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  III

  THE DESERT AND THE NIGHT

  I

  So, then, night followed day, and day succeeded night, in order. And thenew moon waxed, and waned: and every day the sun rose up as usual, andtravelled slowly on, till he sank at eve, over the sand, beyond thewestern hill. And then at last, there came a day, when just as he wassinking, it happened that Babhru sat alone, watching him as he wentdown, at that very same place in the wood where he had parted last fromAranyani, the day she disappeared. And strange! short as had been theinterval of time, he was altered, and it seemed as though years hadrolled 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 eyesthat were red and hollow, as if sleep had fled away from them, ousted byher jealous rivals, sorrow and her sister care. And as he saw the sunjust on the very point of going down, he murmured to himself: He is butshowing 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 isthe use of this miserable body, deserted and forsaken by its soul, andleft lying empty, and utterly forgotten, and despised? not even knowingwhere to look, or where that soul is gone: this body, which long ago Iwould have quitted not only without regretting it, but even withdelight, could but I know for certain that Aranyani is actually dead,and unable to return: since but for the hope of that return, I shouldhave ceased to live these many days. Alas! I cannot even tell, whethershe is dead, or still alive. And yet it cannot be: she is not dead. Andyet, she is nowhere to be found: for I have searched the wood a hundredtimes from end to end, till there is not a single one of all its leavesI have not turned upside down, and all in vain. For she has vanishedlike 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 ofa red lotus, with nothing but the memory of those who saw it in themorning to show that it was ever there. She has gone, I know not how, Iknow not where; snatched away and stolen, and it may be even put todeath, or something that is worse than any death, by those who havecarried her away, I know not who. And O alas! that I ever left her. Ionly was to blame, that saw the evil coming, and shrank in terror fromits shadow, like a bird that sees upon the ground beside it the shadowof the hawk. I left her, and now, beyond a doubt, hope is absolutelyover, and I shall never see her more. And why then should I delay, orwait to see another sun? But what, if after all, she were not dead, butstill alive, and should return? Then, what a fool I should have been, todie! And yet, if she is dead? Alas! if she is dead, my life is but anidle 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 hisear 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, thatbegan to beat violently, as if catching at a straw of hope, in thewhirlpool of despair. And he said to himself: Why should horses becoming through the wood, at such an hour? And as he stood gazing, with asoul as it were on tiptoe, in the direction of the sound, a ridersuddenly issued from the trees, and came towards him, followed byothers like himself. And as they reached him, they stopped: and theirleader dismounted from his horse, and came towards him, holding it bythe 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 Ithought, who art the robber, after all.

  And Chamu laughed, and he said: O woodman, not so loud: for thou arthasty, and thou art uncivil, and thou art altogether wrong: though sofar 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 fromthe wood, but my master, King Atirupa. And thou art very rude, to calleven him a robber. For he did not steal thy beauty, but only borrowedher, for a little while, all with her own consent. And now he hasreturned her by my hands: and here she is.

  And he turned, and Babhru looked, and lo! they lifted Aranyani from ahorse, 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 notabuse, but gratitude, O woodman: for see, I have brought her back tothee, all across the sand, where many in my place would have left her inthe middle of the way, for it was a thankless task, and she was across-grained burden, that was very loath to come at all. So as thouseest, thou wert very wrong, to call even Atirupa robber: for here sheis again. And the women are silly creatures, who only have themselves toblame, since they flock to him, like flies to honey, all of their ownaccord. But this young beauty grew so peevish, when she found she wasonly one of a thousand others, that the Maharaja could not keep her anylonger. 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, andcome 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 ofschools. Thy eldest son will be a beauty, even if all the others are asugly as thyself. And if his mother calls him Atirupa, just as areminiscence, never mind: for when she has once stopped weeping, shewill love thee just as well as him.

