life narrated by the hermit Agastya. In this story a prince, Somaprabha, after an early life resembling that of Candrāpīḍa, was led in his pursuit of kinnaras to an ascetic maiden, Manorathaprabhā, whose story is that of Mahāçvetā, and she took him, at his own request, to see the maiden Makarandikā, who had vowed not to marry while her friend was unwed. He was borne through the air by a Vidyādhara, and beheld Makarandikā. They loved each other, and a marriage was arranged between them. The prince, however, was suddenly recalled by his father, and Makarandikā’s wild grief brought on her from her parents a curse that she should be born as a Nishāda. Too late they repented, and died of grief; and her father became a parrot, keeping from a former birth as a sage his memory of the Çāstras, while her mother became a sow. Pulastya added that the curse would be over when the story was told in a king’s court.

The parrot’s tale reminded King Sumanas of his former birth, and on the arrival of the ascetic maiden, sent by Çiva, ‘who is merciful to all his worshippers,’ he again became the young hermit she had loved. Somaprabha, too, at Çiva’s bidding, went to the king’s court, and at the sight of him the Nishāda regained the shape of Makarandikā, and became his wife; while the parrot ‘left the body of a bird, and went to the home earned by his asceticism.’ ‘Thus,’ the story ends, ‘the appointed union of human beings certainly takes place in this world, though vast spaces intervene.’

The main difference between the stories is in the persons affected by the curse; and here the artistic superiority of Bāṇa is shown in his not attaching the degrading forms of birth to Kādambarī or her parents. The horse is given as a present to the hero by Indra, who sends him a message, saying: ‘You are a Vidyādhara, and I give you the horse in memory of our former friendship. When you mount it you will be invincible.’ The hero’s marriage is arranged before his sudden departure, so that the grief of the heroine is due only to their separation, and not to the doubts on which Bāṇa dwells so long. It appears possible that both this story and ‘Kādambarī’ are taken from a common original now lost, which may be the Bṛihatkathā of Guṇāḍhya.⁶ In that case the greater refinement of Bāṇa’s tale would be the result of genius giving grace to a story already familiar in a humbler guise.

References to Kādambarī in the Sāhitya-Darpaṇa and elsewhere

The author of the Sāhitya-Darpaṇa⁷ speaks of the Kathā as follows: ‘In the Kathā (tale), which is one of the species of poetical composition in prose, a poetical matter is represented in verse, and sometimes the Āryā, and sometimes the Vaktra and Apavaktraka are the metres employed in it. It begins with stanzas in salutation to some divinity, as also descriptive of the behaviour of bad men and others.’ To this the commentary adds: ‘The “Kādambarī” of Bāṇabhaṭṭa is an example.’ Professor Peterson corrects the translation of the words ‘Kathāyām sarasaṃ vastu padyair eva vinirmitam,’ giving as their sense, ‘A narration in prose, with here and there a stray verse or two, of matter already existing in a metrical form.’⁸ According to his rendering, the Kathā is in its essence a story claiming to be based on previous works in verse, whether in this case the original were Bāṇa’s own metrical version of ‘Kādambarī,’⁹ or the work which was also the original of the Kathā-Sarit-Sāgara story.

The story of Puṇḍarīka and Mahāçvetā receives mention, firstly, for the introduction of death, contrary to the canon; secondly, for the determination of the nature of their sorrow, and its poetic quality, and consequent appeal to the feelings of the reader. Firstly: (§ 215) ‘Death, which is a condition to which one may be brought by love, is not described in poetry and the drama, where the other conditions, such as anxiety, etc., are constantly described, because it, instead of enhancing, causes the destruction of “Flavour.”¹⁰ But it may be spoken of (1) as having nearly taken place, or (2) as being mentally wished for; and it is with propriety described (3) if there is to be, at no distant date, a restoration to life.’ The commentary takes the story of Puṇḍarīka as an example of the third condition, and describes it as a ‘case of pathetic separation.’ Secondly: (§ 224) ‘Either of two young lovers being dead, and being yet to be regained through some supernatural interposition, when the one left behind is sorrowful, then let it be called the separation of tender sadness’ (karuṇavipralamhha). The commentary gives Mahāçvetā as the instance, and continues: ‘But if the lost one be not regainable, or regainable only after transmigration in another body, the flavour is called the “Pathetic” simply, there being in this case no room for any admixture of the “Erotic”; but in the case just mentioned – of Puṇḍarīka and Mahāçvetā – immediately on Sarasvatī’s declaration from the sky that the lovers should be reunited, there is the “Erotic in its form of tender sadness,” for desire arises on the expectation of reunion, but PREVIOUSLY to Sarasvatī’s promise there was the “Pathetic”; such is the opinion of the competent authorities. And as for what some say in regard to the case of Puṇḍarīka and Mahāçvetā, that “moreover AFTER the expectation of reunion, excited by Sarasvatī’s promise to that effect, there is merely your honour’s variety of “love in absence,” (§ 222) the one which you call “being abroad” (§ 221) – others hold it to be distinct, because of the presence of that distinction, DEATH, which is something else than merely being abroad.’ These are the passages in which direct mention is made of ‘Kādambarī,’ and in § 735, which defines special mention (parisaṃkhyā) as taking place ‘when something is affirmed for the denial, expressed or understood, of something else similar to it,’ the commentary adds: ‘When founded upon a Paronomasia, it is peculiarly striking, e. g., “When that king, the conqueror of the world, was protecting the earth, the mixture of colours (or castes) was in painting, etc.,” – a passage from the description of Çūdraka in “Kādambarī” (P. 5).’

References to Bāṇa in other works are given by Professor Peterson, so that three only need be mentioned here. The first I owe to the kindness of Professor C. Bendall. In a collection of manuscripts at the British Museum (Or., 445–447) ‘consisting chiefly of law-books transcribed (perhaps for some European) on European paper in the Telugu-Canarese character,’ one, Or., 446 c., the Kāmandakīya-Nīti-Çāstra, contains on folios 128–131 a passage from ‘Kādambarī’ (pp. 76–84, infra)¹¹ on the consecration of a crown-prince, and the duties and dangers of a king. It forms part of an introduction to the Kāmandakīya-Nīti-Çāstra and occurs without any hint of its being a quotation from another work. The author of the Nalacampū not only writes a verse in honour of Bāṇa,¹² but models his whole style upon him. A curious instance of the long popularity of ‘Kādambarī’ is that in the ‘Durgeçanandinī’ by Chattaji, an historical novel, published in 1871, and treating of the time of Akbar, the heroine is represented as reading in her boudoir the romance of ‘Kādambarī.’¹³

The Interest of ‘Kādambarī.’

It may be asked What is the value of ‘Kādambarī’ for European readers? and to different persons the answer will doubtless be different. Historical interest, so far as that depends on the narration of historical facts, appears to be entirely lacking, though it may be that at some future time our knowledge from other sources may be so increased that we may recognise portraits and allusions in what seems now purely a work of romance. But in the wider sense in which history claims to deal with the social ideas that belong to any epoch, ‘Kādambarī’ will always have value as representing the ways of thinking and feeling which were either customary or welcome at its own time, and which have continued to charm Indian readers. It is indeed true that it probably in many ways does not give a picture of contemporary manners, just as a mediæval illuminated manuscript often represents the dress and surroundings prior to the time of the illuminator, so as to gain the grace of remoteness bestowed by reverence for the past. In India, where change works but slowly, the description of the court and city life, where all the subjects show by outward tokens their sympathy with the joys and sorrows of their ruler, as in a Greek chorus, is vivid in its fidelity.¹⁴ The quiet yet busy life of the hermits in the forest, where the day is spent in worship and in peaceful toils, where at eve the sunbeams ‘linger like birds on the crest of hill and tree,’ and where night ‘darkens all save the hearts of the hermits,’ is full of charm.¹⁵

The coronation of the crown prince, the penances performed by the queen to win a son, the reverence paid to Mahākāla, also belong to our picture of the time. The description of Ujjayinī, surrounded by the Siprā, is too general in its terms to give a vivid notion of what it then was. The site of the temple of Mahākāla is still shown outside the ruins of the old town. A point of special interest is the argument against the custom of suicide on the death of a friend. Candrāpīḍa consoles Mahāçvetā that she has not followed her lover in death by saying that one who kills himself at his friend’s death makes that friend a sharer in the guilt, and can do no more for him in another world, whereas by living he can give help by sacrifices and offerings. Those, too, who die may not be reunited for thousands of births. In the ‘Kathā-Koça’¹⁶ a prince is dissuaded from following his wife to death because ‘Even the idea of union with your beloved will be impossible when you are dead’; but the occurrence of the idea in a romance is more noteworthy than in a work which illustrates Jain doctrines. The question of food as affected by caste is touched on also (p. 205), when the Caṇḍāla maiden tells the parrot that a Brahman may, in case of need, receive food of any kind, and that water poured on the ground, and fruit, are pure even when brought by the lowest. Another point to be remarked is the mention of followers of many sects as being present at court. Çiva, especially under the name of Mahākāla at Ujjayinī, receives special worship, and Agni and the Mātṛikās (p. 14) also receive reverence. The zenanas include aged ascetic women (p. 217); followers of the Arhat, Kṛishṇa, Viçravasa, Avalokiteçvara, and Viriñca (p. 162); and the courtyard of Çukanāsa has Çaivas and followers of Çākyamuni (p. 217), also Kshapaṇakas (explained by the Commentary as Digambaras). The king,¹⁷ however, is described as having an ūrṇā (the hair meeting between the brows), which is one of Buddha’s marks; but the Commentary describes the ūrṇā as cakravartiprabhṛitīnām eva nānyasya, so probably it only belongs to Buddha as cakravarti, or universal ruler. This shows that the reign of Harsha was one of religious tolerance. Hiouen Thsang, indeed, claims him as a Buddhist at heart, and mentions his building Buddhist stūpas,¹⁸ but he describes himself as a Çaiva in the Madhuban grant,¹⁹ and the preeminence yielded in ‘Kādambarī’ to Çiva certainly shows that his was then the popular worship.

