Chapter II: Part 2

And then strange! just at the very moment when she turned from a child into a woman, there came over her a change, that resembled the presence of a single overhanging cloud in the ruby crystal of a clear pale dawn. For though her father told her something of her story and his own, yet he never told her all, whetting all the more her curiosity by what he did not tell, which like a hidden secret she strove to discover for herself by means of the careless hints that fell every now and then from his mouth unawares, like clues. And the thought that she was the daughter of a King flitted in her mind, and appeared to disappear continually, coming and going, as often as she sat musing in the twilight, like the bats in the shadows of the surrounding dusk. And she mixed this conviction with the rosy hope of the dawn of her own maidenhood, and with visions which she would blush like that dawn to avow even to herself, and with fictions of her own imagination that was filled with old legends and stories, and she brooded over a future that was suggested by the past till it turned into a dream, half pleasant and half melancholy for want of its unlikelihood, that haunted her, and never left her, resembling the colour of the blue shadow that hovers on the pure snow of thy father's[27] western slopes, just before the coming of the early sun. For though she was unaware of it herself, she was plunged in the loneliness of sex, arising from the dim yearning of her as yet untouched affection, and longing for the thing that every maiden waits for, like the night, in the form of a lover, to burst out suddenly into red emotion and an ecstasy of joy. And sometimes, as she sat alone dreaming, and gazing as she loved to do out into the desert, that stretched away below the hill she lived on towards the setting sun, visions of the kings and princes and lovers of her stories assembling in crowds at her own _Swayamwara_,[28] floated with indistinct and unimaginable beauty in the blue haze of the sand, with an intoxicating fascination that almost took away her breath, till she was amazed and even frightened to find her own heart furiously beating, and shaking into agitation the wave of that bosom which there was nobody to see, as if it was ashamed of her and angry with itself.

[Footnote 27: Sc. the Himálaya.]

[Footnote 28: The old epics are full of stories of these gatherings, held to enable the daughters of Kings to choose their own husbands. The story of the marriage in Herodotus, about which Hippocleides did not care, is one of the few parallels in the west.]

And yet, with the exception of her father, she had never seen any man but one, who entered into her forest life merely like one of its trees, for she had been accustomed to see him, every now and then, ever since she was a child. And this was a young woodman, who lived a long way off in the wood. And he used to go hunting with her father, who had found him in the forest: and he came every now and then to see them, since her father was pleased with him, for his good nature and simplicity, resembling as it did the clearness of a stream. And he was as tall as a _shala_ tree, and very strong, and very brown and hairy, and though his name was Babhru,[29] yet her father always called him Bruin,[30] and Aranyání knew him first only by the nickname: for when she was a child, he used to play with her, as often as he came. And so as she grew up, she looked upon him always with the eyes of a child, never even dreaming that her own alteration might produce any alteration in himself: as it did. For little by little, as her beauty grew, so did his affection; till at last it turned into a passionate devotion, that remained notwithstanding absolutely pure, and free from any taint of evil, like the soil in which it grew. And finally, he could not keep away from her. And he came oftener and oftener to see them, till her father was on the very point of forbidding him to come. And then, suddenly, Babhru asked him, to give Aranyání to him as a wife.

[Footnote 29: Tawny: reddish brown. Pronounce Bub-bhroo.]

[Footnote 30: _Achcha_, a corruption of _Riksha_, just as we say "Bruin" instead of "Bear."]

And Bimba looked at him, as if struck by the very thunderbolt of astonishment, for though he was fond of Babhru, yet the idea of such a son-in-law was so outrageous that it had never even occurred to him at all. And like a flash of lightning, he suddenly became aware of his daughter's own attraction, and the danger of the proximity of butter to the fire. And though utterly despising Babhru for a son-in-law, he could not tell him why. Therefore he banished him altogether, and not only would not give him Aranyání, but actually forbad him to see her any more: as it were returning upon Babhru the thunderbolt that had fallen on himself: so that that unhappy son-in-law came within a little of abandoning the body, for grief and amazement, and remorse, at ever having asked a question that had produced so terrible a consequence, the very opposite of that at which it aimed. For even to forsake the society of Bimba was a grief to him, since he loved him and looked up to him as a dog does to his master. But the thought of losing that of Aranyání was exactly like a sword driven through the very middle of his heart. And leaving it behind him, as it were, together with his reason that abandoned him, he went away hanging down his head, alone.