  And as he spoke, Babhru stared at him with eyes that hardly saw him, andears that hardly heard him, and a soul that hardly understood, filled asit was to the very brim with such a flood of pity, and horror, andamazement, and yet delight at her return, no matter how, that there wasabsolutely no room at all for even a single drop of wrath. And while helooked from her to Chamu, and from Chamu back again to her, Chamu gotback 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 Aranyani. And as he watchedher, 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 hisheart. For she lay half crouching, half fallen on the ground, exactly asthey had set her down, never moving, and resembling a body that is allbut dead. And her face, that was turned towards him, looked absolutelystrange 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 asit were a very battle-ground for grief and age, and passion and shame,and humiliation, and weariness, and despair. And instead of her forestgarments, she was magnificently dressed, and yet her clothing wasill-arranged, and disordered, and very dusty; and her hair was alldishevelled, and floated loose about her head, as if to match andimitate 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, witha beauty that appalled him as he saw it, for she was utterly unlikeherself, as if her own soul had been suddenly changed into another,making its envelope into something other than it was, to suit thealteration. And gradually as Babhru watched her, his hair stood up uponhis body, as if with fright, and anticipation of something coming, thathe did not understand.

  So he stood silent, watching her, forgetful of himself, with a soul thatyearned 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 thesilence, gradually dread began to creep all over him, as he saw hercontinue, lying absolutely still, and yet every now and then breathing,very slowly and with difficulty, like one that is suffering an agony ofpain. And at last, after a long while, he moved a little nearer, and hesaid, with timidity and emotion: O Aranyani, 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 onlyam to blame; for well I understood, I was wrong to abandon thee, andleave thee as a prey. But at least, thou hast returned, and only justin time: for hadst thou stayed away another day, I could not haveendured. 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 thelast. And I sought thee in every quarter of the wood, b
ut thou wert notto 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 ismingled, I know not how, with an agony of grief. And yet, I blamemyself, selfish that I am, for being even able to rejoice at all, whilethou art suffering. Ah! only tell me what to do, to share thy grief, ortake it all upon myself.

  And as he spoke, he leaned towards her, and looked, and lo! a tearrolled suddenly from her eye, and fell upon the ground: but she neverstirred or spoke. And again he said, with difficulty and hesitation:Aranyani, dost thou think, dost thou really think, thou art guilty in myeyes, 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 thetraveller that sees it, plucks it, and wears it for a moment in hishair, 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, andall the more, that whereas now I ought to weep with thee, I am, on thecontrary, so transported with delight to see thee, returned to me nomatter how, that I am almost ready to abandon the body out of joy. Orart thou fearful, lest I should torture thee with curiosity, orquestion, or reproach of any kind? Ah! no, listen now, and I will tellthee. Thou shalt think, if thou wilt, of all that has occurred to theeas nothing but a dream, from which thou hast awoken. Only a dream, fromwhich thou hast awoken. And I, that never knew it, will forget it, asutterly and completely as thyself: and it is already buried in oblivion,and resembles a thing that has never come about, and had better not havebeen.

  And again he leaned towards her, as if he were a culprit that begged herto forgive him, and lo! he saw the tears rolling from her eyes in astream, as if something in his words were like a knife in her heart. Butstill she never spoke, and never stirred. And once again he said, as ifwith entreaty: Aranyani, thou canst not imagine, even in a dream, whathappiness 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. Andthere thou shalt sleep, absolutely undisturbed, for to-night, andto-morrow, and as long as thou shalt choose. And all the while, I willwatch without, and bring thee food, and do everything as thou wilt, atthy bidding; and above all, guard, and protect thee, from any freshattempt. Woe to the man who shall attempt to molest thee any more! Andso shalt thou live, exactly as thou wilt, with me for thy servant. Andvery soon, even the memory of that which now distresses thee will fadeout of thy soul. And there will be absolutely nobody to make thee feelashamed, 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 tome, 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 anddaughter: this is a stab in the dark from Jaya. And I know not what hemeant. But I think that his heart broke within him, for after a day ortwo, he died.

