Bubbles of the Foam

by F. W. Bain

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 Aranyání 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 Aranyání, 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 Aranyání, who was standing watching him, and waiting, as it were, for his decision: and he said: Aranyání, 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, Aranyání 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 Aranyání 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 Aranyání, as she lay. And he said: Aranyání, 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 Aranyání 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 Aranyání 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, Aranyání, Aranyání: 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.