But unable to endure separation, yet unwilling to disobey Bimba, he used to come stealthily and lie lurking in the bushes, watching, to catch sight of Aranyání. And sometimes, seizing his opportunity, when he knew that her father was away, he would creep out, trembling like a coward, and speak to her. And Aranyání, displeased at him for coming to see her without her father's knowledge or permission, and not reciprocating his passion in the least, yet partly out of pity, and partly out of kindness arising from recollection of his playing with her in the past, and it may be, partly just a very little pleased with his honest admiration, and willing to waste a little of her time in teasing him, for want of a better lover, would sometimes talk to him a little, and laugh at him and tell him stories, and send him away more utterly infatuated, and more happy, and more miserable than ever, after making him promise never to come again. And every time he promised, and went away only to return again immediately, simply because he could not help it: dreading her reproof every time he dared to come, yet ready for all that to risk his life a hundred times over, only to bask once more in the nectar of the sunshine of that reproof. For the words of the straw, promising not to answer to the call of the amber that attracts it, are void of meaning, and perish in the very moment of their utterance, like pictures drawn on the surface of a running stream.

II

So, then, there came a day, when Bimba went away to hunt in the forest, leaving Aranyání alone at home. And on that morning, she was sitting by herself in her customary seat, on the trunk of a fallen tree, gazing, with her chin resting on her hand, away over the desert, that lay before her like an incarnation of the colour of vague youth-longing, ending in a blue dream. And wholly intent on her own thoughts, she remained sitting absolutely still, totally unconscious of all around her, as if her soul, in imitation of what it gazed at, had become the exact mirror of the silent desert's inarticulate and incommunicable dream. And yet, from time to time, a smile stole into her lips of its own accord, as if betraying against her will some sweet and secret hoard of delicious joy within, that she strove in vain to hide. And every now and then her eyes grew a little brighter, and there came a flush over her face, and a little tremor ran as it were all over her, like the ripple that comes and goes upon the bosom of a lake, stirred by a play of wind.

So as she sat, it happened, that Babhru came slowly through the wood, looking for her, and knowing her customary haunts. And suddenly catching sight of her sitting, he hesitated for a moment, and then came quietly and stood behind her, a little way off: half-pleased that she did not see him, and a little bit afraid of the moment when she should. And there he remained silent, yet with a heart beating so violently that it shook him till he trembled, gazing with ecstasy and adoration at the outline of her throat and her chin, and the corner of her lips, which he could only just see, round the curve of her cheek. And after a little while, longing to see more of those lips, he leaned eagerly forward, and put out one foot without looking where it fell; and stepping on a dry twig, it broke with a snap.

And at the sound, instantly she started up, and looked round, as if in terror. And strange! when she saw him, there came into her face surprise and displeasure, that were mingled with relief, and even disappointment, as if she had expected, and hoped, and yet even feared, to see someone else. And while she gazed silently at him in confusion, Babhru said sadly: Aranyání, of what or of whom didst thou think, so intently, as to be unaware of my approach? For thy lips seemed to me to be smiling, as if with anticipation, and very sure I am that it was not at the thought of me or my coming that they smiled.

And Aranyání blushed, and instantly frowned, at her own involuntary blush. And she said, as if haughtily: O Babhru, what are my thoughts to thee? And are they thy servants? And what right hast thou to be jealous of my thoughts, who hast not even the title or permission to be here at all? Didst thou not promise not to come again? and yet here thou art for all that, watching to surprise my very thoughts, while all the while I do not think of thee at all. Yet even so, here there is certainly no rival to thyself. And Babhru said bitterly: Rivals could not make the matter worse, since by thy own confession thou dost not think of me at all. Even without rivals, I am utterly rejected and despised, by thee and by thy father. Then she said kindly: Nay, Babhru, not by me. Thou art for me, just what thou always wert, before. And Babhru said: Alas! that is my very grief. For I would have thee not the same, but something more. Then said Aranyání: What more, O Babhru? And he looked at her sadly, and said: Dear Aranyání, couldst thou not love me just a very little? And she laughed, and said: Poor Bruin, do I then not love thee very well? And Babhru said with emphasis: Love! Thou dost not so much as understand the meaning of the word.

And she looked at him for a moment, with eyes whose expression he could not comprehend, and she drew a deep breath, and turned away. And she said lightly: Do I not? then thou shalt tell me all about it: for I will allow thee to stay with me, for a very little while, just to show thee, that I love thee a very little. Sit down, then, beside me, and look not so melancholy, or I shall begin to think, to love is to be wretched: whereas I had imagined, in my innocence, the very contrary. And Babhru said: Thou art utterly deceived: for love is misery. And she laughed, and exclaimed: Why, then, I am better as I am, without it. What! wouldst thou have me miserable? And he said: Well can I tell thee from experience, that every lover must be miserable, when, like myself, he cannot gain his object. And now I could almost wish evil to thy father, since he it is who stands, like a cloud, between me and the moon of my desire. And she said: What is this much-desired moon? And he said: Thou knowest very well, it is thyself: and I long to have thee for my wife, and live with thee alone, for ever and ever, in the wood.

Then said Aranyání: O Bruin, it may be, the attainment of thy desire might sorely disappoint thy expectation, after all: since many times, those who have risen to the very summit of the mountain of their hopes have found themselves miserably deceived, and fallen suddenly to the very bottom of despair with a crash, like Chandana. And Babhru said: Who was Chandana? And he said within himself: Let her tell me about Chandana or anybody else, so only that I can cheat her into allowing me to sit here, and watch her lips moving, and look into her eyes.

