Bubbles of the Foam

by F. W. Bain

I

So, then, night followed day, and day succeeded night, in order. And the new moon waxed, and waned: and every day the sun rose up as usual, and travelled slowly on, till he sank at eve, over the sand, beyond the western hill. And then at last, there came a day, when just as he was sinking, it happened that Babhru sat alone, watching him as he went down, at that very same place in the wood where he had parted last from Aranyání, the day she disappeared. And strange! short as had been the interval of time, he was altered, and it seemed as though years had rolled over him, writing on him in an instant the wrinkles of old age. For he looked like an incarnation of dejection, worn and wan, with eyes that were red and hollow, as if sleep had fled away from them, ousted by her jealous rivals, sorrow and her sister care. And as he saw the sun just on the very point of going down, he murmured to himself: He is but showing me the way, and now very soon, I shall follow his example, abandoning like him a birth, in which my business is done. For what is the use of this miserable body, deserted and forsaken by its soul, and left lying empty, and utterly forgotten, and despised? not even knowing where to look, or where that soul is gone: this body, which long ago I would have quitted not only without regretting it, but even with delight, could but I know for certain that Aranyání is actually dead, and unable to return: since but for the hope of that return, I should have ceased to live these many days. Alas! I cannot even tell, whether she is dead, or still alive. And yet it cannot be: she is not dead. And yet, she is nowhere to be found: for I have searched the wood a hundred times from end to end, till there is not a single one of all its leaves I have not turned upside down, and all in vain. For she has vanished like a dream, leaving not so much as even the shadow of a clue behind: and she resembles a drop of dew, dried by the sun at noon on the leaf of a red lotus, with nothing but the memory of those who saw it in the morning to show that it was ever there. She has gone, I know not how, I know not where; snatched away and stolen, and it may be even put to death, or something that is worse than any death, by those who have carried her away, I know not who. And O alas! that I ever left her. I only was to blame, that saw the evil coming, and shrank in terror from its shadow, like a bird that sees upon the ground beside it the shadow of the hawk. I left her, and now, beyond a doubt, hope is absolutely over, and I shall never see her more. And why then should I delay, or wait to see another sun? But what, if after all, she were not dead, but still alive, and should return? Then, what a fool I should have been, to die! And yet, if she is dead? Alas! if she is dead, my life is but an idle waste of time, and yet I dare not die, for fear, lest after all, she should return.

And all at once, he stopped short: for as he spoke, there fell upon his ear a noise. And he listened, and exclaimed: I hear the tramp of horses, approaching in the wood. And he started up, like his own heart, that began to beat violently, as if catching at a straw of hope, in the whirlpool of despair. And he said to himself: Why should horses be coming through the wood, at such an hour? And as he stood gazing, with a soul as it were on tiptoe, in the direction of the sound, a rider suddenly issued from the trees, and came towards him, followed by others like himself. And as they reached him, they stopped: and their leader dismounted from his horse, and came towards him, holding it by the rein.

And when Babhru saw his face, he started, and exclaimed within himself: Ha! why! that is the very face that I saw lurking in the bush. And then, all at once, he shouted aloud: Ha! then, it was thou; it is thou, as I thought, who art the robber, after all.

And Chamu laughed, and he said: O woodman, not so loud: for thou art hasty, and thou art uncivil, and thou art altogether wrong: though so far thou art right, that we are old friends. Yet still thou art unjust, for I am not the robber. It was not I that carried off thy beauty from the wood, but my master, King Atirupa. And thou art very rude, to call even him a robber. For he did not steal thy beauty, but only borrowed her, for a little while, all with her own consent. And now he has returned her by my hands: and here she is.

And he turned, and Babhru looked, and lo! they lifted Aranyání from a horse, and set her on the ground. And as Babhru stood gazing at her, like one struck by a thunderbolt, Chamu said again: Thou owest me not abuse, but gratitude, O woodman: for see, I have brought her back to thee, all across the sand, where many in my place would have left her in the middle of the way, for it was a thankless task, and she was a cross-grained burden, that was very loath to come at all. So as thou seest, thou wert very wrong, to call even Atirupa robber: for here she is again. And the women are silly creatures, who only have themselves to blame, since they flock to him, like flies to honey, all of their own accord. But this young beauty grew so peevish, when she found she was only one of a thousand others, that the Mahárájá could not keep her any longer. And now she will make thee the very best of wives, woodman: since she has had some lessons, and a little practice in the art, and come back richer than she went away: none the worse, but all the better, for having tasted a King's kisses, and learned her trade in the best of schools. Thy eldest son will be a beauty, even if all the others are as ugly as thyself. And if his mother calls him Atirupa, just as a reminiscence, never mind: for when she has once stopped weeping, she will love thee just as well as him.

And as he spoke, Babhru stared at him with eyes that hardly saw him, and ears that hardly heard him, and a soul that hardly understood, filled as it was to the very brim with such a flood of pity, and horror, and amazement, and yet delight at her return, no matter how, that there was absolutely no room at all for even a single drop of wrath. And while he looked from her to Chamu, and from Chamu back again to her, Chamu got back upon his horse, and all those riders rode away.