And Babhru said without a smile: Aranyání, thou art laughing at a thing which, for all that, is very solemn, and very simple: for very sure it is, that whoever would deprive me of thyself must either slay me first, or die himself. And she said: Poor Bruin, this alone is very sure, that love must be a very demon, since he has filled thee with such a raging thirst for the slaughter of the sons of Kings. But come now, I will tell thee a better way: and that is, to kill me: for so wilt thou effectually circumvent and cheat all these love-sick and imaginary Kings, at a single blow: if, as it seems, I am to be a cause of strife and bloodshed, as long as I am alive.
And he looked at her fixedly, and said: Jest not with my devotion, for it may be, thou art nearer the truth than thou imaginest. Will any King whatever love thee half as well as I do? Yet thou wilt not love me, and as I think, it is because I am not on the level of thy thoughts, and not a King.[37]Then she laughed, and exclaimed: Alas! poor Bruin, thou art mad: for all these Kings are only dreams, yet art thou as savage as if they were actually before thee in a row. And he said: Aye! only dreams: and yet the dreams are earnest, and are thine. Kings are the very matter of thy dreams. Is not this the subject of thy reveries as thou gazest at the sand? Ha! am I right? Dost thou never long for some King's son to come and fill thy life with joy, and deliver thee from the monotony of this wood, and thy father, and myself? Am I not below thee, in thy estimation? Then for what canst thou long, but for thy peer?
And he looked keenly at Aranyání, and as her eyes met his, she wavered, a very little, and looked away, and said: Alas! poor Babhru, thy love is jealousy, which makes thee so sharp-sighted, that thou seest things that are not there. So trouble not thy foolish head about anything so slight and insignificant as the subject of my dreams, otherwise thou wilt place thyself on the level of the zanies of Chincholi. And he said: Thou speakest the very truth: I am the very type of a fool, striving to reach what is above him and beyond his reach, even when he stands on tiptoe: and that is, the level of thy thoughts. And Aranyání said: See now, I said well, thou art the very fellow of the sages of Chincholi: a city, into which on a day there came a certain sanctimonious ascetic, called Pinga, from the colour of his hair. And arriving at the square before the palace of the King, he sat down in its middle, and spreading out his left hand open before him, he looked intently at its palm. And so he continued, wrapt in the contemplation of his hand, paying absolutely no regard to anything around him, till night. And this he did every day, all day long, till at length he became the very target of the curiosity of the people of the town, who crowded round him in a throng, disputing as to the meaning of his singular behaviour, and all maintaining opposite opinions. And one said: This ascetic is undoubtedly pondering on the Panchatantra.[38]And another: Beyond a doubt, the holy man is meditating on Death. And yet another: Is not this an ascetic? And of what should he meditate but the five fires? But a pundit passing by, said: His meditation can be of nothing but the syllogism and its members. Thereupon another said: Is it not the left hand?[39]Then his thoughts are of the Shakti. And a wag among them said: Aye! For of what do all these holy men perpetually think, but of the five arrows of the God of Love? And a Brahman said: Thou art altogether out in thy conjecture, for he meditates on nothing but the sheaths of the soul. And a Gáwali shouted: The sage is considering devoutly the parts of the cow. For what is holier than a cow? And there arose such an uproar in the city that the citizens all came to blows, dividing into factions, around him, while all the time he sat peacefully just as if nobody was there, gazing at his hand. And finally the King sent officers to say to him: Depart quickly from the city, for thy presence is a cause of sedition. Thereupon Pinga said: Interrupt my meditation, and I will curse the city, so as to deprive it of both sun and rain. So fearing his curse, the King had recourse to diplomacy. And he sent hispurohitaat night, who secretly induced that obstinate ascetic to go away, of his own accord, by giving him alakh. And as he slowly went out of the city, hischelasaid to him aside: Master, whatwasthe subject of thy meditation: for I am curious to know? Then that crafty ascetic suddenly laughed like a hyæna. And he said: I meditated about absolutely nothing but my own hand. And now, this is a lesson to thee. For such is the nature of fools, who comprehend least of all what is absolutely simple, and see last of all what is lying before their nose. And whoever knows this possesses treasure inexhaustible, and is master of the world.
And Babhru watched her intently, as she spoke, and when she ended, he said suddenly and abruptly: Aranyání, thou art deceiving me. And she said: How, O Babhru? And he said: Thou art this morning totally unlike thyself: for thy customary melancholy is absent, and thou art strange, and elated, and agitated, and as it seems to me, thou art telling me idle stories, like one that listens all the while to something else, as it were in a hurry merely to throw me off the scent, and hide from me a secret, and amuse me like a child. And somehow or other, I feel as if there were a wall between us, this morning, which was never there before. Aye! I am sure, I know not how, thou art playing as it were a part, to cast a mist before my eyes, and hide from me some agitation in thy soul.
And Aranyání laughed, and blushed, and frowned, and finally she said: Babhru, thy love is a disease, which fills thy head with nightmare, and thy eyes with phantoms born of suspicion in thy soul. And he said: Alas! thy own behaviour gives the lie to thee. Thou art not like thyself, and I am right. And now, then, I will tell thee, in return for thy stories, one myself; but unlike them, mine shall be very sad, and very true.
And Aranyání turned, and looked at him with anxiety in her eyes: and she said: O Babhru, a story, and from thee! what is it? And he said: Dost thou remember, a little while ago, when we wandered, the last time I saw thee, in the wood? And she said: Yes. Then he said: Dost thou recollect, how all at once I stopped thee, and turned back with thee, and left thee so abruptly? And shall I tell thee, why? And Aranyání gazed at him, turning a little paler, without speaking. Then he said: Know, that as we went, I looked, and suddenly I saw before me in the bushes, what was unseen by thee, the face of a man. And as I saw it, I shuddered, for his eyes were fixed on thee, with astonishment, and evil admiration. And instantly I turned, and took thee home, and left thee, and hurried back to find him: but he was gone. I hunted everywhere, but he was gone. And ever since, I cannot even sleep, for thinking of this man, and of his eyes, which haunt me, as they gloated on thee, like a terror, bidding me beware, and saying as it were: Ha! Ha! thy treasure is discovered. And I resemble one, whose buried hoard of gold has been seen by other eyes; and hardly do I dare to be away from thee, not as before, merely for love of thee, but for fear, lest, on returning, I should find my treasure gone.
And all at once, he burst into a sob; and he rose, and took a step or two away from her. And Aranyání rose also, and she said with agitation: O Babhru, what was he like, this man? Was he tall and powerful, like thee? And Babhru said: Nay, he was a little ugly man, with weasel eyes. And Aranyání laughed, as if with relief. And she exclaimed: O Babhru, what is this? Is this a man of whom to be afraid? What! shall I fall a victim to this little man with weasel eyes, who hides in bushes? Be under no concern, for so much I will tell thee, that not even a hundred such pigmies shall ever carry me away.
And Babhru said sadly: Alas! Aranyání, thou dost not understand: and like the flower in thy hair, thou art utterly ignorant of thy own attraction. And exactly such a man as this, whom thou despisest, is the most dangerous of all. Dost thou think, if once through his agency the world should suddenly become aware of what this wood contains, it would long remain unvisited by others? It was not the face of the intruder that I feared, but his tongue, which, could I but have caught him, I would have cut out of his throat, to keep it from betraying thy existence to the world outside.