  III

  And then, like a flash of lightning, Aranyani started to her feet, witha scream that rang through the wood, making the heart of Babhru suddenlyleap into his throat. And she threw up her arms, with agony, and all atonce, she sprang from her place, and darted like an arrow from a bowtowards the hut. And then again, almost instantly, as he stood gazing ather in dismay, she turned sharp round, and began to run away in theopposite direction like a deer. And as if waking from a dream, he beganto 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, andlooked at him, as if in the extremity of fear. And all at once, shebegan to laugh, as if she was mad, with round eyes that were filled withamazement and derision. And she exclaimed: Ha! Babhru, is it thou? But Ileft thee behind me in the wood. Ha! thou also art deserted, andrejected, and despised. Come, then, and let us escape very rapidlytogether. And she seized him by the arm, and began to drag him violentlyalong. And she lowered her voice to a whisper, and began to speak, soquickly, that the words stumbled over one another as they rushed out ofher mouth. And she said: Poor Babhru, thou art so ugly, that she couldnot love thee in return, quite forgetting that she was herself so uglythat nobody could love her either. But he was so beautiful, sobeautiful, 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 otherwomen in the wood. Was it lonely, Babhru, in the wood, after she wentaway? Poor ugly Babhru, all alone in the wood, while we were kissingeach 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 lovedthee just a very little. Didst thou remember? But in the city, shefeared, she feared, to see thee suddenly appear. But very likely, thoudidst 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 timehe was kissing thy lotus and trampling on its heart, inside. And yet shewas his cousin, and the daughter of a king. Ha! Babhru, thou wertignorant, and didst not know. But there were so many other women, allalike. Couldst thou even have discovered her among them all? Her eyes,her eyes were different: her eyes were dreamy, and her kisses likesnowflakes. Surely it was better, after all, in the wood: there were noother women there. Didst thou imagine, Babhru, thou wert the only one tobe 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 hewas 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 sheexpect, to keep him all to herself? Is not the whole world full to thevery brim of women, with cruel eyes? O Babhru, why wert thou such a foolas to think one woman any better than another? Fool that she was, tothink 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 ismore beautiful than any woman. And he was so gentle and so kind, and hiskisses were so sweet. No, it was Babhru who was kind, and he was like asnake. Listen, and let me tell thee: kisses that are sweet are thebitterest 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 flowerthat is visited by a thousand bees. O Babhru, how canst thou knowanything about it, since thy lips have never kissed anyone at all? Kissme, poor Babhru, and thou shall learn by experience the poison of akiss, 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 sweptas it were along in a flood of grief, and humiliation, and compassion,and sheer amazement, and hardly understanding the words flowing from hermouth like the water of a stream, she stopped short, and laid her handupon his own. And he started at its touch, for it burned him like aflame, as if she was on fire. And she said with a smile, while the tearswere running down her face: Babhru, dost thou know, Aranyani was acreeper, supported by a noble tree? And yet somehow or other, the treehas disappeared. Who knows? for doubtless it was all eaten away within,and hollow, and as I think, the ants must have devoured it, leavingabsolutely nothing but emptiness, and earth, and dust. So beautiful itseemed outside, surely the poor creeper could not tell, how base, androtten, 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 beganto 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 nowshe is absolutely nothing, like a broken pot. And the golden boat hasperished, 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 intothe cold black water like a stone. Base and rotten, how could it swim,loaded with such an innumerab
le host of other women? Base, ah! who knowsbetter than Aranyani the agony of finding it was base. Was Aranyanibase, Babhru, dost thou know? And all the women hated each other, sheand all the others; Babhru, it was hell in the golden boat. And she wasworst of all, she wept, and wept, and wept, till at last they turned herout, and Chamu took her away. And then it was, I think, she died. Ithurt her so to go away, she must have died; and Chamu took her andcarried 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 ofChamu, for he is the very worst of all; worse even than the women. Shewas frightened of his laughter: it was worse, far worse, than all thelaughter of the women. They pushed her from their boat, and Chamu tookher. And she begged and begged and begged him only to leave her in thesand; for then she would have died, and never lived to see her fatherand Babhru any more. O Babhru, why didst thou not die also, before theybrought her back? Chamu, Chamu, did Atirupa give you Aranyani, to kissher dead body on the sand?

