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diff --git a/3637-0.txt b/3637-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2de8f72 --- /dev/null +++ b/3637-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,23617 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Garden Of Allah, by Robert Hichens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Garden Of Allah + +Author: Robert Hichens + +Release Date: June 27, 2001 [eBook #3637] +[Most recently updated: January 23, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Dagny, John Bickers and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN OF ALLAH *** + + + + +THE GARDEN OF ALLAH + +BY + +ROBERT HICHENS + + +GROSSET & DUNLAP +Publishers — New York. +1904 + + + CONTENTS + + BOOK I. PRELUDE + BOOK II. THE VOICE OF PRAYER + BOOK III. THE GARDEN + BOOK IV. THE JOURNEY + BOOK V. THE REVELATION + BOOK VI. THE JOURNEY BACK + + + + +THE GARDEN OF ALLAH + + + + +BOOK I. PRELUDE + + + +CHAPTER I + +The fatigue caused by a rough sea journey, and, perhaps, the +consciousness that she would have to be dressed before dawn to catch the +train for Beni-Mora, prevented Domini Enfilden from sleeping. There was +deep silence in the Hotel de la Mer at Robertville. The French officers +who took their pension there had long since ascended the hill of Addouna +to the barracks. The cafés had closed their doors to the drinkers and +domino players. The lounging Arab boys had deserted the sandy Place de +la Marine. In their small and dusky bazaars the Israelites had reckoned +up the takings of the day, and curled themselves up in gaudy quilts +on their low divans to rest. Only two or three _gendarmes_ were still +about, and a few French and Spaniards at the Port, where, moored against +the wharf, lay the steamer _Le Général Bertrand_, in which Domini had +arrived that evening from Marseilles. + +In the hotel the fair and plump Italian waiter, who had drifted to North +Africa from Pisa, had swept up the crumbs from the two long tables +in the _salle-à-manger_, smoked a thin, dark cigar over a copy of the +_Dépêche Algérienne_, put the paper down, scratched his blonde head, on +which the hair stood up in bristles, stared for a while at nothing in +the firm manner of weary men who are at the same time thoughtless and +depressed, and thrown himself on his narrow bed in the dusty corner of +the little room on the stairs near the front door. Madame, the landlady, +had laid aside her front and said her prayer to the Virgin. Monsieur, +the landlord, had muttered his last curse against the Jews and drunk +his last glass of rum. They snored like honest people recruiting their +strength for the morrow. In number two Suzanne Charpot, Domini’s maid, +was dreaming of the Rue de Rivoli. + +But Domini with wide-open eyes, was staring from her big, square pillow +at the red brick floor of her bedroom, on which stood various trunks +marked by the officials of the Douane. There were two windows in the +room looking out towards the Place de la Marine, below which lay the +station. Closed _persiennes_ of brownish-green, blistered wood protected +them. One of these windows was open. Yet the candle at Domini’s bedside +burnt steadily. The night was warm and quiet, without wind. + +As she lay there, Domini still felt the movement of the sea. The passage +had been a bad one. The ship, crammed with French recruits for the +African regiments, had pitched and rolled almost incessantly for +thirty-one hours, and Domini and most of the recruits had been ill. +Domini had had an inner cabin, with a skylight opening on to the lower +deck, and heard above the sound of the waves and winds their groans and +exclamations, rough laughter, and half-timid, half-defiant conversations +as she shook in her berth. At Marseilles she had seen them come on +board, one by one, dressed in every variety of poor costume, each one +looking anxiously around to see what the others were like, each one +carrying a mean yellow or black bag or a carefully-tied bundle. On the +wharf stood a Zouave, in tremendous red trousers and a fez, among great +heaps of dull brown woollen rugs. And as the recruits came hesitatingly +along he stopped them with a sharp word, examined the tickets they held +out, gave each one a rug, and pointed to the gangway that led from the +wharf to the vessel. Domini, then leaning over the rail of the upper +deck, had noticed the different expressions with which the recruits +looked at the Zouave. To all of them he was a phenomenon, a mystery of +Africa and of the new life for which they were embarking. He stood there +impudently and indifferently among the woollen rugs, his red fez pushed +well back on his short, black hair cut _en brosse_, his bronzed face +twisted into a grimace of fiery contempt, throwing, with his big and +muscular arms, rug after rug to the anxious young peasants who filed +before him. They all gazed at his legs in the billowing red trousers; +some like children regarding a Jack-in-the-box which had just sprung +up into view, others like ignorant, but superstitious, people who +had unexpectedly come upon a shrine by the wayside. One or two seemed +disposed to laugh nervously, as the very stupid laugh at anything +they see for the first time. But fear seized them. They refrained +convulsively and shambled on to the gangway, looking sideways, like +fowls, and holding their rugs awkwardly to their breasts with their +dirty, red hands. + +To Domini there was something pitiful in the sight of all these lads, +uprooted from their homes in France, stumbling helplessly on board this +ship that was to convey them to Africa. They crowded together. Their +poor bundles and bags jostled one against the other. With their clumsy +boots they trod on each other’s feet. And yet all were lonely strangers. +No two in the mob seemed to be acquaintances. And every lad, each in +his different way, was furtively on the defensive, uneasily wondering +whether some misfortune might not presently come to him from one of +these unknown neighbours. + +A few of the recruits, as they came on board, looked up at Domini as she +leant over the rail; and in all the different coloured and shaped eyes +she thought she read a similar dread and nervous hope that things might +turn out pretty well for them in the new existence that had to be faced. +The Zouave, wholly careless or unconscious of the fact that he was +an incarnation of Africa to these raw peasants, who had never before +stirred beyond the provinces where they were born, went on taking +the tickets, and tossing the woollen rugs to the passing figures, and +pointing ferociously to the gangway. He got very tired of his task +towards the end, and showed his fatigue to the latest comers, shoving +their rugs into their arms with brusque violence. And when at length the +wharf was bare he spat on it, rubbed his short-fingered, sunburnt hands +down the sides of his blue jacket, and swaggered on board with the air +of a dutiful but injured man who longed to do harm in the world. By this +time the ship was about to cast off, and the recruits, ranged in line +along the bulwarks of the lower deck, were looking in silence towards +Marseilles, which, with its tangle of tall houses, its forest of masts, +its long, ugly factories and workshops, now represented to them the +whole of France. The bronchial hoot of the siren rose up menacingly. +Suddenly two Arabs, in dirty white burnouses and turbans bound with +cords of camel’s hair, came running along the wharf. The siren hooted +again. The Arabs bounded over the gangway with grave faces. All the +recruits turned to examine them with a mixture of superiority and +deference, such as a schoolboy might display when observing the +agilities of a tiger. The ropes fell heavily from the posts of the +quay into the water, and were drawn up dripping by the sailors, and _Le +General Bertrand_ began to move out slowly among the motionless ships. + +Domini, looking towards the land with the vague and yet inquiring glance +of those who are going out to sea, noticed the church of Notre dame de +la Garde, perched on its high hill, and dominating the noisy city, +the harbour, the cold, grey squadrons of the rocks and Monte Cristo’s +dungeon. At the time she hardly knew it, but now, as she lay in bed in +the silent inn, she remembered that, keeping her eyes upon the church, +she had murmured a confused prayer to the Blessed Virgin for the +recruits. What was the prayer? She could scarcely recall it. A woman’s +petition, perhaps, against the temptations that beset men shifting for +themselves in far-off and dangerous countries; a woman’s cry to a woman +to watch over all those who wander. + +When the land faded, and the white sea rose, less romantic +considerations took possession of her. She wished to sleep, and drank a +dose of a drug. It did not act completely, but only numbed her senses. +Through the long hours she lay in the dark cabin, looking at the faint +radiance that penetrated through the glass shutters of the skylight. +The recruits, humanised and drawn together by misery, were becoming +acquainted. The incessant murmur of their voices dropped down to her, +with the sound of the waves, and of the mysterious cries and creaking +shudders that go through labouring ships. And all these noises seemed to +her hoarse and pathetic, suggestive, too, of danger. + +When they reached the African shore, and saw the lights of houses +twinkling upon the hills, the pale recruits were marshalled on the white +road by Zouaves, who met them from the barracks of Robertville. Already +they looked older than they had looked when they embarked. Domini saw +them march away up the hill. They still clung to their bags and bundles. +Some of them, lifting shaky voices, tried to sing in chorus. One of +the Zouaves angrily shouted to them to be quiet. They obeyed, and +disappeared heavily into the shadows, staring about them anxiously at +the feathery palms that clustered in this new and dark country, and at +the shrouded figures of Arabs who met them on the way. + +The red brick floor was heaving gently, Domini thought. She found +herself wondering how the cane chair by the small wardrobe kept its +footing, and why the cracked china basin in the iron washstand, painted +bright yellow, did not stir and rattle. Her dressing-bag was open. She +could see the silver backs and tops of the brushes and bottles in it +gleaming. They made her think suddenly of England. She had no idea why. +But it was too warm for England. There, in the autumn time, an open +window would let in a cold air, probably a biting blast. The wooden +shutter would be shaking. There would be, perhaps, a sound of rain. And +Domini found herself vaguely pitying England and the people mewed up in +it for the winter. Yet how many winters she had spent there, dreaming of +liberty and doing dreary things--things without savour, without meaning, +without salvation for brain or soul. Her mind was still dulled to a +certain extent by the narcotic she had taken. She was a strong and +active woman, with long limbs and well-knit muscles, a clever fencer, +a tireless swimmer, a fine horsewoman. But to-night she felt almost +neurotic, like one of the weak or dissipated sisterhood for whom “rest +cures” are invented, and by whom bland doctors live. That heaving red +floor continually emphasised for her her present feebleness. She hated +feebleness. So she blew out the candle and, with misplaced energy, +strove resolutely to sleep. Possibly her resolution defeated its object. +She continued in a condition of dull and heavy wakefulness till the +darkness became intolerable to her. In it she saw perpetually the long +procession of the pale recruits winding up the hill of Addouna with +their bags and bundles, like spectres on a way of dreams. Finally she +resolved to accept a sleepless night. She lit her candle again and saw +that the brick floor was no longer heaving. Two of the books that +she called her “bed-books” lay within easy reach of her hand. One was +Newman’s _Dream of Gerontius_, the other a volume of the Badminton +Library. She chose the former and began to read. + +Towards two o’clock she heard a long-continued rustling. At first she +supposed that her tired brain was still playing her tricks. But the +rustling continued and grew louder. It sounded like a noise coming from +something very wide, and spread out as a veil over an immense surface. +She got up, walked across the floor to the open window and unfastened +the _persiennes_. Heavy rain was falling. The night was very black, +and smelt rich and damp, as if it held in its arms strange offerings--a +merchandise altogether foreign, tropical and alluring. As she stood +there, face to face with a wonder that she could not see, Domini forgot +Newman. She felt the brave companionship of mystery. In it she divined +the beating pulses, the hot, surging blood of freedom. + +She wanted freedom, a wide horizon, the great winds, the great sun, the +terrible spaces, the glowing, shimmering radiance, the hot, entrancing +moons and bloomy, purple nights of Africa. She wanted the nomad’s fires +and the acid voices of the Kabyle dogs. She wanted the roar of the +tom-toms, the dash of the cymbals, the rattle of the negroes’ castanets, +the fluttering, painted figures of the dancers. She wanted--more than +she could express, more than she knew. It was there, want, aching in +her heart, as she drew into her nostrils this strange and wealthy +atmosphere. + +When Domini returned to her bed she found it impossible to read any more +Newman. The rain and the scents coming up out of the hidden earth of +Africa had carried her mind away, as if on a magic carpet. She was +content now to lie awake in the dark. + +Domini was thirty-two, unmarried, and in a singularly independent--some +might have thought a singularly lonely--situation. Her father, Lord +Rens, had recently died, leaving Domini, who was his only child, a +large fortune. His life had been a curious and a tragic one. Lady Rens, +Domini’s mother, had been a great beauty of the gipsy type, the daughter +of a Hungarian mother and of Sir Henry Arlworth, one of the most +prominent and ardent English Catholics of his day. A son of his became a +priest, and a famous preacher and writer on religious subjects. Another +child, a daughter, took the veil. Lady Rens, who was not clever, +although she was at one time almost universally considered to have the +face of a muse, shared in the family ardour for the Church, but was far +too fond of the world to leave it. While she was very young she met Lord +Rens, a Lifeguardsman of twenty-six, who called himself a Protestant, +but who was really quite happy without any faith. He fell madly in love +with her and, in order to marry her, became a Catholic, and even a very +devout one, aiding his wife’s Church by every means in his power, giving +large sums to Catholic charities, and working, with almost fiery zeal, +for the spread of Catholicism in England. + +Unfortunately, his new faith was founded only on love for a human being, +and when Lady Rens, who was intensely passionate and impulsive, suddenly +threw all her principles to the winds, and ran away with a Hungarian +musician, who had made a furor one season in London by his magnificent +violin-playing, her husband, stricken in his soul, and also wounded +almost to the death in his pride, abandoned abruptly the religion of the +woman who had converted and betrayed him. + +Domini was nineteen, and had recently been presented at Court when the +scandal of her mother’s escapade shook the town, and changed her father +in a day from one of the happiest to one of the most cynical, embittered +and despairing of men. She, who had been brought up by both her parents +as a Catholic, who had from her earliest years been earnestly educated +in the beauties of religion, was now exposed to the almost frantic +persuasions of a father who, hating all that he had formerly loved, +abandoning all that, influenced by his faithless wife, he had formerly +clung to, wished to carry his daughter with him into his new and most +miserable way of life. But Domini, who, with much of her mother’s dark +beauty, had inherited much of her quick vehemence and passion, was also +gifted with brains, and with a certain largeness of temperament and +clearness of insight which Lady Rens lacked. Even when she was still +quivering under the shock and shame of her mother’s guilt and her own +solitude, Domini was unable to share her father’s intensely egoistic +view of the religion of the culprit. She could not be persuaded that the +faith in which she had been brought up was proved to be a sham because +one of its professors, whom she had above all others loved and trusted, +had broken away from its teachings and defied her own belief. She would +not secede with her father; but remained in the Church of the mother she +was never to see again, and this in spite of extraordinary and dogged +efforts on the part of Lord Rens to pervert her to his own Atheism. His +mind had been so warped by the agony of his heart that he had come to +feel as if by tearing his only child from the religion he had been led +to by the greatest sinner he had known, he would be, in some degree at +least, purifying his life tarnished by his wife’s conduct, raising again +a little way the pride she had trampled in the dust. + +Her uncle, Father Arlworth, helped Domini by his support and counsel in +this critical period of her life, and Lord Rens in time ceased from the +endeavour to carry his child with him as companion in his tragic journey +from love and belief to hatred and denial. He turned to the violent +occupations of despair, and the last years of his life were hideous +enough, as the world knew and Domini sometimes suspected. But though +Domini had resisted him she was not unmoved or wholly uninfluenced by +her mother’s desertion and its effect upon her father. She remained a +Catholic, but she gradually ceased from being a devout one. Although +she had seemed to stand firm she had in truth been shaken, if not in +her belief, in a more precious thing--her love. She complied with the +ordinances, but felt little of the inner beauty of her faith. The effort +she had made in withstanding her father’s assault upon it had exhausted +her. Though she had had the strength to triumph, at the moment, a +partial and secret collapse was the price she had afterwards to pay. +Father Arlworth, who had a subtle understanding of human nature, noticed +that Domini was changed and slightly hardened by the tragedy she had +known, and was not surprised or shocked. Nor did he attempt to force +her character back into its former way of beauty. He knew that to do +so would be dangerous, that Domini’s nature required peace in which to +become absolutely normal once again after the shock it had sustained. + +When Domini was twenty-one he died, and her safest guide, the one who +understood her best, went from her. The years passed. She lived with her +embittered father; and drifted into the unthinking worldliness of the +life of her order. Her home was far from ideal. Yet she would not marry. +The wreck of her parents’ domestic life had rendered her mistrustful of +human relations. She had seen something of the terror of love, and could +not, like other women, regard it as safety and as sweetness. So she put +it from her, and strove to fill her life with all those lesser things +which men and women grasp, as the Chinese grasp the opium pipe, those +things which lull our comprehension of realities to sleep. + +When Lord Rens died, still blaspheming, and without any of the +consolations of religion, Domini felt the imperious need of change. She +did not grieve actively for the dead man. In his last years they had +been very far apart, and his death relieved her from the perpetual +contemplation of a tragedy. Lord Rens had grown to regard his daughter +almost with enmity in his enmity against her mother’s religion, which +was hers. She had come to think of him rather with pity than with love. +Yet his death was a shock to her. When he could speak no more, but only +lie still, she remembered suddenly just what he had been before her +mother’s flight. The succeeding period, long though it had been and +ugly, was blotted out. She wept for the poor, broken life now ended, +and was afraid for his future in the other world. His departure into the +unknown roused her abruptly to a clear conception of how his action and +her mother’s had affected her own character. As she stood by his bed +she wondered what she might have been if her mother had been true, her +father happy, to the end. Then she felt afraid of herself, recognising +partially, and for the first time, how all these years had seen her long +indifference. She felt self-conscious too, ignorant of the real meaning +of life, and as if she had always been, and still remained, rather a +complicated piece of mechanism than a woman. A desolate enervation of +spirit descended upon her, a sort of bitter, and yet dull, perplexity. +She began to wonder what she was, capable of what, of how much good or +evil, and to feel sure that she did not know, had never known or tried +to find out. Once, in this state of mind, she went to confession. She +came away feeling that she had just joined with the priest in a farce. +How can a woman who knows nothing about herself make anything but a +worthless confession? she thought. To say what you have done is not +always to say what you are. And only what you are matters eternally. + +Presently, still in this perplexity of spirit, she left England with +only her maid as companion. After a short tour in the south of Europe, +with which she was too familiar, she crossed the sea to Africa, which +she had never seen. Her destination was Beni-Mora. She had chosen it +because she liked its name, because she saw on the map that it was an +oasis in the Sahara Desert, because she knew it was small, quiet, yet +face to face with an immensity of which she had often dreamed. Idly she +fancied that perhaps in the sunny solitude of Beni-Mora, far from +all the friends and reminiscences of her old life, she might learn to +understand herself. How? She did not know. She did not seek to know. +Here was a vague pilgrimage, as many pilgrimages are in this world--the +journey of the searcher who knew not what she sought. And so now she lay +in the dark, and heard the rustle of the warm African rain, and smelt +the perfumes rising from the ground, and felt that the unknown was very +near her--the unknown with all its blessed possibilities of change. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Long before dawn the Italian waiter rolled off his little bed, put a cap +on his head, and knocked at Domini’s and at Suzanne Charpot’s doors. + +It was still dark, and still raining, when the two women came out to get +into the carriage that was to take them to the station. The place de la +Marine was a sea of mud, brown and sticky as nougat. Wet palms dripped +by the railing near a desolate kiosk painted green and blue. The sky was +grey and low. Curtains of tarpaulin were let down on each side of the +carriage, and the coachman, who looked like a Maltese, and wore a round +cap edged with pale yellow fur, was muffled up to the ears. Suzanne’s +round, white face was puffy with fatigue, and her dark eyes, generally +good-natured and hopeful, were dreary, and squinted slightly, as she +tipped the Italian waiter, and handed her mistress’s dressing-bag and +rug into the carriage. The waiter stood an the discoloured step, yawning +from ear to ear. Even the tip could not excite him. Before the carriage +started he had gone into the hotel and banged the door. The horses +trotted quickly through the mud, descending the hill. One of the +tarpaulin curtains had been left unbuttoned by the coachman. It flapped +to and fro, and when its movement was outward Domini could catch +short glimpses of mud, of glistening palm-leaves with yellow stems, of +gas-lamps, and of something that was like an extended grey nothingness. +This was the sea. Twice she saw Arabs trudging along, holding their +skirts up in a bunch sideways, and showing legs bare beyond the knees. +Hoods hid their faces. They appeared to be agitated by the weather, +and to be continually trying to plant their naked feet in dry places. +Suzanne, who sat opposite to Domini, had her eyes shut. If she had not +from time to time passed her tongue quickly over her full, pale lips she +would have looked like a dead thing. The coquettish angle at which her +little black hat was set on her head seemed absurdly inappropriate +to the occasion and her mood. It suggested a hat being worn at some +festival. Her black, gloved hands were tightly twisted together in her +lap, and she allowed her plump body to wag quite loosely with the motion +of the carriage, making no attempt at resistance. She had really the +appearance of a corpse sitting up. The tarpaulin flapped monotonously. +The coachman cried out in the dimness to his horses like a bird, +prolonging his call drearily, and then violently cracking his whip. +Domini kept her eyes fixed on the loose tarpaulin, so that she might not +miss one of the wet visions it discovered by its reiterated movement. +She had not slept at all, and felt as if there was a gritty dryness +close behind her eyes. She also felt very alert and enduring, but not +in the least natural. Had some extraordinary event occurred; had the +carriage, for instance, rolled over the edge of the road into the sea, +she was convinced that she could not have managed to be either surprised +or alarmed, If anyone had asked her whether she was tired she would +certainly have answered “No.” + +Like her mother, Domini was of a gipsy type. She stood five feet ten, +had thick, almost coarse and wavy black hair that was parted in the +middle of her small head, dark, almond-shaped, heavy-lidded eyes, and a +clear, warmly-white skin, unflecked with colour. She never flushed under +the influence of excitement or emotion. Her forehead was broad and low. +Her eyebrows were long and level, thicker than most women’s. The shape +of her face was oval, with a straight, short nose, a short, but rather +prominent and round chin, and a very expressive mouth, not very small, +slightly depressed at the corners, with perfect teeth, and red lips +that were unusually flexible. Her figure was remarkably athletic, with +shoulders that were broad in a woman, and a naturally small waist. Her +hands and feet were also small. She walked splendidly, like a Syrian, +but without his defiant insolence. In her face, when it was in repose, +there was usually an expression of still indifference, some thought of +opposition. She looked her age, and had never used a powderpuff in her +life. She could smile easily and easily become animated, and in her +animation there was often fire, as in her calmness there was sometimes +cloud. Timid people were generally disconcerted by her appearance, and +her manner did not always reassure them. Her obvious physical strength +had something surprising in it, and woke wonder as to how it had been, +or might be, used. Even when her eyes were shut she looked singularly +wakeful. + +Domini and Suzanne got to the station of Robertville much too early. +The large hall in which they had to wait was miserably lit, blank and +decidedly cold. The ticket-office was on the left, and the room was +divided into two parts by a broad, low counter, on which the heavy +luggage was placed before being weighed by two unshaven and hulking men +in blue smocks. Three or four Arab touts, in excessively shabby European +clothes and turbans, surrounded Domini with offers of assistance. One, +the dirtiest of the group, with a gaping eye-socket, in which there +was no eye, succeeded by his passionate volubility and impudence in +attaching himself to her in a sort of official capacity. He spoke +fluent, but faulty, French, which attracted Suzanne, and, being +abnormally muscular and active, in an amazingly short time got hold +of all their boxes and bags and ranged them on the counter. He then +indulged in a dramatic performance, which he apparently considered +likely to rouse into life and attention the two unshaven men in smocks, +who were smoking cigarettes, and staring vaguely at the metal sheet on +which the luggage was placed to be weighed. Suzanne remained expectantly +in attendance, and Domini, having nothing to do, and seeing no bench to +rest on, walked slowly up and down the hall near the entrance. + +It was now half-past four in the morning, and in the air Domini fancied +that she felt the cold breath of the coming dawn. Beyond the opening of +the station, as she passed and repassed in her slow and aimless walk, +she saw the soaking tarpaulin curtains of the carriage she had just left +glistening in the faint lamp-light. After a few minutes the Arabs she +had noticed on the road entered. Their brown, slipperless feet were +caked with sticky mud, and directly they found themselves under shelter +in a dry place they dropped the robes they had been holding up, and, +bending down, began to flick it off on to the floor with their delicate +fingers. They did this with extraordinary care and precision, rubbed the +soles of their feet repeatedly against the boards, and then put on their +yellow slippers and threw back the hoods which had been drawn over their +heads. + +A few French passengers straggled in, yawning and looking irritable. +The touts surrounded them, with noisy offers of assistance. The men in +smocks still continued to smoke and to stare at the metal sheet on the +floor. Although the luggage now extended in quite a long line upon the +counter they paid no attention to it, or to the violent and reiterated +cries of the Arabs who stood behind it, anxious to earn a tip by getting +it weighed and registered quickly. Apparently they were wrapped in +savage dreams. At length a light shone through the small opening of the +ticket-office, the men in smocks stirred and threw down their cigarette +stumps, and the few travellers pressed forward against the counter, +and pointed to their boxes with their sticks and hands. Suzanne Charpot +assumed an expression of attentive suspicion, and Domini ceased +from walking up and down. Several of the recruits came in hastily, +accompanied by two Zouaves. They were wet, and looked dazed and tired +out. Grasping their bags and bundles they went towards the platform. A +train glided slowly in, gleaming faintly with lights. Domini’s trunks +were slammed down on the weighing machine, and Suzanne, drawing out her +purse, took her stand before the shining hole of the ticket-office. + +In the wet darkness there rose up a sound like a child calling out an +insulting remark. This was followed immediately by the piping of a horn. +With a jerk the train started, passed one by one the station lamps, and, +with a steady jangling and rattling, drew out into the shrouded country. +Domini was in a wretchedly-lit carriage with three Frenchmen, facing +the door which opened on to the platform. The man opposite to her was +enormously fat, with a coal-black beard growing up to his eyes. He wore +black gloves and trousers, a huge black cloth hat, and a thick black +cloak with a black buckle near the throat. His eyes were shut, and his +large, heavy head drooped forward. Domini wondered if he was travelling +to the funeral of some relative. The two other men, one of whom looked +like a commercial traveller, kept shifting their feet upon the hot-water +tins that lay on the floor, clearing their throats and sighing loudly. +One of them coughed, let down the window, spat, drew the window up, sat +sideways, put his legs suddenly up on the seat and groaned. The train +rattled more harshly, and shook from side to side as it got up speed. +Rain streamed down the window-panes, through which it was impossible to +see anything. + +Domini still felt alert, but an overpowering sensation of dreariness had +come to her. She did not attribute this sensation to fatigue. She did +not try to analyse it. She only felt as if she had never seen or heard +anything that was not cheerless, as if she had never known anything that +was not either sad, or odd, or inexplicable. What did she remember? A +train of trifles that seemed to have been enough to fill all her life; +the arrival of the nervous and badly-dressed recruits at the wharf, +their embarkation, their last staring and pathetic look at France, +the stormy voyage, the sordid illness of almost everyone on board, the +approach long after sundown to the small and unknown town, of which it +was impossible to see anything clearly, the marshalling of the recruits +pale with sickness, their pitiful attempt at cheerful singing, angrily +checked by the Zouaves in charge of them, their departure up the hill +carrying their poor belongings, the sleepless night, the sound of the +rain falling, the scents rising from the unseen earth. The tap of the +Italian waiter at the door, the damp drive to the station, the long wait +there, the sneering signal, followed by the piping horn, the jerking and +rattling of the carriage, the dim light within it falling upon the stout +Frenchman in his mourning, the streaming water upon the window-panes. +These few sights, sounds, sensations were like the story of a life to +Domini just then, were more, were like the whole of life; always +dull noise, strange, flitting, pale faces, and an unknown region +that remained perpeturally invisible, and that must surely be ugly or +terrible. + +The train stopped frequently at lonely little stations. Domini looked +out, letting down the window for a moment. At each station she saw a +tiny house with a peaked roof, a wooden railing dividing the platform +from the country road, mud, grass bending beneath the weight of +water-drops, and tall, dripping, shaggy eucalyptus trees. Sometimes the +station-master’s children peered at the train with curious eyes, and +depressed-looking Arabs, carefully wrapped up, their mouths and chins +covered by folds of linen, got in and out slowly. + +Once Domini saw two women, in thin, floating white dresses and spangled +veils, hurrying by like ghosts in the dark. Heavy silver ornaments +jangled on their ankles, above their black slippers splashed with mud. +Their sombre eyes stared out from circles of Kohl, and, with stained, +claret-coloured hands, whose nails were bright red, they clasped their +light and bridal raiment to their prominent breasts. They were escorted +by a gigantic man, almost black, with a zigzag scar across the left +side of his face, who wore a shining brown burnous over a grey woollen +jacket. He pushed the two women into the train as if he were pushing +bales, and got in after them, showing enormous bare legs, with calves +that stuck out like lumps of iron. + +The darkness began to fade, and presently, as the grey light grew slowly +stronger, the rain ceased, and it was possible to see through the glass +of the carriage window. + +The country began to discover itself, as if timidly, to Domini’s eyes. +She had recently noticed that the train was going very slowly, and she +could now see why. They were mounting a steep incline. The rich, damp +earth of the plains beyond Robertville, with its rank grass, its moist +ploughland and groves of eucalyptus, was already left behind. The train +was crawling in a cup of the hills, grey, sterile and abandoned, +without roads or houses, without a single tree. Small, grey-green bushes +flourished here and there on tiny humps of earth, but they seemed rather +to emphasise than to diminish the aspect of poverty presented by the +soil, over which the dawn, rising from the wet arms of night, shed a +cold and reticent illumination. By a gash in the rounded hills, where +the earth was brownish yellow, a flock of goats with flapping ears +tripped slowly, followed by two Arab boys in rags. One of the boys was +playing upon a pipe coverd with red arabesques. Domini heard two or +three bars of the melody. They were ineffably wild and bird-like, +very clear and sweet. They seemed to her to match exactly the pure and +ascetic light cast by the dawn over these bare, grey hills, and they +stirred her abruptly from the depressed lassitude in which the dreary +chances of recent travel had drowned her. She began, with a certain +faint excitement, to realise that these low, round-backed hills were +Africa, that she was leaving behind the sea, so many of whose waves +swept along European shores, that somewhere, beyond the broken and near +horizon line toward which the train was creeping, lay the great desert, +her destination, with its pale sands and desolate cities, its sunburnt +tribes of workers, its robbers, warriors and priests, its ethereal +mysteries of mirage, its tragic splendours of colour, of tempest and +of heat. A sense of a wider world than the compressed world into which +physical fatigue had decoyed her woke in her brain and heart. The little +Arab, playing carelessly upon his pipe with the red arabesques, was soon +invisible among his goats beside the dry water-course that was probably +the limit of his journeying, but Domini felt that like a musician at the +head of a procession he had played her bravely forward into the dawn and +Africa. + +At Ah-Souf Domini changed into another train and had the carriage to +herself. The recruits had reached their destination. Hers was a longer +pilgramage and still towards the sun. She could not afterwards remember +what she thought about during this part of her journey. Subsequent +events so coloured all her memories of Africa that every fold of its +sun-dried soil was endowed in her mind with the significance of a living +thing. Every palm beside a well, every stunted vine and clambering +flower upon an _auberge_ wall, every form of hill and silhouette of +shadow, became in her heart intense with the beauty and the pathos she +used, as a child, to think must lie beyond the sunset. + +And so she forgot. + +A strange sense of leaving all things behind had stolen over her. She +was really fatigued by travel and by want of sleep, but she did not +know it. Lying back in her seat, with her head against the dirty white +covering of the shaking carriage, she watched the great change that was +coming over the land. + +It seemed as if God were putting forth His hand to withdraw gradually +all things of His creation, all the furniture He had put into the great +Palace of the world; as if He meant to leave it empty and utterly naked. + +So Domini thought. + +First He took the rich and shaggy grass, and all the little flowers +that bloomed modestly in it. Then He drew away the orange groves, the +oleander and the apricot trees, the faithful eucalyptus with its pale +stems and tressy foliage, the sweet waters that fertilised the soil, +making it soft and brown where the plough seamed it into furrows, the +tufted plants and giant reeds that crowd where water is. And still, +as the train ran on, His gifts were fewer. At last even the palms +were gone, and the Barbary fig displayed no longer among the crumbling +boulders its tortured strength, and the pale and fantastic evolutions +of its unnatural foliage. Stones lay everywhere upon the pale yellow or +grey-brown earth. Crystals glittered in the sun like shallow jewels, and +far away, under clouds that were dark and feathery, appeared hard and +relentless mountains, which looked as if they were made of iron carved +into horrible and jagged shapes. Where they fell into ravines they +became black. Their swelling bosses and flanks, sharp sometimes as +the spines of animals, were steel coloured. Their summits were purple, +deepening where the clouds came down to ebony. + +Journeying towards these terrible fastnesses were caravans on which +Domini looked with a heavy and lethargic interest. Many Kabyles, fairer +than she was, moved slowly on foot towards their rock villages. + +Over the withered earth they went towards the distant mountains and the +clouds. The sun was hidden. The wind continued to rise. Sand found its +way in through the carriage windows. The mountains, as Domini saw them +more clearly, looked more gloomy, more unearthly. There was something +unnatural in their hard outlines, in the rigid mystery of their +innumerable clefts. That all these people should be journeying towards +them was pathetic, and grieved the imagination. + +The wind seemed so cold, now the sun was hidden, that she had drawn both +the windows up and thrown a rug over her. She put her feet up on the +opposite seat, and half closed her eyes. But she still turned them +towards the glass on her left, and watched. It seemed to her +quite impossible that this shaking and slowly moving train had any +destination. The desolation of the country had become so absolute that +she could not conceive of anything but still greater desolation lying +beyond. She had no feeling that she was merely traversing a tract of +sterility. Her sensation was that she had passed the boundary of the +world God had created, and come into some other place, upon which He had +never looked and of which He had no knowledge. + +Abruptly she felt as if her father had entered into some such region +when he forced his way out of his religion. And in this region he had +died. She had stood on the verge of it by his deathbed. Now she was in +it. + +There were no Arabs journeying now. No tents huddled among the low +bushes. The last sign of vegetation was obliterated. The earth rose and +fell in a series of humps and depressions, interspersed with piles of +rock. Every shade of yellow and of brown mingled and flowed away towards +the foot of the mountains. Here and there dry water-courses showed their +teeth. Their crumbling banks were like the rind of an orange. Little +birds, the hue of the earth, with tufted crests, tripped jauntily among +the stones, fluttered for a few yards and alighted, with an air of +strained alertness, as if their minute bodies were full of trembling +wires. They were the only living things Domini could see. + +She thought again of her father. In some such region as this his soul +must surely