And as he looked towards her, with tears in his eyes, all at once Aranyání changed colour, turning suddenly paler, as if her heart, appalled by the apparition of some menace in his words, had summoned to its assistance all the blood in her face. And after a while she said: Babhru, thou art ill, and thy unfortunate affection not only makes thee overestimate my value, but even leads thee to alarm thyself and me, by creating imaginary fears. And moreover, come what may, the mischief, if any mischief is, is done, and the tongue that is thy bugbear is safe and at a distance in its owner's head, talking, very probably, of anything but me. But now, while we ourselves are talking, time has fled, and it is nearly noon; for the shadows are at shortest; and now, I dare not let thee stay here any longer; as indeed, I was to blame, in allowing thee to stay at all; and better had it been for both of us, it may be, hadst thou never come. And should my father suddenly return, and find thee, it would be worse. Why need I tell thee what thou knowest very well? And what good can come to thee, by longing for what is forbidden? Thou dost only add fuel to the flame of thy fever, which I, did I do my duty, ought rather to quench, by pouring over it the cold water of distance and separation. But my compassion for thee fights with my obedience to my father, for I am only a woman after all, and very weak; and it may be, I love thee just a very little. So be content with all that I can give thee, and do not come again, but recover from thy fears, and forget me. I cannot be thy wife, but I wish thee well. And now goodbye, and go away.
So as she stood, dismissing him, Babhru turned without a word, and went away into the wood, very slowly, while she watched him go. And she put both her hands behind her head, and stood looking after him, absolutely still. And as fate would have it, he turned round, just before he passed out of sight, and looked back, and saw her standing, gazing after him with a smile, with every outline of her round and slender woman's form standing out sharp as the moon's rim, as if on purpose to intoxicate his eye, against the background of the distant sand, like a threefold incarnation of his inaccessible desire, and his disappearing happiness, and his irrevocable farewell, in a feminine shape. And all at once he came back to her with hurried steps. And he reached her, and fell down before her, and seized a corner of her red garment that was loose, and kissed it. And then he started up. And he said, in a voice that shook, with tears stealing from his eyes: Well I understand that I am looking at thee, for the very last time.
And then he turned, and went away very quickly, without looking round: while she stood in agitation, looking after him, till he disappeared among the trees.
So she stood, a long while, gazing in the direction of his departure, touched by his emotion into an emotion, that was more than half compassion, of her own, and sorry, yet fearing above all things to see him return. And then at last, as if satisfied that he was actually gone, she turned away. And she murmured to herself: Alas! poor Babhru, hadst thou but known how near thy fear came to the very truth, I doubt whether I could ever have got thee to go away at all. And even as it is, it is a wonder that he has not actually discovered what his jealousy prompted him to guess: and all the while I trembled, feeling a very culprit, so accurately did he probe my soul, and see into my heart. And wonderful exceedingly is the sagacity of love, that discerns, from the very faintest indications, what would escape all other eyes! And yet, for all his acuteness, how little did he dream, that I knew, by experience, what love is, better, far better, than himself. He knew that I deceived him, but did not know, how far. And after all, what shadow of a right has he, to claim my affection for himself? But now he has had his turn, and all that I could give him: and now, then, it is my turn, and it is time, and it is noon.
And then, all at once, Babhru, and everything concerning him, vanished clean out of her mind. And strange! she changed, as if by magic, in an instant, into another woman. For as she stood, unconsciously she smiled, and the smile ran, as it were, over her whole body with a sudden wave of delicious agitation, and from a woman that she was, lording it, as if with a sense of superiority, she turned into a child, trembling all over with the excitement of anticipation. And she looked very carefully all round her, as if to make sure of being unobserved; and all at once, she ran very quickly away into the wood, turning her back on Babhru, down the hill towards the sand. And coming at length to a little clump of trees, she stopped abruptly, and clapped her hands. And at that very instant, as if he had been waiting for the signal, Atirupa issued from the trees. And Aranyání ran towards him, breathless, half with running, and half with the agitation of the joy of reunion, and threw herself into his arms, with a cry.
And then, for a while, that pair of lovers did nothing but kiss each other all over, with kisses that followed one another like raindrops in a storm. And after a while, he said: Dear Aranyání, thou art very late, and like the little rogue thou art, hast kept me waiting, as I think, on purpose, to make thy value greater, and increase my thirst, till I had almost determined, in despair, to go away. And Aranyání said, playfully: What! couldst thou not wait for me a little while, and am I not worth waiting for, at all? And he kissed her very carefully on both eyes, and he said: Indeed thou art. Then she said softly: And dost thou then imagine that delay is any easier to me than to thyself? Know, that I had difficulty, in coming even when I did. For I had first to get rid of someone else, in order to come at all. And Atirupa said: Thy old lover, of whom thou hast told me? Then she said: Thou sayest well, my old lover, who loves me, as I think, far better than thou dost, and almost as much as I love thee. But alas! for him, since I love him not again; and well will it be, for me, if in thy case also, love is not wholly on one side. Say, dost thou love me, even half as much as I love thee? And Atirupa said, with a smile: Nay, if I must believe thee, it is impossible.
And she gazed at him with insatiable eyes, and she said with a sigh: Yes, it is impossible. And yet, strange! it is not yet a week, since I came upon thee in the wood for the very first time, thinking, as I saw thee, that the very god of love had, somehow or other, dropped out of heaven, and wandering about on earth, had lost his way in our wood, only for my destruction; to consume me, like lightning irresistible, only by a look: and turn me suddenly from free into a slave, the property of another, who is master of her body and her soul. And yet, only this very morning did I learn, how nearly I had lost thee: since thy servant that saw me in the wood, and was the cause of thy coming, came within an ace of perishing himself, before he ever got away to tell. And Atirupa said: How? And Aranyání told him. And then she said: And now I fear for thee also: for should Babhru chance to see thee, his reason will desert him. And I tremble to think of thy encounter, with such a giant as is he. And yet I know not what to do. For he will surely come across thee, sooner or later, as indeed it is marvellous that he has not done already: since thou comest daily to me in the wood.
And Atirupa laughed, and he said: Fear nothing, O thou with the eyes of a gazelle: for it may be he himself, that would suffer most by our meeting. Then said Aranyání: It is exactly this I fear. For I would not have thee harm him, even though my fear is all for thee. And Atirupa said: There is a very easy way to solve this difficulty, and deprive thee of all cause of fear, which has not yet occurred to thee. And Aranyání said: What is that? And Atirupa said: It is only in this wood that we could ever meet each other. But what if thou shouldst come away with me, O thou delicious little slave, leaving the wood behind thee, to a place he cannot reach?
And then, Aranyání started, and looked at him with eyes that were filled with timidity and dismay, as if she hardly understood. And after a while, she said: What! come away with thee! it is impossible. And she gazed at him in terror, while Atirupa looked at her steadily, with caressing impenetrable eyes. And he murmured to himself: Now, then, I have startled my beautiful and timid fawn, but the seed is for all that sown in her beating heart. And now, then, we shall see, whether I can get her, by persuasion and caresses and cajolery, to come away of her own accord; or whether, as I do not wish, I shall have to carry her off by force. For she will be far sweeter if she yields herself, even though reluctant, than if I have to make her come away, whether she will or no. And presently he said gently: Dear Aranyání, dost thou imagine that either I can live without thee, or remain for ever in thy wood? For even as it is, I have been living in the wood, on thy account, for many days, at a distance from my capital, neglecting all my state affairs; and long ago my ministers must have wondered, what can have become of me. So of two things, one is absolutely necessary: and either thou must come away, or we must part.
And Aranyání looked at him steadily, turning very pale. And she murmured in bewilderment: Part! Thou and I! And Atirupa said: Dear, thou seest, the very notion makes thee pale. Then what will it be to part, in reality? Couldst thou endure to live without me? Or can I live for ever in the wood? Then what remains but this alone, to leave the wood thyself, and come with me, since there is absolutely no other way?
And Aranyání drew herself away, out of his arms; and she stood, looking down upon the ground, silent, and very pale: while Atirupa watched her, standing still, with eyes that never left her for an instant. And after a while, he said again: Dear Aranyání, couldst thou actually think, it could continue thus for ever, or that I could remain for ever, as I am doing now, camping in the wood, and coming every day to see thee?
