Bubbles of the Foam

by F. W. Bain

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?