him strangely, and saying to herself: These were my very words to
Babhru, only an hour ago. And Atirupa said: Now, then, thou art
laughing, equally without a cause: but why? And she said: It is nothing.
Then he said: Is it thy reason returning to thee that makes thee laugh
instead of weep? For why should it so frighten and disturb thee, to
think of leaving all behind for me? Dost thou think I cannot give thee
compensation, ten thousand times over, for all thou lettest go? Then of
what art thou afraid?
And Aranyání raised her head, and looked fixedly straight into his eyes,
and yet strange! seeing nothing, for her soul was absent, thinking not
of him at all, but of Babhru. And she said within herself: Can it be,
that what Babhru is to me, that I am to another, and that of every pair
of lovers, one only loves? And what then will be my fate, if I follow
him in spite of all, only to discover, that just as I left Babhru in the
lurch, so I myself shall be abandoned, it may be, for some other woman's
sake? And at the thought, she shuddered, and grew cold all over, and
turned suddenly paler than a waning moon.
IV
And Atirupa saw it, and was puzzled, understanding nothing of what was
passing in her soul. And he drew her, half-resisting, once more towards
him, and began again to caress her hair, saying as he did so, very
slowly: Aranyání, thou art in very truth, for thy timidity and thy eyes,
own sister to the deer: and yet, somehow, I would not have it otherwise,
for thy timidity is not less beautiful than those great eyes which it
fills with apprehension and distrust: and wert thou brave, thy soft body
would not quiver, to fill me with emotion, nor should I now be tasting,
as I kiss thee, the salt beauty of those pearls, thy tears. Stand still,
then, a little while, O pretty little coward, and if thou wilt, tremble
yet a little in my arms, and grow calm, and let me reassure thee: for
thou takest fright at the noise of every rustling leaf, not stopping to
consider, whether there be really anything to injure thee or no. And now
let me ask thee: I have told thee who I am, and shown thee many things
even of thyself, that were unknown to thee: for so far from being
strangers, we are actually kin. And why then shouldst thou fear to come
away? for to whom shouldst thou come, if not to thy own kindred? And
yet, that is the very reason why I cannot ask thy father for thee. For
dost thou think, should I go to him, and ask him, he would bestow thee
on me, or let thee go away? Say, would he consent? And Aranyání said, in
a low voice: If, as thou hast told me, thou really art the son of Jaya,
then rather would he see me lying dead at his feet. And Atirupa said:
Thou seest. Yet why should thou and I be enemies, because our parents
were? And what then, O Aranyání, of the other? Would thy Babhru let thee
go? And she said: Nay, rather would he slay thee, or himself, or it may
be even me. Then said Atirupa: O foolish one, canst thou then not bring
thyself to comprehend, that since I must absolutely go, and none will
let thee go, either thou must come away with me, or stay here by
thyself? And yet, when I show thee the necessity, thou art ready to
consume me like a straw in the flame of thy reproaches. What then?
Wouldst thou have me go away secretly, saying nothing? And wouldst thou
not then exclaim against me as a traitor, never seeing me return? And
dost thou think it easy for me to go away, leaving thee behind? I tell
thee, I cannot go away without thee, and yet I cannot stay. Then only
tell me, what to do. Say, little cousin, why wilt thou fear to come away
with me? I marvel rather that thou dost not fear to stay. What wilt thou
do alone, when I am gone? Will thy father console thee for my absence,
thy father who leaves thee all alone? or will Babhru make up to thee for
thy sending me away? I tell thee, they will both become so hateful in
thy sight, that thou wilt run away of thy own accord, merely to escape
from them, no matter where. And then thou wilt bitterly regret thy
scruples, all too late, having lost the opportunity that never will
return; for if I go without thee, I shall never come again. But my image
will haunt thee, and follow thee about like a shadow, to darken all thy
life, and instead of a rapture ever present, I shall be to thee a memory
of bitterness, and everlasting self-reproach, and vain remorse. And thou
wilt grow gradually older, alone, being in thy own eyes a thing
intolerable, as having cast away a priceless gem, delicious
companionship, friendship and affection, that Fortune herself fished
thee from the deep, only to see her present thrown, with ingratitude,
by thee, away. And in thy loneliness thou wilt seek in vain to flee even
from thyself, and it may be, judging thy life utterly unendurable, thou
wilt seek refuge from its horror in a death of thy own contriving,
having missed the very fruit of thy birth, and ending like a blunder of
the Creator, and a thing that had better not have been.