And Aranyání sighed, and she said very slowly, still looking at the ground: I know not, for I have thought of absolutely nothing, since I saw thee, but thyself; and that was enough for me, and more; since my soul was so full that it had room for nothing else. And all the past had vanished, and the future did not matter, swallowed up in the present which was ecstasy, and intoxication, and thou. How could I think of anything at all? And now thou hast suddenly awaked me from a dream, which in my folly I had imagined would never have an end, but last for ever. And lo! it is gone, and all is over, and finished, almost before it has begun.
And Atirupa said in a whisper: Say rather, O Aranyání, that the dream is only just beginning.
And she answered angrily: Dost thou think it then so easy for a flower to consent to be torn up by the roots, and carried from its home no matter where? For like a flower I am rooted in this wood, where I have lived and grown since the beginning, with my father and the trees, and the creepers, and the deer. And now thou hast placed thyself, with a sudden flash of lightning, in opposition to it all; and thou wouldst make me choose, threatening to go away and leave me, unless I sacrifice it all, to go into the darkness, I know not where, with thee. Dost thou think the choice is easy which will utterly destroy me, whichever way it falls? Thou art the cause of all, and resemblest a knife, that bids me to consent and rejoice, while it cuts my heart in two, possessing absolutely no heart whatever of its own.
And Atirupa said gently: Alas! Aranyání, thou art utterly unjust, and this was my very fear, that when I offered thee to choose between the wood, which is thy past, and myself, who am thy future, I should seem to thee utterly of no account, and light in the balance, weighed against what I asked thee to resign. I say, thou blamest me unjustly, when I am absolutely blameless, unless indeed it be a fault, to love thee, for which not I, but thyself, or rather the Creator is to blame, for making thee exactly what thou art. Who can blame the butter for melting in the flame, or make it a crime in the ocean, for rising in tumult and agitation at the sight of the tender digit of the moon? Is it my fault, if I must go away, since after all my kingdom is in need of me, and even as it is, I have remained here too long, and all on thy account? And what can I do but ask thee to come with me, since unless we are to part, there is absolutely nothing else to do? And does not every maiden do the same? Did not Shakuntalá abandon her home and her relations in the forest, to follow King Dushmanta? And did not even the Daughter of the Snow abandon, not only her father, but even her own body, for the sake of the Moony-crested god? And art thou fearful, O thou intoxicating child, to go into the dark? But what will darkness matter? nay, will not the dark itself become nectar, provided I am there? Or rather, will not the darkness be still darker, and gloomier, and blacker, if I go away and leave thee by thyself?
And Aranyání stood for a moment, when he ended; and then all at once she sank down upon the ground, and hid her face in her two hands, and began to sob. And after a while she said in agitation: What hast thou done to me? For till I saw thee, I was happy; and now I am torn by thee utterly in two. For I cannot bear to part either with thee, or with my father and my home. And now I could wish never to have seen thee, and well had it been, if thy servant never had set eyes on me, to tell thee, and bring thee to the wood. Why hast thou come hither to destroy me? For all has come about exactly as Babhru said and feared, when he foretold that thy coming would be my utter ruin.
And Atirupa listened, and he murmured to himself: She has fallen into the snare, by avowing her vacillation, and allowing herself to debate, instead of repudiating my proposal: and now it will be my own fault, if I cannot turn the scale in my own favour, by playing on her agitated heart. And he said coldly: Ha! then, as I thought, it is Babhru who causes all the trouble; and he it is, whom thou art so unwilling to resign.
And instantly Aranyání started up, and exclaimed with vehemence and indignation: What! dost thou taunt me, dost thou actually dare to taunt me, with Babhru, whom I have sacrificed without a thought to thee? Alas! poor Babhru. Little does he resemble thee, for so far from taking me away, he would live at my bidding even in a desert, and give up a hundred kingdoms, if he had them, for my sake. And Atirupa said: Then be it as thou wilt, for I will not be his rival. Go with him to thy desert, and I will go to mine.
And he turned, as if to go away in anger. But as he went, Aranyání sprang towards him with a shriek. And she seized him by the arm, and shook it passionately, exclaiming: Away with Babhru! O forgive me, for I am mad, and I know not what I say or do. What is Babhru in comparison with thee? Only be not angry, and do not go, do not leave me, for thy going is my death. And she clutched him, and caught him by the neck, and drawing his face violently down to her, she began to kiss him without ceasing, mingling the rain of her kisses with the shower of her tears. And after a while, she drew back, and holding his neck very tightly with her left arm, she gazed intently at his face, as if in meditation, drawing her finger slowly all around it, and over each eyebrow, and round and round his mouth, over and over again. And then all at once she threw her right arm also round his neck, and hid her face upon his breast, exclaiming, while her own breast beat like a wave upon his heart: Either thou never shouldst have come, or shouldst never go away.
And Atirupa stood quietly, supporting her in his arms, and allowing her to do with him exactly as she pleased. And finally, he stroked her hair gently with his hand, and murmured to himself: Now very soon, I think, she will consent, as it were without consenting, to come away, after a little coaxing. And he said aloud: Dear Aranyání, it is not I that am tearing thee in two, as thou sayest: but it is rather thou thyself that art pulling thy soul to pieces, utterly without a cause. Truly wonderful is love, that fills his victims with fears that are absurd, and makes them see before them dangers that do not exist at all!
And all at once Aranyání raised her head, and began to laugh, looking at him strangely, and saying to herself: These were my very words to Babhru, only an hour ago. And Atirupa said: Now, then, thou art laughing, equally without a cause: but why? And she said: It is nothing. Then he said: Is it thy reason returning to thee that makes thee laugh instead of weep? For why should it so frighten and disturb thee, to think of leaving all behind for me? Dost thou think I cannot give thee compensation, ten thousand times over, for all thou lettest go? Then of what art thou afraid?
And Aranyání raised her head, and looked fixedly straight into his eyes, and yet strange! seeing nothing, for her soul was absent, thinking not of him at all, but of Babhru. And she said within herself: Can it be, that what Babhru is to me, that I am to another, and that of every pair of lovers, one only loves? And what then will be my fate, if I follow him in spite of all, only to discover, that just as I left Babhru in the lurch, so I myself shall be abandoned, it may be, for some other woman's sake? And at the thought, she shuddered, and grew cold all over, and turned suddenly paler than a waning moon.