  And all at once, Babhru began to tremble like a leaf. And he exclaimed:Aranyani, Aranyani! And suddenly she fell down and began to kiss hisfeet. And then, he shuddered, and began to sob, as if a sword had runinto his heart: and the sweat broke out upon his brow. And he stoopeddown, and lifted her violently up, saying in a low voice that shook likehimself: Aranyani, thy reason has deserted thee. Come now, and I willtake thee home.

  And she said with a shriek: Nay nay, for the ghost of my father iswaiting there, to drive me away. Come away into the wood where it isdark. And she dragged him by the hand, and she whispered: Babhru, I havea thing to ask of thee. Wilt thou kill me with thy knife in thedarkness? for otherwise I must abandon the body of my own accord.

  And Babhru started, and he exclaimed, with horror: Aranyani, art thoumad? 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 hereyes an anguish that was mixed with disappointment and despair. And sheturned 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 herlike a prisoner in the dungeon of her lonely soul. Even Chamu would notkill her: though she prayed him. He only laughed. And yet she wasalready dead, slain long ago, and done away, leaving nothing but acorpse.

  And she stood for a moment, as if reflecting, and all at once, sheturned, and looked at Babhru, with a face that was wan in the moonlight,and eyes that were filled with anxiety, and misery and pain. Andsuddenly, they changed, becoming filled with laughter and hatred andderision. And she came up close to him, as if to whisper in his ear, andsuddenly she struck him in the face, with a shout of laughter. And shesaid, contemptuously: Thou wilt not kill me? Poor Babhru, thou hast noteven yet begun to understand. Dost thou remember Aranyani, that toldthee stories, long long ago, in the wood? She is dead. Far away in thedesert they took her heart, and tore it and trod it into pieces, andflung her body out, to wander in the world alone, dressed in the clothesof misery and shame. And this it is, thou wilt not kill. Thou wouldstactually keep her miserable body still alive, to live with in thetorture of this wood, where Aranyani lived long ago, to suffer everyinstant the horror of recollection, and to be mocked for ever by thememory of a happiness that is changed into despair. Like monkeys that goby among the trees, they found a fruit, and bit it, only to go on andleave it lying, deserted and outraged and dishonoured on the ground.Thou thinkest to find happiness in watching her dead body? Thou wilt notkill her, poor Babhru? Dost thou know what she will think of, livingbeside thee in the wood? Dost thou think, it will be thou? Alas, poorugly Babhru, it will be he. And every time she sees thee, she willcompare 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 wiltonly love what he rejected, and bite at the very place which the monkeysbit before thee when they threw the fruit away. The taste would be sobitter that thy love would turn to hatred in a day. She would loathe thevery sight of thee, and every time she looked at thee, her eyes wouldtell 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 despisesthee? 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 inthe jungle, unable even to procure its death, to ebb away its lifethrough burning days and black intolerable nights, eyed by the vulturessitting by. And thou wouldst be the vulture? Thou wilt only be a jackal,eating what the lion leaves. What! live beside her, knowing that anotheris buried in her heart. Wilt thou feed, like a dog, even on the bodiesof the dead? Poor Babhru, dost thou not understand. She cast thee offand left thee for a lover that she never will forget, and living like avampire in her body that is dead, he will utterly despise thee, laughingat thee in her eyes. Ah! Wilt thou actually wait to understand, till alittle 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 awayrose up and stood before him, as if they had lain waiting, and as itwere sleeping in his soul, till roused into recollection by her own. Andsuddenly, the veil, formed by his own devotion to Aranyani and his ownself-annihilation, that hid from him the truth, was lifted from hiseyes. 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, andhis master, and even of herself. And his heart swelled suddenly withsuch a flood of shame, and anger, and the bitterness of his owninferiority, that it almost broke in two. And his face fell: and hiseyes, that were fixed on Aranyani, grew darker and ever darker, as ifnight at a single stride had suddenly extinguished in his heart the hopethat had dawned in it at her return.

