{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_19874/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_19874","id":"gutenberg_19874","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19874","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Romance","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Fantasy fiction"],"text":"Produced by Paul Murray, Graeme Mackreth and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBUBBLES OF THE FOAM\n\n\n\n\n   So Life's sad Sunset prizes\n   What Life's gay Dawn despises,\n   And always Winter wise is\n       When Summer is no more:\n   While Love than lightning fleeter\n   Turns all he touches sweeter,\n   To leave it incompleter\n       Behind him, than before.\n\nAMARA\n\n   Years, looking forward, all too slow,\n       Yet looking back, too fast,\n   What is your joy, what is your woe,\n   But scented ash that used to glow,\n   A sandalwood of long ago,\n       A camphor of the past?\n\nSULOCHANA\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nBUBBLES OF THE FOAM\n\n([Sanskrit])\n\nTRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT\n\nBY\n\nF. W. BAIN\n\n_What! Mortal taste Immortal? Earth, kiss Heaven?\nConfusion elemental!, ah! beware!_\n\nSOMADEWA\n\nWITH A FRONTISPIECE\n\nMETHUEN & CO. LTD.\n36 ESSEX STREET W.C.\nLONDON\n\n_First Published in 1912_\n\n\n\n\nDEDICATED\n\nTO\n\nLADY GLENCONNER\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                     PAGE\nI. A SPOILED CHILD                                      1\n\nII. THE THIRST OF AN ANTELOPE                          27\n\n    I. A DAPPLED DAWN                                  29\n\n    II. A GLAMOUR OF NOON                              63\n\n    III. THE DESERT AND THE NIGHT                      89\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nFour things are never far from you, in old Hindoo literature: underfoot,\nall round you, or away on the horizon, there they always are: the\nForest, the Desert, the River, and the Hills.\n\nIt is never very easy, to understand the Past that really is a past: and\nthe age of Forests, like that of chivalry, is gone. But in the case of\nancient India, the chief obstacle to understanding arises from our bad\nhabit of always looking at the map with the North side up. Why this\ninveterate apotheosis of the North? Would you understand the old\nHindoos, you must turn the map of India very nearly upside down, so as\nto get Peshawar at the bottom, and the Andaman Islands exactly at the\ntop. And then, history lies all before you, right side up, and you get\nyour intellectual bearings, and take in the early situation, at a\nglance. Entering, like those old nomads, through the Khaibar, you find\nyourself suddenly in the Land of Streams: and as you drift along, you\ngo, simply because you must, straight on, down the River \"ganging on\"\n(_Ganga_) towards the rising sun, \"ahead,\" (which is the Sanskrit term\nfor East,) all under the colossal wall of Hills, the home of Snow, where\nthe gods live, on your left (_uttara_, the North, the heights;) while on\nthe South, (the _right_ hand, _dakshina_, the Deccan) you are debarred,\nnot by Highlands, but by two not less peremptory rebutters: first, by\nthe Desert, _Marusthali_, the home of death: and then again, a little\nfarther on, by the Forest of the South: the vast, mysterious,\nimpenetrable Wood, of which the Ramayana preserves for us the pioneering\nrecord and original idea, with its spell of the Unknown and the\nAdventure (like the Westward Ho! of a later age) with its Ogres and its\nSprites, its sandal trees and lonely lotus-tarns, its armies of ugly\nlittle ape-like men, and its legendary Lanka (Ceylon) lost in a kind of\nhalo of shell-born pearls, and gems, and their Ten-headed Devil King,\nRawana, away, away, at the very end of all: so distant, as to be little\nmore than mythical, little better than a dream. No! Those who wish to\nsee things with the eyes of old Hindoos must not begin, as we did, and\ndo still, with Ceylon, and the adjacent coasts of Coromandel and\nMalabar. That is the wrong, the _other_ end: it is like starting\nEnglish history from \"the peak in Darien.\"\n\nBut our particular concern, in these pages, is with the Desert. The\nconventional notion of a desert, as a colourless and empty flat of sand,\nis curiously unlike the thing itself, which is a constantly changing,\nkaleidoscopic sea of colour, made up of rainbow stripes, black, golden,\nred, dazzling white, and blue, with every kind of lights and shadows,\nstrange hazes, transparencies, and gleams. True, the ground you actually\ntread upon is bare: but it is clothed with raiment woven by that magic\nartist, Distance, out of cloud and heat and air and sky. And so, when\nthese old Hindoo people came to make a closer acquaintance with the\nDesert, so dangerous to enter, so difficult, as Mahmood subsequently\nfound, to cross, they discovered, that over and above the plain prosaic\ndanger, this Waste of Sand laid, like a very demon, goblin snares for\nthe unwary traveller's destruction, in the form of its Mirage. Ignorant\nof \"optical phenomena,\" they gazed at this strange illusion, these\nphantom trees and water, these mocking semblances of cities that\nvanished as you reached them, with astonishment, and even awe. It struck\ntheir imagination, and they gave to it a name scarcely less poetical\nthan the thing: calling it \"_deer-water_,\" or the \"_thirst of the\nantelope_.\"[1] Nor was this all. For the apparition was a kind of\nsymbol, made as it were expressly for their own phenomenology: it\ncontained a moral meaning that harmonised precisely with all their\nphilosophical ideas. What could be a better illustration of that MAYA,\nthat metaphysical Delusion, in which all souls are wrapped, which leads\nthem to impute Reality to the Phantasms, the unsubstantial objects of\nthe senses, and lures them on to moral ruin as they wander in the waste?\nAnd accordingly, we find the poets constantly recurring to this _thirst\nof the gazelle_, as an emblem of the treacherous and bewildering\nfascination of the fleeting shadows of this lower life (_ihaloka_;) the\nbeauty that is hollow, the Bubble of the World. And thus, Disappointment\nis of the essence of Existence: disappointment, which can only come\nabout, when hopes and expectations have been founded on a want of\nunderstanding (_awiweka_;) a blindness, born of Desire, that sets and\nkeeps its unhappy victims hunting, in vain, for what is not to be found.\n\n[Footnote 1: I am told, by a pundit in these matters, that the term is\nfound at least as early as Patanjali (the _Mahabhashya_;) that is\nprobably, the latter half of the second century B.C.: and hence, it must\nhave originated long before.]\n\nEspecially, essentially, in love: love, which has its origin in Dream,\nits acme in Ecstasy, and its catastrophe in Disillusion: love, which is\nlife's core and kernel and epitome, the focus and quintessence of\nexistence. A life that is without it has somehow missed its mark: it is\nmeaningless and plotless, \"a string of casual episodes, like a bad\ntragedy.\" For what, after all, is Love? Who has given an account of it?\nPlato's fable, which makes Love the child of Satiety and Want, or\nPoverty and Plenty, is a pretty piece of fancy: it is clever: but like\nmathematics, an explanation of the brain rather than the heart.\nSomething is missing. For Plato, almost always delicate and subtle, is\nnever tender: the reason is, that he was atrophied on the feminine side:\nhe does not consequently understand sex, being himself only half a man:\nthat is, only man and nothing more. But all the really great imaginative\nmen are bi-sexual: they have a large ingredient of woman in their\ncomposition, which gives to their divination an extra touch of something\nthat others cannot reach. And so, with equal poetry, yet with a pathos\ninfinitely deeper, our Milton makes Love the child of Loneliness:[2] a\nparentage evinced by the terrible melancholy of Love when he cannot find\nhis proper object, and the blank desolation and despair of the frightful\nvoid and blackness left behind, when he has lost it. But now, it is\njust this intolerable loneliness which makes him idealise the\ncommonplace, and see all things in the light of his own yearning,\ncreating for himself visions of unimaginable happiness, which presently\nvanish, to resolve his Eden into nothing, and leave him, with no\ncompanion but the horror of his own intensified isolation, in the sand.\nA situation, which hardly any lover that really is a lover can endure,\nwithout going mad. They are very shallow theologians, who by way of\npandering to sentimental prejudices make the essence of the Deity to\nconsist in Love. Poor Deity! his life would be a Hell, past all human\nimagination: an everlasting Loneliness, with no prospect of release. For\nit is precisely to escape from this hell that so many forlorn lovers\ntake refuge in the tomb: a resource not available to those who cannot\ndie. Death is not always terrible: sometimes he is kind.\n\n[Footnote 2: In his _Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce_.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSuch then is the theme of _Bubbles of the Foam_: a little love-story,\nwhose title, like that of all her elder sisters, has in the original a\ndouble application, by reason of the ambiguity of the last word, to\nLove, and to the Moon. We might also render it, _A Heavenly Bubble_, or,\n_Love is a Bubble_, or _Nothing but a Bubble_, or _A Bubble of the\nWorld_,[3] thinking either of Love or the Moon. For the Moon, like the\ngoddess of Love, rose originally from the sea: and they retain traces of\ntheir origin, both in their essence and their appearance. For what is\nmore like a great Foam-Bubble than the Moon? and what is more like the\ndelusion of love than a bubble of the foam, so beautiful in its play of\ncolour, while it endures: so evanescent, so hollow, leaving behind it\nwhen it bursts and disappears nothing but a memory, and a bitter taste\nof brine? And as love is but a bubble, so are all its victims merely\nbubbles of a bubble: for this also is mirage.\n\n[Footnote 3: I was sorely tempted to give it the title of _Mere Foam_:\nwhich, if the reader would kindly understand _mere_ in its German, its\nRussian, its Latin, and its ordinary English sense, would be an exact\ntranslation. But it has an unfortunate suggestion (_meerschaum_) which\nmade it impossible.]\n\nMirage! mirage! That is the keynote of the old melancholy Indian music;\nthe bass, whose undertone accompanies, with a kind of monotonous\nsolemnity, all the treble variations in the minor key. The world is\nunreal, a delusion and a snare; sense is deception, happiness a dream;\nnothing has true being, is absolute, but virtue, the sole reality; that\nwhich most emphatically IS,[4] attainable only through knowledge, the\ngreat illuminator, the awakener to the perception of the truth. We move,\nlike marionettes, pulled by the strings of our forgotten antenatal\ndeeds, in a magic cage, or Net, of false and hypocritical momentary\nseemings: and bitter disappointment is the inevitable doom of every\nsoul, that with passion for its guide in the gloom, thinks to find in\nthe shadows that surround it any substance, any solid satisfaction; any\npermanent in the mutable; any rest in the ceaseless revolution; any\npeace which the world cannot give. Who would have peace, must turn his\nback upon the world; it lies the Other Way. Three are the Ways: the Way\nof the World, the Way of Woman, the Way of Emancipation.\n\n[Footnote 4: _Sat._ The thesis of Socrates, that virtue is knowledge:\nprobably borrowed, by steps that we cannot trace, through Pythagoras or\n\"Orpheus\" from the East.]\n\nDoes anyone in Europe care about this last, this Way of Emancipation?\nNo: it is Liberty that preoccupies the European, who about a century ago\nseemed, like the old Athenian, suddenly to catch sight of Liberty in a\ndream.[5] And yet, who knows? For Europe also is disappointed: there\nseems, after all, to be something lacking to this Liberty, something\nwrong. With her Utopias ending in blind alleys, or issues unforeseen:\nwith her sages discovered to be less sages than they seemed: with her\nScience turning superstitious, her Literature wallowing in the gutter,\nand her women descending from the pedestal of sex to play the virago in\nthe contamination of the crowd: with so many other things, not here to\nbe considered, to raise a doubt, whether this Liberty is taking her just\nwhere she wished to go, what wonder if even Europe should begin to\nmeditate on means of emancipation, even if only from vulgarity, and\nsteal a furtive glance or two towards the East, to see, whether, by\ndiligently raking in the ashes of ancient oriental creeds, she might not\ndiscover here and there a spark, at which to rekindle the expiring\ncandle of her own. For there seems to be some curious indestructible\n_asbestos_, some element of perennial, imperturbable tranquillity and\ncalm, away in India, which is conspicuous only by its absence, in the\nworry of the West. Where does it come from? What does it consist in? Is\nthere a secret which India has discovered, which Europe cannot guess? Is\nthere anything in it, after all, but barbaric superstition, destined to\nfade away and disappear, in the sunrise of omniscience?\n\n[Footnote 5: [Greek: honar heleutherias horhontas. Plutarch.]]\n\nI cannot tell: but well I recollect a fugitive impression left on me by\nan early morning in Benares, now many years ago. I threaded its\nextraordinary streets, narrower than the needle's eye, and crowded with\nstrange, lithe, nearly naked human beings, with black, straight, long\nwet hair, and brown shining skins, jostled at every step by holy bulls\nor cows, roaming at their own sweet will with large placid lustrous\neyes, in an atmosphere heavy with the half-delicious, half-repulsive\nodour of innumerable flowers, mostly yellow, that lay about everywhere\nin heaps, fresh and rotten, till I came out finally upon the river bank.\nA light steamy mist, converted by the low sun's horizontal rays into a\nkind of reddish-golden veil, hung in the quiet air, lending an almost\nmagical effect to the long row of great temples, whose steps run down\ninto the river, along the northern bank: half of them in ruins, and\nlooking as if they must presently slide away into the water and\ndisappear. And as I floated slowly down, I watched with curiosity, half\nwondering if I was dreaming, the throng of devotees, sitting, lying,\ngliding here and there, like an antique procession on an old Greek\nfrieze or vase; some muttering and praying, others bathing, others again\nstanding motionless as statues in the stream, buried in a sort of\n_samadhi_ meditation: every outline of every attitude, in that clear\nIndian air, as sharp as if cut with scissors out of paper. And lying\nclose beside, cheek by jowl with the bodies still alive, the ashes of\ndead bodies just burned or still burning on the Ghat. Life and Death\ntouching, running into one another, and nobody amazed: all as it should\nbe, and a matter of course!\n\nEngland and India, bureaucracy, democracy, sedition, education, politics\nand Durbars:--the world with all its tumult and its roaring passes clean\nover their heads, unheeded, unobserved: for them the noise and bustle do\nnot matter, do not trouble: they do not hear, they do not listen, they\ndo not even care. It is curious, this peace, this indifference, this\ncalm: it does not seem reality; it is like a thing looked at in a\npicture, like a dream. And, somehow, as I gazed at it, mechanically\nthere came into my mind, as it were of its own accord, a story I had\nread in some old navigator's \"yarn,\" of the albatross, sleeping on the\ngreat South Sea, in the fury of a storm, with its head beneath its wing.\n\nCEYLON, 1912\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nA SPOILED CHILD\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nA SPOILED CHILD\n\nBENEDICTION\n\n_A bow to the mystical evening dance of the Rider on the Mouse,[6] who\nwhirling round his elephant trunk, smeared with wet vermilion, suddenly\nshoots it straight up into the purple sky, and stands for a single\ninstant still, poised in the yellow twilight, as if to make a coral\nhandle for the white umbrella of the laughing Moon._\n\n[Footnote 6: Ganesha.]\n\n\nI\n\nThere is, in the western quarter, a land of lonely desolation, that\nresembles a very sea, but of sand instead of brine, and rightly named\nMarusthali, being a very home of death, sending back to the midday sun\nrays hotter than his own, and challenging the midnight sky, with silent\nashy laughter, as though to say: What am I but the rival and reflection\nof thyself, with bones instead of stars, and tracks of wasted skeletons\ninstead of a Milky Way. And there, upon a day, it came about that\nMaheshwara was roaming with Parwati in his arms. And as they floated\nswiftly on, over the dusty waste, they watched their own huge shadows\nsweeping like the forms of clouds across the burning sand, exactly\nunderneath, for it was noon: and the surface of the desert shook and\nquivered in the stillness, as if the wind, asleep, had, like a tired\ntraveller, sought refuge from the fury of the sun above their heads. And\nall at once, the Daughter of the Snow exclaimed: See, there is the\nmirage! Let us descend, and sit for a little while upon the sand: for I\nlove to watch this wonder, which resembles in its far faint blue the\ncolour of a dream. And accordingly, to do her pleasure, Maheshwara sank\nsoftly to the earth, settling on it like a cloud gently resting on a\nhill.\n\nSo as they looked, after a while, that slender goddess said again:\nSurely it is a shame, and well may the poor antelopes be mistaken and\ndeceived. For who could believe yonder water to be only an illusion? And\nwhen the eyes of even gods are bewildered by the cheat, how much more\nthe eyes of thirsty and unreflecting little deer!\n\nThen the Moony-crested deity said slowly: O Daughter of the Snow, thy\nown reflection on this beautiful illusion is the truth. And yet, well\nwere it for the world, were its illusion limited only to its eyes, not\nextending, as it actually does, to its understanding also. For this\ndeceptive picture on the sand is far inferior in power and importance to\nthe bewildering delusion of this world below, fluttering about whose\nshifting dancing light, like moths about a wind-blown torch, men singe\ntheir silly souls, and burning off their wings, drop helpless, maimed\nand mutilated, into the black gulf of birth and death, and lose\nemancipation; till, after countless ages, their wings begin to sprout\nand grow again, under the influence of works. Yet they who after all\nemerge, and soar away, unburdened even by an atom of the guilt that\nweighs them down, and brings them back into the vortex of rebirth, are\nvery few. And yonder bones, now lying in the sand, could they but rise\nand speak, would be a proof of what I say.\n\nAnd the goddess looked, and saw, close by, a little heap of bones, that\nlay half-buried in the sand. And she said with curiosity: Whose are the\nbones, and how are they a proof of thy consideration?\n\nAnd Maheshwara replied: These are bones, not of a man, but of a camel,\nthat perished in the desert long ago. For into this body of a camel\nfell the soul of which I spoke, in punishment of crimes committed in the\nbirth before, in the body of a man; who, blinded by passion, slew three\nof his fellow mortals; as, if thou wilt, I will tell thee while we sit,\nwatching the illusion of the senses, that so closely represents the\nillusion of the souls of the lovers in the tale.