Another source of interest in ‘Kādambarī’ lies in its contribution to folklore. It may perhaps contain nothing not found elsewhere, but the fact of its having a date gives it a value. The love of snakes for the breeze and for sandal-trees, the truth of dreams at the end of night, the magic circles, bathing in snake-ponds to gain a son, the mustard-seed and ghī put in a baby’s mouth, may all be familiar ideas, but we have a date at which they were known and not despised. Does the appeal to the truth of her heart by Mahāçvetā in invoking the curse (p. 193) rest on the idea that fidelity to a husband confers supernatural power,²⁰ or is it like the ‘act of truth’ by which Buddha often performs miracles in the ‘Jātaka’?

The Style of ‘Kādambarī.’

The unsettled chronology of Indian literature makes it impossible to work out at present Bāṇa’s relations with other Sanskrit writers. Professor Peterson,²¹ indeed, makes some interesting conjectures as to his connection with other authors of his own country, and also suggests, from similarity of phrase, that he may have fallen indirectly under the influence of Alexandrian literature. Be that as it may, he has been for many centuries a model of style, and it is therefore worth while to consider briefly the characteristics of his style compared with European standards. The first thing that strikes the reader is that the sense of proportion, the very foundation of style as we know it, is entirely absent. No topic is let go till the author can squeeze no more from it. In descriptions every possible minor detail is given in all its fulness; then follows a series of similes, and then a firework of puns. In speeches, be they lamentations or exhortations, grief is not assuaged, nor advice ended, till the same thing has been uttered with every existing variety of synonym. This defect, though it springs from the author’s richness of resource and readiness of wit, makes the task of rendering in English the merit of the Sanskrit style an impossible one. It gives also a false impression; for to us a long description, if good, gives the effect of ‘sweetness long drawn out,’ and, if bad, brings drowsiness; whereas in Sanskrit the unending compounds suggest the impetuous rush of a torrent, and the similes and puns are like the play of light and shade on its waters. Bāṇa, according to Professor Weber,²² ‘passes for the special representative of the Pāñcālī style,’²³ which Bhoja, quoted in the commentary of the ‘Sāhitya-Darpaṇa,’ defines as ‘a sweet and soft style characterized by force (ojas) and elegance (kānti), containing compounds of five or six words.’ But style, which is to poetic charm as the body to the soul, varies with the sense to be expressed, and Bāṇa in many of his speeches is perfectly simple and direct. Owing to the peacefulness of ‘Kādambarī,’ there is little opportunity for observing the rule that in the ‘Kathā’ letters ‘ought not to be too rough, even when the flavour is furious.’²⁴ Of the alliteration of initial consonants, the only long passage is in the description of Çukanāsa (p. 50), but in its subtler forms it constantly occurs. Of shorter passages there are several examples —e. g., Candra Caṇḍāla (infra, p. 127); Candrāpīḍa Caṇḍālo (Sanskrit text, p. 416); Utkaṇṭhām sotkaṇṭhaṃ kaṇṭhe jagrāha (Ibid., p. 367); Kāmaṃ sakāmaṃ kuryām (Ibid., p. 350); Candrāpīḍa pīḍanayā (Ibid., p. 370). The ornament of çlesha, or paronomasia, which seems to arise from the untrained philological instinct of mankind seeking the fundamental identity of like sounds with apparently unlike meaning, and which lends dramatic intensity when, as sometimes in Shakespeare,²⁵ a flash of passionate feeling reveals to the speaker an original sameness of meaning in words seemingly far apart, is by Bāṇa used purely as an adornment. He speaks of pleasant stories interwoven with puns ‘as jasmine garlands with campak buds,’ and they abound in his descriptions. The rasanopamā,²⁶ or girdle of similes, is exemplified (p. 115), ‘As youth to beauty, love to youth, spring to love’ so was Kapiñjala to Puṇḍarīka. Vishamaṃ (incongruity) is the figure used in ‘the brightness of his glory, free from heat, consumed his foes; constant, ever roamed’ (p. 48). It can scarcely be separated from virodha (contradiction) – often used, as in ‘I will allay on the funeral pyre the fever which the moon, sandal, and all cool things have increased’ (p. 195) – or from vicitram²⁷ (strangeness), where an act is contrary to its apparent purpose: ‘There lives not the man whom the virtues of the most courteous lady Kādambarī do not discourteously enslave’ (p. 159). Arthāpatti²⁸ (a fortiori conclusion) is exemplified in ‘Even the senseless trees, robed in bark, seem like fellow-ascetics of this holy man. How much more, then, living beings endowed with sense!’ (p. 43). Time and space would alike fail for analysis of Bāṇa’s similes according to the rules of the ‘Sāhitya-Darpaṇa.’²⁹ The author of the ‘Rāghavapāṇḍavīya’ considers Subandhu and Bāṇa as his only equals in vakrokti, or crooked speech, and the fault of a ‘meaning to be guessed out’ (‘Sāhitya-Darpaṇa,’ § 574) is not rare. The ‘Kāvya-Prakāça,’ in addition to the references given by Professor Peterson, quotes a stanza describing a horse in the ‘Harsha-Carita’ (chap. iii.) as an example of svabhāvokti.

The hero belongs to the division described as the high-spirited, but temperate and firm (‘Sāhitya-Darpaṇa,’ § 64), i. e., he who is ‘not given to boasting, placable, very profound, with great self-command, resolute, whose self-esteem is concealed, and faithful to his engagements,’ and who has the ‘eight manly qualities’ of ‘brilliancy, vivacity, sweetness of temper, depth of character, steadfastness, keen sense of honour, gallantry, and magnanimity’ (Ibid., § 89). Kādambarī is the type of the youthful heroine who feels love for the first time, is shy, and gentle even in indignation (Ibid., § 98). The companions of each are also those declared in the books of rhetoric to be appropriate.

Literary Parallels

The work which most invites comparison with ‘Kādambarī’ is one far removed from it in place and time – Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene.’ Both have in great measure the same faults and the same virtues. The lack of proportion, – due partly to too large a plan, partly to an imagination wandering at will – the absence of visualization – which in Spenser produces sometimes a line like

 
‘A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside
Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow,
Yet she much whiter,’
 

and in Bāṇa many a description like that of Mahāçvetā’s fairness (pp. 95–97) – the undiscriminating praise bestowed on those whom they would fain honour, the shadowy nature of many of their personages, and the intricacies in which the story loses itself, are faults common to both. Both, too, by a strange coincidence, died with their work unfinished. But if they have the same faults, they have also many of the same virtues. The love of what is beautiful and pure both in character and the world around, tenderness of heart, a gentle spirit troubled by the disquiet of life,³⁰ grace and sweetness of style, and idyllic simplicity, are common to both. Though, however, Candrāpīḍa may have the chivalry and reverence of the Red Cross Knight, and Una share with Kādambarī or Rohiṇī ‘nobility, tenderness, loftiness of soul, devotion and charm,’³¹ the English hero and heroine are more real and more strenuous. We are, indeed, told in one hurried sentence of the heroic deeds of Candrāpīḍa in his world-conquest, and his self-control and firmness are often insisted on; but as he appears throughout the book, his self-control is constantly broken down by affection or grief, and his firmness destroyed by a timid balancing of conflicting duties, while his real virtue is his unfailing gentleness and courtesy. Nor could Kādambarī, like Una, bid him, in any conflict, ‘Add faith unto your force, and be not faint.’ She is, perhaps, in youth and entire self-surrender, more like Shakespeare’s Juliet, but she lacks her courage and resolve.

The Purpose of ‘Kādambarī.’

The likeness of spirit between these two leads to the question, Had Bāṇa, like Spenser, any purpose, ethical or political, underlying his story? On the surface it is pure romance, and it is hard to believe that he had any motive but the simple delight of self-expression and love for the children of his own imagination. He only claims to tell a story ‘tender with the charm of gracious speech, that comes of itself, like a bride, to the possession of its lord’;³² but it may be that he gladly gathered up in old age the fruits of his life’s experience, and that his own memory of his father’s tenderness to his childhood, of the temptations of youth, and of the dangers of prosperity and flattery that assail the heart of kings, was not used only to adorn a tale, but to be a guide to others on the perilous path of life. Be that as it may, the interest of ‘Kādambarī,’ like that of the ‘Faerie Queene,’ does not depend for us now on any underlying purpose, but on the picture it presents in itself of the life and thought of a world removed in time, but not in sympathy, from our own; on the fresh understanding it gives of those who are in the widest sense our fellow-countrymen; and on the charm, to quote the beautiful words of Professor Peterson, ‘of a story of human sorrow and divine consolation, of death and the passionate longing for a union after death, that goes straight from the heart of one who had himself felt the pang, and nursed the hope, to us who are of like frame with him … the story which from the beginning of time mortal ears have yearned to hear, but which mortal lips have never spoken.’

The Plan of the Translation

The translation of Bāṇa presents much difficulty from the elaboration of his style, and it has been a specially hard task, and sometimes an impossible one, to give any rendering of the constant play on words in which he delights. I have sometimes endeavoured to give what might be an English equivalent, and in such cases I have added in a note the literal meaning of both alternatives; perhaps too much freedom may have been used, and sometimes also the best alternative may not have been chosen to place in the text; but those who have most experience will know how hard it is to do otherwise than fail. Some long descriptions have been omitted, such, e. g., as a passage of several pages describing how the dust rose under the feet of Candrāpīḍa’s army, and others where there seemed no special interest or variety to redeem their tediousness. A list of these omissions³³ is given at the end, together with an appendix, in which a few passages, chiefly interesting as mentioning religious sects, are added. I have acted on Professor Cowell’s advice as to the principle on which omissions are made, as also in giving only a full abstract, and not a translation, of the continuation of ‘Kādambarī’ by Bhūshaṇa. It is so entirely an imitation of his father’s work in style, with all his faults, and without the originality that redeems them, that it would not reward translation. In my abstract I have kept the direct narration as more simple, but even when passages are given rather fully, it does not profess in any case to be more than a very free rendering; sometimes only the sense of a whole passage is summed up. I regret that the system of transliteration approved by the Royal Asiatic Society came too late for adoption here.