be wandering, far away from God. + +She let down the glass. + +The wind was really cold and blowing gustily. She drank it in as if +she were tasting a new wine, and she was conscious at once that she +had never before breathed such air. There was a wonderful, a startling +flavour in it, the flavour of gigantic spaces and of rolling leagues of +emptiness. Neither among mountains nor upon the sea had she ever found +an atmosphere so fiercely pure, clean and lively with unutterable +freedom. She leaned out to it, shutting her eyes. And now that she saw +nothing her palate savoured it more intensely. The thought of her father +fled from her. All detailed thoughts, all the minutia of the mind were +swept away. She was bracing herself to an encounter with something +gigantic, something unshackled, the being from whose lips this wonderful +breath flowed. + +When two lovers kiss their breath mingles, and, if they really love, +each is conscious that in the breath of the loved one is the loved one’s +soul, coming forth from the temple of the body through the temple door. +As Domini leaned out, seeing nothing, she was conscious that in this +breath she drank there was a soul, and it seemed to her that it was the +soul which flames in the centre of things, and beyond. She could not +think any longer of her father as an outcast because he had abandoned a +religion. For all religions were surely here, marching side by side, and +behind them, background to them, there was something far greater than +any religion. Was it snow or fire? Was it the lawlessness of that which +has made laws, or the calm of that which has brought passion into being? +Greater love than is in any creed, or greater freedom than is in any +human liberty? Domini only felt that if she had ever been a slave at +this moment she would have died of joy, realising the boundless freedom +that circles this little earth. + +“Thank God for it!” she murmured aloud. + +Her own words woke her to a consciousness of ordinary things--or made +her sleep to the eternal. + +She closed the window and sat down. + +A little later the sun came out again, and the various shades of yellow +and of orange that played over the wrinkled earth deepened and glowed. +Domini had sunk into a lethargy so complete that, though not asleep, she +was scarcely aware of the sun. She was dreaming of liberty. + +Presently the train slackened and stopped. She heard a loud chattering +of many voices and looked out. The sun was now shining brilliantly, +and she saw a station crowded with Arabs in white burnouses, who were +vociferously greeting friends in the train, were offering enormous +oranges for sale to the passengers, or were walking up and down gazing +curiously into the carriages, with the unblinking determination and +indifference to a return of scrutiny which she had already noticed and +thought animal. A guard came up, told her the place was El-Akbara, and +that the train would stay there ten minutes to wait for the train from +Beni-Mora. She decided to get out and stretch her cramped limbs. On +the platform she found Suzanne, looking like a person who had just been +slapped. One side of the maid’s face was flushed and covered with a +faint tracery of tiny lines. The other was greyish white. Sleep hung +in her eyes, over which the lids drooped as if they were partially +paralysed. Her fingers were yellow from peeling an orange, and her smart +little hat was cocked on one side. There were grains of sand on her +black gown, and when she saw her mistress she at once began to +compress her lips, and to assume the expression of obstinate patience +characteristic of properly-brought-up servants who find themselves +travelling far from home in outlandish places. + +“Have you been asleep, Suzanne?” + +“No, Mam’zelle.” + +“You’ve had an orange?” + +“I couldn’t get it down, Mam’zelle.” + +“Would you like to see if you can get a cup of coffee here?” + +“No, thank you, Mam’zelle. I couldn’t touch this Arab stuff.” + +“We shall soon be there now.” + +Suzanne made all her naturally small features look much smaller, glanced +down at her skirt, and suddenly began to shake the grains of sand from +it in an outraged manner, at the same time extending her left foot. Two +or three young Arabs came up and stood, staring, round her. Their eyes +were magnificent, and gravely observant. Suzanne went on shaking and +patting her skirt, and Domini walked away down the platform, wondering +what a French maid’s mind was like. Suzanne’s certainly had its +limitations. It was evident that she was horrified by the sight of bare +legs. Why? + +As Domini walked along the platform among the fruit-sellers, the guides, +the turbaned porters with their badges, the staring children and the +ragged wanderers who thronged about the train, she thought of the desert +to which she was now so near. It lay, she knew, beyond the terrific +wall of rock that faced her. But she could see no opening. The towering +summits of the cliffs, jagged as the teeth of a wolf, broke crudely upon +the serene purity of the sky. Somewhere, concealed in the darkness of +the gorge at their feet, was the mouth from which had poured forth that +wonderful breath, quivering with freedom and with unearthly things. The +sun was already declining, and the light it cast becoming softened and +romantic. Soon there would be evening in the desert. Then there would +be night. And she would be there in the night with all things that the +desert holds. + +A train of camels was passing on the white road that descended into the +shadow of the gorge. Some savage-looking men accompanied them, crying +continually, “Oosh! Oosh!” They disappeared, desert-men with their +desert-beasts, bound no doubt on some tremendous journey through the +regions of the sun. Where would they at last unlade the groaning camels? +Domini saw them in the midst of dunes red with the dying fires of the +west. And their shadows lay along the sands like weary things reposing. + +She started when a low voice spoke to her in French, and, turning round, +saw a tall Arab boy, magnificently dressed in pale blue cloth trousers, +a Zouave jacket braided with gold, and a fez, standing near her. She was +struck by the colour of his skin, which was faint as the colour of _café +au lait_, and by the contrast between his huge bulk and his languid, +almost effeminate, demeanour. As she turned he smiled at her calmly, and +lifted one hand toward the wall of rock. + +“Madame has seen the desert?” he asked. + +“Never,” answered Domini. + +“It is the garden of oblivion,” he said, still in a low voice, and +speaking with a delicate refinement that was almost mincing. “In the +desert one forgets everything; even the little heart one loves, and the +desire of one’s own soul.” + +“How can that be?” asked Domini. + +“Shal-lah. It is the will of God. One remembers nothing any more.” + +His eyes were fixed upon the gigantic pinnacles of the rocks. There was +something fanatical and highly imaginative in their gaze. + +“What is your name?” Domini asked. + +“Batouch, Madame. You are going to Beni-Mora?” + +“Yes, Batouch.” + +“I too. To-night, under the mimosa trees, I shall compose a poem. It +will be addressed to Irena, the dancing-girl. She is like the little +moon when it first comes up above the palm trees.” + +Just then the train from Beni-Mora ran into the station, and Domini +turned to seek her carriage. As she was coming to it she noticed, with +the pang of the selfish traveller who wishes to be undisturbed, that +a tall man, attended by an Arab porter holding a green bag, was at the +door of it and was evidently about to get in. He glanced round as Domini +came up, half drew back rather awkwardly as if to allow her to precede +him, then suddenly sprang in before her. The Arab lifted in the bag, +and the man, endeavouring hastily to thrust some money into his hand, +dropped the coin, which fell down between the step of the carriage +and the platform. The Arab immediately made a greedy dive after it, +interposing his body between Domini and the train; and she was obliged +to stand waiting while he looked for it, grubbing frantically in +the earth with his brown fingers, and uttering muffled exclamations, +apparently of rage. Meanwhile, the tall man had put the green bag up +on the rack, gone quickly to the far side of the carriage, and sat down +looking out of the window. + +Domini was struck by the mixture of indecision and blundering haste +which he had shown, and by his impoliteness. Evidently he was not a +gentleman, she thought, or he would surely have obeyed his first impulse +and allowed her to get into the train before him. It seemed, too, as +if he were determined to be discourteous, for he sat with his shoulder +deliberately turned towards the door, and made no attempt to get his +Arab out of the way, although the train was just about to start. Domini +was very tired, and she began to feel angry with him, contemptuous too. +The Arab could not find the money, and the little horn now piped its +warning of departure. It was absolutely necessary for her to get in at +once if she did not mean to stay at El-Akbara. She tried to pass the +grovelling Arab, but as she did so he suddenly sprang up, jumped on +to the step of the carriage, and, thrusting his body half through the +doorway, began to address a torrent of Arabic to the passenger within. +The horn sounded again, and the carriage jerked backwards preparatory to +starting on its way to Beni-Mora. + +Domini caught hold of the short European jacket the Arab was wearing, +and said in French: + +“You must let me get in at once. The train is going.” + +The man, however, intent on replacing the coin he had lost, took no +notice of her, but went on vociferating and gesticulating. The traveller +said something in Arabic. Domini was now very angry. She gripped the +jacket, exerted all her force, and pulled the Arab violently from the +door. He alighted on the platform beside her and nearly fell. Before he +had recovered himself she sprang up into the train, which began to +move at that very moment. As she got in, the man who had caused all the +bother was leaning forward with a bit of silver in his hand, looking as +if he were about to leave his seat. Domini cast a glance of contempt at +him, and he turned quickly to the window again and stared out, at the +same time putting the coin back into his pocket. A dull flush rose on +his cheek, but he attempted no apology, and did not even offer to fasten +the lower handle of the door. + +“What a boor!” Domini thought as she bent out of the window to do it. + +When she turned from the door, after securing the handle, she found the +carriage full of a pale twilight. The train was stealing into the gorge, +following the caravan of camels which she had seen disappearing. She +paid no more attention to her companion, and her feeling of acute +irritation against him died away for the moment. The towering cliffs +cast mighty shadows, the darkness deepened, the train, quickening its +speed, seemed straining forward into the arms of night. There was a +chill in the air. Domini drank it into her lungs again, and again +was startled, stirred, by the life and the mentality of it. She was +conscious of receiving it with passion, as if, indeed, she held her lips +to a mouth and drank some being’s very nature into hers. She forgot her +recent vexation and the man who had caused it. She forgot everything in +mere sensation. She had no time to ask, “Whither am I going?” She felt +like one borne upon a wave, seaward, to the wonder, to the danger, +perhaps, of a murmuring unknown. The rocks leaned forward; their teeth +were fastened in the sky; they enclosed the train, banishing the sun and +the world from all the lives within it. She caught a fleeting glimpse of +rushing waters far beneath her; of crumbling banks, covered with debris +like the banks of a disused quarry; of shattered boulders, grouped in a +wild disorder, as if they had been vomited forth from some underworld +or cast headlong from the sky; of the flying shapes of fruit trees, +mulberries and apricot trees, oleanders and palms; of dull yellow walls +guarding pools the colour of absinthe, imperturbable and still. A strong +impression of increasing cold and darkness grew in her, and the noises +of the train became hollow, and seemed to be expanding, as if they were +striving to press through the impending rocks and find an outlet +into space; failing, they rose angrily, violently, in Domini’s ears, +protesting, wrangling, shouting, declaiming. The darkness became like +the darkness of a nightmare. All the trees vanished, as if they fled in +fear. The rocks closed in as if to crush the train. There was a moment +in which Domini shut her eyes, like one expectant of a tremendous blow +that cannot be avoided. + +She opened them to a flood of gold, out of which the face of a man +looked, like a face looking out of the heart of the sun. + + + +CHAPTER III + +It flashed upon her with the desert, with the burning heaps of carnation +and orange-coloured rocks, with the first sand wilderness, the first +brown villages glowing in the late radiance of the afternoon like carven +things of bronze, the first oasis of palms, deep green as a wave of the +sea and moving like a wave, the first wonder of Sahara warmth and Sahara +distance. She passed through the golden door into the blue country, and +saw this face, and, for a moment, moved by the exalted sensation of a +magical change in all her world, she looked at it simply as a new sight +presented, with the sun, the mighty rocks, the hard, blind villages, and +the dense trees, to her eyes, and connected it with nothing. It was part +of this strange and glorious desert region to her. That was all, for a +moment. + +In the play of untempered golden light the face seemed pale. It was +narrow, rather long, with marked and prominent features, a nose with a +high bridge, a mouth with straight, red lips, and a powerful chin. The +eyes were hazel, almost yellow, with curious markings of a darker shade +in the yellow, dark centres that looked black, and dark outer circles. +The eyelashes were very long, the eyebrows thick and strongly curved. +The forehead was high, and swelled out slightly above the temples. There +was no hair on the face, which was closely shaved. Near the mouth were +two faint lines that made Domini think of physical suffering, and also +of mediaeval knights. Despite the glory of the sunshine there seemed to +be a shadow falling across the face. + +This was all that Domini noticed before the spell of change and the +abrupt glory was broken, and she knew that she was staring into the face +of the man who had behaved so rudely at the station of El-Akbara. The +knowledge gave her a definite shock, and she thought that her expression +must have changed abruptly, for a dull flush rose on the stranger’s thin +cheeks and mounted to his rugged forehead. He glanced out of the window +and moved his hands uneasily. Domini noticed that they scarcely tallied +with his face. Though scrupulously clean, they looked like the hands of +a labourer, hard, broad, and brown. Even his wrists, and a small section +of his left forearm, which showed as he lifted his left hand from one +knee to the other, were heavily tinted by the sun. The spaces between +the fingers were wide, as they usually are in hands accustomed to +grasping implements, but the fingers themselves were rather delicate and +artistic. + +Domini observed this swiftly. Then she saw that her neighbour was +unpleasantly conscious of her observation. This vexed her vaguely, +perhaps because even so trifling a circumstance was like a thin link +between them. She snapped it by ceasing to look at or think of him. The +window was down. A delicate and warm breeze drifted in, coming from +the thickets of the palms. In flashing out of the darkness of the gorge +Domini had had the sensation of passing into a new world and a new +atmosphere. The sensation stayed with her now that she was no longer +dreaming or giving the reins to her imagination, but was calmly herself. +Against the terrible rampart of rock the winds beat across the land of +the Tell. But they die there frustrated. And the rains journey thither +and fail, sinking into the absinthe-coloured pools of the gorge. And the +snows and even the clouds stop, exhausted in their pilgrimage. The gorge +is not their goal, but it is their grave, and the desert never sees +their burial. So Domini’s first sense of casting away the known +remained, and even grew, but now strongly and quietly. It was well +founded, she thought. For she looked out of the carriage window towards +the barrier she was leaving, and saw that on this side, guarding the +desert from the world that is not desert, it was pink in the evening +light, deepening here and there to rose colour, whereas on the far side +it had a rainy hue as of rocks in England. And there was a lustre of +gold in the hills, tints of glowing bronze slashed with a red line as +the heart of a wound, but recalling the heart of a flower. The folds of +the earth glistened. There was flame down there in the river bed. The +wreckage of the land, the broken fragments, gleamed as if braided with +precious things. Everywhere the salt crystals sparkled with the violence +of diamonds. Everywhere there was a strength of colour that hurled +itself to the gaze, unabashed and almost savage, the colour of summer +that never ceases, of heat that seldom dies, in a land where there is no +autumn and seldom a flitting cold. + +Down on the road near the village there were people; old men playing +the “lady’s game” with stones set in squares of sand, women peeping from +flat roofs and doorways, children driving goats. A man, like a fair and +beautiful Christ, with long hair and a curling beard, beat on the ground +with a staff and howled some tuneless notes. He was dressed in red and +green. No one heeded him. A distant sound of the beating of drums rose +in the air, mingled with piercing cries uttered by a nasal voice. And +as if below it, like the orchestral accompaniment of a dramatic +solo, hummed many blending noises; faint calls of labourers in the +palm-gardens and of women at the wells; chatter of children in dusky +courts sheltered with reeds and pale-stemmed grasses; dim pipings of +homeward-coming shepherds drowned, with their pattering charges, in the +golden vapours of the west; soft twitterings of birds beyond brown walls +in green seclusions; dull barking of guard dogs; mutter of camel drivers +to their velvet-footed beasts. + +The caravan which Domini had seen descending into the gorge reappeared, +moving deliberately along the desert road towards the south. A +watch-tower peeped above the palms. Doves were circling round it. Many +of them were white. They flew like ivory things above this tower of +glowing bronze, which slept at the foot of the pink rocks. On the left +rose a mass of blood-red earth and stone. Slanting rays of the sun +struck it, and it glowed mysteriously like a mighty jewel. + +As Domini leaned out of the window, and the salt crystals sparkled to +her eyes, and the palms swayed languidly above the waters, and the rose +and mauve of the hills, the red and orange of the earth, streamed by +in the flames of the sun before the passing train like a barbaric +procession, to the sound of the hidden drums, the cry of the hidden +priest, and all the whispering melodies of these strange and unknown +lives, tears started into her eyes. The entrance into this land of flame +and colour, through its narrow and terrific portal, stirred her almost +beyond her present strength. The glory of this world mounted to her +heart, oppressing it. The embrace of Nature was so violent that it +crushed her. She felt like a little fly that had sought to wing its +way to the sun and, at a million miles’ distance from it, was being +shrivelled by its heat. When all the voices of the village fainted +away she was glad, although she strained her ears to hear their fading +echoes. Suddenly she knew that she was very tired, so tired that +emotions acted upon her as physical exertion acts upon an exhausted man. +She sat down and shut her eyes. For a long time she stayed with her eyes +shut, but she knew that on the windows strange lights were glittering, +that the carriage was slowly filling with the ineffable splendours of +the west. Long afterwards she often wondered whether she endowed the +sunset of that day with supernatural glories because she was so tired. +Perhaps the salt mountain of El-Alia did not really sparkle like the +celestial mountains in the visions of the saints. Perhaps the long chain +of the Aures did not really look as if all its narrow clefts had been +powdered with the soft and bloomy leaves of unearthly violets, and +the desert was not cloudy in the distance towards the Zibans with the +magical blue she thought she saw there, a blue neither of sky nor sea, +but like the hue at the edge of a flame in the heart of a wood fire. She +often wondered, but she never knew. + +The sound of a movement made her look up. Her companion was changing his +place and going to the other side of the compartment. He walked softly, +no doubt with the desire not to disturb Domini. His back was towards her +for an instant, and she noticed that he was a powerful man, though +very thin, and that his gait was heavy. It made her think again of his +labourer’s hands, and she began to wonder idly what was his rank and +what he did. He sat down in the far corner on the same side as herself +and stared out of his window, crossing his legs. He wore large boots +with square toes, clumsy and unfashionable, but comfortable and good for +walking in. His clothes had obviously been made by a French tailor. +The stuff of them was grey and woolly, and they were cut tighter to +the figure than English clothes generally are. He had on a black silk +necktie, and a soft brown travelling hat dented in the middle. By the +way in which he looked out of the window, Domini judged that he, too, +was seeing the desert for the first time. There was something almost +passionately attentive in his attitude, something of strained eagerness +in that part of his face which she could see from where she was +sitting. His cheek was not pale, as she had thought at first, but brown, +obviously burnt by the sun of Africa. But she felt that underneath the +sunburn there was pallor. She fancied he might be a painter, and was +noting all the extraordinary colour effects with the definiteness of a +man who meant, perhaps, to reproduce them on canvas. + +The light, which had now the peculiar, almost supernatural softness +and limpidity of light falling at evening from a declining sun in a hot +country, came full upon him, and brightened his hair. Domini saw that it +was brown with some chestnut in it, thick, and cut extremely short, as +if his head had recently been shaved. She felt convinced that he was not +French. He might be an Austrian, perhaps, or a Russian from the south of +Russia. He remained motionless in that attitude of profound observation. +It suggested great force not merely of body, but also of mind, an almost +abnormal concentration upon the thing observed. This was a man who +could surely shut out the whole world to look at a grain of sand, if he +thought it beautiful or interesting. + +They were near Beni-Mora now. Its palms appeared far off, and in the +midst of them a snow-white tower. The Sahara lay beyond and around it, +rolling away from the foot of low, brown hills, that looked as if +they had been covered with a soft powder of bronze. A long spur of +rose-coloured mountains stretched away towards the south. The sun was +very near his setting. Small, red clouds floated in the western quarter +of the sky, and the far desert was becoming mysteriously dim and blue, +like a remote sea. Here and there thin wreaths of smoke ascended from +it, and lights glittered in it, like earth-bound stars. + +Domini had never before understood how strangely, how strenuously, +colour can at moments appeal to the imagination. In this pageant of the +East she saw arise the naked soul of Africa; no faded, gentle thing, +fearful of being seen, fearful of being known and understood; but a +phenomenon vital, bold and gorgeous, like the sound of a trumpet pealing +a great _reveille_. As she looked on this flaming land laid fearlessly +bare before her, disdaining the clothing of grass, plant and flower, of +stream and tree, displaying itself with an almost brazen _insouciance_, +confident in its spacious power, and in its golden pride, her heart +leaped up as if in answer to a deliberate appeal. The fatigue in her +died. She responded to this _reveille_ like a young warrior who, so +soon as he is wakened, stretches out his hand for his sword. The sunset +flamed on her clear, white cheeks, giving them its hue of life. And +her nature flamed to meet it. In the huge spaces of the Sahara her soul +seemed to hear the footsteps of Freedom treading towards the south. +And all her dull perplexities, all her bitterness of _ennui_, all her +questionings and doubts, were swept away on the keen desert wind +into the endless plains. She had come from her last confession asking +herself, “What am I?” She had felt infinitely small confronted with the +pettiness of modern, civilised life in a narrow, crowded world. Now she +did not torture herself with any questions, for she knew that something +large, something capable, something perhaps even noble, rose up within +her to greet all this nobility, all this mighty frankness and fierce, +undressed sincerity of nature. This desert and this sun would be her +comrades, and she was not afraid of them. + +Without being aware of it she breathed out a great sigh, feeling the +necessity of liberating her joy of spirit, of letting the body, however +inadequately and absurdly, make some demonstration in response to the +secret stirring of the soul. The man in the far corner of the carriage +turned and looked at her. When she heard this movement Domini remembered +her irritation against him at El-Akbara. In this splendid moment the +feeling seemed to her so paltry and contemptible that she had a lively +impulse to make amends for the angry look she had cast at him. Possibly, +had she been quite normal, she would have checked such an impulse. The +voice of conventionality would have made itself heard. But Domini could +act vigorously, and quite carelessly, when she was moved. And she was +deeply moved now, and longed to lavish the humanity, the sympathy and +ardour that were quick in her. In answer to the stranger’s movement she +turned towards him, opening her lips to speak to him. Afterwards she +never knew what she meant to say, whether, if she had spoken, the words +would have been French or English. For she did not speak. + +The man’s face was illuminated by the setting sun as he sat half round +on his seat, leaning with his right hand palm downwards on the cushions. +The light glittered on his short hair. He had pushed back his soft hat, +and exposed his high, rugged forehead to the air, and his brown left +hand gripped the top of the carriage door. The large, knotted veins +on it, the stretched sinews, were very perceptible. The hand looked +violent. Domini’s eyes fell on it as she turned. The impulse to speak +began to fail, and when she glanced up at the man’s face she no longer +felt it at all. For, despite the glory of the sunset on him, there +seemed to be a cold shadow in his eyes. The faint lines near his +mouth looked deeper than before, and now suggested most powerfully the +dreariness, the harshness of long-continued suffering. The mouth itself +was compressed and grim, and the man’s whole expression was fierce and +startling as the expression of a criminal bracing himself to endure +inevitable detection. So crude and piercing indeed was this mask +confronting her that Domini started and was inclined to shudder. For +a minute the man’s eyes held hers, and she thought she saw in them +unfathomable depths of misery or of wickedness. She hardly knew which. +Sorrow was like crime, and crime like the sheer desolation of grief to +her just then. And she thought of the outer darkness spoken of in the +Bible. It came before her in the sunset. Her father was in it, and this +stranger stood by him. The thing was as vital, and fled as swiftly as a +hallucination in a madman’s brain. + +Domini looked down. All the triumph died out in her, all the exquisite +consciousness of the freedom, the colour, the bigness of life. For there +was a black spot on the sun--humanity, God’s mistake in the great plan +of Creation. And the shadow cast by humanity tempered, even surely +conquered, the light. She wondered whether she would always feel the +cold of the sunless places in the golden dominion of the sun. + +The man had dropped his eyes too. His hand fell from the door to his +knee. He did not move till the train ran into Beni-Mora, and the eager +faces of countless Arabs stared in upon them from the scorched field of +manoeuvres where Spahis were exercising in the gathering twilight. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Having given her luggage ticket to a porter, Domini passed out of the +station followed by Suzanne, who looked and walked like an exhausted +marionette. Batouch, who had emerged from a third-class compartment +before the train stopped, followed them closely, and as they reached the +jostling crowd of Arabs which swarmed on the roadway he joined them with +the air of a proprietor. + +“Which is Madame’s hotel?” + +Domini looked round. + +“Ah, Batouch!” + +Suzanne jumped as if her string had been sharply pulled, and cast a +glance of dreary suspicion upon the poet. She looked at his legs, then +upwards. + +He wore white socks which almost met his pantaloons. Scarcely more than +an inch of pale brown skin was visible. The gold buttons of his jacket +glittered brightly. His blue robe floated majestically from his broad +shoulders, and the large tassel of his fez fell coquettishly towards +his left ear, above which was set a pale blue flower with a woolly green +leaf. + +Suzanne was slightly reassured by the flower and the bright buttons. +She felt that they needed a protector in this mob of shouting brown and +black men, who clamoured about them like savages, exposing bare legs and +arms, even bare chests, in a most barbarous manner. + +“We are going to the Hotel du Desert,” Domini continued. “Is it far?” + +“Only a few minutes, Madame.” + +“I shall like to walk there.” + +Suzanne collapsed. Her bones became as wax with apprehension. She saw +herself toiling over leagues of sand towards some nameless hovel. + +“Suzanne, you can get into the omnibus and take the handbags.” + +At the sweet word omnibus a ray of hope stole into the maid’s heart, and +when a nicely-dressed man, in a long blue coat and indubitable trousers, +assisted her politely into a vehicle which was unmistakable she almost +wept for joy. + +Meanwhile Domini, escorted serenely by the poet, walked towards the long +gardens of Beni-Mora. She passed over a wooden bridge. White dust was +flying from the road, along which many of the Arab aristocracy were +indolently strolling, carrying lightly in their hands small red roses or +sprigs of pink geranium. In their white robes they looked, she thought, +like monks, though the cigarettes many of them were smoking fought +against the illusion. Some of them were dressed like Batouch in +pale-coloured cloth. They held each other’s hands loosely as they +sauntered along, chattering in soft contralto voices. Two or three were +attended by servants, who walked a pace or two behind them on the left. +These were members of great families, rulers of tribes, men who had +influence over the Sahara people. One, a shortish man with a coal-black +beard, moved so majestically that he seemed almost a giant. His face was +very pale. On one of his small, almost white, hands glittered a diamond +ring. A boy with a long, hooked nose strolled gravely near him, wearing +brown kid gloves and a turban spangled with gold. + +“That is the Kaid of Tonga, Madame,” whispered Batouch, looking at the +pale man reverently. “He is here _en permission_.” + +“How white he is.” + +“They tried to poison him. Ever since he is ill inside. That is his +brother. The brown gloves are very chic.” + +A light carriage rolled rapidly by them in a white mist of dust. It was +drawn by a pair of white mules, who whisked their long tails as they +trotted briskly, urged on by a cracking whip. A big boy with heavy brown +eyes was the coachman. By his side sat a very tall young negro with a +humorous pointed nose, dressed in primrose yellow. He grinned at Batouch +out of the mist, which accentuated the coal-black hue of his whimsical, +happy face. + +“That is the Agha’s son with Mabrouk.” + +They turned aside from the road and came into a long tunnel formed by +mimosa trees that met above a broad path. To right and left were other +little paths branching among the trunks of fruit trees and the narrow +twigs of many bushes that grew luxuriantly. Between sandy brown banks, +carefully flattened and beaten hard by the spades of Arab gardeners, +glided streams of opaque water that were guided from the desert by a +system of dams. The Kaid’s mill watched over them and the great wall +of the fort. In the tunnel the light was very delicate and tinged with +green. The noise of the water flowing was just audible. A few Arabs were +sitting on benches in dreamy attitudes, with their heelless slippers +hanging from the toes of their bare feet. Beyond the entrance of the +tunnel Domini could see two horsemen galloping at a tremendous pace into +the desert. Their red cloaks streamed out over the sloping quarters of +their horses, which devoured the earth as if in a frenzy of emulation. +They disappeared into the last glories of the sun, which still lingered +on the plain and blazed among the summits of the red mountains. + +All the contrasts of this land were exquisite to Domini and, in some +mysterious way, suggested eternal things; whispering through colour, +gleam, and shadow, through the pattern of leaf and rock, through the +air, now fresh, now tenderly warm and perfumed, through the silence that +hung like a filmy cloud in the golden heaven. + +She and Batouch entered the tunnel, passing at once into definite +evening. The quiet of these gardens was delicious, and was only +interrupted now and then by the sound of wheels upon the road as a +carriage rolled by to some house which was hidden in the distance of the +oasis. The seated Arabs scarcely disturbed it by their murmured talk. +Many of them indeed said nothing, but rested like lotus-eaters in +graceful attitudes, with hanging hands, and eyes, soft as the eyes of +gazelles, that regarded the shadowy paths and creeping waters with a +grave serenity born of the inmost spirit of idleness. + +But Batouch loved to talk, and soon began a languid monologue. + +He told Domini that he had been in Paris, where he had been the guest of +a French poet who adored the East; that he himself was “instructed,” and +not like other Arabs; that he smoked the hashish and could sing the love +songs of the Sahara; that he had travelled far in the desert, to Souf +and to Ouargla beyond the ramparts of the Dunes; that he composed +verses in the night when the uninstructed, the brawlers, the drinkers of +absinthe and the domino players were sleeping or wasting their time +in the darkness over the pastimes of the lewd, when the sybarites +were sweating under the smoky arches of the Moorish baths, and the +_marechale_ of the dancing-girls sat in her flat-roofed house guarding +the jewels and the amulets of her gay confederation. These verses were +written both in Arabic and in French, and the poet of Paris and his +friends had found them beautiful as the dawn, and as the palm trees of +Ourlana by the Artesian wells. All the girls of the Ouled Nails were +celebrated in these poems--Aishoush and Irena, Fatma and Baali. In them +also were enshrined legends of the venerable marabouts who slept in the +Paradise of Allah, and tales of the great warriors who had fought above +the rocky precipices of Constantine and far off among the sands of +the South. They told the stories of the Koulouglis, whose mothers were +Moorish slaves, and romances in which figured the dark-skinned Beni +M’Zab and the freed negroes who had fled away from the lands in the very +heart of the sun. + +All this information, not wholly devoid of a naive egoism, Batouch +poured forth gently and melodiously as they walked through the twilight +in the tunnel. And Domini was quite content to listen. The strange names +the poet mentioned, his liquid pronunciation of them, his allusions +to wild events that had happened long ago in desert places, and to the +lives of priests of his old religion, of fanatics, and girls who rode +on camels caparisoned in red to the dancing-houses of Sahara cities--all +these things cradled her humour at this moment and seemed to plant her, +like a mimosa tree, deep down in this sand garden of the sun. + +She had forgotten her bitter sensation in the railway carriage when it +was recalled to her mind by an incident that clashed with her present +mood. + +Steps sounded on the path behind them, going faster than they were, and +presently Domini saw her fellow-traveller striding along, accompanied +by a young Arab who was carrying the green bag. The stranger was looking +straight before him down the tunnel, and he went by swiftly. But his +guide had something to say to Batouch, and altered his pace to keep +beside them for a moment. He was a very thin, lithe, skittish-looking +youth, apparently about twenty-three years old, with a chocolate-brown +skin, high cheek bones, long, almond-shaped eyes twinkling with +dissipated humour, and a large mouth that smiled showing pointed white +teeth. A straggling black moustache sprouted on his upper lip, and long +coarse strands of jet-black hair escaped from under the front of a fez +that was pushed back on his small head. His neck was thin and long, and +his hands were wonderfully delicate and expressive, with rosy and quite +perfect nails. When he laughed he had a habit of throwing his head +forward and tucking in his chin, letting the tassel of his fez fall over +his temple to left or right. He was dressed in white with a burnous, +and had a many-coloured piece of silk with frayed edges wound about his +waist, which was as slim as a young girl’s. + +He spoke to Batouch with intense vivacity in Arabic, at the same +time shooting glances half-obsequious, half-impudent, wholly and even +preternaturally keen and intelligent at Domini. Batouch replied with the +dignified languor that seemed peculiar to him. The colloquy continued +for two or three minutes. Domini thought it sounded like a quarrel, but +she was not accustomed to Arabs’ talk. Meanwhile, the stranger in front +had slackened his pace, and was obviously lingering for his neglectful +guide. Once or twice he nearly stopped, and made a movement as if to +turn round. But he checked it and went on slowly. His guide spoke more +and more vehemently, and suddenly, tucking in his chin and displaying +his rows of big and dazzling teeth, burst into a gay and boyish laugh, +at the same time shaking his head rapidly. Then he shot one last sly +look at Domini and hurried on, airily swinging the green bag to and fro. +His arms had tiny bones, but they were evidently strong, and he walked +with the light ease of a young animal. After he had gone he turned his +head once and stared full at Domini. She could not help laughing at the +vanity and consciousness of his expression. It was childish. Yet there +was something ruthless and wicked in it too. As he came up to the +stranger the latter looked round, said something to him, and then +hastened forward. Domini was struck by the difference between their +gaits. For the stranger, although he was so strongly built and muscular, +walked rather heavily and awkwardly, with a peculiar shuffling motion +of his feet. She began to wonder how old he was. About thirty-five or +thirty-seven, she thought. + +“That is Hadj,” said Batouch in his soft, rich voice. + +“Hadj?” + +“Yes. He is my cousin. He lives in Beni-Mora, but he, too, has been in +Paris. He has been in prison too.” + +“What for?” + +“Stabbing.” + +Batouch gave this piece of information with quiet indifference, and +continued + +“He likes to laugh. He is lazy. He has earned a great deal of money, and +now he has none. To-night he is very gay, because he has a client.” + +“I see. Then he is a guide?” + +“Many people in Beni-Mora are guides. But Hadj is always lucky in +getting the English.” + +“That man with him isn’t English!” Domini exclaimed. + +She had wondered what the traveller’s nationality was, but it had never +occurred to her that it might be the same as her own. + +“Yes, he is. And he is going to the Hotel du Desert. You and he are the +only English here, and almost the only travellers. It is too early for +many travellers yet. They fear the heat. And besides, few English come +here now. What a pity! They spend money, and like to see everything. +Hadj is very anxious to buy a costume at Tunis for the great _fete_ at +the end of Ramadan. It will cost fifty or sixty francs. He hopes the +Englishman is rich. But all the English are rich and generous.” + +Here Batouch looked steadily at Domini with his large, unconcerned eyes. + +“This one speaks Arabic a little.” + +Domini made no reply. She was surprised by this piece of information. +There was something, she thought, essentially un-English about the +stranger. He was certainly not dressed by an English tailor. But it was +not only that which had caused her mistake. His whole air and look, his +manner of holding himself, of sitting, of walking--yes, especially of +walking--were surely foreign. Yet, when she came to think about it, she +could not say that they were characteristic of any other country. Idly +she had said to herself that the stranger might be an Austrian or a +Russian. But she had been thinking of his colouring. It happened