\n\n\nII\n\nKnow, then, that once upon a time, long ago, all the gods had assembled\nin the hall of Indra's palace, to listen to a singing competition that\ntook place among the Gandharwas. And all sat listening attentively, till\nat length, all at once, came a pause in the performance. And in the\nsilence, while all the heavenly singers rested, it so fell out, by the\ndecree of destiny, that the flowery-arrowed god,[7] striving to\nrecollect a cadence that had pleased him, hummed it, as well as he\ncould, over again, aloud; and like the unskilful imitator that he was,\nplayed havoc with his model, stumbling at the quarter tones, and singing\nfiat. And out of delicacy and politeness, the gods all turned away their\nfaces, hiding their smiles, except Brahma,[8] whose face never moved.\nBut Kamadewa, looking up suddenly, caught the vestige of a smile,\nhovering, just before it disappeared, on the corner of the lips of\nSaraswati, as if it were unwilling to leave a resting-place so\nunutterably sweet as that lovely lady's mouth. And instantly, he turned\nred and pale alternately, with rage that followed shame: so little does\nhe who delights in making others blush like doing it himself. And\nsuddenly taking fire, he cried aloud: Ha! dost thou turn me into\nridicule, O thou malapert blue-stocking?[9] Then will I curse thee for\nthy pains. Fall instantly into a lower birth, and suffer anguish in the\nform of a mortal woman, for thy presumption and ill-mannered mirth.\n\n[Footnote 7: _i.e._ the god of love, Kamadewa.]\n\n[Footnote 8: It would have been useless for Brahma to turn away his\nface, since he has four; one on every side.]\n\n[Footnote 9: _Kupandita_, the exact equivalent of our word. Saraswati is\nthe Hindoo Pallas Athene; with this distinction in her favour, that she\nis as gentle as the Greek lady is the reverse. The _flava virago_ of\nOvid becomes in India a lotus white and pure as her own celestial\nsmile.]\n\nAnd instantly, all the other gods, hearing him, broke out into a very\nstorm of indignation. And buzzing like infuriated bees around one who\nseeks to rob them of their honey, they swarmed about that god of love,\nexclaiming all together: What! shall Heaven be bereft, even for a very\nlittle while, of the very crest-jewel of its brow, because of thy loss\nof self-control, and a fault on her part which was not a fault at all,\nbut only the appropriate reproof of thy ill-advised endeavour to play\nthe musician without possessing the necessary skill? And there arose a\ntumult in the hall; and finally, they made me arbitrator to settle the\ndispute, knowing that Ananga was afraid of me, as well might he be[10].\nAnd so, after all were silent, I spoke. And I said, very slowly: O\nbender of that bow, whose string is a row of bees, thou art surely\naltogether inexcusable, first for thy singing, and secondly for thy loss\nof temper, and finally for thy curse. For who could be so harsh as to\nstrike Saraswati, even with a _shirisha_ petal? But now, the mischief is\nutterly beyond repair, and once spoken, the curse cannot be\nrecalled.[11] And whether she will or no, she must now go to earth, and\nleave us for a time, till thy curse has spent its force. And yet, for\nall that, it is not right that the doer of injustice such as thine\nshould escape scot-free. Therefore now I will give thee curse for\ncurse, and thou shalt eat the fruit of thy own tree. Fall then,\nimmediately into the body of a man, and suffer that mortality which thou\nhast laid upon Saraswati. And thy fortune shall be interwoven with her\nown, so that thy curse shall be determined by the quality and period of\nhers.\n\n[Footnote 10 Because Maheshwara had burned him, on a previous occasion,\nwith fire from his eye.]\n\n[Footnote 11: In these and similar ideas, the Hindoos resembled the\nancient Romans: the letter was decisive and irremediable, _uti lingua\nnuncupassit, ita jus esto_.]\n\nAnd then, as he listened to my doom, Kamadewa turned paler than the\nashes to which I had reduced him long ago, finding himself punished for\nhis insolence by me, for the second time. But the gods all exclaimed,\nwith approbation and delight: Victory to Maheshwara! who has once more\nbitten the biter, and condemned him, by a sentence even more merciful\nthan he deserved. For what could be more intolerable than even Heaven\nwithout Saraswati, unless it be the curse that is about to produce such\na melancholy condition of affairs?\n\nAnd then, those two deities disappeared suddenly from Heaven, and\ndescended to be born as man and woman on the earth.[12]\n\n[Footnote 12: This exordium, which has points of resemblance with that\nof the insufferable Bana's _Harsha-charita_, is only the Hindoo method\nof declaring that the two characters presently to be brought upon the\nscene are mortal incarnations of love and charm: as we call a man, an\nAdonis, or a woman, a Venus.]\n\n\nIII\n\nNow just at that very moment, it happened, that there were living in the\ndesert two Rajpoots of the race of the Moon; and the name of the one was\nBimba, and that of the other, Jaya.[13] And Saraswati was born as the\ndaughter of the wife of Bimba, while Kamadewa was born as the son of the\nwife of Jaya. Now Bimba was a king: and Jaya was his cousin on the\nmother's side. And very soon afterwards, Jaya set upon his cousin,\nlaying claim to the throne, and driving him away, took his kingdom, and\nkept it for himself. And he caught the wife of Bimba, and put her to\ndeath, as he would have done also with her daughter and her husband. But\nBimba succeeded in escaping with his daughter, and ran away and hid\nhimself. So Jaya remained in triumph, reigning over the kingdom, whose\ncapital stood on the very spot on which we are sitting now. For the\nkingdoms of the earth come and go upon it, like the shadows of the\nclouds: and they grow up suddenly like grass, and perish a little later,\nand vanish clean away, leaving behind them absolutely nothing but\nmounds, such as those now lying all about thee, and fragments of\nrecollections, and half-forgotten names, like the dreams of the night\nwhich morning obliterates and drives away, vaguely hanging in its memory\nlike wreaths of mist curling and twisting on the black still surface of\na pool in some dark valley screened from the early sun by one of thy\nfather's[14] peaks.\n\n[Footnote 13: _i.e._ _the disc of the moon_, and _victory_. Pronounce Jaya\nto rhyme with _eye_.]\n\n[Footnote 14: _i.e._ the Himalaya.]\n\nAnd of all the elements that made up Java's good fortune, there was not\none which filled him with such pride and exultation as his son. And he\nlooked upon him as the very fruit of his birth in visible form, little\ndreaming, that could he but have looked into the future, and seen what\nwas coming, he would rather have deemed himself more fortunate to live\nand die without any son at all, than to have begotten such a son as he\nactually had. For sons resemble winds, which sometimes lift their\nfamilies like clouds to heaven, and sometimes dash them to the earth,\nlike hail.\n\nFor having waited so long to get a son at all, till hope was all but\ngone, the joy of both his parents, when he actually arrived, was so\nextravagantly great, that they could not make too much of him. And as he\ngrew up, they spoiled him so completely, by the want of all discretion\nin their admiration and the flattery of their affectionate caresses,\nthat after a while he became utterly intolerable, even to themselves.\nAnd this came about, not only by reason of their own foolishness, but\nalso by the very disposition and qualities of that son himself. For he\nwas so marvellously beautiful, that every time they saw him, they could\nhardly believe their own eyes, and were ready to abandon the body out of\njoy. And in the intoxication of delight they gave him the name of\nAtirupa,[15] which was no more than he deserved. And he became a byword\nand a wonder in the world, till the heart of his mother almost broke\nwith the swelling of its own pride. For nothing like him had ever been\nseen by anybody, even in a dream, since his beauty did not in the least\nresemble that of other men, but hovered as it were half-way between one\nsex and the other, as if the Creator when he made him, unable to decide,\nwhether to make of him a man or a woman, had combined, by some miracle\nof omnipotence and skill, the fascinations of the two. For though he was\ntall, and strong, yet strange! his body and his limbs were rounded, and\ndelicately shaped, and slender, with soft and tender hands and feet that\nwere almost too small, even for a girl: and as he moved, he fell as if\nby accident into attitudes that as it were imitated unconsciously the\ncareless grace of Shri[16], caught unaware when she thinks that there is\nnobody to look at her, and carved by a cunning sculptor in stone upon a\ntemple wall; so that the eyes of all followed him as if against their\nwill, drawn to him by an involuntary admiration that they could not\nunderstand, not realising that in his case only, the beauty of their own\nsex was reinforced, and as it were, reduplicated with the magic of a\nspell, by the mysterious and additional fascination of the other. And\nhis face was so strange that whoever saw it, started, and fell, after a\nlittle while, into a kind of dream. And yet this was not merely by\nreason of its beauty, though that beauty was excessive, resembling a\nvision seen suddenly in the water by a Dryad, musing at midnight by a\nmoonlit pool, with eyes that resembled the reflections of the shadows of\nthe lotuses, and eyebrows that met together, in the middle of his brow,\neach drawn exactly in imitation of the other, like a lotus-fibre half in\nand half out of water, and lips that were almost too red, resembling\nthat love-sick nymph's own pair of _bimba_ lips, mirrored[17] in the\nclear black water, and dying to be kissed by others like themselves.\nBut wonderful! the Creator had put into his face some ingredient of\nrecollection, so that without knowing why, every beholder found himself\nplunged, as it were, into the agitation of dreamy reminiscence, and said\nwithin himself: Ha! now, somewhere or other, in this birth or another, I\nhave seen that miracle of a face before. And each went away with a heart\nthat was unwilling to depart, haunted as it were by dim desire for\nsomething he knew not what stirring in the depths of his memory, that he\ncould not remember and yet had not forgotten, like the thirst for the\nrepetition of the sweetness of a bygone dream.[18] And all the more,\nbecause his voice resembled a music that was playing a melody suggested\nby the theme of his face. For it was low and soft, like that of a woman,\nand yet deep, like that of a man: and it seemed to be made of sound\nstolen from the pipe of Krishna, in order to enable it itself to steal\naway the senses of the world: so that as he spoke, the listener\ngradually grew bewildered by its tone, resembling a tired traveller,\nfalling little by little unconsciously to sleep as he sits in the murmur\nof a mountain stream. And whenever he chose, he could cajole his\nhearer, and make him do almost anything whatever, so hard was it to\nresist the irresistible persuasion that lurked, like the caressing touch\nof a gentle woman's hand, in the tone of that quiet and insinuating\nvoice.\n\n[Footnote 15: _i.e._ _of extraordinary and surpassing beauty_. Pronounce\nUttirupa.]\n\n[Footnote 16: The Hindoo Aphrodite.]\n\n[Footnote 17: There is here an untranslateable play on _bimba_, the\nfruit, (as we say, cherry lip) and _pratibimba_, a reflection in the\nwater.]\n\n[Footnote 18: All this depends on an elaborate play on the double\nmeaning of _Smara_, a name for the God of Love, which means _memory_ as\nwell as _love_.]\n\nAnd yet, all this beauty was nothing but a mask, and a lie: and so far\nfrom expressing the nature of that soul which it covered and disguised,\nit actually added evil to its original defect; and he resembled a\nbamboo, looking like a very incarnation of loveliness and symmetry\noutside, and singing in the wind, and yet absolutely hollow and without\na heart, within. For from the very moment he was born, he did exactly as\nhe pleased, and nothing else, being as capricious as the breeze that\nblows only as it chooses. For beginning with his parents, nobody ever\ncrossed him, or placed any obstacle whatever in the path of his desires,\nwhich grew up accordingly like a very rank jungle impervious to the\nlight, in which his will wandered like a wild young tiger-cub, wayward,\nand passionate, and absolutely uncontrolled. And he gave in to others,\nand was guided by them, in one point only, and that was in their\nextravagant admiration of himself. For finding others worship him, he\nfell in with their opinion, and followed their example: and became as it\nwere the devotee at the shrine of his own beauty, making it a deity to\nwhich every other thing or body was only fitted to be sacrificed. And he\nfilled his rooms with mirrors of many colours, made of crystal and\nlapiz-lazuli, and polished gold and silver, and the water of tanks whose\nslabs were of marble of every variety of hue; and he used to sit alone,\nwhen he had nothing else to do, for hours, watching his own image that\nseemed to offer him reciprocally worship as he watched it, as if it were\ndoubtful which of the two, the reality or its reflection, was the deity,\nand which the devotee.\n\nAnd gradually the world with all its objects came to appear in his eyes\nas nothing but a playground, and all its men and women merely his own\nanimated toys. And from being utterly indifferent to everything but his\nown momentary pleasure and caprice, he became, little by little, first\ncallous to the sufferings of others, and finally positively cruel,\nfinding his amusement in making others victims to his own peremptory\ndesires. And his appetite, like a fire, grew with the fuel that it fed\nupon, till it resembled voracity, and an intolerable thirst for more.\nBut as long as he remained still a child, the fire, remaining as it were\nwithout its proper aliment, lay hidden: till he grew into a man. And\nthen, all at once, it blazed out furiously like a very conflagration,\nstriking terror into all the subjects of the kingdom, and threatening to\nconsume them all, like forest trees and grass.\n\nFor whereas, till then, the fury of his self-will had been scattered,\nfor want of concentration[19] on one object only, manhood, like a flash\nof lightning, suddenly revealed to him that very object, in the form of\nwoman: and he discovered, in the storm of his delight, that women were\nthe very victims for whom he had been blindly groping in the darkness\nall his life. And he threw himself upon them, like a prey, finding with\nintoxication that the Creator had framed him as a weapon constructed\nwholly for their destruction. And he said to himself, in triumph: I am,\nas it seems, a magnetic gem, omnipotent and irresistible, to whose\nattraction the entire sex succumbs inevitably, like grass. And this\nopinion was justified by the conduct of the women themselves. For every\nwoman that set eyes on him, no matter who she was, fell instantly, like\na stone dropped into a well without a bottom, into the abyss of\ninfatuation, and utterly forgot not only her relations and her home,\nbut her honour and herself and everything in the three worlds, seized as\nit were by the very frenzy of devotion, and anxious only to immolate\nherself as a victim on the altar of his divinity. And strange! though he\ntreated them all as more worthless than grass, throwing them away almost\nin the instant that he saw them, not one of them all ever took warning\nby the fate of her predecessors: and so far were they from shunning him\nas the common enemy of their entire sex, that on the contrary, they\nseemed to struggle with one another for the prize of his momentary\naffection, the more, the more openly he derided them; as if even his\nderision and the cheapness in which he openly held them, increased the\npower of his charm. Ha! very wonderful is the contradiction in the heart\nof a woman, and bitter the irony of the Creator that fashioned it out of\nso curious an antagonism! For she flies to the man who makes light of\nher, as if pulled by a cord; while she utterly despises the man who\nthinks himself nothing in comparison with her: saying as it were, by her\nown behaviour, that she is absolutely worthless in her own esteem.\n\n[Footnote 19: _Yoga._ The germ of truth, and it is a large one, in the\nphilosophy of _Yoga_ is the doctrine, which is proved by all experience,\nthat _concentration_ is the secret of mastery.]\n\n\nIV\n\nSo then, after a while, the heart of King Jaya broke within him. For he\nbecame odious in the eyes of all his subjects by reason of the behaviour\nof his son, who paid no more regard to his admonitions than a mad\nelephant does to a rope of grass. And he died, consumed by the two fires\nof a burning fever and a devouring grief: and his wife followed him\nthrough the flames of yet another fire, as if to say: I will die no\nother death than his own.\n\nAnd when the funeral obsequies had been completed, there came a day,\nsoon after, when Atirupa was sitting in his palace, with some of his\nattendants round him, gazing at his own image, that was reflected in a\ntiny mirror set on his finger in a ring. And he was plunged in the\ncontemplation of himself, shadowed by a melancholy that arose, not from\ngrief at the loss of his parents, but dejection caused by the gloom of\nthe period of mourning: and as he sat, he said within himself: I am\nlosing time, and growing old, and letting the opportunity slip by me\nunimproved, and this bloom of mine is wasted, and, as it were, lying\nidle, for want of its proper mirror, which is not this ring, but a pair\nof new eyes, which would look back at my own, not as this does,\nvacantly and without a soul, but lit up by the soft lustre of passion\nand admiration. And all at once, he started up, and exclaimed aloud:\nWhat! do ye all sit easily, when I am dying for lack of recreation? Know\nye not that even the jackal is in danger, when the lion is left without\na prey? Even now I am debating with myself, whether it would not be a\ngood thing to have one of you chosen by lot, and trampled by an\nelephant, to be a lesson to the rest.\n\nAnd then, as they all gazed at him with anxiety, each fearing for\nhimself, he looked at their confusion, as if with enjoyment, and said\nagain: What, with so many idle all about me, am I, forsooth, to sit\nwaiting, for fortune to come to me, like an _abhisarika_, of her own\naccord? Nay, it were well enough, could I even see coming towards me an\n_abhisarika_ of any kind. But the women of this city grow, as it seems,\nolder and more ugly every day: for I have skimmed its cream, and now\nnothing is left but curd, and dregs, and whey, and like the ocean after\nits churning, all its treasures are exhausted, leaving nothing but\ncrocodiles and monsters, and bitterness, and brine.\n\nSo then, wishing to cajole him, one of them replied: Maharaj, were this\ncity as full of beauties as the very sea of gems, how could any one of\nthem come to thee in broad daylight? For is it not laid down in all the\nShastras, that even an _abhisarika_,[20] were she dying for her lover,\nmust notwithstanding observe times and seasons, choosing for her\nexpedition only proper opportunities, such as are afforded by a winter\nnight, or a dense fog, or the confusion caused by a whirlwind or an\nearthquake or an uproar, or a revolution in the state, or an illness of\nthe king, or a festival, when all the citizens are drunk, or sleeping,\nor when the city is on fire. But as it is, not one of these occasions is\npresent, to enable her to come to thee escaping observation. And a woman\nof good family is very different from a dancing girl. For when she\nleaves her home, on such an assignation, she wraps herself up,\ndisguising her identity, and creeps along timidly making herself small,\nwishing even darkness darker, in addition to the screen provided by all\nthe other circumstances that favour her attempt.