identity disguised, turned as it were from a queen into a woodman's
daughter, and lying hidden and unknown, like a pearl in an ocean shell.
And yet she resembled fire, that refuses to be concealed, betraying its
true nature through no matter what envelops it, and shining through, by
chinks and holes, the wrapping that would hide it, even when it does not
burn. For brought up in the forest though she was, and half alone, since
her father often left her by herself, all day long, yet strange to say!
the rudeness of her wild condition ran over her, leaving her soul
untouched, like the water running in crystal drops that beautify but do
not wet the neck of a royal swan. And one day she was discovered like a
treasure in the wood by a band of hermits' daughters, that were roaming
at a distance from the hermitage, away in the forest's heart. And those
daughters of the sages all fell suddenly in love with her at once, not
only for her eyes, that reminded them of the deer that were their
playmates in their home, but still more for the strange and wild
sweetness of her soul, that resembled absolutely nothing but itself. And
every now and then, they used to come and play with her, when they
rambled in the wood, telling her innumerable stories which they heard
from their fathers, those mines of sacred wisdom. And then, very soon,
those daughters of the hermits found, to their amazement, that they
resembled fools, pouring water into a well. For she remembered
everything when she had only heard it once,[26] and meditating over it
alone, not only squeezed out of its mango all the juice which it
contained, but planted its kernel like a seed of heavenly wisdom in her
heart, and watering it with her own imagination, turned it presently
into a new and strange tree, loaded with peculiar flowers and fruits of
its own: so that as she grew gradually up, she resembled a receptacle of
the essence of old lore, mixed with a native and original savour of
herself. Ha! very wonderful indeed are the influences that rise up out
of a former birth, since even in this lower form of a hunter's daughter
the nature of that incomparable goddess overflowed, like a holy sap in
the dark heart of a forest tree, and welled out abundantly, till it
covered the coarse bark with fragrant buds and shoots, and flowers of
immortal scent and hue. For her body kept pace with the progress of her
soul, as if out of rivalry and jealousy unwilling to lag behind it, in
the acquisition of ornaments and graces. And having no other models, it
found itself obliged to imitate the objects that made up the atmosphere
and soil in which it grew: till at last the deer and the blue lotuses
gazed upon her eyes, and the red fruits and _gunjá_ berries at her lips,
and the creepers at her arms, with envy and amazement: and the _tamála_
shadows turned pale when they looked at her hair, and the trunks of the
_nyagrodha_ trees despaired, gazing at the curve of her waist as it sank
into the outline of her heavy hips, and the swans and the elephants
blushed with shame to see her walk, and the gourds swelled till they
burst with jealousy, unable to rival the protuberance of those two
disdainful sisters, her inimitable breasts, and the bees grew mad, as if
intoxicated with honey sweeter than their own, at the fragrance that
floated from the flower of her mouth.
[Footnote 26: _Ekashrutadhará._ This word exhibits the opinion
entertained by the Hindoos as to the close connection existing between a
powerful intellect and a retentive memory. Such a quality indicates the
highest kind of pundit: and it should be recollected that Saraswati is
the divinity of wisdom, the pundit _par excellence_.]
And then strange! just at the very moment when she turned from a child
into a woman, there came over her a change, that resembled the presence
of a single overhanging cloud in the ruby crystal of a clear pale dawn.