And Aranyání said: Babhru, thou art so simple, and thy soul is like crystal, so that I can see into thy secret thoughts without needing to be enlightened by thy voice. Didst thou not say to thyself: I care absolutely nothing for Chandana, so only that I may listen while she talks? And Babhru hung his head, with a blush. And Aranyání clapped her hands in triumph, and exclaimed: See! O Bruin, thou art guilty. Yet despair not, for thou shalt hear all about Chandana, just the same. Know, that long ago, there was a King, who had innumerable wives, and fifty sons, of whom this very Chandana was one. Now all these sons lived in anxiety, saying to themselves: Which of us all will be the heir to the throne, and succeed our father when he dies? So they remained, rivals, and each had his eyes fixed upon the others, fearing to be supplanted. So Chandana's case was worse than thine, O Bruin, since thou art without a rival. And then, after a while, that old King, out of all his fifty sons, chose this very Chandana for his heir; and appointed him _yuwarájá_,[31] with all the proper ceremonies. So when they were completed, that overjoyed _yuwarájá_ ran, fresh from the installation, to the _awarodha_,[32] to tell his mother of his triumph, and increase it by her praises. But he found her, to his amazement, all in tears, and as dismal as if he had come only to tell her of his death. So he said: Mother, what is the reason of such misery, on such a day of exultation? Should the gloom continue, while the sun is rising? But his mother looked sourly at him, and she said: Fool! thy rising sun is setting: thou art out, in thy quarters, and mistakest west for east: and soon enough, it will be night for thee. And Chandana said: I do not understand thee. Then said his mother: The King thy father discovered, long ago, the elixir of life: and even now he has been living for fifteen hundred years. And this is a jest that he plays, now and then, for his own amusement, making one of his innumerable sons his heir. For all his heirs die before him, as thou wilt also, never even reaching so much as the very first step of that throne that lures them on and hangs always just before them, like a bundle of _hariali_ grass held by a crafty rider on a stick before the nose of the deluded beast of burden that carries him along. Thine is only the phantom of a sun that will presently go down and disappear, leaving the true sun, thy father, still in the very blaze of noon.

[Footnote 31: _i.e._ "little king," Prince of Wales or Dauphin. The story is a piece of old folklore, and one version may be found in Somadewa.]

[Footnote 32: The women's apartments, or _gynæceum_.]

So as he listened, the face of that unhappy Chandana fell. And he went away, and sank, just as his mother told him, into the night of melancholy; and abandoning his royal condition, he became a pilgrim, and died after many years at a very holy bathing-place, at last. But his father went on reigning, making his sons, one after another, _yuwarájá_, exactly as before.

III

So, then, when Aranyání ended, Babhru said with a smile: Aranyání, thy story is foolish, and altogether wide of the mark, and it brings me consolation rather than reproof. For very certainly thy father is not a King, and has not an elixir, and will not live for ever. And when he dies, thou wilt no longer be able to escape me, for we shall be alone together in the wood.

Then said Aranyání: Babhru, thy confidence is very positive; and yet, who knows? Who knows what may happen in the future? Count not, O Bruin, with such ignorant presumption on finding me for ever at thy mercy in the wood: even after the disaster, which ought not to have occurred to thee, even in a dream. And even if my father be, as thou sayest, not a King, I say, who knows? And all at once, she turned half round, facing him directly as he sat beside her, with malice and provocation in her eyes. And she said: Babhru, how if a King's son were suddenly to come into the wood, and carry me away, as many stories tell of others? Did not Dushmanta discover Shakuntalá, in exactly such a wood? But thou wilt say, she was more beautiful than I. And Babhru said gloomily: I will say nothing of the kind: for thou art far more beautiful than Shakuntalá or anybody else. Then said Aranyání: Thou seest. So nothing is wanted to make my case tally with her own, save only the King's son. And is not the world full to the very brim, of Kings and their sons? And Babhru exclaimed with a groan: Alas! Aranyání, thou art wounding my very heart, and this is the very thing of which I am afraid. For thy only preservation is, that this is a wood, into which nobody ever comes. And all day long I tremble, lest in very truth some stranger should come into the wood and see thee, and spread abroad the news of thy existence, like the wind which carries everywhere the scent of a lotus, till at length the bees come to plunder it of the honey it contains. Then, indeed, all would be over, for thee as for me.

And Aranyání said, with mischief: O Bruin, what then? Wilt thou deny his flower to the bee, and is not the true and proper place of every flower either the wilderness, its origin, or the head of a King, its destiny and end?