\n\n[Footnote 20: There is a ludicrous pedantry about the elaborate\ncategories of Hindoo sages: they make grammatical rules even for every\ndepartment of erotics: as if it were necessary for ladies to learn the\ngrammar of the subject, before they could make love!]\n\nAnd Atirupa said: There is no difficulty in this: for could I think that\nthere was even one woman in the city awaiting such an opportunity, who\nwas worthy of it, I would very soon oblige her, by burning the city to\nthe ground, reducing it to ashes for her convenience and my own.\n\nAnd all at once, one answered from behind, who had entered as he spoke,\nunobserved: Ha! Maharaj, then, as it seems, I am come in the very nick\nof time, to save thy city from such a miserable end.\n\nAnd Atirupa turned, and exclaimed joyfully: Ha! Chamu,[21] art thou\nreturned? I was beginning to think thee lost, like a stone dropped to\nthe very bottom of the sea. And Chamu said: Thou art right: for I am\nlike the oyster, and contain a pearl.\n\n[Footnote 21: Pronounce Chummoo.]\n\nAnd he looked at Atirupa, and laughed, rubbing his hands together, with\ncunning in his eyes, that resembled those of a weasel. And he said:\nMaharaj, as I entered, I heard thee wishing for Shri[22] to visit thee\nin the form of an _abhisarika_; and lo! here she is, in my form. And do\nnot despise her, on account of my deformity: for Shri is a lady, and\ncapricious, and comes in strange disguises. Thou knowest, that the city\nbeing dismal by reason of the obsequies, I seized my opportunity, and\nwent away on a visit to my maternal uncle, who lives far off in a\nvillage in the wood that lies in the eastern quarter. And on my journey\nback, I lost my way in the wood, and went astray: and finally, growing\nvery tired, I lay down in a thicket. And as I rested, after a while, I\nheard voices coming in my direction. And lying hidden, I looked out, and\nwatched the speakers, till one of them, as I think, caught sight of my\nface among the trees, and took fright at its ugliness, and went away\nwith his companion. And afterwards I rose myself and came away; and now,\nhere I am.\n\n[Footnote 22: The goddess of Fortune and Beauty. She is the very\nincarnation of the _abhisarika_, since she comes of her own accord.]\n\nAnd Atirupa looked at him, with disappointment: and he said: O Chamu, is\nthis thy story, and is this all?\n\nAnd Chamu laughed softly, and he said: Maharaj, he is a sage, who knows\nwhere to stop. But I will have compassion on thy curiosity, and this\nmuch I will tell thee in addition, that one of the speakers was a woman.\nAnd yet I am not sure about it, for if there is another woman like her\nin the three worlds, I will cut off my own head, and give to thee as a\nfootstool, since it is fit for absolutely nothing else. And even as it\nis, I think, after all, that I must have fallen asleep in the clump of\nbushes, and seen her in a dream: compounding for myself a vision out of\nold memories of Apsarases and Yakshinis, and Nagas, and fragments of old\nfairy tales and stories that my mother told me long ago, when I was a\nchild.\n\nAnd Atirupa looked at him with surprise: and he said: Chamu, this is\nvery strange, and thou art not like thyself. Hast thou been eating\npoppy,[23] or art thou only drunk with wine? For it is no ordinary\nvision that could turn thee into a poet. Come now, go on. Describe for\nme the beauty that has awoken such emotion in a soul as dull and muddy\nas thy own.\n\n[Footnote 23: _Ahiphena_, \"snake-foam,\" said by Udoy Chand Dutt in his\n_Materia Medica Indica_ to be derived from the Arabic _afyoon_, as it\nwas apparently unknown in India before the Musulman invasion.]\n\nAnd Chamu said: O Maharaj, who can describe the indescribable? There are\nthings that cannot be described, but only seen: hardly even then to be\nbelieved, when gazed at by the eye. Can anything imitate and reproduce\nthe beauty of the blue lotus, but the pool in which it is reflected? The\nwandering wind may carry, like myself, its fragrance to a distance, but\ncannot perform the work that belongs only to the mirror of the pool. So\ntake counsel of the wind, and go thyself, and become the pool.\n\nAnd Atirupa laughed joyfully, and he exclaimed: O Chamu, thou art\ncertainly bewitched, and this wood-nymph has cast over thee a spell:\nturning thee into a very breeze of sandalwood from Malaya.\n\nAnd Chamu said: Laugh, Maharaj: and as I told thee it would be, so it\nis: thou dost not believe. But when thou hast seen her eyes, and when\nthou hast heard her voice, and when thou hast gazed at her, as I did,\ncoming straight towards thee, walking, thou wilt laugh no longer: for\nthe scorn incarnate in the pride of her great breast will make thee\ngiddy, and the roundness of her hips will steal thy heart and burn it to\na cinder, and the jingle of her anklets will haunt thy ears, as it does\nmine, like the sound of a stream, keeping time to the dance of her two\nlittle feet as they come towards thee, till thou wilt find thyself\nwishing that some strange magic might keep on drawing thee back for\never, so only that thou couldst go on gazing, as she kept on coming,\nlike an everlasting incarnation of the rapture of anticipation of\ntouching and caressing what it maddens thee to see. Maharaj, I tell\nthee, that were the three great worlds but one colossal oyster shell,\nshe is its very pearl. And like a cunning diver, I have been down into\nthe sea, and seen it, and now I can take thee where it is, to see it for\nthyself. And as I think, thou wilt discover, she is a quarry to thy\ntaste, who will save thee from the necessity of seeking for others in\nthe ashes of thy town.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nTHE THIRST OF AN ANTELOPE\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n_Gazelle, gazelle, dost understand\nWhy the old skulls grin in this silent land?_\nMy feet are fleet, and I drink at will,\nThere is something blue in the distance still.\n\n\nII\n\n_But the old skulls grin in the silent waste,\nGazelle, gazelle, make haste, make haste!_\nI travel fast, and I fear no ill,\nThere is something blue in the distance still.\n\n\nIII\n\n_The old skulls grinned in the silent sand,\nThey beckoned her like a bony hand:\nGazelle, gazelle, hast drunk thy fill?\nIs there something blue in the distance, still?_\n\nKURANGI.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nA DAPPLED DAWN\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nA DAPPLED DAWN\n\n\nI\n\nNow in the meanwhile Bimba, when his cousin drove him off his throne,\nhad fled away to the eastern quarter, taking his daughter with him. And\nhe took up his home in the forest, and there he lived, in a little hut\non the side of a hill, just where the desert ended, and the trees of the\nwood began, having fallen from the state of a King to that of a fugitive\nand a hunter, living by the chase and the fruits of the forest trees,\nand drinking streams instead of wine. And so he continued to live, year\nby year, mourning for his wife, and bitterly hating his cousin,\ndisgusted with the world, with no companion but his daughter. And\ngradually, as time went on, he utterly forgot his kingdom and all his\nformer life, growing ever fonder of the forest that he lived in, and\nsaying to himself: Now is the wood become my wife, since my other wife\nis gone.[24] And the only thing that matters now is the daughter that\nshe left behind, as if to keep my memory green of what she was herself.\nSo now, then, I will change her name, lest some day in the future it\nshould betray her to my cousin: for her name would be a clue, leading to\nher destruction. And as a rule, to lose a name is the same thing as to\ndisappear, and die, and be forgotten. So she shall die, as Alipriya, to\nbe reborn as Aranyani. And what does the title matter? For the bees will\nlove her just as well, by one name as the other.[25]\n\n[Footnote 24: An untranslateable play on _dari_, wood, and _sundari_, a\nbeautiful woman.]\n\n[Footnote 25: _Alipriya_, \"beloved of the bees,\" a name of the trumpet\nflower, _Bignonia suaveolens_. _Aranyani_, a forest goddess, nymph, or\ndryad. Pronounce Urrun-nyani.]\n\nSo then Aranyani grew up alone with her father in the forest, with her\nidentity disguised, turned as it were from a queen into a woodman's\ndaughter, and lying hidden and unknown, like a pearl in an ocean shell.\nAnd yet she resembled fire, that refuses to be concealed, betraying its\ntrue nature through no matter what envelops it, and shining through, by\nchinks and holes, the wrapping that would hide it, even when it does not\nburn. For brought up in the forest though she was, and half alone, since\nher father often left her by herself, all day long, yet strange to say!\nthe rudeness of her wild condition ran over her, leaving her soul\nuntouched, like the water running in crystal drops that beautify but do\nnot wet the neck of a royal swan. And one day she was discovered like a\ntreasure in the wood by a band of hermits' daughters, that were roaming\nat a distance from the hermitage, away in the forest's heart. And those\ndaughters of the sages all fell suddenly in love with her at once, not\nonly for her eyes, that reminded them of the deer that were their\nplaymates in their home, but still more for the strange and wild\nsweetness of her soul, that resembled absolutely nothing but itself. And\nevery now and then, they used to come and play with her, when they\nrambled in the wood, telling her innumerable stories which they heard\nfrom their fathers, those mines of sacred wisdom. And then, very soon,\nthose daughters of the hermits found, to their amazement, that they\nresembled fools, pouring water into a well. For she remembered\neverything when she had only heard it once,[26] and meditating over it\nalone, not only squeezed out of its mango all the juice which it\ncontained, but planted its kernel like a seed of heavenly wisdom in her\nheart, and watering it with her own imagination, turned it presently\ninto a new and strange tree, loaded with peculiar flowers and fruits of\nits own: so that as she grew gradually up, she resembled a receptacle of\nthe essence of old lore, mixed with a native and original savour of\nherself. Ha! very wonderful indeed are the influences that rise up out\nof a former birth, since even in this lower form of a hunter's daughter\nthe nature of that incomparable goddess overflowed, like a holy sap in\nthe dark heart of a forest tree, and welled out abundantly, till it\ncovered the coarse bark with fragrant buds and shoots, and flowers of\nimmortal scent and hue. For her body kept pace with the progress of her\nsoul, as if out of rivalry and jealousy unwilling to lag behind it, in\nthe acquisition of ornaments and graces. And having no other models, it\nfound itself obliged to imitate the objects that made up the atmosphere\nand soil in which it grew: till at last the deer and the blue lotuses\ngazed upon her eyes, and the red fruits and _gunja_ berries at her lips,\nand the creepers at her arms, with envy and amazement: and the _tamala_\nshadows turned pale when they looked at her hair, and the trunks of the\n_nyagrodha_ trees despaired, gazing at the curve of her waist as it sank\ninto the outline of her heavy hips, and the swans and the elephants\nblushed with shame to see her walk, and the gourds swelled till they\nburst with jealousy, unable to rival the protuberance of those two\ndisdainful sisters, her inimitable breasts, and the bees grew mad, as if\nintoxicated with honey sweeter than their own, at the fragrance that\nfloated from the flower of her mouth.\n\n[Footnote 26: _Ekashrutadhara._ This word exhibits the opinion\nentertained by the Hindoos as to the close connection existing between a\npowerful intellect and a retentive memory. Such a quality indicates the\nhighest kind of pundit: and it should be recollected that Saraswati is\nthe divinity of wisdom, the pundit _par excellence_.]\n\nAnd then strange! just at the very moment when she turned from a child\ninto a woman, there came over her a change, that resembled the presence\nof a single overhanging cloud in the ruby crystal of a clear pale dawn.\nFor though her father told her something of her story and his own, yet\nhe never told her all, whetting all the more her curiosity by what he\ndid not tell, which like a hidden secret she strove to discover for\nherself by means of the careless hints that fell every now and then from\nhis mouth unawares, like clues. And the thought that she was the\ndaughter of a King flitted in her mind, and appeared to disappear\ncontinually, coming and going, as often as she sat musing in the\ntwilight, like the bats in the shadows of the surrounding dusk. And she\nmixed this conviction with the rosy hope of the dawn of her own\nmaidenhood, and with visions which she would blush like that dawn to\navow even to herself, and with fictions of her own imagination that was\nfilled with old legends and stories, and she brooded over a future that\nwas suggested by the past till it turned into a dream, half pleasant and\nhalf melancholy for want of its unlikelihood, that haunted her, and\nnever left her, resembling the colour of the blue shadow that hovers on\nthe pure snow of thy father's[27] western slopes, just before the coming\nof the early sun. For though she was unaware of it herself, she was\nplunged in the loneliness of sex, arising from the dim yearning of her\nas yet untouched affection, and longing for the thing that every maiden\nwaits for, like the night, in the form of a lover, to burst out suddenly\ninto red emotion and an ecstasy of joy. And sometimes, as she sat alone\ndreaming, and gazing as she loved to do out into the desert, that\nstretched away below the hill she lived on towards the setting sun,\nvisions of the kings and princes and lovers of her stories assembling in\ncrowds at her own _Swayamwara_,[28] floated with indistinct and\nunimaginable beauty in the blue haze of the sand, with an intoxicating\nfascination that almost took away her breath, till she was amazed and\neven frightened to find her own heart furiously beating, and shaking\ninto agitation the wave of that bosom which there was nobody to see, as\nif it was ashamed of her and angry with itself.\n\n[Footnote 27: Sc. the Himalaya.]\n\n[Footnote 28: The old epics are full of stories of these gatherings,\nheld to enable the daughters of Kings to choose their own husbands. The\nstory of the marriage in Herodotus, about which Hippocleides did not\ncare, is one of the few parallels in the west.]\n\nAnd yet, with the exception of her father, she had never seen any man\nbut one, who entered into her forest life merely like one of its trees,\nfor she had been accustomed to see him, every now and then, ever since\nshe was a child. And this was a young woodman, who lived a long way off\nin the wood. And he used to go hunting with her father, who had found\nhim in the forest: and he came every now and then to see them, since her\nfather was pleased with him, for his good nature and simplicity,\nresembling as it did the clearness of a stream. And he was as tall as a\n_shala_ tree, and very strong, and very brown and hairy, and though his\nname was Babhru,[29] yet her father always called him Bruin,[30] and\nAranyani knew him first only by the nickname: for when she was a child,\nhe used to play with her, as often as he came. And so as she grew up,\nshe looked upon him always with the eyes of a child, never even dreaming\nthat her own alteration might produce any alteration in himself: as it\ndid. For little by little, as her beauty grew, so did his affection;\ntill at last it turned into a passionate devotion, that remained\nnotwithstanding absolutely pure, and free from any taint of evil, like\nthe soil in which it grew. And finally, he could not keep away from her.\nAnd he came oftener and oftener to see them, till her father was on the\nvery point of forbidding him to come. And then, suddenly, Babhru asked\nhim, to give Aranyani to him as a wife.\n\n[Footnote 29: Tawny: reddish brown. Pronounce Bub-bhroo.]\n\n[Footnote 30: _Achcha_, a corruption of _Riksha_, just as we say \"Bruin\"\ninstead of \"Bear.\"]\n\nAnd Bimba looked at him, as if struck by the very thunderbolt of\nastonishment, for though he was fond of Babhru, yet the idea of such a\nson-in-law was so outrageous that it had never even occurred to him at\nall. And like a flash of lightning, he suddenly became aware of his\ndaughter's own attraction, and the danger of the proximity of butter to\nthe fire. And though utterly despising Babhru for a son-in-law, he could\nnot tell him why. Therefore he banished him altogether, and not only\nwould not give him Aranyani, but actually forbad him to see her any\nmore: as it were returning upon Babhru the thunderbolt that had fallen\non himself: so that that unhappy son-in-law came within a little of\nabandoning the body, for grief and amazement, and remorse, at ever\nhaving asked a question that had produced so terrible a consequence, the\nvery opposite of that at which it aimed. For even to forsake the society\nof Bimba was a grief to him, since he loved him and looked up to him as\na dog does to his master. But the thought of losing that of Aranyani was\nexactly like a sword driven through the very middle of his heart. And\nleaving it behind him, as it were, together with his reason that\nabandoned him, he went away hanging down his head, alone.\n\nBut unable to endure separation, yet unwilling to disobey Bimba, he used\nto come stealthily and lie lurking in the bushes, watching, to catch\nsight of Aranyani. And sometimes, seizing his opportunity, when he knew\nthat her father was away, he would creep out, trembling like a coward,\nand speak to her. And Aranyani, displeased at him for coming to see her\nwithout her father's knowledge or permission, and not reciprocating his\npassion in the least, yet partly out of pity, and partly out of kindness\narising from recollection of his playing with her in the past, and it\nmay be, partly just a very little pleased with his honest admiration,\nand willing to waste a little of her time in teasing him, for want of a\nbetter lover, would sometimes talk to him a little, and laugh at him and\ntell him stories, and send him away more utterly infatuated, and more\nhappy, and more miserable than ever, after making him promise never to\ncome again. And every time he promised, and went away only to return\nagain immediately, simply because he could not help it: dreading her\nreproof every time he dared to come, yet ready for all that to risk his\nlife a hundred times over, only to bask once more in the nectar of the\nsunshine of that reproof. For the words of the straw, promising not to\nanswer to the call of the amber that attracts it, are void of meaning,\nand perish in the very moment of their utterance, like pictures drawn on\nthe surface of a running stream.\n\n\nII\n\nSo, then, there came a day, when Bimba went away to hunt in the forest,\nleaving Aranyani alone at home. And on that morning, she was sitting by\nherself in her customary seat, on the trunk of a fallen tree, gazing,\nwith her chin resting on her hand, away over the desert, that lay before\nher like an incarnation of the colour of vague youth-longing, ending in\na blue dream. And wholly intent on her own thoughts, she remained\nsitting absolutely still, totally unconscious of all around her, as if\nher soul, in imitation of what it gazed at, had become the exact mirror\nof the silent desert's inarticulate and incommunicable dream. And yet,\nfrom time to time, a smile stole into her lips of its own accord, as if\nbetraying against her will some sweet and secret hoard of delicious joy\nwithin, that she strove in vain to hide. And every now and then her eyes\ngrew a little brighter, and there came a flush over her face, and a\nlittle tremor ran as it were all over her, like the ripple that comes\nand goes upon the bosom of a lake, stirred by a play of wind.