that +two _attaches_ of those two nations, whom she had met frequently in +London, had hair of that shade of rather warm brown. + +“He does not look like an Englishman,” she said presently. + +“He can talk in French and in Arabic, but Hadj says he is English.” + +“How should Hadj know?” + +“Because he has the eyes of the jackal, and has been with many English. +We are getting near to the Catholic church, Madame. You will see it +through the trees. And there is Monsieur the Cure coming towards us. He +is coming from his house, which is near the hotel.” + +At some distance in the twilight of the tunnel Domini saw a black figure +in a soutane walking very slowly towards them. The stranger, who had +been covering the ground rapidly with his curious, shuffling stride, +was much nearer to it than they were, and, if he kept on at his +present pace, would soon pass it. But suddenly Domini saw him pause and +hesitate. He bent down and seemed to be doing something to his boot. +Hadj dropped the green bag, and was evidently about to kneel down, and +assist him when he lifted himself up abruptly and looked before him, as +if at the priest who was approaching, then turned sharply to the right +into a path which led out of the garden to the arcades of the Rue +Berthe. Hadj followed, gesticulating frantically, and volubly explaining +that the hotel was in the opposite direction. But the stranger did not +stop. He only glanced swiftly back over his shoulder once, and then +continued on his way. + +“What a funny man that is!” said Batouch. “What does he want to do?” + +Domini did not answer him, for the priest was just passing them, and she +saw the church to the left among the trees. It was a plain, unpretending +building, with a white wooden door set in an arch. Above the arch were +a small cross, two windows with rounded tops, a clock, and a white tower +with a pink roof. She looked at it, and at the priest, whose face was +dark and meditative, with lustrous, but sad, brown eyes. Yet she thought +of the stranger. + +Her attention was beginning to be strongly fixed upon the unknown man. +His appearance and manner were so unusual that it was impossible not to +notice him. + +“There is the hotel, Madame!” said Batouch. + +Domini saw it standing at right angles to the church, facing the +gardens. A little way back from the church was the priest’s house, a +white building shaded by date palms and pepper trees. As they drew near +the stranger reappeared under the arcade, above which was the terrace of +the hotel. He vanished through the big doorway, followed by Hadj. + +While Suzanne was unpacking Domini came out on to the broad terrace +which ran along the whole length of the Hotel du Desert. Her bedroom +opened on to it in front, and at the back communicated with a small +salon. This salon opened on to a second and smaller terrace, from which +the desert could be seen beyond the palms. There seemed to be no guests +in the hotel. The verandah was deserted, and the peace of the soft +evening was profound. Against the white parapet a small, round table and +a cane armchair had been placed. A subdued patter of feet in slippers +came up the stairway, and an Arab servant appeared with a tea-tray. +He put it down on the table with the precise deftness which Domini had +already observed in the Arabs at Robertville, and swiftly vanished. She +sat down in the chair and poured out the tea, leaning her left arm on +the parapet. + +Her head was very tired and her temples felt compressed. She was +thankful for the quiet round her. Any harsh voice would have been +intolerable to her just then. There were many sounds in the village, but +they were vague, and mingled, flowing together and composing one sound +that was soothing, the restrained and level voice of Life. It hummed in +Domini’s ears as she sipped her tea, and gave an under-side of romance +to the peace. The light that floated in under the round arches of the +terrace was subdued. The sun had just gone down, and the bright colours +bloomed no more upon the mountains, which looked like silent monsters +that had lost the hue of youth and had suddenly become mysteriously old. +The evening star shone in a sky that still held on its Western border +some last pale glimmerings of day, and, at its signal, many dusky +wanderers folded their loose garments round them, slung their long guns +across their shoulders, and prepared to start on their journey, helped +by the cool night wind that blows in the desert when the sun departs. + +Domini did not know of them, but she felt the near presence of the +desert, and the feeling quieted her nerves. She was thankful at this +moment that she was travelling without any woman friend and was not +persecuted by any sense of obligation. In her fatigue, to rest passive +in the midst of quiet, and soft light, calm in the belief, almost the +certainty, that this desert village contained no acquaintance to disturb +her, was to know all the joy she needed for the moment. She drank it +in dreamily. Liberty had always been her fetish. What woman had more +liberty than she had, here on this lonely verandah, with the shadowy +trees below? + +The bell of the church near by chimed softly, and the familiar sound +fell strangely upon Domini’s ears out here in Africa, reminding her of +many sorrows. Her religion was linked with terrible memories, with cruel +struggles, with hateful scenes of violence. Lord Rens had been a man of +passionate temperament. Strong in goodness when he had been led by love, +he had been equally strong in evil when hate had led him. Domini had +been forced to contemplate at close quarters the raw character of a +warped man, from whom circumstance had stripped all tenderness, nearly +all reticence. The terror of truth was known to her. She had shuddered +before it, but she had been obliged to watch it during many years. In +coming to Beni-Mora she had had a sort of vague, and almost childish, +feeling that she was putting the broad sea between herself and it. Yet +before she had started it had been buried in the grave. She never wished +to behold such truth again. She wanted to look upon some other truth +of life--the truth of beauty, of calm, of freedom. Lord Rens had always +been a slave, the slave of love, most of all when he was filled with +hatred, and Domini, influenced by his example, instinctively connected +love with a chain. Only the love a human being has for God seemed to her +sometimes the finest freedom; the movement of the soul upward into the +infinite obedient to the call of the great Liberator. The love of man +for woman, of woman for man, she thought of as imprisonment, bondage. +Was not her mother a slave to the man who had wrecked her life and +carried her spirit beyond the chance of heaven? Was not her father a +slave to her mother? She shrank definitely from the contemplation of +herself loving, with all the strength she suspected in her heart, a +human being. In her religion only she had felt in rare moments something +of love. And now here, in this tremendous and conquering land, she felt +a divine stirring in her love for Nature. For that afternoon Nature, so +often calm and meditative, or gently indifferent, as one too complete to +be aware of those who lack completeness, had impetuously summoned her +to worship, had ardently appealed to her for something more than a +temperate watchfulness or a sober admiration. There had been a most +definite demand made upon her. Even in her fatigue and in this dreamy +twilight she was conscious of a latent excitement that was not lulled to +sleep. + +And as she sat there, while the darkness grew in the sky and spread +secretly along the sandy rills among the trees, she wondered how +much she held within her to give in answer to this cry to her of +self-confident Nature. Was it only a little? She did not know. Perhaps +she was too tired to know. But however much it was it must seem meagre. +What is even a woman’s heart given to the desert or a woman’s soul to +the sea? What is the worship of anyone to the sunset among the hills, or +to the wind that lifts all the clouds from before the face of the moon? + +A chill stole over Domini. She felt like a very poor woman, who can +never know the joy of giving, because she does not possess even a mite. + +The church bell chimed again among the palms. Domini heard voices quite +clearly below her under the arcade. A French café was installed there, +and two or three soldiers were taking their _aperitif_ before dinner +out in the air. They were talking of France, as people in exile talk of +their country, with the deliberateness that would conceal regret and the +child’s instinctive affection for the mother. Their voices made Domini +think again of the recruits, and then, because of them, of Notre Dame de +la Garde, the mother of God, looking towards Africa. She remembered the +tragedy of her last confession. Would she be able to confess here to +the Father whom she had seen strolling in the tunnel? Would she learn to +know here what she really was? + +How warm it was in the night, and how warmth, as it develops the +fecundity of the earth, develops also the possibilities in many men and +women. Despite her lassitude of body, which kept her motionless as an +idol in her chair, with her arm lying along the parapet of the verandah, +Domini felt as if a confused crowd of things indefinable, but violent, +was already stirring within her nature, as if this new climate was +calling armed men into being. Could she not hear the murmur of their +voices, the distant clashing of their weapons? + +Without being aware of it she was dropping into sleep. The sound of a +footstep on the wooden floor of the verandah recalled her. It was at +some distance behind her. It crossed the verandah and stopped. She felt +quite certain that it was the step of her fellow-traveller, not because +she knew he was staying in the hotel, but rather because of the curious, +uneven heaviness of the tread. + +What was he doing? Looking over the parapet into the fruit gardens, +where the white figures of the Arabs were flitting through the trees? + +He was perfectly silent. Domini was now wide awake. The feeling of calm +serenity had left her. She was nervously troubled by this presence near +her, and swiftly recalled the few trifling incidents of the day which +had begun to delineate a character for her. They were, she found, all +unpleasant, all, at least, faintly disagreeable. Yet, in sum, what was +their meaning? The sketch they traced was so slight, so confused, that +it told little. The last incident was the strangest. And again she saw +the long and luminous pathway of the tunnel, flickering with light +and shade, carpeted with the pale reflections of the leaves and narrow +branches of the trees, the black figure of the priest far down it, and +the tall form of the stranger in an attitude of painful hesitation. Each +time she had seen him, apparently desirous of doing something definite, +hesitation had overtaken him. In his indecision there was something +horrible to her, something alarming. + +She wished he was not standing behind her, and her discomfort increased. +She could still hear the voices of the soldiers in the café. Perhaps he +was listening to them. They sounded louder. + +The speakers were getting up from their seats. There was a jingling of +spurs, a tramp of feet, and the voices died away. The church bell +chimed again. As it did so Domini heard heavy and uneven steps cross the +verandah hurriedly. An instant later she heard a window shut sharply. + +“Suzanne!” she called. + +Her maid appeared, yawning, with various parcels in her hands. + +“Yes, Mademoiselle.” + +“I sha’n’t go down to the _salle-a-manger_ to-night. Tell them to give +me some dinner in my _salon_.” + +“Yes, Mademoiselle.” + +“You did not see who was on the verandah just now?” + +The maid looked surprised. + +“I was in Mademoiselle’s room.” + +“Yes. How near the church is.” + +“Mademoiselle will have no difficulty in getting to Mass. She will not +be obliged to go among all the Arabs.” + +Domini smiled. + +“I have come here to be among the Arabs, Suzanne.” + +“The porter of the omnibus tells me they are dirty and very dangerous. +They carry knives, and their clothes are full of fleas.” + +“You will feel quite differently about them in the morning. Don’t forget +about dinner.” + +“I will speak about it at once, Mademoiselle.” + +Suzanne disappeared, walking as one who suspects an ambush. + +After dinner Domini went again to the verandah. She found Batouch there. +He had now folded a snow-white turban round his head, and looked like +a young high priest of some ornate religion. He suggested that Domini +should come out with him to visit the Rue des Ouled Nails and see the +strange dances of the Sahara. But she declined. + +“Not to-night, Batouch. I must go to bed. I haven’t slept for two +nights.” + +“But I do not sleep, Madame. In the night I compose verses. My brain is +alive. My heart is on fire.” + +“Yes, but I am not a poet. Besides, I may be here for a long time. I +shall have many evenings to see the dances.” + +The poet looked displeased. + +“The gentleman is going,” he said. “Hadj is at the door waiting for him +now. But Hadj is afraid when he enters the street of the dancers.” + +“Why?” + +“There is a girl there who wishes to kill him. Her name is Aishoush. She +was sent away from Beni-Mora for six months, but she has come back, and +after all this time she still wishes to kill Hadj.” + +“What has he done to her?” + +“He has not loved her. Yes, Hadj is afraid, but he will go with the +gentleman because he must earn money to buy a costume for the _fete_ of +Ramadan. I also wish to buy a new costume.” + +He looked at Domini with a dignified plaintiveness. His pose against +the pillar of the verandah was superb. Over his blue cloth jacket he +had thrown a thin white burnous, which hung round him in classic folds. +Domini could scarcely believe that so magnificent a creature was touting +for a franc. The idea certainly did occur to her, but she banished it. +For she was a novice in Africa. + +“I am too tired to go out to-night,” she said decisively. + +“Good-night, Madame. I shall be here to-morrow morning at seven o’clock. +The dawn in the garden of the gazelles is like the flames of Paradise, +and you can see the Spahis galloping upon horses that are beautiful +as--” + +“I shall not get up early to-morrow.” + +Batouch assumed an expression that was tragically submissive and turned +to go. Just then Suzanne appeared at the French window of her bedroom. +She started as she perceived the poet, who walked slowly past her to the +staircase, throwing his burnous back from his big shoulders, and stood +looking after him. Her eyes fixed themselves upon the section of bare +leg that was visible above his stockings white as the driven snow, and a +faintly sentimental expression mingled with their defiance and alarm. + +Domini got up from her chair and leaned over the parapet. A streak +of yellow light from the doorway of the hotel lay upon the white road +below, and in a moment she saw two figures come out from beneath the +verandah and pause there. Hadj was one, the stranger was the other. +The stranger struck a match and tried to light a cigar, but failed. He +struck another match, and then another, but still the cigar would not +draw. Hadj looked at him with mischievous astonishment. + +“If Monsieur will permit me--” he began. + +But the stranger took the cigar hastily from his mouth and flung it +away. + +“I don’t want to smoke,” Domini heard him say in French. + +Then he walked away with Hadj into the darkness. + +As they disappeared Domini heard a faint shrieking in the distance. It +was the music of the African hautboy. + +The night was marvellously dry and warm. The thickly growing trees in +the garden scarcely moved. It was very still and very dark. Suzanne, +standing at her window, looked like a shadow in her black dress. Her +attitude was romantic. Perhaps the subtle influence of this Sahara +village was beginning to steal even over her obdurate spirit. + +The hautboy went on crying. Its notes, though faint, were sharp and +piercing. Once more the church bell chimed among the date palms, and +the two musics, with their violently differing associations, clashing +together smote upon Domini’s heart with a sense of trouble, almost of +tragedy. The pulses in her temples throbbed, and she clasped her hands +tightly together. That brief moment, in which she heard the duet of +those two voices, was one of the most interesting, yet also one of the +most painful she had ever known. The church bell was silent now, but the +hautboy did not cease. It was barbarous and provocative, shrill with a +persistent triumph. + +Domini went to bed early, but she could not sleep. Just before midnight +she heard someone walking up and down on the verandah. The step was +heavy and shuffling. It came and went, came and went, without pause till +she was in a fever of uneasiness. Only when two chimed from the church +did it cease at last. + +She whispered a prayer to Notre Dame de la Garde, The Blessed Virgin, +looking towards Africa. For the first time she felt the loneliness of +her situation and that she was far away. + + + +CHAPTER V + +Towards morning Domini slept. It was nearly eight o’clock when she +awoke. The room was full of soft light which told of the sun outside, +and she got up at once, put on a pair of slippers and opened the French +window on to the verandah. Already Beni-Mora was bathed in golden beams +and full of gentle activities. A flock of goats pattered by towards the +edge of the oasis. The Arab gardeners were lazily sweeping small leaves +from the narrow paths under the mimosa and pepper trees. Soldiers in +loose white suits, dark blue sashes and the fez, were hastening from +the Fort towards the market. A distant bugle rang out and the snarl of +camels was audible from the village. Domini stood on the verandah for +a moment, drinking in the desert air. It made her feel very pure and +clean, as if she had just bathed in clear water. She looked up at +the limpid sky, which seemed full of hope and of the power to grant +blessings, and she was glad that she had come to Beni-Mora. Her lonely +sensation of the previous night had gone. As she stood in the sun she +was conscious that she needed re-creation and that here she might find +it. The radiant sky, the warm sun and the freedom of the coming day and +of many coming desert days, filled her heart with an almost childish +sensation. She felt younger than she had felt for years, and even +foolishly innocent, like a puppy dog or a kitten. Her thick black hair, +unbound, fell in a veil round her strong, active body, and she had the +rare consciousness that behind that other more mysterious veil her soul +was to-day a less unfit companion for its mate than it had been since +her mother’s sin. + +Cleanliness--what a blessed condition that was, a condition to breed +bravery. In this early morning hour Beni-Mora looked magically clean. +Domini thought of the desperate dirt of London mornings, of the sooty +air brooding above black trees and greasy pavements. Surely it was +difficult to be clean of soul there. Here it would be easy. One would +tune one’s lyre in accord with Nature and be as a singing palm tree +beside a water-spring. She took up a little vellum-bound book which she +had laid at night upon her dressing-table. It was _Of the Imitation of +Christ_, and she opened it at haphazard and glanced down on a sunlit +page. Her eyes fell on these words: + +“Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is not +tired; when straitened it is not constrained; when frightened it is +not disturbed; but like a vivid flame and a burning torch it mounteth +upwards and securely passeth through all. Whosoever loveth knoweth the +cry of this voice.” + +The sunlight on the page of the little book was like the vivid flame +and the burning torch spoken of in it. Heat, light, a fierce vitality. +Domini had been weary so long, weary of soul, that she was almost +startled to find herself responding quickly to the sacred passion on the +page, to the bright beam that kissed it as twin kisses twin. She knelt +down to say her morning prayer, but all she could whisper was: + +“O, God, renew me. O, God, renew me. Give me power to feel, keenly, +fiercely, even though I suffer. Let me wake. Let me feel. Let me be a +living thing once more. O, God, renew me, renew me!” + +While she prayed she pressed her face so hard against her hands that +patches of red came upon her cheeks. And afterwards it seemed to her as +if her first real, passionate prayer in Beni-Mora had been almost like a +command to God. Was not such a fierce prayer perhaps a blasphemy? + +She rose from that prayer to the first of her new days. + +After breakfast she looked over the edge of the verandah and saw Batouch +and Hadj squatting together in the shadow of the trees below. They were +smoking cigarettes and talking eagerly. Their conversation, which was in +Arabic, sounded violent. The accented words were like blows. Domini had +not looked over the parapet for more than a minute before the two guides +saw her and rose smiling to their feet. + +“I am waiting to show the village to Madame,” said Batouch, coming out +softly into the road, while Hadj remained under the trees, exposing his +teeth in a sarcastic grin, which plainly enough conveyed to Domini his +pity for her sad mistake in not engaging him as her attendant. + +Domini nodded, went back into her room and put on a shady hat. Suzanne +handed her a large parasol lined with green, and she descended the +stairs rather slowly. She was not sure whether she wanted a companion in +her first walk about Beni-Mora. There would be more savour of freedom in +solitude. Yet she had hardly the heart to dismiss Batouch, with all his +dignity and determination. She resolved to take him for a little while +and then to get rid of him on some pretext. Perhaps she would make some +purchases in the bazaars and send him to the hotel with them. + +“Madame has slept well?” asked the poet as she emerged into the sun. + +“Pretty well,” she answered, nodding again to Hadj, whose grin became +more mischievous, and opening her parasol. “Where are we going?” + +“Wherever Madame wishes. There is the market, the negro village, the +mosque, the casino, the statue of the Cardinal, the bazaars, the garden +of the Count Ferdinand Anteoni.” + +“A garden,” said Domini. “Is it a beautiful one?” + +Batouch was about to burst into a lyric ecstasy, but he checked himself +and said: + +“Madame shall see for herself and tell me afterwards if in all Europe +there is one such garden.” + +“Oh, the English gardens are wonderful,” she said, smiling at his +patriotic conceit. + +“No doubt. Madame shall tell me, Madame shall tell me,” he repeated with +imperturbable confidence. + +“But first I wish to go for a moment into the church,” she said. “Wait +for me here, Batouch.” + +She crossed the road, passed the modest, one-storied house of the +priest, and came to the church, which looked out on to the quiet +gardens. Before going up the steps and in at the door she paused for +a moment. There was something touching to her, as a Catholic, in this +symbol of her faith set thus far out in the midst of Islamism. The cross +was surely rather lonely, here, raised above the white-robed men to whom +it meant nothing. She was conscious that since she had come to this +land of another creed, and of another creed held with fanaticism, her +sentiment for her own religion, which in England for many years had been +but lukewarm, had suddenly gained in strength. She had an odd, almost +manly, sensation that it was her duty in Africa to stand up for her +faith, not blatantly in words to impress others, but perseveringly in +heart to satisfy herself. Sometimes she felt very protective. She +felt protective today as she looked at this humble building, which she +likened to one of the poor saints of the Thebaid, who dwelt afar in +desert places, and whose devotions were broken by the night-cries of +jackals and by the roar of ravenous beasts. With this feeling strong +upon her she pushed open the door and went in. + +The interior was plain, even ugly. The walls were painted a hideous +drab. The stone floor was covered with small, hard, straw-bottomed +chairs and narrow wooden forms for the patient knees of worshippers. +In the front were two rows of private chairs, with velvet cushions of +various brilliant hues and velvet-covered rails. On the left was a high +stone pulpit. The altar, beyond its mean black and gold railing, +was dingy and forlorn. On it there was a tiny gold cross with a gold +statuette of Christ hanging, surmounted by a canopy with four pillars, +which looked as if made of some unwholesome sweetmeat. Long candles +of blue and gold and bouquets of dusty artificial flowers flanked it. +Behind it, in a round niche, stood a painted figure of Christ holding +a book. The two adjacent side chapels had domed roofs representing the +firmament. Beneath the pulpit stood a small harmonium. At the opposite +end of the church was a high gallery holding more chairs. The mean, +featureless windows were filled with glass half white, half staring red +dotted with yellow crosses. Round the walls were reliefs of the fourteen +stations of the Cross in white plaster on a gilt ground framed in grey +marble. From the roof hung vulgar glass chandeliers with ropes tied +with faded pink ribands. Several frightful plaster statues daubed +with scarlet and chocolate brown stood under the windows, which were +protected with brown woollen curtains. Close to the entrance were a +receptacle for holy water in the form of a shell, and a confessional of +stone flanked by boxes, one of which bore the words, “Graces obtenues,” + the other, “Demandes,” and a card on which was printed, “Litanies en +honneur de Saint Antoine de Padoue.” + +There was nothing to please the eye, nothing to appeal to the senses. +There was not even the mystery which shrouds and softens, for the +sunshine streamed in through the white glass of the windows, revealing, +even emphasising, as if with deliberate cruelty, the cheap finery, the +tarnished velvet, the crude colours, the meretricious gestures and poses +of the plaster saints. Yet as Domini touched her forehead and breast +with holy water, and knelt for a moment on the stone floor, she was +conscious that this rather pitiful house of God moved her to an emotion +she had not felt in the great and beautiful churches to which she was +accustomed in England and on the Continent. Through the windows she saw +the outlines of palm leaves vibrating in the breeze; African fingers, +feeling, with a sort of fluttering suspicion, if not enmity, round the +heart of this intruding religion, which had wandered hither from some +distant place, and, stayed, confronting the burning glance of the +desert. Bold, little, humble church! Domini knew that she would love it. +But she did not know then how much. + +She wandered round slowly with a grave face. Yet now and then, as she +stood by one of the plaster saints, she smiled. They were indeed strange +offerings at the shrine of Him who held this Africa in the hollow of His +hand, of Him who had ordered the pageant of the sun which she had seen +last night among the mountains. And presently she and this little church +in which she stood alone became pathetic in her thoughts, and even the +religion which the one came to profess in the other pathetic too. For +here, in Africa, she began to realise the wideness of the world, and +that many things must surely seem to the Creator what these plaster +saints seemed just then to her. + +“Oh, how little, how little!” she whispered to herself. “Let me be +bigger! Oh, let me grow, and here, not only hereafter!” + +The church door creaked. She turned her head and saw the priest whom she +had met in the tunnel entering. He came up to her at once, saluted her, +and said: + +“I saw you from my window, Madame, and thought I would offer to show you +our little church here. We are very proud of it.” + +Domini liked his voice and his naive remark. His face, too, though +undistinguished, looked honest, kind, and pathetic, but with a pathos +that was unaffected and quite unconscious. The lower part of it was +hidden by a moustache and beard. + +“Thank you,” she answered. “I have been looking round already.” + +“You are a Catholic, Madame?” + +“Yes.” + +The priest looked pleased. There was something childlike in the mobility +of his face. + +“I am glad,” he said simply. “We are not a rich community in Beni-Mora, +but we have been fortunate in bygone years. Our great Cardinal, the +Father of Africa, loved this place and cherished his children here.” + +“Cardinal Lavigerie?” + +“Yes, Madame. His house is now a native hospital. His statue faces the +beginning of the great desert road, But we remember him and his spirit +is still among us.” + +The priest’s eyes lit up as he spoke. The almost tragic expression of +his face changed to one of enthusiasm. + +“He loved Africa, I believe,” Domini said. + +“His heart was here. And what he did! I was to have been one of his +_freres armes_, but my health prevented, and afterwards the association +was dissolved.” + +The sad expression returned to his face. + +“There are many temptations in such a land and climate as this,” he +said. “And men are weak. But there are still the White Fathers whom he +founded. Glorious men. They carry the Cross into the wildest places of +the world. The most fanatical Arabs respect the White Marabouts.” + +“You wish you were with them?” + +“Yes, Madame. But my health only permits me to be a humble parish priest +here. Not all who desire to enter the most severe life can do so. If +it were otherwise I should long since have been a monk. The Cardinal +himself showed me that my duty lay in other paths.” + +He pointed out to Domini one or two things in the church which he +admired and thought worthy; the carving of the altar rail into grapes, +ears of corn, crosses, anchors; the white embroidered muslin that draped +the tabernacle; the statue of a bishop in a red and gold mitre holding a +staff and Bible, and another statue representing a saint with a languid +and consumptive expression stretching out a Bible, on the leaves of +which a tiny, smiling child was walking. + +As they were about to leave the church he made Domini pause in front of +a painting of Saint Bruno dressed in a white monkish robe, beneath which +was written in gilt letters: + + “Saint Bruno ordonne a ses disciples + De renoncer aux biens terrestres + Pour acquerir les biens celestes.” + +The disciples stood around the saint in grotesque attitudes of pious +attention. + +“That, I think, is very beautiful,” he said. “Who could look at it +without feeling that the greatest act of man is renunciation?” + +His dark eyes flamed. Just then a faint soprano bark came to them from +outside the church door, a very discreet and even humble, but at +the same time anxious, bark. The priest’s face changed. The almost +passionate asceticism of it was replaced by a soft and gentle look. + +“Bous-Bous wants me,” he said, and he opened the door for Domini to pass +out. + +A small white and yellow dog, very clean and well brushed, was sitting +on the step in an attentive attitude. Directly the priest appeared it +began to wag its short tail violently and to run round his feet, curving +its body into semi-circles. He bent down and patted it. + +“My little companion, Madame,” he said. “He was not with me yesterday, +as he was being washed.” + +Then he took off his hat and walked towards his house, accompanied by +Bous-Bous, who had suddenly assumed an air of conscious majesty, as of +one born to preside over the fate of an important personage. + +Domini stood for a moment under the palm trees looking after them. There +was a steady shining in her eyes. + +“Madame is a Catholic too?” asked Batouch, staring steadily at her. + +Domini nodded. She did not want to discuss religion with an Arab minor +poet just then. + +“Take me to the market,” she said, mindful of her secret resolve to get +rid of her companion as soon as possible. + +They set out across the gardens. + +It was a celestial day. All the clear, untempered light of the world +seemed to have made its home in Beni-Mora. Yet the heat was not +excessive, for the glorious strength of the sun was robbed of its +terror, its possible brutality, by the bright and feathery dryness and +coolness of the airs. She stepped out briskly. Her body seemed suddenly +to become years younger, full of elasticity and radiant strength. + +“Madame is very strong. Madame walks like a Bedouin.” + +Batouch’s voice sounded seriously astonished, and Domini burst out +laughing. + +“In England there are many strong women. But I shall grow stronger here. +I shall become a real Arab. This air gives me life.” + +They were just reaching the road when there was a clatter of hoofs, and +a Spahi, mounted on a slim white horse, galloped past at a tremendous +pace, holding his reins high above the red peak of his saddle and +staring up at the sun. Domini looked after him with critical admiration. + +“You’ve got some good horses here,” she said when the Spahi had +disappeared. + +“Madame knows how to ride?” + +She laughed again. + +“I’ve ridden ever since I was a child.” + +“You can buy a fine horse here for sixteen pounds,” remarked Batouch, +using the pronoun “tu,” as is the custom of the Arabs. + +“Find me a good horse, a horse with spirit, and I’ll buy him,” Domini +said. “I want to go far out in the desert, far away from everything.” + +“You must not go alone.” + +“Why not?” + +“There are bandits in the desert.” + +“I’ll take my revolver,” Domini said carelessly. “But I will go alone.” + +They were in sight of the market now, and the hum of voices came to +them, with nasal cries, the whine of praying beggars, and the fierce +braying of donkeys. At the end of the small street in which they were +Domini saw a wide open space, in the centre of which stood a quantity +of pillars supporting a peaked roof. Round the sides of the square were +arcades swarming with Arabs, and under the central roof a mob of figures +came and went, as flies go and come on a piece of meat flung out into a +sunny place. + +“What a quantity of people! Do they all live in Beni-Mora?” she asked. + +“No, they come from all parts of the desert to sell and to buy. But most +of those who sell are Mozabites.” + +Little children in bright-coloured rags came dancing round Domini, +holding out their copper-coloured hands, and crying shrilly, “‘Msee, +M’dame! ‘Msee, M’dame!” A deformed man, who looked like a distorted +beetle, crept round her feet, gazing up at her with eyes that squinted +horribly, and roaring in an imperative voice some Arab formula in which +the words “Allah-el-Akbar” continually recurred. A tall negro, with a +long tuft of hair hanging from his shaven head, followed hard upon her +heels, rolling his bulging eyes, in which two yellow flames were caught, +and trying to engage her attention, though with what object she could +not imagine. From all directions tall men with naked arms and legs, and +fluttering white garments, came slowly towards her, staring intently at +her with lustrous eyes, whose expression seemed to denote rather a calm +and dignified appraisement than any vulgar curiosity. Boys, with the +whitest teeth she had ever beheld, and flowers above their well-shaped, +delicate ears, smiled up at her with engaging impudence. Her nostrils +were filled with a strange crowd of odours, which came from humanity +dressed in woollen garments, from fruits exposed for sale in rush +panniers, from round close bouquets of roses ringed with tight borders +of green leaves, from burning incense twigs, from raw meat, from amber +ornaments and strong perfumes in glass phials figured with gold attar of +rose, orange blossom, geranium and white lilac. In the shining heat of +the sun sounds, scents and movements mingled, and were almost painfully +vivid and full of meaning and animation. Never had a London mob on some +great _fete_ day seemed so significant and personal to Domini as this +little mob of desert people, come together for the bartering of beasts, +the buying of burnouses, weapons, skins and jewels, grain for their +camels, charms for their women, ripe glistening dates for the little +children at home in the brown earth houses. + +As she made her way slowly through the press, pioneered by Batouch, who +forced a path with great play of his huge shoulders and mighty arms, she +was surprised to find how much at home she felt in the midst of these +fierce and uncivilised-looking people. She had no sense of shrinking +from their contact, no feeling of personal disgust at their touch. When +her eyes chanced to meet any of the bold, inquiring eyes around her she +was inclined to smile as if in recognition of these children of the sun, +who did not seem to her like strangers, despite the unknown language +that struggled fiercely in their throats. Nevertheless, she did not wish +to stay very long among them now. She was resolved to get a full and +delicately complete first impression of Beni-Mora, and to do that she +knew that she must detach herself from close human contact. She +desired the mind’s bird’s-eye view--a height, a watchtower and a little +solitude. So, when the eager Mozabite merchants called to her she did +not heed them, and even the busy patter of the informing Batouch fell +upon rather listless ears. + +“I sha’n’t stay here,” she said to him. “But I’ll buy some perfumes. +Where can I get them?” + +A thin youth, brooding above a wooden tray close by, held up in his +delicate fingers a long bottle, sealed and furnished with a tiny label, +but Batouch shook his head. + +“For perfumes you must go to Ahmeda, under the arcade.” + +They crossed a sunlit space and stood before a dark room, sunk lightly +below the level of the pathway in a deserted corner. Shadows congregated +here, and in the gloom Domini saw a bent white figure hunched against +the blackened wall, and heard an old voice murmuring like a drowsy bee. +The perfume-seller was immersed in the Koran, his back to the buying +world. Batouch was about to call upon him, when Domini checked the +exclamation with a quick gesture. For the first time the mystery that +coils like a great black serpent in the shining heart of the East +startled and fascinated her, a mystery in which indifference and +devotion mingle. The white figure swayed slowly to and fro, carrying +the dull, humming voice with it, and now she seemed to hear a far-away +fanaticism, the bourdon of a fatalism which she longed to understand. + +“Ahmeda!” + +Batouch shouted. His voice came like a stone from a catapult. The +merchant turned calmly and without haste, showing an aquiline face +covered with wrinkles, tufted with white hairs, lit by eyes that shone +with the cruel expressiveness of a falcon’s. After a short colloquy in +Arabic he raised himself from his haunches, and came to the front of the +room, where there was a small wooden counter. He was smiling now with a +grace that was almost feminine. + +“What perfume does Madame desire?” he said in French. + +Domini gazed at him as at a deep mystery, but with the searching +directness characteristic of her, a fearlessness so absolute that it +embarrassed many people. + +“Please give me something that is of the East--not violets, not lilac.” + +“Amber,” said Batouch. + +The merchant, still smiling, reached up to a shelf, showing an arm like +a brown twig, and took down a glass bottle covered with red and green +lines. He removed the stopper, made Domini take off her glove, touched +her bare hand with the stopper, then with his forefinger gently rubbed +the drop of perfume which had settled on her skin till it was slightly +red. + +“Now, smell it,” he commanded. + +Domini obeyed. The perfume was faintly medicinal, but it filled her +brain with exotic visions. She shut her eyes. Yes, that was a voice of +Africa too. Oh! how far away she was from her old life and hollow days. +The magic carpet had been spread indeed, and she had been wafted into a +strange land where she had all to learn. + +“Please give me some of that,” she said. + +The merchant poured the amber into a phial, where it lay like a thread +in the glass, weighed it in a scales and demanded a price. Batouch began +at once to argue with vehemence, but Domini stopped him. + +“Pay him,” she said, giving Batouch her purse. + +The perfume-seller took the money with dignity, turned away, squatted +upon his haunches against the blackened wall, and picked up the +broad-leaved volume which lay upon the floor. He swayed gently and +rhythmically to and fro. Then once more the voice of the drowsy bee +hummed in the shadows. The worshipper and the Prophet stood before the +feet of Allah. + +And the woman--she was set afar off, as woman is by white-robed men in +Africa. + +“Now, Batouch, you can carry the perfume to the hotel and I will go to +that garden.” + +“Alone? Madame will never find it.” + +“I can ask the way.” + +“Impossible! I will escort Madame to the gate. There I will wait +for her. Monsieur the Count does not permit the Arabs to enter with +strangers.” + +“Very well,” Domini said. + +The seller of perfumes had led her towards a dream. She was not +combative, and she would be alone in the garden. As they walked towards +it in the sun, through narrow ways where idle Arabs lounged with happy +aimlessness, Batouch talked of Count Anteoni, the owner of the garden. + +Evidently the Count was the great personage of Beni-Mora. Batouch spoke +of him with a convinced respect, describing him as fabulously rich, +fabulously generous to the Arabs. + +“He never gives to the French, Madame, but when he is here each Friday, +upon our Sabbath, he comes to the gate with a bag of money in his hand, +and he gives five franc pieces to every Arab who is there.” + +“And what is he? French?” + +“He is Italian; but he is always travelling, and he has made gardens +everywhere. He has three in Africa alone, and in one he keeps