And Atirupa saw it, and was puzzled, understanding nothing of what was passing in her soul. And he drew her, half-resisting, once more towards him, and began again to caress her hair, saying as he did so, very slowly: Aranyání, thou art in very truth, for thy timidity and thy eyes, own sister to the deer: and yet, somehow, I would not have it otherwise, for thy timidity is not less beautiful than those great eyes which it fills with apprehension and distrust: and wert thou brave, thy soft body would not quiver, to fill me with emotion, nor should I now be tasting, as I kiss thee, the salt beauty of those pearls, thy tears. Stand still, then, a little while, O pretty little coward, and if thou wilt, tremble yet a little in my arms, and grow calm, and let me reassure thee: for thou takest fright at the noise of every rustling leaf, not stopping to consider, whether there be really anything to injure thee or no. And now let me ask thee: I have told thee who I am, and shown thee many things even of thyself, that were unknown to thee: for so far from being strangers, we are actually kin. And why then shouldst thou fear to come away? for to whom shouldst thou come, if not to thy own kindred? And yet, that is the very reason why I cannot ask thy father for thee. For dost thou think, should I go to him, and ask him, he would bestow thee on me, or let thee go away? Say, would he consent? And Aranyání said, in a low voice: If, as thou hast told me, thou really art the son of Jaya, then rather would he see me lying dead at his feet. And Atirupa said: Thou seest. Yet why should thou and I be enemies, because our parents were? And what then, O Aranyání, of the other? Would thy Babhru let thee go? And she said: Nay, rather would he slay thee, or himself, or it may be even me. Then said Atirupa: O foolish one, canst thou then not bring thyself to comprehend, that since I must absolutely go, and none will let thee go, either thou must come away with me, or stay here by thyself? And yet, when I show thee the necessity, thou art ready to consume me like a straw in the flame of thy reproaches. What then? Wouldst thou have me go away secretly, saying nothing? And wouldst thou not then exclaim against me as a traitor, never seeing me return? And dost thou think it easy for me to go away, leaving thee behind? I tell thee, I cannot go away without thee, and yet I cannot stay. Then only tell me, what to do. Say, little cousin, why wilt thou fear to come away with me? I marvel rather that thou dost not fear to stay. What wilt thou do alone, when I am gone? Will thy father console thee for my absence, thy father who leaves thee all alone? or will Babhru make up to thee for thy sending me away? I tell thee, they will both become so hateful in thy sight, that thou wilt run away of thy own accord, merely to escape from them, no matter where. And then thou wilt bitterly regret thy scruples, all too late, having lost the opportunity that never will return; for if I go without thee, I shall never come again. But my image will haunt thee, and follow thee about like a shadow, to darken all thy life, and instead of a rapture ever present, I shall be to thee a memory of bitterness, and everlasting self-reproach, and vain remorse. And thou wilt grow gradually older, alone, being in thy own eyes a thing intolerable, as having cast away a priceless gem, delicious companionship, friendship and affection, that Fortune herself fished thee from the deep, only to see her present thrown, with ingratitude, by thee, away. And in thy loneliness thou wilt seek in vain to flee even from thyself, and it may be, judging thy life utterly unendurable, thou wilt seek refuge from its horror in a death of thy own contriving, having missed the very fruit of thy birth, and ending like a blunder of the Creator, and a thing that had better not have been.
And as he spoke, he felt Aranyání on his breast, sobbing till she shook him, as if to say, Cease, for thou art driving a knife into my heart. And yet he went on slowly, as if his very object were to stab her to the quick. And then, all at once he changed. And he whispered in her ear: Dear cousin, why dost thou so obstinately destroy thyself and me? What! dost thou make believe to love me, calling thyself slave, and yet refuse to follow me wherever I may go? Or dost thou think that thou art dreaming, mistaking a shadow for reality, expecting suddenly to wake, and find nothing in thy arms, and thy vision of happiness a phantom, vanishing like the picture in the desert, leaving nothing but the sand? Thou resemblest a very foolish little deer, that for idle fear of falling victim to delusion, should absolutely refuse to drink, even at a pool. O deer, what can ever convince thee of the reality of water, if thou wilt not believe, even when thou art actually standing, as at present, knee-deep in the lake? Must the very future become present, before thou wilt trust thyself to credit what it holds? But thou askest impossibility, and like every other maiden, thou canst not experience the future till it comes. Hast thou, then, no faith in me at all? Out, out, upon the love that cannot trust! O Aranyání, surely thy love is very small, and a mere imitation and counterfeit of love: for as a rule, true love is tested by its power of putting faith in what it loves. See, then, thou unbeliever, I will try to bring the future before thy very eyes, and as I did before, when I told of the life that lay before thee by thyself, so now will I paint for thee another picture, to show thee an image of that life that thou wilt forfeit, by sending me away alone.
And he paused for a moment, as if reflecting on his coming words. But he murmured to himself: I feel that she is hesitating, and trembling in the balance; resembling a fruit that fears to fall, yet knows that its very nature dooms it to be eaten, and is half inclined on that account to drop of its own accord. And now, with a little shaking, she will drop into my hand: since like a very woman, she cannot say either yes or no, wishing to be forced along the path which all the while she longs, yet is terribly afraid, to tread. And now then will I bait the hook with flattery, and we shall see whether this golden fish will not swallow it as greedily as all her silver sisters, resembling as they do delicate and fragile foolish ware that sells itself in a market created by its own vanity, where false coin passes easily without detection, and is even more potent and valuable than true. And yet in her case, flattery is very easy, for the grossest is only the simple truth.
And presently he said, in a very low voice: Aranyání, tell me: am I beautiful? And she said, after a while, with her face hidden in his breast: Why ask me to repeat what I have told thee in every way a thousand times already? Then he said: And does it not occur to thee, that thou givest me what I give thee? And so we are a pair, for if my beauty is an idol to thee, what else is thine to me? But thou, all ignorant of thy own extraordinary charm, art incredulous, not understanding that I also am a devotee to the spell of thy dreamy eyes, and the aromatic fragrance of thy hair, and the clinging prison of thy soft round arms, and the taste of thy delicious lips, whose kisses cool, like snowflakes, by their leaf-like half involuntary fall, the burning caused by the touch of thy trembling breast, when it beats on my heart like the surge of the sea. And should we separate, that were made for one another like Maheshwara and the Daughter of the Snow? Nay, we will rather grow together, thou, like the creeper, clinging ever to me, just as thou art doing now, indistinguishable from the tree which is myself. And thou shrinkest from the darkness, but I will be thy darkness and thy night, O thou slender digit of the moon. What wouldst thou do without thy night, O moon? Or didst thou say, thyself, thou wert a flower? Well, thou shalt be my blue lotus, and I will be thy pool: looking into which, thou shalt see thy own reflection, and rejoice. Or, if thou wilt, I will play the river, and thou shalt be the silver swan that floats upon its breast. What! wilt thou take from the river all its beauty, by refusing to float upon the water that only longs to be adorned by so beautiful a burden? Or better still, thou shalt be my mango blossom, and I, thy mad black bee, living only to plunder my shy sweet blossom of its intoxicating wine; aye, without thee, I should indeed resemble a golden cup, without the wine that gives it all its use and worth. Thou art the salt, of me the ocean, and the pearl within my shell: and with thee, I shall be a very Wishnu, with thee, for my Fortune and my Shrí. And like a word, I should be utterly meaningless without thee, who art my meaning and my soul. And wouldst thou separate, and sever me from thee? Nay, nay, O cousin, we will live together, not like accidental waifs that haply meet to part again upon the waves of time, but rather like two happy children playing King and Queen, drifting in a golden boat along the crystal stream of life, never so much as touching on a shoal, but gliding on, sometimes plying silver oars, and sometimes spreading a purple sail to catch the sandal-scented breeze that blows from Malaya loaded with the lazy odour of the South, letting all the hours slip past us unperceived, till we float away together into the open sea of Death.
And as he murmured, holding Aranyání in arms that added emphasis by the affection of their pressure to the persuasion of his voice, all at once she tore herself away from him abruptly, and went and stood, at a little distance, by herself, silent, and looking out upon the sand. And Atirupa stood still, watching her with curious, half passionate, half meditative eyes. And he said within himself: She is standing on the very edge of the precipice, into which she is just about to fall, irresolute, and dizzy, and distracted by an arbitration which she dares not settle either way, not so much out of desire to go, or stay, but rather because she is equally unable and unwilling, either to stay, or go: and in the agony of her beautiful perplexity, she is craving to be delivered from the choice, by having the matter settled for her: and now, the weight even of a hair would turn the scale. And he drew near slowly, and said, after a while: Hast thou forgotten, O cousin, that there will be no farewell to say to thy surroundings, though thou shouldst leave them now? For there is absolutely nothing to prevent thee from returning to visit them, as often as thou wilt. But still she answered nothing, remaining with her back turned towards him, exactly as before.
And once again he said: Aranyání, dost thou hear me? I do not ask thee to say goodbye for ever to the wood.
And he waited for a while, and at last, as she never either moved or spoke, he said again: Since, then, thou art absolutely determined, and thy mind is made up to let me go away alone: it is well. So, now, there is nothing left, but for me to go. And I must absolutely depart, whether I will or no. For my kingdom requires me, and my retinue is waiting at the bottom of the hill, to bring me over the sand. And sometimes in the wood thou wilt remember me, and it may be, offer water to the ghost of our dead happiness, and the love that might have been, for in this wood I cannot live, and if thou wilt not come away, it is useless to return. So bid me but farewell, and I will go, and thou shalt never see me more.