And once again, Babhru uttered a groan, and he exclaimed: Aranyání, thy words are torture, and nothing whatever but the echo of my own fears. But this much I will tell thee, on my own part: that the King who shall come to carry thee away will do well to beware. For if I know it, and find him in the wood, he will never leave it, either with thee or without. And he looked away, with ferocity in his eyes and in his teeth, not perceiving that Aranyání turned paler as he spoke. And presently she said, in a low voice: Surely this love must be an evil thing, if these are its results. And now for the very first time, I see, that thou art well named, O Bruin, and in very truth, a bear. What! wouldst thou actually slay the poor King's son who had never done thee any harm, simply for seeking me? And Babhru said sternly: What harm could he do me greater than robbing me of thee? But let him only come, and see!

And Aranyání said slowly: O thou rude, and fierce, and love-bewildered Babhru, dost thou not know, that only he is virtuous, who is so far from revenging an injury that he returns it, on the contrary, by a benefit, as Bhrigu did: whose story would be a lesson to thee, of which thou standest in sore need. And Babhru said: I care not a straw, either for Bhrigu or anybody else: and if, in this matter, he could be of any other opinion than my own, I tell thee beforehand, that thy Bhrigu is a fool.

And Aranyání laid her hand upon his arm, and said very gently: On the contrary, he was a sage: sit still, and listen, while I tell thee all about him. Long ago there arose among the sages a dispute, as to which was the greatest of the gods. And some said, the Grandfather, and others, the Moony-crested, and others, the husband of Shrí.[33] And finding that they could not agree, for all their disputing, they came to the conclusion, to settle the matter by experiment. And they chose from among them Bhrigu, and sent him away, to put the gods to the test. So Bhrigu went accordingly, and after a while, he fell in with Brahma. And drawing near that four-faced god, he neither saluted him, nor performed a _pradakshina_,[34] but went up without ceremony and accosted him, with rude familiarity. Thereupon Brahma, in great wrath at his insolence, and on the very point of cursing that deliberately ill-mannered sage, was nevertheless appeased by him, by means of excuses and apologies. And so, leaving him appeased, Bhrigu proceeded further on, and coming to Kailás, enquired for Maheshwara. But the Moony-crested god, informed of his arrival, sent him out a message, bidding him go away again, and saying: I have no leisure, since I am at this very moment busy playing with my other half, the Daughter of the Snow. And going away accordingly, Bhrigu came upon the Lord Wishnu, lying fast asleep. And instantly he awoke him, by giving him a kick upon the breast, so hard, that he injured his own foot. Then that husband of Shrí, rising up politely, said to him with concern and compassion in his voice: O Bhrigu, surely thou hast hurt thy own foot: for the kick was very severe. And as a rule, a blow hurts the giver more than the receiver. And sitting down beside him, that compassionate deity took the foot upon his lap, and began very gently to shampoo it, continuing till all the pain was gone. Then said Bhrigu: What god is greater than this god? For who but a god, and the very highest, would requite an unprovoked assault by tenderness, and pity, and oblivion of his own wrong? Surely this is the badge of Deity in its very essence, that, like sky-crystal, is pure, and absolutely transparent, and utterly without a flaw[35]?

[Footnote 33: _i.e._ Brahma, Shiwa, and Wishnu respectively.]

[Footnote 34: By moving round him, keeping him on the right: an established form of adoration.]

[Footnote 35: This curious and very beautiful legend may be found in the Puránas.]

IV

And Babhru listened in silence, and when she ended, he said slowly: Aranyání, dost thou then imagine, that the deity, so tolerant of injury to himself, would have been equally long-suffering and indifferent, had Bhrigu or any other, fool or sage, attempted to rob him of Shrí, and deprive him of his wife?

And Aranyání laughed and said: But I am not thy wife, O Babhru, yet. Thou art anticipating. And Babhru said: Alas! no. But at least, if thou art not yet my wife, thou art not any other man's: nor, if I can prevent it, shalt ever be. And she said: Babhru, thou art utterly intolerable, and a tyrant: and at this rate, I shall without a doubt die unmarried, if all the sons of Kings who may come to seek me in the wood are to be slain by thee. And much I fear, that the wood will come to rival even Kurukshetra,[36] with all its heroes lying dead in heaps, except thyself.

[Footnote 36: The scene of the great battle in the Mahábhárata, where all the heroes killed each other.]

And Babhru said without a smile: Aranyání, thou art laughing at a thing which, for all that, is very solemn, and very simple: for very sure it is, that whoever would deprive me of thyself must either slay me first, or die himself. And she said: Poor Bruin, this alone is very sure, that love must be a very demon, since he has filled thee with such a raging thirst for the slaughter of the sons of Kings. But come now, I will tell thee a better way: and that is, to kill me: for so wilt thou effectually circumvent and cheat all these love-sick and imaginary Kings, at a single blow: if, as it seems, I am to be a cause of strife and bloodshed, as long as I am alive.