\n\nSo as she sat, it happened, that Babhru came slowly through the wood,\nlooking for her, and knowing her customary haunts. And suddenly catching\nsight of her sitting, he hesitated for a moment, and then came quietly\nand stood behind her, a little way off: half-pleased that she did not\nsee him, and a little bit afraid of the moment when she should. And\nthere he remained silent, yet with a heart beating so violently that it\nshook him till he trembled, gazing with ecstasy and adoration at the\noutline of her throat and her chin, and the corner of her lips, which he\ncould only just see, round the curve of her cheek. And after a little\nwhile, longing to see more of those lips, he leaned eagerly forward,\nand put out one foot without looking where it fell; and stepping on a\ndry twig, it broke with a snap.\n\nAnd at the sound, instantly she started up, and looked round, as if in\nterror. And strange! when she saw him, there came into her face surprise\nand displeasure, that were mingled with relief, and even disappointment,\nas if she had expected, and hoped, and yet even feared, to see someone\nelse. And while she gazed silently at him in confusion, Babhru said\nsadly: Aranyani, of what or of whom didst thou think, so intently, as to\nbe unaware of my approach? For thy lips seemed to me to be smiling, as\nif with anticipation, and very sure I am that it was not at the thought\nof me or my coming that they smiled.\n\nAnd Aranyani blushed, and instantly frowned, at her own involuntary\nblush. And she said, as if haughtily: O Babhru, what are my thoughts to\nthee? And are they thy servants? And what right hast thou to be jealous\nof my thoughts, who hast not even the title or permission to be here at\nall? Didst thou not promise not to come again? and yet here thou art for\nall that, watching to surprise my very thoughts, while all the while I\ndo not think of thee at all. Yet even so, here there is certainly no\nrival to thyself. And Babhru said bitterly: Rivals could not make the\nmatter worse, since by thy own confession thou dost not think of me at\nall. Even without rivals, I am utterly rejected and despised, by thee\nand by thy father. Then she said kindly: Nay, Babhru, not by me. Thou\nart for me, just what thou always wert, before. And Babhru said: Alas!\nthat is my very grief. For I would have thee not the same, but something\nmore. Then said Aranyani: What more, O Babhru? And he looked at her\nsadly, and said: Dear Aranyani, couldst thou not love me just a very\nlittle? And she laughed, and said: Poor Bruin, do I then not love thee\nvery well? And Babhru said with emphasis: Love! Thou dost not so much as\nunderstand the meaning of the word.\n\nAnd she looked at him for a moment, with eyes whose expression he could\nnot comprehend, and she drew a deep breath, and turned away. And she\nsaid lightly: Do I not? then thou shalt tell me all about it: for I will\nallow thee to stay with me, for a very little while, just to show thee,\nthat I love thee a very little. Sit down, then, beside me, and look not\nso melancholy, or I shall begin to think, to love is to be wretched:\nwhereas I had imagined, in my innocence, the very contrary. And Babhru\nsaid: Thou art utterly deceived: for love is misery. And she laughed,\nand exclaimed: Why, then, I am better as I am, without it. What!\nwouldst thou have me miserable? And he said: Well can I tell thee from\nexperience, that every lover must be miserable, when, like myself, he\ncannot gain his object. And now I could almost wish evil to thy father,\nsince he it is who stands, like a cloud, between me and the moon of my\ndesire. And she said: What is this much-desired moon? And he said: Thou\nknowest very well, it is thyself: and I long to have thee for my wife,\nand live with thee alone, for ever and ever, in the wood.\n\nThen said Aranyani: O Bruin, it may be, the attainment of thy desire\nmight sorely disappoint thy expectation, after all: since many times,\nthose who have risen to the very summit of the mountain of their hopes\nhave found themselves miserably deceived, and fallen suddenly to the\nvery bottom of despair with a crash, like Chandana. And Babhru said: Who\nwas Chandana? And he said within himself: Let her tell me about Chandana\nor anybody else, so only that I can cheat her into allowing me to sit\nhere, and watch her lips moving, and look into her eyes.\n\nAnd Aranyani said: Babhru, thou art so simple, and thy soul is like\ncrystal, so that I can see into thy secret thoughts without needing to\nbe enlightened by thy voice. Didst thou not say to thyself: I care\nabsolutely nothing for Chandana, so only that I may listen while she\ntalks? And Babhru hung his head, with a blush. And Aranyani clapped her\nhands in triumph, and exclaimed: See! O Bruin, thou art guilty. Yet\ndespair not, for thou shalt hear all about Chandana, just the same.\nKnow, that long ago, there was a King, who had innumerable wives, and\nfifty sons, of whom this very Chandana was one. Now all these sons lived\nin anxiety, saying to themselves: Which of us all will be the heir to\nthe throne, and succeed our father when he dies? So they remained,\nrivals, and each had his eyes fixed upon the others, fearing to be\nsupplanted. So Chandana's case was worse than thine, O Bruin, since thou\nart without a rival. And then, after a while, that old King, out of all\nhis fifty sons, chose this very Chandana for his heir; and appointed him\n_yuwaraja_,[31] with all the proper ceremonies. So when they were\ncompleted, that overjoyed _yuwaraja_ ran, fresh from the installation,\nto the _awarodha_,[32] to tell his mother of his triumph, and increase\nit by her praises. But he found her, to his amazement, all in tears,\nand as dismal as if he had come only to tell her of his death. So he\nsaid: Mother, what is the reason of such misery, on such a day of\nexultation? Should the gloom continue, while the sun is rising? But his\nmother looked sourly at him, and she said: Fool! thy rising sun is\nsetting: thou art out, in thy quarters, and mistakest west for east: and\nsoon enough, it will be night for thee. And Chandana said: I do not\nunderstand thee. Then said his mother: The King thy father discovered,\nlong ago, the elixir of life: and even now he has been living for\nfifteen hundred years. And this is a jest that he plays, now and then,\nfor his own amusement, making one of his innumerable sons his heir. For\nall his heirs die before him, as thou wilt also, never even reaching so\nmuch as the very first step of that throne that lures them on and hangs\nalways just before them, like a bundle of _hariali_ grass held by a\ncrafty rider on a stick before the nose of the deluded beast of burden\nthat carries him along. Thine is only the phantom of a sun that will\npresently go down and disappear, leaving the true sun, thy father, still\nin the very blaze of noon.\n\n[Footnote 31: _i.e._ \"little king,\" Prince of Wales or Dauphin. The\nstory is a piece of old folklore, and one version may be found in\nSomadewa.]\n\n[Footnote 32: The women's apartments, or _gynaeceum_.]\n\nSo as he listened, the face of that unhappy Chandana fell. And he went\naway, and sank, just as his mother told him, into the night of\nmelancholy; and abandoning his royal condition, he became a pilgrim, and\ndied after many years at a very holy bathing-place, at last. But his\nfather went on reigning, making his sons, one after another, _yuwaraja_,\nexactly as before.\n\n\nIII\n\nSo, then, when Aranyani ended, Babhru said with a smile: Aranyani, thy\nstory is foolish, and altogether wide of the mark, and it brings me\nconsolation rather than reproof. For very certainly thy father is not a\nKing, and has not an elixir, and will not live for ever. And when he\ndies, thou wilt no longer be able to escape me, for we shall be alone\ntogether in the wood.\n\nThen said Aranyani: Babhru, thy confidence is very positive; and yet,\nwho knows? Who knows what may happen in the future? Count not, O Bruin,\nwith such ignorant presumption on finding me for ever at thy mercy in\nthe wood: even after the disaster, which ought not to have occurred to\nthee, even in a dream. And even if my father be, as thou sayest, not a\nKing, I say, who knows? And all at once, she turned half round, facing\nhim directly as he sat beside her, with malice and provocation in her\neyes. And she said: Babhru, how if a King's son were suddenly to come\ninto the wood, and carry me away, as many stories tell of others? Did\nnot Dushmanta discover Shakuntala, in exactly such a wood? But thou wilt\nsay, she was more beautiful than I. And Babhru said gloomily: I will say\nnothing of the kind: for thou art far more beautiful than Shakuntala or\nanybody else. Then said Aranyani: Thou seest. So nothing is wanted to\nmake my case tally with her own, save only the King's son. And is not\nthe world full to the very brim, of Kings and their sons? And Babhru\nexclaimed with a groan: Alas! Aranyani, thou art wounding my very heart,\nand this is the very thing of which I am afraid. For thy only\npreservation is, that this is a wood, into which nobody ever comes. And\nall day long I tremble, lest in very truth some stranger should come\ninto the wood and see thee, and spread abroad the news of thy existence,\nlike the wind which carries everywhere the scent of a lotus, till at\nlength the bees come to plunder it of the honey it contains. Then,\nindeed, all would be over, for thee as for me.\n\nAnd Aranyani said, with mischief: O Bruin, what then? Wilt thou deny his\nflower to the bee, and is not the true and proper place of every flower\neither the wilderness, its origin, or the head of a King, its destiny\nand end?\n\nAnd once again, Babhru uttered a groan, and he exclaimed: Aranyani, thy\nwords are torture, and nothing whatever but the echo of my own fears.\nBut this much I will tell thee, on my own part: that the King who shall\ncome to carry thee away will do well to beware. For if I know it, and\nfind him in the wood, he will never leave it, either with thee or\nwithout. And he looked away, with ferocity in his eyes and in his teeth,\nnot perceiving that Aranyani turned paler as he spoke. And presently she\nsaid, in a low voice: Surely this love must be an evil thing, if these\nare its results. And now for the very first time, I see, that thou art\nwell named, O Bruin, and in very truth, a bear. What! wouldst thou\nactually slay the poor King's son who had never done thee any harm,\nsimply for seeking me? And Babhru said sternly: What harm could he do me\ngreater than robbing me of thee? But let him only come, and see!\n\nAnd Aranyani said slowly: O thou rude, and fierce, and love-bewildered\nBabhru, dost thou not know, that only he is virtuous, who is so far from\nrevenging an injury that he returns it, on the contrary, by a benefit,\nas Bhrigu did: whose story would be a lesson to thee, of which thou\nstandest in sore need. And Babhru said: I care not a straw, either for\nBhrigu or anybody else: and if, in this matter, he could be of any\nother opinion than my own, I tell thee beforehand, that thy Bhrigu is a\nfool.\n\nAnd Aranyani laid her hand upon his arm, and said very gently: On the\ncontrary, he was a sage: sit still, and listen, while I tell thee all\nabout him. Long ago there arose among the sages a dispute, as to which\nwas the greatest of the gods. And some said, the Grandfather, and\nothers, the Moony-crested, and others, the husband of Shri.[33] And\nfinding that they could not agree, for all their disputing, they came to\nthe conclusion, to settle the matter by experiment. And they chose from\namong them Bhrigu, and sent him away, to put the gods to the test. So\nBhrigu went accordingly, and after a while, he fell in with Brahma. And\ndrawing near that four-faced god, he neither saluted him, nor performed\na _pradakshina_,[34] but went up without ceremony and accosted him, with\nrude familiarity. Thereupon Brahma, in great wrath at his insolence, and\non the very point of cursing that deliberately ill-mannered sage, was\nnevertheless appeased by him, by means of excuses and apologies. And so,\nleaving him appeased, Bhrigu proceeded further on, and coming to\nKailas, enquired for Maheshwara. But the Moony-crested god, informed of\nhis arrival, sent him out a message, bidding him go away again, and\nsaying: I have no leisure, since I am at this very moment busy playing\nwith my other half, the Daughter of the Snow. And going away\naccordingly, Bhrigu came upon the Lord Wishnu, lying fast asleep. And\ninstantly he awoke him, by giving him a kick upon the breast, so hard,\nthat he injured his own foot. Then that husband of Shri, rising up\npolitely, said to him with concern and compassion in his voice: O\nBhrigu, surely thou hast hurt thy own foot: for the kick was very\nsevere. And as a rule, a blow hurts the giver more than the receiver.\nAnd sitting down beside him, that compassionate deity took the foot upon\nhis lap, and began very gently to shampoo it, continuing till all the\npain was gone. Then said Bhrigu: What god is greater than this god? For\nwho but a god, and the very highest, would requite an unprovoked assault\nby tenderness, and pity, and oblivion of his own wrong? Surely this is\nthe badge of Deity in its very essence, that, like sky-crystal, is pure,\nand absolutely transparent, and utterly without a flaw[35]?\n\n[Footnote 33: _i.e._ Brahma, Shiwa, and Wishnu respectively.]\n\n[Footnote 34: By moving round him, keeping him on the right: an\nestablished form of adoration.]\n\n[Footnote 35: This curious and very beautiful legend may be found in the\nPuranas.]\n\n\nIV\n\nAnd Babhru listened in silence, and when she ended, he said slowly:\nAranyani, dost thou then imagine, that the deity, so tolerant of injury\nto himself, would have been equally long-suffering and indifferent, had\nBhrigu or any other, fool or sage, attempted to rob him of Shri, and\ndeprive him of his wife?\n\nAnd Aranyani laughed and said: But I am not thy wife, O Babhru, yet.\nThou art anticipating. And Babhru said: Alas! no. But at least, if thou\nart not yet my wife, thou art not any other man's: nor, if I can prevent\nit, shalt ever be. And she said: Babhru, thou art utterly intolerable,\nand a tyrant: and at this rate, I shall without a doubt die unmarried,\nif all the sons of Kings who may come to seek me in the wood are to be\nslain by thee. And much I fear, that the wood will come to rival even\nKurukshetra,[36] with all its heroes lying dead in heaps, except\nthyself.\n\n[Footnote 36: The scene of the great battle in the Mahabharata, where\nall the heroes killed each other.]\n\nAnd Babhru said without a smile: Aranyani, thou art laughing at a thing\nwhich, for all that, is very solemn, and very simple: for very sure it\nis, that whoever would deprive me of thyself must either slay me first,\nor die himself. And she said: Poor Bruin, this alone is very sure, that\nlove must be a very demon, since he has filled thee with such a raging\nthirst for the slaughter of the sons of Kings. But come now, I will tell\nthee a better way: and that is, to kill me: for so wilt thou effectually\ncircumvent and cheat all these love-sick and imaginary Kings, at a\nsingle blow: if, as it seems, I am to be a cause of strife and\nbloodshed, as long as I am alive.\n\nAnd he looked at her fixedly, and said: Jest not with my devotion, for\nit may be, thou art nearer the truth than thou imaginest. Will any King\nwhatever love thee half as well as I do? Yet thou wilt not love me, and\nas I think, it is because I am not on the level of thy thoughts, and not\na King.[37] Then she laughed, and exclaimed: Alas! poor Bruin, thou art\nmad: for all these Kings are only dreams, yet art thou as savage as if\nthey were actually before thee in a row. And he said: Aye! only dreams:\nand yet the dreams are earnest, and are thine. Kings are the very\nmatter of thy dreams. Is not this the subject of thy reveries as thou\ngazest at the sand? Ha! am I right? Dost thou never long for some King's\nson to come and fill thy life with joy, and deliver thee from the\nmonotony of this wood, and thy father, and myself? Am I not below thee,\nin thy estimation? Then for what canst thou long, but for thy peer?\n\n[Footnote 37: It should be remembered by the English reader that \"sons\nof Kings\" are more numerous, in India, than in the West. All Rajpoots\nare sons of Kings: and Aranyani herself a Rajpootni. To marry a King's\nson would be for her, not merely a desire, but a duty: an affair of\ncaste. All this flavour evaporates in a translation.]\n\nAnd he looked keenly at Aranyani, and as her eyes met his, she wavered,\na very little, and looked away, and said: Alas! poor Babhru, thy love is\njealousy, which makes thee so sharp-sighted, that thou seest things that\nare not there. So trouble not thy foolish head about anything so slight\nand insignificant as the subject of my dreams, otherwise thou wilt place\nthyself on the level of the zanies of Chincholi. And he said: Thou\nspeakest the very truth: I am the very type of a fool, striving to reach\nwhat is above him and beyond his reach, even when he stands on tiptoe:\nand that is, the level of thy thoughts. And Aranyani said: See now, I\nsaid well, thou art the very fellow of the sages of Chincholi: a city,\ninto which on a day there came a certain sanctimonious ascetic, called\nPinga, from the colour of his hair. And arriving at the square before\nthe palace of the King, he sat down in its middle, and spreading out\nhis left hand open before him, he looked intently at its palm. And so he\ncontinued, wrapt in the contemplation of his hand, paying absolutely no\nregard to anything around him, till night. And this he did every day,\nall day long, till at length he became the very target of the curiosity\nof the people of the town, who crowded round him in a throng, disputing\nas to the meaning of his singular behaviour, and all maintaining\nopposite opinions. And one said: This ascetic is undoubtedly pondering\non the Panchatantra.[38] And another: Beyond a doubt, the holy man is\nmeditating on Death. And yet another: Is not this an ascetic? And of\nwhat should he meditate but the five fires? But a pundit passing by,\nsaid: His meditation can be of nothing but the syllogism and its\nmembers. Thereupon another said: Is it not the left hand?[39] Then his\nthoughts are of the Shakti. And a wag among them said: Aye! For of what\ndo all these holy men perpetually think, but of the five arrows of the\nGod of Love? And a Brahman said: Thou art altogether out in thy\nconjecture, for he meditates on nothing but the sheaths of the soul.\nAnd a Gawali shouted: The sage is considering devoutly the parts of the\ncow. For what is holier than a cow? And there arose such an uproar in\nthe city that the citizens all came to blows, dividing into factions,\naround him, while all the time he sat peacefully just as if nobody was\nthere, gazing at his hand. And finally the King sent officers to say to\nhim: Depart quickly from the city, for thy presence is a cause of\nsedition. Thereupon Pinga said: Interrupt my meditation, and I will\ncurse the city, so as to deprive it of both sun and rain. So fearing his\ncurse, the King had recourse to diplomacy. And he sent his _purohita_ at\nnight, who secretly induced that obstinate ascetic to go away, of his\nown accord, by giving him a _lakh_. And as he slowly went out of the\ncity, his _chela_ said to him aside: Master, what _was_ the subject of\nthy meditation: for I am curious to know? Then that crafty ascetic\nsuddenly laughed like a hyaena. And he said: I meditated about absolutely\nnothing but my own hand. And now, this is a lesson to thee. For such is\nthe nature of fools, who comprehend least of all what is absolutely\nsimple, and see last of all what is lying before their nose. And whoever\nknows this possesses treasure inexhaustible, and is master of the world.\n\n[Footnote 38: The point of these interpretations depends on the number\nfive, which enters into all of them.]