And then she turned. And she put out her hand towards him, as if with entreaty, and made a single step, and all at once she swayed, and would have fallen, but that he caught her in his arms. And she said, in a voice so low as scarcely to be heard: Take me, if thou must, and quickly, for in another moment, I think that my heart will break in two.
And then, she sank down, bereft of her reason, and lay in his arms in a swoon.
And Atirupa stood for a moment, looking down upon her, as he held her in his arms. And he said to himself, as if half in irresolution: So, then, it is over, and I have conquered, and she has yielded, and is mine. And yet, somehow or other, I feel, in this instance, a touch of something that resembles pity, and there is as it were a sting, resembling that of a bee, mixed with my honey, which I never felt before. For after all, she is my own relation. And what will she do, when she finds out her mistake? And yet, after all, the mischief is done, and now it is too late. For as it seems, she will break her heart, in a little while, whether she goes away with me, or not.
And then, he lifted her in his arms, and went away quickly through the trees, down the hill.
So, then, night followed day, and day succeeded night, in order. And the new moon waxed, and waned: and every day the sun rose up as usual, and travelled slowly on, till he sank at eve, over the sand, beyond the western hill. And then at last, there came a day, when just as he was sinking, it happened that Babhru sat alone, watching him as he went down, at that very same place in the wood where he had parted last from Aranyání, the day she disappeared. And strange! short as had been the interval of time, he was altered, and it seemed as though years had rolled over him, writing on him in an instant the wrinkles of old age. For he looked like an incarnation of dejection, worn and wan, with eyes that were red and hollow, as if sleep had fled away from them, ousted by her jealous rivals, sorrow and her sister care. And as he saw the sun just on the very point of going down, he murmured to himself: He is but showing me the way, and now very soon, I shall follow his example, abandoning like him a birth, in which my business is done. For what is the use of this miserable body, deserted and forsaken by its soul, and left lying empty, and utterly forgotten, and despised? not even knowing where to look, or where that soul is gone: this body, which long ago I would have quitted not only without regretting it, but even with delight, could but I know for certain that Aranyání is actually dead, and unable to return: since but for the hope of that return, I should have ceased to live these many days. Alas! I cannot even tell, whether she is dead, or still alive. And yet it cannot be: she is not dead. And yet, she is nowhere to be found: for I have searched the wood a hundred times from end to end, till there is not a single one of all its leaves I have not turned upside down, and all in vain. For she has vanished like a dream, leaving not so much as even the shadow of a clue behind: and she resembles a drop of dew, dried by the sun at noon on the leaf of a red lotus, with nothing but the memory of those who saw it in the morning to show that it was ever there. She has gone, I know not how, I know not where; snatched away and stolen, and it may be even put to death, or something that is worse than any death, by those who have carried her away, I know not who. And O alas! that I ever left her. I only was to blame, that saw the evil coming, and shrank in terror from its shadow, like a bird that sees upon the ground beside it the shadow of the hawk. I left her, and now, beyond a doubt, hope is absolutely over, and I shall never see her more. And why then should I delay, or wait to see another sun? But what, if after all, she were not dead, but still alive, and should return? Then, what a fool I should have been, to die! And yet, if she is dead? Alas! if she is dead, my life is but an idle waste of time, and yet I dare not die, for fear, lest after all, she should return.
And all at once, he stopped short: for as he spoke, there fell upon his ear a noise. And he listened, and exclaimed: I hear the tramp of horses, approaching in the wood. And he started up, like his own heart, that began to beat violently, as if catching at a straw of hope, in the whirlpool of despair. And he said to himself: Why should horses be coming through the wood, at such an hour? And as he stood gazing, with a soul as it were on tiptoe, in the direction of the sound, a rider suddenly issued from the trees, and came towards him, followed by others like himself. And as they reached him, they stopped: and their leader dismounted from his horse, and came towards him, holding it by the rein.
And when Babhru saw his face, he started, and exclaimed within himself: Ha! why! that is the very face that I saw lurking in the bush. And then, all at once, he shouted aloud: Ha! then, it was thou; it is thou, as I thought, who art the robber, after all.
And Chamu laughed, and he said: O woodman, not so loud: for thou art hasty, and thou art uncivil, and thou art altogether wrong: though so far thou art right, that we are old friends. Yet still thou art unjust, for I am not the robber. It was not I that carried off thy beauty from the wood, but my master, King Atirupa. And thou art very rude, to call even him a robber. For he did not steal thy beauty, but only borrowed her, for a little while, all with her own consent. And now he has returned her by my hands: and here she is.
And he turned, and Babhru looked, and lo! they lifted Aranyání from a horse, and set her on the ground. And as Babhru stood gazing at her, like one struck by a thunderbolt, Chamu said again: Thou owest me not abuse, but gratitude, O woodman: for see, I have brought her back to thee, all across the sand, where many in my place would have left her in the middle of the way, for it was a thankless task, and she was a cross-grained burden, that was very loath to come at all. So as thou seest, thou wert very wrong, to call even Atirupa robber: for here she is again. And the women are silly creatures, who only have themselves to blame, since they flock to him, like flies to honey, all of their own accord. But this young beauty grew so peevish, when she found she was only one of a thousand others, that the Mahárájá could not keep her any longer. And now she will make thee the very best of wives, woodman: since she has had some lessons, and a little practice in the art, and come back richer than she went away: none the worse, but all the better, for having tasted a King's kisses, and learned her trade in the best of schools. Thy eldest son will be a beauty, even if all the others are as ugly as thyself. And if his mother calls him Atirupa, just as a reminiscence, never mind: for when she has once stopped weeping, she will love thee just as well as him.
And as he spoke, Babhru stared at him with eyes that hardly saw him, and ears that hardly heard him, and a soul that hardly understood, filled as it was to the very brim with such a flood of pity, and horror, and amazement, and yet delight at her return, no matter how, that there was absolutely no room at all for even a single drop of wrath. And while he looked from her to Chamu, and from Chamu back again to her, Chamu got back upon his horse, and all those riders rode away.
But Babhru stood exactly where he was, like a picture painted on a wall, hardly heeding their departure, gazing at Aranyání. And as he watched her, tears rose up suddenly and stood, as if to blind him, in his eyes, springing from the well of the very ecstasy of compassion within his heart. For she lay half crouching, half fallen on the ground, exactly as they had set her down, never moving, and resembling a body that is all but dead. And her face, that was turned towards him, looked absolutely strange to him, so marvellously had it altered since he saw it last. For, as it seemed, youth and joy had fled from it, leaving it to be as it were a very battle-ground for grief and age, and passion and shame, and humiliation, and weariness, and despair. And instead of her forest garments, she was magnificently dressed, and yet her clothing was ill-arranged, and disordered, and very dusty; and her hair was all dishevelled, and floated loose about her head, as if to match and imitate the wild disorder of her soul within. And yet, somehow or other, she seemed for all that in his eyes even more beautiful than ever, with a beauty that appalled him as he saw it, for she was utterly unlike herself, as if her own soul had been suddenly changed into another, making its envelope into something other than it was, to suit the alteration. And gradually as Babhru watched her, his hair stood up upon his body, as if with fright, and anticipation of something coming, that he did not understand.