And he looked at her fixedly, and said: Jest not with my devotion, for it may be, thou art nearer the truth than thou imaginest. Will any King whatever love thee half as well as I do? Yet thou wilt not love me, and as I think, it is because I am not on the level of thy thoughts, and not a King.[37] Then she laughed, and exclaimed: Alas! poor Bruin, thou art mad: for all these Kings are only dreams, yet art thou as savage as if they were actually before thee in a row. And he said: Aye! only dreams: and yet the dreams are earnest, and are thine. Kings are the very matter of thy dreams. Is not this the subject of thy reveries as thou gazest at the sand? Ha! am I right? Dost thou never long for some King's son to come and fill thy life with joy, and deliver thee from the monotony of this wood, and thy father, and myself? Am I not below thee, in thy estimation? Then for what canst thou long, but for thy peer?

[Footnote 37: It should be remembered by the English reader that "sons of Kings" are more numerous, in India, than in the West. All Rajpoots are sons of Kings: and Aranyání herself a Rajpootni. To marry a King's son would be for her, not merely a desire, but a duty: an affair of caste. All this flavour evaporates in a translation.]

And he looked keenly at Aranyání, and as her eyes met his, she wavered, a very little, and looked away, and said: Alas! poor Babhru, thy love is jealousy, which makes thee so sharp-sighted, that thou seest things that are not there. So trouble not thy foolish head about anything so slight and insignificant as the subject of my dreams, otherwise thou wilt place thyself on the level of the zanies of Chincholi. And he said: Thou speakest the very truth: I am the very type of a fool, striving to reach what is above him and beyond his reach, even when he stands on tiptoe: and that is, the level of thy thoughts. And Aranyání said: See now, I said well, thou art the very fellow of the sages of Chincholi: a city, into which on a day there came a certain sanctimonious ascetic, called Pinga, from the colour of his hair. And arriving at the square before the palace of the King, he sat down in its middle, and spreading out his left hand open before him, he looked intently at its palm. And so he continued, wrapt in the contemplation of his hand, paying absolutely no regard to anything around him, till night. And this he did every day, all day long, till at length he became the very target of the curiosity of the people of the town, who crowded round him in a throng, disputing as to the meaning of his singular behaviour, and all maintaining opposite opinions. And one said: This ascetic is undoubtedly pondering on the Panchatantra.[38] And another: Beyond a doubt, the holy man is meditating on Death. And yet another: Is not this an ascetic? And of what should he meditate but the five fires? But a pundit passing by, said: His meditation can be of nothing but the syllogism and its members. Thereupon another said: Is it not the left hand?[39] Then his thoughts are of the Shakti. And a wag among them said: Aye! For of what do all these holy men perpetually think, but of the five arrows of the God of Love? And a Brahman said: Thou art altogether out in thy conjecture, for he meditates on nothing but the sheaths of the soul. And a Gáwali shouted: The sage is considering devoutly the parts of the cow. For what is holier than a cow? And there arose such an uproar in the city that the citizens all came to blows, dividing into factions, around him, while all the time he sat peacefully just as if nobody was there, gazing at his hand. And finally the King sent officers to say to him: Depart quickly from the city, for thy presence is a cause of sedition. Thereupon Pinga said: Interrupt my meditation, and I will curse the city, so as to deprive it of both sun and rain. So fearing his curse, the King had recourse to diplomacy. And he sent his _purohita_ at night, who secretly induced that obstinate ascetic to go away, of his own accord, by giving him a _lakh_. And as he slowly went out of the city, his _chela_ said to him aside: Master, what _was_ the subject of thy meditation: for I am curious to know? Then that crafty ascetic suddenly laughed like a hyæna. And he said: I meditated about absolutely nothing but my own hand. And now, this is a lesson to thee. For such is the nature of fools, who comprehend least of all what is absolutely simple, and see last of all what is lying before their nose. And whoever knows this possesses treasure inexhaustible, and is master of the world.

[Footnote 38: The point of these interpretations depends on the number five, which enters into all of them.]

[Footnote 39: There is a play here on _wámá_, which means the _left hand_ and _a beautiful woman_.]

V

And Babhru watched her intently, as she spoke, and when she ended, he said suddenly and abruptly: Aranyání, thou art deceiving me. And she said: How, O Babhru? And he said: Thou art this morning totally unlike thyself: for thy customary melancholy is absent, and thou art strange, and elated, and agitated, and as it seems to me, thou art telling me idle stories, like one that listens all the while to something else, as it were in a hurry merely to throw me off the scent, and hide from me a secret, and amuse me like a child. And somehow or other, I feel as if there were a wall between us, this morning, which was never there before. Aye! I am sure, I know not how, thou art playing as it were a part, to cast a mist before my eyes, and hide from me some agitation in thy soul.

And Aranyání laughed, and blushed, and frowned, and finally she said: Babhru, thy love is a disease, which fills thy head with nightmare, and thy eyes with phantoms born of suspicion in thy soul. And he said: Alas! thy own behaviour gives the lie to thee. Thou art not like thyself, and I am right. And now, then, I will tell thee, in return for thy stories, one myself; but unlike them, mine shall be very sad, and very true.