  So he stood a long while, sinking, as he looked at her, deeper anddeeper into the blackness of despair, and resembling one that waits indarkness for a light that still flickers to go out and disappear. Andsuddenly he said to himself: She is right. For fate in the form ofAtirupa has destroyed her and her happiness, and mine. And he lookedfixedly at Aranyani, who was standing watching him, and waiting, as itwere, for his decision: and he said: Aranyani, I was wrong, and thou artright. 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, andwaited, clutching it in his hand.

  And instantly, Aranyani uttered a cry of joy. And she came quickly andstood close to him, and she took hold with both hands of the _choli_that covered her, and tore it violently asunder, dragging it down, tillher breast was absolutely bare. And she said: See! I am ready. And soshe remained, waiting, with her bosom turned up towards him in themoonlight, bared, and as it were eager, for the coming blow.

  And he stood still for yet a moment, looking down upon her withmelancholy eyes, in which, strange! there was not a vestige even of theshadow 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 hehesitated, a tear rose up into his eyes, as if to bid farewell to hisown happiness. And he murmured to himself: They were for him and not forthee. And he passed his left hand over his eyes, as if to clear hissight, 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 henever tried to catch her, but stood a long while silent, exactly wherehe was, looking down upon her lying still. And then, he sat down uponthe ground beside her, and lifted her very gently, and set her on hislap, propping her head upon his shoulder: and he began to whisper in herear, patting her as he did so, and rocking her to and fro, like one thatsoothes a child. And he said: Now, then, thy trouble is all over, and Ihave given thee rest, for it was better to be dead. And thou wilt neverknow what it cost me, to give thee the blow. But now thou canst go tosleep, for thou art very weary: forgetting all, and not fearing anyr
ecollection in the morning: since thy sleep will be a long one, andthou wilt never wake again. And all the evil dreams have vanished withtheir author, never to return; and now once more Aranyani 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 didstawait it, so bravely: and yet, hadst thou known, it was not thy deathonly, but mine, for which thou wert asking, thou wouldst have shrunk, itmay be, from the blow, which, as it was, thou wert only too joyful toreceive. And now very soon, I shall follow thee, by a second blow, fareasier to give; for to give thee thine was very hard; so hard, that ithurt my heart a hundred times as much as thine. But in the meanwhile, wewill sit together in the moonlight, just for a very little while, andtalk, 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, mymarriage night. And think not that I bear thee any grudge, for the wordsspoken at random in thy madness, or even for the blow; for that isnothing, from such a little hand as thine. Come, let me see it, formaybe it hurt itself more than it hurt me. Ha! dost thou remember thevery story that thou didst tell me thyself, about the sage? And now, whoknows better than myself, that a blow hurts the giver more than thereceiver? For no one ever hurt himself so much as I did, when I gavethee 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 thylittle irritable blow; but it is thy vile lover and his vilerinstrument, 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 forthe very first time, the injury done to her by Atirupa and his followerrose up, and took him as it were by the throat.

  And as he stood thinking, all at once he began to tremble unawares, withrage. And he exclaimed: Aha! Atirupa, I have remembered, and only justin time: I am not dead yet. And he looked down at Aranyani, as she lay.And he said: Aranyani, forgive me! Well didst thou call me fool. For Icame within an ace of following thee into the other world, leaving theeunavenged. 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 haveshown the murderers of Aranyani that she has left behind her arms alittle longer, and hands a little harder, than her own. Aha! Atirupa,wait for a little while! And then shalt thou discover that the ghost ofAranyani has abandoned her body, only to enter mine: just on purpose tocaress thee, for the very last time.

