to forgive him, and lo! he saw the tears rolling from her eyes in a
stream, as if something in his words were like a knife in her heart. But
still she never spoke, and never stirred. And once again he said, as if
with entreaty: Aranyání, thou canst not imagine, even in a dream, what
happiness is mine. See! thou art agitated, and it must be, very weary.
And now, then, I will lead thee, or if thou wilt, carry thee, home. And
there thou shalt sleep, absolutely undisturbed, for to-night, and
to-morrow, and as long as thou shalt choose. And all the while, I will
watch without, and bring thee food, and do everything as thou wilt, at
thy bidding; and above all, guard, and protect thee, from any fresh
attempt. Woe to the man who shall attempt to molest thee any more! And
so shalt thou live, exactly as thou wilt, with me for thy servant. And
very soon, even the memory of that which now distresses thee will fade
out of thy soul. And there will be absolutely nobody to make thee feel
ashamed, or in any way whatever bring trouble to the quiet of thy soul.
For as to thy father, when he discovered thy disappearance, he came to
me, thinking I had stolen thee. And when he saw instantly, by my frenzy,
he was wrong, all at once he cried out: Mother and daughter, mother and
daughter: this is a stab in the dark from Jaya. And I know not what he
meant. But I think that his heart broke within him, for after a day or
two, he died.
III
And then, like a flash of lightning, Aranyání started to her feet, with
a scream that rang through the wood, making the heart of Babhru suddenly
leap into his throat. And she threw up her arms, with agony, and all at
once, she sprang from her place, and darted like an arrow from a bow
towards the hut. And then again, almost instantly, as he stood gazing at
her in dismay, she turned sharp round, and began to run away in the
opposite direction like a deer. And as if waking from a dream, he began
to pursue her. And he overtook her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder,
as if to say: Whither art thou hastening without looking where to go?
But when she felt him touch her, she stopped suddenly and turned, and
looked at him, as if in the extremity of fear. And all at once, she
began to laugh, as if she was mad, with round eyes that were filled with
amazement and derision. And she exclaimed: Ha! Babhru, is it thou? But I
left thee behind me in the wood. Ha! thou also art deserted, and
rejected, and despised. Come, then, and let us escape very rapidly
together. And she seized him by the arm, and began to drag him violently
along. And she lowered her voice to a whisper, and began to speak, so
quickly, that the words stumbled over one another as they rushed out of
her mouth. And she said: Poor Babhru, thou art so ugly, that she could
not love thee in return, quite forgetting that she was herself so ugly
that nobody could love her either. But he was so beautiful, so
beautiful, so beautiful that she ran away and left thee in the lurch:
never even dreaming that all the other women were as silly as herself.
Ah! the other women, they were so many and so cruel. There were no other
women in the wood. Was it lonely, Babhru, in the wood, after she went
away? Poor ugly Babhru, all alone in the wood, while we were kissing
each other in the city. She used to see thee, Babhru, as she kissed him,
sitting all by thyself in the wood, and weeping by thyself. She loved
thee just a very little. Didst thou remember? But in the city, she
feared, she feared, to see thee suddenly appear. But very likely, thou
didst not know where she had gone. Thou wouldst have killed him, Babhru.
Why didst thou not run after her? But they would not have admitted thee,
poor Babhru, thou art so very ugly: and thou wouldst only have wandered,
going round and round the palace, outside, outside, while all the time
he was kissing thy lotus and trampling on its heart, inside. And yet she
was his cousin, and the daughter of a king. Ha! Babhru, thou wert
ignorant, and didst not know. But there were so many other women, all
alike. Couldst thou even have discovered her among them all? Her eyes,
her eyes were different: her eyes were dreamy, and her kisses like
snowflakes. Surely it was better, after all, in the wood: there were no
other women there. Didst thou imagine, Babhru, thou wert the only one to
be dishonoured and befouled, trodden down into the mud and thrown away?
But the very pools were there to teach thee, thou art so ugly, so ugly:
and she was so beautiful. Couldst thou expect any better fate than hers?