And Aranyání turned, and looked at him with anxiety in her eyes: and she said: O Babhru, a story, and from thee! what is it? And he said: Dost thou remember, a little while ago, when we wandered, the last time I saw thee, in the wood? And she said: Yes. Then he said: Dost thou recollect, how all at once I stopped thee, and turned back with thee, and left thee so abruptly? And shall I tell thee, why? And Aranyání gazed at him, turning a little paler, without speaking. Then he said: Know, that as we went, I looked, and suddenly I saw before me in the bushes, what was unseen by thee, the face of a man. And as I saw it, I shuddered, for his eyes were fixed on thee, with astonishment, and evil admiration. And instantly I turned, and took thee home, and left thee, and hurried back to find him: but he was gone. I hunted everywhere, but he was gone. And ever since, I cannot even sleep, for thinking of this man, and of his eyes, which haunt me, as they gloated on thee, like a terror, bidding me beware, and saying as it were: Ha! Ha! thy treasure is discovered. And I resemble one, whose buried hoard of gold has been seen by other eyes; and hardly do I dare to be away from thee, not as before, merely for love of thee, but for fear, lest, on returning, I should find my treasure gone.

And all at once, he burst into a sob; and he rose, and took a step or two away from her. And Aranyání rose also, and she said with agitation: O Babhru, what was he like, this man? Was he tall and powerful, like thee? And Babhru said: Nay, he was a little ugly man, with weasel eyes. And Aranyání laughed, as if with relief. And she exclaimed: O Babhru, what is this? Is this a man of whom to be afraid? What! shall I fall a victim to this little man with weasel eyes, who hides in bushes? Be under no concern, for so much I will tell thee, that not even a hundred such pigmies shall ever carry me away.

And Babhru said sadly: Alas! Aranyání, thou dost not understand: and like the flower in thy hair, thou art utterly ignorant of thy own attraction. And exactly such a man as this, whom thou despisest, is the most dangerous of all. Dost thou think, if once through his agency the world should suddenly become aware of what this wood contains, it would long remain unvisited by others? It was not the face of the intruder that I feared, but his tongue, which, could I but have caught him, I would have cut out of his throat, to keep it from betraying thy existence to the world outside.

And as he looked towards her, with tears in his eyes, all at once Aranyání changed colour, turning suddenly paler, as if her heart, appalled by the apparition of some menace in his words, had summoned to its assistance all the blood in her face. And after a while she said: Babhru, thou art ill, and thy unfortunate affection not only makes thee overestimate my value, but even leads thee to alarm thyself and me, by creating imaginary fears. And moreover, come what may, the mischief, if any mischief is, is done, and the tongue that is thy bugbear is safe and at a distance in its owner's head, talking, very probably, of anything but me. But now, while we ourselves are talking, time has fled, and it is nearly noon; for the shadows are at shortest; and now, I dare not let thee stay here any longer; as indeed, I was to blame, in allowing thee to stay at all; and better had it been for both of us, it may be, hadst thou never come. And should my father suddenly return, and find thee, it would be worse. Why need I tell thee what thou knowest very well? And what good can come to thee, by longing for what is forbidden? Thou dost only add fuel to the flame of thy fever, which I, did I do my duty, ought rather to quench, by pouring over it the cold water of distance and separation. But my compassion for thee fights with my obedience to my father, for I am only a woman after all, and very weak; and it may be, I love thee just a very little. So be content with all that I can give thee, and do not come again, but recover from thy fears, and forget me. I cannot be thy wife, but I wish thee well. And now goodbye, and go away.

So as she stood, dismissing him, Babhru turned without a word, and went away into the wood, very slowly, while she watched him go. And she put both her hands behind her head, and stood looking after him, absolutely still. And as fate would have it, he turned round, just before he passed out of sight, and looked back, and saw her standing, gazing after him with a smile, with every outline of her round and slender woman's form standing out sharp as the moon's rim, as if on purpose to intoxicate his eye, against the background of the distant sand, like a threefold incarnation of his inaccessible desire, and his disappearing happiness, and his irrevocable farewell, in a feminine shape. And all at once he came back to her with hurried steps. And he reached her, and fell down before her, and seized a corner of her red garment that was loose, and kissed it. And then he started up. And he said, in a voice that shook, with tears stealing from his eyes: Well I understand that I am looking at thee, for the very last time.

And then he turned, and went away very quickly, without looking round: while she stood in agitation, looking after him, till he disappeared among the trees.