For though her father told her something of her story and his own, yet
he never told her all, whetting all the more her curiosity by what he
did not tell, which like a hidden secret she strove to discover for
herself by means of the careless hints that fell every now and then from
his mouth unawares, like clues. And the thought that she was the
daughter of a King flitted in her mind, and appeared to disappear
continually, coming and going, as often as she sat musing in the
twilight, like the bats in the shadows of the surrounding dusk. And she
mixed this conviction with the rosy hope of the dawn of her own
maidenhood, and with visions which she would blush like that dawn to
avow even to herself, and with fictions of her own imagination that was
filled with old legends and stories, and she brooded over a future that
was suggested by the past till it turned into a dream, half pleasant and
half melancholy for want of its unlikelihood, that haunted her, and
never left her, resembling the colour of the blue shadow that hovers on
the pure snow of thy father's[27] western slopes, just before the coming
of the early sun. For though she was unaware of it herself, she was
plunged in the loneliness of sex, arising from the dim yearning of her
as yet untouched affection, and longing for the thing that every maiden
waits for, like the night, in the form of a lover, to burst out suddenly
into red emotion and an ecstasy of joy. And sometimes, as she sat alone
dreaming, and gazing as she loved to do out into the desert, that
stretched away below the hill she lived on towards the setting sun,
visions of the kings and princes and lovers of her stories assembling in
crowds at her own _Swayamwara_,[28] floated with indistinct and
unimaginable beauty in the blue haze of the sand, with an intoxicating
fascination that almost took away her breath, till she was amazed and
even frightened to find her own heart furiously beating, and shaking
into agitation the wave of that bosom which there was nobody to see, as
if it was ashamed of her and angry with itself.
[Footnote 27: Sc. the Himálaya.]
[Footnote 28: The old epics are full of stories of these gatherings,
held to enable the daughters of Kings to choose their own husbands. The
story of the marriage in Herodotus, about which Hippocleides did not
care, is one of the few parallels in the west.]
And yet, with the exception of her father, she had never seen any man
but one, who entered into her forest life merely like one of its trees,
for she had been accustomed to see him, every now and then, ever since
she was a child. And this was a young woodman, who lived a long way off
in the wood. And he used to go hunting with her father, who had found
him in the forest: and he came every now and then to see them, since her
father was pleased with him, for his good nature and simplicity,
resembling as it did the clearness of a stream. And he was as tall as a
_shala_ tree, and very strong, and very brown and hairy, and though his
name was Babhru,[29] yet her father always called him Bruin,[30] and
Aranyání knew him first only by the nickname: for when she was a child,
he used to play with her, as often as he came. And so as she grew up,
she looked upon him always with the eyes of a child, never even dreaming
that her own alteration might produce any alteration in himself: as it
did. For little by little, as her beauty grew, so did his affection;
till at last it turned into a passionate devotion, that remained
notwithstanding absolutely pure, and free from any taint of evil, like
the soil in which it grew. And finally, he could not keep away from her.
And he came oftener and oftener to see them, till her father was on the
very point of forbidding him to come. And then, suddenly, Babhru asked
him, to give Aranyání to him as a wife.
[Footnote 29: Tawny: reddish brown. Pronounce Bub-bhroo.]
[Footnote 30: _Achcha_, a corruption of _Riksha_, just as we say "Bruin"
instead of "Bear."]
And Bimba looked at him, as if struck by the very thunderbolt of
astonishment, for though he was fond of Babhru, yet the idea of such a
son-in-law was so outrageous that it had never even occurred to him at
all. And like a flash of lightning, he suddenly became aware of his
daughter's own attraction, and the danger of the proximity of butter to
the fire. And though utterly despising Babhru for a son-in-law, he could
not tell him why. Therefore he banished him altogether, and not only
would not give him Aranyání, but actually forbad him to see her any
more: as it were returning upon Babhru the thunderbolt that had fallen
on himself: so that that unhappy son-in-law came within a little of
abandoning the body, for grief and amazement, and remorse, at ever
having asked a question that had produced so terrible a consequence, the
very opposite of that at which it aimed. For even to forsake the society
of Bimba was a grief to him, since he loved him and looked up to him as
a dog does to his master. But the thought of losing that of Aranyání was
exactly like a sword driven through the very middle of his heart. And
leaving it behind him, as it were, together with his reason that
abandoned him, he went away hanging down his head, alone.