  And he stooped down, and laid his great arm beside hers, as if tocompare them, and he laughed. And then, very gently, he lifted her, inthose strong arms, and began to carry her away, rejoicing in hisburden, like one that carries in his arms his newly-wedded wife. So hewent on in the moonlit wood, till he came at last to her home. And therehe carried her in, and laid her down very gently on a bed of leaves. Andthen, with hesitation, he kissed her softly on the brow, whispering ashe did so: Thou didst bid me kiss thee, in thy madness, and now, itcannot hurt thee: though I would have gladly given many lives to kissthee, for the first time and the last, before. But thy kisses were forothers.

  And all at once, he began to sob, as if something in his soul, that hadtill then supported it, had suddenly given way. And he began to wail,wringing his hands, and tearing his hair, and crying, Aranyani,Aranyani: 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, andas it were overcome by the sense of the futility of his lamentation, heceased, as suddenly as he began, and remained for a long time standingabsolutely still, looking out through the open door into the wood, thatlay silent, as if on purpose to sympathise with the other dead silencethere within.

  And at last, he turned. And he looked for a moment at Aranyani, and hestooped, and took the knife, which all the while remained buried in herbreast, and drew it suddenly away, and turned, and went out, andfastened very carefully the door.

  And he stood awhile in the moonlight, looking at his knife. And then, heput it, just as it was, back into the sheath: saying to himself: Herheart'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 Aranyani, and neverthinking of her even in a dream; busy, like a mad bee, only in makingonslaughts on other flowers, and leaving behind him those already rifledof their honey, neglected and buried in oblivion, like the faded leavesof 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 hesat with some of his retainers, according to his custom, drinking wineand passing time easily in his palace hall. And there came in, all atonce, a keeper of the gate. And she[40] said: Maharaj, there has cometo the door an old _sannyasi_, demanding admission to the presence, andrefusing to go away. And it may be, he is mad.[41] For he says he is adeity, who wishes to renew his old acquaintance with another. And now,the Maharaja is the judge.

  [Footnote 40: They appear to have been women, very often, in mediaeval orancient 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 hewaiting at a gate? And yet, who knows? For the deity presents himself inmany forms, and who knows how or when? But go thou and tell the holy manto give thee some evidence, or token, of his divinity, and then we shallsee.

  So, then, after a while, that _pratihari_ came again. And she said:Maharaj, thus said the _sannyasi_: Go and tell the Maharaja, that I amthe God of Death, yet not just of any death, but only of his own. Forlong ago, I burned his body, with fire from my eye; and now I am curiousto see, whether the new body he has got is, as I have heard, stillbetter than the old.[42]

  [Footnote 42: The point of the flattery lies, of course, in theinsinuation that Atirupa was the God of Love.] And hearing this, Atirupawas delighted, and he exclaimed: The evidence is good; and I recognisethe deity of this well-mannered Byragi: for as it seems, he is aconnoisseur. So bring him in to see me. And he said to himself: It maybe he is an emissary from one of the neighbouring Kings,[43] coveringhis 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 _sannyasis_, _byragis_, _gosawis_, were as arule wandering scoundrels who had, and have, much to do with politics.]

  So then, after a little while, that _sannyasi_ entered, looking like avery _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 ragaround his waist, and a rosary of _aksha_ beads around his neck, whichresembled that of a bull. And his face was almost hidden in the massesof his grey and very dirty hair and beard, which were matted, and tiedin large knots, above and below. And his eyes, which wereextraordinarily bright, rested on Atirupa, as he entered, with anexpression which, like that of a wild animal, was half timidity and halfferocity, mixed with keen examination: and he trembled a very little, ashe stood, as if with fear. And Atirupa gazed at him with curiosity andwonder, and he exclaimed, as if in jest: O Maheshwara, there cannot bea doubt of thy divinity: for surely, if thou wert not Maheshwarahimself, he might be jealous of thee, for thy height and thy ashes andthy 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 _sannyasi_ laughed like a hyaena, and he said:Maharaj, be not afraid any longer of my eye: for this time I shallconsume thee with flame of quite another kind, in the form of a kissthat I have brought thee, from a beauty almost equal to thy own, witheyes that resemble the gazelle, and lips that are redder
than her ownheart's blood.