So he stood silent, watching her, forgetful of himself, with a soul that yearned to comfort her and soothe her, and caress her and console her, yet utterly unable, and half fearing, to say anything at all. And in the silence, gradually dread began to creep all over him, as he saw her continue, lying absolutely still, and yet every now and then breathing, very slowly and with difficulty, like one that is suffering an agony of pain. And at last, after a long while, he moved a little nearer, and he said, with timidity and emotion: O Aranyání, alas! thou art suffering. And dost thou think I can endure to see thee suffer? At least, at least, thou hast returned, no matter how. O alas! for all thy suffering, I only am to blame; for well I understood, I was wrong to abandon thee, and leave thee as a prey. But at least, thou hast returned, and only just in time: for hadst thou stayed away another day, I could not have endured. I thought thee dead, for day by day, I waited, and day by day, thou didst not come: and each night was longer, and more awful than the last. And I sought thee in every quarter of the wood, but thou wert not to be found. And now, lo! there before my eyes, hardly to be believed, thou art; and now I am almost ready once more to die, for joy, that is mingled, I know not how, with an agony of grief. And yet, I blame myself, selfish that I am, for being even able to rejoice at all, while thou art suffering. Ah! only tell me what to do, to share thy grief, or take it all upon myself.
And as he spoke, he leaned towards her, and looked, and lo! a tear rolled suddenly from her eye, and fell upon the ground: but she never stirred or spoke. And again he said, with difficulty and hesitation: Aranyání, dost thou think, dost thou really think, thou art guilty in my eyes, or in any way to blame, because ruffians, attracted by thy beauty, came and carried thee away? Is it any fault in the lotus, if the traveller that sees it, plucks it, and wears it for a moment in his hair, only to throw it presently away, and trample it underfoot? Alas, it is not thou, but myself that I condemn, I only, that am guilty, and all the more, that whereas now I ought to weep with thee, I am, on the contrary, so transported with delight to see thee, returned to me no matter how, that I am almost ready to abandon the body out of joy. Or art thou fearful, lest I should torture thee with curiosity, or question, or reproach of any kind? Ah! no, listen now, and I will tell thee. Thou shalt think, if thou wilt, of all that has occurred to thee as nothing but a dream, from which thou hast awoken. Only a dream, from which thou hast awoken. And I, that never knew it, will forget it, as utterly and completely as thyself: and it is already buried in oblivion, and resembles a thing that has never come about, and had better not have been.
And again he leaned towards her, as if he were a culprit that begged her to forgive him, and lo! he saw the tears rolling from her eyes in a stream, as if something in his words were like a knife in her heart. But still she never spoke, and never stirred. And once again he said, as if with entreaty: Aranyání, thou canst not imagine, even in a dream, what happiness is mine. See! thou art agitated, and it must be, very weary. And now, then, I will lead thee, or if thou wilt, carry thee, home. And there thou shalt sleep, absolutely undisturbed, for to-night, and to-morrow, and as long as thou shalt choose. And all the while, I will watch without, and bring thee food, and do everything as thou wilt, at thy bidding; and above all, guard, and protect thee, from any fresh attempt. Woe to the man who shall attempt to molest thee any more! And so shalt thou live, exactly as thou wilt, with me for thy servant. And very soon, even the memory of that which now distresses thee will fade out of thy soul. And there will be absolutely nobody to make thee feel ashamed, or in any way whatever bring trouble to the quiet of thy soul. For as to thy father, when he discovered thy disappearance, he came to me, thinking I had stolen thee. And when he saw instantly, by my frenzy, he was wrong, all at once he cried out: Mother and daughter, mother and daughter: this is a stab in the dark from Jaya. And I know not what he meant. But I think that his heart broke within him, for after a day or two, he died.
And then, like a flash of lightning, Aranyání started to her feet, with a scream that rang through the wood, making the heart of Babhru suddenly leap into his throat. And she threw up her arms, with agony, and all at once, she sprang from her place, and darted like an arrow from a bow towards the hut. And then again, almost instantly, as he stood gazing at her in dismay, she turned sharp round, and began to run away in the opposite direction like a deer. And as if waking from a dream, he began to pursue her. And he overtook her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder, as if to say: Whither art thou hastening without looking where to go?
But when she felt him touch her, she stopped suddenly and turned, and looked at him, as if in the extremity of fear. And all at once, she began to laugh, as if she was mad, with round eyes that were filled with amazement and derision. And she exclaimed: Ha! Babhru, is it thou? But I left thee behind me in the wood. Ha! thou also art deserted, and rejected, and despised. Come, then, and let us escape very rapidly together. And she seized him by the arm, and began to drag him violently along. And she lowered her voice to a whisper, and began to speak, so quickly, that the words stumbled over one another as they rushed out of her mouth. And she said: Poor Babhru, thou art so ugly, that she could not love thee in return, quite forgetting that she was herself so ugly that nobody could love her either. But he was so beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful that she ran away and left thee in the lurch: never even dreaming that all the other women were as silly as herself. Ah! the other women, they were so many and so cruel. There were no other women in the wood. Was it lonely, Babhru, in the wood, after she went away? Poor ugly Babhru, all alone in the wood, while we were kissing each other in the city. She used to see thee, Babhru, as she kissed him, sitting all by thyself in the wood, and weeping by thyself. She loved thee just a very little. Didst thou remember? But in the city, she feared, she feared, to see thee suddenly appear. But very likely, thou didst not know where she had gone. Thou wouldst have killed him, Babhru. Why didst thou not run after her? But they would not have admitted thee, poor Babhru, thou art so very ugly: and thou wouldst only have wandered, going round and round the palace, outside, outside, while all the time he was kissing thy lotus and trampling on its heart, inside. And yet she was his cousin, and the daughter of a king. Ha! Babhru, thou wert ignorant, and didst not know. But there were so many other women, all alike. Couldst thou even have discovered her among them all? Her eyes, her eyes were different: her eyes were dreamy, and her kisses like snowflakes. Surely it was better, after all, in the wood: there were no other women there. Didst thou imagine, Babhru, thou wert the only one to be dishonoured and befouled, trodden down into the mud and thrown away? But the very pools were there to teach thee, thou art so ugly, so ugly: and she was so beautiful. Couldst thou expect any better fate than hers? How could she love thee, being herself so unworthy to be loved? And he was like the very god of love, wandering in the wood. But it was she, that lost her way. He knew his way very well indeed. How could she expect, to keep him all to herself? Is not the whole world full to the very brim of women, with cruel eyes? O Babhru, why wert thou such a fool as to think one woman any better than another? Fool that she was, to think to keep him all to herself! O Babhru, thou art absolutely nothing, in comparison with him. Thou art so rude and coarse and rough, and he is more beautiful than any woman. And he was so gentle and so kind, and his kisses were so sweet. No, it was Babhru who was kind, and he was like a snake. Listen, and let me tell thee: kisses that are sweet are the bitterest of all: when other lips come in between. Thou feelest them, the other lips, between his lips and thy own. And his lips were a flower that is visited by a thousand bees. O Babhru, how canst thou know anything about it, since thy lips have never kissed anyone at all? Kiss me, poor Babhru, and thou shall learn by experience the poison of a kiss, from lips that are sticky with the honey left by other bees.
