Book: Bubbles of the Foam

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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, Aranyani 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 Aranyani the agony of finding it was base. Was Aranyani
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 Aranyani, to kiss
her 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 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: Aranyani, 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: Aranyani, 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 Aranyani, 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 Aranyani 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 Aranyani 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 Aranyani, 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 Aranyani, who was standing watching him, and waiting, as it
were, for his decision: and he said: Aranyani, 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, Aranyani 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 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 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 Aranyani, as she lay.
And he said: Aranyani, 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 Aranyani 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
Aranyani 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, 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, 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 Aranyani, 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 Aranyani, 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: Maharaj, there has come
to the door an old _sannyasi_, 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 Maharaja is the judge.

[Footnote 40: They appear to have been women, very often, in mediaeval 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 _pratihari_ came again. And she said:
Maharaj, thus said the _sannyasi_: Go and tell the Maharaja, 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 Byragi: 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 _sannyasis_, _byragis_, _gosawis_, were as a
rule wandering scoundrels who had, and have, much to do with politics.]

So then, after a little while, that _sannyasi_ 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 _sannyasi_ laughed like a hyaena, and he said:
Maharaj, 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.

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

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

Then Atirupa was filled with curiosity, and he said to himself; It is as
I thought, and he is an emissary, and one, moreover, well suited to his
task. And he turned, and exclaimed: Chamu, take every one away. And
then, the _sannyasi_ looked attentively at Chamu, as they went. And he
said, 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 thy
permission, he and I will settle all the details of this negotiation, as
soon 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 all
gone, he exclaimed with impatience: Now then, O _sannyasi_, to thy
business, without any more delay. Who is thy employer? And the
_sannyasi_ said: Aranyani: and if thou hast forgotten her, she has not
forgotten 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 on
his back. And he knelt on his throat, like a very mountain, and taking
from his waist a knife, he plunged it, with blows like those of a
carpenter that hammers in a nail, over and over again into his heart.

And then, as the retainers came running in, summoned as though on
purpose, by his own yell, with Chamu at their head, he started to his
feet. And as they looked towards him, lo! that _sannyasi_ began to
laugh. 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 and
he whispered very low: Hark! Dost thou not hear Aranyani calling, out of
the other world? So now, then, we will go together, to seek her, along
the great road. And he threw himself suddenly on Chamu, and took him by
the 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 over
him like a flood madness, that resembled the intoxication compounded of
delight, and fury, and despair, as if his life-long devotion to
Aranyani, and his wrath at her ruin and his own, had waited till that
very moment to mingle with the rapture of revenge, and filling his soul
with the ecstasy of the strength of a giant, had then become
concentrated to pass into his hands. And as he squeezed, he muttered,
not knowing what he said: Laugh, weasel, laugh now at Aranyani. And in
the meantime all the others, to whom he paid no more attention than as
if they were not there, seeing absolutely nothing before him but the
eyes of Chamu that were starting from his head, fell upon him all
together in a body, like a swarm of bees, and stung him, as it were, to
death, exactly as they chose, cutting him to pieces with swords and
knives. But for all that they did, they could not loose his hands, which
remained just as they were, locked like an iron ring around the throat
to which they clung, as if his will still animated them, even after he
was dead.

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

* * * * *

And then, the Moony-crested stopped. And after a while, the Daughter of
the Snow said softly: Alas! for these unhappy mortal women, who suffer
at the hands of evil-minded lovers, such intolerable wrong, and woe. And
yet, as I think, poor Babhru deserved rather to be forgiven altogether,
or even to be actually rewarded, rather than punished by the body of a
camel, 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 the
Snow, thou resemblest every other woman, judging by thy own pity and
compassion, and the emotion aroused in thy soul by the particular
misfortune of a solitary case, not taking into any consideration the
constitution of the world. And this is a merit and a beauty in thee, and
yet it is altogether wrong. For Babhru suffered as a consequence of acts
committed in a former birth, the circumstances of which thou dost not
know. And moreover, even so, he was culpable and presumptuous, in taking
on himself a vengeance to which even Aranyani did not urge him, not
knowing that punishment far more terrible than his was waiting for those
criminals, without his interference. And he should have left Aranyani's
vindication to the deity, who knew what was necessary far better than
himself, and had his eye upon it all. For there is no retribution so
just, or so sure, or so adequate, or awful, as that which evil-doers lay
upon themselves, in the form of their own ill-deeds, which dog them like
a shadow clinging to their heels, from body to body, through birth after
birth, till the very last atom of guilt has passed through the furnace
of expiation, and the very last item of their debt to everlasting Yama
has been weighed in his scales, and struck from the account, and utterly
redeemed.

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