The edition of ‘Kādambarī’ to which the references in the text are given is that of the Nirṇaya-Sāgara Press (Bombay, 1890), which the full commentary makes indispensable, but I have also throughout made use of Professor Peterson’s edition (Bombay Sanskrit Series, No. xxiv.). For the last half of the Second Part³⁴ I have referred to an anonymous literal translation, published by the New Britannia Press Depository, 78, Amherst Street, Calcutta.

I have now to offer my grateful thanks to the Secretary of State for India, without whose kind help the volume could not have been published. I have also to thank Miss C. M. Duff for allowing me to use the MS. of her ‘Indian Chronology’; Miss E. Dale, of Girton College, for botanical notes, which I regret that want of space prevented my printing in full; Mr. C. Tawney, librarian of the Indian Office, for information as to the sources of Indian fiction; Mr. F. F. Arbuthnot and Professor Rhys-Davids, for valuable advice; Professor C. Bendall, for his description of the Kāmandakīya-Nīti-Çāstra, and his constant kindness about my work; Mr. F. W. Thomas, of Trinity College, for letting me see the proof-sheets of the translation of the ‘Harsha Carita’; and others for suggested renderings of difficult phrases, and for help of various kinds.

But especially my thanks are due to Professor Cowell³⁵ for a generosity and unwearied helpfulness which all his pupils know, and which perhaps few but they could imagine. I read through with him the whole of the First Part before translating it myself, so that mistakes in the translation, many as they may be, can arise only from misunderstanding on my part, from too great freedom of rendering, or from failing to have recourse to the knowledge he so freely gives.

 
‘Vṛihatsahāyaḥ kāryāntaṃ kshodīyānapi gacchati;
Sambhūyāmbodhim abhyeti mahānadyā nagāpagā.’
 

KĀDAMBARĪ

(1) Hail to the Birthless, the cause of creation, continuance, and destruction, triple³⁶ in form and quality, who shows activity in the birth of things, goodness in their continuance, and darkness in their destruction.

(2) Glory to the dust of Tryambaka’s feet, caressed by the diadem of the demon Bāṇa³⁷; even that dust that kisses the circle of Rāvaṇa’s ten crest-gems, that rests on the crests of the lords of gods and demons, and that destroys our transitory life.

(3) Glory to Vishṇu, who, resolving to strike from afar, with but a moment’s glance from his wrath-inflamed eye stained the breast of his enemy, as if it had burst of itself in terror.

I salute the lotus feet of Bhatsu,³⁸ honoured by crowned Maukharis: the feet which have their tawny toes rubbed on a footstool made by the united crowns of neighbouring kings.

Who is there that fears not the wicked, pitiless in causeless enmity; in whose mouth calumny hard to bear is always ready as the poison of a serpent?

The wicked, like fetters, echo harshly, wound deeply, and leave a scar; while the good, like jewelled anklets, ever charm the mind with sweet sounds.

(4) In a bad man gentle words sink no deeper than the throat, like nectar swallowed by Rāhu. The good man bears them constantly on his heart, as Hari his pure gem.

A story tender with the charm of gracious speech, creates in the heart joy full of fresh interest³⁹; and it comes of itself, with native feeling, to its lord’s possession, like a fresh bride.⁴⁰

Who is not carried captive by tales fashioned in freshness of speech, all alight with similes, and the lamps of glowing words⁴¹: pleasant tales interwoven with many a contrast of words,⁴² as jasmine garlands with campak buds?

There was once a Brahman, Kuvera by name, sprung from the race of Vātsyāyana, sung throughout the world for his virtue, a leader of the good: his lotus feet were worshipped by many a Gupta, and he seemed a very portion of Brahma.

(5) On his mouth Sarasvatī ever dwelt: for in it all evil was stilled by the Veda; it had lips purified by sacrificial cake, and a palate bitter with soma, and it was pleasant with smṛiti and çāstra.

In his house frightened boys, as they repeated verses of the Yajur and Sāma Veda, were chidden at every word by caged parrots and mainas, who were thoroughly versed in everything belonging to words.

From him was born Arthapati, a lord of the twice-born, as Hiraṇyagarbha from the world-egg, the moon from the Milky Ocean, or Garuḍa from Vinatā.

As he unfolded his spreading discourse day by day at dawn, new troops of pupils, intent on listening,⁴³ gave him a new glory, like fresh sandal-shoots fixed on the ear.

(6) With countless sacrifices adorned with gifts duly offered,⁴⁴ having glowing Mahāvīra fires in their midst,⁴⁵ and raising the sacrificial posts as their hands,⁴⁶ he won easily, as if with a troop of elephants, the abode of the gods.

He in due course obtained a son, Citrabhānu, who amongst his other noble and glorious sons, all versed in çruti and çāstra, shone as crystal, like Kailāsa among mountains.

The virtues of that noble man, reaching far and gleaming bright as a digit of the moon, yet without its spot, pierced deep even into the hearts of his foes, like the budding claws of Nṛisiṃha (Vishṇu).

The dark smoke of many a sacrifice rose like curls on the brow of the goddesses of the sky; or like shoots of tamāla on the ear of the bride, the Threefold Veda, and only made his own glory shine more bright.

From him was born a son, Bāṇa, when the drops that rose from the fatigue of the soma sacrifice were wiped from his brow by the folded lotus hands of Sarasvatī, and when the seven worlds had been illuminated by the rays of his glory.

(7) By that Brahman, albeit with a mind keeping even in his unspoken words its original dullness blinded by the darkness of its own utter folly, and simple from having never gained the charm of ready wit, this tale, surpassing the other two,⁴⁷ was fashioned, even Kādambarī.

There was once upon a time a king named Çūdraka. Like a second Indra, he had his commands honoured by the bent heads of all kings; he was lord of the earth girt in by the four oceans; he had an army of neighbouring chiefs bowed down in loyalty to his majesty; he had the signs of a universal emperor; (8) like Vishṇu, his lotus-hand bore the sign of the conch and the quoit; like Çiva, he had overcome Love; like Kārtikeya, he was unconquerable in might⁴⁸; like Brahma, he had the circle of great kings humbled⁴⁹; like the ocean, he was the source of Lakshmī; like the stream of Ganges, he followed in the course of the pious king Bhagīratha; like the sun, he rose daily in fresh splendour; like Meru, the brightness of his foot was honoured by all the world; like the elephant of the quarters,⁵⁰ he constantly poured forth a stream of generosity. He was a worker of wonders, an offerer of sacrifices, a mirror of moral law, a source of the arts, a native home of virtue; a spring of the ambrosial sweetness of poetry, a mountain of sunrise to all his friends,⁵¹ and a direful comet to all his foes. (9) He was, moreover, a founder of literary societies, a refuge for men of taste, a rejecter of haughty bowholders, a leader among the bold, a chief among the wise. He was a cause of gladness to the humble, as Vainateya⁵² was to Vinatā. He rooted up with the point of his bow the boundary-mountains of his foes as Prithurāja did the noble mountains. He mocked Kṛishṇa, also, for while the latter made his boast of his man-lion form, he himself smote down the hearts of his foes by his very name, and while Kṛishṇa wearied the universe with his three steps, he subdued the whole world by one heroic effort. Glory long dwelt on the watered edge of his sword, as if to wash off the stain of contact with a thousand base chieftains, which had clung to her too long.

By the indwelling of Dharma in his mind, Yama in his wrath, Kuvera in his kindness, Agni in his splendour, Earth in his arm, Lakshmī in his glance, Sarasvatī in his eloquence, (10) the Moon in his face, the Wind in his might, Bṛihaspati in his knowledge, Love in his beauty, the Sun in his glory, he resembled holy Nārāyaṇa, whose nature manifests every form, and who is the very essence of deity. Royal glory came to him once for all, like a woman coming to meet her lover, on the nights of battle stormy with the showers of ichor from the elephants’ temples, and stood by him in the midst of the darkness of thousands of coats of mail, loosened from the doors of the breasts of warriors. She seemed to be drawn irresistibly by his sword, which was uneven in its edge, by reason of the drops of water forced out by the pressure of his strong hand, and which was decked with large pearls clinging to it when he clove the frontal bones of wild elephants. The flame of his majesty burnt day and night, as if it were a fire within his foes’ fair wives, albeit reft of their lords, as if he would destroy the husbands now only enshrined in their hearts.

(11) While he, having subdued the earth, was guardian of the world, the only mixing of colour⁵³ was in painting; the only pulling of hair in caresses; the only strict fetters in the laws of poetry; the only care was concerning moral law; the only deception was in dreams; the only golden rods⁵⁴ were in umbrellas. Banners alone trembled; songs alone showed variations⁵⁵; elephants alone were rampant;⁵⁶ bows alone had severed cords;⁵⁷ lattice windows alone had ensnaring network; lovers’ disputes alone caused sending of messengers; dice and chessmen alone left empty squares; and his subjects had no deserted homes. Under him, too, there was only fear of the next world, only twisting in the curls of the zenana women, only loquacity in anklets, only taking the hand⁵⁸ in marriage, only shedding of tears from the smoke of ceaseless sacrificial fires; the only sound of the lash was for horses, while the only twang of the bow was Love’s.