II

A GLAMOUR OF NOON

II

A GLAMOUR OF NOON

I

So she stood, a long while, gazing in the direction of his departure, touched by his emotion into an emotion, that was more than half compassion, of her own, and sorry, yet fearing above all things to see him return. And then at last, as if satisfied that he was actually gone, she turned away. And she murmured to herself: Alas! poor Babhru, hadst thou but known how near thy fear came to the very truth, I doubt whether I could ever have got thee to go away at all. And even as it is, it is a wonder that he has not actually discovered what his jealousy prompted him to guess: and all the while I trembled, feeling a very culprit, so accurately did he probe my soul, and see into my heart. And wonderful exceedingly is the sagacity of love, that discerns, from the very faintest indications, what would escape all other eyes! And yet, for all his acuteness, how little did he dream, that I knew, by experience, what love is, better, far better, than himself. He knew that I deceived him, but did not know, how far. And after all, what shadow of a right has he, to claim my affection for himself? But now he has had his turn, and all that I could give him: and now, then, it is my turn, and it is time, and it is noon.

And then, all at once, Babhru, and everything concerning him, vanished clean out of her mind. And strange! she changed, as if by magic, in an instant, into another woman. For as she stood, unconsciously she smiled, and the smile ran, as it were, over her whole body with a sudden wave of delicious agitation, and from a woman that she was, lording it, as if with a sense of superiority, she turned into a child, trembling all over with the excitement of anticipation. And she looked very carefully all round her, as if to make sure of being unobserved; and all at once, she ran very quickly away into the wood, turning her back on Babhru, down the hill towards the sand. And coming at length to a little clump of trees, she stopped abruptly, and clapped her hands. And at that very instant, as if he had been waiting for the signal, Atirupa issued from the trees. And Aranyání ran towards him, breathless, half with running, and half with the agitation of the joy of reunion, and threw herself into his arms, with a cry.

And then, for a while, that pair of lovers did nothing but kiss each other all over, with kisses that followed one another like raindrops in a storm. And after a while, he said: Dear Aranyání, thou art very late, and like the little rogue thou art, hast kept me waiting, as I think, on purpose, to make thy value greater, and increase my thirst, till I had almost determined, in despair, to go away. And Aranyání said, playfully: What! couldst thou not wait for me a little while, and am I not worth waiting for, at all? And he kissed her very carefully on both eyes, and he said: Indeed thou art. Then she said softly: And dost thou then imagine that delay is any easier to me than to thyself? Know, that I had difficulty, in coming even when I did. For I had first to get rid of someone else, in order to come at all. And Atirupa said: Thy old lover, of whom thou hast told me? Then she said: Thou sayest well, my old lover, who loves me, as I think, far better than thou dost, and almost as much as I love thee. But alas! for him, since I love him not again; and well will it be, for me, if in thy case also, love is not wholly on one side. Say, dost thou love me, even half as much as I love thee? And Atirupa said, with a smile: Nay, if I must believe thee, it is impossible.

And she gazed at him with insatiable eyes, and she said with a sigh: Yes, it is impossible. And yet, strange! it is not yet a week, since I came upon thee in the wood for the very first time, thinking, as I saw thee, that the very god of love had, somehow or other, dropped out of heaven, and wandering about on earth, had lost his way in our wood, only for my destruction; to consume me, like lightning irresistible, only by a look: and turn me suddenly from free into a slave, the property of another, who is master of her body and her soul. And yet, only this very morning did I learn, how nearly I had lost thee: since thy servant that saw me in the wood, and was the cause of thy coming, came within an ace of perishing himself, before he ever got away to tell. And Atirupa said: How? And Aranyání told him. And then she said: And now I fear for thee also: for should Babhru chance to see thee, his reason will desert him. And I tremble to think of thy encounter, with such a giant as is he. And yet I know not what to do. For he will surely come across thee, sooner or later, as indeed it is marvellous that he has not done already: since thou comest daily to me in the wood.

And Atirupa laughed, and he said: Fear nothing, O thou with the eyes of a gazelle: for it may be he himself, that would suffer most by our meeting. Then said Aranyání: It is exactly this I fear. For I would not have thee harm him, even though my fear is all for thee. And Atirupa said: There is a very easy way to solve this difficulty, and deprive thee of all cause of fear, which has not yet occurred to thee. And Aranyání said: What is that? And Atirupa said: It is only in this wood that we could ever meet each other. But what if thou shouldst come away with me, O thou delicious little slave, leaving the wood behind thee, to a place he cannot reach?

II

And then, Aranyání started, and looked at him with eyes that were filled with timidity and dismay, as if she hardly understood. And after a while, she said: What! come away with thee! it is impossible. And she gazed at him in terror, while Atirupa looked at her steadily, with caressing impenetrable eyes. And he murmured to himself: Now, then, I have startled my beautiful and timid fawn, but the seed is for all that sown in her beating heart. And now, then, we shall see, whether I can get her, by persuasion and caresses and cajolery, to come away of her own accord; or whether, as I do not wish, I shall have to carry her off by force. For she will be far sweeter if she yields herself, even though reluctant, than if I have to make her come away, whether she will or no. And presently he said gently: Dear Aranyání, dost thou imagine that either I can live without thee, or remain for ever in thy wood? For even as it is, I have been living in the wood, on thy account, for many days, at a distance from my capital, neglecting all my state affairs; and long ago my ministers must have wondered, what can have become of me. So of two things, one is absolutely necessary: and either thou must come away, or we must part.