How could she love thee, being herself so unworthy to be loved? And he
was like the very god of love, wandering in the wood. But it was she,
that lost her way. He knew his way very well indeed. How could she
expect, to keep him all to herself? Is not the whole world full to the
very brim of women, with cruel eyes? O Babhru, why wert thou such a fool
as to think one woman any better than another? Fool that she was, to
think to keep him all to herself! O Babhru, thou art absolutely nothing,
in comparison with him. Thou art so rude and coarse and rough, and he is
more beautiful than any woman. And he was so gentle and so kind, and his
kisses were so sweet. No, it was Babhru who was kind, and he was like a
snake. Listen, and let me tell thee: kisses that are sweet are the
bitterest of all: when other lips come in between. Thou feelest them,
the other lips, between his lips and thy own. And his lips were a flower
that is visited by a thousand bees. O Babhru, how canst thou know
anything about it, since thy lips have never kissed anyone at all? Kiss
me, poor Babhru, and thou shall learn by experience the poison of a
kiss, from lips that are sticky with the honey left by other bees.
IV
And as Babhru listened, gazing at her with alarm, with his reason swept
as it were along in a flood of grief, and humiliation, and compassion,
and sheer amazement, and hardly understanding the words flowing from her
mouth like the water of a stream, she stopped short, and laid her hand
upon his own. And he started at its touch, for it burned him like a
flame, as if she was on fire. And she said with a smile, while the tears
were running down her face: Babhru, dost thou know, Aranyání was a
creeper, supported by a noble tree? And yet somehow or other, the tree
has disappeared. Who knows? for doubtless it was all eaten away within,
and hollow, and as I think, the ants must have devoured it, leaving
absolutely nothing but emptiness, and earth, and dust. So beautiful it
seemed outside, surely the poor creeper could not tell, how base, and
rotten, and horrible it was within. So when I saw it suddenly, inside,
it hurt me here. And she put both her hands upon her heart, and began
to sob. And then, all at once, she began again to laugh. And she said:
Aye! she was a pearl, and a swan, and I know not what beside, and now
she is absolutely nothing, like a broken pot. And the golden boat has
perished, never so much as reaching even the shadow of the sea. Babhru,
it was a lie: it was a miserable boat, all full of holes, that sank into
the cold black water like a stone. Base and rotten, how could it swim,
loaded with such an innumerable host of other women? Base, ah! who knows
better than Aranyání the agony of finding it was base. Was Aranyání
base, Babhru, dost thou know? And all the women hated each other, she
and all the others; Babhru, it was hell in the golden boat. And she was
worst of all, she wept, and wept, and wept, till at last they turned her
out, and Chamu took her away. And then it was, I think, she died. It
hurt her so to go away, she must have died; and Chamu took her and
carried her away when she was dead. And she was so terrified of Chamu.
Atirupa, Atirupa, save, O save me from Chamu's eyes. Babhru, beware of
Chamu, for he is the very worst of all; worse even than the women. She
was frightened of his laughter: it was worse, far worse, than all the
laughter of the women. They pushed her from their boat, and Chamu took
her. And she begged and begged and begged him only to leave her in the
sand; for then she would have died, and never lived to see her father
and Babhru any more. O Babhru, why didst thou not die also, before they
brought her back? Chamu, Chamu, did Atirupa give you Aranyání, to kiss
her dead body on the sand?
And all at once, Babhru began to tremble like a leaf. And he exclaimed:
Aranyání, Aranyání! And suddenly she fell down and began to kiss his
feet. And then, he shuddered, and began to sob, as if a sword had run
into his heart: and the sweat broke out upon his brow. And he stooped
down, and lifted her violently up, saying in a low voice that shook like
himself: Aranyání, thy reason has deserted thee. Come now, and I will
take thee home.
And she said with a shriek: Nay nay, for the ghost of my father is
waiting there, to drive me away. Come away into the wood where it is
dark. And she dragged him by the hand, and she whispered: Babhru, I have
a thing to ask of thee. Wilt thou kill me with thy knife in the
darkness? for otherwise I must abandon the body of my own accord.
And Babhru started, and he exclaimed, with horror: Aranyání, art thou
mad? What! should I kill thee, I, kill thee, who art my very soul?
V
And she gazed at him awhile in silence, and then, there came into her
eyes an anguish that was mixed with disappointment and despair. And she
turned away, and murmured, as if speaking to herself, with melancholy:
He also is my enemy. They will not even kill her. They keep her living,
when she only asks for death, not even letting her escape, shutting her
like a prisoner in the dungeon of her lonely soul. Even Chamu would not
kill her: though she prayed him. He only laughed. And yet she was
already dead, slain long ago, and done away, leaving nothing but a
corpse.