many +lions. When he travels he takes six Arabs with him. He loves only the +Arabs.” + +Domini began to feel interested in this wandering maker of gardens, who +was a pilgrim over the world like Monte Cristo. + +“Is he young?” she asked. + +“No.” + +“Married?” + +“Oh, no! He is always alone. Sometimes he comes here and stays for three +months, and is never once seen outside the garden. And sometimes for a +year he never comes to Beni-Mora. But he is here now. Twenty Arabs +are always working in the garden, and at night ten Arabs with guns are +always awake, some in a tent inside the door and some among the trees. + +“Then there is danger at night?” + +“The garden touches the desert, and those who are in the desert without +arms are as birds in the air without wings.” + +They had come out from among the houses now into a broad, straight road, +bordered on the left by land that was under cultivation, by fruit trees, +and farther away by giant palms, between whose trunks could be seen +the stony reaches of the desert and spurs of grey-blue and faint +rose-coloured mountains. On the right was a shady garden with fountains +and stone benches, and beyond stood a huge white palace built in the +Moorish style, and terraced roofs and a high tower ornamented with green +and peacock-blue tiles. In the distance, among more palms, appeared a +number of low, flat huts of brown earth. The road, as far as the eyes +could see, stretched straight forward through enormous groves of palms, +whose feathery tops swayed gently in the light wind that blew from the +desert. Upon all things rained a flood of blue and gold. A blinding +radiance made all things glad. + +“How glorious light is!” Domini exclaimed, as she looked down the road +to the point where its whiteness was lost in the moving ocean of the +trees. + +Batouch assented without enthusiasm, having always lived in the light. + +“As we return from the garden we will visit the tower,” he said, +pointing to the Moorish palace. “It is a hotel, and is not yet open, +but I know the guardian. From the tower Madame will see the whole of +Beni-Mora. Here is the negro village.” + +They traversed its dusty alleys slowly. On the side where the low +brown dwellings threw shadows some of the inhabitants were dreaming or +chattering, wrapped in garments of gaudy cotton. Little girls in the +fiercest orange colour, with tattooed foreheads and leathern amulets, +darted to and fro, chasing each other and shrieking with laughter. Naked +babies, whose shaven heads made a warm resting-place for flies, stared +at Domini with a lustrous vacancy of expression. At the corners of the +alleys unveiled women squatted, grinding corn in primitive hand-mills, +or winding wool on wooden sticks. Their heads were covered with plaits +of imitation hair made of wool, in which barbaric silver ornaments were +fastened, and their black necks and arms jingled with chains and bangles +set with squares of red coral and large dull blue and green stones. Some +of them called boldly to Batouch, and he answered them with careless +impudence. The palm-wood door of one of the houses stood wide open, and +Domini looked in. She saw a dark space with floor and walls of earth, +a ceiling of palm and brushwood, a low divan of earth without mat or +covering of any kind. + +“They have no furniture?” she asked Batouch. + +“No. What do they want with it? They live out here in the sun and go in +to sleep.” + +Life simplified to this extent made her smile. Yet she looked at the +squatting figures in the gaudy cotton rags with a stirring of envy. The +memory of her long and complicated London years, filled with a multitude +of so-called pleasures which had never stifled the dull pain set up in +her heart by the rude shock of her mother’s sin and its result, made +this naked, sunny, barbarous existence seem desirable. She stood for a +moment to watch two women sorting grain for cous-cous. Their guttural +laughter, their noisy talk, the quick and energetic movements of their +busy black hands, reminded her of children’s gaiety. And Nature rose +before her in the sunshine, confronting artifice and the heavy languors +of modern life in cities. How had she been able to endure the yoke so +long? + +“Will Madame take me to London with her when she returns?” said Batouch, +slyly. + +“I am not going back to London for a very long time,” she replied with +energy. + +“You will stay here many weeks?” + +“Months, perhaps. And perhaps I shall travel on into the desert. Yes, I +must do that.” + +“If we followed the white road into the desert, and went on and on for +many days, we should come at last to Tombouctou,” said Batouch. “But +very likely we should be killed by the Touaregs. They are fierce and +they hate strangers.” + +“Would you be afraid to go?” Domini asked him, curiously. + +“Why afraid?” + +“Of being killed?” + +He looked calmly surprised. “Why should I be afraid to die? All must +pass through that door. It does not matter whether it is to-day or +to-morrow.” + +“You have no fear of death, then?” + +“Of course not. Have you, Madame?” He gazed at Domini with genuine +astonishment. + +“I don’t know,” she answered. + +And she wondered and could not tell. + +“There is the Villa Anteoni.” + +Batouch lifted his hand and pointed. They had turned aside from the +way to Tombouctou, left the village behind them, and come into a narrow +track which ran parallel to the desert. The palm trees rustled on their +right, the green corn waved, the narrow cuttings in the earth gleamed +with shallow water. But on their other side was limitless sterility; the +wide, stony expanse of the great river bed, the Oued-Beni-Mora, then a +low earth cliff, and then the immense airy flats stretching away into +the shining regions of the sun. At some distance, raised on a dazzling +white wall above the desert in an unshaded place, Domini saw a narrow, +two-sided white house, with a flat roof and a few tiny loopholes instead +of windows. One side looked full upon the waterless river bed, the +other, at right angles to it, ran back towards a thicket of palms and +ended in an arcade of six open Moorish arches, through which the fierce +blue of the cloudless sky stared, making an almost theatrical effect. +Beyond, masses of trees were visible, looking almost black against the +intense, blinding pallor of wall, villa and arcade, the intense blue +above. + +“What a strange house!” Domini said. “There are no windows.” + +“They are all on the other side, looking into the garden.” + +The villa fascinated Domini at once. The white Moorish arcade framing +bare, quivering blue, blue from the inmost heart of heaven, intense as +a great vehement cry, was beautiful as the arcade of a Geni’s home in +Fairyland. Mystery hung about this dwelling, a mystery of light, not +darkness, secrets of flame and hidden things of golden meaning. She felt +almost like a child who is about to penetrate into the red land of the +winter fire, and she hastened her steps till she reached a tall white +gate set in an arch of wood, and surmounted with a white coat of arms +and two lions. Batouch struck on it with a white knocker and then began +to roll a cigarette. + +“I will wait here for Madame.” + +Domini nodded. A leaf of wood was pulled back softly in the gate, and +she stepped into the garden and confronted a graceful young Arab dressed +in pale green, who saluted her respectfully and gently closed the door. + +“May I walk about the garden a little?” she asked. + +She did not look round her yet, for the Arab’s face interested and even +charmed her. It was aristocratic, enchantingly indolent, like the +face of a happy lotus-eater. The great, lustrous eyes were tender as +a gazelle’s and thoughtless as the eyes of a sleepy child. His +perfectly-shaped feet were bare on the shining sand. In one hand he held +a large red rose and in the other a half-smoked cigarette. + +Domini could not kelp smiling at him as she put her question, and he +smiled contentedly back at her as he answered, in a low, level voice: + +“You can go where you will. Shall I show you the paths?” + +He lifted his hand and calmly smelt his red rose, keeping his great eyes +fixed upon her. Domini’s wish to be alone had left her. This was surely +the geni of the garden, and his company would add to its mystery and +fragrance. + +“You need not stay by the door?” she asked. + +“No one will come. There is no one in Beni-Mora. And Hassan will stay.” + +He pointed with his rose to a little tent that was pitched close to the +gate beneath a pepper tree. In it Domini saw a brown boy curled up like +a dog and fast asleep. She began to feel as if she had eaten hashish. +The world seemed made for dreaming. + +“Thank you, then.” + +And now for the first time she looked round to see whether Batouch had +implied the truth. Must the European gardens give way to this Eastern +garden, take a lower place with all their roses? + +She stood on a great expanse of newly-raked smooth sand, rising in a +very gentle slope to a gigantic hedge of carefully trimmed evergreens, +which projected at the top, forming a roof and casting a pleasant shade +upon the sand. At intervals white benches were placed under this hedge. +To the right was the villa. She saw now that it was quite small. There +were two lines of windows--on the ground floor and the upper story. The +lower windows opened on to the sand, those above on to a verandah with +a white railing, which was gained by a white staircase outside the house +built beneath the arches of the arcade. The villa was most delicately +simple, but in this riot of blue and gold its ivory cleanliness, set +there upon the shining sand which was warm to the foot, made it look +magical to Domini. She thought she had never known before what spotless +purity was like. + +“Those are the bedrooms,” murmured the Arab at her side. + +“There are only bedrooms?” she asked in surprise. + +“The other rooms, the drawing-room of Monsieur the Count, the +dining-room, the smoking-room, the Moorish bath, the room of the little +dog, the kitchen and the rooms for the servants are in different parts +of the garden. There is the dining-room.” + +He pointed with his rose to a large white building, whose dazzling walls +showed here and there through the masses of trees to the left, where a +little raised sand-path with flattened, sloping sides wound away into a +maze of shadows diapered with gold. + +“Let us go down that path,” Domini said almost in a whisper. + +The spell of the place was descending upon her. This was surely a home +of dreams, a haven where the sun came to lie down beneath the trees and +sleep. + +“What is your name?” she added. + +“Smain,” replied the Arab. “I was born in this garden. My father, +Mohammed, was with Monsieur the Count.” + +He led the way over the sand, moving silently on his long, brown feet, +straight as a reed in a windless place. Domini followed, holding her +breath. Only sometimes she let her strong imagination play utterly at +its will. She let it go now as she and Smain turned into the golden +diapered shadows of the little path and came into the swaying mystery +of the trees. The longing for secrecy, for remoteness, for the beauty of +far away had sometimes haunted her, especially in the troubled moments +of her life. Her heart, oppressed, had overleaped the horizon line +in answer to a calling from hidden things beyond. Her emotions had +wandered, seeking the great distances in which the dim purple twilight +holds surely comfort for those who suffer. But she had never thought to +find any garden of peace that realised her dreams. Nevertheless, she was +already conscious that Smain with his rose was showing her the way to +her ideal, that her feet were set upon its pathway, that its legendary +trees were closing round her. + +Behind the evergreen hedge she heard the liquid bubbling of a hidden +waterfall, and when they had left the untempered sunlight behind them +this murmur grew louder. It seemed as if the green gloom in which they +walked acted as a sounding-board to the delicious voice. The little +path wound on and on between two running rills of water, which slipped +incessantly away under the broad and yellow-tipped leaves of dwarf +palms, making a music so faint that it was more like a remembered sound +in the mind than one which slid upon the ear. On either hand towered a +jungle of trees brought to this home in the desert from all parts of the +world. + +There were many unknown to Domini, but she recognised several varieties +of palms, acacias, gums, fig trees, chestnuts, poplars, false pepper +trees, the huge olive trees called Jamelons, white laurels, indiarubber +and cocoanut trees, bananas, bamboos, yuccas, many mimosas and +quantities of tall eucalyptus trees. Thickets of scarlet geranium flamed +in the twilight. The hibiscus lifted languidly its frail and rosy cup, +and the red gold oranges gleamed amid leaves that looked as if they had +been polished by an attentive fairy. + +As she went with Smain farther into the recesses of the garden the voice +of the waterfall died away. No birds were singing. Domini thought that +perhaps they dared not sing lest they might wake the sun from its golden +reveries, but afterwards, when she knew the garden better, she often +heard them twittering with a subdued, yet happy, languor, as if joining +in a nocturn upon the edge of sleep. Under the trees the sand was +yellow, of a shade so voluptuously beautiful that she longed to touch +it with her bare feet like Smain. Here and there it rose in symmetrical +little pyramids, which hinted at absent gardeners, perhaps enjoying a +siesta. + +Never before had she fully understood the enchantment of green, quite +realised how happy a choice was made on that day of Creation when it was +showered prodigally over the world. But now, as she walked secretly over +the yellow sand between the rills, following the floating green robe of +Smain, she rested her eyes, and her soul, on countless mingling shades +of the delicious colour; rough, furry green of geranium leaves, silver +green of olives, black green of distant palms from which the sun held +aloof, faded green of the eucalyptus, rich, emerald green of fan-shaped, +sunlit palms, hot, sultry green of bamboos, dull, drowsy green of +mulberry trees and brooding chestnuts. It was a choir of colours in one +colour, like a choir of boys all with treble voices singing to the sun. + +Gold flickered everywhere, weaving patterns of enchantment, quivering, +vital patterns of burning beauty. Down the narrow, branching paths that +led to inner mysteries the light ran in and out, peeping between the +divided leaves of plants, gliding over the slippery edges of the palm +branches, trembling airily where the papyrus bent its antique head, +dancing among the big blades of sturdy grass that sprouted in tufts here +and there, resting languidly upon the glistening magnolias that were +besieged by somnolent bees. All the greens and all the golds of Creation +were surely met together in this profound retreat to prove the perfect +harmony of earth with sun. + +And now, growing accustomed to the pervading silence, Domini began to +hear the tiny sounds that broke it. They came from the trees and +plants. The airs were always astir, helping the soft designs of Nature, +loosening a leaf from its stem and bearing it to the sand, striking a +berry from its place and causing it to drop at Domini’s feet, giving a +faded geranium petal the courage to leave its more vivid companions +and resign itself to the loss of the place it could no longer fill with +beauty. Very delicate was the touch of the dying upon the yellow sand. +It increased the sense of pervading mystery and made Domini more deeply +conscious of the pulsing life of the garden. + +“There is the room of the little dog,” said Smain. + +They had come out into a small open space, over which an immense +cocoanut tree presided. Low box hedges ran round two squares of grass +which were shadowed by date palms heavy with yellow fruit, and beneath +some leaning mulberry trees Domini saw a tiny white room with two glass +windows down to the ground. She went up to it and peeped in, smiling. + +There, in a formal salon, with gilt chairs, oval, polished tables, faded +rugs and shining mirrors, sat a purple china dog with his tail curled +over his back sternly staring into vacancy. His expression and his +attitude were autocratic and determined, betokening a tyrannical nature, +and Domini peeped at him with precaution, holding herself very still +lest he should become aware of her presence and resent it. + +“Monsieur the Count paid much money for the dog,” murmured Smain. “He is +very valuable.” + +“How long has he been there?” + +“For many years. He was there when I was born, and I have been married +twice and divorced twice.” + +Domini turned from the window and looked at Smain with astonishment. He +was smelling his rose like a dreamy child. + +“You have been divorced twice?” + +“Yes. Now I will show Madame the smoking-room.” + +They followed another of the innumerable alleys of the garden. This one +was very narrow and less densely roofed with trees than those they had +already traversed. Tall shrubs bent forward on either side of it, and +their small leaves almost meeting, were transformed by the radiant +sunbeams into tongues of pale fire, quivering, well nigh transparent. +As she approached them Domini could not resist the fancy that they would +burn her. A brown butterfly flitted forward between them and vanished +into the golden dream beyond. + +“Oh, Smain, how you must love this garden!” she said. + +A sort of ecstasy was waking within her. The pure air, the caressing +warmth, the enchanted stillness and privacy of this domain touched her +soul and body like the hands of a saint with power to bless her. + +“I could live here for ever,” she added, “without once wishing to go out +into the world.” + +Smain looked drowsily pleased. + +“We are coming to the centre of the garden,” he said, as they passed +over a palm-wood bridge beneath which a stream glided under the red +petals of geraniums. + +The tongues of flame were left behind. Green darkness closed in upon +them and the sand beneath their feet looked blanched. The sense of +mystery increased, for the trees were enormous and grew densely here. +Pine needles lay upon the ground, and there was a stirring of sudden +wind far up above their heads in the tree-tops. + +“This is the part of the garden that Monsieur the Count loves,” said +Smain. “He comes here every day.” + +“What is that?” said Domini, suddenly stopping on the pale sand. + +A thin and remote sound stole to them down the alley, clear and frail as +the note of a night bird. + +“It is Larbi playing upon the flute. He is in love. That is why he plays +when he ought to be watering the flowers and raking out the sand.” + +The distant love-song of the flute seemed to Domini the last touch of +enchantment making this indeed a wonderland. She could not move, and +held up her hands to stay the feet of Smain, who was quite content +to wait. Never before had she heard any music that seemed to mean and +suggest so much to her as this African tune played by an enamoured +gardener. Queer and uncouth as it was, distorted with ornaments and +tricked out with abrupt runs, exquisitely unnecessary grace notes, +and sudden twitterings prolonged till a strange and frivolous Eternity +tripped in to banish Time, it grasped Domini’s fancy and laid a spell +upon her imagination. For it sounded as naively sincere as the song of a +bird, and as if the heart from which it flowed were like the heart of +a child, a place of revelation, not of concealment. The sun made men +careless here. They opened their windows to it, and one could see into +the warm and glowing rooms. Domini looked at the gentle Arab youth +beside her, already twice married and twice divorced. She listened to +Larbi’s unending song of love. And she said to herself, “These people, +uncivilised or not, at least live, and I have been dead all my life, +dead in life.” That was horribly possible. She knew it as she felt the +enormously powerful spell of Africa descending upon her, enveloping +her quietly but irresistibly. The dream of this garden was quick with +a vague and yet fierce stirring of realities. There was a murmuring +of many small and distant voices, like the voices of innumerable tiny +things following restless activities in a deep forest. As she stood +there the last grain of European dust was lifted from Domini’s soul. How +deeply it had been buried, and for how many years. + +“The greatest act of man is the act of renunciation.” She had just heard +those words. The eyes of the priest had flamed as he spoke them, and she +had caught the spark of his enthusiasm. But now another fire seemed lit +within her, and she found herself marvelling at such austerity. Was it +not a fanatical defiance flung into the face of the sun? She shrank from +her own thought, like one startled, and walked on softly in the green +darkness. + +Larbi’s flute became more distant. Again and again it repeated the same +queer little melody, changing the ornamentation at the fantasy of the +player. She looked for him among the trees but saw no one. He must be in +some very secret place. Smain touched her. + +“Look!” he said, and his voice was very low. + +He parted the branches of some palms with his delicate hands, and +Domini, peering between them, saw in a place of deep shadows an isolated +square room, whose white walls were almost entirely concealed by masses +of purple bougainvillea. It had a flat roof. In three of its sides were +large arched window-spaces without windows. In the fourth was a narrow +doorway without a door. Immense fig trees and palms and thickets of +bamboo towered around it and leaned above it. And it was circled by a +narrow riband of finely-raked sand. + +“That is the smoking-room of Monsieur the Count,” said Smain. “He spends +many hours there. Come and I will show the inside to Madame.” + +They turned to the left and went towards the room. The flute was close +to them now. “Larbi must be in there,” Domini whispered to Smain, as a +person whispers in a church. + +“No, he is among the trees beyond.” + +“But someone is there.” + +She pointed to the arched window-space nearest to them. A thin spiral of +blue-grey smoke curled through it and evaporated into the shadows of +the trees. After a moment it was followed gently and deliberately by +another. + +“It is not Larbi. He would not go in there. It must be----” + +He paused. A tall, middle-aged man had come to the doorway of the little +room and looked out into the garden with bright eyes. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Domini drew back and glanced at Smain. She was not accustomed to feeling +intrusive, and the sudden sensation rendered her uneasy. + +“It is Monsieur the Count,” Smain said calmly and quite aloud. + +The man in the doorway took off his soft hat, as if the words effected +an introduction between Domini and him. + +“You were coming to see my little room, Madame?” he said in French. “If +I may show it to you I shall feel honoured.” + +The timbre of his voice was harsh and grating, yet it was a very +interesting, even a seductive, voice, and, Domini thought, peculiarly +full of vivid life, though not of energy. His manner at once banished +her momentary discomfort. There is a freemasonry between people born in +the same social world. By the way in which Count Anteoni took off his +hat and spoke she knew at once that all was right. + +“Thank you, Monsieur,” she answered. “I was told at the gate you gave +permission to travellers to visit your garden.” + +“Certainly.” + +He spoke a few words in fluent Arabic to Smain, who turned away and +disappeared among the trees. + +“I hope you will allow me to accompany you through the rest of the +garden,” he said, turning again to Domini. “It will give me great +pleasure.” + +“It is very kind of you.” + +The way in which the change of companion had been effected made it seem +a pleasant, inevitable courtesy, which neither implied nor demanded +anything. + +“This is my little retreat,” Count Anteoni continued, standing aside +from the doorway that Domini might enter. + +She drew a long breath when she was within. + +The floor was of fine sand, beaten flat and hard, and strewn with +Eastern rugs of faint and delicate hues, dim greens and faded rose +colours, grey-blues and misty topaz yellows. Round the white walls ran +broad divans, also white, covered with prayer rugs from Bagdad, and +large cushions, elaborately worked in dull gold and silver thread, with +patterns of ibises and flamingoes in flight. In the four angles of the +room stood four tiny smoking-tables of rough palm wood, holding +hammered ash-trays of bronze, green bronze torches for the lighting of +cigarettes, and vases of Chinese dragon china filled with velvety red +roses, gardenias and sprigs of orange blossom. Leather footstools, +covered with Tunisian thread-work, lay beside them. From the arches of +the window-spaces hung old Moorish lamps of copper, fitted with small +panes of dull jewelled glass, such as may be seen in venerable church +windows. In a round copper brazier, set on one of the window-seats, +incense twigs were drowsily burning and giving out thin, dwarf columns +of scented smoke. Through the archways and the narrow doorway the +dense walls of leafage were visible standing on guard about this airy +hermitage, and the hot purple blossoms of the bougainvillea shed a cloud +of colour through the bosky dimness. + +And still the flute of Larbi showered soft, clear, whimsical music from +some hidden place close by. + +Domini looked at her host, who was standing by the doorway, leaning one +arm against the ivory-white wall. + +“This is my first day in Africa,” she said simply. “You may imagine what +I think of your garden, what I feel in it. I needn’t tell you. Indeed, I +am sure the travellers you so kindly let in must often have worried you +with their raptures.” + +“No,” he answered, with a still gravity which yet suggested kindness, +“for I leave nearly always before the travellers come. That sounds a +little rude? But you would not be in Beni-Mora at this season, Madame, +if it could include you.” + +“I have come here for peace,” Domini replied simply. + +She said it because she felt as if it was already understood by her +companion. + +Count Anteoni took down his arm from the white wall and pulled a branch +of the purple flowers slowly towards him through the doorway. + +“There is peace--what is generally called so, at least--in Beni-Mora,” + he answered rather slowly and meditatively. “That is to say, there is +similarity of day with day, night with night. The sun shines untiringly +over the desert, and the desert always hints at peace.” + +He let the flowers go, and they sprang softly back, and hung quivering +in the space beyond his thin figure. Then he added: + +“Perhaps one should not say more than that.” + +“No.” + +Domini sat down for a moment. She looked up at him with her direct eyes +and at the shaking flowers. The sound of Larbi’s flute was always in her +ears. + +“But may not one think, feel a little more?” she asked. + +“Oh, why not? If one can, if one must? But how? Africa is as fierce and +full of meaning as a furnace, you know.” + +“Yes, I know--already,” she replied. + +His words expressed what she had already felt here in Beni-Mora, +surreptitiously and yet powerfully. He said it, and last night the +African hautboy had said it. Peace and a flame. Could they exist +together, blended, married? + +“Africa seems to me to agree through contradiction,” she added, smiling +a little, and touching the snowy wall with her right hand. “But then, +this is my first day.” + +“Mine was when I was a boy of sixteen.” + +“This garden wasn’t here then?” + +“No. I had it made. I came here with my mother. She spoilt me. She let +me have my whim.” + +“This garden is your boy’s whim?” + +“It was. Now it is a man’s----” + +He seemed to hesitate. + +“Paradise,” suggested Domini. + +“I think I was going to say hiding-place.” + +There was no bitterness in his odd, ugly voice, yet surely the words +implied bitterness. The wounded, the fearful, the disappointed, the +condemned hide. Perhaps he remembered this, for he added rather quickly: + +“I come here to be foolish, Madame, for I come here to think. This is my +special thinking place.” + +“How strange!” Domini exclaimed impulsively, and leaning forward on the +divan. + +“Is it?” + +“I only mean that already Beni-Mora has seemed to me the ideal place for +that.” + +“For thought?” + +“For finding out interior truth.” + +Count Anteoni looked at her rather swiftly and searchingly. His eyes +were not large, but they were bright, and held none of the languor +so often seen in the eyes of his countrymen. His face was expressive +through its mobility rather than through its contours. The features were +small and refined, not noble, but unmistakably aristocratic. The nose +was sensitive, with wide nostrils. A long and straight moustache, +turning slightly grey, did not hide the mouth, which had unusually pale +lips. The ears were set very flat against the head, and were finely +shaped. The chin was pointed. The general look of the whole face was +tense, critical, conscious, but in the defiant rather than in the timid +sense. Such an expression belongs to men who would always be aware of +the thoughts and feelings of others concerning them, but who would throw +those thoughts and feelings off as decisively and energetically as a dog +shakes the waterdrops from its coat on emerging from a swim. + +“And sending it forth, like Ishmael, to shift for itself in the desert,” + he said. + +The odd remark sounded like neither statement nor question, merely like +the sudden exclamation of a mind at work. + +“Will you allow me to take you through the rest of the garden, Madame?” + he added in a more formal voice. + +“Thank you,” said Domini, who had already got up, moved by the examining +look cast at her. + +There was nothing in it to resent, and she had not resented it, but it +had recalled her to the consciousness that they were utter strangers to +each other. + +As they came out on the pale riband of sand which circled the little +room Domini said: + +“How wild and extraordinary that tune is!” + +“Larbi’s. I suppose it is, but no African music seems strange to me. I +was born on my father’s estate, near Tunis. He was a Sicilian; but came +to North Africa each winter. I have always heard the tomtoms and the +pipes, and I know nearly all the desert songs of the nomads.” + +“This is a love-song, isn’t it?” + +“Yes. Larbi is always in love, they tell me. Each new dancer catches him +in her net. Happy Larbi!” + +“Because he can love so easily?” + +“Or unlove so easily. Look at him, Madame.” + +At a little distance, under a big banana tree, and half hidden by clumps +of scarlet geraniums, Domini saw a huge and very ugly Arab, with an +almost black skin, squatting on his heels, with a long yellow and red +flute between his thick lips. His eyes were bent down, and he did not +see them, but went on busily playing, drawing from his flute coquettish +phrases with his big and bony fingers. + +“And I pay him so much a week all the year round for doing that,” the +Count said. + +His grating voice sounded kind and amused. They walked on, and Larbi’s +tune died gradually away. + +“Somehow I can’t be angry with the follies and vices of the Arabs,” the +Count continued. “I love them as they are; idle, absurdly amorous, +quick to shed blood, gay as children, whimsical as--well, Madame, were I +talking to a man I might dare to say pretty women.” + +“Why not?” + +“I will, then. I glory in their ingrained contempt of civilisation. +But I like them to say their prayers five times in the day as it is +commanded, and no Arab who touches alcohol in defiance of the Prophet’s +law sets foot in my garden.” + +There was a touch of harshness in his voice as he said the last words, +the sound of the autocrat. Somehow Domini liked it. This man had +convictions, and strong ones. That was certain. There was something +oddly unconventional in him which something in her responded to. He was +perfectly polite, and yet, she was quite sure, absolutely careless of +opinion. Certainly he was very much a man. + +“It is pleasant, too,” he resumed, after a slight pause, “to be +surrounded by absolutely thoughtless people with thoughtful faces and +mysterious eyes--wells without truth at the bottom of them.” + +She laughed. + +“No one must think here but you!” + +“I prefer to keep all the folly to myself. Is not that a grand +cocoanut?” + +He pointed to a tree so tall that it seemed soaring to heaven. + +“Yes, indeed. Like the one that presides over the purple dog.” + +“You have seen my fetish?” + +“Smain showed him to me, with reverence.” + +“Oh, he is king here. The Arabs declare that on moonlight nights they +have heard him joining in the chorus of the Kabyle dogs.” + +“You speak almost as if you believed it.” + +“Well, I believe more here than I believe anywhere else. That is partly +why I come here.” + +“I can understand that--I mean believing much here.” + +“What! Already you feel the spell of Beni-Mora, the desert spell! Yes, +there is enchantment here--and so I never stay too long.” + +“For fear of what?” + +Count Anteoni was walking easily beside her. He walked from the hips, +like many Sicilians, swaying very slightly, as if he liked to be aware +how supple his body still was. As Domini spoke he stopped. They were now +at a place where four paths joined, and could see four vistas of green +and gold, of magical sunlight and shadow. + +“I scarcely know; of being carried who knows where--in mind or heart. +Oh, there is danger in Beni-Mora, Madame, there is danger. This +startling air is full of influences, of desert spirits.” + +He looked at her in a way she could not understand--but it made her +think of the perfume-seller in his little dark room, and of the sudden +sensation she had had that mystery coils, like a black serpent, in the +shining heart of the East. + +“And now, Madame, which path shall we take? This one leads to my +drawing-room, that on the right to the Moorish bath.” + +“And that?” + +“That one goes straight down to the wall that overlooks the Sahara.” + +“Please let us take it.” + +“The desert spirits are calling to you? But you are wise. What makes +this garden remarkable is not its arrangement, the number and variety of +its trees, but the fact that it lies flush with the Sahara--like a man’s +thoughts of truth with Truth, perhaps.” + +He turned up the tail of the sentence and his harsh voice gave a little +grating crack. + +“I don’t believe they are so different from one another as the garden +and the desert.” + +She looked at him directly. + +“It would be too ironical.” + +“But nothing is,” the Count said. + +“You have discovered that in this garden?” + +“Ah, it is new to you, Madame!” + +For the first time there was a sound of faint bitterness in his voice. + +“One often discovers the saddest thing in the loveliest place,” he +added. “There you begin to see the desert.” + +Far away, at the small orifice of the tunnel of trees down which they +were walking, appeared a glaring patch of fierce and quivering sunlight. + +“I can only see the sun,” Domini said. + +“I know so well what it hides that I imagine I actually see the desert. +One loves one’s kind, assiduous liar. Isn’t it so?” + +“The imagination? But perhaps I am not disposed to allow that it is a +liar.” + +“Who knows? You may be right.” + +He looked at her kindly with his bright eyes. It had not seem to strike +him that their conversation was curiously intimate, considering that +they were strangers to one another, that he did not even know her name. +Domini wondered suddenly how old he was. That look made him seem much +older than he had seemed before. There was such an expression in his +eyes as may sometimes be seen in eyes that look at a child who is +kissing a rag doll with deep and determined affection. “Kiss your doll!” + they seemed to say. “Put off the years when you must know that dolls can +never return a kiss.” + +“I begin to see the desert now,” Domini said after a moment of silent +walking. “How wonderful it is!” + +“Yes, it is. The most wonderful thing in Nature. You will think it much +more wonderful when you fancy you know it well.” + +“Fancy!” + +“I don’t think anyone can ever really know the desert. It is the thing +that keeps calling, and does not permit one to draw near.” + +“But then, one might learn to hate it.” + +“I don’t think so. Truth does just the same, you know. And yet men keep +on trying to draw near.” + +“But sometimes they succeed.” + +“Do they? Not when they live in gardens.” + +He laughed for the first time since they had been together, and all his +face was covered with a network of little moving lines. + +“One should never live in a garden, Madame.” + +“I will try to take your word for it, but the task will be difficult.” + +“Yes? More difficult, perhaps, when you see what lies beside my thoughts +of truth.” + +As he spoke they came out from the tunnel and were seized by the fierce +hands of the sun. It was within half an hour of noon, and the radiance +was blinding. Domini put up her parasol sharply, like one startled. She +stopped. + +“But how tremendous!” she exclaimed. + +Count Anteoni laughed again, and drew down the brim of his grey hat +over his eyes. The hand with which he did it was almost as burnt as an +Arab’s. + +“You are afraid of it?” + +“No, no. But it startled me. We don’t know the sun really in Europe.” + +“No. Not even in Southern Italy, not even in Sicily. It is fierce +there in summer, but it seems further away. Here it insists on the most +intense intimacy. If you can bear it we might sit down for a moment?” + +“Please.” + +All along the edge of the garden, from the villa to the boundary of +Count Anteoni’s domain, ran a straight high wall made of earth bricks +hardened by the sun and topped by a coping of palm wood painted white. +This wall was some eight feet high on the side next to the desert, but +the garden was raised in such a way that the inner side was merely a +low parapet running along the sand path. In this parapet were cut small +seats, like window-seats, in which one could rest and look full upon the +desert as from a little cliff. Domini sat down on one of them, and the +Count stood by her, resting one foot on the top of the wall and leaning +his right arm on his knee. + +“There is the world on which I look for my hiding-place,” he said. “A +vast world, isn’t it?” + +Domini nodded without speaking. + +Immediately beneath them, in the narrow shadow of the wall, was a path +of earth and stones which turned off at the right at the end of the +garden into the oasis. Beyond lay the vast river bed, a chaos of hot +boulders bounded by ragged low earth cliffs, interspersed here and there +with small pools of gleaming water. These cliffs were yellow. From their +edge stretched the desert, as Eternity stretches from the edge of Time. +Only to the left was the immeasurable expanse intruded upon by a long +spur of mountains, which ran out boldly for some distance and then +stopped abruptly, conquered and abashed by the imperious flats. Beneath +the mountains were low, tent-like, cinnamon-coloured undulations, which +reminded Domini of those made by a shaken-out sheet, one smaller than +the other till they melted into the level. The summits of the most +distant mountains, which leaned away as if in fear of the desert, were +dark and mistily purple. Their flanks were iron grey at this hour, +flecked in the hollows with the faint mauve and pink which became +carnation colour when the sun set. + +Domini scarcely looked at them. Till now she had always thought that +she loved mountains. The desert suddenly made them insignificant, almost +mean to her. She turned her eyes towards the flat spaces. It was in them +that majesty lay, mystery, power, and all deep and significant things. +In the midst of the river bed, and quite near, rose a round and squat +white tower with a small cupola. Beyond it, on the little cliff, was a +tangle of palms where a tiny oasis sheltered a few native huts. At an +immense distance, here and there, other oases showed as dark stains show +on the sea where there are hidden rocks. And still farther away, on all +hands, the desert seemed to curve up slightly like a shallow wine-hued +cup to the misty blue horizon line, which resembled a faintly seen and +mysterious tropical sea, so distant that its sultry murmur was lost in +the embrace of the intervening silence. + +An Arab passed on the path below the wall. He did not see them. A white +dog with curling lips ran beside him. He was singing to himself in +a low, inward voice. He went on and turned towards the oasis, still +singing as he walked slowly. + +“Do you know what he is singing?” the Count asked. + +Domini shook her head. She was straining her ears to hear the melody as +long as possible. + +“It is a desert song of the freed negroes of Touggourt--‘No one but God +and I knows what is in my heart.’” + +Domini lowered her parasol to conceal her face. In the distance she +could still hear the song, but it was dying away. + +“Oh! what is going to happen to me here?” she thought. + +Count Anteoni was looking away from her now across the desert. A strange +impulse rose up in her. She could not resist it. She put down her +parasol, exposing herself to the blinding sunlight, knelt down on the +hot sand, leaned her arms on the white parapet, put her chin in the +upturned palms of her hands and stared into the desert almost fiercely. + +“No one but God and I knows what is in my heart,” she thought. “But +that’s not true, that’s not true. For I don’t know.” + +The last echo of the Arab’s song fainted on the blazing air. Surely it +had changed now. Surely, as he turned into the shadows of the palms, +he was singing, “No one but God knows what is in my heart.” Yes, he was +singing that. “No one but God--no one but God.” + +Count Anteoni looked down at her. She did not notice it, and he kept his +eyes on her for a moment. Then he turned to the desert again. + +By degrees, as she watched, Domini became aware of many things +indicative of life, and of many lives in the tremendous expanse that +at first had seemed empty of all save sun and mystery. She saw low, +scattered tents, far-off columns of smoke rising. She saw a bird pass +across the blue and vanish towards the mountains. Black shapes appeared +among the tiny mounds of earth, crowned with dusty grass and dwarf +tamarisk bushes. She saw them move, like objects in a dream, slowly +through the shimmering gold. They were feeding camels, guarded by nomads +whom she could not see. + +At first she persistently explored the distances, carried forcibly by an +_elan_ of her whole nature to the remotest points her eyes could reach. +Then she withdrew her gaze gradually, reluctantly, from the hidden +summoning lands, whose verges she had with difficulty gained, and +looked, at first with apprehension, upon the nearer regions. But her +apprehension died when she found that the desert transmutes what is +close as well as what is remote, suffuses even that which the hand +could almost touch with wonder, beauty, and the deepest, most strange +significance. + +Quite near in the river bed she saw an Arab riding towards the desert +upon a prancing black horse. He mounted a steep bit of path and came out +on the flat ground at the cliff top. Then he set his horse at a gallop, +raising his bridle hand and striking his heels into the flanks of the +beast. And each of his movements, each of the movements of his horse, +was profoundly interesting, and held the attention of the onlooker in a +vice, as if the fates of worlds depended upon where he was carried and +how soon he reached his goal. A string of camels laden with wooden bales +met him on the way, and this chance encounter seemed to Domini fraught +with almost terrible possibilities. Why? She did not ask herself. Again +she sent her gaze further, to the black shapes moving stealthily among +the little mounds, to the spirals of smoke rising into the glimmering +air. Who guarded those camels? Who fed those distant fires? Who watched +beside them? It seemed of vital consequence to her that she should know. + +Count Anteoni took out his watch and glanced at it. + +“I am looking to see if it is nearly the hour of prayer,” he said. “When +I am in Beni-Mora I usually come here then.” + +“You turn to the desert as the faithful turn towards Mecca?” + +“Yes. I like to see men praying in the desert.” + +He spoke indifferently, but Domini felt suddenly sure that within +him there were depths of imagination, of tenderness, even perhaps of +mysticism. + +“An atheist in the desert is unimaginable,” he added. “In cathedrals +they may exist very likely, and even feel at home. I have seen +cathedrals in which I could believe I was one, but--how many human +beings can you see in the desert at this moment, Madame?” + +Domini, still with her round chin in her hands, searched the blazing +region with her eyes. She saw three running figures with the train of +camels which was now descending into the river bed. In the shadow of the +low white tower two more were huddled, motionless. She looked away to +right and left, but saw only the shallow pools, the hot and gleaming +boulders, and beyond the yellow cliffs the brown huts peeping through +the palms. The horseman had disappeared. + +“I can see five,” she answered. + +“Ah! you are not accustomed to the desert.” + +“There are more?” + +“I could count up to a dozen. Which are yours?” + +“The men with the camels and the men under that tower.” + +“There are four playing the _jeu des dames_ in the shadow of the cliff +opposite to us. There is one asleep under a red rock where the path +ascends into the desert. And there are two more just at the edge of the +little oasis--Filiash, as it is called. One is standing under a palm, +and one is pacing up and down.” + +“You must have splendid eyes.” + +“They are trained to the desert. But there are probably a score of Arabs +within sight whom I don’t see.” + +“Oh! now I see the men at the edge of the oasis. How oddly that one is +moving. He goes up and down like a sailor on the quarter-deck.” + +“Yes, it is curious. And he is in the full blaze of the sun. That can’t +be an Arab.” + +He drew a silver whistle from his waistcoat pocket, put it to his lips +and sounded a call. In a moment Smain same running lightly over the +sand. Count Anteoni said something to him in Arabic. He disappeared, and +speedily returned with a pair of field-glasses. While he was gone Domini +watched the two doll-like figures on the cliff in silence. One was +standing under a large isolated palm tree absolutely still, as Arabs +often stand. The other, at a short distance from him and full in the +sun, went to and fro, to and fro, always measuring the same space +of desert, and turning and returning at two given points which never +varied. He walked like a man hemmed in by walls, yet around him were the +infinite spaces. The effect was singularly unpleasant upon Domini. All +things in the desert, as she had already noticed, became almost +terribly significant, and this peculiar activity seemed full of some +extraordinary and even horrible meaning. She watched it with straining +eyes. + +Count Anteoni took the glasses from Smain and looked through them, +adjusting them carefully to suit his sight. + +“_Ecco!