it may be, thou art nearer the truth than thou imaginest. Will any King
whatever love thee half as well as I do? Yet thou wilt not love me, and
as I think, it is because I am not on the level of thy thoughts, and not
a King.[37] Then she laughed, and exclaimed: Alas! poor Bruin, thou art
mad: for all these Kings are only dreams, yet art thou as savage as if
they were actually before thee in a row. And he said: Aye! only dreams:
and yet the dreams are earnest, and are thine. Kings are the very
matter of thy dreams. Is not this the subject of thy reveries as thou
gazest at the sand? Ha! am I right? Dost thou never long for some King's
son to come and fill thy life with joy, and deliver thee from the
monotony of this wood, and thy father, and myself? Am I not below thee,
in thy estimation? Then for what canst thou long, but for thy peer?
[Footnote 37: It should be remembered by the English reader that "sons
of Kings" are more numerous, in India, than in the West. All Rajpoots
are sons of Kings: and Aranyání herself a Rajpootni. To marry a King's
son would be for her, not merely a desire, but a duty: an affair of
caste. All this flavour evaporates in a translation.]
And he looked keenly at Aranyání, and as her eyes met his, she wavered,
a very little, and looked away, and said: Alas! poor Babhru, thy love is
jealousy, which makes thee so sharp-sighted, that thou seest things that
are not there. So trouble not thy foolish head about anything so slight
and insignificant as the subject of my dreams, otherwise thou wilt place
thyself on the level of the zanies of Chincholi. And he said: Thou
speakest the very truth: I am the very type of a fool, striving to reach
what is above him and beyond his reach, even when he stands on tiptoe:
and that is, the level of thy thoughts. And Aranyání said: See now, I
said well, thou art the very fellow of the sages of Chincholi: a city,
into which on a day there came a certain sanctimonious ascetic, called
Pinga, from the colour of his hair. And arriving at the square before
the palace of the King, he sat down in its middle, and spreading out
his left hand open before him, he looked intently at its palm. And so he
continued, wrapt in the contemplation of his hand, paying absolutely no
regard to anything around him, till night. And this he did every day,
all day long, till at length he became the very target of the curiosity
of the people of the town, who crowded round him in a throng, disputing
as to the meaning of his singular behaviour, and all maintaining
opposite opinions. And one said: This ascetic is undoubtedly pondering
on the Panchatantra.[38] And another: Beyond a doubt, the holy man is
meditating on Death. And yet another: Is not this an ascetic? And of
what should he meditate but the five fires? But a pundit passing by,
said: His meditation can be of nothing but the syllogism and its
members. Thereupon another said: Is it not the left hand?[39] Then his
thoughts are of the Shakti. And a wag among them said: Aye! For of what
do all these holy men perpetually think, but of the five arrows of the
God of Love? And a Brahman said: Thou art altogether out in thy
conjecture, for he meditates on nothing but the sheaths of the soul.
And a Gáwali shouted: The sage is considering devoutly the parts of the
cow. For what is holier than a cow? And there arose such an uproar in
the city that the citizens all came to blows, dividing into factions,
around him, while all the time he sat peacefully just as if nobody was
there, gazing at his hand. And finally the King sent officers to say to
him: Depart quickly from the city, for thy presence is a cause of
sedition. Thereupon Pinga said: Interrupt my meditation, and I will
curse the city, so as to deprive it of both sun and rain. So fearing his
curse, the King had recourse to diplomacy. And he sent his _purohita_ at
night, who secretly induced that obstinate ascetic to go away, of his
own accord, by giving him a _lakh_. And as he slowly went out of the
city, his _chela_ said to him aside: Master, what _was_ the subject of
thy meditation: for I am curious to know? Then that crafty ascetic
suddenly laughed like a hyæna. And he said: I meditated about absolutely
nothing but my own hand. And now, this is a lesson to thee. For such is
the nature of fools, who comprehend least of all what is absolutely
simple, and see last of all what is lying before their nose. And whoever
knows this possesses treasure inexhaustible, and is master of the world.
[Footnote 38: The point of these interpretations depends on the number
five, which enters into all of them.]
[Footnote 39: There is a play here on _wámá_, which means the _left
hand_ and _a beautiful woman_.]