And she stood for a moment, as if reflecting, and all at once, she
turned, and looked at Babhru, with a face that was wan in the moonlight,
and eyes that were filled with anxiety, and misery and pain. And
suddenly, they changed, becoming filled with laughter and hatred and
derision. And she came up close to him, as if to whisper in his ear, and
suddenly she struck him in the face, with a shout of laughter. And she
said, contemptuously: Thou wilt not kill me? Poor Babhru, thou hast not
even yet begun to understand. Dost thou remember Aranyání, that told
thee stories, long long ago, in the wood? She is dead. Far away in the
desert they took her heart, and tore it and trod it into pieces, and
flung her body out, to wander in the world alone, dressed in the clothes
of misery and shame. And this it is, thou wilt not kill. Thou wouldst
actually keep her miserable body still alive, to live with in the
torture of this wood, where Aranyání lived long ago, to suffer every
instant the horror of recollection, and to be mocked for ever by the
memory of a happiness that is changed into despair. Like monkeys that go
by among the trees, they found a fruit, and bit it, only to go on and
leave it lying, deserted and outraged and dishonoured on the ground.
Thou thinkest to find happiness in watching her dead body? Thou wilt not
kill her, poor Babhru? Dost thou know what she will think of, living
beside thee in the wood? Dost thou think, it will be thou? Alas, poor
ugly Babhru, it will be he. And every time she sees thee, she will
compare thee and him, thy body with his body, thy eyes with his eyes.
Her lips would never touch thee without thinking of his own. Thou wilt
only love what he rejected, and bite at the very place which the monkeys
bit before thee when they threw the fruit away. The taste would be so
bitter that thy love would turn to hatred in a day. She would loathe the
very sight of thee, and every time she looked at thee, her eyes would
tell thee, thou wert so ugly and contemptible in comparison with him.
They have flung thee the relic of a life that they would not take away,
merely in derision. Wilt thou live even with a victim that despises
thee? Half dead and half alive, like a lizard mangled by a passing crow,
and left to writhe: a deer, struck by an idle hunter, left wounded in
the jungle, unable even to procure its death, to ebb away its life
through burning days and black intolerable nights, eyed by the vultures
sitting by. And thou wouldst be the vulture? Thou wilt only be a jackal,
eating what the lion leaves. What! live beside her, knowing that another
is buried in her heart. Wilt thou feed, like a dog, even on the bodies
of the dead? Poor Babhru, dost thou not understand. She cast thee off
and left thee for a lover that she never will forget, and living like a
vampire in her body that is dead, he will utterly despise thee, laughing
at thee in her eyes. Ah! Wilt thou actually wait to understand, till a
little Atirupa comes, to spit, exactly like his father, in thy face?
VI
And as Babhru listened, all at once the words of Chamu as he went away
rose up and stood before him, as if they had lain waiting, and as it
were sleeping in his soul, till roused into recollection by her own. And
suddenly, the veil, formed by his own devotion to Aranyání and his own
self-annihilation, that hid from him the truth, was lifted from his
eyes. And he saw himself suddenly as in a mirror, mocked, and scorned,
and as it were a very target for the contempt and derision of Chamu, and
his master, and even of herself. And his heart swelled suddenly with
such a flood of shame, and anger, and the bitterness of his own
inferiority, that it almost broke in two. And his face fell: and his
eyes, that were fixed on Aranyání, grew darker and ever darker, as if
night at a single stride had suddenly extinguished in his heart the hope
that had dawned in it at her return.
So he stood a long while, sinking, as he looked at her, deeper and
deeper into the blackness of despair, and resembling one that waits in
darkness for a light that still flickers to go out and disappear. And
suddenly he said to himself: She is right. For fate in the form of
Atirupa has destroyed her and her happiness, and mine. And he looked
fixedly at Aranyání, who was standing watching him, and waiting, as it
were, for his decision: and he said: Aranyání, I was wrong, and thou art
right. And now there is no remedy but one, and it is better to be dead.
And as he spoke, he took his knife, and drew it from its sheath, and
waited, clutching it in his hand.
And instantly, Aranyání uttered a cry of joy. And she came quickly and
stood close to him, and she took hold with both hands of the _choli_
that covered her, and tore it violently asunder, dragging it down, till
her breast was absolutely bare. And she said: See! I am ready. And so
she remained, waiting, with her bosom turned up towards him in the
moonlight, bared, and as it were eager, for the coming blow.