\n\n[Footnote 39: There is a play here on _wama_, which means the _left\nhand_ and _a beautiful woman_.]\n\n\nV\n\nAnd Babhru watched her intently, as she spoke, and when she ended, he\nsaid suddenly and abruptly: Aranyani, thou art deceiving me. And she\nsaid: How, O Babhru? And he said: Thou art this morning totally unlike\nthyself: for thy customary melancholy is absent, and thou art strange,\nand elated, and agitated, and as it seems to me, thou art telling me\nidle stories, like one that listens all the while to something else, as\nit were in a hurry merely to throw me off the scent, and hide from me a\nsecret, and amuse me like a child. And somehow or other, I feel as if\nthere were a wall between us, this morning, which was never there\nbefore. Aye! I am sure, I know not how, thou art playing as it were a\npart, to cast a mist before my eyes, and hide from me some agitation in\nthy soul.\n\nAnd Aranyani laughed, and blushed, and frowned, and finally she said:\nBabhru, thy love is a disease, which fills thy head with nightmare, and\nthy eyes with phantoms born of suspicion in thy soul. And he said: Alas!\nthy own behaviour gives the lie to thee. Thou art not like thyself, and\nI am right. And now, then, I will tell thee, in return for thy stories,\none myself; but unlike them, mine shall be very sad, and very true.\n\nAnd Aranyani turned, and looked at him with anxiety in her eyes: and she\nsaid: O Babhru, a story, and from thee! what is it? And he said: Dost\nthou remember, a little while ago, when we wandered, the last time I saw\nthee, in the wood? And she said: Yes. Then he said: Dost thou recollect,\nhow all at once I stopped thee, and turned back with thee, and left thee\nso abruptly? And shall I tell thee, why? And Aranyani gazed at him,\nturning a little paler, without speaking. Then he said: Know, that as we\nwent, I looked, and suddenly I saw before me in the bushes, what was\nunseen by thee, the face of a man. And as I saw it, I shuddered, for his\neyes were fixed on thee, with astonishment, and evil admiration. And\ninstantly I turned, and took thee home, and left thee, and hurried back\nto find him: but he was gone. I hunted everywhere, but he was gone. And\never since, I cannot even sleep, for thinking of this man, and of his\neyes, which haunt me, as they gloated on thee, like a terror, bidding me\nbeware, and saying as it were: Ha! Ha! thy treasure is discovered. And I\nresemble one, whose buried hoard of gold has been seen by other eyes;\nand hardly do I dare to be away from thee, not as before, merely for\nlove of thee, but for fear, lest, on returning, I should find my\ntreasure gone.\n\nAnd all at once, he burst into a sob; and he rose, and took a step or\ntwo away from her. And Aranyani rose also, and she said with agitation:\nO Babhru, what was he like, this man? Was he tall and powerful, like\nthee? And Babhru said: Nay, he was a little ugly man, with weasel eyes.\nAnd Aranyani laughed, as if with relief. And she exclaimed: O Babhru,\nwhat is this? Is this a man of whom to be afraid? What! shall I fall a\nvictim to this little man with weasel eyes, who hides in bushes? Be\nunder no concern, for so much I will tell thee, that not even a hundred\nsuch pigmies shall ever carry me away.\n\nAnd Babhru said sadly: Alas! Aranyani, thou dost not understand: and\nlike the flower in thy hair, thou art utterly ignorant of thy own\nattraction. And exactly such a man as this, whom thou despisest, is the\nmost dangerous of all. Dost thou think, if once through his agency the\nworld should suddenly become aware of what this wood contains, it would\nlong remain unvisited by others? It was not the face of the intruder\nthat I feared, but his tongue, which, could I but have caught him, I\nwould have cut out of his throat, to keep it from betraying thy\nexistence to the world outside.\n\nAnd as he looked towards her, with tears in his eyes, all at once\nAranyani changed colour, turning suddenly paler, as if her heart,\nappalled by the apparition of some menace in his words, had summoned to\nits assistance all the blood in her face. And after a while she said:\nBabhru, thou art ill, and thy unfortunate affection not only makes thee\noverestimate my value, but even leads thee to alarm thyself and me, by\ncreating imaginary fears. And moreover, come what may, the mischief, if\nany mischief is, is done, and the tongue that is thy bugbear is safe and\nat a distance in its owner's head, talking, very probably, of anything\nbut me. But now, while we ourselves are talking, time has fled, and it\nis nearly noon; for the shadows are at shortest; and now, I dare not let\nthee stay here any longer; as indeed, I was to blame, in allowing thee\nto stay at all; and better had it been for both of us, it may be, hadst\nthou never come. And should my father suddenly return, and find thee, it\nwould be worse. Why need I tell thee what thou knowest very well? And\nwhat good can come to thee, by longing for what is forbidden? Thou dost\nonly add fuel to the flame of thy fever, which I, did I do my duty,\nought rather to quench, by pouring over it the cold water of distance\nand separation. But my compassion for thee fights with my obedience to\nmy father, for I am only a woman after all, and very weak; and it may\nbe, I love thee just a very little. So be content with all that I can\ngive thee, and do not come again, but recover from thy fears, and forget\nme. I cannot be thy wife, but I wish thee well. And now goodbye, and go\naway.\n\nSo as she stood, dismissing him, Babhru turned without a word, and went\naway into the wood, very slowly, while she watched him go. And she put\nboth her hands behind her head, and stood looking after him, absolutely\nstill. And as fate would have it, he turned round, just before he passed\nout of sight, and looked back, and saw her standing, gazing after him\nwith a smile, with every outline of her round and slender woman's form\nstanding out sharp as the moon's rim, as if on purpose to intoxicate his\neye, against the background of the distant sand, like a threefold\nincarnation of his inaccessible desire, and his disappearing happiness,\nand his irrevocable farewell, in a feminine shape. And all at once he\ncame back to her with hurried steps. And he reached her, and fell down\nbefore her, and seized a corner of her red garment that was loose, and\nkissed it. And then he started up. And he said, in a voice that shook,\nwith tears stealing from his eyes: Well I understand that I am looking\nat thee, for the very last time.\n\nAnd then he turned, and went away very quickly, without looking round:\nwhile she stood in agitation, looking after him, till he disappeared\namong the trees.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nA GLAMOUR OF NOON\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nA GLAMOUR OF NOON\n\n\nI\n\nSo she stood, a long while, gazing in the direction of his departure,\ntouched by his emotion into an emotion, that was more than half\ncompassion, of her own, and sorry, yet fearing above all things to see\nhim return. And then at last, as if satisfied that he was actually gone,\nshe turned away. And she murmured to herself: Alas! poor Babhru, hadst\nthou but known how near thy fear came to the very truth, I doubt whether\nI could ever have got thee to go away at all. And even as it is, it is a\nwonder that he has not actually discovered what his jealousy prompted\nhim to guess: and all the while I trembled, feeling a very culprit, so\naccurately did he probe my soul, and see into my heart. And wonderful\nexceedingly is the sagacity of love, that discerns, from the very\nfaintest indications, what would escape all other eyes! And yet, for\nall his acuteness, how little did he dream, that I knew, by experience,\nwhat love is, better, far better, than himself. He knew that I deceived\nhim, but did not know, how far. And after all, what shadow of a right\nhas he, to claim my affection for himself? But now he has had his turn,\nand all that I could give him: and now, then, it is my turn, and it is\ntime, and it is noon.\n\nAnd then, all at once, Babhru, and everything concerning him, vanished\nclean out of her mind. And strange! she changed, as if by magic, in an\ninstant, into another woman. For as she stood, unconsciously she smiled,\nand the smile ran, as it were, over her whole body with a sudden wave of\ndelicious agitation, and from a woman that she was, lording it, as if\nwith a sense of superiority, she turned into a child, trembling all over\nwith the excitement of anticipation. And she looked very carefully all\nround her, as if to make sure of being unobserved; and all at once, she\nran very quickly away into the wood, turning her back on Babhru, down\nthe hill towards the sand. And coming at length to a little clump of\ntrees, she stopped abruptly, and clapped her hands. And at that very\ninstant, as if he had been waiting for the signal, Atirupa issued from\nthe trees. And Aranyani ran towards him, breathless, half with running,\nand half with the agitation of the joy of reunion, and threw herself\ninto his arms, with a cry.\n\nAnd then, for a while, that pair of lovers did nothing but kiss each\nother all over, with kisses that followed one another like raindrops in\na storm. And after a while, he said: Dear Aranyani, thou art very late,\nand like the little rogue thou art, hast kept me waiting, as I think, on\npurpose, to make thy value greater, and increase my thirst, till I had\nalmost determined, in despair, to go away. And Aranyani said, playfully:\nWhat! couldst thou not wait for me a little while, and am I not worth\nwaiting for, at all? And he kissed her very carefully on both eyes, and\nhe said: Indeed thou art. Then she said softly: And dost thou then\nimagine that delay is any easier to me than to thyself? Know, that I had\ndifficulty, in coming even when I did. For I had first to get rid of\nsomeone else, in order to come at all. And Atirupa said: Thy old lover,\nof whom thou hast told me? Then she said: Thou sayest well, my old\nlover, who loves me, as I think, far better than thou dost, and almost\nas much as I love thee. But alas! for him, since I love him not again;\nand well will it be, for me, if in thy case also, love is not wholly on\none side. Say, dost thou love me, even half as much as I love thee? And\nAtirupa said, with a smile: Nay, if I must believe thee, it is\nimpossible.\n\nAnd she gazed at him with insatiable eyes, and she said with a sigh:\nYes, it is impossible. And yet, strange! it is not yet a week, since I\ncame upon thee in the wood for the very first time, thinking, as I saw\nthee, that the very god of love had, somehow or other, dropped out of\nheaven, and wandering about on earth, had lost his way in our wood, only\nfor my destruction; to consume me, like lightning irresistible, only by\na look: and turn me suddenly from free into a slave, the property of\nanother, who is master of her body and her soul. And yet, only this very\nmorning did I learn, how nearly I had lost thee: since thy servant that\nsaw me in the wood, and was the cause of thy coming, came within an ace\nof perishing himself, before he ever got away to tell. And Atirupa said:\nHow? And Aranyani told him. And then she said: And now I fear for thee\nalso: for should Babhru chance to see thee, his reason will desert him.\nAnd I tremble to think of thy encounter, with such a giant as is he. And\nyet I know not what to do. For he will surely come across thee, sooner\nor later, as indeed it is marvellous that he has not done already:\nsince thou comest daily to me in the wood.\n\nAnd Atirupa laughed, and he said: Fear nothing, O thou with the eyes of\na gazelle: for it may be he himself, that would suffer most by our\nmeeting. Then said Aranyani: It is exactly this I fear. For I would not\nhave thee harm him, even though my fear is all for thee. And Atirupa\nsaid: There is a very easy way to solve this difficulty, and deprive\nthee of all cause of fear, which has not yet occurred to thee. And\nAranyani said: What is that? And Atirupa said: It is only in this wood\nthat we could ever meet each other. But what if thou shouldst come away\nwith me, O thou delicious little slave, leaving the wood behind thee, to\na place he cannot reach?\n\n\nII\n\nAnd then, Aranyani started, and looked at him with eyes that were filled\nwith timidity and dismay, as if she hardly understood. And after a\nwhile, she said: What! come away with thee! it is impossible. And she\ngazed at him in terror, while Atirupa looked at her steadily, with\ncaressing impenetrable eyes. And he murmured to himself: Now, then, I\nhave startled my beautiful and timid fawn, but the seed is for all that\nsown in her beating heart. And now, then, we shall see, whether I can\nget her, by persuasion and caresses and cajolery, to come away of her\nown accord; or whether, as I do not wish, I shall have to carry her off\nby force. For she will be far sweeter if she yields herself, even though\nreluctant, than if I have to make her come away, whether she will or no.\nAnd presently he said gently: Dear Aranyani, dost thou imagine that\neither I can live without thee, or remain for ever in thy wood? For even\nas it is, I have been living in the wood, on thy account, for many days,\nat a distance from my capital, neglecting all my state affairs; and long\nago my ministers must have wondered, what can have become of me. So of\ntwo things, one is absolutely necessary: and either thou must come away,\nor we must part.\n\nAnd Aranyani looked at him steadily, turning very pale. And she murmured\nin bewilderment: Part! Thou and I! And Atirupa said: Dear, thou seest,\nthe very notion makes thee pale. Then what will it be to part, in\nreality? Couldst thou endure to live without me? Or can I live for ever\nin the wood? Then what remains but this alone, to leave the wood\nthyself, and come with me, since there is absolutely no other way?\n\nAnd Aranyani drew herself away, out of his arms; and she stood, looking\ndown upon the ground, silent, and very pale: while Atirupa watched her,\nstanding still, with eyes that never left her for an instant. And after\na while, he said again: Dear Aranyani, couldst thou actually think, it\ncould continue thus for ever, or that I could remain for ever, as I am\ndoing now, camping in the wood, and coming every day to see thee?\n\nAnd Aranyani sighed, and she said very slowly, still looking at the\nground: I know not, for I have thought of absolutely nothing, since I\nsaw thee, but thyself; and that was enough for me, and more; since my\nsoul was so full that it had room for nothing else. And all the past had\nvanished, and the future did not matter, swallowed up in the present\nwhich was ecstasy, and intoxication, and thou. How could I think of\nanything at all? And now thou hast suddenly awaked me from a dream,\nwhich in my folly I had imagined would never have an end, but last for\never. And lo! it is gone, and all is over, and finished, almost before\nit has begun.\n\nAnd Atirupa said in a whisper: Say rather, O Aranyani, that the dream is\nonly just beginning.\n\nAnd she answered angrily: Dost thou think it then so easy for a flower\nto consent to be torn up by the roots, and carried from its home no\nmatter where? For like a flower I am rooted in this wood, where I have\nlived and grown since the beginning, with my father and the trees, and\nthe creepers, and the deer. And now thou hast placed thyself, with a\nsudden flash of lightning, in opposition to it all; and thou wouldst\nmake me choose, threatening to go away and leave me, unless I sacrifice\nit all, to go into the darkness, I know not where, with thee. Dost thou\nthink the choice is easy which will utterly destroy me, whichever way it\nfalls? Thou art the cause of all, and resemblest a knife, that bids me\nto consent and rejoice, while it cuts my heart in two, possessing\nabsolutely no heart whatever of its own.\n\nAnd Atirupa said gently: Alas! Aranyani, thou art utterly unjust, and\nthis was my very fear, that when I offered thee to choose between the\nwood, which is thy past, and myself, who am thy future, I should seem to\nthee utterly of no account, and light in the balance, weighed against\nwhat I asked thee to resign. I say, thou blamest me unjustly, when I am\nabsolutely blameless, unless indeed it be a fault, to love thee, for\nwhich not I, but thyself, or rather the Creator is to blame, for making\nthee exactly what thou art. Who can blame the butter for melting in the\nflame, or make it a crime in the ocean, for rising in tumult and\nagitation at the sight of the tender digit of the moon? Is it my fault,\nif I must go away, since after all my kingdom is in need of me, and even\nas it is, I have remained here too long, and all on thy account? And\nwhat can I do but ask thee to come with me, since unless we are to part,\nthere is absolutely nothing else to do? And does not every maiden do the\nsame? Did not Shakuntala abandon her home and her relations in the\nforest, to follow King Dushmanta? And did not even the Daughter of the\nSnow abandon, not only her father, but even her own body, for the sake\nof the Moony-crested god? And art thou fearful, O thou intoxicating\nchild, to go into the dark? But what will darkness matter? nay, will not\nthe dark itself become nectar, provided I am there? Or rather, will not\nthe darkness be still darker, and gloomier, and blacker, if I go away\nand leave thee by thyself?\n\n\nIII\n\nAnd Aranyani stood for a moment, when he ended; and then all at once she\nsank down upon the ground, and hid her face in her two hands, and began\nto sob. And after a while she said in agitation: What hast thou done to\nme? For till I saw thee, I was happy; and now I am torn by thee utterly\nin two. For I cannot bear to part either with thee, or with my father\nand my home. And now I could wish never to have seen thee, and well had\nit been, if thy servant never had set eyes on me, to tell thee, and\nbring thee to the wood. Why hast thou come hither to destroy me? For all\nhas come about exactly as Babhru said and feared, when he foretold that\nthy coming would be my utter ruin.\n\nAnd Atirupa listened, and he murmured to himself: She has fallen into\nthe snare, by avowing her vacillation, and allowing herself to debate,\ninstead of repudiating my proposal: and now it will be my own fault, if\nI cannot turn the scale in my own favour, by playing on her agitated\nheart. And he said coldly: Ha! then, as I thought, it is Babhru who\ncauses all the trouble; and he it is, whom thou art so unwilling to\nresign.\n\nAnd instantly Aranyani started up, and exclaimed with vehemence and\nindignation: What! dost thou taunt me, dost thou actually dare to taunt\nme, with Babhru, whom I have sacrificed without a thought to thee? Alas!\npoor Babhru. Little does he resemble thee, for so far from taking me\naway, he would live at my bidding even in a desert, and give up a\nhundred kingdoms, if he had them, for my sake. And Atirupa said: Then be\nit as thou wilt, for I will not be his rival. Go with him to thy\ndesert, and I will go to mine.\n\nAnd he turned, as if to go away in anger. But as he went, Aranyani\nsprang towards him with a shriek. And she seized him by the arm, and\nshook it passionately, exclaiming: Away with Babhru! O forgive me, for I\nam mad, and I know not what I say or do. What is Babhru in comparison\nwith thee? Only be not angry, and do not go, do not leave me, for thy\ngoing is my death. And she clutched him, and caught him by the neck, and\ndrawing his face violently down to her, she began to kiss him without\nceasing, mingling the rain of her kisses with the shower of her tears.\nAnd after a while, she drew back, and holding his neck very tightly with\nher left arm, she gazed intently at his face, as if in meditation,\ndrawing her finger slowly all around it, and over each eyebrow, and\nround and round his mouth, over and over again. And then all at once she\nthrew her right arm also round his neck, and hid her face upon his\nbreast, exclaiming, while her own breast beat like a wave upon his\nheart: Either thou never shouldst have come, or shouldst never go away.