_” he said. “I was right. That man is not an Arab.” + +He moved the glasses and glanced at Domini. + +“You are not the only traveller here, Madame.” + +He looked through the glasses again. + +“I knew that,” she said. + +“Indeed?” + +“There is one at my hotel.” + +“Possibly this is he. He makes me think of a caged tiger, who has been +so long in captivity that when you let him out he still imagines the +bars to be all round him. What was he like?” + +All the time he was speaking he was staring intently through the +glasses. As Domini did not reply he removed them from his eyes and +glanced at her inquiringly. + +“I am trying to think what he looked like,” she said slowly. “But I feel +that I don’t know. He was quite unlike any ordinary man.” + +“Would you care to see if you can recognise him? These are really +marvellous glasses.” + +Domini took them from him with some eagerness. + +“Twist them about till they suit your eyes.” + +At first she could see nothing but a fierce yellow glare. She turned the +screw and gradually the desert came to her, startlingly distinct. The +boulders of the river bed were enormous. She could see the veins of +colour in them, a lizard running over one of them and disappearing into +a dark crevice, then the white tower and the Arabs beneath it. One was +an old man yawning; the other a boy. He rubbed the tip of his brown +nose, and she saw the henna stains upon his nails. She lifted the +glasses slowly and with precaution. The tower ran away. She came to the +low cliff, to the brown huts and the palms, passed them one by one, +and reached the last, which was separated from its companions. Under it +stood a tall Arab in a garment like a white night-shirt. + +“He looks as if he had only one eye!” she exclaimed. + +“The palm-tree man--yes.” + +She travelled cautiously away from him, keeping the glasses level. + +“Ah!” she said on an indrawn breath. + +As she spoke the thin, nasal cry of a distant voice broke upon her ears, +prolonging a strange call. + +“The Mueddin,” said Count Anteoni. + +And he repeated in a low tone the words of the angel to the prophet: “Oh +thou that art covered arise . . . and magnify thy Lord; and purify thy +clothes, and depart from uncleanness.” + +The call died away and was renewed three times. The old man and the +boy beneath the tower turned their faces towards Mecca, fell upon their +knees and bowed their heads to the hot stones. The tall Arab under the +palm sank down swiftly. Domini kept the glasses at her eyes. Through +them, as in a sort of exaggerated vision, very far off, yet intensely +distinct, she saw the man with whom she had travelled in the train. He +went to and fro, to and fro on the burning ground till the fourth call +of the Mueddin died away. Then, as he approached the isolated palm tree +and saw the Arab beneath it fall to the earth and bow his long body in +prayer, he paused and stood still as if in contemplation. The glasses +were so powerful that it was possible to see the expressions on faces +even at that distance. The expression on the traveller’s face was, +or seemed to be, at first one of profound attention. But this changed +swiftly as he watched the bowing figure, and was succeeded by a look of +uneasiness, then of fierce disgust, then--surely--of fear or horror. He +turned sharply away like a driven man, and hurried off along the cliff +edge in a striding walk, quickening his steps each moment till his +departure became a flight. He disappeared behind a projection of earth +where the path sank to the river bed. + +Domini laid the glasses down on the wall and looked at Count Anteoni. + +“You say an atheist in the desert is unimaginable? + +“Isn’t it true?” + +“Has an atheist a hatred, a horror of prayer?” + +“Chi lo sa? The devil shrank away from the lifted Cross.” + +“Because he knew how much that was true it symbolised.” + +“No doubt had it been otherwise he would have jeered, not cowered. But +why do you ask me this question, Madame?” + +“I have just seen a man flee from the sight of prayer.” + +“Your fellow-traveller?” + +“Yes. It was horrible.” + +She gave him back the glasses. + +“They reveal that which should be hidden,” she said. + +Count Anteoni took the glasses slowly from her hands. As he bent to do +it he looked steadily at her, and she could not read the expression in +his eyes. + +“The desert is full of truth. Is that what you mean?” he asked. + +She made no reply. Count Anteoni stretched out his hand to the shining +expanse before them. + +“The man who is afraid of prayer is unwise to set foot beyond the palm +trees,” he said. + +“Why unwise?” + +He answered her very gravely. + +“The Arabs have a saying: ‘The desert is the garden of Allah.’” + +* * * * * + +Domini did not ascend the tower of the hotel that morning. She had seen +enough for the moment, and did not wish to disturb her impressions by +adding to them. So she walked back to the Hotel du Desert with Batouch. + +Count Anteoni had said good-bye to her at the door of the garden, and +had begged her to come again whenever she liked, and to spend as many +hours there as she pleased. + +“I shall take you at your word,” she said frankly. “I feel that I may.” + +As they shook hands she gave him her card. He took out his. “By the +way,” he said, “the big hotel you passed in coming here is mine. I +built it to prevent a more hideous one being built, and let it to the +proprietor. You might like to ascend the tower. The view at sundown is +incomparable. At present the hotel is shut, but the guardian will show +you everything if you give him my card.” + +He pencilled some words in Arabic on the back from right to left. + +“You write Arabic, too?” Domini said, watching the forming of the pretty +curves with interest. + +“Oh, yes; I am more than half African, though my father was a Sicilian +and my mother a Roman.” + +He gave her the card, took off his hat and bowed. When the tall white +door was softly shut by Smain, Domini felt rather like a new Eve +expelled from Paradise, without an Adam as a companion in exile. + +“Well, Madame?” said Batouch. “Have I spoken the truth?” + +“Yes. No European garden can be so beautiful as that. Now I am going +straight home.” + +She smiled to herself as she said the last word. + +Outside the hotel they found Hadj looking ferocious. He exchanged some +words with Batouch, accompanying them with violent gestures. When he had +finished speaking he spat upon the ground. + +“What is the matter with him?” Domini asked. + +“The Monsieur who is staying here would not take him to-day, but went +into the desert alone. Hadj wishes that the nomads may cut his throat, +and that his flesh may be eaten by jackals. Hadj is sure that he is a +bad man and will come to a bad end.” + +“Because he does not want a guide every day! But neither shall I.” + +“Madame is quite different. I would give my life for Madame.” + +“Don’t do that, but go this afternoon and find me a horse. I don’t want +a quiet one, but something with devil, something that a Spahi would like +to ride.” + +The desert spirits were speaking to her body as well as to her mind. A +physical audacity was stirring in her, and she longed to give it vent. + +“Madame is like the lion. She is afraid of nothing.” + +“You speak without knowing, Batouch. Don’t come for me this afternoon, +but bring round a horse, if you can find one, to-morrow morning.” + +“This very evening I will--” + +“No, Batouch. I said to-morrow morning.” + +She spoke with a quiet but inflexible decision which silenced him. Then +she gave him ten francs and went into the dark house, from which the +burning noonday sun was carefully excluded. She intended to rest after +_dejeuner_, and towards sunset to go to the big hotel and mount alone to +the summit of the tower. + +It was half-past twelve, and a faint rattle of knives and forks from the +_salle-a-manger_ told her that _dejeuner_ was ready. She went upstairs, +washed her face and hands in cold water, stood still while Suzanne shook +the dust from her gown, and then descended to the public room. The keen +air had given her an appetite. + +The _salle-a-manger_ was large and shady, and was filled with small +tables, at only three of which were people sitting. Four French officers +sat together at one. A small, fat, perspiring man of middle age, +probably a commercial traveller, who had eyes like a melancholy toad, +was at another, eating olives with anxious rapidity, and wiping his +forehead perpetually with a dirty white handkerchief. At the third was +the priest with whom Domini had spoken in the church. His napkin was +tucked under his beard, and he was drinking soup as he bent well over +his plate. + +A young Arab waiter, with a thin, dissipated face, stood near the door +in bright yellow slippers. When Domini came in he stole forward to show +her to her table, making a soft, shuffling sound on the polished wooden +floor. The priest glanced up over his napkin, rose and bowed. The French +officers stared with an interest they were too chivalrous to attempt to +conceal. Only the fat little man was entirely unconcerned. He wiped his +forehead, stuck his fork deftly into an olive, and continued to look +like a melancholy toad entangled by fate in commercial pursuits. + +Domini’s table was by a window, across which green Venetian shutters +were drawn. It was at a considerable distance from the other guests, who +did not live in the house, but came there each day for their meals. Near +it she noticed a table laid for one person, and so arranged that if he +came to _dejeuner_ he would sit exactly opposite to her. She wondered +if it was for the man at whom she had just been looking through Count +Anteoni’s field-glasses, the man who had fled from prayer in the “Garden +of Allah.” As she glanced at the empty chair standing before the knives +and forks, and the white cloth, she was uncertain whether she wished it +to be filled by the traveller or not. She felt his presence in Beni-Mora +as a warring element. That she knew. She knew also that she had come +there to find peace, a great calm and remoteness in which she could at +last grow, develop, loose her true self from cramping bondage, come +to an understanding with herself, face her heart and soul, and--as it +were--look them in the eyes and know them for what they were, good +or evil. In the presence of this total stranger there was something +unpleasantly distracting which she could not and did not ignore, +something which roused her antagonism and which at the same time +compelled her attention. She had been conscious of it in the train, +conscious of it in the tunnel at twilight, at night in the hotel, and +once again in Count Anteoni’s garden. This man intruded himself, no +doubt unconsciously, or even against his will, into her sight, her +thoughts, each time that she was on the point of giving herself to what +Count Anteoni called “the desert spirits.” So it had been when the train +ran out of the tunnel into the blue country. So it had been again when +she leaned on the white wall and gazed out over the shining fastnesses +of the sun. He was there like an enemy, like something determined, +egoistical, that said to her, “You would look at the greatness of the +desert, at immensity, infinity, God!--Look at me.” And she could +not turn her eyes away. Each time the man had, as if without effort, +conquered the great competing power, fastened her thoughts upon himself, +set her imagination working about his life, even made her heart beat +faster with some thrill of--what? Was it pity? Was it a faint horror? +She knew that to call the feeling merely repugnance would not be +sincere. The intensity, the vitality of the force shut up in a human +being almost angered her at this moment as she looked at the empty chair +and realised all that it had suddenly set at work. There was something +insolent in humanity as well as something divine, and just then she +felt the insolence more than the divinity. Terrifically greater, more +overpowering than man, the desert was yet also somehow less than man, +feebler, vaguer. Or else how could she have been grasped, moved, turned +to curiosity, surmise, almost to a sort of dread--all at the desert’s +expense--by the distant moving figure seen through the glasses? + +Yes, as she looked at the little white table and thought of all this, +Domini began to feel angry. But she was capable of effort, whether +mental or physical, and now she resolutely switched her mind off from +the antagonistic stranger and devoted her thoughts to the priest, +whose narrow back she saw down the room in the distance. As she ate +her fish--a mystery of the seas of Robertville--she imagined his quiet +existence in this remote place, sunny day succeeding sunny day, each +one surely so like its brother that life must become a sort of dream, +through which the voice of the church bell called melodiously and the +incense rising before the altar shed a drowsy perfume. How strange it +must be really to live in Beni-Mora, to have your house, your work +here, your friendships here, your duties here, perhaps here too the +tiny section of earth which would hold at the last your body. It must be +strange and monotonous, and yet surely rather sweet, rather safe. + +The officers lifted their heads from their plates, the fat man stared, +the priest looked quietly up over his napkin, and the Arab waiter +slipped forward with attentive haste. For the swing door of the +_salle-a-manger_ at this moment was pushed open, and the traveller--so +Domini called him in her thoughts--entered and stood looking with +hesitation from one table to another. + +Domini did not glance up. She knew who it was and kept her eyes +resolutely on her plate. She heard the Arab speak, a loud noise of stout +boots tramping over the wooden floor, and the creak of a chair receiving +a surely tired body. The traveller sat down heavily. She went on slowly +eating the large Robertville fish, which was like something between a +trout and a herring. When she had finished it she gazed straight before +her at the cloth, and strove to resume her thoughts of the priest’s life +in Beni-Mora. But she could not. It seemed to her as if she were back +again in Count Anteoni’s garden. She looked once more through the +glasses, and heard the four cries of the Mueddin, and saw the pacing +figure in the burning heat, the Arab bent in prayer, the one who watched +him, the flight. And she was indignant with herself for her strange +inability to govern her mind. It seemed to her a pitiful thing of which +she should be ashamed. + +She heard the waiter set down a plate upon the traveller’s table, and +then the noise of a liquid being poured into a glass. She could not keep +her eyes down any more. Besides, why should she? Beni-Mora was +breeding in her a self-consciousness--or a too acute consciousness of +others--that was unnatural in her. She had never been sensitive like +this in her former life, but the fierce African sun seemed now to have +thawed the ice of her indifference. She felt everything with almost +unpleasant acuteness. All her senses seemed to her sharpened. She +saw, she heard, as she had never seen and heard till now. Suddenly she +remembered her almost violent prayer--“Let me be alive! Let me feel!” + and she was aware that such a prayer might have an answer that would be +terrible. + +Looking up thus with a kind of severe determination, she saw the man +again. He was eating and was not looking towards her, and she fancied +that his eyes were downcast with as much conscious resolution as hers +had been a moment before. He wore the same suit as he had worn in the +train, but now it was flecked with desert dust. She could not “place” + him at all. He was not of the small, fat man’s order. They would have +nothing in common. With the French officers? She could not imagine how +he would be with them. The only other man in the room--the servant had +gone out for the moment--was the priest. He and the priest--they would +surely be antagonists. Had he not turned aside to avoid the priest in +the tunnel? Probably he was one of those many men who actively hate +the priesthood, to whom the soutane is anathema. Could he find pleasant +companionship with such a man as Count Anteoni, an original man, no +doubt, but also a cultivated and easy man of the world? She smiled +internally at the mere thought. Whatever this stranger might be she felt +that he was as far from being a man of the world as she was from being a +Cockney sempstress or a veiled favourite in a harem. She could not, +she found, imagine him easily at home with any type of human being with +which she was acquainted. Yet no doubt, like all men, he had somewhere +friends, relations, possibly even a wife, children. + +No doubt--then why could she not believe it? + +The man had finished his fish. He rested his broad, burnt hands on the +table on each side of his plate and looked at them steadily. Then he +turned his head and glanced sideways at the priest, who was behind him +to the right. Then he looked again at his hands. And Domini knew that +all the time he was thinking about her, as she was thinking about +him. She felt the violence of his thought like the violence of a hand +striking her. + +The Arab waiter brought her some ragout of mutton and peas, and she +looked down again at her plate. + +As she left the room after _dejeuner_ the priest again got up and +bowed. She stopped for a moment to speak to him. All the French officers +surveyed her tall, upright figure and broad, athletic shoulders with +intent admiration. Domini knew it and was indifferent. If a hundred +French soldiers had been staring at her critically she would not have +cared at all. She was not a shy woman and was in nowise uncomfortable +when many eyes were fixed upon her. So she stood and talked a little to +the priest about Count Anteoni and her pleasure in his garden. And +as she did so, feeling her present calm self-possession, she wondered +secretly at the wholly unnatural turmoil--she called it that, +exaggerating her feeling because it was unusual--in which she had been a +few minutes before as she sat at her table. + +The priest spoke well of Count Anteoni. + +“He is very generous,” he said. + +Then he paused, twisting his napkin, and added: + +“But I never have any real intercourse with him, Madame. I believe he +comes here in search of solitude. He spends days and even weeks alone +shut up in his garden.” + +“Thinking,” she said. + +The priest looked slightly surprised. + +“It would be difficult not to think, Madame, would it not?” + +“Oh, yes. But Count Anteoni thinks rather as a Bashi-Bazouk fights, I +fancy.” + +She heard a chair creak in the distance and glanced over her shoulder. +The traveller had turned sideways. At once she bade the priest good-bye +and walked away and out through the swing door. + +All the afternoon she rested. The silence was profound. Beni-Mora was +enjoying a siesta in the heat. Domini revelled in the stillness. The +fatigue of travel had quite gone from her now and she began to feel +strangely at home. Suzanne had arranged photographs, books, flowers in +the little salon, had put cushions here and there, and thrown pretty +coverings over the sofa and the two low chairs. The room had an air +of cosiness, of occupation. It was a room one could sit in without +restlessness, and Domini liked its simplicity, its bare wooden floor and +white walls. The sun made everything right here. Without the sun--but +she could not think of Beni-Mora without the sun. + +She read on the verandah and dreamed, and the hours slipped quickly +away. No one came to disturb her. She heard no footsteps, no movements +of humanity in the house. Now and then the sound of voices floated up +to her from the gardens, mingling with the peculiar dry noise of palm +leaves stirring in a breeze. Or she heard the distant gallop of horses’ +feet. The church bell chimed the hours and made her recall the previous +evening. Already it seemed far off in the past. She could scarcely +believe that she had not yet spent twenty-four hours in Beni-Mora. A +conviction came to her that she would be there for a long while, that +she would strike roots into this sunny place of peace. When she heard +the church bell now she thought of the interior of the church and of the +priest with an odd sort of familiar pleasure, as people in England often +think of the village church in which they have always been accustomed to +worship, and of the clergyman who ministers in it Sunday after Sunday. +Yet at moments she remembered her inward cry in Count Anteoni’s garden, +“Oh, what is going to happen to me here?” And then she was dimly +conscious that Beni-Mora was the home of many things besides peace. It +held warring influences. At one moment it lulled her and she was like an +infant rocked in a cradle. At another moment it stirred her, and she +was a woman on the edge of mysterious possibilities. There must be +many individualities among the desert spirits of whom Count Anteoni +had spoken. Now one was with her and whispered to her, now another. She +fancied the light touch of their hands on hers, pulling gently at her, +as a child pulls you to take you to see a treasure. And their treasure +was surely far away, hidden in the distance of the desert sands. + +As soon as the sun began to decline towards the west she put on her hat, +thrust the card Count Anteoni had given her into her glove and set out +towards the big hotel alone. She met Hadj as she walked down the arcade. +He wished to accompany her, and was evidently filled with treacherous +ideas of supplanting his friend Batouch, but she gave him a franc and +sent him away. The franc soothed him slightly, yet she could see that +his childish vanity was injured. There was a malicious gleam in +his long, narrow eyes as he looked after her. Yet there was genuine +admiration too. The Arab bows down instinctively before any dominating +spirit, and such a spirit in a foreign woman flashes in his eyes like +a bright flame. Physical strength, too, appeals to him with peculiar +force. Hadj tossed his head upwards, tucked in his chin, and muttered +some words in his brown throat as he noted the elastic grace with which +the rejecting foreign woman moved till she was out of his sight. And she +never looked back at him. That was a keen arrow in her quiver. He fell +into a deep reverie under the arcade and his face became suddenly like +the face of a sphinx. + +Meanwhile Domini had forgotten him. She had turned to the left down a +small street in which some Indians and superior Arabs had bazaars. +One of the latter came out from the shadow of his hanging rugs and +embroideries as she passed, and, addressing her in a strange mixture +of incorrect French and English, begged her to come in and examine his +wares. + +She shook her head, but could not help looking at him with interest. + +He was the thinnest man she had ever seen, and moved and stood almost as +if he were boneless. The line of his delicate and yet arbitrary features +was fierce. His face was pitted with small-pox and marked by an old +wound, evidently made by a knife, which stretched from his left cheek to +his forehead, ending just over the left eyebrow. The expression of his +eyes was almost disgustingly intelligent. While they were fixed upon her +Domini felt as if her body were a glass box in which all her thoughts, +feelings, and desires were ranged for his inspection. In his demeanour +there was much that pleaded, but also something that commanded. His +fingers were unnaturally long and held a small bag, and he planted +himself right before her in the road. + +“Madame, come in, venez avec moi. Venez--venez! I have much--I will +show--j’ai des choses extraordinaires! Tenez! Look!” + +He untied the mouth of the bag. Domini looked into it, expecting to see +something precious--jewels perhaps. She saw only a quantity of sand, +laughed, and moved to go on. She thought the Arab was an impudent fellow +trying to make fun of her. + +“No, no, Madame! Do not laugh! Ce sable est du desert. Il y a des +histoires la-dedans. Il y a l’histoire de Madame. Come bazaar! I will +read for Madame--what will be--what will become--I will read--I will +tell. Tenez!” He stared down into the bag and his face became suddenly +stern and fixed. “Deja je vois des choses dans la vie de Madame. Ah! Mon +Dieu! Ah! Mon Dieu!” + +“No, no,” Domini said. + +She had hesitated, but was now determined. + +“I have no time to-day.” + +The man cast a quick and sly glance at her, then stared once more +into the bag. “Ah! Mon Dieu! Ah! Mon Dieu!” he repeated. “The life to +come--the life of Madame--I see it in the bag!” + +His face looked tortured. Domini walked on hurriedly. When she had +got to a little distance she glanced back. The man was standing in the +middle of the road and glaring into the bag. His voice came down the +street to her. + +“Ah! Mon Dieu! Ah! Mon Dieu! I see it--I see--je vois la vie de +Madame--Ah! Mon Dieu!” + +There was an accent of dreadful suffering in his voice. It made Domini +shudder. + +She passed the mouth of the dancers’ street. At the corner there was +a large Cafe Maure, and here, on rugs laid by the side of the road, +numbers of Arabs were stretched, some sipping tea from glasses, some +playing dominoes, some conversing, some staring calmly into vacancy, +like animals drowned in a lethargic dream. A black boy ran by holding +a hammered brass tray on which were some small china cups filled with +thick coffee. Halfway up the street he met three unveiled women clad in +voluminous white dresses, with scarlet, yellow, and purple handkerchiefs +bound over their black hair. He stopped and the women took the cups with +their henna-tinted fingers. Two young Arabs joined them. There was a +scuffle. White lumps of sugar flew up into the air. Then there was a +babel of voices, a torrent of cries full of barbaric gaiety. + +Before it had died out of Domini’s ears she stood by the statue of +Cardinal Lavigerie. Rather militant than priestly, raised high on a +marble pedestal, it faced the long road which, melting at last into a +faint desert track, stretched away to Tombouctou. The mitre upon the +head was worn surely as if it were a helmet, the pastoral staff with its +double cross was grasped as if it were a sword. Upon the lower cross was +stretched a figure of the Christ in agony. And the Cardinal, gazing +with the eyes of an eagle out into the pathless wastes of sand that lay +beyond the palm trees, seemed, by his mere attitude, to cry to all the +myriad hordes of men the deep-bosomed Sahara mothered in her mystery and +silence, “Come unto the Church! Come unto me!” + +He called men in from the desert. Domini fancied his voice echoing along +the sands till the worshippers of Allah and of his Prophet heard it like +a clarion in Tombouctou. + +When she reached the great hotel the sun was just beginning to set. She +drew Count Anteoni’s card from her glove and rang the bell. After a +long interval a magnificent man, with the features of an Arab but a skin +almost as black as a negro, opened the door. + +“Can I go up the tower to see the sunset?” she asked, giving him the +card. + +The man bowed low, escorted her through a long hall full of furniture +shrouded in coverings, up a staircase, along a corridor with numbered +rooms, up a second staircase and out upon a flat-terraced roof, from +which the tower soared high above the houses and palms of Beni-Mora, a +landmark visible half-a-day’s journey out in the desert. A narrow spiral +stair inside the tower gained the summit. + +“I’ll go up alone,” Domini said. “I shall stay some time and I would +rather not keep you.” + +She put some money into the Arab’s hand. He looked pleased, yet doubtful +too for a moment. Then he seemed to banish his hesitation and, with a +deprecating smile, said something which she could not understand. She +nodded intelligently to get rid of him. Already, from the roof, she +caught sight of a great visionary panorama glowing with colour and +magic. She was impatient to climb still higher into the sky, to look +down on the world as an eagle does. So she turned away decisively and +mounted the dark, winding stair till she reached a door. She pushed it +open with some difficulty, and came out into the air at a dizzy height, +shutting the door forcibly behind her with an energetic movement of her +strong arms. + +The top of the tower was small and square, and guarded by a white +parapet breast high. In the centre of it rose the outer walls and the +ceiling of the top of the staircase, which prevented a person standing +on one side of the tower from seeing anybody who was standing at the +opposite side. There was just sufficient space between parapet and +staircase wall for two people to pass with difficulty and manoeuvring. + +But Domini was not concerned with such trivial details, as she would +have thought them had she thought of them. Directly she had shut the +little door and felt herself alone--alone as an eagle in the sky--she +took the step forward that brought her to the parapet, leaned her arms +on it, looked out and was lost in a passion of contemplation. + +At first she did not discern any of the multitudinous minutiae in the +great evening vision beneath and around her. She only felt conscious of +depth, height, space, colour, mystery, calm. She did not measure. She +did not differentiate. She simply stood there, leaning lightly on +the snowy plaster work, and experienced something that she had never +experienced before, that she had never imagined. It was scarcely vivid; +for in everything that is vivid there seems to be something small, the +point to which wonders converge, the intense spark to which many fires +have given themselves as food, the drop which contains the murmuring +force of innumerable rivers. It was more than vivid. It was reliantly +dim, as is that pulse of life which is heard through and above the crash +of generations and centuries falling downwards into the abyss; that +persistent, enduring heart-beat, indifferent in its mystical regularity, +that ignores and triumphs, and never grows louder nor diminishes, +inexorably calm, inexorably steady, undefeated--more--utterly unaffected +by unnumbered millions of tragedies and deaths. + +Many sounds rose from far down beneath the tower, but at first Domini +did not hear them. She was only aware of an immense, living silence, a +silence flowing beneath, around and above her in dumb, invisible waves. +Circles of rest and peace, cool and serene, widened as circles in a pool +towards the unseen limits of the satisfied world, limits lost in the +hidden regions beyond the misty, purple magic where sky and desert met. +And she felt as if her brain, ceaselessly at work from its birth, +her heart, unresting hitherto in a commotion of desires, her soul, an +eternal flutter of anxious, passionate wings, folded themselves together +gently like the petals of roses when a summer night comes into a garden. + +She was not conscious that she breathed while she stood there. She +thought her bosom ceased to rise and fall. The very blood dreamed in her +veins as the light of evening dreamed in the blue. + +She knew the Great Pause that seems to divide some human lives in two, +as the Great Gulf divided him who lay in Abraham’s bosom from him who +was shrouded in the veil of fire. + + + + +BOOK II. THE VOICE OF PRAYER + + + +CHAPTER VII + +The music of things from below stole up through the ethereal spaces to +Domini without piercing her dream. But suddenly she started with a +sense of pain so acute that it shook her body and set the pulses in her +temples beating. She lifted her arms swiftly from the parapet and turned +her head. She had heard a little grating noise which seemed to be near +to her, enclosed with her on this height in the narrow space of the +tower. Slight as it was, and short--already she no longer heard it--it +had in an instant driven her out of Heaven, as if it had been an angel +with a flaming sword. She felt sure that there must be something alive +with her at the tower summit, something which by a sudden movement had +caused the little noise she had heard. What was it? When she turned her +head she could only see the outer wall of the staircase, a section of +the narrow white space which surrounded it, an angle of the parapet and +blue air. + +She listened, holding her breath and closing her two hands on the +parapet, which was warm from the sun. Now, caught back to reality, she +could hear faintly the sounds from below in Beni-Mora. But they did not +concern her, and she wished to shut them out from her ears. What did +concern her was to know what was with her up in the sky. Had a bird +alighted on the parapet and startled her by scratching at the plaster +with its beak? Could a mouse have shuffled in the wall? Or was there a +human being up there hidden from her by the masonry? + +This last supposition disturbed her almost absurdly for a moment. She +was inclined to walk quickly round to the opposite side of the tower, +but something stronger than her inclination, an imperious shyness, held +her motionless. She had been carried so far away from the world that +she felt unable to face the scrutiny of any world-bound creature. Having +been in the transparent region of magic it seemed to her as if her +secret, the great secret of the absolutely true, the naked personality +hidden in every human being, were set blazing in her eyes like some +torch borne in a procession, just for that moment. The moment past, she +could look anyone fearlessly in the face; but not now, not yet. + +While she stood there, half turning round, she heard the sound again and +knew what caused it. A foot had shifted on the plaster floor. There was +someone else then looking out over the desert. A sudden idea struck her. +Probably it was Count Anteoni. He knew she was coming and might have +decided to act once more as her cicerone. He had not heard her climbing +the stairs, and, having gone to the far side of the tower, was no doubt +watching the sunset, lost in a dream as she had been. + +She resolved not to disturb him--if it was he. When he had dreamed +enough he must inevitably come round to where she was standing in order +to gain the staircase. She would let him find her there. Less troubled +now, but in an utterly changed mood, she turned, leaned once more on +the parapet and looked over, this time observantly, prepared to note the +details that, combined and veiled in the evening light of Africa, made +the magic which had so instantly entranced her. + +She looked down into the village and could see its extent, precisely how +it was placed in the Sahara, in what relation exactly it stood to the +mountain ranges, to the palm groves and the arid, sunburnt tracts, where +its life centred and where it tailed away into suburban edges not unlike +the ragged edges of worn garments, where it was idle and frivolous, +where busy and sedulous. She realised for the first time that there +were two distinct layers of life in Beni-Mora--the life of the streets, +courts, gardens and market-place, and above it the life of the roofs. +Both were now spread out before her, and the latter, in its domestic +intimacy, interested and charmed her. She saw upon the roofs the +children playing with little dogs, goats, fowls, mothers in rags of +gaudy colours stirring the barley for cous-cous, shredding vegetables, +pounding coffee, stewing meat, plucking chickens, bending over bowls +from which rose the steam of soup; small girls, seated in dusty corners, +solemnly winding wool on sticks, and pausing, now and then, to squeak to +distant members of the home circle, or to smell at flowers laid beside +them as solace to their industry. An old grandmother rocked and kissed +a naked baby with a pot belly. A big grey rat stole from a rubbish heap +close by her, flitted across the sunlit space, and disappeared into a +cranny. Pigeons circled above the home activities, delicate lovers of +the air, wandered among the palm tops, returned and fearlessly alighted +on the brown earth parapets, strutting hither and thither and making +their perpetual, characteristic motion of the head, half nod, half +genuflection. Veiled girls promenaded to take the evening cool, folding +their arms beneath their flowing draperies, and chattering to one +another in voices that Domini could not hear. More close at hand certain +roofs in the dancers’ street revealed luxurious sofas on which painted +houris were lolling in sinuous attitudes, or were posed with a stiffness +of idols, little tables set with coffee cups, others round which were +gathered Zouaves intent on card games, but ever ready to pause for a +caress or for some jesting absurdity with the women who squatted beside +them. Some men, dressed like girls, went to and fro, serving the dancers +with sweetmeats and with cigarettes, their beards flowing down with a +grotesque effect over their dresses of embroidered muslin, their hairy +arms emerging from hanging sleeves of silk. A negro boy sat holding a +tomtom between his bare knees and beating it with supple hands, and a +Jewess performed the stomach dance, waving two handkerchiefs stained red +and purple, and singing in a loud and barbarous contralto voice which +Domini could hear but very faintly. The card-players stopped their game +and watched her, and Domini watched too. For the first time, and from +this immense height, she saw this universal dance of the east; the +doll-like figure, fantastically dwarfed, waving its tiny hands, +wriggling its minute body, turning about like a little top, strutting +and bending, while the soldiers--small almost from here as toys taken +out of a box--assumed attitudes of deep attention as they leaned upon +the card-table, stretching out their legs enveloped in balloon-like +trousers. + +Domini thought of the recruits, now, no doubt, undergoing elsewhere +their initiation. For a moment she seemed to see their coarse peasant +faces rigid with surprise, their hanging jaws, their childish, and yet +sensual, round eyes. Notre Dame de la Garde must seem very far away from +them now. + +With that thought she looked quickly away from the Jewess and the +soldiers. She felt a sudden need of something more nearly in relation +with her inner self. She was almost angry as she realised how deep had +been her momentary interest in a scene suggestive of a license which was +surely unattractive to her. Yet was it unattractive? She scarcely +knew. But she knew that it had kindled in her a sudden and very strong +curiosity, even a vague, momentary desire that she had been born in some +tent of the Ouled Nails--no, that was impossible. She had not felt such +a desire even for an instant. She looked towards the thickets of the +palms, towards the mountains full of changing, exquisite colours, +towards the desert. And at once the dream began to return, and she felt +as if hands slipped under her heart and uplifted it. + +What depths and heights were within her, what deep, dark valleys, +and what mountain peaks! And how she travelled within herself, with +swiftness of light, with speed of the wind. What terrors of activity she +knew. Did every human being know similar terrors? + +The colours everywhere deepened as day failed. The desert spirits were +at work. She thought of Count Anteoni again, and resolved to go round to +the other side of the tower. As she moved to do this she heard once more +the shifting of a foot on the plaster floor, then a step. Evidently +she had infected him with an intention similar to her own. She went on, +still hearing the step, turned the corner and stood face to face in the +strong evening light with the traveller. Their bodies almost touched in +the narrow space before they both stopped, startled. For a moment they +stood still looking at each other, as people might look who have spoken +together, who know something of each other’s lives, who may like or +dislike, wish to avoid or to draw near to each other, but who cannot +pretend that they are complete strangers, wholly indifferent to each +other. They met in the sky, almost as one bird may meet another on the +wing. And, to Domini, at any rate, it seemed as if the depth, height, +space, colour, mystery and calm--yes, even the calm--which were above, +around and beneath them, had been placed there by hidden hands as a +setting for their encounter, even as the abrupt pageant of the previous +day, into which the train had emerged from the blackness of the tunnel, +had surely been created as a frame for the face which had looked upon +her as if out of the heart of the sun. The assumption was absurd, +unreasonable, yet vital. She did not combat it because she felt it too +powerful for common sense to strive against. And it seemed to her that +the stranger felt it too, that she saw her sensation reflected in his +eyes as he stood between the parapet and the staircase wall, barring--in +despite of himself--her path. The moment seemed long while they stood +motionless. Then the man took off his soft hat awkwardly, yet with real +politeness, and stood quickly sideways against the parapet to let her +pass. She could have passed if she had brushed against him, and made a +movement to do so. Then she checked herself and looked at him again as +if she expected him to speak to her. His hat was still in his hand, and +the light desert wind faintly stirred his short brown hair. He did not +speak, but stood there crushing himself against the plaster work with a +sort of fierce timidity, as if he dreaded the touch of her skirt against +him, and longed to make himself small, to shrivel up and let her go by +in freedom. + +“Thank you,” she said in French. + +She passed him, but was unable to do so without touching him. Her left +arm was hanging down, and her bare hand knocked against the back of the +hand in which he held his hat. She felt as if at that moment she +touched a furnace, and she saw him shiver slightly, as over-fatigued +men sometimes shiver in daylight. An extraordinary, almost motherly, +sensation of pity for him came over her. She did not know why. The +intense heat of his hand, the shiver that ran over his body, his +attitude as he shrank with a kind of timid, yet ferocious, politeness +against the white wall, the expression in his eyes when their hands +touched--a look she could not analyse, but which seemed to hold a +mingling of wistfulness and repellance, as of a being stretching out +arms for succour, and crying at the same time, “Don’t draw near to me! +Leave me to myself!”