V
And as he spoke, he felt Aranyání on his breast, sobbing till she shook
him, as if to say, Cease, for thou art driving a knife into my heart.
And yet he went on slowly, as if his very object were to stab her to the
quick. And then, all at once he changed. And he whispered in her ear:
Dear cousin, why dost thou so obstinately destroy thyself and me? What!
dost thou make believe to love me, calling thyself slave, and yet refuse
to follow me wherever I may go? Or dost thou think that thou art
dreaming, mistaking a shadow for reality, expecting suddenly to wake,
and find nothing in thy arms, and thy vision of happiness a phantom,
vanishing like the picture in the desert, leaving nothing but the sand?
Thou resemblest a very foolish little deer, that for idle fear of
falling victim to delusion, should absolutely refuse to drink, even at a
pool. O deer, what can ever convince thee of the reality of water, if
thou wilt not believe, even when thou art actually standing, as at
present, knee-deep in the lake? Must the very future become present,
before thou wilt trust thyself to credit what it holds? But thou askest
impossibility, and like every other maiden, thou canst not experience
the future till it comes. Hast thou, then, no faith in me at all? Out,
out, upon the love that cannot trust! O Aranyání, surely thy love is
very small, and a mere imitation and counterfeit of love: for as a rule,
true love is tested by its power of putting faith in what it loves. See,
then, thou unbeliever, I will try to bring the future before thy very
eyes, and as I did before, when I told of the life that lay before thee
by thyself, so now will I paint for thee another picture, to show thee
an image of that life that thou wilt forfeit, by sending me away alone.
And he paused for a moment, as if reflecting on his coming words. But he
murmured to himself: I feel that she is hesitating, and trembling in the
balance; resembling a fruit that fears to fall, yet knows that its very
nature dooms it to be eaten, and is half inclined on that account to
drop of its own accord. And now, with a little shaking, she will drop
into my hand: since like a very woman, she cannot say either yes or no,
wishing to be forced along the path which all the while she longs, yet
is terribly afraid, to tread. And now then will I bait the hook with
flattery, and we shall see whether this golden fish will not swallow it
as greedily as all her silver sisters, resembling as they do delicate
and fragile foolish ware that sells itself in a market created by its
own vanity, where false coin passes easily without detection, and is
even more potent and valuable than true. And yet in her case, flattery
is very easy, for the grossest is only the simple truth.
And presently he said, in a very low voice: Aranyání, tell me: am I
beautiful? And she said, after a while, with her face hidden in his
breast: Why ask me to repeat what I have told thee in every way a
thousand times already? Then he said: And does it not occur to thee,
that thou givest me what I give thee? And so we are a pair, for if my
beauty is an idol to thee, what else is thine to me? But thou, all
ignorant of thy own extraordinary charm, art incredulous, not
understanding that I also am a devotee to the spell of thy dreamy eyes,
and the aromatic fragrance of thy hair, and the clinging prison of thy
soft round arms, and the taste of thy delicious lips, whose kisses cool,
like snowflakes, by their leaf-like half involuntary fall, the burning
caused by the touch of thy trembling breast, when it beats on my heart
like the surge of the sea. And should we separate, that were made for
one another like Maheshwara and the Daughter of the Snow? Nay, we will
rather grow together, thou, like the creeper, clinging ever to me, just
as thou art doing now, indistinguishable from the tree which is myself.