(15) When the thousand-rayed sun, bursting open the young lotus-buds, had not long risen, though it had lost somewhat of the pinkness of dawn, a portress approached the king in his hall of audience, and humbly addressed him. Her form was lovely, yet awe-inspiring, and with the scimitar (a weapon rarely worn by women) hanging at her left side, was like a sandal-tree girt by a snake. Her bosom glistened with rich sandal ointment like the heavenly Ganges when the frontal-bone of Airāvata rises from its waters. (16) The chiefs bent before her seemed, by her reflection on their crests, to bear her on their foreheads as a royal command in human form. Like autumn,⁵⁹ she was robed in the whiteness of haṃsas; like the blade of Paraçurāma she held the circle of kings in submission; like the forest land of the Vindhyas, she bore her wand,⁶⁰ and she seemed the very guardian-goddess of the realm. Placing on the ground her lotus hand and knee, she thus spake: ‘Sire, there stands at the gate a Caṇḍāla maiden from the South, a royal glory of the race of that Triçaṃku⁶¹ who climbed the sky, but fell from it at the murmur of wrathful Indra. She bears a parrot in a cage, and bids me thus hail your majesty: “Sire, thou, like the ocean, art alone worthy to receive the treasures of the whole earth. In the thought that this bird is a marvel, and the treasure of the whole earth, I bring it to lay at thy feet, and desire to behold thee.” (17) Thou, 0 king, hast heard her message, and must decide!’ So saying, she ended her speech. The king, whose curiosity was aroused, looked at the chiefs around him, and with the words ‘Why not? Bid her enter?’ gave his permission.

Then the portress, immediately on the king’s order, ushered in the Caṇḍāla maiden. And she entered and beheld the king in the midst of a thousand chiefs, like golden-peaked Meru in the midst of the noble mountains crouching together in fear of Indra’s thunderbolt; or, in that the brightness of the jewels scattered on his dress almost concealed his form, like a day of storm, whereon the eight quarters of the globe are covered by Indra’s thousand bows. He was sitting on a couch studded with moon-stones, beneath a small silken canopy, white as the foam of the rivers of heaven, with its four jewel-encrusted pillars joined by golden chains, and enwreathed with a rope of large pearls. Many cowries with golden handles waved around him; (18) his left foot rested on a footstool of crystal that was like the moon bent in humiliation before the flashing beauty of his countenance, and was adorned by the brightness of his feet, which yet were tinged with blue from the light rays of the sapphire pavement, as though darkened by the sighs of his conquered foes. His breast, crimsoned by the rubies which shone on his throne, recalled Kṛishṇa, red with blood from the fresh slaughter of Madhukaiṭabha; his two silken garments, white as the foam of ambrosia, with pairs of haṃsas painted in yellow on their hem, waved in the wind raised by the cowries; the fragrant sandal unguent with which his chest was whitened, besprinkled with saffron ointment, was like snowy Kailāsa with the early sunshine upon it; his face was encircled by pearls like stars mistaking it for the moon; the sapphire bracelets that clasped his arms were as a threat of chains to bind fickle fortune, or as snakes attracted by the smell of sandal-wood; (19) the lotus in his ear hung down slightly; his nose was aquiline, his eyes were like lotuses in full blossom, the hair grew in a circle between his brows, and was purified by the waters that inaugurated his possession of universal rule; his forehead was like a piece of the eighth-day moon made into a block of pure gold, garlanded with sweet jasmine, like the Western Mountain in the dawn with the stars growing pale on its brow. He was like the God of Love when struck by Çiva’s fire, for his body was tawny from the colour of his ornaments. His hand-maidens surrounded him, as if they were the goddesses of the quarters of the globe come to worship him; the earth bore him, as on her heart, through loyalty, in the reflection of his image in her clear mosaic pavement; fortune seemed his alone, though by him she was given to all to enjoy. (20) He was without a second, though his followers were without number; he trusted only to his own sword, though he had countless elephants and horses in his retinue; he filled the whole earth, though he stood in a small space of ground; he rested only on his bow, and yet was seated on his throne; he shone with the flame of majesty, though all the fuel of his enemies was uprooted; he had large eyes, and yet saw the smallest things; he was the home of all virtues, and yet was overreaching;⁶² he was beloved of his wives, and yet was a despotic lord; he was free from intoxication, though he had an unfailing stream of bounty; he was fair in nature, yet in conduct a Kṛishṇa;⁶³ he laid no heavy hand⁶⁴ on his subjects, and yet the whole world rested in his grasp.

Such was this king. And she yet afar beholding him, with a hand soft as the petal of a red lotus, and surrounded by a tinkling bracelet, and clasping the bamboo with its end jagged, (21) struck once on the mosaic floor to arouse the king; and at the sound, in a moment the whole assemblage of chiefs turned their eyes from the king to her, like a herd of wild elephants at the falling of the cocoanut. Then the king, with the words, ‘Look yonder,’ to his suite, gazed steadily upon the Caṇḍāla maiden, as she was pointed out by the portress. Before her went a man, whose hair was hoary with age, whose eyes were the colour of the red lotus, whose joints, despite the loss of youth, were firm from incessant labour, whose form, though that of a Mātanga, was not to be despised, and who wore the white raiment meet for a court. Behind her went a Caṇḍāla boy, with locks falling on either shoulder, bearing a cage, the bars of which, though of gold, shone like emerald from the reflection of the parrot’s plumage. (22) She herself seemed by the darkness of her hue to imitate Kṛishṇa when he guilefully assumed a woman’s attire to take away the amṛita seized by the demons. She was, as it were, a doll of sapphire walking alone; and over the blue garment, which reached to her ankle, there fell a veil of red silk, like evening sunshine falling on blue lotuses. The circle of her cheek was whitened by the earring that hung from one ear, like the face of night inlaid with the rays of the rising moon; she had a tawny tilaka of gorocanā, as if it were a third eye, like Parvatī in mountaineer’s attire, after the fashion of the garb of Çiva.

She was like Çrī, darkened by the sapphire glory of Nārāyaṇa reflected on the robe on her breast; or like Rati, stained by smoke which rose as Madana was burnt by the fire of wrathful Çiva; or like Yamunā, fleeing in fear of being drawn along by the ploughshare of wild Balarāma; or, from the rich lac that turned her lotus feet into budding shoots, like Durgā, with her feet crimsoned by the blood of the Asura Mahisha she had just trampled upon.

(23) Her nails were rosy from the pink glow of her fingers; the mosaic pavement seemed too hard for her touch, and she came forward, placing her feet like tender twigs upon the ground.

The rays of her anklets, rising in flame-colour, seemed to encircle her as with the arms of Agni, as though, by his love for her beauty, he would purify the stain of her birth, and so set the Creator at naught.

Her girdle was like the stars wreathed on the brow of the elephant of Love; and her necklace was a rope of large bright pearls, like the stream of Gangā just tinged by Yamunā.

Like autumn, she opened her lotus eyes; like the rainy season, she had cloudy tresses; like the circle of the Malaya Hills, she was wreathed with sandal; (24) like the zodiac, she was decked with starry gems;⁶⁵ like Çrī, she had the fairness of a lotus in her hand; like a swoon, she entranced the heart; like a forest, she was endowed with living⁶⁶ beauty; like the child of a goddess, she was claimed by no tribe;⁶⁷ like sleep, she charmed the eyes; as a lotus-pool in a wood is troubled by elephants, so was she dimmed by her Mātanga⁶⁸ birth; like a spirit, she might not be touched; like a letter, she gladdened the eyes alone; like the blossoms of spring, she lacked the jāti flower;⁶⁹ her slender waist, like the line of Love’s bow, could be spanned by the hands; with her curly hair, she was like the Lakshmī of the Yaksha king in Alaka.⁷⁰ She had but reached the flower of her youth, and was beautiful exceedingly. And the king was amazed; and the thought arose in his mind, (25) ‘Ill-placed was the labour of the Creator in producing this beauty! For if she has been created as though in mockery of her Caṇḍāla form, such that all the world’s wealth of loveliness is laughed to scorn by her own, why was she born in a race with which none can mate? Surely by thought alone did Prajāpati create her, fearing the penalties of contact with the Mātanga race, else whence this unsullied radiance, a grace that belongs not to limbs sullied by touch? Moreover, though fair in form, by the baseness of her birth, whereby she, like a Lakshmī of the lower world, is a perpetual reproach to the gods,⁷¹ she, lovely as she is, causes fear in Brahma, the maker of so strange a union.’ While the king was thus thinking the maiden, garlanded with flowers, that fell over her ears, bowed herself before him with a confidence beyond her years. And when she had made her reverence and stepped on to the mosaic floor, her attendant, taking the parrot, which had just entered the cage, advanced a few steps, and, showing it to the king, said: ‘Sire, this parrot, by name Vaiçampāyana, knows the meaning of all the çāstras, is expert in the practice of royal policy, (26) skilled in tales, history, and Purāṇas, and acquainted with songs and with musical intervals. He recites, and himself composes graceful and incomparable modern romances, love-stories, plays, and poems, and the like; he is versed in witticisms, and is an unrivalled disciple of the vīnā, flute, and drum. He is skilled in displaying the different movements of dancing, dextrous in painting, very bold in play, ready in resources to calm a maiden angered in a lover’s quarrel, and familiar with the characteristics of elephants, horses, men, and women. He is the gem of the whole earth; and in the thought that treasures belong to thee, as pearls to the ocean, the daughter of my lord has brought him hither to thy feet, O king! Let him be accepted as thine.’

Having thus said, he laid the cage before the king and retired. (27) And when he was gone, the king of birds, standing before the king, and raising his right foot, having uttered the words, ‘All hail!’ recited to the king, in a song perfect in the enunciation of each syllable and accent, a verse⁷² to this effect:

 
‘The bosoms of your foemen’s queens now mourn,
Keeping a fast of widowed solitude,
Bathed in salt tears, of pearl-wreaths all forlorn,
Scorched by their sad hearts’ too close neighbourhood.’
 