V
And Babhru watched her intently, as she spoke, and when she ended, he
said suddenly and abruptly: Aranyání, thou art deceiving me. And she
said: How, O Babhru? And he said: Thou art this morning totally unlike
thyself: for thy customary melancholy is absent, and thou art strange,
and elated, and agitated, and as it seems to me, thou art telling me
idle stories, like one that listens all the while to something else, as
it were in a hurry merely to throw me off the scent, and hide from me a
secret, and amuse me like a child. And somehow or other, I feel as if
there were a wall between us, this morning, which was never there
before. Aye! I am sure, I know not how, thou art playing as it were a
part, to cast a mist before my eyes, and hide from me some agitation in
thy soul.
And Aranyání laughed, and blushed, and frowned, and finally she said:
Babhru, thy love is a disease, which fills thy head with nightmare, and
thy eyes with phantoms born of suspicion in thy soul. And he said: Alas!
thy own behaviour gives the lie to thee. Thou art not like thyself, and
I am right. And now, then, I will tell thee, in return for thy stories,
one myself; but unlike them, mine shall be very sad, and very true.
And Aranyání turned, and looked at him with anxiety in her eyes: and she
said: O Babhru, a story, and from thee! what is it? And he said: Dost
thou remember, a little while ago, when we wandered, the last time I saw
thee, in the wood? And she said: Yes. Then he said: Dost thou recollect,
how all at once I stopped thee, and turned back with thee, and left thee
so abruptly? And shall I tell thee, why? And Aranyání gazed at him,
turning a little paler, without speaking. Then he said: Know, that as we
went, I looked, and suddenly I saw before me in the bushes, what was
unseen by thee, the face of a man. And as I saw it, I shuddered, for his
eyes were fixed on thee, with astonishment, and evil admiration. And
instantly I turned, and took thee home, and left thee, and hurried back
to find him: but he was gone. I hunted everywhere, but he was gone. And
ever since, I cannot even sleep, for thinking of this man, and of his
eyes, which haunt me, as they gloated on thee, like a terror, bidding me
beware, and saying as it were: Ha! Ha! thy treasure is discovered. And I
resemble one, whose buried hoard of gold has been seen by other eyes;
and hardly do I dare to be away from thee, not as before, merely for
love of thee, but for fear, lest, on returning, I should find my
treasure gone.
And all at once, he burst into a sob; and he rose, and took a step or
two away from her. And Aranyání rose also, and she said with agitation:
O Babhru, what was he like, this man? Was he tall and powerful, like
thee? And Babhru said: Nay, he was a little ugly man, with weasel eyes.
And Aranyání laughed, as if with relief. And she exclaimed: O Babhru,
what is this? Is this a man of whom to be afraid? What! shall I fall a
victim to this little man with weasel eyes, who hides in bushes? Be
under no concern, for so much I will tell thee, that not even a hundred
such pigmies shall ever carry me away.
And Babhru said sadly: Alas! Aranyání, thou dost not understand: and
like the flower in thy hair, thou art utterly ignorant of thy own
attraction. And exactly such a man as this, whom thou despisest, is the
most dangerous of all. Dost thou think, if once through his agency the
world should suddenly become aware of what this wood contains, it would
long remain unvisited by others? It was not the face of the intruder
that I feared, but his tongue, which, could I but have caught him, I
would have cut out of his throat, to keep it from betraying thy
existence to the world outside.
And as he looked towards her, with tears in his eyes, all at once
Aranyání changed colour, turning suddenly paler, as if her heart,
appalled by the apparition of some menace in his words, had summoned to
its assistance all the blood in her face. And after a while she said:
Babhru, thou art ill, and thy unfortunate affection not only makes thee
overestimate my value, but even leads thee to alarm thyself and me, by
creating imaginary fears. And moreover, come what may, the mischief, if
any mischief is, is done, and the tongue that is thy bugbear is safe and
at a distance in its owner's head, talking, very probably, of anything
but me. But now, while we ourselves are talking, time has fled, and it
is nearly noon; for the shadows are at shortest; and now, I dare not let
thee stay here any longer; as indeed, I was to blame, in allowing thee
to stay at all; and better had it been for both of us, it may be, hadst
thou never come. And should my father suddenly return, and find thee, it
would be worse. Why need I tell thee what thou knowest very well? And
what good can come to thee, by longing for what is forbidden? Thou dost
only add fuel to the flame of thy fever, which I, did I do my duty,
ought rather to quench, by pouring over it the cold water of distance
and separation. But my compassion for thee fights with my obedience to
my father, for I am only a woman after all, and very weak; and it may
be, I love thee just a very little. So be content with all that I can
give thee, and do not come again, but recover from thy fears, and forget
me. I cannot be thy wife, but I wish thee well. And now goodbye, and go
away.