\n\nAnd Atirupa stood quietly, supporting her in his arms, and allowing her\nto do with him exactly as she pleased. And finally, he stroked her hair\ngently with his hand, and murmured to himself: Now very soon, I think,\nshe will consent, as it were without consenting, to come away, after a\nlittle coaxing. And he said aloud: Dear Aranyani, it is not I that am\ntearing thee in two, as thou sayest: but it is rather thou thyself that\nart pulling thy soul to pieces, utterly without a cause. Truly wonderful\nis love, that fills his victims with fears that are absurd, and makes\nthem see before them dangers that do not exist at all!\n\nAnd all at once Aranyani raised her head, and began to laugh, looking at\nhim strangely, and saying to herself: These were my very words to\nBabhru, only an hour ago. And Atirupa said: Now, then, thou art\nlaughing, equally without a cause: but why? And she said: It is nothing.\nThen he said: Is it thy reason returning to thee that makes thee laugh\ninstead of weep? For why should it so frighten and disturb thee, to\nthink of leaving all behind for me? Dost thou think I cannot give thee\ncompensation, ten thousand times over, for all thou lettest go? Then of\nwhat art thou afraid?\n\nAnd Aranyani raised her head, and looked fixedly straight into his eyes,\nand yet strange! seeing nothing, for her soul was absent, thinking not\nof him at all, but of Babhru. And she said within herself: Can it be,\nthat what Babhru is to me, that I am to another, and that of every pair\nof lovers, one only loves? And what then will be my fate, if I follow\nhim in spite of all, only to discover, that just as I left Babhru in the\nlurch, so I myself shall be abandoned, it may be, for some other woman's\nsake? And at the thought, she shuddered, and grew cold all over, and\nturned suddenly paler than a waning moon.\n\n\nIV\n\nAnd Atirupa saw it, and was puzzled, understanding nothing of what was\npassing in her soul. And he drew her, half-resisting, once more towards\nhim, and began again to caress her hair, saying as he did so, very\nslowly: Aranyani, thou art in very truth, for thy timidity and thy eyes,\nown sister to the deer: and yet, somehow, I would not have it otherwise,\nfor thy timidity is not less beautiful than those great eyes which it\nfills with apprehension and distrust: and wert thou brave, thy soft body\nwould not quiver, to fill me with emotion, nor should I now be tasting,\nas I kiss thee, the salt beauty of those pearls, thy tears. Stand still,\nthen, a little while, O pretty little coward, and if thou wilt, tremble\nyet a little in my arms, and grow calm, and let me reassure thee: for\nthou takest fright at the noise of every rustling leaf, not stopping to\nconsider, whether there be really anything to injure thee or no. And now\nlet me ask thee: I have told thee who I am, and shown thee many things\neven of thyself, that were unknown to thee: for so far from being\nstrangers, we are actually kin. And why then shouldst thou fear to come\naway? for to whom shouldst thou come, if not to thy own kindred? And\nyet, that is the very reason why I cannot ask thy father for thee. For\ndost thou think, should I go to him, and ask him, he would bestow thee\non me, or let thee go away? Say, would he consent? And Aranyani said, in\na low voice: If, as thou hast told me, thou really art the son of Jaya,\nthen rather would he see me lying dead at his feet. And Atirupa said:\nThou seest. Yet why should thou and I be enemies, because our parents\nwere? And what then, O Aranyani, of the other? Would thy Babhru let thee\ngo? And she said: Nay, rather would he slay thee, or himself, or it may\nbe even me. Then said Atirupa: O foolish one, canst thou then not bring\nthyself to comprehend, that since I must absolutely go, and none will\nlet thee go, either thou must come away with me, or stay here by\nthyself? And yet, when I show thee the necessity, thou art ready to\nconsume me like a straw in the flame of thy reproaches. What then?\nWouldst thou have me go away secretly, saying nothing? And wouldst thou\nnot then exclaim against me as a traitor, never seeing me return? And\ndost thou think it easy for me to go away, leaving thee behind? I tell\nthee, I cannot go away without thee, and yet I cannot stay. Then only\ntell me, what to do. Say, little cousin, why wilt thou fear to come away\nwith me? I marvel rather that thou dost not fear to stay. What wilt thou\ndo alone, when I am gone? Will thy father console thee for my absence,\nthy father who leaves thee all alone? or will Babhru make up to thee for\nthy sending me away? I tell thee, they will both become so hateful in\nthy sight, that thou wilt run away of thy own accord, merely to escape\nfrom them, no matter where. And then thou wilt bitterly regret thy\nscruples, all too late, having lost the opportunity that never will\nreturn; for if I go without thee, I shall never come again. But my image\nwill haunt thee, and follow thee about like a shadow, to darken all thy\nlife, and instead of a rapture ever present, I shall be to thee a memory\nof bitterness, and everlasting self-reproach, and vain remorse. And thou\nwilt grow gradually older, alone, being in thy own eyes a thing\nintolerable, as having cast away a priceless gem, delicious\ncompanionship, friendship and affection, that Fortune herself fished\nthee from the deep, only to see her present thrown, with ingratitude,\nby thee, away. And in thy loneliness thou wilt seek in vain to flee even\nfrom thyself, and it may be, judging thy life utterly unendurable, thou\nwilt seek refuge from its horror in a death of thy own contriving,\nhaving missed the very fruit of thy birth, and ending like a blunder of\nthe Creator, and a thing that had better not have been.\n\n\nV\n\nAnd as he spoke, he felt Aranyani on his breast, sobbing till she shook\nhim, as if to say, Cease, for thou art driving a knife into my heart.\nAnd yet he went on slowly, as if his very object were to stab her to the\nquick. And then, all at once he changed. And he whispered in her ear:\nDear cousin, why dost thou so obstinately destroy thyself and me? What!\ndost thou make believe to love me, calling thyself slave, and yet refuse\nto follow me wherever I may go? Or dost thou think that thou art\ndreaming, mistaking a shadow for reality, expecting suddenly to wake,\nand find nothing in thy arms, and thy vision of happiness a phantom,\nvanishing like the picture in the desert, leaving nothing but the sand?\nThou resemblest a very foolish little deer, that for idle fear of\nfalling victim to delusion, should absolutely refuse to drink, even at a\npool. O deer, what can ever convince thee of the reality of water, if\nthou wilt not believe, even when thou art actually standing, as at\npresent, knee-deep in the lake? Must the very future become present,\nbefore thou wilt trust thyself to credit what it holds? But thou askest\nimpossibility, and like every other maiden, thou canst not experience\nthe future till it comes. Hast thou, then, no faith in me at all? Out,\nout, upon the love that cannot trust! O Aranyani, surely thy love is\nvery small, and a mere imitation and counterfeit of love: for as a rule,\ntrue love is tested by its power of putting faith in what it loves. See,\nthen, thou unbeliever, I will try to bring the future before thy very\neyes, and as I did before, when I told of the life that lay before thee\nby thyself, so now will I paint for thee another picture, to show thee\nan image of that life that thou wilt forfeit, by sending me away alone.\n\nAnd he paused for a moment, as if reflecting on his coming words. But he\nmurmured to himself: I feel that she is hesitating, and trembling in the\nbalance; resembling a fruit that fears to fall, yet knows that its very\nnature dooms it to be eaten, and is half inclined on that account to\ndrop of its own accord. And now, with a little shaking, she will drop\ninto my hand: since like a very woman, she cannot say either yes or no,\nwishing to be forced along the path which all the while she longs, yet\nis terribly afraid, to tread. And now then will I bait the hook with\nflattery, and we shall see whether this golden fish will not swallow it\nas greedily as all her silver sisters, resembling as they do delicate\nand fragile foolish ware that sells itself in a market created by its\nown vanity, where false coin passes easily without detection, and is\neven more potent and valuable than true. And yet in her case, flattery\nis very easy, for the grossest is only the simple truth.\n\nAnd presently he said, in a very low voice: Aranyani, tell me: am I\nbeautiful? And she said, after a while, with her face hidden in his\nbreast: Why ask me to repeat what I have told thee in every way a\nthousand times already? Then he said: And does it not occur to thee,\nthat thou givest me what I give thee? And so we are a pair, for if my\nbeauty is an idol to thee, what else is thine to me? But thou, all\nignorant of thy own extraordinary charm, art incredulous, not\nunderstanding that I also am a devotee to the spell of thy dreamy eyes,\nand the aromatic fragrance of thy hair, and the clinging prison of thy\nsoft round arms, and the taste of thy delicious lips, whose kisses cool,\nlike snowflakes, by their leaf-like half involuntary fall, the burning\ncaused by the touch of thy trembling breast, when it beats on my heart\nlike the surge of the sea. And should we separate, that were made for\none another like Maheshwara and the Daughter of the Snow? Nay, we will\nrather grow together, thou, like the creeper, clinging ever to me, just\nas thou art doing now, indistinguishable from the tree which is myself.\nAnd thou shrinkest from the darkness, but I will be thy darkness and thy\nnight, O thou slender digit of the moon. What wouldst thou do without\nthy night, O moon? Or didst thou say, thyself, thou wert a flower? Well,\nthou shalt be my blue lotus, and I will be thy pool: looking into which,\nthou shalt see thy own reflection, and rejoice. Or, if thou wilt, I will\nplay the river, and thou shalt be the silver swan that floats upon its\nbreast. What! wilt thou take from the river all its beauty, by refusing\nto float upon the water that only longs to be adorned by so beautiful a\nburden? Or better still, thou shalt be my mango blossom, and I, thy mad\nblack bee, living only to plunder my shy sweet blossom of its\nintoxicating wine; aye, without thee, I should indeed resemble a golden\ncup, without the wine that gives it all its use and worth. Thou art the\nsalt, of me the ocean, and the pearl within my shell: and with thee, I\nshall be a very Wishnu, with thee, for my Fortune and my Shri. And like\na word, I should be utterly meaningless without thee, who art my meaning\nand my soul. And wouldst thou separate, and sever me from thee? Nay,\nnay, O cousin, we will live together, not like accidental waifs that\nhaply meet to part again upon the waves of time, but rather like two\nhappy children playing King and Queen, drifting in a golden boat along\nthe crystal stream of life, never so much as touching on a shoal, but\ngliding on, sometimes plying silver oars, and sometimes spreading a\npurple sail to catch the sandal-scented breeze that blows from Malaya\nloaded with the lazy odour of the South, letting all the hours slip past\nus unperceived, till we float away together into the open sea of Death.\n\n\nVI\n\nAnd as he murmured, holding Aranyani in arms that added emphasis by the\naffection of their pressure to the persuasion of his voice, all at once\nshe tore herself away from him abruptly, and went and stood, at a little\ndistance, by herself, silent, and looking out upon the sand. And Atirupa\nstood still, watching her with curious, half passionate, half\nmeditative eyes. And he said within himself: She is standing on the very\nedge of the precipice, into which she is just about to fall, irresolute,\nand dizzy, and distracted by an arbitration which she dares not settle\neither way, not so much out of desire to go, or stay, but rather because\nshe is equally unable and unwilling, either to stay, or go: and in the\nagony of her beautiful perplexity, she is craving to be delivered from\nthe choice, by having the matter settled for her: and now, the weight\neven of a hair would turn the scale. And he drew near slowly, and said,\nafter a while: Hast thou forgotten, O cousin, that there will be no\nfarewell to say to thy surroundings, though thou shouldst leave them\nnow? For there is absolutely nothing to prevent thee from returning to\nvisit them, as often as thou wilt. But still she answered nothing,\nremaining with her back turned towards him, exactly as before.\n\nAnd once again he said: Aranyani, dost thou hear me? I do not ask thee\nto say goodbye for ever to the wood.\n\nAnd he waited for a while, and at last, as she never either moved or\nspoke, he said again: Since, then, thou art absolutely determined, and\nthy mind is made up to let me go away alone: it is well. So, now, there\nis nothing left, but for me to go. And I must absolutely depart,\nwhether I will or no. For my kingdom requires me, and my retinue is\nwaiting at the bottom of the hill, to bring me over the sand. And\nsometimes in the wood thou wilt remember me, and it may be, offer water\nto the ghost of our dead happiness, and the love that might have been,\nfor in this wood I cannot live, and if thou wilt not come away, it is\nuseless to return. So bid me but farewell, and I will go, and thou shalt\nnever see me more.\n\nAnd then she turned. And she put out her hand towards him, as if with\nentreaty, and made a single step, and all at once she swayed, and would\nhave fallen, but that he caught her in his arms. And she said, in a\nvoice so low as scarcely to be heard: Take me, if thou must, and\nquickly, for in another moment, I think that my heart will break in two.\n\nAnd then, she sank down, bereft of her reason, and lay in his arms in a\nswoon.\n\nAnd Atirupa stood for a moment, looking down upon her, as he held her in\nhis arms. And he said to himself, as if half in irresolution: So, then,\nit is over, and I have conquered, and she has yielded, and is mine. And\nyet, somehow or other, I feel, in this instance, a touch of something\nthat resembles pity, and there is as it were a sting, resembling that of\na bee, mixed with my honey, which I never felt before. For after all,\nshe is my own relation. And what will she do, when she finds out her\nmistake? And yet, after all, the mischief is done, and now it is too\nlate. For as it seems, she will break her heart, in a little while,\nwhether she goes away with me, or not.\n\nAnd then, he lifted her in his arms, and went away quickly through the\ntrees, down the hill.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE DESERT AND THE NIGHT\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE DESERT AND THE NIGHT\n\n\nI\n\nSo, then, night followed day, and day succeeded night, in order. And the\nnew moon waxed, and waned: and every day the sun rose up as usual, and\ntravelled slowly on, till he sank at eve, over the sand, beyond the\nwestern hill. And then at last, there came a day, when just as he was\nsinking, it happened that Babhru sat alone, watching him as he went\ndown, at that very same place in the wood where he had parted last from\nAranyani, the day she disappeared. And strange! short as had been the\ninterval of time, he was altered, and it seemed as though years had\nrolled over him, writing on him in an instant the wrinkles of old age.\nFor he looked like an incarnation of dejection, worn and wan, with eyes\nthat were red and hollow, as if sleep had fled away from them, ousted by\nher jealous rivals, sorrow and her sister care. And as he saw the sun\njust on the very point of going down, he murmured to himself: He is but\nshowing me the way, and now very soon, I shall follow his example,\nabandoning like him a birth, in which my business is done. For what is\nthe use of this miserable body, deserted and forsaken by its soul, and\nleft lying empty, and utterly forgotten, and despised? not even knowing\nwhere to look, or where that soul is gone: this body, which long ago I\nwould have quitted not only without regretting it, but even with\ndelight, could but I know for certain that Aranyani is actually dead,\nand unable to return: since but for the hope of that return, I should\nhave ceased to live these many days. Alas! I cannot even tell, whether\nshe is dead, or still alive. And yet it cannot be: she is not dead. And\nyet, she is nowhere to be found: for I have searched the wood a hundred\ntimes from end to end, till there is not a single one of all its leaves\nI have not turned upside down, and all in vain. For she has vanished\nlike a dream, leaving not so much as even the shadow of a clue behind:\nand she resembles a drop of dew, dried by the sun at noon on the leaf of\na red lotus, with nothing but the memory of those who saw it in the\nmorning to show that it was ever there. She has gone, I know not how, I\nknow not where; snatched away and stolen, and it may be even put to\ndeath, or something that is worse than any death, by those who have\ncarried her away, I know not who. And O alas! that I ever left her. I\nonly was to blame, that saw the evil coming, and shrank in terror from\nits shadow, like a bird that sees upon the ground beside it the shadow\nof the hawk. I left her, and now, beyond a doubt, hope is absolutely\nover, and I shall never see her more. And why then should I delay, or\nwait to see another sun? But what, if after all, she were not dead, but\nstill alive, and should return? Then, what a fool I should have been, to\ndie! And yet, if she is dead? Alas! if she is dead, my life is but an\nidle waste of time, and yet I dare not die, for fear, lest after all,\nshe should return.\n\nAnd all at once, he stopped short: for as he spoke, there fell upon his\near a noise. And he listened, and exclaimed: I hear the tramp of horses,\napproaching in the wood. And he started up, like his own heart, that\nbegan to beat violently, as if catching at a straw of hope, in the\nwhirlpool of despair. And he said to himself: Why should horses be\ncoming through the wood, at such an hour? And as he stood gazing, with a\nsoul as it were on tiptoe, in the direction of the sound, a rider\nsuddenly issued from the trees, and came towards him, followed by\nothers like himself. And as they reached him, they stopped: and their\nleader dismounted from his horse, and came towards him, holding it by\nthe rein.\n\nAnd when Babhru saw his face, he started, and exclaimed within himself:\nHa! why! that is the very face that I saw lurking in the bush. And then,\nall at once, he shouted aloud: Ha! then, it was thou; it is thou, as I\nthought, who art the robber, after all.\n\nAnd Chamu laughed, and he said: O woodman, not so loud: for thou art\nhasty, and thou art uncivil, and thou art altogether wrong: though so\nfar thou art right, that we are old friends. Yet still thou art unjust,\nfor I am not the robber. It was not I that carried off thy beauty from\nthe wood, but my master, King Atirupa. And thou art very rude, to call\neven him a robber. For he did not steal thy beauty, but only borrowed\nher, for a little while, all with her own consent. And now he has\nreturned her by my hands: and here she is.