But unable to endure separation, yet unwilling to disobey Bimba, he used
to come stealthily and lie lurking in the bushes, watching, to catch
sight of Aranyání. And sometimes, seizing his opportunity, when he knew
that her father was away, he would creep out, trembling like a coward,
and speak to her. And Aranyání, displeased at him for coming to see her
without her father's knowledge or permission, and not reciprocating his
passion in the least, yet partly out of pity, and partly out of kindness
arising from recollection of his playing with her in the past, and it
may be, partly just a very little pleased with his honest admiration,
and willing to waste a little of her time in teasing him, for want of a
better lover, would sometimes talk to him a little, and laugh at him and
tell him stories, and send him away more utterly infatuated, and more
happy, and more miserable than ever, after making him promise never to
come again. And every time he promised, and went away only to return
again immediately, simply because he could not help it: dreading her
reproof every time he dared to come, yet ready for all that to risk his
life a hundred times over, only to bask once more in the nectar of the
sunshine of that reproof. For the words of the straw, promising not to
answer to the call of the amber that attracts it, are void of meaning,
and perish in the very moment of their utterance, like pictures drawn on
the surface of a running stream.
II
So, then, there came a day, when Bimba went away to hunt in the forest,
leaving Aranyání alone at home. And on that morning, she was sitting by
herself in her customary seat, on the trunk of a fallen tree, gazing,
with her chin resting on her hand, away over the desert, that lay before
her like an incarnation of the colour of vague youth-longing, ending in
a blue dream. And wholly intent on her own thoughts, she remained
sitting absolutely still, totally unconscious of all around her, as if
her soul, in imitation of what it gazed at, had become the exact mirror
of the silent desert's inarticulate and incommunicable dream. And yet,
from time to time, a smile stole into her lips of its own accord, as if
betraying against her will some sweet and secret hoard of delicious joy
within, that she strove in vain to hide. And every now and then her eyes
grew a little brighter, and there came a flush over her face, and a
little tremor ran as it were all over her, like the ripple that comes
and goes upon the bosom of a lake, stirred by a play of wind.
So as she sat, it happened, that Babhru came slowly through the wood,
looking for her, and knowing her customary haunts. And suddenly catching
sight of her sitting, he hesitated for a moment, and then came quietly
and stood behind her, a little way off: half-pleased that she did not
see him, and a little bit afraid of the moment when she should. And
there he remained silent, yet with a heart beating so violently that it
shook him till he trembled, gazing with ecstasy and adoration at the
outline of her throat and her chin, and the corner of her lips, which he
could only just see, round the curve of her cheek. And after a little
while, longing to see more of those lips, he leaned eagerly forward,
and put out one foot without looking where it fell; and stepping on a
dry twig, it broke with a snap.
And at the sound, instantly she started up, and looked round, as if in
terror. And strange! when she saw him, there came into her face surprise
and displeasure, that were mingled with relief, and even disappointment,
as if she had expected, and hoped, and yet even feared, to see someone
else. And while she gazed silently at him in confusion, Babhru said
sadly: Aranyání, of what or of whom didst thou think, so intently, as to
be unaware of my approach? For thy lips seemed to me to be smiling, as
if with anticipation, and very sure I am that it was not at the thought
of me or my coming that they smiled.
And Aranyání blushed, and instantly frowned, at her own involuntary
blush. And she said, as if haughtily: O Babhru, what are my thoughts to
thee? And are they thy servants? And what right hast thou to be jealous
of my thoughts, who hast not even the title or permission to be here at
all? Didst thou not promise not to come again? and yet here thou art for
all that, watching to surprise my very thoughts, while all the while I
do not think of thee at all. Yet even so, here there is certainly no
rival to thyself. And Babhru said bitterly: Rivals could not make the
matter worse, since by thy own confession thou dost not think of me at
all. Even without rivals, I am utterly rejected and despised, by thee
and by thy father. Then she said kindly: Nay, Babhru, not by me. Thou
art for me, just what thou always wert, before. And Babhru said: Alas!
that is my very grief. For I would have thee not the same, but something
more. Then said Aranyání: What more, O Babhru? And he looked at her
sadly, and said: Dear Aranyání, couldst thou not love me just a very
little? And she laughed, and said: Poor Bruin, do I then not love thee
very well? And Babhru said with emphasis: Love! Thou dost not so much as
understand the meaning of the word.