So as she stood, dismissing him, Babhru turned without a word, and went
away into the wood, very slowly, while she watched him go. And she put
both her hands behind her head, and stood looking after him, absolutely
still. And as fate would have it, he turned round, just before he passed
out of sight, and looked back, and saw her standing, gazing after him
with a smile, with every outline of her round and slender woman's form
standing out sharp as the moon's rim, as if on purpose to intoxicate his
eye, against the background of the distant sand, like a threefold
incarnation of his inaccessible desire, and his disappearing happiness,
and his irrevocable farewell, in a feminine shape. And all at once he
came back to her with hurried steps. And he reached her, and fell down
before her, and seized a corner of her red garment that was loose, and
kissed it. And then he started up. And he said, in a voice that shook,
with tears stealing from his eyes: Well I understand that I am looking
at thee, for the very last time.
And then he turned, and went away very quickly, without looking round:
while she stood in agitation, looking after him, till he disappeared
among the trees.
II
A GLAMOUR OF NOON
II
A GLAMOUR OF NOON
I
So she stood, a long while, gazing in the direction of his departure,
touched by his emotion into an emotion, that was more than half
compassion, of her own, and sorry, yet fearing above all things to see
him return. And then at last, as if satisfied that he was actually gone,
she turned away. And she murmured to herself: Alas! poor Babhru, hadst
thou but known how near thy fear came to the very truth, I doubt whether
I could ever have got thee to go away at all. And even as it is, it is a
wonder that he has not actually discovered what his jealousy prompted
him to guess: and all the while I trembled, feeling a very culprit, so
accurately did he probe my soul, and see into my heart. And wonderful
exceedingly is the sagacity of love, that discerns, from the very
faintest indications, what would escape all other eyes! And yet, for
all his acuteness, how little did he dream, that I knew, by experience,
what love is, better, far better, than himself. He knew that I deceived
him, but did not know, how far. And after all, what shadow of a right
has he, to claim my affection for himself? But now he has had his turn,
and all that I could give him: and now, then, it is my turn, and it is
time, and it is noon.
And then, all at once, Babhru, and everything concerning him, vanished
clean out of her mind. And strange! she changed, as if by magic, in an
instant, into another woman. For as she stood, unconsciously she smiled,
and the smile ran, as it were, over her whole body with a sudden wave of
delicious agitation, and from a woman that she was, lording it, as if
with a sense of superiority, she turned into a child, trembling all over
with the excitement of anticipation. And she looked very carefully all
round her, as if to make sure of being unobserved; and all at once, she
ran very quickly away into the wood, turning her back on Babhru, down
the hill towards the sand. And coming at length to a little clump of
trees, she stopped abruptly, and clapped her hands. And at that very
instant, as if he had been waiting for the signal, Atirupa issued from
the trees. And Aranyání ran towards him, breathless, half with running,
and half with the agitation of the joy of reunion, and threw herself
into his arms, with a cry.
And then, for a while, that pair of lovers did nothing but kiss each
other all over, with kisses that followed one another like raindrops in
a storm. And after a while, he said: Dear Aranyání, thou art very late,
and like the little rogue thou art, hast kept me waiting, as I think, on
purpose, to make thy value greater, and increase my thirst, till I had
almost determined, in despair, to go away. And Aranyání said, playfully:
What! couldst thou not wait for me a little while, and am I not worth
waiting for, at all? And he kissed her very carefully on both eyes, and
he said: Indeed thou art. Then she said softly: And dost thou then
imagine that delay is any easier to me than to thyself? Know, that I had
difficulty, in coming even when I did. For I had first to get rid of
someone else, in order to come at all. And Atirupa said: Thy old lover,
of whom thou hast told me? Then she said: Thou sayest well, my old
lover, who loves me, as I think, far better than thou dost, and almost
as much as I love thee. But alas! for him, since I love him not again;
and well will it be, for me, if in thy case also, love is not wholly on
one side. Say, dost thou love me, even half as much as I love thee? And
Atirupa said, with a smile: Nay, if I must believe thee, it is
impossible.