And he stood still for yet a moment, looking down upon her with
melancholy eyes, in which, strange! there was not a vestige even of the
shadow of any anger. And he said to himself: There, in the very middle,
between those two round marble breasts, the knife shall fall. And as he
hesitated, a tear rose up into his eyes, as if to bid farewell to his
own happiness. And he murmured to himself: They were for him and not for
thee. And he passed his left hand over his eyes, as if to clear his
sight, and suddenly he raised his knife, and buried it in her heart.
VII
So, then, with a sigh that was half a cry, she swayed and fell. And he
never tried to catch her, but stood a long while silent, exactly where
he was, looking down upon her lying still. And then, he sat down upon
the ground beside her, and lifted her very gently, and set her on his
lap, propping her head upon his shoulder: and he began to whisper in her
ear, patting her as he did so, and rocking her to and fro, like one that
soothes a child. And he said: Now, then, thy trouble is all over, and I
have given thee rest, for it was better to be dead. And thou wilt never
know what it cost me, to give thee the blow. But now thou canst go to
sleep, for thou art very weary: forgetting all, and not fearing any
recollection in the morning: since thy sleep will be a long one, and
thou wilt never wake again. And all the evil dreams have vanished with
their author, never to return; and now once more Aranyání is herself,
only differing in this, that she is dead. Aye! it was better to be dead:
and my blow has blotted out all the bitterness and shame. And thou didst
await it, so bravely: and yet, hadst thou known, it was not thy death
only, but mine, for which thou wert asking, thou wouldst have shrunk, it
may be, from the blow, which, as it was, thou wert only too joyful to
receive. And now very soon, I shall follow thee, by a second blow, far
easier to give; for to give thee thine was very hard; so hard, that it
hurt my heart a hundred times as much as thine. But in the meanwhile, we
will sit together in the moonlight, just for a very little while, and
talk, as of old. Only thou canst not tell me stories, and call me Bruin,
any more. Thou didst give thyself, alive, to others: but thou art mine,
now that thou art dead: and that is enough. And this is, as it were, my
marriage night. And think not that I bear thee any grudge, for the words
spoken at random in thy madness, or even for the blow; for that is
nothing, from such a little hand as thine. Come, let me see it, for
maybe it hurt itself more than it hurt me. Ha! dost thou remember the
very story that thou didst tell me thyself, about the sage? And now, who
knows better than myself, that a blow hurts the giver more than the
receiver? For no one ever hurt himself so much as I did, when I gave
thee thy blow. It was not to return blow for blow, that I gave it. Ah!
it is not thou, against whom I bear a grudge, for all thy words and thy
little irritable blow; but it is thy vile lover and his viler
instrument, who have ruined thee, and brought about thy death.
And then, all at once, he uttered an exclamation. And he stopped short,
and set her down upon the ground, and stood up. For suddenly, as if for
the very first time, the injury done to her by Atirupa and his follower
rose up, and took him as it were by the throat.
And as he stood thinking, all at once he began to tremble unawares, with
rage. And he exclaimed: Aha! Atirupa, I have remembered, and only just
in time: I am not dead yet. And he looked down at Aranyání, as she lay.
And he said: Aranyání, forgive me! Well didst thou call me fool. For I
came within an ace of following thee into the other world, leaving thee
unavenged. But now I see, that before I go, there is other work to do,
on thy behalf. And now, then, I will guarantee, that it shall be done,
very soon, and very well. Then, and not sooner, will I die, when I have
shown the murderers of Aranyání that she has left behind her arms a
little longer, and hands a little harder, than her own. Aha! Atirupa,
wait for a little while! And then shalt thou discover that the ghost of
Aranyání has abandoned her body, only to enter mine: just on purpose to
caress thee, for the very last time.
And he stooped down, and laid his great arm beside hers, as if to
compare them, and he laughed. And then, very gently, he lifted her, in
those strong arms, and began to carry her away, rejoicing in his
burden, like one that carries in his arms his newly-wedded wife. So he
went on in the moonlit wood, till he came at last to her home. And there
he carried her in, and laid her down very gently on a bed of leaves. And
then, with hesitation, he kissed her softly on the brow, whispering as
he did so: Thou didst bid me kiss thee, in thy madness, and now, it
cannot hurt thee: though I would have gladly given many lives to kiss
thee, for the first time and the last, before. But thy kisses were for
others.