And the king, having heard it, was amazed, and joyfully addressed his minister Kumārapālita, who sat close to him on a costly golden throne, like Bṛihaspati in his mastery of political philosophy, aged, of noble birth, first in the circle of wise councillors: ‘Thou hast heard the bird’s clear enunciation of consonants, and the sweetness of his intonation. This, in the first place, is a great marvel, that he should raise a song in which the syllables are clearly separated; and there is a combination of correctness with clearness in the vowels and anunāsikas. (28) Then, again, we had something more than that: for in him, though a lower creation, are found the accomplishments, as it were, of a man, in a pleasurable art, and the course of his song is inspired by knowledge. For it was he who, with the cry, “All hail!” straightened his right foot and sang this song concerning me, whereas, generally, birds and beasts are only skilled in the science of fearing, eating, pairing, and sleeping. This is most wonderful.’ And when the king had said this, Kumārapālita, with a slight smile, replied: ‘Where is the wonder? For all kinds of birds, beginning with the parrot and the maina, repeat a sound once heard, as thou, O king, knowest; so it is no wonder that exceeding skill is produced either by the efforts of men, or in consequence of perfection gained in a former birth. Moreover, they formerly possessed a voice like that of men, with clear utterance. The indistinct speech of parrots, as well as the change in elephants’ tongues, arose from a curse of Agni.’

Hardly had he thus spoken when there arose the blast of the mid-day conch, following the roar of the drum distinctly struck at the completion of the hour, and announcing that the sun had reached the zenith. (29) And, hearing this, the king dismissed his band of chiefs, as the hour for bathing was at hand, and arose from his hall of audience.

Then, as he started, the great chiefs thronged together as they rose, tearing their silk raiment with the leaf-work of their bracelets, as it fell from its place in the hurried movement. Their necklaces were swinging with the shock; the quarters of space were made tawny by showers of fragrant sandal-powder and saffron scattered from their limbs in their restlessness; the bees arose in swarms from their garlands of mālatī flowers, all quivering; their cheeks were caressed by the lotuses in their ears, half hanging down; their strings of pearls were trembling on their bosoms – each longed in his self-consciousness to pay his respects to the king as he departed.

The hall of audience was astir on all sides with the sound of the anklets of the cowrie bearers as they disappeared in all directions, bearing the cowries on their shoulders, their gems tinkling at every step, broken by the cry of the kalahaṃsas, eager to drink the lotus honey; (30) with the pleasant music of the jewelled girdles and wreaths of the dancing-girls coming to pay their respects as they struck their breast and sides; with the cries of the kalahaṃsas of the palace lake, which, charmed by the sound of the anklets, whitened the broad steps of the hall of audience; with the voices of the tame cranes, eager for the sound of the girdles, screaming more and more with a prolonged outcry, like the scratching of bell-metal; with the heavy tramp on the floor of the hall of audience struck by the feet of a hundred neighbouring chiefs suddenly departing, which seemed to shake the earth like a hurricane; with the cry of ‘Look!’ from the wand-bearing ushers, who were driving the people in confusion before them, and shouting loudly, yet good-naturedly, ‘Behold!’ long and shrill, resounding far by its echo in the bowers of the palace; (31) with the ringing of the pavement as it was scratched by the points of diadems with their projecting aigrettes, as the kings swiftly bent till their trembling crest-gems touched the ground; with the tinkling of the earrings as they rang on the hard mosaic in their owners’ obeisance; with the space-pervading din of the bards reciting auspicious verses, and coming forward with the pleasant continuous cry, ‘Long life and victory to our king!’; with the hum of the bees as they rose up leaving the flowers, by reason of the turmoil of the hundreds of departing feet; with the clash of the jewelled pillars on which the gems were set jangling from being struck by the points of the bracelets as the chieftains fell hastily prostrate in their confusion. The king then dismissed the assembled chiefs, saying, ‘Rest awhile’; and after saying to the Caṇḍāla maiden, ‘Let Vaiçampāyana be taken into the inner apartments,’ and giving the order to his betel-nut bearer, he went, accompanied by a few favourite princes, to his private apartments. There, laying aside his adornments, like the sun divested of his rays, or the sky bare of moon and stars, he entered the hall of exercise, where all was duly prepared. Having taken pleasant exercise therein with the princes of his own age, (32) he then entered the bathing-place, which was covered with a white canopy, surrounded by the verses of many a bard. It had a gold bath, filled with scented water in its midst, with a crystal bathing-seat placed by it, and was adorned with pitchers placed on one side, full of most fragrant waters, having their mouths darkened by bees attracted by the odour, as if they were covered with blue cloths, from fear of the heat. (33) Then the hand-maidens, some darkened by the reflection of their emerald jars, like embodied lotuses with their leafy cups, some holding silver pitchers, like night with a stream of light shed by the full moon, duly besprinkled the king. (34) Straightway there arose a blare of the trumpets sounded for bathing, penetrating all the hollows of the universe, accompanied by the din of song, lute, flute, drum, cymbal, and tabor, resounding shrilly in diverse tones, mingled with the uproar of a multitude of bards, and cleaving the path of hearing. Then, in due order, the king put upon him two white garments, light as a shed snake-skin, and wearing a turban, with an edge of fine silk, pure as a fleck of white cloud, like Himālaya with the stream of the heavenly river falling upon it, he made his libation to the Pitṛis with a handful of water, consecrated by a hymn, and then, prostrating himself before the sun, proceeded to the temple. When he had worshipped Çiva, and made an offering to Agni, (35) his limbs were anointed in the perfuming-room with sandal-wood, sweetened with the fragrance of saffron, camphor, and musk, the scent of which was followed by murmuring bees; he put on a chaplet of scented mālatī flowers, changed his garb, and, with no adornment save his jewelled earrings, he, together with the kings, for whom a fitting meal was prepared, broke his fast, with the pleasure that arises from the enjoyment of viands of sweet savour. Then, having drunk of a fragrant drug, rinsed his mouth, and taken his betel, he arose from his daïs, with its bright mosaic pavement. The portress, who was close by, hastened to him, and leaning on her arm, he went to the hall of audience, followed by the attendants worthy to enter the inner apartments, whose palms were like boughs, very hard from their firm grasp of their wands.

PART II

(441) I hail, for the completion of the difficult toil of this unfinished tale, Umā and Çiva, parents of earth, whose single body, formed from the union of two halves, shows neither point of union nor division.

(442) I salute Nārāyaṇa, creator of all, by whom the man-lion form was manifested happily, showing a face terrible with its tossing mane, and displaying in his hand quoit, sword, club and conch.

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 Kādambarī³⁴⁰ 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.³⁴¹

‘“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 I³⁴² 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?’”

‘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 virgin³⁴³ 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 console³⁴⁴ 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.”

‘Amazed at this story, which he could not have even in a dream imagined, Candrāpīḍa wondered: “What can be the cause of his resolve to leave all and dwell in the woods? I see no fault of my own. He shares everything with me. Has anything been said that could hurt him by my father or Çukanāsa?” (517) He at length returned to Ujjayinī, thinking that where Vaiçampāyana was there was Kādambarī also, and resolved to fetch him back. (518) He heard that the king and queen had gone to Çukanāsa’s house, and followed them thither. (519) There he heard Manoramā lamenting the absence of the son without whose sight she could not live, and who had never before, even in his earliest years, shown neglect of her. (520) On his entrance the king thus greeted him: “I know thy great love for him. Yet when I hear thy story my heart suspects some fault of thine.” But Çukanāsa, his face darkened with grief and impatience, said reproachfully: “If, O king, there is heat in the moon or coolness in fire, then there may be fault in the prince. (521) Men such as Vaiçampāyana are portents of destruction, (522) fire without fuel, polished mirrors that present everything the reverse way; (523) for them the base are exalted, wrong is right, and ignorance wisdom. All in them makes for evil, and not for good. Therefore Vaiçampāyana has not feared thy wrath, nor thought that his mother’s life depends on him, nor that he was born to be a giver of offerings for the continuance of his race. (524) Surely the birth of one so evil and demoniac was but to cause us grief.” (525) To this the king replied: “Surely for such as I to admonish thee were for a lamp to give light to fire, or daylight an equal splendour to the sun. Yet the mind of the wisest is made turbid by grief as the Mānasa Lake by the rainy season, and then sight is destroyed. Who is there in this world who is not changed by youth? When youth shows itself, love for elders flows away with childhood. (528) My heart grieves when I hear thee speak harshly of Vaiçampāyana. Let him be brought hither. Then we can do as is fitting.” (529) Çukanāsa persisted in blaming his son; but Candrāpīḍa implored leave to fetch him home, and Çukanāsa at length yielded. (532) Then Candrāpīḍa summoned the astrologers, and secretly bade them name the day for his departure, when asked by the king or Çukanāsa, so as not to delay his departure. “The conjunction of the planets,” they answered him, “is against thy going. (533) Yet a king is the determiner of time. On whatever time thy will is set, that is the time for every matter.” Then they announced the morrow as the time for his departure; and he spent that day and night intent on his journey, and deeming that he already beheld Kādambarī and Vaiçampāyana before him.