And she gazed at him with insatiable eyes, and she said with a sigh:
Yes, it is impossible. And yet, strange! it is not yet a week, since I
came upon thee in the wood for the very first time, thinking, as I saw
thee, that the very god of love had, somehow or other, dropped out of
heaven, and wandering about on earth, had lost his way in our wood, only
for my destruction; to consume me, like lightning irresistible, only by
a look: and turn me suddenly from free into a slave, the property of
another, who is master of her body and her soul. And yet, only this very
morning did I learn, how nearly I had lost thee: since thy servant that
saw me in the wood, and was the cause of thy coming, came within an ace
of perishing himself, before he ever got away to tell. And Atirupa said:
How? And Aranyání told him. And then she said: And now I fear for thee
also: for should Babhru chance to see thee, his reason will desert him.
And I tremble to think of thy encounter, with such a giant as is he. And
yet I know not what to do. For he will surely come across thee, sooner
or later, as indeed it is marvellous that he has not done already:
since thou comest daily to me in the wood.
And Atirupa laughed, and he said: Fear nothing, O thou with the eyes of
a gazelle: for it may be he himself, that would suffer most by our
meeting. Then said Aranyání: It is exactly this I fear. For I would not
have thee harm him, even though my fear is all for thee. And Atirupa
said: There is a very easy way to solve this difficulty, and deprive
thee of all cause of fear, which has not yet occurred to thee. And
Aranyání said: What is that? And Atirupa said: It is only in this wood
that we could ever meet each other. But what if thou shouldst come away
with me, O thou delicious little slave, leaving the wood behind thee, to
a place he cannot reach?
II
And then, Aranyání started, and looked at him with eyes that were filled
with timidity and dismay, as if she hardly understood. And after a
while, she said: What! come away with thee! it is impossible. And she
gazed at him in terror, while Atirupa looked at her steadily, with
caressing impenetrable eyes. And he murmured to himself: Now, then, I
have startled my beautiful and timid fawn, but the seed is for all that
sown in her beating heart. And now, then, we shall see, whether I can
get her, by persuasion and caresses and cajolery, to come away of her
own accord; or whether, as I do not wish, I shall have to carry her off
by force. For she will be far sweeter if she yields herself, even though
reluctant, than if I have to make her come away, whether she will or no.
And presently he said gently: Dear Aranyání, dost thou imagine that
either I can live without thee, or remain for ever in thy wood? For even
as it is, I have been living in the wood, on thy account, for many days,
at a distance from my capital, neglecting all my state affairs; and long
ago my ministers must have wondered, what can have become of me. So of
two things, one is absolutely necessary: and either thou must come away,
or we must part.
And Aranyání looked at him steadily, turning very pale. And she murmured
in bewilderment: Part! Thou and I! And Atirupa said: Dear, thou seest,
the very notion makes thee pale. Then what will it be to part, in
reality? Couldst thou endure to live without me? Or can I live for ever
in the wood? Then what remains but this alone, to leave the wood
thyself, and come with me, since there is absolutely no other way?
And Aranyání drew herself away, out of his arms; and she stood, looking
down upon the ground, silent, and very pale: while Atirupa watched her,
standing still, with eyes that never left her for an instant. And after
a while, he said again: Dear Aranyání, couldst thou actually think, it
could continue thus for ever, or that I could remain for ever, as I am
doing now, camping in the wood, and coming every day to see thee?
And Aranyání sighed, and she said very slowly, still looking at the
ground: I know not, for I have thought of absolutely nothing, since I
saw thee, but thyself; and that was enough for me, and more; since my
soul was so full that it had room for nothing else. And all the past had
vanished, and the future did not matter, swallowed up in the present
which was ecstasy, and intoxication, and thou. How could I think of
anything at all? And now thou hast suddenly awaked me from a dream,
which in my folly I had imagined would never have an end, but last for
ever. And lo! it is gone, and all is over, and finished, almost before
it has begun.
And Atirupa said in a whisper: Say rather, O Aranyání, that the dream is
only just beginning.
And she answered angrily: Dost thou think it then so easy for a flower
to consent to be torn up by the roots, and carried from its home no
matter where? For like a flower I am rooted in this wood, where I have
lived and grown since the beginning, with my father and the trees, and
the creepers, and the deer. And now thou hast placed thyself, with a
sudden flash of lightning, in opposition to it all; and thou wouldst
make me choose, threatening to go away and leave me, unless I sacrifice
it all, to go into the darkness, I know not where, with thee. Dost thou
think the choice is easy which will utterly destroy me, whichever way it
falls? Thou art the cause of all, and resemblest a knife, that bids me
to consent and rejoice, while it cuts my heart in two, possessing
absolutely no heart whatever of its own.
