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 pa.s.sing 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.signation: 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 ma.s.ses 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 a.s.signation, 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-d.a.m.nee_.]

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 pa.s.s 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 compa.s.sion, and the emotion aroused in thy soul by the particular misfortune of a solitary case, not taking into any consideration the const.i.tution 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed 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.