  Then said Atirupa: _Sannyasi_, I know that a message carried by theewould be of a value proportioned to its bearer; and tell me quickly whatit is, for I am curious to learn.

  And the _sannyasi_ looked at him significantly, as it were with a winkof the eyes. And he said: O deity of Love, who knows better than thyselfthat a high caste lady, when she goes to an assignation, wraps herselfup, and fastens her bangles and her anklets, to prevent them even fromjingling? And there are words, and names, unfit to be heard, by anyother ears than thine. Were I to speak, among all these ears, thouwouldst be the very first to punish me for my indiscretion.

  Then Atirupa was filled with curiosity, and he said to himself; It is asI thought, and he is an emissary, and one, moreover, well suited to histask. And he turned, and exclaimed: Chamu, take every one away. Andthen, the _sannyasi_ looked attentively at Chamu, as they went. And hesaid, in a low voice, to Atirupa: Maharaj, for I have heard of Chamu,that he is thy _widushaka_,[44] let him be at hand: for with thypermission, he and I will settle all the details of this negotiation, assoon as it has received thy own approval.

  [Footnote 44: As we should say: Pere Joseph, or _ame-damnee_.]

  And Atirupa said: Chamu, be ready, when I call. And when they were allgone, he exclaimed with impatience: Now then, O _sannyasi_, to thybusiness, without any more delay. Who is thy employer? And the_sannyasi_ said: Aranyani: and if thou hast forgotten her, she has notforgotten thee. But having abandoned her own body, she has entered mine,to give thee, as I said, the kiss of death.

  And then, as Atirupa stared at him with amazement; that _sannyasi_leaped upon him, with a yell, and seized him, and threw him suddenly onhis back. And he knelt on his throat, like a very mountain, and takingfrom his waist a knife, he plunged it, with blows like those of acarpenter that hammers in a nail, over and over again into his heart.

  And then, as the retainers came running in, summoned as though onpurpose, by his own yell, with Chamu at their head, he started to hisfeet. And as they looked towards him, lo! that _sannyasi_ began tolaugh. And he put up suddenly his hands, and seized, with one, his hair,and with the other, his beard, and tore them from his head.

  And as Chamu stopped short, gazing at him with stupor and recognition,he stood for a single instant absolutely still, as if to let him see.And then, he leaned suddenly towards him, and he lifted his finger andhe whispered very low: Hark! Dost thou not hear Aranyani calling, out ofthe other world? So now, then, we will go together, to seek her, alongthe great road. And he threw himself suddenly on Chamu, and took him bythe throat, with huge hands whose fingers resembled the roots of a_wata_ tree.

  And as he felt the throat of that ill-doer in his hands, there came overhim like a flood madness, that resembled the intoxication compounded ofdelight, and fury, and despair, as if his life-long devotion toAranyani, and his wrath at her ruin and his own, had waited till thatvery moment to mingle with the rapture of revenge, and filling his soulwith the ecstasy of the strength of a giant, had then becomeconcentrated to pass into his hands. And as he squeezed, he muttered,not knowing what he said: Laugh, weasel, laugh now at Aranyani. And inthe meantime all the others, to whom he paid no more attention than asif they were not there, seeing absolutely nothing before him but theeyes of Chamu that were starting from his head, fell upon him alltogether in a body, like a swarm of bees, and stung him, as it were, todeath, exactly as they chose, cutting him to pieces with swords andknives. But for all that they did, they could not loose his hands, whichremained just as they were, locked like an iron ring around the throatto which they clung, as if his will still animated them, even after hewas dead.