And she looked at him for a moment, with eyes whose expression he could
not comprehend, and she drew a deep breath, and turned away. And she
said lightly: Do I not? then thou shalt tell me all about it: for I will
allow thee to stay with me, for a very little while, just to show thee,
that I love thee a very little. Sit down, then, beside me, and look not
so melancholy, or I shall begin to think, to love is to be wretched:
whereas I had imagined, in my innocence, the very contrary. And Babhru
said: Thou art utterly deceived: for love is misery. And she laughed,
and exclaimed: Why, then, I am better as I am, without it. What!
wouldst thou have me miserable? And he said: Well can I tell thee from
experience, that every lover must be miserable, when, like myself, he
cannot gain his object. And now I could almost wish evil to thy father,
since he it is who stands, like a cloud, between me and the moon of my
desire. And she said: What is this much-desired moon? And he said: Thou
knowest very well, it is thyself: and I long to have thee for my wife,
and live with thee alone, for ever and ever, in the wood.
Then said Aranyání: O Bruin, it may be, the attainment of thy desire
might sorely disappoint thy expectation, after all: since many times,
those who have risen to the very summit of the mountain of their hopes
have found themselves miserably deceived, and fallen suddenly to the
very bottom of despair with a crash, like Chandana. And Babhru said: Who
was Chandana? And he said within himself: Let her tell me about Chandana
or anybody else, so only that I can cheat her into allowing me to sit
here, and watch her lips moving, and look into her eyes.
And Aranyání said: Babhru, thou art so simple, and thy soul is like
crystal, so that I can see into thy secret thoughts without needing to
be enlightened by thy voice. Didst thou not say to thyself: I care
absolutely nothing for Chandana, so only that I may listen while she
talks? And Babhru hung his head, with a blush. And Aranyání clapped her
hands in triumph, and exclaimed: See! O Bruin, thou art guilty. Yet
despair not, for thou shalt hear all about Chandana, just the same.
Know, that long ago, there was a King, who had innumerable wives, and
fifty sons, of whom this very Chandana was one. Now all these sons lived
in anxiety, saying to themselves: Which of us all will be the heir to
the throne, and succeed our father when he dies? So they remained,
rivals, and each had his eyes fixed upon the others, fearing to be
supplanted. So Chandana's case was worse than thine, O Bruin, since thou
art without a rival. And then, after a while, that old King, out of all
his fifty sons, chose this very Chandana for his heir; and appointed him
_yuwarájá_,[31] with all the proper ceremonies. So when they were
completed, that overjoyed _yuwarájá_ ran, fresh from the installation,
to the _awarodha_,[32] to tell his mother of his triumph, and increase
it by her praises. But he found her, to his amazement, all in tears,
and as dismal as if he had come only to tell her of his death. So he
said: Mother, what is the reason of such misery, on such a day of
exultation? Should the gloom continue, while the sun is rising? But his
mother looked sourly at him, and she said: Fool! thy rising sun is
setting: thou art out, in thy quarters, and mistakest west for east: and
soon enough, it will be night for thee. And Chandana said: I do not
understand thee. Then said his mother: The King thy father discovered,
long ago, the elixir of life: and even now he has been living for
fifteen hundred years. And this is a jest that he plays, now and then,
for his own amusement, making one of his innumerable sons his heir. For
all his heirs die before him, as thou wilt also, never even reaching so
much as the very first step of that throne that lures them on and hangs
always just before them, like a bundle of _hariali_ grass held by a
crafty rider on a stick before the nose of the deluded beast of burden
that carries him along. Thine is only the phantom of a sun that will
presently go down and disappear, leaving the true sun, thy father, still
in the very blaze of noon.