And Aranyání looked at him steadily, turning very pale. And she murmured in bewilderment: Part! Thou and I! And Atirupa said: Dear, thou seest, the very notion makes thee pale. Then what will it be to part, in reality? Couldst thou endure to live without me? Or can I live for ever in the wood? Then what remains but this alone, to leave the wood thyself, and come with me, since there is absolutely no other way?

And Aranyání drew herself away, out of his arms; and she stood, looking down upon the ground, silent, and very pale: while Atirupa watched her, standing still, with eyes that never left her for an instant. And after a while, he said again: Dear Aranyání, couldst thou actually think, it could continue thus for ever, or that I could remain for ever, as I am doing now, camping in the wood, and coming every day to see thee?

And Aranyání sighed, and she said very slowly, still looking at the ground: I know not, for I have thought of absolutely nothing, since I saw thee, but thyself; and that was enough for me, and more; since my soul was so full that it had room for nothing else. And all the past had vanished, and the future did not matter, swallowed up in the present which was ecstasy, and intoxication, and thou. How could I think of anything at all? And now thou hast suddenly awaked me from a dream, which in my folly I had imagined would never have an end, but last for ever. And lo! it is gone, and all is over, and finished, almost before it has begun.

And Atirupa said in a whisper: Say rather, O Aranyání, that the dream is only just beginning.

And she answered angrily: Dost thou think it then so easy for a flower to consent to be torn up by the roots, and carried from its home no matter where? For like a flower I am rooted in this wood, where I have lived and grown since the beginning, with my father and the trees, and the creepers, and the deer. And now thou hast placed thyself, with a sudden flash of lightning, in opposition to it all; and thou wouldst make me choose, threatening to go away and leave me, unless I sacrifice it all, to go into the darkness, I know not where, with thee. Dost thou think the choice is easy which will utterly destroy me, whichever way it falls? Thou art the cause of all, and resemblest a knife, that bids me to consent and rejoice, while it cuts my heart in two, possessing absolutely no heart whatever of its own.

And Atirupa said gently: Alas! Aranyání, thou art utterly unjust, and this was my very fear, that when I offered thee to choose between the wood, which is thy past, and myself, who am thy future, I should seem to thee utterly of no account, and light in the balance, weighed against what I asked thee to resign. I say, thou blamest me unjustly, when I am absolutely blameless, unless indeed it be a fault, to love thee, for which not I, but thyself, or rather the Creator is to blame, for making thee exactly what thou art. Who can blame the butter for melting in the flame, or make it a crime in the ocean, for rising in tumult and agitation at the sight of the tender digit of the moon? Is it my fault, if I must go away, since after all my kingdom is in need of me, and even as it is, I have remained here too long, and all on thy account? And what can I do but ask thee to come with me, since unless we are to part, there is absolutely nothing else to do? And does not every maiden do the same? Did not Shakuntalá abandon her home and her relations in the forest, to follow King Dushmanta? And did not even the Daughter of the Snow abandon, not only her father, but even her own body, for the sake of the Moony-crested god? And art thou fearful, O thou intoxicating child, to go into the dark? But what will darkness matter? nay, will not the dark itself become nectar, provided I am there? Or rather, will not the darkness be still darker, and gloomier, and blacker, if I go away and leave thee by thyself?

III

And Aranyání stood for a moment, when he ended; and then all at once she sank down upon the ground, and hid her face in her two hands, and began to sob. And after a while she said in agitation: What hast thou done to me? For till I saw thee, I was happy; and now I am torn by thee utterly in two. For I cannot bear to part either with thee, or with my father and my home. And now I could wish never to have seen thee, and well had it been, if thy servant never had set eyes on me, to tell thee, and bring thee to the wood. Why hast thou come hither to destroy me? For all has come about exactly as Babhru said and feared, when he foretold that thy coming would be my utter ruin.

And Atirupa listened, and he murmured to himself: She has fallen into the snare, by avowing her vacillation, and allowing herself to debate, instead of repudiating my proposal: and now it will be my own fault, if I cannot turn the scale in my own favour, by playing on her agitated heart. And he said coldly: Ha! then, as I thought, it is Babhru who causes all the trouble; and he it is, whom thou art so unwilling to resign.

And instantly Aranyání started up, and exclaimed with vehemence and indignation: What! dost thou taunt me, dost thou actually dare to taunt me, with Babhru, whom I have sacrificed without a thought to thee? Alas! poor Babhru. Little does he resemble thee, for so far from taking me away, he would live at my bidding even in a desert, and give up a hundred kingdoms, if he had them, for my sake. And Atirupa said: Then be it as thou wilt, for I will not be his rival. Go with him to thy desert, and I will go to mine.