  So it came about, just as he predicted; and those two very bitterenemies went together, and as it were, hand-in-hand, into the otherworld. And Chamu, with his master Atirupa, went into other bodies. Butthe soul of Babhru entered, for his crime, into that body of a camellying yonder, which perished, as I told thee to begin with, in thedesert long ago.

  * * * * *

  And then, the Moony-crested stopped. And after a while, the Daughter ofthe Snow said softly: Alas! for these unhappy mortal women, who sufferat the hands of evil-minded lovers, such intolerable wrong, and woe. Andyet, as I think, poor Babhru deserved rather to be forgiven altogether,or even to be actually rewarded, rather than punished by the body of acamel, for treating those two ill-doers even better than they merited,for such outrageous crime.

  Then said Maheshwara, looking at her with affection: O Daughter of theSnow, thou resemblest every other woman, judging by thy own pity andcompassion, and the emotion aroused in thy soul by the particularmisfortune of a solitary case, not taking into any consideration theconstitution of the world. And this is a merit and a beauty in thee, andyet it is altogether wrong. For Babhru suffered as a consequence of actscommitted in a former birth, the circumstances of which thou dost notknow. And moreover, even so, he was culpable and presumptuous, in takingon himself a vengeance to which even Aranyani did not urge him, notknowing that punishment far more terrible than his was waiting for thosecriminals, without his interference. And he should have left Aranyani'svindication to the deity, who knew what was necessary far better thanhimself, and had his eye upon it all. For there is no retribution sojust, or so sure, or so adequate, or awful, as that which evil-doers layupon themselves, in the form of their own ill-deeds, which dog them likea shadow clinging to their heels, from body to body, through birth afterbirth, till the very last atom of guilt has passed through the furnaceof expiation, and the very last item of their debt to everlasting Yamahas been weighed in his scales, and struck from the account, and utterlyredeemed.

  * * * * *

  And then, that Lord of the Moony Tire took his darling in his arms, andset her on his lap: and they rose up and floated away together like acloud to their home on the snowy peak. But the bones of that camelremained alone, lying still in the sand, till the moon got up and gazedat them with wonder, looking down from the sky, as if mistaking them fora reflection of himself, looking back at him with white and silentlaughter from the blackness of the earth, and saying as it were: By thehelp of thy beams, I am whiter than thyself. And the night-wind rushedover them, scattering over them oblivion, in the form of a cloud of itsplaything, the ocean of the sand, and danced round and fled away with awail into the desert, with a music that resembled the moan of the worldfor the victims of the waste.

  _Printed by_MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED_Edinburgh_

  The Stories of F. W. Bain

  The history of these fascinating little books, which, to a few readers,have always meant so much, and which are every day becoming betterknown, is not the least curious in modern literature. On the appearanceof "A Digit of the Moon" in 1899, the author's mystifying attributionsto a Sanscrit original, and the skill with which he kept up the illusionof translation, completely took in even the best scholars, and this workwas added to the Oriental Department of the British Museum Library.Later, however, the discovery was made that Mr. Bain, working with amind saturated in Hindoo Mysticism and lore and Sanscrit poetry, waswholly its author, and it is now catalogued in the ordinary way.

  To describe the charm and appeal of the stories themselves would be ahard task. They are almost indescribable. There is nothing in Englishliterature at once so tender, so passionate, so melancholy, and so wise.The fatalism of the East, and the wistful dubiety of the West, meet inthese beautiful allegories of life, which it is possible to compare onlywith themselves.

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  The Stories of F. W. Bain

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  Bubbles of the FoamThe Ashes of a GodA Digit of the MoonThe Descent of the SunAn Incarnation of the SnowA Mine of Faults

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  A Heifer of the DawnIn the Great God's HairA Draught of the BlueAn Essence of the Dusk

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