[Footnote 31: _i.e._ "little king," Prince of Wales or Dauphin. The
story is a piece of old folklore, and one version may be found in
Somadewa.]
[Footnote 32: The women's apartments, or _gynæceum_.]
So as he listened, the face of that unhappy Chandana fell. And he went
away, and sank, just as his mother told him, into the night of
melancholy; and abandoning his royal condition, he became a pilgrim, and
died after many years at a very holy bathing-place, at last. But his
father went on reigning, making his sons, one after another, _yuwarájá_,
exactly as before.
III
So, then, when Aranyání ended, Babhru said with a smile: Aranyání, thy
story is foolish, and altogether wide of the mark, and it brings me
consolation rather than reproof. For very certainly thy father is not a
King, and has not an elixir, and will not live for ever. And when he
dies, thou wilt no longer be able to escape me, for we shall be alone
together in the wood.
Then said Aranyání: Babhru, thy confidence is very positive; and yet,
who knows? Who knows what may happen in the future? Count not, O Bruin,
with such ignorant presumption on finding me for ever at thy mercy in
the wood: even after the disaster, which ought not to have occurred to
thee, even in a dream. And even if my father be, as thou sayest, not a
King, I say, who knows? And all at once, she turned half round, facing
him directly as he sat beside her, with malice and provocation in her
eyes. And she said: Babhru, how if a King's son were suddenly to come
into the wood, and carry me away, as many stories tell of others? Did
not Dushmanta discover Shakuntalá, in exactly such a wood? But thou wilt
say, she was more beautiful than I. And Babhru said gloomily: I will say
nothing of the kind: for thou art far more beautiful than Shakuntalá or
anybody else. Then said Aranyání: Thou seest. So nothing is wanted to
make my case tally with her own, save only the King's son. And is not
the world full to the very brim, of Kings and their sons? And Babhru
exclaimed with a groan: Alas! Aranyání, thou art wounding my very heart,
and this is the very thing of which I am afraid. For thy only
preservation is, that this is a wood, into which nobody ever comes. And
all day long I tremble, lest in very truth some stranger should come
into the wood and see thee, and spread abroad the news of thy existence,
like the wind which carries everywhere the scent of a lotus, till at
length the bees come to plunder it of the honey it contains. Then,
indeed, all would be over, for thee as for me.
And Aranyání said, with mischief: O Bruin, what then? Wilt thou deny his
flower to the bee, and is not the true and proper place of every flower
either the wilderness, its origin, or the head of a King, its destiny
and end?
And once again, Babhru uttered a groan, and he exclaimed: Aranyání, thy
words are torture, and nothing whatever but the echo of my own fears.
But this much I will tell thee, on my own part: that the King who shall
come to carry thee away will do well to beware. For if I know it, and
find him in the wood, he will never leave it, either with thee or
without. And he looked away, with ferocity in his eyes and in his teeth,
not perceiving that Aranyání turned paler as he spoke. And presently she
said, in a low voice: Surely this love must be an evil thing, if these
are its results. And now for the very first time, I see, that thou art
well named, O Bruin, and in very truth, a bear. What! wouldst thou
actually slay the poor King's son who had never done thee any harm,
simply for seeking me? And Babhru said sternly: What harm could he do me
greater than robbing me of thee? But let him only come, and see!
And Aranyání said slowly: O thou rude, and fierce, and love-bewildered
Babhru, dost thou not know, that only he is virtuous, who is so far from
revenging an injury that he returns it, on the contrary, by a benefit,
as Bhrigu did: whose story would be a lesson to thee, of which thou
standest in sore need. And Babhru said: I care not a straw, either for
Bhrigu or anybody else: and if, in this matter, he could be of any
other opinion than my own, I tell thee beforehand, that thy Bhrigu is a
fool.