And all at once, he began to sob, as if something in his soul, that had
till then supported it, had suddenly given way. And he began to wail,
wringing his hands, and tearing his hair, and crying, Aranyání,
Aranyání: throwing himself to and fro, and striding wildly up and down,
as if his heart, appalled by the blank horror of its own loneliness,
were struggling to escape. And then, after a while, as if exhausted, and
as it were overcome by the sense of the futility of his lamentation, he
ceased, as suddenly as he began, and remained for a long time standing
absolutely still, looking out through the open door into the wood, that
lay silent, as if on purpose to sympathise with the other dead silence
there within.
And at last, he turned. And he looked for a moment at Aranyání, and he
stooped, and took the knife, which all the while remained buried in her
breast, and drew it suddenly away, and turned, and went out, and
fastened very carefully the door.
And he stood awhile in the moonlight, looking at his knife. And then, he
put it, just as it was, back into the sheath: saying to himself: Her
heart's red blood shall dry upon the blade, till I mix it with his own.
VIII
But in the meanwhile Atirupa, away in his capital in the desert,
continued as before, having utterly forgotten Aranyání, and never
thinking of her even in a dream; busy, like a mad bee, only in making
onslaughts on other flowers, and leaving behind him those already rifled
of their honey, neglected and buried in oblivion, like the faded leaves
of a dead red lotus lying at the very bottom of a forest pool.
And then, by the decree of destiny, there came at last a day, when he
sat with some of his retainers, according to his custom, drinking wine
and passing time easily in his palace hall. And there came in, all at
once, a keeper of the gate. And she[40] said: Maháráj, there has come
to the door an old _sannyásí_, demanding admission to the presence, and
refusing to go away. And it may be, he is mad.[41] For he says he is a
deity, who wishes to renew his old acquaintance with another. And now,
the Mahárájá is the judge.
[Footnote 40: They appear to have been women, very often, in mediæval or
ancient India.]
[Footnote 41: And yet, not so much in India as in Europe. Even now,
incarnations of deity might be found all over India.]
And Atirupa laughed, and he said: If he is a deity indeed, why is he
waiting at a gate? And yet, who knows? For the deity presents himself in
many forms, and who knows how or when? But go thou and tell the holy man
to give thee some evidence, or token, of his divinity, and then we shall
see.
So, then, after a while, that _pratihárí_ came again. And she said:
Maháráj, thus said the _sannyásí_: Go and tell the Mahárájá, that I am
the God of Death, yet not just of any death, but only of his own. For
long ago, I burned his body, with fire from my eye; and now I am curious
to see, whether the new body he has got is, as I have heard, still
better than the old.[42]
[Footnote 42: The point of the flattery lies, of course, in the
insinuation that Atirupa was the God of Love.] And hearing this, Atirupa
was delighted, and he exclaimed: The evidence is good; and I recognise
the deity of this well-mannered Byrágí: for as it seems, he is a
connoisseur. So bring him in to see me. And he said to himself: It may
be he is an emissary from one of the neighbouring Kings,[43] covering
his policy with folly: or he may be the go-between of some assignation:
or even if he be nothing of the kind, what harm?
[Footnote 43: All these _sannyásís_, _byrágís_, _gosáwís_, were as a
rule wandering scoundrels who had, and have, much to do with politics.]
So then, after a little while, that _sannyásí_ entered, looking like a
very _shala_ tree in height. And he was smeared all over with ashes,
from his head to his feet, with absolutely nothing on, but a yellow rag
around his waist, and a rosary of _aksha_ beads around his neck, which
resembled that of a bull. And his face was almost hidden in the masses
of his grey and very dirty hair and beard, which were matted, and tied
in large knots, above and below. And his eyes, which were
extraordinarily bright, rested on Atirupa, as he entered, with an
expression which, like that of a wild animal, was half timidity and half
ferocity, mixed with keen examination: and he trembled a very little, as
he stood, as if with fear. And Atirupa gazed at him with curiosity and
wonder, and he exclaimed, as if in jest: O Maheshwara, there cannot be
a doubt of thy divinity: for surely, if thou wert not Maheshwara
himself, he might be jealous of thee, for thy height and thy ashes and
thy hair, and that third eye painted in the very middle of thy brow,
looking as if it were just about to open and consume me again.
Then that strange old _sannyásí_ laughed like a hyæna, and he said:
Maháráj, be not afraid any longer of my eye: for this time I shall
consume thee with flame of quite another kind, in the form of a kiss
that I have brought thee, from a beauty almost equal to thy own, with
eyes that resemble the gazelle, and lips that are redder than her own
heart's blood.