\n\nAnd he turned, and Babhru looked, and lo! they lifted Aranyani from a\nhorse, and set her on the ground. And as Babhru stood gazing at her,\nlike one struck by a thunderbolt, Chamu said again: Thou owest me not\nabuse, but gratitude, O woodman: for see, I have brought her back to\nthee, all across the sand, where many in my place would have left her in\nthe middle of the way, for it was a thankless task, and she was a\ncross-grained burden, that was very loath to come at all. So as thou\nseest, thou wert very wrong, to call even Atirupa robber: for here she\nis again. And the women are silly creatures, who only have themselves to\nblame, since they flock to him, like flies to honey, all of their own\naccord. But this young beauty grew so peevish, when she found she was\nonly one of a thousand others, that the Maharaja could not keep her any\nlonger. And now she will make thee the very best of wives, woodman:\nsince she has had some lessons, and a little practice in the art, and\ncome back richer than she went away: none the worse, but all the better,\nfor having tasted a King's kisses, and learned her trade in the best of\nschools. Thy eldest son will be a beauty, even if all the others are as\nugly as thyself. And if his mother calls him Atirupa, just as a\nreminiscence, never mind: for when she has once stopped weeping, she\nwill love thee just as well as him.\n\nAnd as he spoke, Babhru stared at him with eyes that hardly saw him, and\nears that hardly heard him, and a soul that hardly understood, filled as\nit was to the very brim with such a flood of pity, and horror, and\namazement, and yet delight at her return, no matter how, that there was\nabsolutely no room at all for even a single drop of wrath. And while he\nlooked from her to Chamu, and from Chamu back again to her, Chamu got\nback upon his horse, and all those riders rode away.\n\n\nII\n\nBut Babhru stood exactly where he was, like a picture painted on a wall,\nhardly heeding their departure, gazing at Aranyani. And as he watched\nher, tears rose up suddenly and stood, as if to blind him, in his eyes,\nspringing from the well of the very ecstasy of compassion within his\nheart. For she lay half crouching, half fallen on the ground, exactly as\nthey had set her down, never moving, and resembling a body that is all\nbut dead. And her face, that was turned towards him, looked absolutely\nstrange to him, so marvellously had it altered since he saw it last.\nFor, as it seemed, youth and joy had fled from it, leaving it to be as\nit were a very battle-ground for grief and age, and passion and shame,\nand humiliation, and weariness, and despair. And instead of her forest\ngarments, she was magnificently dressed, and yet her clothing was\nill-arranged, and disordered, and very dusty; and her hair was all\ndishevelled, and floated loose about her head, as if to match and\nimitate the wild disorder of her soul within. And yet, somehow or other,\nshe seemed for all that in his eyes even more beautiful than ever, with\na beauty that appalled him as he saw it, for she was utterly unlike\nherself, as if her own soul had been suddenly changed into another,\nmaking its envelope into something other than it was, to suit the\nalteration. And gradually as Babhru watched her, his hair stood up upon\nhis body, as if with fright, and anticipation of something coming, that\nhe did not understand.\n\nSo he stood silent, watching her, forgetful of himself, with a soul that\nyearned to comfort her and soothe her, and caress her and console her,\nyet utterly unable, and half fearing, to say anything at all. And in the\nsilence, gradually dread began to creep all over him, as he saw her\ncontinue, lying absolutely still, and yet every now and then breathing,\nvery slowly and with difficulty, like one that is suffering an agony of\npain. And at last, after a long while, he moved a little nearer, and he\nsaid, with timidity and emotion: O Aranyani, alas! thou art suffering.\nAnd dost thou think I can endure to see thee suffer? At least, at least,\nthou hast returned, no matter how. O alas! for all thy suffering, I only\nam to blame; for well I understood, I was wrong to abandon thee, and\nleave thee as a prey. But at least, thou hast returned, and only just\nin time: for hadst thou stayed away another day, I could not have\nendured. I thought thee dead, for day by day, I waited, and day by day,\nthou didst not come: and each night was longer, and more awful than the\nlast. And I sought thee in every quarter of the wood, but thou wert not\nto be found. And now, lo! there before my eyes, hardly to be believed,\nthou art; and now I am almost ready once more to die, for joy, that is\nmingled, I know not how, with an agony of grief. And yet, I blame\nmyself, selfish that I am, for being even able to rejoice at all, while\nthou art suffering. Ah! only tell me what to do, to share thy grief, or\ntake it all upon myself.\n\nAnd as he spoke, he leaned towards her, and looked, and lo! a tear\nrolled suddenly from her eye, and fell upon the ground: but she never\nstirred or spoke. And again he said, with difficulty and hesitation:\nAranyani, dost thou think, dost thou really think, thou art guilty in my\neyes, or in any way to blame, because ruffians, attracted by thy beauty,\ncame and carried thee away? Is it any fault in the lotus, if the\ntraveller that sees it, plucks it, and wears it for a moment in his\nhair, only to throw it presently away, and trample it underfoot? Alas,\nit is not thou, but myself that I condemn, I only, that am guilty, and\nall the more, that whereas now I ought to weep with thee, I am, on the\ncontrary, so transported with delight to see thee, returned to me no\nmatter how, that I am almost ready to abandon the body out of joy. Or\nart thou fearful, lest I should torture thee with curiosity, or\nquestion, or reproach of any kind? Ah! no, listen now, and I will tell\nthee. Thou shalt think, if thou wilt, of all that has occurred to thee\nas nothing but a dream, from which thou hast awoken. Only a dream, from\nwhich thou hast awoken. And I, that never knew it, will forget it, as\nutterly and completely as thyself: and it is already buried in oblivion,\nand resembles a thing that has never come about, and had better not have\nbeen.\n\nAnd again he leaned towards her, as if he were a culprit that begged her\nto forgive him, and lo! he saw the tears rolling from her eyes in a\nstream, as if something in his words were like a knife in her heart. But\nstill she never spoke, and never stirred. And once again he said, as if\nwith entreaty: Aranyani, thou canst not imagine, even in a dream, what\nhappiness is mine. See! thou art agitated, and it must be, very weary.\nAnd now, then, I will lead thee, or if thou wilt, carry thee, home. And\nthere thou shalt sleep, absolutely undisturbed, for to-night, and\nto-morrow, and as long as thou shalt choose. And all the while, I will\nwatch without, and bring thee food, and do everything as thou wilt, at\nthy bidding; and above all, guard, and protect thee, from any fresh\nattempt. Woe to the man who shall attempt to molest thee any more! And\nso shalt thou live, exactly as thou wilt, with me for thy servant. And\nvery soon, even the memory of that which now distresses thee will fade\nout of thy soul. And there will be absolutely nobody to make thee feel\nashamed, or in any way whatever bring trouble to the quiet of thy soul.\nFor as to thy father, when he discovered thy disappearance, he came to\nme, thinking I had stolen thee. And when he saw instantly, by my frenzy,\nhe was wrong, all at once he cried out: Mother and daughter, mother and\ndaughter: this is a stab in the dark from Jaya. And I know not what he\nmeant. But I think that his heart broke within him, for after a day or\ntwo, he died.\n\n\nIII\n\nAnd then, like a flash of lightning, Aranyani started to her feet, with\na scream that rang through the wood, making the heart of Babhru suddenly\nleap into his throat. And she threw up her arms, with agony, and all at\nonce, she sprang from her place, and darted like an arrow from a bow\ntowards the hut. And then again, almost instantly, as he stood gazing at\nher in dismay, she turned sharp round, and began to run away in the\nopposite direction like a deer. And as if waking from a dream, he began\nto pursue her. And he overtook her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder,\nas if to say: Whither art thou hastening without looking where to go?\n\nBut when she felt him touch her, she stopped suddenly and turned, and\nlooked at him, as if in the extremity of fear. And all at once, she\nbegan to laugh, as if she was mad, with round eyes that were filled with\namazement and derision. And she exclaimed: Ha! Babhru, is it thou? But I\nleft thee behind me in the wood. Ha! thou also art deserted, and\nrejected, and despised. Come, then, and let us escape very rapidly\ntogether. And she seized him by the arm, and began to drag him violently\nalong. And she lowered her voice to a whisper, and began to speak, so\nquickly, that the words stumbled over one another as they rushed out of\nher mouth. And she said: Poor Babhru, thou art so ugly, that she could\nnot love thee in return, quite forgetting that she was herself so ugly\nthat nobody could love her either. But he was so beautiful, so\nbeautiful, so beautiful that she ran away and left thee in the lurch:\nnever even dreaming that all the other women were as silly as herself.\nAh! the other women, they were so many and so cruel. There were no other\nwomen in the wood. Was it lonely, Babhru, in the wood, after she went\naway? Poor ugly Babhru, all alone in the wood, while we were kissing\neach other in the city. She used to see thee, Babhru, as she kissed him,\nsitting all by thyself in the wood, and weeping by thyself. She loved\nthee just a very little. Didst thou remember? But in the city, she\nfeared, she feared, to see thee suddenly appear. But very likely, thou\ndidst not know where she had gone. Thou wouldst have killed him, Babhru.\nWhy didst thou not run after her? But they would not have admitted thee,\npoor Babhru, thou art so very ugly: and thou wouldst only have wandered,\ngoing round and round the palace, outside, outside, while all the time\nhe was kissing thy lotus and trampling on its heart, inside. And yet she\nwas his cousin, and the daughter of a king. Ha! Babhru, thou wert\nignorant, and didst not know. But there were so many other women, all\nalike. Couldst thou even have discovered her among them all? Her eyes,\nher eyes were different: her eyes were dreamy, and her kisses like\nsnowflakes. Surely it was better, after all, in the wood: there were no\nother women there. Didst thou imagine, Babhru, thou wert the only one to\nbe dishonoured and befouled, trodden down into the mud and thrown away?\nBut the very pools were there to teach thee, thou art so ugly, so ugly:\nand she was so beautiful. Couldst thou expect any better fate than hers?\nHow could she love thee, being herself so unworthy to be loved? And he\nwas like the very god of love, wandering in the wood. But it was she,\nthat lost her way. He knew his way very well indeed. How could she\nexpect, to keep him all to herself? Is not the whole world full to the\nvery brim of women, with cruel eyes? O Babhru, why wert thou such a fool\nas to think one woman any better than another? Fool that she was, to\nthink to keep him all to herself! O Babhru, thou art absolutely nothing,\nin comparison with him. Thou art so rude and coarse and rough, and he is\nmore beautiful than any woman. And he was so gentle and so kind, and his\nkisses were so sweet. No, it was Babhru who was kind, and he was like a\nsnake. Listen, and let me tell thee: kisses that are sweet are the\nbitterest of all: when other lips come in between. Thou feelest them,\nthe other lips, between his lips and thy own. And his lips were a flower\nthat is visited by a thousand bees. O Babhru, how canst thou know\nanything about it, since thy lips have never kissed anyone at all? Kiss\nme, poor Babhru, and thou shall learn by experience the poison of a\nkiss, from lips that are sticky with the honey left by other bees.\n\n\nIV\n\nAnd as Babhru listened, gazing at her with alarm, with his reason swept\nas it were along in a flood of grief, and humiliation, and compassion,\nand sheer amazement, and hardly understanding the words flowing from her\nmouth like the water of a stream, she stopped short, and laid her hand\nupon his own. And he started at its touch, for it burned him like a\nflame, as if she was on fire. And she said with a smile, while the tears\nwere running down her face: Babhru, dost thou know, Aranyani was a\ncreeper, supported by a noble tree? And yet somehow or other, the tree\nhas disappeared. Who knows? for doubtless it was all eaten away within,\nand hollow, and as I think, the ants must have devoured it, leaving\nabsolutely nothing but emptiness, and earth, and dust. So beautiful it\nseemed outside, surely the poor creeper could not tell, how base, and\nrotten, and horrible it was within. So when I saw it suddenly, inside,\nit hurt me here. And she put both her hands upon her heart, and began\nto sob. And then, all at once, she began again to laugh. And she said:\nAye! she was a pearl, and a swan, and I know not what beside, and now\nshe is absolutely nothing, like a broken pot. And the golden boat has\nperished, never so much as reaching even the shadow of the sea. Babhru,\nit was a lie: it was a miserable boat, all full of holes, that sank into\nthe cold black water like a stone. Base and rotten, how could it swim,\nloaded with such an innumerable host of other women? Base, ah! who knows\nbetter than Aranyani the agony of finding it was base. Was Aranyani\nbase, Babhru, dost thou know? And all the women hated each other, she\nand all the others; Babhru, it was hell in the golden boat. And she was\nworst of all, she wept, and wept, and wept, till at last they turned her\nout, and Chamu took her away. And then it was, I think, she died. It\nhurt her so to go away, she must have died; and Chamu took her and\ncarried her away when she was dead. And she was so terrified of Chamu.\nAtirupa, Atirupa, save, O save me from Chamu's eyes. Babhru, beware of\nChamu, for he is the very worst of all; worse even than the women. She\nwas frightened of his laughter: it was worse, far worse, than all the\nlaughter of the women. They pushed her from their boat, and Chamu took\nher. And she begged and begged and begged him only to leave her in the\nsand; for then she would have died, and never lived to see her father\nand Babhru any more. O Babhru, why didst thou not die also, before they\nbrought her back? Chamu, Chamu, did Atirupa give you Aranyani, to kiss\nher dead body on the sand?\n\nAnd all at once, Babhru began to tremble like a leaf. And he exclaimed:\nAranyani, Aranyani! And suddenly she fell down and began to kiss his\nfeet. And then, he shuddered, and began to sob, as if a sword had run\ninto his heart: and the sweat broke out upon his brow. And he stooped\ndown, and lifted her violently up, saying in a low voice that shook like\nhimself: Aranyani, thy reason has deserted thee. Come now, and I will\ntake thee home.\n\nAnd she said with a shriek: Nay nay, for the ghost of my father is\nwaiting there, to drive me away. Come away into the wood where it is\ndark. And she dragged him by the hand, and she whispered: Babhru, I have\na thing to ask of thee. Wilt thou kill me with thy knife in the\ndarkness? for otherwise I must abandon the body of my own accord.\n\nAnd Babhru started, and he exclaimed, with horror: Aranyani, art thou\nmad? What! should I kill thee, I, kill thee, who art my very soul?\n\n\nV\n\nAnd she gazed at him awhile in silence, and then, there came into her\neyes an anguish that was mixed with disappointment and despair. And she\nturned away, and murmured, as if speaking to herself, with melancholy:\nHe also is my enemy. They will not even kill her. They keep her living,\nwhen she only asks for death, not even letting her escape, shutting her\nlike a prisoner in the dungeon of her lonely soul. Even Chamu would not\nkill her: though she prayed him. He only laughed. And yet she was\nalready dead, slain long ago, and done away, leaving nothing but a\ncorpse.\n\nAnd she stood for a moment, as if reflecting, and all at once, she\nturned, and looked at Babhru, with a face that was wan in the moonlight,\nand eyes that were filled with anxiety, and misery and pain. And\nsuddenly, they changed, becoming filled with laughter and hatred and\nderision. And she came up close to him, as if to whisper in his ear, and\nsuddenly she struck him in the face, with a shout of laughter. And she\nsaid, contemptuously: Thou wilt not kill me? Poor Babhru, thou hast not\neven yet begun to understand. Dost thou remember Aranyani, that told\nthee stories, long long ago, in the wood? She is dead. Far away in the\ndesert they took her heart, and tore it and trod it into pieces, and\nflung her body out, to wander in the world alone, dressed in the clothes\nof misery and shame. And this it is, thou wilt not kill. Thou wouldst\nactually keep her miserable body still alive, to live with in the\ntorture of this wood, where Aranyani lived long ago, to suffer every\ninstant the horror of recollection, and to be mocked for ever by the\nmemory of a happiness that is changed into despair. Like monkeys that go\nby among the trees, they found a fruit, and bit it, only to go on and\nleave it lying, deserted and outraged and dishonoured on the ground.\nThou thinkest to find happiness in watching her dead body? Thou wilt not\nkill her, poor Babhru? Dost thou know what she will think of, living\nbeside thee in the wood? Dost thou think, it will be thou? Alas, poor\nugly Babhru, it will be he. And every time she sees thee, she will\ncompare thee and him, thy body with his body, thy eyes with his eyes.\nHer lips would never touch thee without thinking of his own. Thou wilt\nonly love what he rejected, and bite at the very place which the monkeys\nbit before thee when they threw the fruit away. The taste would be so\nbitter that thy love would turn to hatred in a day. She would loathe the\nvery sight of thee, and every time she looked at thee, her eyes would\ntell thee, thou wert so ugly and contemptible in comparison with him.\nThey have flung thee the relic of a life that they would not take away,\nmerely in derision. Wilt thou live even with a victim that despises\nthee? Half dead and half alive, like a lizard mangled by a passing crow,\nand left to writhe: a deer, struck by an idle hunter, left wounded in\nthe jungle, unable even to procure its death, to ebb away its life\nthrough burning days and black intolerable nights, eyed by the vultures\nsitting by. And thou wouldst be the vulture? Thou wilt only be a jackal,\neating what the lion leaves. What! live beside her, knowing that another\nis buried in her heart. Wilt thou feed, like a dog, even on the bodies\nof the dead? Poor Babhru, dost thou not understand. She cast thee off\nand left thee for a lover that she never will forget, and living like a\nvampire in her body that is dead, he will utterly despise thee, laughing\nat thee in her eyes. Ah! Wilt thou actually wait to understand, till a\nlittle Atirupa comes, to spit, exactly like his father, in thy face?\n\n\nVI\n\nAnd as Babhru listened, all at once the words of Chamu as he went away\nrose up and stood before him, as if they had lain waiting, and as it\nwere sleeping in his soul, till roused into recollection by her own. And\nsuddenly, the veil, formed by his own devotion to Aranyani and his own\nself-annihilation, that hid from him the truth, was lifted from his\neyes. And he saw himself suddenly as in a mirror, mocked, and scorned,\nand as it were a very target for the contempt and derision of Chamu, and\nhis master, and even of herself. And his heart swelled suddenly with\nsuch a flood of shame, and anger, and the bitterness of his own\ninferiority, that it almost broke in two. And his face fell: and his\neyes, that were fixed on Aranyani, grew darker and ever darker, as if\nnight at a single stride had suddenly extinguished in his heart the hope\nthat had dawned in it at her return.