And Aranyání laid her hand upon his arm, and said very gently: On the
contrary, he was a sage: sit still, and listen, while I tell thee all
about him. Long ago there arose among the sages a dispute, as to which
was the greatest of the gods. And some said, the Grandfather, and
others, the Moony-crested, and others, the husband of Shrí.[33] And
finding that they could not agree, for all their disputing, they came to
the conclusion, to settle the matter by experiment. And they chose from
among them Bhrigu, and sent him away, to put the gods to the test. So
Bhrigu went accordingly, and after a while, he fell in with Brahma. And
drawing near that four-faced god, he neither saluted him, nor performed
a _pradakshina_,[34] but went up without ceremony and accosted him, with
rude familiarity. Thereupon Brahma, in great wrath at his insolence, and
on the very point of cursing that deliberately ill-mannered sage, was
nevertheless appeased by him, by means of excuses and apologies. And so,
leaving him appeased, Bhrigu proceeded further on, and coming to
Kailás, enquired for Maheshwara. But the Moony-crested god, informed of
his arrival, sent him out a message, bidding him go away again, and
saying: I have no leisure, since I am at this very moment busy playing
with my other half, the Daughter of the Snow. And going away
accordingly, Bhrigu came upon the Lord Wishnu, lying fast asleep. And
instantly he awoke him, by giving him a kick upon the breast, so hard,
that he injured his own foot. Then that husband of Shrí, rising up
politely, said to him with concern and compassion in his voice: O
Bhrigu, surely thou hast hurt thy own foot: for the kick was very
severe. And as a rule, a blow hurts the giver more than the receiver.
And sitting down beside him, that compassionate deity took the foot upon
his lap, and began very gently to shampoo it, continuing till all the
pain was gone. Then said Bhrigu: What god is greater than this god? For
who but a god, and the very highest, would requite an unprovoked assault
by tenderness, and pity, and oblivion of his own wrong? Surely this is
the badge of Deity in its very essence, that, like sky-crystal, is pure,
and absolutely transparent, and utterly without a flaw[35]?
[Footnote 33: _i.e._ Brahma, Shiwa, and Wishnu respectively.]
[Footnote 34: By moving round him, keeping him on the right: an
established form of adoration.]
[Footnote 35: This curious and very beautiful legend may be found in the
Puránas.]
IV
And Babhru listened in silence, and when she ended, he said slowly:
Aranyání, dost thou then imagine, that the deity, so tolerant of injury
to himself, would have been equally long-suffering and indifferent, had
Bhrigu or any other, fool or sage, attempted to rob him of Shrí, and
deprive him of his wife?
And Aranyání laughed and said: But I am not thy wife, O Babhru, yet.
Thou art anticipating. And Babhru said: Alas! no. But at least, if thou
art not yet my wife, thou art not any other man's: nor, if I can prevent
it, shalt ever be. And she said: Babhru, thou art utterly intolerable,
and a tyrant: and at this rate, I shall without a doubt die unmarried,
if all the sons of Kings who may come to seek me in the wood are to be
slain by thee. And much I fear, that the wood will come to rival even
Kurukshetra,[36] with all its heroes lying dead in heaps, except
thyself.
[Footnote 36: The scene of the great battle in the Mahábhárata, where
all the heroes killed each other.]
And Babhru said without a smile: Aranyání, thou art laughing at a thing
which, for all that, is very solemn, and very simple: for very sure it
is, that whoever would deprive me of thyself must either slay me first,
or die himself. And she said: Poor Bruin, this alone is very sure, that
love must be a very demon, since he has filled thee with such a raging
thirst for the slaughter of the sons of Kings. But come now, I will tell
thee a better way: and that is, to kill me: for so wilt thou effectually
circumvent and cheat all these love-sick and imaginary Kings, at a
single blow: if, as it seems, I am to be a cause of strife and
bloodshed, as long as I am alive.