And Atirupa said gently: Alas! Aranyání, thou art utterly unjust, and
this was my very fear, that when I offered thee to choose between the
wood, which is thy past, and myself, who am thy future, I should seem to
thee utterly of no account, and light in the balance, weighed against
what I asked thee to resign. I say, thou blamest me unjustly, when I am
absolutely blameless, unless indeed it be a fault, to love thee, for
which not I, but thyself, or rather the Creator is to blame, for making
thee exactly what thou art. Who can blame the butter for melting in the
flame, or make it a crime in the ocean, for rising in tumult and
agitation at the sight of the tender digit of the moon? Is it my fault,
if I must go away, since after all my kingdom is in need of me, and even
as it is, I have remained here too long, and all on thy account? And
what can I do but ask thee to come with me, since unless we are to part,
there is absolutely nothing else to do? And does not every maiden do the
same? Did not Shakuntalá abandon her home and her relations in the
forest, to follow King Dushmanta? And did not even the Daughter of the
Snow abandon, not only her father, but even her own body, for the sake
of the Moony-crested god? And art thou fearful, O thou intoxicating
child, to go into the dark? But what will darkness matter? nay, will not
the dark itself become nectar, provided I am there? Or rather, will not
the darkness be still darker, and gloomier, and blacker, if I go away
and leave thee by thyself?
III
And Aranyání stood for a moment, when he ended; and then all at once she
sank down upon the ground, and hid her face in her two hands, and began
to sob. And after a while she said in agitation: What hast thou done to
me? For till I saw thee, I was happy; and now I am torn by thee utterly
in two. For I cannot bear to part either with thee, or with my father
and my home. And now I could wish never to have seen thee, and well had
it been, if thy servant never had set eyes on me, to tell thee, and
bring thee to the wood. Why hast thou come hither to destroy me? For all
has come about exactly as Babhru said and feared, when he foretold that
thy coming would be my utter ruin.
And Atirupa listened, and he murmured to himself: She has fallen into
the snare, by avowing her vacillation, and allowing herself to debate,
instead of repudiating my proposal: and now it will be my own fault, if
I cannot turn the scale in my own favour, by playing on her agitated
heart. And he said coldly: Ha! then, as I thought, it is Babhru who
causes all the trouble; and he it is, whom thou art so unwilling to
resign.
And instantly Aranyání started up, and exclaimed with vehemence and
indignation: What! dost thou taunt me, dost thou actually dare to taunt
me, with Babhru, whom I have sacrificed without a thought to thee? Alas!
poor Babhru. Little does he resemble thee, for so far from taking me
away, he would live at my bidding even in a desert, and give up a
hundred kingdoms, if he had them, for my sake. And Atirupa said: Then be
it as thou wilt, for I will not be his rival. Go with him to thy
desert, and I will go to mine.
And he turned, as if to go away in anger. But as he went, Aranyání
sprang towards him with a shriek. And she seized him by the arm, and
shook it passionately, exclaiming: Away with Babhru! O forgive me, for I
am mad, and I know not what I say or do. What is Babhru in comparison
with thee? Only be not angry, and do not go, do not leave me, for thy
going is my death. And she clutched him, and caught him by the neck, and
drawing his face violently down to her, she began to kiss him without
ceasing, mingling the rain of her kisses with the shower of her tears.
And after a while, she drew back, and holding his neck very tightly with
her left arm, she gazed intently at his face, as if in meditation,
drawing her finger slowly all around it, and over each eyebrow, and
round and round his mouth, over and over again. And then all at once she
threw her right arm also round his neck, and hid her face upon his
breast, exclaiming, while her own breast beat like a wave upon his
heart: Either thou never shouldst have come, or shouldst never go away.
And Atirupa stood quietly, supporting her in his arms, and allowing her
to do with him exactly as she pleased. And finally, he stroked her hair
gently with his hand, and murmured to himself: Now very soon, I think,
she will consent, as it were without consenting, to come away, after a
little coaxing. And he said aloud: Dear Aranyání, it is not I that am
tearing thee in two, as thou sayest: but it is rather thou thyself that
art pulling thy soul to pieces, utterly without a cause. Truly wonderful
is love, that fills his victims with fears that are absurd, and makes
them see before them dangers that do not exist at all!