And thou shrinkest from the darkness, but I will be thy darkness and thy
night, O thou slender digit of the moon. What wouldst thou do without
thy night, O moon? Or didst thou say, thyself, thou wert a flower? Well,
thou shalt be my blue lotus, and I will be thy pool: looking into which,
thou shalt see thy own reflection, and rejoice. Or, if thou wilt, I will
play the river, and thou shalt be the silver swan that floats upon its
breast. What! wilt thou take from the river all its beauty, by refusing
to float upon the water that only longs to be adorned by so beautiful a
burden? Or better still, thou shalt be my mango blossom, and I, thy mad
black bee, living only to plunder my shy sweet blossom of its
intoxicating wine; aye, without thee, I should indeed resemble a golden
cup, without the wine that gives it all its use and worth. Thou art the
salt, of me the ocean, and the pearl within my shell: and with thee, I
shall be a very Wishnu, with thee, for my Fortune and my Shrí. And like
a word, I should be utterly meaningless without thee, who art my meaning
and my soul. And wouldst thou separate, and sever me from thee? Nay,
nay, O cousin, we will live together, not like accidental waifs that
haply meet to part again upon the waves of time, but rather like two
happy children playing King and Queen, drifting in a golden boat along
the crystal stream of life, never so much as touching on a shoal, but
gliding on, sometimes plying silver oars, and sometimes spreading a
purple sail to catch the sandal-scented breeze that blows from Malaya
loaded with the lazy odour of the South, letting all the hours slip past
us unperceived, till we float away together into the open sea of Death.
VI
And as he murmured, holding Aranyání in arms that added emphasis by the
affection of their pressure to the persuasion of his voice, all at once
she tore herself away from him abruptly, and went and stood, at a little
distance, by herself, silent, and looking out upon the sand. And Atirupa
stood still, watching her with curious, half passionate, half
meditative eyes. And he said within himself: She is standing on the very
edge of the precipice, into which she is just about to fall, irresolute,
and dizzy, and distracted by an arbitration which she dares not settle
either way, not so much out of desire to go, or stay, but rather because
she is equally unable and unwilling, either to stay, or go: and in the
agony of her beautiful perplexity, she is craving to be delivered from
the choice, by having the matter settled for her: and now, the weight
even of a hair would turn the scale. And he drew near slowly, and said,
after a while: Hast thou forgotten, O cousin, that there will be no
farewell to say to thy surroundings, though thou shouldst leave them
now? For there is absolutely nothing to prevent thee from returning to
visit them, as often as thou wilt. But still she answered nothing,
remaining with her back turned towards him, exactly as before.
And once again he said: Aranyání, dost thou hear me? I do not ask thee
to say goodbye for ever to the wood.
And he waited for a while, and at last, as she never either moved or
spoke, he said again: Since, then, thou art absolutely determined, and
thy mind is made up to let me go away alone: it is well. So, now, there
is nothing left, but for me to go. And I must absolutely depart,
whether I will or no. For my kingdom requires me, and my retinue is
waiting at the bottom of the hill, to bring me over the sand. And
sometimes in the wood thou wilt remember me, and it may be, offer water
to the ghost of our dead happiness, and the love that might have been,
for in this wood I cannot live, and if thou wilt not come away, it is
useless to return. So bid me but farewell, and I will go, and thou shalt
never see me more.
And then she turned. And she put out her hand towards him, as if with
entreaty, and made a single step, and all at once she swayed, and would
have fallen, but that he caught her in his arms. And she said, in a
voice so low as scarcely to be heard: Take me, if thou must, and
quickly, for in another moment, I think that my heart will break in two.
And then, she sank down, bereft of her reason, and lay in his arms in a
swoon.
And Atirupa stood for a moment, looking down upon her, as he held her in
his arms. And he said to himself, as if half in irresolution: So, then,
it is over, and I have conquered, and she has yielded, and is mine. And
yet, somehow or other, I feel, in this instance, a touch of something
that resembles pity, and there is as it were a sting, resembling that of
a bee, mixed with my honey, which I never felt before. For after all,
she is my own relation. And what will she do, when she finds out her
mistake? And yet, after all, the mischief is done, and now it is too
late. For as it seems, she will break her heart, in a little while,
whether she goes away with me, or not.
And then, he lifted her in his arms, and went away quickly through the
trees, down the hill.
III
THE DESERT AND THE NIGHT
III
THE DESERT AND THE NIGHT
I
So, then, night followed day, and day succeeded night, in order. And the
new moon waxed, and waned: and every day the sun rose up as usual, and
travelled slowly on, till he sank at eve, over the sand, beyond the
western hill. And then at last, there came a day, when just as he was
sinking, it happened that Babhru sat alone, watching him as he went
down, at that very same place in the wood where he had parted last from
Aranyání, the day she disappeared. And strange! short as had been the
interval of time, he was altered, and it seemed as though years had
rolled over him, writing on him in an instant the wrinkles of old age.