\n\nSo he stood a long while, sinking, as he looked at her, deeper and\ndeeper into the blackness of despair, and resembling one that waits in\ndarkness for a light that still flickers to go out and disappear. And\nsuddenly he said to himself: She is right. For fate in the form of\nAtirupa has destroyed her and her happiness, and mine. And he looked\nfixedly at Aranyani, who was standing watching him, and waiting, as it\nwere, for his decision: and he said: Aranyani, I was wrong, and thou art\nright. And now there is no remedy but one, and it is better to be dead.\nAnd as he spoke, he took his knife, and drew it from its sheath, and\nwaited, clutching it in his hand.\n\nAnd instantly, Aranyani uttered a cry of joy. And she came quickly and\nstood close to him, and she took hold with both hands of the _choli_\nthat covered her, and tore it violently asunder, dragging it down, till\nher breast was absolutely bare. And she said: See! I am ready. And so\nshe remained, waiting, with her bosom turned up towards him in the\nmoonlight, bared, and as it were eager, for the coming blow.\n\nAnd he stood still for yet a moment, looking down upon her with\nmelancholy eyes, in which, strange! there was not a vestige even of the\nshadow of any anger. And he said to himself: There, in the very middle,\nbetween those two round marble breasts, the knife shall fall. And as he\nhesitated, a tear rose up into his eyes, as if to bid farewell to his\nown happiness. And he murmured to himself: They were for him and not for\nthee. And he passed his left hand over his eyes, as if to clear his\nsight, and suddenly he raised his knife, and buried it in her heart.\n\n\nVII\n\nSo, then, with a sigh that was half a cry, she swayed and fell. And he\nnever tried to catch her, but stood a long while silent, exactly where\nhe was, looking down upon her lying still. And then, he sat down upon\nthe ground beside her, and lifted her very gently, and set her on his\nlap, propping her head upon his shoulder: and he began to whisper in her\near, patting her as he did so, and rocking her to and fro, like one that\nsoothes a child. And he said: Now, then, thy trouble is all over, and I\nhave given thee rest, for it was better to be dead. And thou wilt never\nknow what it cost me, to give thee the blow. But now thou canst go to\nsleep, for thou art very weary: forgetting all, and not fearing any\nrecollection in the morning: since thy sleep will be a long one, and\nthou wilt never wake again. And all the evil dreams have vanished with\ntheir author, never to return; and now once more Aranyani is herself,\nonly differing in this, that she is dead. Aye! it was better to be dead:\nand my blow has blotted out all the bitterness and shame. And thou didst\nawait it, so bravely: and yet, hadst thou known, it was not thy death\nonly, but mine, for which thou wert asking, thou wouldst have shrunk, it\nmay be, from the blow, which, as it was, thou wert only too joyful to\nreceive. And now very soon, I shall follow thee, by a second blow, far\neasier to give; for to give thee thine was very hard; so hard, that it\nhurt my heart a hundred times as much as thine. But in the meanwhile, we\nwill sit together in the moonlight, just for a very little while, and\ntalk, as of old. Only thou canst not tell me stories, and call me Bruin,\nany more. Thou didst give thyself, alive, to others: but thou art mine,\nnow that thou art dead: and that is enough. And this is, as it were, my\nmarriage night. And think not that I bear thee any grudge, for the words\nspoken at random in thy madness, or even for the blow; for that is\nnothing, from such a little hand as thine. Come, let me see it, for\nmaybe it hurt itself more than it hurt me. Ha! dost thou remember the\nvery story that thou didst tell me thyself, about the sage? And now, who\nknows better than myself, that a blow hurts the giver more than the\nreceiver? For no one ever hurt himself so much as I did, when I gave\nthee thy blow. It was not to return blow for blow, that I gave it. Ah!\nit is not thou, against whom I bear a grudge, for all thy words and thy\nlittle irritable blow; but it is thy vile lover and his viler\ninstrument, who have ruined thee, and brought about thy death.\n\nAnd then, all at once, he uttered an exclamation. And he stopped short,\nand set her down upon the ground, and stood up. For suddenly, as if for\nthe very first time, the injury done to her by Atirupa and his follower\nrose up, and took him as it were by the throat.\n\nAnd as he stood thinking, all at once he began to tremble unawares, with\nrage. And he exclaimed: Aha! Atirupa, I have remembered, and only just\nin time: I am not dead yet. And he looked down at Aranyani, as she lay.\nAnd he said: Aranyani, forgive me! Well didst thou call me fool. For I\ncame within an ace of following thee into the other world, leaving thee\nunavenged. But now I see, that before I go, there is other work to do,\non thy behalf. And now, then, I will guarantee, that it shall be done,\nvery soon, and very well. Then, and not sooner, will I die, when I have\nshown the murderers of Aranyani that she has left behind her arms a\nlittle longer, and hands a little harder, than her own. Aha! Atirupa,\nwait for a little while! And then shalt thou discover that the ghost of\nAranyani has abandoned her body, only to enter mine: just on purpose to\ncaress thee, for the very last time.\n\nAnd he stooped down, and laid his great arm beside hers, as if to\ncompare them, and he laughed. And then, very gently, he lifted her, in\nthose strong arms, and began to carry her away, rejoicing in his\nburden, like one that carries in his arms his newly-wedded wife. So he\nwent on in the moonlit wood, till he came at last to her home. And there\nhe carried her in, and laid her down very gently on a bed of leaves. And\nthen, with hesitation, he kissed her softly on the brow, whispering as\nhe did so: Thou didst bid me kiss thee, in thy madness, and now, it\ncannot hurt thee: though I would have gladly given many lives to kiss\nthee, for the first time and the last, before. But thy kisses were for\nothers.\n\nAnd all at once, he began to sob, as if something in his soul, that had\ntill then supported it, had suddenly given way. And he began to wail,\nwringing his hands, and tearing his hair, and crying, Aranyani,\nAranyani: throwing himself to and fro, and striding wildly up and down,\nas if his heart, appalled by the blank horror of its own loneliness,\nwere struggling to escape. And then, after a while, as if exhausted, and\nas it were overcome by the sense of the futility of his lamentation, he\nceased, as suddenly as he began, and remained for a long time standing\nabsolutely still, looking out through the open door into the wood, that\nlay silent, as if on purpose to sympathise with the other dead silence\nthere within.\n\nAnd at last, he turned. And he looked for a moment at Aranyani, and he\nstooped, and took the knife, which all the while remained buried in her\nbreast, and drew it suddenly away, and turned, and went out, and\nfastened very carefully the door.\n\nAnd he stood awhile in the moonlight, looking at his knife. And then, he\nput it, just as it was, back into the sheath: saying to himself: Her\nheart's red blood shall dry upon the blade, till I mix it with his own.\n\n\nVIII\n\nBut in the meanwhile Atirupa, away in his capital in the desert,\ncontinued as before, having utterly forgotten Aranyani, and never\nthinking of her even in a dream; busy, like a mad bee, only in making\nonslaughts on other flowers, and leaving behind him those already rifled\nof their honey, neglected and buried in oblivion, like the faded leaves\nof a dead red lotus lying at the very bottom of a forest pool.\n\nAnd then, by the decree of destiny, there came at last a day, when he\nsat with some of his retainers, according to his custom, drinking wine\nand passing time easily in his palace hall. And there came in, all at\nonce, a keeper of the gate. And she[40] said: Maharaj, there has come\nto the door an old _sannyasi_, demanding admission to the presence, and\nrefusing to go away. And it may be, he is mad.[41] For he says he is a\ndeity, who wishes to renew his old acquaintance with another. And now,\nthe Maharaja is the judge.\n\n[Footnote 40: They appear to have been women, very often, in mediaeval or\nancient India.]\n\n[Footnote 41: And yet, not so much in India as in Europe. Even now,\nincarnations of deity might be found all over India.]\n\nAnd Atirupa laughed, and he said: If he is a deity indeed, why is he\nwaiting at a gate? And yet, who knows? For the deity presents himself in\nmany forms, and who knows how or when? But go thou and tell the holy man\nto give thee some evidence, or token, of his divinity, and then we shall\nsee.\n\nSo, then, after a while, that _pratihari_ came again. And she said:\nMaharaj, thus said the _sannyasi_: Go and tell the Maharaja, that I am\nthe God of Death, yet not just of any death, but only of his own. For\nlong ago, I burned his body, with fire from my eye; and now I am curious\nto see, whether the new body he has got is, as I have heard, still\nbetter than the old.[42]\n\n[Footnote 42: The point of the flattery lies, of course, in the\ninsinuation that Atirupa was the God of Love.] And hearing this, Atirupa\nwas delighted, and he exclaimed: The evidence is good; and I recognise\nthe deity of this well-mannered Byragi: for as it seems, he is a\nconnoisseur. So bring him in to see me. And he said to himself: It may\nbe he is an emissary from one of the neighbouring Kings,[43] covering\nhis policy with folly: or he may be the go-between of some assignation:\nor even if he be nothing of the kind, what harm?\n\n[Footnote 43: All these _sannyasis_, _byragis_, _gosawis_, were as a\nrule wandering scoundrels who had, and have, much to do with politics.]\n\nSo then, after a little while, that _sannyasi_ entered, looking like a\nvery _shala_ tree in height. And he was smeared all over with ashes,\nfrom his head to his feet, with absolutely nothing on, but a yellow rag\naround his waist, and a rosary of _aksha_ beads around his neck, which\nresembled that of a bull. And his face was almost hidden in the masses\nof his grey and very dirty hair and beard, which were matted, and tied\nin large knots, above and below. And his eyes, which were\nextraordinarily bright, rested on Atirupa, as he entered, with an\nexpression which, like that of a wild animal, was half timidity and half\nferocity, mixed with keen examination: and he trembled a very little, as\nhe stood, as if with fear. And Atirupa gazed at him with curiosity and\nwonder, and he exclaimed, as if in jest: O Maheshwara, there cannot be\na doubt of thy divinity: for surely, if thou wert not Maheshwara\nhimself, he might be jealous of thee, for thy height and thy ashes and\nthy hair, and that third eye painted in the very middle of thy brow,\nlooking as if it were just about to open and consume me again.\n\nThen that strange old _sannyasi_ laughed like a hyaena, and he said:\nMaharaj, be not afraid any longer of my eye: for this time I shall\nconsume thee with flame of quite another kind, in the form of a kiss\nthat I have brought thee, from a beauty almost equal to thy own, with\neyes that resemble the gazelle, and lips that are redder than her own\nheart's blood.\n\nThen said Atirupa: _Sannyasi_, I know that a message carried by thee\nwould be of a value proportioned to its bearer; and tell me quickly what\nit is, for I am curious to learn.\n\nAnd the _sannyasi_ looked at him significantly, as it were with a wink\nof the eyes. And he said: O deity of Love, who knows better than thyself\nthat a high caste lady, when she goes to an assignation, wraps herself\nup, and fastens her bangles and her anklets, to prevent them even from\njingling? And there are words, and names, unfit to be heard, by any\nother ears than thine. Were I to speak, among all these ears, thou\nwouldst be the very first to punish me for my indiscretion.\n\nThen Atirupa was filled with curiosity, and he said to himself; It is as\nI thought, and he is an emissary, and one, moreover, well suited to his\ntask. And he turned, and exclaimed: Chamu, take every one away. And\nthen, the _sannyasi_ looked attentively at Chamu, as they went. And he\nsaid, in a low voice, to Atirupa: Maharaj, for I have heard of Chamu,\nthat he is thy _widushaka_,[44] let him be at hand: for with thy\npermission, he and I will settle all the details of this negotiation, as\nsoon as it has received thy own approval.\n\n[Footnote 44: As we should say: Pere Joseph, or _ame-damnee_.]\n\nAnd Atirupa said: Chamu, be ready, when I call. And when they were all\ngone, he exclaimed with impatience: Now then, O _sannyasi_, to thy\nbusiness, without any more delay. Who is thy employer? And the\n_sannyasi_ said: Aranyani: and if thou hast forgotten her, she has not\nforgotten thee. But having abandoned her own body, she has entered mine,\nto give thee, as I said, the kiss of death.\n\nAnd then, as Atirupa stared at him with amazement; that _sannyasi_\nleaped upon him, with a yell, and seized him, and threw him suddenly on\nhis back. And he knelt on his throat, like a very mountain, and taking\nfrom his waist a knife, he plunged it, with blows like those of a\ncarpenter that hammers in a nail, over and over again into his heart.\n\nAnd then, as the retainers came running in, summoned as though on\npurpose, by his own yell, with Chamu at their head, he started to his\nfeet. And as they looked towards him, lo! that _sannyasi_ began to\nlaugh. And he put up suddenly his hands, and seized, with one, his hair,\nand with the other, his beard, and tore them from his head.\n\nAnd as Chamu stopped short, gazing at him with stupor and recognition,\nhe stood for a single instant absolutely still, as if to let him see.\nAnd then, he leaned suddenly towards him, and he lifted his finger and\nhe whispered very low: Hark! Dost thou not hear Aranyani calling, out of\nthe other world? So now, then, we will go together, to seek her, along\nthe great road. And he threw himself suddenly on Chamu, and took him by\nthe throat, with huge hands whose fingers resembled the roots of a\n_wata_ tree.\n\nAnd as he felt the throat of that ill-doer in his hands, there came over\nhim like a flood madness, that resembled the intoxication compounded of\ndelight, and fury, and despair, as if his life-long devotion to\nAranyani, and his wrath at her ruin and his own, had waited till that\nvery moment to mingle with the rapture of revenge, and filling his soul\nwith the ecstasy of the strength of a giant, had then become\nconcentrated to pass into his hands. And as he squeezed, he muttered,\nnot knowing what he said: Laugh, weasel, laugh now at Aranyani. And in\nthe meantime all the others, to whom he paid no more attention than as\nif they were not there, seeing absolutely nothing before him but the\neyes of Chamu that were starting from his head, fell upon him all\ntogether in a body, like a swarm of bees, and stung him, as it were, to\ndeath, exactly as they chose, cutting him to pieces with swords and\nknives. But for all that they did, they could not loose his hands, which\nremained just as they were, locked like an iron ring around the throat\nto which they clung, as if his will still animated them, even after he\nwas dead.\n\nSo it came about, just as he predicted; and those two very bitter\nenemies went together, and as it were, hand-in-hand, into the other\nworld. And Chamu, with his master Atirupa, went into other bodies. But\nthe soul of Babhru entered, for his crime, into that body of a camel\nlying yonder, which perished, as I told thee to begin with, in the\ndesert long ago.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd then, the Moony-crested stopped. And after a while, the Daughter of\nthe Snow said softly: Alas! for these unhappy mortal women, who suffer\nat the hands of evil-minded lovers, such intolerable wrong, and woe. And\nyet, as I think, poor Babhru deserved rather to be forgiven altogether,\nor even to be actually rewarded, rather than punished by the body of a\ncamel, for treating those two ill-doers even better than they merited,\nfor such outrageous crime.\n\nThen said Maheshwara, looking at her with affection: O Daughter of the\nSnow, thou resemblest every other woman, judging by thy own pity and\ncompassion, and the emotion aroused in thy soul by the particular\nmisfortune of a solitary case, not taking into any consideration the\nconstitution of the world. And this is a merit and a beauty in thee, and\nyet it is altogether wrong. For Babhru suffered as a consequence of acts\ncommitted in a former birth, the circumstances of which thou dost not\nknow. And moreover, even so, he was culpable and presumptuous, in taking\non himself a vengeance to which even Aranyani did not urge him, not\nknowing that punishment far more terrible than his was waiting for those\ncriminals, without his interference. And he should have left Aranyani's\nvindication to the deity, who knew what was necessary far better than\nhimself, and had his eye upon it all. For there is no retribution so\njust, or so sure, or so adequate, or awful, as that which evil-doers lay\nupon themselves, in the form of their own ill-deeds, which dog them like\na shadow clinging to their heels, from body to body, through birth after\nbirth, till the very last atom of guilt has passed through the furnace\nof expiation, and the very last item of their debt to everlasting Yama\nhas been weighed in his scales, and struck from the account, and utterly\nredeemed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd then, that Lord of the Moony Tire took his darling in his arms, and\nset her on his lap: and they rose up and floated away together like a\ncloud to their home on the snowy peak. But the bones of that camel\nremained alone, lying still in the sand, till the moon got up and gazed\nat them with wonder, looking down from the sky, as if mistaking them for\na reflection of himself, looking back at him with white and silent\nlaughter from the blackness of the earth, and saying as it were: By the\nhelp of thy beams, I am whiter than thyself. And the night-wind rushed\nover them, scattering over them oblivion, in the form of a cloud of its\nplaything, the ocean of the sand, and danced round and fled away with a\nwail into the desert, with a music that resembled the moan of the world\nfor the victims of the waste.\n\n\n\n\n_Printed by_\nMORRISON & GIBB LIMITED\n_Edinburgh_\n\n\n\n\nThe Stories of F. W. Bain\n\n\nThe history of these fascinating little books, which, to a few readers,\nhave always meant so much, and which are every day becoming better\nknown, is not the least curious in modern literature. On the appearance\nof \"A Digit of the Moon\" in 1899, the author's mystifying attributions\nto a Sanscrit original, and the skill with which he kept up the illusion\nof translation, completely took in even the best scholars, and this work\nwas added to the Oriental Department of the British Museum Library.\nLater, however, the discovery was made that Mr. Bain, working with a\nmind saturated in Hindoo Mysticism and lore and Sanscrit poetry, was\nwholly its author, and it is now catalogued in the ordinary way.\n\nTo describe the charm and appeal of the stories themselves would be a\nhard task. They are almost indescribable. There is nothing in English\nliterature at once so tender, so passionate, so melancholy, and so wise.\nThe fatalism of the East, and the wistful dubiety of the West, meet in\nthese beautiful allegories of life, which it is possible to compare only\nwith themselves.\n\nMethuen & Co. Ltd., London\n\n\n\n\nThe Stories of F. W. Bain\n\n\nFcap. 8vo, 3s. 6d. net each\n\nBubbles of the Foam\nThe Ashes of a God\nA Digit of the Moon\nThe Descent of the Sun\nAn Incarnation of the Snow\nA Mine of Faults\n\n\nFcap. 8vo, 2s. 6d. net each\n\nA Heifer of the Dawn\nIn the Great God's Hair\nA Draught of the Blue\nAn Essence of the Dusk\n\nMethuen & Co. Ltd., London","title":"Bubbles of the Foam","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":29201}