‘(534) And when the time came, Vilāsavatī bade him farewell in deep sorrow: “I grieved not so for thy first going as I do now. My heart is torn; my body is in torture; my mind is overwhelmed. (535) I know not why my heart so suffers. Stay not long away.” He tried to console her, and then went to his father, who received him tenderly, (539) and finally dismissed him, saying: “My desire is that thou shouldst take a wife and receive the burden of royalty, so that I may enter on the path followed by royal sages; but this matter of Vaiçampāyana is in the way of it, and I have misgivings that my longing is not to be fulfilled; else how could he have acted in so strange a way? Therefore, though thou must go, my son, return soon, that my heart’s desire may not fail.” (540) At length he started, and spent day and night on his journey in the thought of his friend and of the Gandharva world. (544) And when he had travelled far the rainy season came on, and all the workings of the storms found their counterpart in his own heart. (548) Yet he paused not on his way, nor did he heed the entreaties of his chieftains to bestow some care on himself, but rode on all day. (549) But a third part of the way remained to traverse when he beheld Meghanāda, and, asking him eagerly concerning Vaiçampāyana, (550) he learnt that Patralekhā, sure that the rains would delay his coming, had sent Meghanāda to meet him, and that the latter had not been to the Acchoda lake. (552) With redoubled grief the prince rode to the lake, and bade his followers guard it on all sides, lest Vaiçampāyana should in shame flee from them; but all his search found no traces of his friend. (553) “My feet,” thought he, “cannot leave this spot without him, and yet Kādambarī has not been seen. Perchance Mahāçvetā may know about this matter; I will at least see her.” So he mounted Indrāyudha, and went towards her hermitage. There dismounting, he entered; but in the entrance of the cave he beheld Mahāçvetā, with difficulty supported by Taralikā, weeping bitterly. (554) “May no ill,” thought he, “have befallen Kādambarī, that Mahāçvetā should be in this state, when my coming should be a cause of joy.” Eagerly and sorrowfully he questioned Taralikā, but she only gazed on Mahāçvetā’s face. Then the latter at last spoke falteringly: “What can one so wretched tell thee? Yet the tale shall be told. When I heard from Keyūraka of thy departure, my heart was torn by the thought that the wishes of Kādambarī’s parents, my own longing, and the sight of Kādambarī’s happiness in her union with thee had not been brought about, and, cleaving even the bond of my love to her, I returned home to yet harsher penance than before. (555) Here I beheld a young Brahman, like unto thee, gazing hither and thither with vacant glance. But at the sight of me his eyes were fixed on me alone, as if, though unseen before, he recognised me, though a stranger, he had long known me, and gazing at me like one mad or possessed, he said at last: ‘Fair maiden, only they who do what is fitting for their birth, age, and form escape blame in this world. Why toilest thou thus, like perverse fate, in so unmeet an employment, in that thou wastest in stern penance a body tender as a garland? (556) The toil of penance is for those who have enjoyed the pleasures of life and have lost its graces, but not for one endowed with beauty. If thou turnest from the joys of earth, in vain does Love bend his bow, or the moon rise. Moonlight and the Malaya wind serve for naught.’”

‘“But I, caring for nothing since the loss of Puṇḍarīka, asked no questions about him, (557) and bade Taralikā keep him away, for some evil would surely happen should he return. But in spite of being kept away, whether from the fault of love or the destiny of suffering that lay upon us, he did not give up his affection; and one night, while Taralikā slept, and I was thinking of Puṇḍarīka, (559) I beheld in the moonlight, clear as day, that youth approaching like one possessed. The utmost fear seized me at the sight. ‘An evil thing,’ I thought, ‘has befallen me. If he draw near, and but touch me with his hand, this accursed life must be destroyed; and then that endurance of it, which I accepted in the hope of again beholding Puṇḍarīka, will have been in vain.’ While I thus thought he drew near, and said: ‘Moon-faced maiden, the moon, Love’s ally, is striving to slay me. Therefore I come to ask protection. Save me, who am without refuge, and cannot help myself, for my life is devoted to thee. (560) It is the duty of ascetics to protect those who flee to them for protection. If, then, thou deign not to bestow thyself on me, the moon and love will slay me.’ At these words, in a voice choked by wrath, I exclaimed: ‘Wretch, how has a thunderbolt failed to strike thy head in the utterance of these thy words? Surely the five elements that give witness of right and wrong to mortals are lacking in thy frame, in that earth and air and fire and the rest have not utterly destroyed thee. Thou hast learnt to speak like a parrot, without thought of what was right or wrong to say. Why wert thou not born as a parrot? (561) I lay on thee this fate, that thou mayest enter on a birth suited to thine own speech, and cease to make love to one such as I.’ So saying, I turned towards the moon, and with raised hands prayed: ‘Blessed one, lord of all, guardian of the world, if since the sight of Puṇḍarīka my heart has been free from the thought of any other man, may this false lover by the truth of this my saying, fall into the existence pronounced by me.’ Then straightway, I know not how, whether from the force of love, or of his own sin, or from the power of my words, he fell lifeless, like a tree torn up by the roots. And it was not till he was dead that I learnt from his weeping attendants that he was thy friend, noble prince.” Having thus said, she bent her face in shame and silently wept. But Candrāpīḍa, with fixed glance and broken voice, replied: “Lady, thou hast done thine utmost, and yet I am too ill-fated to have gained in this life the joy of honouring the feet of the lady Kādambarī. Mayest thou in another life create this bliss for me.” (562) With these words his tender heart broke, as if from grief at failing to win Kādambarī, like a bud ready to open when pierced by a bee.

‘Then Taralikā burst into laments over his lifeless body and into reproaches to Mahāçvetā. And as the chieftains, too, raised their cry of grief and wonder, (564) there entered, with but few followers, Kādambarī herself, attired as to meet her lover, though a visit to Mahāçvetā was the pretext of her coming, and while she leant on Patralekhā’s hand, she expressed her doubts of the prince’s promised return, (565) and declared that if she again beheld him she would not speak to him, nor be reconciled either by his humility or her friend’s endeavours. Such were her words; but she counted all the toil of the journey light in her longing to behold him again. But when she beheld him dead, with a sudden cry she fell to the ground. And when she recovered from her swoon, she gazed at him with fixed eyes and quivering mouth, like a creeper trembling under the blow of a keen axe, and then stood still with a firmness foreign to her woman’s nature. (566) Madalekhā implored her to give her grief the relief of tears, lest her heart should break, and remember that on her rested the hopes of two races. “Foolish girl,” replied Kādambarī, with a smile, “how should my adamantine heart break if it has not broken at this sight? These thoughts of family and friends are for one who wills to live, not for me, who have chosen death; for I have won the body of my beloved, which is life to me, and which, whether living or dead, whether by an earthly union, or by my following it in death, suffices to calm every grief. It is for my sake that my lord came hither and lost his life; how, then, could I, by shedding tears, make light of the great honour to which he has raised me? or how bring an ill-omened mourning to his departure to heaven? or how weep at the joyous moment when, like the dust of his feet, I may follow him? Now all sorrow is far away. (567) For him I neglected all other ties; and now, when he is dead, how canst thou ask me to live? In dying now lies my life, and to live would be death to me. Do thou take my place with my parents and my friends, and mayest thou be the mother of a son to offer libations of water for me when I am in another world. Thou must wed the young mango in the courtyard, dear to me as my own child, to the mādhavī creeper. Let not a twig of the açoka-tree that my feet have caressed be broken, even to make an earring. Let the flowers of the mālatī creeper I tended be plucked only to offer to the gods. Let the picture of Kāma in my room near my pillow be torn in pieces. The mango-trees I planted must be tended so that they may come to fruit. (568) Set free from the misery of their cage the maina Kālindī and the parrot Parihāsa. Let the little mongoose that rested in my lap now rest in thine. Let my child, the fawn Taralaka, be given to a hermitage. Let the partridges on the pleasure-hill that grew up in my hand be kept alive. See that the haṃsa that followed my steps be not killed. Let my poor ape be set free, for she is unhappy in the house. Let the pleasure-hill be given to some calm-souled hermit, and let the things I use myself be given to Brahmans. My lute thou must lovingly keep in thine own lap, and anything else that pleases thee must be thine own. But as for me, I will cling to my lord’s neck, and so on the funeral pyre allay the fever which the moon, sandal, lotus-fibres, and all cool things have but increased.” (569) Then she embraced Mahāçvetā, saying: “Thou indeed hast some hope whereby to endure life, even though its pains be worse than death; but I have none, and so I bid thee farewell, dear friend, till we meet in another birth.”

‘As though she felt the joy of reunion, she honoured the feet of Candrāpīḍa with bent head, and placed them in her lap. (570) At her touch a strange bright light arose from Candrāpīḍa’s body, and straightway a voice was heard in the sky: “Dear Mahāçvetā, I will again console thee. The body of thy Puṇḍarīka, nourished in my world and by my light, free from death, awaits its reunion with thee. The other body, that of Candrāpīḍa, is filled with my light, and so is not subject to death, both from its own nature, and because it is nourished by the touch of Kādambarī; it has been deserted by the soul by reason of a curse, like the body of a mystic whose spirit has passed into another form. Let it rest here to console thee and Kādambarī till the curse be ended. Let it not be burnt, nor cast into water, nor deserted. It must be kept with all care till its reunion.”

‘All but Patralekhā were astounded at this saying, and fixed their gaze on the sky; but she, recovering, at the cool touch of that light, from the swoon brought on by seeing the death of Candrāpīḍa, rose, hastily seizing Indrāyudha from his groom, saying: “However it may be for us, thou must not for a moment leave thy master to go alone without a steed on his long journey;” and plunged, together with Indrāyudha, into the Acchoda Lake. (571) Straightway there rose from the lake a young ascetic, and approaching Mahāçvetā, said mournfully: “Princess of the Gandharvas, knowest thou me, now that I have passed through another birth?” Divided between joy and grief, she paid homage to his feet, and replied: “Blessed Kapiñjala, am I so devoid of virtue that I could forget thee? And yet this thought of me is natural, since I am so strangely ignorant of myself and deluded by madness that when my lord Puṇḍarīka is gone to heaven I yet live. (572) Tell me of Puṇḍarīka.” He then recalled how he had flown into the sky in pursuit of the being who carried off Puṇḍarīka, and passing by the wondering gods in their heavenly cars, he had reached the world of the moon. “Then that being,” he continued, “placed Puṇḍarīka’s body on a couch in the hall called Mahodaya, and said: ‘Know me to be the moon! (573) When I was rising to help the world I was cursed by thy friend, because my beams were slaying him before he could meet his beloved; and he prayed that I, too, might die in the land of Bharata, the home of all sacred rites, knowing myself the pains of love. But I, wrathful at being cursed for what was his own fault, uttered the curse that he should endure the same lot of joy or sorrow as myself. When, however, my anger passed away, I understood what had happened about Mahāçvetā. Now, she is sprung from the race that had its origin in my beams, and she chose him for her lord. Yet he and I must both be born twice in the world of mortals, else the due order of births will not be fulfilled. I have therefore carried the body hither, and I nourish it with my light lest it should perish before the curse is ended, and I have comforted Mahāçvetā. (574) Tell the whole matter to Puṇḍarīka’s father. His spiritual power is great, and he may find a remedy.’ And I, rushing away in grief, leapt off another rider in a heavenly chariot, and in wrath he said to me: ‘Since in the wide path of heaven thou hast leapt over me like a horse in its wild course, do thou become a horse, and descend into the world of mortals.’ To my tearful assurance that I had leapt over him in the blindness of grief, and not from contempt, he replied: ‘The curse, once uttered, cannot be recalled. But when thy rider shall die, thou shalt bathe and be freed from the curse.’ Then I implored him that as my friend was about to be born with the moon-god, in the world of mortals, I might, as a horse, constantly dwell with him. (575) Softened by my affection, he told me that the moon would be born as a son to King Tārāpīḍa at Ujjayinī, Puṇḍarīka would be the son of his minister, Çukanāsa, and that I should be the prince’s steed. Straightway I plunged into the ocean, and rose as a horse, but yet lost not consciousness of the past. I it was who purposely brought Candrāpīḍa hither in pursuit of the kinnaras. And he who sought thee by reason of the love implanted in a former birth, and was consumed by a curse in thine ignorance, was my friend Puṇḍarīka come down to earth.”

