Bubbles of the Foam

by F. W. Bain

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.

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.