And as Babhru listened, gazing at her with alarm, with his reason swept as it were along in a flood of grief, and humiliation, and compassion, and sheer amazement, and hardly understanding the words flowing from her mouth like the water of a stream, she stopped short, and laid her hand upon his own. And he started at its touch, for it burned him like a flame, as if she was on fire. And she said with a smile, while the tears were running down her face: Babhru, dost thou know, Aranyání was a creeper, supported by a noble tree? And yet somehow or other, the tree has disappeared. Who knows? for doubtless it was all eaten away within, and hollow, and as I think, the ants must have devoured it, leaving absolutely nothing but emptiness, and earth, and dust. So beautiful it seemed outside, surely the poor creeper could not tell, how base, and rotten, and horrible it was within. So when I saw it suddenly, inside, it hurt me here. And she put both her hands upon her heart, and began to sob. And then, all at once, she began again to laugh. And she said: Aye! she was a pearl, and a swan, and I know not what beside, and now she is absolutely nothing, like a broken pot. And the golden boat has perished, never so much as reaching even the shadow of the sea. Babhru, it was a lie: it was a miserable boat, all full of holes, that sank into the cold black water like a stone. Base and rotten, how could it swim, loaded with such an innumerable host of other women? Base, ah! who knows better than Aranyání the agony of finding it was base. Was Aranyání base, Babhru, dost thou know? And all the women hated each other, she and all the others; Babhru, it was hell in the golden boat. And she was worst of all, she wept, and wept, and wept, till at last they turned her out, and Chamu took her away. And then it was, I think, she died. It hurt her so to go away, she must have died; and Chamu took her and carried her away when she was dead. And she was so terrified of Chamu. Atirupa, Atirupa, save, O save me from Chamu's eyes. Babhru, beware of Chamu, for he is the very worst of all; worse even than the women. She was frightened of his laughter: it was worse, far worse, than all the laughter of the women. They pushed her from their boat, and Chamu took her. And she begged and begged and begged him only to leave her in the sand; for then she would have died, and never lived to see her father and Babhru any more. O Babhru, why didst thou not die also, before they brought her back? Chamu, Chamu, did Atirupa give you Aranyání, to kiss her dead body on the sand?
And all at once, Babhru began to tremble like a leaf. And he exclaimed: Aranyání, Aranyání! And suddenly she fell down and began to kiss his feet. And then, he shuddered, and began to sob, as if a sword had run into his heart: and the sweat broke out upon his brow. And he stooped down, and lifted her violently up, saying in a low voice that shook like himself: Aranyání, thy reason has deserted thee. Come now, and I will take thee home.
And she said with a shriek: Nay nay, for the ghost of my father is waiting there, to drive me away. Come away into the wood where it is dark. And she dragged him by the hand, and she whispered: Babhru, I have a thing to ask of thee. Wilt thou kill me with thy knife in the darkness? for otherwise I must abandon the body of my own accord.
And Babhru started, and he exclaimed, with horror: Aranyání, art thou mad? What! should I kill thee, I, kill thee, who art my very soul?
And she gazed at him awhile in silence, and then, there came into her eyes an anguish that was mixed with disappointment and despair. And she turned away, and murmured, as if speaking to herself, with melancholy: He also is my enemy. They will not even kill her. They keep her living, when she only asks for death, not even letting her escape, shutting her like a prisoner in the dungeon of her lonely soul. Even Chamu would not kill her: though she prayed him. He only laughed. And yet she was already dead, slain long ago, and done away, leaving nothing but a corpse.
And she stood for a moment, as if reflecting, and all at once, she turned, and looked at Babhru, with a face that was wan in the moonlight, and eyes that were filled with anxiety, and misery and pain. And suddenly, they changed, becoming filled with laughter and hatred and derision. And she came up close to him, as if to whisper in his ear, and suddenly she struck him in the face, with a shout of laughter. And she said, contemptuously: Thou wilt not kill me? Poor Babhru, thou hast not even yet begun to understand. Dost thou remember Aranyání, that told thee stories, long long ago, in the wood? She is dead. Far away in the desert they took her heart, and tore it and trod it into pieces, and flung her body out, to wander in the world alone, dressed in the clothes of misery and shame. And this it is, thou wilt not kill. Thou wouldst actually keep her miserable body still alive, to live with in the torture of this wood, where Aranyání lived long ago, to suffer every instant the horror of recollection, and to be mocked for ever by the memory of a happiness that is changed into despair. Like monkeys that go by among the trees, they found a fruit, and bit it, only to go on and leave it lying, deserted and outraged and dishonoured on the ground. Thou thinkest to find happiness in watching her dead body? Thou wilt not kill her, poor Babhru? Dost thou know what she will think of, living beside thee in the wood? Dost thou think, it will be thou? Alas, poor ugly Babhru, it will be he. And every time she sees thee, she will compare thee and him, thy body with his body, thy eyes with his eyes. Her lips would never touch thee without thinking of his own. Thou wilt only love what he rejected, and bite at the very place which the monkeys bit before thee when they threw the fruit away. The taste would be so bitter that thy love would turn to hatred in a day. She would loathe the very sight of thee, and every time she looked at thee, her eyes would tell thee, thou wert so ugly and contemptible in comparison with him. They have flung thee the relic of a life that they would not take away, merely in derision. Wilt thou live even with a victim that despises thee? Half dead and half alive, like a lizard mangled by a passing crow, and left to writhe: a deer, struck by an idle hunter, left wounded in the jungle, unable even to procure its death, to ebb away its life through burning days and black intolerable nights, eyed by the vultures sitting by. And thou wouldst be the vulture? Thou wilt only be a jackal, eating what the lion leaves. What! live beside her, knowing that another is buried in her heart. Wilt thou feed, like a dog, even on the bodies of the dead? Poor Babhru, dost thou not understand. She cast thee off and left thee for a lover that she never will forget, and living like a vampire in her body that is dead, he will utterly despise thee, laughing at thee in her eyes. Ah! Wilt thou actually wait to understand, till a little Atirupa comes, to spit, exactly like his father, in thy face?
And as Babhru listened, all at once the words of Chamu as he went away rose up and stood before him, as if they had lain waiting, and as it were sleeping in his soul, till roused into recollection by her own. And suddenly, the veil, formed by his own devotion to Aranyání and his own self-annihilation, that hid from him the truth, was lifted from his eyes. And he saw himself suddenly as in a mirror, mocked, and scorned, and as it were a very target for the contempt and derision of Chamu, and his master, and even of herself. And his heart swelled suddenly with such a flood of shame, and anger, and the bitterness of his own inferiority, that it almost broke in two. And his face fell: and his eyes, that were fixed on Aranyání, grew darker and ever darker, as if night at a single stride had suddenly extinguished in his heart the hope that had dawned in it at her return.
So he stood a long while, sinking, as he looked at her, deeper and deeper into the blackness of despair, and resembling one that waits in darkness for a light that still flickers to go out and disappear. And suddenly he said to himself: She is right. For fate in the form of Atirupa has destroyed her and her happiness, and mine. And he looked fixedly at Aranyání, who was standing watching him, and waiting, as it were, for his decision: and he said: Aranyání, I was wrong, and thou art right. And now there is no remedy but one, and it is better to be dead. And as he spoke, he took his knife, and drew it from its sheath, and waited, clutching it in his hand.
And instantly, Aranyání uttered a cry of joy. And she came quickly and stood close to him, and she took hold with both hands of thecholithat covered her, and tore it violently asunder, dragging it down, till her breast was absolutely bare. And she said: See! I am ready. And so she remained, waiting, with her bosom turned up towards him in the moonlight, bared, and as it were eager, for the coming blow.
And he stood still for yet a moment, looking down upon her with melancholy eyes, in which, strange! there was not a vestige even of the shadow of any anger. And he said to himself: There, in the very middle, between those two round marble breasts, the knife shall fall. And as he hesitated, a tear rose up into his eyes, as if to bid farewell to his own happiness. And he murmured to himself: They were for him and not for thee. And he passed his left hand over his eyes, as if to clear his sight, and suddenly he raised his knife, and buried it in her heart.