APPENDIX

DESCRIPTION OF UJJAYINĪ

(102) There is a town by name Ujjayinī, the proudest gem of the three worlds, the very birthplace of the golden age, created by the blessed Mahākāla,³⁵⁷ Lord of Pramathas,³⁵⁸ Creator, Preserver and Destroyer of the Universe, as a habitation meet for himself, like a second earth. It is encompassed by a moat deep as hell – as by the ocean, mistaking it for another earth – and surrounded by fenced walls, white with plaster, like Kailāsa, with its many points showing clear against the sky, through joy at being the dwelling of Çiva.

It is adorned with large bazaars, like the oceans when their waters were drunk by Agastya, stretching far, with gold-dust for sand, with conch and oyster pearls, coral and emeralds laid bare. The painted halls that deck it are filled with gods, demons, Siddhas,³⁵⁹ Gandharvas, genii, and snakes, (103) and show like a row of heavenly chariots come down from the sky to behold fair women at ceaseless festivals. Its crossways shine with temples like Mandara whitened by the milk raised up by the churning stick, with spotless golden vases for peaks, and white banners stirred by the breeze like the peaks of Himālaya with the heavenly Ganges falling on them. Commons gray with ketakī pollen, dark with green gardens, watered by buckets constantly at work, and having wells adorned with brick seats, lend their charm. Its groves are darkened by bees vocal with honey draughts, its breeze laden with the sweetness of creeper flowers, all trembling. It pays open honour to Kāma, with banners marked with the fish on the house-poles, with bells ringing merrily, with crimson pennons of silk, and red cowries steady, made of coral, standing upright in every house. Its sin is washed away by the perpetual recitation of sacred books. (104) It resounds with the cry of the peacocks, intent on a wild dance with their tails outspread from excitement in the bathing-houses, wherein is the steady, deep sound of the drums, and a storm caused by the heavy showers of spray, and beautiful rainbows made by the sunbeams cast upon it. It glitters with lakes, fair with open blue water-lilies, with their centre white as unclosed moon-lotuses, beautiful in their unwavering gaze,³⁶⁰ like the thousand eyes of Indra. It is whitened with ivory turrets on all sides, endowed with plantain groves, white as flecks of ambrosial foam. It is girt with the river Siprā, which seems to purify the sky, with its waves forming a ceaseless frown, as though jealously beholding the river of heaven on the head of Çiva, while its waters sway over the rounded forms of the Mālavīs, wild with the sweetness of youth.

The light-hearted race that dwell there, like the moon on the locks of Çiva, spread their glory³⁶¹ through all the earth, and have their horn filled with plenty;³⁶² like Maināka, they have known no pakshapāta;³⁶³ like the stream of the heavenly Ganges, with its golden lotuses, their heaps of gold and rubies³⁶⁴ shine forth; like the law-books, they order the making of water-works, bridges, temples, pleasure-grounds, wells, hostels for novices, wayside sheds for watering cattle, and halls of assembly; like Mandara, they have the best treasures of ocean drawn up for them; though they have charms against poison,³⁶⁵ yet they fear snakes;³⁶⁶ though they live on the wicked,³⁶⁷ they give their best to the good; though bold, they are very courteous; though pleasant of speech, they are truthful; though handsome,³⁶⁸ content with their wives; though they invite the entrance of guests, they know not how to ask a boon; though they seek love and wealth, they are strictly just; though virtuous, they fear another world.³⁶⁹ They are connoisseurs in all arts, pleasant³⁷⁰ and intelligent. They talk merrily, are charming in their humour, spotless in their attire, (106) skilled in foreign languages, clever at subtleties of speech,³⁷¹ versed in stories of all kinds,³⁷² accomplished in letters, having a keen delight in the Mahābhārata, Purāṇas, and Rāmāyaṇa, familiar with the Bṛihatkathā, masters of the whole circle of arts, especially gambling, lovers of the çāstras, devoted to light literature, calm as a fragrant spring breeze, constantly going to the south;³⁷³ upright,³⁷⁴ like the wood of Himālaya; skilled in the worship of Rāma,³⁷⁵ like Lakshmaṇa; open lovers of Bharata, like Çatrughna;³⁷⁶ like the day, following the sun;³⁷⁷ like a Buddhist, bold in saying ‘Yes’ about all kinds of gifts;³⁷⁸ like the doctrine of the Sāṃkhyā philosophy, possessed of noble men;³⁷⁹ like Jinadharma, pitiful to life.

The city seems possessed of rocks, with its palaces; it stretches like a suburb with its long houses; it is like the tree that grants desires with its good citizens; it bears in its painted halls the mirror of all forms. Like twilight, it shines with the redness of rubies;³⁸⁰ (107) like the form of the Lord of Heaven, it is purified with the smoke of a hundred sacrifices; like the wild dance of Çiva, it has the smiles, which are its white markets;³⁸¹ like an old woman, it has its beauty worn;³⁸² like the form of Garuḍa, it is pleasing in being the resting-place of Vishṇu;³⁸³ like the hour of dawn, it has its people all alert; like the home of a mountaineer, it has palaces in which ivory cowries³⁸⁴ are hanging; like the form of Çesha,³⁸⁵ it always bears the world; like the hour of churning the ocean, it fills the end of the earth with its hubbub;³⁸⁶ like the rite of inauguration, it has a thousand gold pitchers³⁸⁷ at hand; like Gaurī, it has a form fit to sit on the lion-throne; like Aditi, honoured in a hundred houses of the gods; like the sports of Mahāvarāha, showing the casting down of Hiraṇyāksha;³⁸⁸ like Kadrū, it is a joy to the race of reptiles;³⁸⁹ like the Harivaṃça, it is charming with the games of many children.³⁹⁰ (108) Though its courts are open to all, its glory is uninjured;³⁹¹ though it glows with colour,³⁹² it is white as nectar; though it is hung with strings of pearls, yet when unadorned³⁹³ it is adorned the most; though composed of many elements,³⁹⁴ it is yet stable, and it surpasses in splendour the world of the immortals.

There the sun is daily seen paying homage to Mahākāla, for his steeds vail their heads at the charm of the sweet chant of the women singing in concert in the lofty white palaces, and his pennon droops before him. There his rays fall on the vermeil floors like the crimson of eve; and on the emerald seats, as though busy in creating lotus beds; on the lapis-lazuli, as though scattered on the sky; on the circling aloe smoke, as though eager to break its dense gloom; on the wreaths of pearl, as though disdaining the clusters of stars; (109) on the women’s faces, as though kissing unfolding lotuses; on the splendour of crystal walls, as though falling amid the pale moonlight of morning; on the white silken banners, as though hanging on the waves of the heavenly Ganges; on the sun-gems, as though blossoming from them; on the sapphire lattices, as though entering the jaws of Rāhu. There darkness never falls, and the nights bring no separation to the pairs of cakravākas; nor need they any lamps, for they pass golden as with morning sunshine, from the bright jewels of women, as though the world were on fire with the flame of love. There, though Çiva is at hand, the cry of the haṃsas in the houses, arising sweet and ceaseless, at the kindling of love, fills the city with music, like the mourning of Rati for the burning of the God of Love. There the palaces stretch forth their flags, whose silken fringes gleam and flutter at night in the wind, like arms to remove the mark of the moon put to shame by the fair lotus-faced Mālavīs. (110) There the moon, deer-marked, moves, in the guise of his reflection, on the jewel pavement, cool with the sprinkling of much sandal-water, as though he had fallen captive to Love at the sight of the faces of the fair city dames resting on the palace roofs. There the auspicious songs of dawn raised by the company of caged parrots and starlings, though they sing their shrillest, as they wake at night’s close, are drowned and rendered vain by the tinkling of women’s ornaments, reaching far, and outvying the ambrosial voices of the tame cranes.³⁹⁵ (111) There dwells Çiva, who has pierced the demon Andhaka with his sharp trident, who has a piece of the moon on his brow polished by the points of Gaurī’s anklets, whose cosmetic is the dust of Tripura, and whose feet are honoured by many bracelets fallen from Rati’s outstretched arms as she pacifies him when bereft of Kāma.

DESCRIPTION OF TĀRĀPĪḌA.³⁹⁶

(112) Like hell, he was the refuge of the lords of earth,³⁹⁷ fearing when their soaring pride was shorn;³⁹⁸ like the stars, he was followed by the wise men;³⁹⁹ like Love, he destroyed strife;⁴⁰⁰ like Daçaratha, he had good friends;⁴⁰¹ (113) like Çiva, he was followed by a mighty host;⁴⁰² like Çesha, he had the weight of the earth upon him;⁴⁰³ like the stream of Narmadā, his descent was from a noble tree.⁴⁰⁴ He was the incarnation of Justice, the very representative of Vishṇu, the destroyer of all the sorrows of his people. He re-established justice, which had been shaken to its foundations by the Kali Age, set on iniquity, and mantled in gloom by the spread of darkness, just as Çiva re-established Kailāsa when carried off by Rāvaṇa. He was honoured by the world as a second Kāma, created by Çiva when his heart was softened by the lamentations of Rati.