For he looked like an incarnation of dejection, worn and wan, with eyes
that were red and hollow, as if sleep had fled away from them, ousted by
her jealous rivals, sorrow and her sister care. And as he saw the sun
just on the very point of going down, he murmured to himself: He is but
showing me the way, and now very soon, I shall follow his example,
abandoning like him a birth, in which my business is done. For what is
the use of this miserable body, deserted and forsaken by its soul, and
left lying empty, and utterly forgotten, and despised? not even knowing
where to look, or where that soul is gone: this body, which long ago I
would have quitted not only without regretting it, but even with
delight, could but I know for certain that Aranyání is actually dead,
and unable to return: since but for the hope of that return, I should
have ceased to live these many days. Alas! I cannot even tell, whether
she is dead, or still alive. And yet it cannot be: she is not dead. And
yet, she is nowhere to be found: for I have searched the wood a hundred
times from end to end, till there is not a single one of all its leaves
I have not turned upside down, and all in vain. For she has vanished
like a dream, leaving not so much as even the shadow of a clue behind:
and she resembles a drop of dew, dried by the sun at noon on the leaf of
a red lotus, with nothing but the memory of those who saw it in the
morning to show that it was ever there. She has gone, I know not how, I
know not where; snatched away and stolen, and it may be even put to
death, or something that is worse than any death, by those who have
carried her away, I know not who. And O alas! that I ever left her. I
only was to blame, that saw the evil coming, and shrank in terror from
its shadow, like a bird that sees upon the ground beside it the shadow
of the hawk. I left her, and now, beyond a doubt, hope is absolutely
over, and I shall never see her more. And why then should I delay, or
wait to see another sun? But what, if after all, she were not dead, but
still alive, and should return? Then, what a fool I should have been, to
die! And yet, if she is dead? Alas! if she is dead, my life is but an
idle waste of time, and yet I dare not die, for fear, lest after all,
she should return.
And all at once, he stopped short: for as he spoke, there fell upon his
ear a noise. And he listened, and exclaimed: I hear the tramp of horses,
approaching in the wood. And he started up, like his own heart, that
began to beat violently, as if catching at a straw of hope, in the
whirlpool of despair. And he said to himself: Why should horses be
coming through the wood, at such an hour? And as he stood gazing, with a
soul as it were on tiptoe, in the direction of the sound, a rider
suddenly issued from the trees, and came towards him, followed by
others like himself. And as they reached him, they stopped: and their
leader dismounted from his horse, and came towards him, holding it by
the rein.
And when Babhru saw his face, he started, and exclaimed within himself:
Ha! why! that is the very face that I saw lurking in the bush. And then,
all at once, he shouted aloud: Ha! then, it was thou; it is thou, as I
thought, who art the robber, after all.
And Chamu laughed, and he said: O woodman, not so loud: for thou art
hasty, and thou art uncivil, and thou art altogether wrong: though so
far thou art right, that we are old friends. Yet still thou art unjust,
for I am not the robber. It was not I that carried off thy beauty from
the wood, but my master, King Atirupa. And thou art very rude, to call
even him a robber. For he did not steal thy beauty, but only borrowed
her, for a little while, all with her own consent. And now he has
returned her by my hands: and here she is.
And he turned, and Babhru looked, and lo! they lifted Aranyání from a
horse, and set her on the ground. And as Babhru stood gazing at her,
like one struck by a thunderbolt, Chamu said again: Thou owest me not
abuse, but gratitude, O woodman: for see, I have brought her back to
thee, all across the sand, where many in my place would have left her in
the middle of the way, for it was a thankless task, and she was a
cross-grained burden, that was very loath to come at all. So as thou
seest, thou wert very wrong, to call even Atirupa robber: for here she
is again. And the women are silly creatures, who only have themselves to
blame, since they flock to him, like flies to honey, all of their own
accord. But this young beauty grew so peevish, when she found she was
only one of a thousand others, that the Mahárájá could not keep her any
longer. And now she will make thee the very best of wives, woodman:
since she has had some lessons, and a little practice in the art, and
come back richer than she went away: none the worse, but all the better,
for having tasted a King's kisses, and learned her trade in the best of
schools. Thy eldest son will be a beauty, even if all the others are as
ugly as thyself. And if his mother calls him Atirupa, just as a
reminiscence, never mind: for when she has once stopped weeping, she
will love thee just as well as him.