So, then, with a sigh that was half a cry, she swayed and fell. And he never tried to catch her, but stood a long while silent, exactly where he was, looking down upon her lying still. And then, he sat down upon the ground beside her, and lifted her very gently, and set her on his lap, propping her head upon his shoulder: and he began to whisper in her ear, patting her as he did so, and rocking her to and fro, like one that soothes a child. And he said: Now, then, thy trouble is all over, and I have given thee rest, for it was better to be dead. And thou wilt never know what it cost me, to give thee the blow. But now thou canst go to sleep, for thou art very weary: forgetting all, and not fearing any recollection in the morning: since thy sleep will be a long one, and thou wilt never wake again. And all the evil dreams have vanished with their author, never to return; and now once more Aranyání is herself, only differing in this, that she is dead. Aye! it was better to be dead: and my blow has blotted out all the bitterness and shame. And thou didst await it, so bravely: and yet, hadst thou known, it was not thy death only, but mine, for which thou wert asking, thou wouldst have shrunk, it may be, from the blow, which, as it was, thou wert only too joyful to receive. And now very soon, I shall follow thee, by a second blow, far easier to give; for to give thee thine was very hard; so hard, that it hurt my heart a hundred times as much as thine. But in the meanwhile, we will sit together in the moonlight, just for a very little while, and talk, as of old. Only thou canst not tell me stories, and call me Bruin, any more. Thou didst give thyself, alive, to others: but thou art mine, now that thou art dead: and that is enough. And this is, as it were, my marriage night. And think not that I bear thee any grudge, for the words spoken at random in thy madness, or even for the blow; for that is nothing, from such a little hand as thine. Come, let me see it, for maybe it hurt itself more than it hurt me. Ha! dost thou remember the very story that thou didst tell me thyself, about the sage? And now, who knows better than myself, that a blow hurts the giver more than the receiver? For no one ever hurt himself so much as I did, when I gave thee thy blow. It was not to return blow for blow, that I gave it. Ah! it is not thou, against whom I bear a grudge, for all thy words and thy little irritable blow; but it is thy vile lover and his viler instrument, who have ruined thee, and brought about thy death.
And then, all at once, he uttered an exclamation. And he stopped short, and set her down upon the ground, and stood up. For suddenly, as if for the very first time, the injury done to her by Atirupa and his follower rose up, and took him as it were by the throat.
And as he stood thinking, all at once he began to tremble unawares, with rage. And he exclaimed: Aha! Atirupa, I have remembered, and only just in time: I am not dead yet. And he looked down at Aranyání, as she lay. And he said: Aranyání, forgive me! Well didst thou call me fool. For I came within an ace of following thee into the other world, leaving thee unavenged. But now I see, that before I go, there is other work to do, on thy behalf. And now, then, I will guarantee, that it shall be done, very soon, and very well. Then, and not sooner, will I die, when I have shown the murderers of Aranyání that she has left behind her arms a little longer, and hands a little harder, than her own. Aha! Atirupa, wait for a little while! And then shalt thou discover that the ghost of Aranyání has abandoned her body, only to enter mine: just on purpose to caress thee, for the very last time.
And he stooped down, and laid his great arm beside hers, as if to compare them, and he laughed. And then, very gently, he lifted her, in those strong arms, and began to carry her away, rejoicing in his burden, like one that carries in his arms his newly-wedded wife. So he went on in the moonlit wood, till he came at last to her home. And there he carried her in, and laid her down very gently on a bed of leaves. And then, with hesitation, he kissed her softly on the brow, whispering as he did so: Thou didst bid me kiss thee, in thy madness, and now, it cannot hurt thee: though I would have gladly given many lives to kiss thee, for the first time and the last, before. But thy kisses were for others.
And all at once, he began to sob, as if something in his soul, that had till then supported it, had suddenly given way. And he began to wail, wringing his hands, and tearing his hair, and crying, Aranyání, Aranyání: throwing himself to and fro, and striding wildly up and down, as if his heart, appalled by the blank horror of its own loneliness, were struggling to escape. And then, after a while, as if exhausted, and as it were overcome by the sense of the futility of his lamentation, he ceased, as suddenly as he began, and remained for a long time standing absolutely still, looking out through the open door into the wood, that lay silent, as if on purpose to sympathise with the other dead silence there within.
And at last, he turned. And he looked for a moment at Aranyání, and he stooped, and took the knife, which all the while remained buried in her breast, and drew it suddenly away, and turned, and went out, and fastened very carefully the door.
And he stood awhile in the moonlight, looking at his knife. And then, he put it, just as it was, back into the sheath: saying to himself: Her heart's red blood shall dry upon the blade, till I mix it with his own.
But in the meanwhile Atirupa, away in his capital in the desert, continued as before, having utterly forgotten Aranyání, and never thinking of her even in a dream; busy, like a mad bee, only in making onslaughts on other flowers, and leaving behind him those already rifled of their honey, neglected and buried in oblivion, like the faded leaves of a dead red lotus lying at the very bottom of a forest pool.
And then, by the decree of destiny, there came at last a day, when he sat with some of his retainers, according to his custom, drinking wine and passing time easily in his palace hall. And there came in, all at once, a keeper of the gate. And she[40]said: Maháráj, there has come to the door an oldsannyásí, demanding admission to the presence, and refusing to go away. And it may be, he is mad.[41]For he says he is a deity, who wishes to renew his old acquaintance with another. And now, the Mahárájá is the judge.
And Atirupa laughed, and he said: If he is a deity indeed, why is he waiting at a gate? And yet, who knows? For the deity presents himself in many forms, and who knows how or when? But go thou and tell the holy man to give thee some evidence, or token, of his divinity, and then we shall see.
So, then, after a while, thatpratihárícame again. And she said: Maháráj, thus said thesannyásí: Go and tell the Mahárájá, that I am the God of Death, yet not just of any death, but only of his own. For long ago, I burned his body, with fire from my eye; and now I am curious to see, whether the new body he has got is, as I have heard, still better than the old.[42]
And hearing this, Atirupa was delighted, and he exclaimed: The evidence is good; and I recognise the deity of this well-mannered Byrágí: for as it seems, he is a connoisseur. So bring him in to see me. And he said to himself: It may be he is an emissary from one of the neighbouring Kings,[43]covering his policy with folly: or he may be the go-between of some assignation: or even if he be nothing of the kind, what harm?
So then, after a little while, thatsannyásíentered, looking like a veryshalatree in height. And he was smeared all over with ashes, from his head to his feet, with absolutely nothing on, but a yellow rag around his waist, and a rosary ofakshabeads around his neck, which resembled that of a bull. And his face was almost hidden in the masses of his grey and very dirty hair and beard, which were matted, and tied in large knots, above and below. And his eyes, which were extraordinarily bright, rested on Atirupa, as he entered, with an expression which, like that of a wild animal, was half timidity and half ferocity, mixed with keen examination: and he trembled a very little, as he stood, as if with fear. And Atirupa gazed at him with curiosity and wonder, and he exclaimed, as if in jest: O Maheshwara, there cannot be a doubt of thy divinity: for surely, if thou wert not Maheshwara himself, he might be jealous of thee, for thy height and thy ashes and thy hair, and that third eye painted in the very middle of thy brow, looking as if it were just about to open and consume me again.
Then that strange oldsannyásílaughed like a hyæna, and he said: Maháráj, be not afraid any longer of my eye: for this time I shall consume thee with flame of quite another kind, in the form of a kiss that I have brought thee, from a beauty almost equal to thy own, with eyes that resemble the gazelle, and lips that are redder than her own heart's blood.
Then said Atirupa:Sannyásí, I know that a message carried by thee would be of a value proportioned to its bearer; and tell me quickly what it is, for I am curious to learn.
And thesannyásílooked at him significantly, as it were with a wink of the eyes. And he said: O deity of Love, who knows better than thyself that a high caste lady, when she goes to an assignation, wraps herself up, and fastens her bangles and her anklets, to prevent them even from jingling? And there are words, and names, unfit to be heard, by any other ears than thine. Were I to speak, among all these ears, thou wouldst be the very first to punish me for my indiscretion.
Then Atirupa was filled with curiosity, and he said to himself; It is as I thought, and he is an emissary, and one, moreover, well suited to his task. And he turned, and exclaimed: Chamu, take every one away. And then, thesannyásílooked attentively at Chamu, as they went. And he said, in a low voice, to Atirupa: Maháráj, for I have heard of Chamu, that he is thywidushaka,[44]let him be at hand: for with thy permission, he and I will settle all the details of this negotiation, as soon as it has received thy own approval.