(113–115) Before him bowed conquered kings with eyes whose pupils were tremulous and quivering from fear, with the bands of the wreaths on their crest ornaments caught by the rays of his feet, and with the line of their heads broken by the lotus-buds held up in adoration. They came from the Mount of Sunrise,⁴⁰⁵ which has its girdle washed by the ocean waves, where the flowers on the trees of its slopes are doubled by stars wandering among the leaves, where the sandal-wood is wet with the drops of ambrosia that fall from the moon as it rises, where the clove-trees⁴⁰⁶ blossom when pierced by the hoofs of the horses of the sun’s chariot, where the leaves and shoots of the olibanum-trees are cut by the trunk of the elephant Airāvata; (114) from Setubandha, built with a thousand mountains seized by the hand of Nala,⁴⁰⁷ where the fruit on the lavalī-trees is carried off by monkeys, where the feet of Rāma are worshipped by the water-deities coming up from the sea, and where the rock is starred with pieces of shell broken by the fall of the mountain; from Mandara, where the stars are washed by the waters of pure waterfalls, where the stones are polished by the rubbing of the edge of the fish ornament of Kṛishṇa rising at the churning of ambrosia, where the slopes are torn by the weight of the feet moving in the effort of drawing hither and thither Vāsuki coiled in the struggles of Gods and demons, where the peaks are sprinkled with ambrosial spray; from Gandhamādana, beautiful with the hermitage of Badarikā marked with the footprints of Nara and Nārāyaṇa, where the peaks are resonant with the tinkling of the ornaments of the fair dames of Kuvera’s city, where the water of the streams is purified by the evening worship of the Seven Ṛishis, and where the land around is perfumed by the fragments of lotuses torn up by Bhīma.

CANDRĀPĪḌA’S ENTRY INTO THE PALACE

(188) Preceded by groups of chamberlains, hastening up and bowing, he received the respectful homage of the kings, who had already taken their position there, who came forward on all sides, who had the ground kissed by the rays of the crest-jewels loosened from their crests and thrown afar, and who were introduced one by one by the chamberlains; at every step he had auspicious words for his dismounting uttered by old women of the zenana, who had come out from inside, and were skilled in old customs; having passed through the seven inner courts crowded with thousands of different living beings, as if they were different worlds, he beheld his father. The king was stationed within, surrounded by a body-guard whose hands were stained black by ceaseless grasping of weapons, who had their bodies, with the exception of hands, feet, and eyes, covered with dark iron coats of mail, (189) like elephant-posts covered with swarms of bees ceaselessly attracted by desire of the scent of ichor, hereditary in their office, of noble birth, faithful; whose heroism might be inferred from their character and gestures, and who in their energy and fierceness were like demons. On either side he had white cowries ceaselessly waved by his women; and he sat on a couch white as a wild goose, and bright as a fair island, as if he were the heavenly elephant on the water of Ganges.

VILĀSAVATĪ’S ATTENDANTS

(190) Approaching his mother, he saluted her. She was surrounded by countless zenana attendants in white jackets, like Çrī with the waves of milk, and was having her time wiled away by elderly ascetic women, very calm in aspect, wearing tawny robes, like twilight in its clouds, worthy of honour from all the world, with the lobes of their ears long, knowing many stories, relating holy tales of old, reciting legends, holding books, and giving instructions about righteousness. (191) She was attended by eunuchs using the speech and dress of women, and wearing strange decorations; she had a mass of cowries constantly waved around her, and was waited upon by a bevy of women seated around her, bearing clothes, jewels, flowers, perfumes, betel, fans, unguents, and golden jars; she had strings of pearls resting on her bosom, as the earth has the stream of Ganges flowing in the midst of mountains, and the reflection of her face fell on a mirror close by, like the sky when the moon’s orb has entered into the sun.

ÇUKANĀSA’S PALACE

(192) He reached Çukanāsa’s gate, which was crowded with a troop of elephants appointed for the watch, obstructed by thousands of horses, (193) confused with the hustling of countless multitudes, visited day and night by Brahmans, Çaivas, and red-robed men skilled in the teaching of Çākyamuni, clothed as it were in the garments of righteousness, sitting on one side by thousands, forming circles, coming for various purposes, eager to see Çukanāsa, having their eyes opened by the ointment of their several çāstras, and showing their respectful devotion by an appearance of humility. The gateway was filled with a hundred thousand she-elephants of the tributary kings who had entered the palace with double blankets drawn round the mahouts who sat on their shoulders, having their mahouts asleep from weariness of their long waiting, some saddled and some not, nodding their heads from their long standing motionless. The prince dismounted in the outer court, as though he were in a royal palace, though not stopped by the guards standing in the entrance and running up in haste; and having left his horse at the entrance, leaning on Vaiçampāyana, and having his way shown by circles of gatekeepers, who hastened up, pushing away the bystanders, he received the salutes of bands of chiefs who arose with waving crests to do him homage, and beheld the inner courts with all the attendants mute in fear of the scolding of cross porters, and having the ground shaken by hundreds of feet of the retinues of neighbouring kings frightened by the moving wands, (194) and finally entered the palace of Çukanāsa, bright inside with fresh plaster, as if it were a second royal court.

DESCRIPTION OF NIGHT

(196) The brightness of day approached the west, following the path of the sun’s chariot-wheels, like a stream of water. Day wiped away all the glow of the lotuses with the sun’s orb hastening downwards like a hand roseate as fresh shoots. The pairs of cakravākas, whose necks were hidden in swarms of bees approaching from familiarity with the scent of lotuses, were separated as if drawn by the noose of destiny. The sun’s orb poured forth, under the guise of a rosy glow, the lotus honey-draught, as it were, drunk in with its rays till the end of day, as if in weariness of its path through the heavens. And when in turn the blessed sun approached another world, and was a very red lotus-earring of the West, when twilight shone forth with its lotus-beds opening into the lake of heaven, (197) when in the quarters of space lines of darkness showed clear like decorations of black aloes; when the glow of eve was driven out by darkness like a band of red lotuses by blue lotuses dark with bees; when bees slowly entered the hearts of red lotuses, as if they were shoots of darkness, to uproot the sunshine drunk in by the lotus-beds; when the evening glow had melted away, like the garland round the face of the Lady of night; when the oblations in honour of the goddess of twilight were cast abroad in all quarters; when the peacock’s poles seemed tenanted by peacocks, by reason of the darkness gathered round their summits, though no peacocks were there; when the doves, very ear-lotuses of the Lakshmī of palaces, were roosting in the holes of the lattices; when the swings of the zenana had their bells dumb, and their gold seats motionless and bearing no fair dames; when the bands of parrots and mainas ceased chattering, and had their cages hung up on the branches of the palace mango-trees; when the lutes were banished, and their sound at rest in the ceasing of the concert; when the tame geese were quiet as the sound of the maidens’ anklets was stilled; (198) when the wild elephants had the clefts of their cheeks free from bees, and their ornaments of pearls, cowries, and shells taken away; when the lights were kindled in the stables of the king’s favourite steeds; when the troops of elephants for the first watch were entering; when the family priests, having given their blessing, were departing; when the jewelled pavements, emptied almost of attendants on the dismissal of the king’s suite, spread out wide, kissed by the reflection of a thousand lights shining in the inner apartments, like offerings of golden campak-blossoms; when the palace tanks, with the splendours of the lamps falling on them, seemed as if the fresh sunlight had approached to soothe the lotus-beds grieved by separation from the sun; when the caged lions were heavy with sleep; and when Love had entered the zenana like a watchman, with arrows in hand and bow strung; when the words of Love’s messenger were uttered in the ear, bright in tone as the blossoms in a garland; when the hearts of froward dames, widowed by grief, were smouldering in the fire transmitted to them from the sun-crystals; and when evening had closed in, Candrāpīḍa … went to the king’s palace…

THE REGION OF KAILĀSA

(243) The red arsenic-dust scattered by the elephants’ tusks crimsoned the earth. The clefts of the rock were festooned with shoots of creepers, now separating and now uniting, hanging in twists, twining like leafage; the stones were wet with the ceaseless dripping of gum-trees; the boulders were slippery with the bitumen that oozed from the rocks. The slope was dusty with fragments of yellow orpiment broken by the mountain horses’ hoofs; powdered with gold scattered from the holes dug out by the claws of rats; lined by the hoofs of musk-deer and yaks sunk in the sand and covered with the hair of rallakas and raṅkus fallen about; filled with pairs of partridges resting on the broken pieces of rock; with the mouths of its caves inhabited by pairs of orang-outangs; with the sweet scent of sulphur, and with bamboos that had grown to the length of wands of office.

PASSAGES PRINTED IN THE APPENDIX.⁴⁰⁸

102, 1 – 110, 6

111, 1–4

112, 6 – 115, 1

188, 4 – 189, 5

190, 6 – 191, 5

192, 11 – 194, 2

196, 4 – 199, 1

243, 4–10

PASSAGES CONDENSED OR OMITTED.⁴⁰⁹

11, 7 – 15, 2

*31, 10 – 34, 2

46, 7 – 48, 4

81, 3–10

83, 1–8

85, 3 – 89, 4

119, 3 – 124, 3

137, 7 – 138, 3

141, 6 – 155, 5

162, 8 – 164, 8

176, 6 – 188, 4

*199, 5 – 200, 9

203, 2 – 204, 2

*227, 4 – 234, 6

242, 6–10

*245, 4 – 248, 3

250, 3–8

*252, 7 – 256, 5

262, 1 – 266, 3

276, 9 – 277, 8

285, 2–4

*346, 7 – 348, 7

353, 6 – 355, 9

357, 1–10

359, 12 – 365, 2

369, 2–8

*383, 6 – 384,9

388, 5 – 390, 4

403, 6 – 410, 3

417, 1 – 426, 3