--everything about him moved her. She felt that +she was face to face with a solitariness of soul such as she had never +encountered before, a solitariness that was cruel, that was weighed down +with agony. And directly she had passed the man and thanked him formally +she stopped with her usual decision of manner. She had abruptly made up +her mind to talk to him. He was already moving to turn away. She spoke +quickly, and in French. + +“Isn’t it wonderful here?” she said; and she made her voice rather loud, +and almost sharp, to arrest his attention. + +He turned round swiftly, yet somehow reluctantly, looked at her +anxiously, and seemed doubtful whether he would reply. + +After a silence that was short, but that seemed, and in such +circumstances was, long, he answered, in French: + +“Very wonderful, Madame.” + +The sound of his own voice seemed to startle him. He stood as if he had +heard an unusual noise which had alarmed him, and looked at Domini as +if he expected that she would share in his sensation. Very quietly and +deliberately she leaned her arms again on the parapet and spoke to him +once more. + +“We seem to be the only travellers here.” + +The man’s attitude became slightly calmer. He looked less momentary, +less as if he were in haste to go, but still shy, fierce and +extraordinarily unconventional. + +“Yes, Madame; there are not many here.” + +After a pause, and with an uncertain accent, he added: + +“Pardon, Madame--for yesterday.” + +There was a sudden simplicity, almost like that of a child, in the sound +of his voice as he said that. Domini knew at once that he alluded to the +incident at the station of El-Akbara, that he was trying to make amends. +The way he did it touched her curiously. She felt inclined to stretch +out her hand to him and say, “Of course! Shake hands on it!” almost as +an honest schoolboy might. But she only answered: + +“I know it was only an accident. Don’t think of it any more.” + +She did not look at him. + +“Where money is concerned the Arabs are very persistent,” she continued. + +The man laid one of his brown hands on the top of the parapet. She +looked at it, and it seemed to her that she had never before seen the +back of a hand express so much of character, look so intense, so ardent, +and so melancholy as his. + +“Yes, Madame.” + +He still spoke with an odd timidity, with an air of listening to his own +speech as if in some strange way it were phenomenal to him. It occurred +to her that possibly he had lived much in lonely places, in which his +solitude had rarely been broken, and he had been forced to acquire the +habit of silence. + +“But they are very picturesque. They look almost like some religious +order when they wear their hoods. Don’t you think so?” + +She saw the brown hand lifted from the parapet, and heard her +companion’s feet shift on the floor of the tower. But this time he said +nothing. As she could not see his hand now she looked out again over +the panorama of the evening, which was deepening in intensity with every +passing moment, and immediately she was conscious of two feelings that +filled her with wonder: a much stronger and sweeter sense of the African +magic than she had felt till now, and the certainty that the greater +force and sweetness of her feeling were caused by the fact that she had +a companion in her contemplation. This was strange. An intense desire +for loneliness had driven her out of Europe to this desert place, and a +companion, who was an utter stranger, emphasised the significance, gave +fibre to the beauty, intensity to the mystery of that which she looked +on. It was as if the meaning of the African evening were suddenly +doubled. She thought of a dice-thrower who throws one die and turns up +six, then throws two and turns up twelve. And she remained silent in her +surprise. The man stood silently beside her. Afterwards she felt as if, +during this silence in the tower, some powerful and unseen being had +arrived mysteriously, introduced them to one another and mysteriously +departed. + +The evening drew on in their silence and the dream was deeper now. All +that Domini had felt when first she approached the parapet she felt more +strangely, and she grasped, with physical and mental vision, not only +the whole, but the innumerable parts of that which she looked on. She +saw, fancifully, the circles widen in the pool of peace, but she saw +also the things that had been hidden in the pool. The beauty of dimness, +the beauty of clearness, joined hands. The one and the other were, with +her, like sisters. She heard the voices from below, and surely also +the voices of the stars that were approaching with the night, blending +harmoniously and making a music in the air. The glowing sky and the +glowing mountains were as comrades, each responsive to the emotions of +the other. The lights in the rocky clefts had messages for the shadowy +moon, and the palm trees for the thin, fire-tipped clouds about the +west. Far off the misty purple of the desert drew surely closer, like a +mother coming to fold her children in her arms. + +The Jewess still danced upon the roof to the watching Zouaves, but now +there was something mystic in her tiny movements which no longer roused +in Domini any furtive desire not really inherent in her nature. There +was something beautiful in everything seen from this altitude in this +wondrous evening light. + +Presently, without turning to her companion, she said: + +“Could anything look ugly in Beni-Mora from here at this hour, do you +think?” + +Again there was the silence that seemed characteristic of this man +before he spoke, as if speech were very difficult to him. + +“I believe not, Madame.” + +“Even that woman down there on that roof looks graceful--the one dancing +for those soldiers.” + +He did not answer. She glanced at him and pointed. + +“Down there, do you see?” + +She noticed that he did not follow her hand and that his face became +stern. He kept his eyes fixed on the trees of the garden of the Gazelles +near Cardinal Lavigerie’s statue and replied: + +“Yes, Madame.” + +His manner made her think that perhaps he had seen the dance at close +quarters and that it was outrageous. For a moment she felt slightly +uncomfortable, but determined not to let him remain under a false +impression, she added carelessly: + +“I have never seen the dances of Africa. I daresay I should think +them ugly enough if I were near, but from this height everything is +transformed.” + +“That is true, Madame.” + +There was an odd, muttering sound in his voice, which was deep, and +probably strong, but which he kept low. Domini thought it was the most +male voice she had ever heard. It seemed to be full of sex, like his +hands. Yet there was nothing coarse in either the one or the other. +Everything about him was vital to a point that was so remarkable as to +be not actually unnatural but very near the unnatural. + +She glanced at him again. He was a big man, but very thin. Her +experienced eyes of an athletic woman told her that he was capable +of great and prolonged muscular exertion. He was big-boned and +deep-chested, and had nervous as well as muscular strength. The timidity +in him was strange in such a man. What could it spring from? It was +not like ordinary shyness, the _gaucherie_ of a big, awkward lout +unaccustomed to woman’s society but able to be at his ease and +boisterous in the midst of a crowd of men. Domini thought that he would +be timid even of men. Yet it never struck her that he might be a coward, +unmanly. Such a quality would have sickened her at once, and she knew +she would have at once divined it. He did not hold himself very well, +but was inclined to stoop and to keep his head low, as if he were in the +habit of looking much on the ground. The idiosyncrasy was rather ugly, +and suggested melancholy to her, the melancholy of a man given to +over-much meditation and afraid to face the radiant wonder of life. + +She caught herself up at this last thought. She--thinking naturally that +life was full of radiant wonder! Was she then so utterly transformed +already by Beni-Mora? Or had the thought come to her because she stood +side by side with someone whose sorrows had been unfathomably deeper +than her own, and so who, all unconsciously, gave her a knowledge of her +own--till then unsuspected--hopefulness? + +She looked at her companion again. He seemed to have relinquished his +intention of leaving her, and was standing quietly beside her, staring +towards the desert, with his head slightly drooped forward. In one hand +he held a thick stick. He had put his hat on again. His attitude was +much calmer than it had been. Already he seemed more at ease with her. +She was glad of that. She did not ask herself why. But the intense +beauty of evening in this land and at this height made her wish +enthusiastically that it could produce a happiness such as it created in +her in everyone. Such beauty, with its voices, its colours, its lines +of tree and leaf, of wall and mountain ridge, its mystery of shapes and +movements, stillness and dreaming distance, its atmosphere of the far +off come near, chastened by journeying, fine with the unfamiliar, its +solemn changes towards the impenetrable night, was too large a thing and +fraught with too much tender and lovable invention to be worshipped in +any selfishness. It made her feel as if she could gladly be a martyr for +unseen human beings, as if sacrifice would be an easy thing if made for +those to whom such beauty would appeal. Brotherhood rose up and cried in +her, as it surely sang in the sunset, in the mountains, the palm groves +and the desert. The flame above the hills, their purple outline, the +moving, feathery trees; dark under the rose-coloured glory of the west, +and most of all the immeasurably remote horizons, each moment more +strange and more eternal, made her long to make this harsh stranger +happy. + +“One ought to find happiness here,” she said to him very simply. + +She saw his hand strain itself round the wood of his stick. + +“Why?” he said. + +He turned right round to her and looked at her with a sort of anger. + +“Why should you suppose so?” he added, speaking quite quickly, and +without his former uneasiness and consciousness. + +“Because it is so beautiful and so calm.” + +“Calm!” he said. “Here!” + +There was a sound of passionate surprise in his voice. Domini was +startled. She felt as if she were fighting, and must fight hard if she +were not to be beaten to the dust. But when she looked at him she could +find no weapons. She said nothing. In a moment he spoke again. + +“You find calm here,” he said slowly. “Yes, I see.” + +His head dropped lower and his face hardened as he looked over the edge +of the parapet to the village, the blue desert. Then he lifted his eyes +to the mountains and the clear sky and the shadowy moon. Each element in +the evening scene was examined with a fierce, painful scrutiny, as if he +was resolved to wring from each its secret. + +“Why, yes,” he added in a low, muttering voice full of a sort of +terrified surprise, “it is so. You are right. Why, yes, it is calm +here.” + +He spoke like a man who had been suddenly convinced, beyond power of +further unbelief, of something he had never suspected, never dreamed of. +And the conviction seemed to be bitter to him, even alarming. + +“But away out there must be the real home of peace, I think,” Domini +said. + +“Where?” said the man, quickly. + +She pointed towards the south. + +“In the depths of the desert,” she said. “Far away from civilisation, +far away from modern men and modern women, and all the noisy trifles we +are accustomed to.” + +He looked towards the south eagerly. In everything he did there was a +flamelike intensity, as if he could not perform an ordinary action, or +turn his eyes upon any object, without calling up in his mind, or heart, +a violence of thought or of feeling. + +“You think it--you think there would be peace out there, far away in the +desert?” he said, and his face relaxed slightly, as if in obedience to +some thought not wholly sad. + +“It may be fanciful,” she replied. “But I think there must. Surely +Nature has not a lying face.” + +He was still gazing towards the south, from which the night was slowly +emerging, a traveller through a mist of blue. He seemed to be held +fascinated by the desert which was fading away gently, like a mystery +which had drawn near to the light of revelation, but which was now +slipping back into an underworld of magic. He bent forward as one who +watches a departure in which he longs to share, and Domini felt sure +that he had forgotten her. She felt, too, that this man was gripped by +the desert influence more fiercely even than she was, and that he must +have a stronger imagination, a greater force of projection even than she +had. Where she bore a taper he lifted a blazing torch. + +A roar of drums rose up immediately beneath them. From the negro village +emerged a ragged procession of thick-lipped men, and singing, capering +women tricked out in scarlet and yellow shawls, headed by a male dancer +clad in the skins of jackals, and decorated with mirrors, camels’ skulls +and chains of animals’ teeth. He shouted and leaped, rolled his bulging +eyes, and protruded a fluttering tongue. The dust curled up round his +stamping, naked feet. + +“Yah-ah-la! Yah-ah-la!” + +The howling chorus came up to the tower, with a clash of enormous +castanets, and of poles beaten rhythmically together. + +“Yi-yi-yi-yi!” went the shrill voices of the women. + +The cloud of dust increased, enveloping the lower part of the +procession, till the black heads and waving arms emerged as if from a +maelstrom. The thunder of the drums was like the thunder of a cataract +in which the singers, disappearing towards the village, seemed to be +swept away. + +The man at Domini’s side raised himself up with a jerk, and all the +former fierce timidity and consciousness came back to his face. He +turned round, pulled open the door behind him, and took off his hat. + +“Excuse me, Madame,” he said. “Bon soir!” + +“I am coming too,” Domini answered. + +He looked uncomfortable and anxious, hesitated, then, as if driven to do +it in spite of himself, plunged downward through the narrow doorway of +the tower into the darkness. Domini waited for a moment, listening to +the heavy sound of his tread on the wooden stairs. She frowned till her +thick eyebrows nearly met and the corners of her lips turned down. Then +she followed slowly. When she was on the stairs and the footsteps died +away below her she fully realised that for the first time in her life a +man had insulted her. Her face felt suddenly very hot, and her lips very +dry, and she longed to use her physical strength in a way not wholly +feminine. In the hall, among the shrouded furniture, she met the smiling +doorkeeper. She stopped. + +“Did the gentleman who has just gone out give you his card?” she said +abruptly. + +The Arab assumed a fawning, servile expression. + +“No, Madame, but he is a very good gentleman, and I know well that +Monsieur the Count--” + +Domini cut him short. + +“Of what nationality is he?” + +“Monsieur the Count, Madame?” + +“No, no.” + +“The gentleman? I do not know. But he can speak Arabic. Oh, he is a very +nice--” + +“Bon soir,” said Domini, giving him a franc. + +When she was out on the road in front of the hotel she saw the stranger +striding along in the distance at the tail of the negro procession. The +dust stirred up by the dancers whirled about him. Several small negroes +skipped round him, doubtless making eager demands upon his generosity. +He seemed to take no notice of them, and as she watched him Domini +was reminded of his retreat from the praying Arab in the desert that +morning. + +“Is he afraid of women as he is afraid of prayer?” she thought, and +suddenly the sense of humiliation and anger left her, and was succeeded +by a powerful curiosity such as she had never felt before about anyone. +She realised that this curiosity had dawned in her almost at the first +moment when she saw the stranger, and had been growing ever since. One +circumstance after another had increased it till now it was definite, +concrete. She wondered that she did not feel ashamed of such a feeling +so unusual in her, and surely unworthy, like a prying thing. Of all her +old indifference that side which confronted people had always been the +most sturdy, the most solidly built. Without affectation she had been a +profoundly incurious woman as to the lives and the concerns of others, +even of those whom she knew best and was supposed to care for most. +Her nature had been essentially languid in human intercourse. The +excitements, troubles, even the passions of others had generally stirred +her no more than a distant puppet-show stirs an absent-minded passer in +the street. + +In Africa it seemed that her whole nature had been either violently +renewed, or even changed. She could not tell which. But this strong +stirring of curiosity would, she believed, have been impossible in the +woman she had been but a week ago, the woman who travelled to Marseilles +dulled, ignorant of herself, longing for change. Perhaps instead of +being angry she ought to welcome it as a symptom of the re-creation she +longed for. + +While she changed her gown for dinner that night she debated within +herself how she would treat her fellow-guest when she met him in the +_salle-a-manger_. She ought to cut him after what had occurred, she +supposed. Then it seemed to her that to do so would be undignified, and +would give him the impression that he had the power to offend her. She +resolved to bow to him if they met face to face. Just before she went +downstairs she realised how vehement her internal debate had been, and +was astonished. Suzanne was putting away something in a drawer, bending +down and stretching out her plump arms. + +“Suzanne!” Domini said. + +“Yes, Mam’zelle!” + +“How long have you been with me?” + +“Three years, Mam’zelle.” + +The maid shut the drawer and turned round, fixing her shallow, +blue-grey eyes on her mistress, and standing as if she were ready to be +photographed. + +“Would you say that I am the same sort of person to-day as I was three +years ago?” + +Suzanne looked like a cat that has been startled by a sudden noise. + +“The same, Mam’zelle?” + +“Yes. Do you think I have altered in that time?” + +Suzanne considered the question with her head slightly on one side. + +“Only here, Mam’zelle,” she replied at length. + +“Here!” said Domini, rather eagerly. “Why, I have only been here +twenty-six hours.” + +“That is true. But Mam’zelle looks as if she had a little life here, a +little emotion. Mon Dieu! Mam’zelle will pardon me, but what is a woman +who feels no emotion? A packet. Is it not so, Mam’zelle?” + +“Well, but what is there to be emotional about here?” + +Suzanne looked vaguely crafty. + +“Who knows, Mam’zelle? Who can say? Mon Dieu! This village is dull, but +it is odd. No band plays. There are no shops for a girl to look into. +There is nothing chic except the costumes of the Zouaves. But one cannot +deny that it is odd. When Mam’zelle was away this afternoon in the tower +Monsieur Helmuth--” + +“Who is that?” + +“The Monsieur who accompanies the omnibus to the station. Monsieur +Helmuth was polite enough to escort me through the village. Mon Dieu, +Mam’zelle, I said to myself, ‘Anything might occur here.’” + +“Anything! What do you mean?” + +But Suzanne did not seem to know. She only made her figure look more +tense than ever, tucked in her round little chin, which was dimpled and +unmeaning, and said: + +“Who knows, Mam’zelle? This village is dull, that is true, but it is +odd. One does not find oneself in such places every day.” + +Domini could not help laughing at these Delphic utterances, but she went +downstairs thoughtfully. She knew Suzanne’s practical spirit. Till now +the maid had never shown any capacity of imagination. Beni-Mora was +certainly beginning to mould her nature into a slightly different shape. +And Domini seemed to see an Eastern potter at work, squatting in the sun +and with long and delicate fingers changing the outline of the statuette +of a woman, modifying a curve here, an angle there, till the clay began +to show another woman, but with, as it were, the shadow of the former +one lurking behind the new personality. + +The stranger was not at dinner. His table was laid and Domini sat +expecting each moment to hear the shuffling tread of his heavy boots on +the wooden floor. When he did not come she thought she was glad. After +dinner she spoke for a moment to the priest and then went upstairs to +the verandah to take coffee. She found Batouch there. He had renounced +his determined air, and his _café-au-lait_ countenance and huge body +expressed enduring pathos, as of an injured, patient creature laid out +for the trampling of Domini’s cruel feet. + +“Well?” she said, sitting down by the basket table. + +“Well, Madame?” + +He sighed and looked on the ground, lifted one white-socked foot, +removed its yellow slipper, shook out a tiny stone from the slipper and +put it on again, slowly, gracefully and very sadly. Then he pulled the +white sock up with both hands and glanced at Domini out of the corners +of his eyes. + +“What’s the matter?” + +“Madame does not care to see the dances of Beni-Mora, to hear the music, +to listen to the story-teller, to enter the café of El Hadj where +Achmed sings to the keef smokers, or to witness the beautiful religious +ecstasies of the dervishes from Oumach. Therefore I come to bid Madame +respectfully goodnight and to take my departure.” + +He threw his burnous over his left shoulder with a sudden gesture of +despair that was full of exaggeration. Domini smiled. + +“You’ve been very good to-day,” she said. + +“I am always good, Madame. I am of a serious disposition. Not one keeps +Ramadan as I do.” + +“I am sure of it. Go downstairs and wait for me under the arcade.” + +Batouch’s large face became suddenly a rendezvous of all the gaieties. + +“Madame is coming out to-night?” + +“Presently. Be in the arcade.” + +He swept away with the ample magnificence of joyous bearing and movement +that was like a loud Te Deum. + +“Suzanne! Suzanne!” + +Domini had finished her coffee. + +“Mam’zelle!” answered Suzanne, appearing. + +“Would you like to come out with me to-night?” + +“Mam’zelle is going out?” + +“Yes, to see the village by night.” + +Suzanne looked irresolute. Craven fear and curiosity fought a battle +within her, as was evident by the expressions that came and went in her +face before she answered. + +“Shall we not be murdered, Mam’zelle, and are there interesting things +to see?” + +“There are interesting things to see--dancers, singers, keef smokers. +But if you are afraid don’t come.” + +“Dancers, Mam’zelle! But the Arabs carry knives. And is there singing? +I--I should not like Mam’zelle to go without me. But----” + +“Come and protect me from the knives then. Bring my jacket--any one. I +don’t suppose I shall put it on.” + +As she spoke the distant tomtoms began. Suzanne started nervously and +looked at Domini with sincere apprehension. + +“We had better not go, Mam’zelle. It is not safe out here. Men who make +a noise like that would not respect us.” + +“I like it.” + +“That sound? But it is always the same and there is no music in it.” + +“Perhaps there is more in it than music. The jacket?” + +Suzanne went gingerly to fetch it. The faint cry of the African hautboy +rose up above the tomtoms. The evening _fete_ was beginning. To-night +Domini felt that she must go to the distant music and learn to +understand its meaning, not only for herself, but for those who made it +and danced to it night after night. It stirred her imagination, and +made her in love with mystery, and anxious at least to steal to the very +threshold of the barbarous world. Did it stir those who had had it in +their ears ever since they were naked, sunburned babies rolling in the +hot sun of the Sahara? Could it seem as ordinary to them as the cold +uproar of the piano-organ to the urchins of Whitechapel, or the whine +of the fiddle to the peasants of Touraine where Suzanne was born? She +wanted to know. Suzanne returned with the jacket. She still looked +apprehensive, but she had put on her hat and fastened a sprig of red +geranium in the front of her black gown. The curiosity was in the +ascendant. + +“We are not going quite alone, Mam’zelle?” + +“No, no. Batouch will protect us.” + +Suzanne breathed a furtive sigh. + +The poet was in the white arcade with Hadj, who looked both wicked +and deplorable, and had a shabby air, in marked contrast to Batouch’s +ostentatious triumph. Domini felt quite sorry for him. + +“You come with us too,” she said. + +Hadj squared his shoulders and instantly looked vivacious and almost +smart. But an undecided expression came into his face. + +“Where is Madame going?” + +“To see the village.” + +Batouch shot a glance at Hadj and smiled unpleasantly. + +“I will come with Madame.” + +Batouch still smiled. + +“We are going to the Ouled Nails,” he said significantly to Hadj. + +“I--I will come.” + +They set out. Suzanne looked gently at the poet’s legs and seemed +comforted. + +“Take great care of Mademoiselle Suzanne,” Domini said to the poet. “She +is a little nervous in the dark.” + +“Mademoiselle Suzanne is like the first day after the fast of Ramadan,” + replied the poet, majestically. “No one would harm her were she to +wander alone to Tombouctou.” + +The prospect drew from Suzanne a startled gulp. Batouch placed himself +tenderly at her side and they set out, Domini walking behind with Hadj. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +The village was full of the wan presage of the coming of the moon. The +night was very still and very warm. As they skirted the long gardens +Domini saw a light in the priest’s house. It made her wonder how he +passed his solitary evenings when he went home from the hotel, and she +fancied him sitting in some plainly-furnished little room with Bous-Bous +and a few books, smoking a pipe and thinking sadly of the White Fathers +of Africa and of his frustrated desire for complete renunciation. With +this last thought blended the still remote sound of the hautboy. +It suggested anything rather than renunciation; mysterious +melancholy--successor to passion--the cry of longing, the wail of the +unknown that draws some men and women to splendid follies and to ardent +pilgrimages whose goal is the mirage. + +Hadj was talking in a low voice, but Domini did not listen to him. She +was vaguely aware that he was abusing Batouch, saying that he was a +liar, inclined to theft, a keef smoker, and in a general way steeped +to the lips in crime. But the moon was rising, the distant music was +becoming more distinct. She could not listen to Hadj. + +As they turned into the street of the sand-diviner the first ray of the +moon fell on the white road. Far away at the end of the street Domini +could see the black foliage of the trees in the Gazelles’ garden, and +beyond, to the left, a dimness of shadowy palms at the desert edge. The +desert itself was not visible. Two Arabs passed, shrouded in burnouses, +with the hoods drawn up over their heads. Only their black beards could +be seen. They were talking violently and waving their arms. Suzanne +shuddered and drew close to the poet. Her plump face worked and she +glanced appealingly at her mistress. But Domini was not thinking of her, +or of violence or danger. The sound of the tomtoms and hautboys +seemed suddenly much louder now that the moon began to shine, making a +whiteness among the white houses of the village, the white robes of the +inhabitants, a greater whiteness on the white road that lay before +them. And she was thinking that the moon whiteness of Beni-Mora was more +passionate than pure, more like the blanched face of a lover than the +cool, pale cheek of a virgin. There was excitement in it, suggestion +greater even than the suggestion of the tremendous coloured scenes of +the evening that preceded such a night. And she mused of white heat and +of what it means--the white heat of the brain blazing with thoughts that +govern, the white heat of the heart blazing with emotions that make such +thoughts seem cold. She had never known either. Was she incapable of +knowing them? Could she imagine them till there was physical heat in +her body if she was incapable of knowing them? Suzanne and the two Arabs +were distant shadows to her when that first moon-ray touched their feet. +The passion of the night began to burn her, and she thought she would +like to take her soul and hold it out to the white flame. + +As they passed the sand-diviner’s house Domini saw his spectral figure +standing under the yellow light of the hanging lantern in the middle +of his carpet shop, which was lined from floor to ceiling with dull +red embroideries and dim with the fumes of an incense brazier. He was +talking to a little boy, but keeping a wary eye on the street, and he +came out quickly, beckoning with his long hands, and calling softly, in +a half-chuckling and yet authoritative voice: + +“Venez, Madame, venez! Come! come!” + +Suzanne seized Domini’s arm. + +“Not to-night!” Domini called out. + +“Yes, Madame, to-night. The vie of Madame is there in the sand to-night. +Je la vois, je la vois. C’est la dans le sable to-night.” + +The moonlight showed the wound on his face. Suzanne uttered a cry and +hid her eyes with her hands. They went on towards the trees. Hadj walked +with hesitation. + +“How loud the music is getting,” Domini said to him. + +“It will deafen Madame’s ears if she gets nearer,” said Hadj, eagerly. +“And the dancers are not for Madame. For the Arabs, yes, but for a great +lady of the most respectable England! Madame will be red with disgust, +with anger. Madame will have _mal-au-coeur_.” + +Batouch began to look like an idol on whose large face the artificer had +carved an expression of savage ferocity. + +“Madame is my client,” he said fiercely. “Madame trusts in me.” + +Hadj laughed with a snarl: + +“He who smokes the keef is like a Mehari with a swollen tongue,” he +rejoined. + +The poet looked as if he were going to spring upon his cousin, but he +restrained himself and a slow, malignant smile curled about his thick +lips like a snake. + +“I shall show to Madame a dancer who is modest, who is beautiful, +Hadj-ben-Ibrahim,” he said softly. + +“Fatma is sick,” said Hadj, quickly. + +“It will not be Fatma.” + +Hadj began suddenly to gesticulate with his thin, delicate hands and to +look fiercely excited. + +“Halima is at the Fontaine Chaude,” he cried. + +“Keltoum will be there.” + +“She will not. Her foot is sick. She cannot dance. For a week she will +not dance. I know it.” + +“And--Irena? Is she sick? Is she at the Hammam Salahine?” + +Hadj’s countenance fell. He looked at his cousin sideways, always +showing his teeth. + +“Do you not know, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?” + +“_Ana ma ‘audi ma nek oul lek!