And as he spoke, Babhru stared at him with eyes that hardly saw him, and
ears that hardly heard him, and a soul that hardly understood, filled as
it was to the very brim with such a flood of pity, and horror, and
amazement, and yet delight at her return, no matter how, that there was
absolutely no room at all for even a single drop of wrath. And while he
looked from her to Chamu, and from Chamu back again to her, Chamu got
back upon his horse, and all those riders rode away.
II
But Babhru stood exactly where he was, like a picture painted on a wall,
hardly heeding their departure, gazing at Aranyání. And as he watched
her, tears rose up suddenly and stood, as if to blind him, in his eyes,
springing from the well of the very ecstasy of compassion within his
heart. For she lay half crouching, half fallen on the ground, exactly as
they had set her down, never moving, and resembling a body that is all
but dead. And her face, that was turned towards him, looked absolutely
strange to him, so marvellously had it altered since he saw it last.
For, as it seemed, youth and joy had fled from it, leaving it to be as
it were a very battle-ground for grief and age, and passion and shame,
and humiliation, and weariness, and despair. And instead of her forest
garments, she was magnificently dressed, and yet her clothing was
ill-arranged, and disordered, and very dusty; and her hair was all
dishevelled, and floated loose about her head, as if to match and
imitate the wild disorder of her soul within. And yet, somehow or other,
she seemed for all that in his eyes even more beautiful than ever, with
a beauty that appalled him as he saw it, for she was utterly unlike
herself, as if her own soul had been suddenly changed into another,
making its envelope into something other than it was, to suit the
alteration. And gradually as Babhru watched her, his hair stood up upon
his body, as if with fright, and anticipation of something coming, that
he did not understand.
So he stood silent, watching her, forgetful of himself, with a soul that
yearned to comfort her and soothe her, and caress her and console her,
yet utterly unable, and half fearing, to say anything at all. And in the
silence, gradually dread began to creep all over him, as he saw her
continue, lying absolutely still, and yet every now and then breathing,
very slowly and with difficulty, like one that is suffering an agony of
pain. And at last, after a long while, he moved a little nearer, and he
said, with timidity and emotion: O Aranyání, alas! thou art suffering.
And dost thou think I can endure to see thee suffer? At least, at least,
thou hast returned, no matter how. O alas! for all thy suffering, I only
am to blame; for well I understood, I was wrong to abandon thee, and
leave thee as a prey. But at least, thou hast returned, and only just
in time: for hadst thou stayed away another day, I could not have
endured. I thought thee dead, for day by day, I waited, and day by day,
thou didst not come: and each night was longer, and more awful than the
last. And I sought thee in every quarter of the wood, but thou wert not
to be found. And now, lo! there before my eyes, hardly to be believed,
thou art; and now I am almost ready once more to die, for joy, that is
mingled, I know not how, with an agony of grief. And yet, I blame
myself, selfish that I am, for being even able to rejoice at all, while
thou art suffering. Ah! only tell me what to do, to share thy grief, or
take it all upon myself.
And as he spoke, he leaned towards her, and looked, and lo! a tear
rolled suddenly from her eye, and fell upon the ground: but she never
stirred or spoke. And again he said, with difficulty and hesitation:
Aranyání, dost thou think, dost thou really think, thou art guilty in my
eyes, or in any way to blame, because ruffians, attracted by thy beauty,
came and carried thee away? Is it any fault in the lotus, if the
traveller that sees it, plucks it, and wears it for a moment in his
hair, only to throw it presently away, and trample it underfoot? Alas,
it is not thou, but myself that I condemn, I only, that am guilty, and
all the more, that whereas now I ought to weep with thee, I am, on the
contrary, so transported with delight to see thee, returned to me no
matter how, that I am almost ready to abandon the body out of joy. Or
art thou fearful, lest I should torture thee with curiosity, or
question, or reproach of any kind? Ah! no, listen now, and I will tell
thee. Thou shalt think, if thou wilt, of all that has occurred to thee
as nothing but a dream, from which thou hast awoken. Only a dream, from
which thou hast awoken. And I, that never knew it, will forget it, as
utterly and completely as thyself: and it is already buried in oblivion,
and resembles a thing that has never come about, and had better not have
been.