_“[*] growled Hadj in his throat. + + [*] “I have nothing to say to you.” + +They had reached the end of the little street. The whiteness of the +great road which stretched straight through the oasis into the desert +lay before them, with the statue of Cardinal Lavigerie staring down it +in the night. At right angles was the street of the dancers, narrow, +bounded with the low white houses of the ouleds, twinkling with starry +lights, humming with voices, throbbing with the clashing music that +poured from the rival _cafés maures_, thronged with the white figures +of the desert men, strolling slowly, softly as panthers up and down. The +moonlight was growing brighter, as if invisible hands began to fan the +white flame of passion which lit up Beni-Mora. A patrol of Tirailleurs +Indigenes passed by going up the street, in yellow and blue uniforms, +turbans and white gaiters, their rifles over their broad shoulders. The +faint tramp of their marching feet was just audible on the sandy road. + +“Hadj can go home if he is afraid of anything in the dancing street,” + said Domini, rather maliciously. “Let us follow the soldiers.” + +Hadj started as if he had been stung, and looked at Domini as if he +would like to strangle her. + +“I am afraid of nothing,” he exclaimed proudly. “Madame does not know +Hadj-ben-Ibrahim.” + +Batouch laughed soundlessly, shaking his great shoulders. It was evident +that he had divined his cousin’s wish to supplant him and was busily +taking his revenge. Domini was amused, and as they went slowly up the +street in the wake of the soldiers she said: + +“Do you often come here at night, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?” + +“Oh, yes, Madame, when I am alone. But with ladies--” + +“You were here last night, weren’t you, with the traveller from the +hotel?” + +“No, Madame. The Monsieur of the hotel preferred to visit the café of +the story-teller, which is far more interesting. If Madame will permit +me to take her--” + +But this last assault was too much for the poet’s philosophy. He +suddenly threw off all pretence of graceful calm, and poured out upon +Hadj a torrent of vehement Arabic, accompanying it with passionate +gestures which filled Suzanne with horror and Domini with secret +delight. She liked this abrupt unveiling of the raw. There had always +lurked in her an audacity, a quick spirit of adventure more boyish than +feminine. She had reached the age of thirty-two without ever gratifying +it, or even fully realising how much she longed to gratify it. But now +she began to understand it and to feel that it was imperious. + +“I have a barbarian in me,” she thought. + +“Batouch!” she said sharply. + +The poet turned a distorted face to her. + +“Madame!” + +“That will do. Take us to the dancing-house.” + +Batouch shot a last ferocious glance at Hadj and they went on into the +crowd of strolling men. + +The little street, bright with the lamps of the small houses, from which +projected wooden balconies painted in gay colours, and with the glowing +radiance of the moon, was mysterious despite its gaiety, its obvious +dedication to the cult of pleasure. Alive with the shrieking sounds of +music, the movement and the murmur of desert humanity made it almost +solemn. This crowd of boys and men, robed in white from head to heel, +preserved a serious grace in its vivacity, suggested besides a dignified +barbarity a mingling of angel, monk and nocturnal spirit. In the +distance of the moonbeams, gliding slowly over the dusty road with +slippered feet, there was something soft and radiant in their moving +whiteness. Nearer, their pointed hoods made them monastical as a +procession stealing from a range of cells to chant a midnight mass. In +the shadowy dusk of the tiny side alleys they were like wandering ghosts +intent on unholy errands or returning to the graveyard. + +On some of the balconies painted girls were leaning and smoking +cigarettes. Before each of the lighted doorways from which the shrill +noise of music came, small, intent crowds were gathered, watching the +performance that was going on inside. The robes of the Arabs brushed +against the skirts of Domini and Suzanne, and eyes stared at them from +every side with a scrutiny that was less impudent than seriously bold. + +“Madame!” + +Hadj’s thin hand was pulling Domini’s sleeve. + +“Well, what is it?” + +“This is the best dancing-house. The children dance here.” + +Domini’s height enabled her to peer over the shoulders of those gathered +before the door, and in the lighted distance of a white-walled room, +painted with figures of soldiers and Arab chiefs, she saw a small +wriggling figure between two rows of squatting men, two baby hands +waving coloured handkerchiefs, two little feet tapping vigorously +upon an earthen floor, for background a divan crowded with women and +musicians, with inflated cheeks and squinting eyes. She stood for a +moment to look, then she turned away. There was an expression of disgust +in her eyes. + +“No, I don’t want to see children,” she said. “That’s too--” + +She glanced at her escort and did not finish. + +“I know,” said Batouch. “Madame wishes for the real ouleds.” + +He led them across the street. Hadj followed reluctantly. Before going +into this second dancing-house Domini stopped again to see from outside +what it was like, but only for an instant. Then a brightness came into +her eyes, an eager look. + +“Yes, take me in here,” she said. + +Batouch laughed softly, and Hadj uttered a word below his breath. + +“Madame will see Irena here,” said Batouch, pushing the watching Arabs +unceremoniously away. + +Domini did not answer. Her eyes were fixed on a man who was sitting in a +corner far up the room, bending forward and staring intently at a woman +who was in the act of stepping down from a raised platform decorated +with lamps and small bunches of flowers in earthen pots. + +“I wish to sit quite near the door,” she whispered to Batouch as they +went in. + +“But it is much better--” + +“Do what I tell you,” she said. “The left side of the room.” + +Hadj looked a little happier. Suzanne was clinging to his arm. He smiled +at her with something of mischief, but he took care, when a place was +cleared on a bench for their party, to sit down at the end next the +door, and he cast an anxious glance towards the platform where the +dancing-girls attached to the café sat in a row, hunched up against the +bare wall, waiting their turn to perform. Then suddenly he shook his +head, tucked in his chin and laughed. His whole face was transformed +from craven fear to vivacious rascality. While he laughed he looked at +Batouch, who was ordering four cups of coffee from the negro attendant. +The poet took no notice. For the moment he was intent upon his +professional duties. But when the coffee was brought, and set upon a +round wooden stool between two bunches of roses, he had time to note +Hadj’s sudden gaiety and to realise its meaning. Instantly he spoke to +the negro in a low voice. Hadj stopped laughing. The negro sped away +and returned with the proprietor of the café, a stout Kabyle with a fair +skin and blue eyes. + +Batouch lowered his voice to a guttural whisper and spoke in Arabic, +while Hadj, shifting uneasily on the end seat, glanced at him sideways +out of his almond-shaped eyes. Domini heard the name “Irena,” and +guessed that Batouch was asking the Kabyle to send for her and make her +dance. She could not help being amused for a moment by the comedy of +intrigue, complacently malignant on both sides, that was being played by +the two cousins, but the moment passed and left her engrossed, absorbed, +and not merely by the novelty of the surroundings, by the strangeness of +the women, of their costumes, and of their movements. She watched them, +but she watched more closely, more eagerly, rather as a spy than as +a spectator, one who was watching them with an intentness, a still +passion, a fierce curiosity and a sort of almost helpless wonder such as +she had never seen before, and could never have found within herself to +put at the service of any human marvel. + +Close to the top of the room on the right the stranger was sitting in +the midst of a mob of Arabs, whose flowing draperies almost concealed +his ugly European clothes. On the wall immediately behind him was a +brilliantly-coloured drawing of a fat Ouled Nail leering at a French +soldier, which made an unconventional background to his leaning figure +and sunburnt face, in which there seemed now to be both asceticism and +something so different and so powerful that it was likely, from moment +to moment, to drive out the asceticism and to achieve the loneliness of +all conquering things. This fighting expression made Domini think of a +picture she had once seen representing a pilgrim going through a dark +forest attended by his angel and his devil. The angel of the pilgrim +was a weak and almost childish figure, frail, bloodless, scarcely even +radiant, while the devil was lusty and bold, with a muscular body and a +sensual, aquiline face, which smiled craftily, looking at the pilgrim. +There was surely a devil in the watching traveller which was pushing +the angel out of him. Domini had never before seemed to see clearly +the legendary battle of the human heart. But it had never before been +manifested to her audaciously in the human face. + +All around the Arabs sat, motionless and at ease, gazing on the curious +dance of which they never tire--a dance which has some ingenuity, +much sensuality and provocation, but little beauty and little mystery, +unless--as happens now and then--an idol-like woman of the South, with +all the enigma of the distant desert in her kohl-tinted eyes, dances +it with the sultry gloom of a half-awakened sphinx, and makes of it a +barbarous manifestation of the nature that lies hidden in the heart of +the sun, a silent cry uttered by a savage body born in a savage land. + +In the café of Tahar, the Kabyle, there was at present no such woman. +His beauties, huddled together on their narrow bench before a table +decorated with glasses of water and sprigs of orange blossom in earthen +vases, looked dull and cheerless in their gaudy clothes. Their bodies +were well formed, but somnolent. Their painted hands hung down like the +hands of marionettes. The one who was dancing suggested Duty clad in +Eastern garb and laying herself out carefully to be wicked. Her +jerks and wrigglings, though violent, were inhuman, like those of a +complicated piece of mechanism devised by a morbid engineer. After +a glance or two at her Domini felt that she was bored by her own +agilities. Domini’s wonder increased when she looked again at the +traveller. + +For it was this dance of the _ennui_ of the East which raised up in him +this obvious battle, which drove his secret into the illumination of +the hanging lamps and gave it to a woman, who felt half confused, half +ashamed at possessing it, and yet could not cast it away. + +If they both lived on, without speaking or meeting, for another half +century, Domini could never know the shape of the devil in this man, the +light of the smile upon its face. + +The dancing woman had observed him, and presently she began slowly to +wriggle towards him between the rows of Arabs, fixing her eyes upon +him and parting her scarlet lips in a greedy smile. As she came on the +stranger evidently began to realise that he was her bourne. He had been +leaning forward, but when she approached, waving her red hands, shaking +her prominent breasts, and violently jerking her stomach, he sat +straight up, and then, as if instinctively trying to get away from her, +pressed back against the wall, hiding the painting of the Ouled Nail and +the French soldier. A dark flush rose on his face and even flooded +his forehead to his low-growing hair. His eyes were full of a piteous +anxiety and discomfort, and he glanced almost guiltily to right and +left of him as if he expected the hooded Arab spectators to condemn +his presence there now that the dancer drew their attention to it. The +dancer noticed his confusion and seemed pleased by it, and moved to more +energetic demonstrations of her art. She lifted her arms above her +head, half closed her eyes, assumed an expression of languid ecstasy and +slowly shuddered. Then, bending backward, she nearly touched the floor, +swung round, still bending, and showed the long curve of her bare throat +to the stranger, while the girls, huddled on the bench by the musicians, +suddenly roused themselves and joined their voices in a shrill and +prolonged twitter. The Arabs did not smile, but the deepness of their +attention seemed to increase like a cloud growing darker. All the +luminous eyes in the room were steadily fixed upon the man leaning +back against the hideous picture on the wall and the gaudy siren curved +almost into an arch before him. The musicians blew their hautboys and +beat their tomtoms more violently, and all things, Domini thought, +were filled with a sense of climax. She felt as if the room, all the +inanimate objects, and all the animate figures in it, were instruments +of an orchestra, and as if each individual instrument was contributing +to a slow and great, and irresistible crescendo. The stranger took his +part with the rest, but against his will, and as if under some terrible +compulsion. + +His face was scarlet now, and his shining eyes looked down on the +dancer’s throat and breast with a mingling of eagerness and horror. +Slowly she raised herself, turned, bent forwards quivering, and +presented her face to him, while the women twittered once more in +chorus. He still stared at her without moving. The hautboy players +prolonged a wailing note, and the tomtoms gave forth a fierce and dull +murmur almost like a death, roll. + +“She wants him to give her money,” Batouch whispered to Domini. “Why +does not he give her money?” + +Evidently the stranger did not understand what was expected of him. The +music changed again to a shrieking tune, the dancer drew back, did a few +more steps, jerked her stomach with fury, stamped her feet on the floor. +Then once more she shuddered slowly, half closed her eyes, glided close +to the stranger, and falling down deliberately laid her head on his +knees, while again the women twittered, and the long note of the +hautboys went through the room like a scream of interrogation. + +Domini grew hot as she saw the look that came into the stranger’s face +when the woman touched his knees. + +“Go and tell him it’s money she wants!” she whispered to Batouch. “Go +and tell him!” + +Batouch got up, but at this moment a roguish Arab boy, who sat by the +stranger, laughingly spoke to him, pointing to the woman. The stranger +thrust his hand into his pocket, found a coin and, directed by the +roguish youth, stuck it upon the dancer’s greasy forehead. At once +she sprang to her feet. The women twittered. The music burst into +a triumphant melody, and through the room there went a stir. Almost +everyone in it moved simultaneously. One man raised his hand to his hood +and settled it over his forehead. Another put his cigarette to his lips. +Another picked up his coffeecup. A fourth, who was holding a flower, +lifted it to his nose and smelt it. No one remained quite still. With +the stranger’s action a strain had been removed, a mental tension +abruptly loosened, a sense of care let free in the room. Domini felt it +acutely. The last few minutes had been painful to her. She sighed +with relief at the cessation of another’s agony. For the stranger had +certainly--from shyness or whatever cause--been in agony while the +dancer kept her head upon his knees. + +His angel had been in fear, perhaps, while his devil---- + +But Domini tried resolutely to turn her thoughts from the smiling face. + +After pressing the money on the girl’s forehead the man made a movement +as if he meant to leave the room, but once again the curious indecision +which Domini had observed in him before cut his action, as it were, in +two, leaving it half finished. As the dancer, turning, wriggled +slowly to the platform, he buttoned up his jacket with a sort of hasty +resolution, pulled it down with a jerk, glanced swiftly round, and rose +to his feet. Domini kept her eyes on him, and perhaps they drew his, +for, just as he was about to step into the narrow aisle that led to the +door he saw her. Instantly he sat down again, turned so that she could +only see part of his face, unbuttoned his jacket, took out some matches +and busied himself in lighting a cigarette. She knew he had felt her +concentration on him, and was angry with herself. Had she really a spy +in her? Was she capable of being vulgarly curious about a man? A sudden +movement of Hadj drew her attention. His face was distorted by an +expression that seemed half angry, half fearful. Batouch was smiling +seraphically as he gazed towards the platform. Suzanne, with a +pinched-up mouth, was looking virginally at her lap. Her whole attitude +showed her consciousness of the many blazing eyes that were intently +staring at her. The stomach dance which she had just been watching had +amazed her so much that she felt as if she were the only respectable +woman in the world, and as if no one would suppose it unless she hung +out banners white as the walls of Beni-Mora’s houses. She strove to do +so, and, meanwhile, from time to time, cast sideway glances towards the +platform to see whether another stomach dance was preparing. She did +not see Hadj’s excitement or the poet’s malignant satisfaction, but she, +with Domini, saw a small door behind the platform open, and the stout +Kabyle appear followed by a girl who was robed in gold tissue, and +decorated with cascades of golden coins. + +Domini guessed at once that this was Irena, the returned exile, who +wished to kill Hadj, and she was glad that a new incident had occurred +to switch off the general attention from the stranger. + +Irena was evidently a favourite. There was a grave movement as she came +in, a white undulation as all the shrouded forms bent slightly forward +in her direction. Only Hadj caught his burnous round him with his thin +fingers, dropped his chin, shook his hood down upon his forehead, leaned +back against the wall, and, curling his legs under him, seemed to fall +asleep. But beneath his brown lids and long black lashes his furtive +eyes followed every movement of the girl in the sparkling robe. + +She came in slowly and languidly, with a heavy and cross expression upon +her face, which was thin to emaciation and painted white, with scarlet +lips and darkened eyes and eyebrows. Her features were narrow and +pointed. Her bones were tiny, and her body was so slender, her waist +so small, that, with her flat breast and meagre shoulders, she looked +almost like a stick crowned with a human face and hung with brilliant +draperies. Her hair, which was thick and dark brown, was elaborately +braided and covered with a yellow silk handkerchief. Domini thought she +looked consumptive, and was bitterly disappointed in her appearance. For +some unknown reason she had expected the woman who wished to kill +Hadj, and who obviously inspired him with fear, to be a magnificent and +glowing desert beauty. This woman might be violent. She looked weary, +anaemic, and as if she wished to go to bed, and Domini’s contempt for +Hadj increased as she looked at her. To be afraid of a thin, tired, +sleepy creature such as that was too pitiful. But Hadj did not seem +to think so. He had pulled his hood still further forward, and was now +merely a bundle concealed in the shade of Suzanne. + +Irena stepped on to the platform, pushed the girl who sat at the end of +the bench till she moved up higher, sat down in the vacant place, drank +some water out of the glass nearest to her, and then remained quite +still staring at the floor, utterly indifferent to the Arabs who were +devouring her with their eyes. No doubt the eyes of men had devoured her +ever since she could remember. It was obvious that they meant nothing +to her, that they did not even for an instant disturb the current of her +dreary thoughts. + +Another girl was dancing, a stout, Oriental Jewess with a thick hooked +nose, large lips and bulging eyes, that looked as if they had been newly +scoured with emery powder. While she danced she sang, or rather shouted +roughly, an extraordinary melody that suggested battle, murder and +sudden death. Careless of onlookers, she sometimes scratched her head +or rubbed her nose without ceasing her contortions. Domini guessed that +this was the girl whom she had seen from the tower dancing upon the roof +in the sunset. Distance and light had indeed transformed her. Under the +lamps she was the embodiment of all that was coarse and greasy. Even the +pitiful slenderness of Irena seemed attractive when compared with her +billowing charms, which she kept in a continual commotion that was +almost terrifying. + +“Hadj is nearly dead with fear,” whispered Batouch, complacently. +Domini’s lips curled. + +“Does not Madame think Irena beautiful as the moon on the waters of the +Oued Beni-Mora?” + +“Indeed I don’t,” she replied bluntly. “And I think a man who can be +afraid of such a little thing must be afraid of the children in the +street.” + +“Little! But Irena is tall as a female palm in Ourlana.” + +“Tall!” + +Domini looked at her again more carefully, and saw that Batouch spoke +the truth. Irena was unusually tall, but her excessive narrowness, her +tiny bones, and the delicate way in which she held herself deceived the +eye and gave her a little appearance. + +“So she is; but who could be afraid of her? Why, I could pick her up and +throw her over that moon of yours.” + +“Madame is strong. Madame is like the lioness. But Irena is the most +terrible girl in all Beni-Mora if she loves or if she is angry, the most +terrible in all the Sahara.” + +Domini laughed. + +“Madame does not know her,” said Batouch, imperturbably. “But Madame +can ask the Arabs. Many of the dancers of Beni-Mora are murdered, each +season two or three. But no man would try to murder Irena. No man would +dare.” + +The poet’s calm and unimpassioned way of alluding to the most horrible +crimes as if they were perfectly natural, and in no way to be condemned +or wondered at, amazed Domini even more than his statement about Irena. + +“Why do they murder the dancers?” she asked quickly. + +“For their jewels. At night, in those little rooms with the balconies +which Madame has seen, it is easy. You enter in to sleep there. You +close your eyes, you breathe gently and a little loud. The woman hears. +She is not afraid. She sleeps. She dreams. Her throat is like that”--he +threw back his head, exposing his great neck. “Just before dawn you draw +your knife from your burnous. You bend down. You cut the throat without +noise. You take the jewels, the money from the box by the bed. You +go down quietly with bare feet. No one is on the stair. You unbar the +door--and there before you is the great hiding-place.” + +“The great hiding-place!” + +“The desert, Madame.” He sipped his coffee. Domini looked at him, +fascinated. + +Suzanne shivered. She had been listening. The loud contralto cry of +the Jewess rose up, with its suggestion of violence and of rough +indifference. And Domini repeated softly: + +“The great hiding-place.” + +With every moment in Beni-Mora the desert seemed to become more--more +full of meaning, of variety, of mystery, of terror. Was it everything? +The garden of God, the great hiding-place of murderers! She had called +it, on the tower, the home of peace. In the gorge of El-Akbara, ere he +prayed, Batouch had spoken of it as a vast realm of forgetfulness, where +the load of memory slips from the weary shoulders and vanishes into the +soft gulf of the sands. + +But was it everything then? And if it was so much to her already, in a +night and a day, what would it be when she knew it, what would it be to +her after many nights and many days? She began to feel a sort of terror +mingled with the most extraordinary attraction she had ever known. + +Hadj crouched right back against the wall. The voice of the Jewess +ceased in a shout. The hautboys stopped playing. Only the tomtoms +roared. + +“Hadj can be happy now,” observed Batouch in a voice of almost +satisfaction, “for Irena is going to dance. Look! There is the little +Miloud bringing her the daggers.” + +An Arab boy, with a beautiful face and a very dark skin, slipped on to +the platform with two long, pointed knives in his hand. He laid them on +the table before Irena, between the bouquets of orange blossom, jumped +lightly down and disappeared. + +Directly the knives touched the table the hautboy players blew a +terrific blast, and then, swelling the note, till it seemed as if +they must burst both themselves and their instruments, swung into a +tremendous and magnificent tune, a tune tingling with barbarity, yet +such as a European could have sung or written down. In an instant it +gripped Domini and excited her till she could hardly breathe. It poured +fire into her veins and set fire about her heart. It was triumphant as a +great song after war in a wild land, cruel, vengeful, but so strong and +so passionately joyous that it made the eyes shine and the blood leap, +and the spirit rise up and clamour within the body, clamour for utter +liberty, for action, for wide fields in which to roam, for long days and +nights of glory and of love, for intense hours of emotion and of life +lived with exultant desperation. It was a melody that seemed to set the +soul of Creation dancing before an ark. The tomtoms accompanied it +with an irregular but rhythmical roar which Domini thought was like the +deep-voiced shouting of squadrons of fighting men. + +Irena looked wearily at the knives. Her expression had not changed, and +Domini was amazed at her indifference. The eyes of everyone in the +room were fixed upon her. Even Suzanne began to be less virginal in +appearance under the influence of this desert song of triumph. Domini +did not let her eyes stray any more towards the stranger. For the moment +indeed she had forgotten him. Her attention was fastened upon the thin, +consumptive-looking creature who was staring at the two knives laid upon +the table. When the great tune had been played right through once, and a +passionate roll of tomtoms announced its repetition, Irena suddenly shot +out her tiny arms, brought her hands down on the knives, seized them and +sprang to her feet. She had passed from lassitude to vivid energy with +an abruptness that was almost demoniacal, and to an energy with which +both mind and body seemed to blaze. Then, as the hautboys screamed out +the tune once more, she held the knives above her head and danced. + +Irena was not an Ouled Nail. She was a Kabyle woman born in the +mountains of Djurdjura, not far from the village of Tamouda. As a child +she had lived in one of those chimneyless and windowless mud cottages +with red tiled roofs which are so characteristic a feature of La Grande +Kabylie. She had climbed barefoot the savage hills, or descended into +the gorges yellow with the broom plant and dipped her brown toes in the +waters of the Sebaou. How had she drifted so far from the sharp spurs +of her native hills and from the ruddy-haired, blue-eyed people of her +tribe? Possibly she had sinned, as the Kabyle women often sin, and +fled from the wrath that she would understand, and that all her fierce +bravery could not hope to conquer. Or perhaps with her Kabyle blood, +itself a brew composed of various strains, Greek, Roman, as well as +Berber, were mingling some drops drawn from desert sources, which had +manifested themselves physically in her dark hair, mentally in a nomadic +instinct which had forbidden her to rest among the beauties of Ait +Ouaguennoun, whose legendary charm she did not possess. There was the +look of an exile in her face, a weariness that dreamed, perhaps, of +distant things. But now that she danced that fled, and the gleam of +flame-lit steel was in her eyes. + +Tangled and vital impressions came to Domini as she watched. Now she saw +Jael and the tent, and the nails driven into the temples of the sleeping +warrior. Now she saw Medea in the moment before she tore to pieces her +brother and threw the bloody fragments in Aetes’s path; Clytemnestra’s +face while Agamemnon was passing to the bath, Delilah’s when Samson lay +sleeping on her knee. But all these imagined faces of named women fled +like sand grains on a desert wind as the dance went on and the +recurrent melody came back and back and back with a savage and glorious +persistence. They were too small, too individual, and pinned the +imagination down too closely. This dagger dance let in upon her a larger +atmosphere, in which one human being was as nothing, even a goddess or +a siren prodigal of enchantments was a little thing not without a narrow +meanness of physiognomy. + +She looked and listened till she saw a grander procession troop by, +garlanded with mystery and triumph: War as a shape with woman’s eyes: +Night, without poppies, leading the stars and moon and all the vigorous +dreams that must come true: Love of woman that cannot be set aside, but +will govern the world from Eden to the abyss into which the nations fall +to the outstretched hands of God: Death as Life’s leader, with a staff +from which sprang blossoms red as the western sky: Savage Fecundity that +crushes all barren things into the silent dust: and then the Desert. + +That came in a pale cloud of sand, with a pale crowd of worshippers, +those who had received gifts from the Desert’s hands and sought for +more: white-robed Marabouts who had found Allah in his garden and become +a guide to the faithful through all the circling years: murderers who +had gained sanctuary with barbaric jewels in their blood-stained hands: +once tortured men and women who had cast away terrible recollections in +the wastes among the dunes and in the treeless purple distances, and who +had been granted the sweet oases of forgetfulness to dwell in: ardent +beings who had striven vainly to rest content with the world of hills +and valleys, of sea-swept verges and murmuring rivers, and who had been +driven, by the labouring soul, on and on towards the flat plains where +roll for ever the golden wheels of the chariot of the sun. She saw, too, +the winds that are the Desert’s best-loved children: Health with +shining eyes and a skin of bronze: Passion, half faun, half black-browed +Hercules: and Liberty with upraised arms, beating cymbals like monstrous +spheres of fire. + +And she saw palm trees waving, immense palm trees in the south. It +seemed to her that she travelled as far away from Beni-Mora as she had +travelled from England in coming to Beni-Mora. She made her way towards +the sun, joining the pale crowd of the Desert’s worshippers. And always, +as she travelled, she heard the clashing of the cymbals of Liberty. A +conviction was born in her that Fate meant her to know the Desert well, +strangely well; that the Desert was waiting calmly for her to come to +it and receive that which it had to give to her; that in the Desert +she would learn more of the meaning of life than she could ever learn +elsewhere. It seemed to her suddenly that she understood more clearly +than hitherto in what lay the intense, the over-mastering and hypnotic +attraction exercised already by the Desert over her nature. In the +Desert there must be, there was--she felt it--not only light to warm +the body, but light to illuminate the dark places of the soul. An +almost fatalistic idea possessed her. She saw a figure--one of the +Messengers--standing with her beside the corpse of her father and +whispering in her ear “Beni-Mora”; taking her to the map and pointing to +the word there, filling her brain and heart with suggestions, till--as +she had thought almost without reason, and at haphazard--she chose +Beni-Mora as the place to which she would go in search of recovery, of +self-knowledge. It had been pre-ordained. The Messenger had been sent. +The Messenger had guided her. And he would come again, when the time was +ripe, and lead her on into the Desert. She felt it. She knew it. + +She looked round at the Arabs. She was as much a fatalist as any one of +them. She looked at the stranger. What was he? + +Abruptly in her imagination a vision rose. She gazed once more into +the crowd that thronged about the Desert having received gifts at the +Desert’s hands, and in it she saw the stranger. + +He was kneeling, his hands were stretched out, his head was bowed, and +he was praying. And, while he prayed, Liberty stood by him smiling, and +her fiery cymbals were like the aureoles that illumine the beautiful +faces of the saints. + +For some reason that she could not understand her heart began to beat +fast, and she felt a burning sensation behind her eyes. + +She thought that this extraordinary music, that this amazing dance, +excited her too much. + +The white bundle at Suzanne’s side stirred. Irena, holding the daggers +above her head, had sprung from the little platform and was dancing on +the earthen floor in the midst of the Arabs. + +Her thin body shook convulsively in time to the music. She marked the +accents with her shudders. Excitement had grown in her till she seemed +to be in a feverish passion that was half exultant, half despairing. In +her expression, in her movements, in the way she held herself, leaning +backwards with her face looking up, her breast and neck exposed as +if she offered her life, her love and all the mysteries in her, to an +imagined being who dominated her savage and ecstatic soul, there was a +vivid suggestion of the two elements in Passion--rapture and melancholy. +In her dance she incarnated passion whole by conveying the two halves +that compose it. Her eyes were nearly closed, as a woman closes them +when she has seen the lips of her lover descending upon hers. And her +mouth seemed to be receiving the fiery touch of another mouth. In this +moment she was a beautiful woman because she looked like womanhood. +And Domini understood why the Arabs thought her more beautiful than +the other dancers. She had what they had not--genius. And genius, under +whatever form, shows to the world at moments the face of Aphrodite. + +She came slowly nearer, and those by the platform turned round to follow +her with their eyes. Hadj’s hood had slipped completely down over his +face, and his chin was sunk on his chest. Batouch noticed it and looked +angry, but Domini had forgotten both the comedy of the two cousins +and the tragedy of Irena’s love for Hadj. She was completely under the +fascination of this dance and of the music that accompanied it. Now that +Irena was near she was able to see that, without her genius, there would +have been no beauty in her face. It was painfully thin, painfully long +and haggard. Her life had written a fatal inscription across it as +their life writes upon the faces of poor street-bred children the one +word--Want. As they have too little this dancing woman had had too much. +The sparkle of her robe of gold tissue covered with golden coins was +strong in the lamplight. Domini looked at it and at the two sharp +knives above her head, looked at her violent, shuddering movements, and +shuddered too, thinking of Batouch’s story of murdered dancers. It was +dangerous to have too much in Beni-Mora. + +Irena was quite close now. She seemed so wrapped in the ecstasy of the +dance that it did not occur to Domini at first that she was imitating +the Ouled Nail who had laid her greasy head upon the stranger’s knees. +The abandonment of her performance was so great that it was difficult to +remember its money value to her and to Tahar, the fair Kabyle. Only when +she was actually opposite to them and stayed there, still performing her +shuddering dance, still holding the daggers above her head, did Domini +realise that those half-closed, passionate eyes had marked the stranger +woman, and that she must add one to the stream of golden coins. She +took out her purse but did not give the money at once. With the pitiless +scrutiny of her sex she noticed all the dancer’s disabilities. She +was certainly young, but she was very worn. Her mouth drooped. At the +corners of her eyes there were tiny lines tending downward. Her forehead +had what Domini secretly called a martyred look. Nevertheless, she was +savage and triumphant. Her thin body suggested force; the way she held +herself consuming passion. Even so near at hand, even while she was +pausing for money, and while her eyes were, doubtless, furtively reading +Domini, she shed round her a powerful atmosphere, which stirred the +blood, and made the heart leap, and created longing for unknown and +violent things. As Domini watched her she felt that Irena must have +lived at moments magnificently, that despite her almost shattered +condition and permanent weariness--only cast aside for the moment of the +dance--she must have known intense joys, that so long as she lived she +would possess the capacity for knowing them again. There was something +burning within her that would burn on so long as she was alive, a spark +of nature that was eternally red hot. It was that spark which made her +the idol of the Arabs and shed a light of beauty through her haggard +frame. + +The spirit blazed. + +Domini put her hand at last into her purse and took out a piece of gold. +She was just going to give it to Irena when the white bundle that was +Hadj made a sudden, though slight, movement, as if the thing inside it +had shivered. Irena noticed it with her half-closed eyes. Domini leaned +forward and held out the money, then drew back startled. Irena had +changed her posture abruptly. Instead of keeping her head thrown back +and exposing her long throat, she lifted it, shot it forward. Her meagre +bosom almost disappeared as she bent over. Her arms fell to her sides. +Her eyes opened wide and became full of a sharp, peering intensity. +Her vision and dreams dropped out of her. Now she was only fierce and +questioning, and horribly alert. She was looking at the white bundle. It +shifted again. She sprang upon it, showing her teeth, caught hold of it. +With a swift turn of her thin hands she tore back the hood, and out of +the bundle came Hadj’s head and face livid with fear. One of the daggers +flashed and came up at him. He leaped from the seat and screamed. +Suzanne echoed his cry. Then the whole room was a turmoil of white +garments and moving limbs. In an instant everybody seemed to be leaping, +calling out, grasping, struggling. Domini tried to get up, but she was +hemmed in, and could not make a movement upward or free her arms, which +were pressed against her sides by the crowd around her. For a moment +she thought she was going to be severely hurt or suffocated. She did not +feel afraid, but only indignant, like a boy who has been struck in +the face and longs to retaliate. Someone screamed again. It was Hadj. +Suzanne was on her feet, but separated from her mistress. Batouch’s +arm was round her. Domini put her hands on the bench and tried to force +herself up, violently setting her broad shoulders against the Arabs +who were towering over her and covering her head and face with their +floating garments as they strove to see the fight between Hadj and the +dancer. The heat almost stifled her, and she was suddenly aware of a +strong musky smell of perspiring humanity. She was beginning to pant +for breath when she felt two burning, hot, hard hands come down on hers, +fingers like iron catch hold of hers, go under them, drag up her hands. +She could not see who had seized her, but the life in the hands that +were on hers mingled with the life in her hands like one fluid with +another, and seemed to pass on till she felt it in her body, and had an +odd sensation as if her face had been caught in a fierce grip, and her +heart too. + +Another moment and she was on her feet and out in the moonlit alley +between the little white houses. She saw the stars, and the painted +balconies crowded with painted women looking down towards the café +she had left and chattering in shrill voices. She saw the patrol of +Tirailleurs Indigenes marching at the double to the doorway in which the +Arabs were still struggling. Then she saw that the traveller was beside +her. She was not surprised. + +“Thank you for getting me out,” she said rather bluntly. “Where’s my +maid?” + +“She got away before us with your guide, Madame.” + +He held up his hands and looked at them hard, eagerly, questioningly. + +“You weren’t hurt?” + +He dropped his hands quickly. “Oh, no, it wasn’t----” + +He broke off the sentence and was silent. Domini stood still, drew a +long breath and laughed. She still felt angry and laughed to control +herself. Unless she could be amused at this episode she knew that she +was capable of going back to the door of the café and hitting out right +and left at the men who had nearly suffocated her. Any violence done to +her body, even an unintentional push against her in the street--if there +was real force in it--seemed to let loose a devil in her, such a devil +as ought surely only to dwell inside a man. + +“What people!” she said. “What wild creatures!” + +She laughed again. The patrol pushed its way roughly in at the doorway. + +“The Arabs are always like that, Madame.” + +She looked at him, then she said, abruptly: + +“Do you speak English?” + +Her companion hesitated. It was perfectly obvious to her that he was +considering whether he should answer “Yes” or “No.” Such hesitation +about such a matter was very strange. At last he said, but still in +French: + +“Yes.” + +And directly he had said it she saw by his face that he wished he had +said “No.” + +From the café the Arabs began to pour into the street. The patrol was +clearing the place. The women leaning over the balconies cried out +shrilly to learn the exact history of the tumult, and the men standing +underneath, and lifting up their bronzed faces in the moonlight, replied +in violent voices, gesticulating vehemently while their hanging sleeves +fell back from their hairy arms. + +“I am an Englishwoman,” Domini said. + +But she too felt obliged to speak still in French, as if a sudden +reserve told her to do so. He said nothing. They were standing in quite +a crowd now. It swayed, parted suddenly, and the soldiers appeared +holding Irena. Hadj followed behind, shouting as if in a frenzy of +passion. There was some blood on one of his hands and a streak of blood +on the front of the loose shirt he wore under his burnous. He kept +on shooting out his arms towards Irena as he walked, and frantically +appealing to the Arabs round him. When he saw the women on their +balconies he stopped for a moment and called out to them like a man +beside himself. A Tirailleur pushed him on. The women, who had been +quiet to hear him, burst forth again into a paroxysm of chatter. Irena +looked utterly indifferent and walked feebly. The little procession +disappeared in the moonlight accompanied by the crowd. + +“She has stabbed Hadj,” Domini said. “Batouch will be glad.” + +She did not feel as if she were sorry. Indeed, she thought she was glad +too. That the dancer should try to do a thing and fail would have seemed +contradictory. And the streak of blood she had just seen seemed to +relieve her suddenly and to take from her all anger. Her self-control +returned. + +“Thank you once more,” she said to her companion. “Goodnight.” + +She remembered the episode of the tower that afternoon, and resolved to +take a definite line this time, and not to run the chance of a second +desertion. She started off down the street, but found him walking beside +her in silence. She stopped. + +“I am very much obliged to you for getting me out,” she said, looking +straight at him. “And now, good-night.” + +Almost for the first time he endured her gaze without any uncertainty, +and she saw that though he might be hesitating, uneasy, even +contemptible--as when he hurried down the road in the wake of the negro +procession--he could also be a dogged man. + +“I’ll go with you, Madame,” he said. + +“Why?” + +“It’s night.” + +“I’m not afraid.” + +“I’ll go with you, Madame.” + +He said it again harshly and kept his eyes on her, frowning. + +“And if I refuse?” she said, wondering whether she was going to refuse +or not. + +“I’ll follow you, Madame.” + +She knew by the look on his face that he, too, was thinking of what had +happened in the afternoon. Why should she wish to deprive him of the +reparation he was anxious to make--obviously anxious in an almost +piteously determined way? It was poor pride in her, a mean little +feeling. + +“Come with me,” she said. + +They went on together. + +The Arabs, stirred up by the fracas in Tahar’s café, were seething with +excitement, and several of them, gathered together in a little crowd, +were quarrelling and shouting at the end of the street near the statue +of the Cardinal. Domini’s escort saw them and hesitated. + +“I think, Madame, it would be better to take a side street,” he said. + +“Very well. Let us go to the left here. It is bound to bring us to the +hotel as it runs parallel to the house of the sand diviner.” + +He started. + +“The sand-diviner?” he said in his low, strong voice. + +“Yes.” + +She walked on into a tiny alley. He followed her. + +“You haven’t seen the thin man with the bag of sand?” + +“No, Madame.” + +“He reads your past in sand from the desert and tells what your future +will be.” + +The man made no reply. + +“Will you pay him a visit?” Domini asked curiously. + +“No, Madame. I do not care for such things.” + +Suddenly she stood still. + +“Oh, look!” she said. “How strange! And there are others all down the +street.” + +In the tiny alley the balconies of the houses nearly met. No figures +leaned on their railings. No chattering voices broke the furtive silence +that prevailed in this quarter of Beni-Mora. The moonlight was fainter +here, obscured by the close-set buildings, and at the moment there was +not an Arab in sight. The sense of loneliness and peace was profound, +and as the rare windows of the houses, minute and protected by heavy +gratings, were dark, it had seemed to Domini at first as if all the +inhabitants were in bed and asleep. But, in passing on, she had seen a +faint and blanched illumination; then another; the vague vision of an +aperture; a seated figure making a darkness against whiteness; a second +aperture and seated figure. She stopped and stood still. The man stood +still beside her. + +The alley was an alley of women. In every house on either side of the +way a similar picture of attentive patience was revealed: a narrow +Moorish archway with a wooden door set back against the wall to show a +steep and diminutive staircase winding up into mystery; upon the highest +stair a common candlestick with a lit candle guttering in it, and, +immediately below, a girl, thickly painted, covered with barbarous +jewels and magnificently dressed, her hands, tinted with henna, folded +in her lap, her eyes watching under eyebrows heavily darkened, and +prolonged until they met just above the bridge of the nose, to which a +number of black dots descended; her naked, brown ankles decorated with +large circlets of gold or silver. The candle shed upon each watcher a +faint light that half revealed her and left her half concealed upon her +white staircase bounded by white walls. And in her absolute silence, +absolute stillness, each one was wholly mysterious as she gazed +ceaselessly out towards the empty, narrow street. + +The woman before whose dwelling Domini had stopped was an Ouled Nail, +with a square headdress of coloured handkerchiefs and feathers, a pink +and silver shawl, a blue skirt of some thin material powdered with +silver flowers, and a broad silver belt set with squares of red coral. +She was sitting upright, and would have looked exactly like an idol set +up for savage worship had not her long eyes gleamed and moved as she +solemnly returned the gaze of Domini and of the man who stood a little +behind looking over her shoulder. + +When Domini stopped and exclaimed she did not realise to what this +street was dedicated, why these women sat in watchful silence, each one +alone on her stair waiting in the night. But as she looked and saw the +gaudy finery she began to understand. And had she remained in doubt an +incident now occurred which must have enlightened her. + +A great gaunt Arab, one of the true desert men, almost black, with high +cheek bones, hollow cheeks, fierce falcon’s eyes shining as if with +fever, long and lean limbs hard as iron, dressed in a rough, sacklike +brown garment, and wearing a turban bound with cords of camel’s hair, +strode softly down the alley, slipped in front of Domini, and went up +to the woman, holding out something in his scaly hand. There was a brief +colloquy. The woman stretched her arm up the staircase, took the candle, +held it to the man’s open hand, and bent over counting the money that +lay in the palm. She counted it twice deliberately. Then she nodded. She +got up, turned, holding the candle above her square headdress, and went +slowly up the staircase followed by the Arab, who grasped his coarse +draperies and lifted them, showing his bare legs. The two disappeared +without noise into the darkness, leaving the stairway deserted, its +white steps, its white walls faintly lit by the moon. + +The woman had not once looked at the man, but only at the money in his +scaly hand. + +Domini felt hot and rather sick. She wondered why she had stood there +watching. Yet she had not been able to turn away. Now, as she stepped +back into the middle of the alley and walked on with the man beside her +she wondered what he was thinking of her. She could not talk to him any +more. She was too conscious of the lighted stairways, one after one, +succeeding each other to right and left of them, of the still figures, +of the watching eyes in which the yellow rays of the candles gleamed. +Her companion did not speak; but as they walked he glanced furtively +from one side to the other, then stared down steadily on the white road. +When they turned to the right and came out by the gardens, and Domini +saw the great tufted heads of the palms black against the moon, she felt +relieved and was able to speak again. + +“I should like you to know that I am quite a stranger to all African +things and people,” she said. “That is why I am liable to fall into +mistakes in such a place as this. Ah, there is the hotel, and my maid on +the verandah. I want to thank you again for looking after me.” + +They were at a few steps from the hotel door in the road. The man +stopped, and Domini stopped too. + +“Madame,” he said earnestly, with a sort of hardly controlled +excitement, “I--I am glad. I was ashamed--I was ashamed.” + +“Why?” + +“Of my conduct--of my awkwardness. But you will forgive it. I am not +accustomed to the society of ladies--like you. Anything I have done I +have not done out of rudeness. That is all I can say. I have not done it +out of rudeness.” + +He seemed to be almost trembling with agitation. + +“I know, I know,” she said. “Besides, it was nothing.” + +“Oh, no, it was abominable. I understand that. I am not so coarse-fibred +as not to understand that.” + +Domini suddenly felt that to take his view of the matter, exaggerated +though it was, would be the kindest course, even the most delicate. + +“You were rude to me,” she said, “but I shall forget it from this +moment.” + +She held out her hand. He grasped it, and again she felt as if a furnace +were pouring its fiery heat upon her. + +“Good-night.” + +“Good-night, Madame. Thank you.” + +She was going away to the hotel door, but she stopped. + +“My name is Domini Enfilden,” she said in English. + +The man stood in the road looking at her. She waited. She expected him +to tell her his name. There was a silence. At last he said hesitatingly, +in English with a very slight foreign accent: + +“My name is Boris--Boris Androvsky.” + +“Batouch told me you were English,” she said. + +“My mother was English, but my father was a Russian from Tiflis. That is +my name.” + +There was a sound in his voice as if he were insisting like a man making +an assertion not readily to be believed. + +“Good-night,” Domini said again. + +And she went away slowly, leaving him standing on the moonlit road. + +He did not remain there long, nor did he follow her into the hotel. +After she had disappeared he stood for a little while gazing up at the +deserted verandah upon which the moon-rays fell. Then he turned and +looked towards the village, hesitated, and finally walked slowly back +towards the tiny, shrouded alley in which on the narrow staircases the +painted girls sat watching in the night. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +On the following morning Batouch arrived with a handsome grey Arab +horse for Domini to try. He had been very penitent the night before, and +Domini had forgiven easily enough his pre-occupation with Suzanne, who +had evidently made a strong impression upon his susceptible nature. Hadj +had been but slightly injured by Irena, but did not appear at the hotel +for a very sufficient reason. Both the dancer and he were locked up for +the moment, till the Guardians of Justice in Beni-Mora had made up their +minds who should be held responsible for the uproar of the previous +night. That the real culprit was the smiling poet was not likely to +occur to them, and did not seem to trouble him. When Domini inquired +after Hadj he showed majestic indifference, and when she hinted at his +crafty share in the causing of the tragedy he calmly replied, + +“Hadj-ben-Ibrahim will know from henceforth whether the Mehari with the +swollen tongue can bite.” + +Then, leaping upon the horse, whose bridle he was holding, he forced it +to rear, caracole and display its spirit and its paces before Domini, +sitting it superbly, and shooting many sly glances at Suzanne, who +leaned over the parapet of the verandah watching, with a rapt expression +on her face. + +Domini admired the horse, but wished to mount it herself before coming +to any conclusion about it. She had brought her own saddle with her and +ordered Batouch to put it on the animal. Meanwhile she went upstairs to +change into her habit. When she came out again on to the verandah Boris +Androvsky was there, standing bare-headed in the sun and looking down +at Batouch and the horse. He turned quickly, greeted Domini with a deep +bow, then examined her costume with wondering, startled eyes. + +“I’m going to try that horse,” she said with deliberate friendliness. +“To see if I’ll buy him. Are you a judge of a horse?” + +“I fear not, Madame.” + +She had spoken in English and he replied in the same language. She was +standing at the head of the stairs holding her whip lightly in her right +hand. Her splendid figure was defined by the perfectly-fitting, plain +habit, and she saw him look at it with a strange expression in his eyes, +an admiration that was almost ferocious, and that was yet respectful and +even pure. It was like the glance of a passionate schoolboy verging on +young manhood, whose natural instincts were astir but whose temperament +was unwarped by vice; a glance that was a burning tribute, and that told +a whole story of sex and surely of hot, inquiring ignorance--strange +glances of a man no longer even very young. It made something in her +leap and quiver. She was startled and almost angered by that, but not by +the eyes that caused it. + +“_Au revoir_,” she said, turning to go down. + +“May I--might I see you get up?” said Androvsky. + +“Get up!” she said. + +“Up on the horse?” + +She could not help smiling at his fashion of expressing the act of +mounting. He was not a sportsman evidently, despite his muscular +strength. + +“Certainly, if you like. Come along.” + +Without thinking of it she spoke rather as to a schoolboy, not +with superiority, but with the sort of bluffness age sometimes uses +good-naturedly to youth. He did not seem to resent it and followed her +down to the arcade. + +The side saddle was on and the poet held the grey by the bridle. Some +Arab boys had assembled under the arcade to see what was going forward. +The Arab waiter lounged at the door with the tassel of his fez swinging +against his pale cheek. The horse fidgetted and tugged against the rein, +lifting his delicate feet uneasily from the ground, flicking his narrow +quarters with his long tail, and glancing sideways with his dark and +brilliant eyes, which were alive with a nervous intelligence that was +almost hectic. Domini went up to him and caressed him with her hand. He +reared up and snorted. His whole body seemed a-quiver with the desire to +gallop furiously away alone into some far distant place. + +Androvsky stood near the waiter, looking at Domini and at the horse with +wonder and alarm in his eyes. + +The animal, irritated by inaction, began to plunge violently and to get +out of hand. + +“Give me the reins,” Domini said to the poet. “That’s it. Now put your +hand for me.” + +Batouch obeyed. Her foot just touched his hand and she was in the +saddle. + +Androvsky sprang forward on to the pavement. His eyes were blazing with +anxiety. She saw it and laughed gaily. + +“Oh, he’s not vicious,” she said. “And vice is the only thing that’s +dangerous. His mouth is perfect, but he’s nervous and wants handling. +I’ll just take him up the gardens and back.” + +She had been reining him in. Now she let him go, and galloped up the +straight track between the palms towards the station. The priest had +come out into his little garden with Bous-Bous, and leaned over his +brushwood fence to look after her. Bous-Bous barked in a light soprano. +The Arab boys jumped on their bare toes, and one of them, who was a +bootblack, waved his board over his shaven head. The Arab waiter smiled +as if with satisfaction at beholding perfect competence. But Androvsky +stood quite still looking down the dusty road at the diminishing forms +of horse and rider, and when they disappeared, leaving behind them a +light cloud of sand films whirling in the sun, he sighed heavily and +dropped his chin on his chest as if fatigued. + +“I can get a horse for Monsieur too. Would Monsieur like to have a +horse?” + +It was the poet’s amply seductive voice. Androvsky started. + +“I don’t ride,” he said curtly. + +“I will teach Monsieur. I am the best teacher in Beni-Mora. In three +lessons Monsieur will--” + +“I don’t ride, I tell you.” + +Androvsky was looking angry. He stepped out into the road. Bous-Bous, +who was now observing Nature at the priest’s garden gate, emerged with +some sprightliness and trotted towards him, evidently with the intention +of making his acquaintance. Coming up to him the little dog raised his +head and uttered a short bark, at the same time wagging his tail in a +kindly, though not effusive manner. Androvsky looked down, bent quickly +and patted him, as only a man really fond of animals and accustomed +to them knows how to pat. Bous-Bous was openly gratified. He began to +wriggle affectionately. The priest in his garden smiled. Androvsky had +not seen him and went on playing with the dog, who now made preparations +to lie down on his curly back in the road in the hope of being tickled, +a process he was an amateur of. Still smiling, and with a friendly +look on his face, the priest came out of his garden and approached the +playmates. + +“Good morning, M’sieur,” he said politely, raising his hat. “I see you +like dogs.” + +Androvsky lifted himself up, leaving Bous-Bous in a prayerful attitude, +his paws raised devoutly towards the heavens. When he saw that it was +the priest who had addressed him his face changed, hardened to grimness, +and his lips trembled slightly. + +“That’s my little dog,” the priest continued in a gentle voice. “He has +evidently taken a great fancy to you.” + +Batouch was watching Androvsky under the arcade, and noted the sudden +change in his expression and his whole bearing. + +“I--I did not know he was your dog, Monsieur, or I should not have +interfered with him,” said Androvsky. + +Bous-Bous jumped up against his leg. He pushed the little dog rather +roughly away and stepped back to the arcade. The priest looked puzzled +and slightly hurt. At this moment the soft thud of horse’s hoofs was +audible on the road and Domini came cantering back to the hotel. Her +eyes were sparkling, her face was radiant. She bowed to the priest and +reined up before the hotel door, where Androvsky was standing. + +“I’ll buy him,” she said to Batouch, who swelled with satisfaction at +the thought of his commission. “And I’ll go for a long ride now--out +into the desert.” + +“You will not go alone, Madame?” + +It was the priest’s voice. She smiled down at him gaily. + +“Should I be carried off by nomads, Monsieur?” + +“It would not be safe for a lady, believe me.” + +Batouch swept forward to reassure the priest. “I am Madame’s guide. +I have a horse ready saddled to accompany Madame. I have sent for it +already, M’sieur.” + +One of the little Arab boys was indeed visible running with all his +might towards the Rue Berthe. Domini’s face suddenly clouded. The +presence of the guide would take all the edge off her pleasure, and in +the short gallop she had just had she had savoured its keenness. She was +alive with desire to be happy. + +“I don’t need you, Batouch,” she said. + +But the poet was inexorable, backed up by the priest. + +“It is my duty to accompany Madame. I am responsible for her safety.” + +“Indeed, you cannot go into the desert alone,” said the priest. + +Domini glanced at Androvsky, who was standing silently under the arcade, +a little withdrawn, looking uncomfortable and self-conscious. She +remembered her thought on the tower of the dice-thrower, and of how the +presence of the stranger had seemed to double her pleasure then. Up +the road from the Rue Berthe came the noise of a galloping horse. The +shoeblack was returning furiously, his bare legs sticking out on either +side of a fiery light chestnut with a streaming mane and tail. + +“Monsieur Androvsky,” she said. + +He started. + +“Madame?” + +“Will you come with me for a ride into the desert?” + +His face was flooded with scarlet, and he came a step forward, looking +up at her. + +“I!” he said with an accent of infinite surprise. + +“Yes. Will you?” + +The chestnut thundered up and was pulled sharply back on its haunches. +Androvsky shot a sideways glance at it and hesitated. Domini thought +he was going to refuse and wished she had not asked him, wished it +passionately. + +“Never mind,” she said, almost brutally in her vexation at what she had +done. + +“Batouch!” + +The poet was about to spring upon the horse when Androvsky caught him by +the arm. + +“I will go,” he said. + +Batouch looked vicious. “But Monsieur told me he did not----” + +He stopped. The hand on his arm had given him a wrench that made him +feel as if his flesh were caught between steel pincers. Androvsky came +up to the chestnut. + +“Oh, it’s an Arab saddle,” said Domini. + +“It does not matter, Madame.” + +His face was stern. + +“Are you accustomed to them?” + +“It makes no difference.” + +He took hold of the rein and put his foot in the high stirrup, but so +awkwardly that he kicked the horse in the side. It plunged. + +“Take care!” said Domini. + +Androvsky hung on, and climbed somehow into the saddle, coming down in +it heavily, with a thud. The horse, now thoroughly startled, plunged +furiously and lashed out with its hind legs. Androvsky was thrown +forward against the high red peak of the saddle with his hands on the +animal’s neck. There was a struggle. He tugged at the rein violently. +The horse jumped back, reared, plunged sideways as if about to bolt. +Androvsky was shot off and fell on his right shoulder heavily. Batouch +caught the horse while Androvsky got up. He was white with dust. There +was even dust on his face and in his short hair. He looked passionate. + +“You see,” Batouch began, speaking to Domini, “that Monsieur cannot--” + +“Give me the rein!” said Androvsky. + +There was a sound in his deep voice that was terrible. He was looking +not at Domini, but at the priest, who stood a little aside with an +expression of concern on his face. Bous-Bous barked with excitement +at the conflict. Androvsky took the rein, and, with a sort of furious +determination, sprang into the saddle and pressed his legs against +the horse’s flanks. It reared up. The priest moved back under the +palm trees, the Arab boys scattered. Batouch sought the shelter of the +arcade, and the horse, with a short, whining neigh that was like a +cry of temper, bolted between the trunks of the trees, heading for the +desert, and disappeared in a flash. + +“He will be killed,” said the priest. + +Bous-Bous barked frantically. + +“It is his own fault,” said the poet. “He told me himself just now that +he did not know how to ride.” + +“Why didn’t you tell me so?” Domini exclaimed. + +“Madame----” + +But she was gone, following Androvsky at a slow canter lest she should +frighten his horse by coming up behind it. She came out from the shade +of the palms into the sun. The desert lay before her. She searched it +eagerly with her eyes and saw Androvsky’s horse far off in the river +bed, still going at a gallop towards the south, towards that region in +which she had told him on the tower she thought that peace must dwell. +It was as if he had believed her words blindly and was frantically in +chase of peace. And she pursued him through the blazing sunlight. She +was out in the desert at length, beyond the last belt of verdure, beyond +the last line of palms. The desert wind was on her cheek and in her +hair. The desert spaces stretched around her. Under her horse’s hoofs +lay the sparkling crystals on the wrinkled, sun-dried earth. The red +rocks, seamed with many shades of colour that all suggested primeval +fires and the relentless action of heat, were heaped about her. But her +eyes were fixed on the far-off moving speck that was the horse carrying +Androvsky madly towards the south. The light and fire, the great airs, +the sense of the chase intoxicated her. She struck her horse with the +whip. It leaped, as if clearing an immense obstacle, came down lightly +and strained forward into the shining mysteries at a furious gallop. The +black speck grew larger. She was gaining. The crumbling, cliff-like bank +on her left showed a rent in which a faint track rose sharply to the +flatness beyond. She put her horse at it and came out among the tiny +humps on which grew the halfa grass and the tamarisk bushes. A pale sand +flew up here about the horse’s feet. Androvsky was still below her in +the difficult ground where the water came in the floods. She gained and +gained till she was parallel with him and could see his bent figure, his +arms clinging to the peak of his red saddle, his legs set forward +almost on to his horse’s withers by the short stirrups with their metal +toecaps. The animal’s temper was nearly spent. She could see that. The +terror had gone out of his pace. As she looked she saw Androvsky raise +his arms from the saddle peak, catch at the flying rein, draw it up, +lean against the saddle back and pull with all his force. The horse +stopped dead. + +“His strength must be enormous,” Domini thought with a startled +admiration. + +She pulled up too on the bank above him and gave a halloo. He turned his +head, saw her, and put his horse at the bank, which was steep here and +without any gap. “You can’t do it,” she called. + +In reply he dug the heels of his heavy boots into the horse’s flanks and +came on recklessly. She thought the horse would either refuse or try +to get up and roll back on its rider. It sprang at the bank and mounted +like a wild cat. There was a noise of falling stones, a shower of +scattered earth-clods dropping downward, and he was beside her, white +with dust, streaming with sweat, panting as if the labouring breath +would rip his chest open, with the horse’s foam on his forehead, and a +savage and yet exultant gleam in his eyes. + +They looked at each other in silence, while their horses, standing +quietly, lowered their narrow, graceful heads and touched noses with +delicate inquiry. Then she said: + +“I almost thought----” + +She stopped. + +“Yes?” he said, on a great gasping breath that was like a sob. + +“--that you were off to the centre of the earth, or--I don’t know what I +thought. You aren’t hurt?” + +“No.” + +He could only speak in monosyllables as yet. She looked his horse over. + +“He won’t give much more trouble just now. Shall we ride back?” + +As she spoke she threw a longing glance at the far desert, at the verge +of which was a dull green line betokening the distant palms of an oasis. + +Androvsky shook his head. + +“But you----” She hesitated. “Perhaps you aren’t accustomed to horses, +and with that saddle----” + +He shook his head again, drew a tremendous breath and said + +“I don’t care, I’ll go on, I won’t go back.” + +He put up one hand, brushed the foam from his streaming forehead, and +said again fiercely: + +“I won’t go back.” + +His face was extraordinary with its dogged, passionate expression +showing through the dust and the sweat; like the face of a man in a +fight to the death, she thought, a fight with fists. She was glad at his +last words and liked the iron sound in his voice. + +“Come on then.” + +And they began to ride towards the dull green line of the oasis, slowly +on the sandy waste among the little round humps where the dusty cluster +of bushes grew. + +“You weren’t hurt by the fall?” she said. “It looked a bad one.” + +“I don’t know whether I was. I don’t care whether I was.” + +He spoke almost roughly. + +“You asked me to ride with you,” he added. “I’ll ride with you.” + +She remembered what Batouch had said. There was pluck in this man, +pluck that surged up in the blundering awkwardness, the hesitation, the +incompetence and rudeness of him like a black rock out of the sea. She +did not answer. They rode on, always slowly. His horse, having had its +will, and having known his strength at the end of his incompetence, +went quietly, though always with that feathery, light, tripping action +peculiar to purebred Arabs, an action that suggests the treading of +a spring board rather than of the solid earth. And Androvsky seemed a +little more at home on it, although he sat awkwardly on the chair-like +saddle, and grasped the rein too much as the drowning man seizes the +straw. Domini rode without looking at him, lest he might think she was +criticising his performance. When he had rolled in the dust she had +been conscious of a sharp sensation of contempt. The men she had been +accustomed to meet all her life rode, shot, played games as a matter of +course. She was herself an athlete, and, like nearly all athletic women, +inclined to be pitiless towards any man who was not so strong and so +agile as herself. But this man had killed her contempt at once by his +desperate determination not to be beaten. She knew by the look she had +just seen in his eyes that if to ride with her that day meant death to +him he would have done it nevertheless. + +The womanhood in her liked the tribute, almost more than liked it. + +“Your horse goes better now,” she said at last to break the silence. + +“Does it?” he said. + +“You don’t know!” + +“Madame, I know nothing of horses or riding. I have not been on a horse +for twenty-three years.” + +She was amazed. + +“We ought to go back then,” she exclaimed. + +“Why? Other men ride--I will ride. I do it badly. Forgive me.” + +“Forgive you!” she said. “I admire your pluck. But why have you never +ridden all these years?” + +After a pause he answered: + +“I--I did not--I had not the opportunity.” + +His voice was suddenly constrained. She did not pursue the subject, but +stroked her horse’s neck and turned her eyes towards the dark green +line on the horizon. Now that she was really out in the desert she felt +almost bewildered by it, and as if she understood it far less than +when she looked at it from Count Anteoni’s garden. The thousands upon +thousands of sand humps, each crowned with its dusty dwarf bush, each +one precisely like the others, agitated her as if she were confronted by +a vast multitude of people. She wanted some point which would keep the +eyes from travelling but could not find it, and was mentally restless as +the swimmer far out at sea who is pursued by wave on wave, and who sees +beyond him the unceasing foam of those that are pressing to the horizon. +Whither was she riding? Could one have a goal in this immense expanse? +She felt an overpowering need to find one, and looked once more at the +green line. + +“Do you think we could go as far as that?” she asked Androvsky, pointing +with her whip. + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“It must be an oasis. Don’t you think so?” + +“Yes. I can go faster.” + +“Keep your rein loose. Don’t pull his mouth. You don’t mind my telling +you. I’ve been with horses all my life.” + +“Thank you,” he answered. + +“And keep your heels more out. That’s much better. I’m sure you could +teach me a thousand things; it will be kind of you to let me teach you +this.” + +He cast a strange look at her. There was gratitude in it, but much more; +a fiery bitterness and something childlike and helpless. + +“I have nothing to teach,” he said. + +Their horses broke into a canter, and with the swifter movement Domini +felt more calm. There was an odd lightness in her brain, as if her +thoughts were being shaken out of it like feathers out of a bag. +The power of concentration was leaving her, and a sensation of +carelessness--surely gipsy-like--came over her. Her body, dipped in +the dry and thin air as in a clear, cool bath, did not suffer from the +burning rays of the sun, but felt radiant yet half lazy too. They went +on and on in silence as intimate friends might ride together, isolated +from the world and content in each other’s company, content enough to +have no need of talking. Not once did it strike Domini as strange +that she should go far out into the desert with a man of whom she knew +nothing, but in whom she had noticed disquieting peculiarities. She was +naturally fearless, but that had little to do with her conduct. Without +saying so to herself she felt she could trust this man. + +The dark green line showed clearer through the sunshine across the +gleaming flats. It was possible now to see slight irregularities in +it, as in a blurred dash of paint flung across a canvas by an uncertain +hand, but impossible to distinguish palm trees. The air sparkled as if +full of a tiny dust of intensely brilliant jewels, and near the ground +there seemed to quiver a maze of dancing specks of light. Everywhere +there was solitude, yet everywhere there was surely a ceaseless movement +of minute and vital things, scarce visible sun fairies eternally at +play. + +And Domini’s careless feeling grew. She had never before experienced so +delicious a recklessness. Head and heart were light, reckless of thought +or love. Sad things had no meaning here and grave things no place. For +the blood was full of sunbeams dancing to a lilt of Apollo. Nothing +mattered here. Even Death wore a robe of gold and went with an airy +step. Ah, yes, from this region of quivering light and heat the Arabs +drew their easy and lustrous resignation. Out here one was in the hands +of a God who surely sang as He created and had not created fear. + +Many minutes passed, but Domini was careless of time as of all else. +The green line broke into feathery tufts, broadened into a still far-off +dimness of palms. + +“Water!” + +Androvsky’s voice spoke as if startled. Domini pulled up. Their horses +stood side by side, and at once, with the cessation of motion, the +mysticism of the desert came upon them and the marvel of its silence, +and they seemed to be set there in a wonderful dream, themselves and +their horses dreamlike. + +“Water!” he said again. + +He pointed, and along the right-hand edge of the oasis Domini saw grey, +calm waters. The palms ran out into them and were bathed by them softly. +And on their bosom here and there rose small, dim islets. Yes, there was +water, and yet--The mystery of it was a mystery she had never known to +brood even over a white northern sea in a twilight hour of winter, was +deeper than the mystery of the Venetian _laguna morta_, when the Angelus +bell chimes at sunset, and each distant boat, each bending rower and +patient fisherman, becomes a marvel, an eerie thing in the gold. + +“Is it mirage?” she said to him almost in a whisper. + +And suddenly she shivered. + +“Yes, it is, it must be.” + +He did not answer. His left hand, holding the rein, dropped down on the +saddle peak, and he stared across the waste, leaning forward and moving +his lips. She looked at him and forgot even the mirage in a sudden +longing to understand exactly what he was feeling. His mystery--the +mystery of that which is human and is forever stretching out its +arms--was as the fluid mystery of the mirage, and seemed to blend at +that moment with the mystery she knew lay in herself. The mirage was +within them as it was far off before them in the desert, still, grey, +full surely of indistinct movement, and even perhaps of sound they could +not hear. + +At last he turned and looked at her. + +“Yes, it must be mirage,” he said. “The nothing that seems to be so +much. A man comes out into the desert and he finds there mirage. He +travels right out and that’s what he reaches--or at least he can’t reach +it, but just sees it far away. And that’s all. And is that what a man +finds when he comes out into the world?” + +It was the first time he had spoken without any trace of reserve to her, +for even on the tower, though there had been tumult in his voice and a +fierceness of some strange passion in his words, there had been struggle +in his manner, as if the pressure of feeling forced him to speak in +despite of something which bade him keep silence. Now he spoke as if to +someone whom he knew and with whom he had talked of many things. + +“But you ought to know better than I do,” she answered. + +“I!” + +“Yes. You are a man, and have been in the world, and must know what +it has to give--whether there’s only mirage, or something that can be +grasped and felt and lived in, and----” + +“Yes, I’m a man and I ought to know,” he replied. “Well, I don’t know, +but I mean to know.” + +There was a savage sound in his voice. + +“I should like to know, too,” Domini said quietly. “And I feel as if it +was the desert that was going to teach me.” + +“The desert--how?” + +“I don’t know.” + +He pointed again to the mirage. + +“But that’s what there is in the desert.” + +“That--and what else?” + +“Is there anything else?” + +“Perhaps everything,” she answered. “I am like you. I want to know.” + +He looked straight into her eyes and there was something dominating in +his expression. + +“You think it is the desert that could teach you whether the world holds +anything but a mirage,” he said slowly. “Well, I don’t think it would be +the desert that could teach me.” + +She said nothing more, but let her horse go and rode off. He followed, +and as he rode awkwardly, yet bravely, pressing his strong legs against +his animal’s flanks and holding his thin body bent forward, he looked +at Domini’s upright figure and brilliant, elastic grace--that gave in to +her horse as wave gives to wind--with a passion of envy in his eyes. + +They did not speak again till the great palm gardens of the oasis they +had seen far off were close upon them. From the desert they looked both +shabby and superb, as if some millionaire had poured forth money to +create a Paradise out here, and, when it was nearly finished, had +suddenly repented of his whim and refused to spend another farthing. The +thousands upon thousands of mighty trees were bounded by long, irregular +walls of hard earth, at the top of which were stuck distraught thorn +bushes. These walls gave the rough, penurious aspect which was in such +sharp contrast to the exotic mystery they guarded. Yet in the fierce +blaze of the sun their meanness was not disagreeable. Domini even liked +it. It seemed to her as if the desert had thrown up waves to protect +this daring oasis which ventured to fling its green glory like a +defiance in the face of the Sahara. A wide track of earth, sprinkled +with stones and covered with deep ruts, holes and hummocks, wound in +from the desert between the earthen walls and vanished into the heart of +the oasis. They followed it. + +Domini was filled with a sort of romantic curiosity. This luxury of +palms far out in the midst of desolation, untended apparently by +human hands--for no figures moved among them, there was no one on +the road--suggested some hidden purpose and activity, some concealed +personage, perhaps an Eastern Anteoni, whose lair lay surely somewhere +beyond them. As she had felt the call of the desert she now felt the +call of the oasis. In this land thrilled eternally a summons to go +onward, to seek, to penetrate, to be a passionate pilgrim. She wondered +whether her companion’s heart could hear it. + +“I don’t know why it is,” she said, “but out here I always feel +expectant. I always feel as if some marvellous thing might be going to +happen to me.” + +She did not add “Do you?” but looked at him as if for a reply. + +“Yes, Madame,” he said. + +“I suppose it is because I am new to Africa. This is my first visit +here. I am not like you. I can’t speak Arabic.” + +She suddenly wondered whether the desert was new to him as to her. She +had assumed that it was. Yet as he spoke Arabic it was almost certain +that he had been much in Africa. + +“I do not speak it well,” he answered. + +And he looked away towards the dense thickets of the palms. The track +narrowed till the trees on either side cast patterns of moving shade +across it and the silent mystery was deepened. As far as the eye could +see the feathery, tufted foliage swayed in the little wind. The desert +had vanished, but sent in after them the message of its soul, the +marvellous breath which Domini had drunk into her lungs so long before +she saw it. That breath was like a presence. It dwells in all oases. The +high earth walls concealed the gardens. Domini longed to look over and +see what they contained, whether there were any dwellings in these dim +and silent recesses, any pools of water, flowers or grassy lawns. + +Her horse neighed. + +“Something is coming,” she said. + +They turned a corner and were suddenly in a village. A mob of half-naked +children scattered from their horses’ feet. Rows of seated men in white +and earth-coloured robes stared upon them from beneath the shadow of +tall, windowless earth houses. White dogs rushed to and fro upon the +flat roofs, thrusting forward venomous heads, showing their teeth and +barking furiously. Hens fluttered in agitation from one side to the +other. A grey mule, tethered to a palm-wood door and loaded with +brushwood, lashed out with its hoofs at a negro, who at once began to +batter it passionately with a pole, and a long line of sneering camels +confronted them, treading stealthily, and turning their serpentine +necks from side to side as they came onwards with a soft and weary +inflexibility. In the distance there was a vision of a glaring +market-place crowded with moving forms and humming with noises. + +The change from mysterious peace to this vivid and concentrated life was +startling. + +With difficulty they avoided the onset of the camels by pulling their +horses into the midst of the dreamers against the walls, who rolled +and scrambled into places of safety, then stood up and surrounded them, +staring with an almost terrible interest upon them, and surveying their +horses with the eyes of connoisseurs. The children danced up and began +to ask for alms, and an immense man, with a broken nose and brown +teeth like tusks, laid a gigantic hand on Domini’s bridle and said, in +atrocious French: + +“I am the guide, I am the guide. Look at my certificates. Take no one +else. The people here are robbers. I am the only honest man. I will show +Madame everything. I will take Madame to the inn. Look--my certificates! +Read them! Read what the English lord says of me. I alone am honest +here. I am honest Mustapha! I am honest Mustapha!” + +He thrust a packet of discoloured papers and dirty visiting-cards into +her hands. She dropped them, laughing, and they floated down over the +horse’s neck. The man leaped frantically to pick them up, assisted by +the robbers round about. A second caravan of camels appeared, preceded +by some filthy men in rags, who cried, “Oosh! oosh!” to clear the way. +The immense man, brandishing his recovered certificates, plunged forward +to encounter them, shouting in Arabic, hustled them back, kicked them, +struck at the camels with a stick till those in front receded upon those +behind and the street was blocked by struggling beasts and resounded +with roaring snarls, the thud of wooden bales clashing together, and the +desperate protests of the camel-drivers, one of whom was sent rolling +into a noisome dust heap with his turban torn from his head. + +“The inn! This is the inn! Madame will descend here. Madame will eat in +the garden. Monsieur Alphonse! Monsieur Alphonse! Here are clients +for _dejeuner_. I have brought them. Do not believe Mohammed. It is I +that--I will assist Madame to descend. I will----” + +Domini was standing in a tiny cabaret before a row of absinthe bottles, +laughing, almost breathless. She scarcely knew how she had come there. +Looking back she saw Androvsky still sitting on his horse in the midst +of the clamouring mob. She went to the low doorway, but Mustapha barred +her exit. + +“This is Sidi-Zerzour. Madame will eat in the garden. She is tired, +fainting. She will eat and then she will see the great Mosque of +Zerzour.” + +“Sidi-Zerzour!” she exclaimed. “Monsieur Androvsky, do you know where we +are? This is the famous Sidi-Zerzour, where the great warrior is buried, +and where the Arabs make pilgrimages to worship at his tomb.” + +“Yes, Madame.” + +He answered in a low voice. + +“As we are here we ought to see. Do you know, I think we must yield to +honest Mustapha and have _dejeuner_ in the garden. It is twelve o’clock +and I am hungry. We might visit the mosque afterwards and ride home in +the afternoon.” + +He sat there hunched up on the horse and looked at her in silent +hesitation, while the Arabs stood round staring. + +“You’d rather not?” + +She spoke quietly. He shook his feet out of the stirrups. A number of +brown hands and arms shot forth to help him. Domini turned back into +the cabaret. She heard a tornado of voices outside, a horse neighing and +trampling, a scuffling of feet, but she did not glance round. In about +three minutes Androvsky joined her. He was limping slightly and bending +forward more than ever. Behind the counter on which stood the absinthe +bottle was a tarnished mirror, and she saw him glance quickly, almost +guiltily into it, put up his hands and try to brush the dust from his +hair, his shoulders. + +“Let me do it,” she said abruptly. “Turn round.” + +He obeyed without a word, turning his back to her. With her two hands, +which were covered with soft, loose suede gloves, she beat and brushed +the dust from his coat. He stood quite still while she did it. When she +had finished she said: + +“There, that’s better.” + +Her voice was practical. He did not move, but stood there. + +“I’ve done what I can, Monsieur Androvsky.” + +Then he turned slowly, and she saw, with amazement, that there were +tears in his eyes. He did not thank her or say a word. + +A small and scrubby-looking Frenchman, with red eyelids and moustaches +that drooped over a pendulous underlip, now begged Madame to follow +him through a small doorway beyond which could be seen three just shot +gazelles lying in a patch of sunlight by a wired-in fowl-run. Domini +went after him, and Androvsky and honest Mustapha--still vigorously +proclaiming his own virtues--brought up the rear. They came into the +most curious garden she had ever seen. + +It was long and narrow and dishevelled, without grass or flowers. The +uneven ground of it was bare, sun-baked earth, hard as parquet, rising +here into a hump, falling there into a depression. Immediately behind +the cabaret, where the dead gazelles with their large glazed eyes lay +by the fowl-run, was a rough wooden trellis with vines trained over it, +making an arbour. Beyond was a rummage of orange trees, palms, gums and +fig trees growing at their own sweet will, and casting patterns of deep +shade upon the earth in sharp contrast with the intense yellow sunlight +which fringed them where the leafage ceased. An attempt had been made +to create formal garden paths and garden beds by sticking rushes into +little holes drilled in the ground, but the paths were zig-zag as a +drunkard’s walk, and the round and oblong beds contained no trace of +plants. On either hand rose steep walls of earth, higher than a man, and +crowned with prickly thorn bushes. Over them looked palm trees. At the +end of the garden ran a slow stream of muddy water in a channel with +crumbling banks trodden by many naked feet. Beyond it was yet another +lower wall of earth, yet another maze of palms. Heat and silence brooded +here like reptiles on the warm mud of a tropic river in a jungle. +Lizards ran in and out of the innumerable holes in the walls, and flies +buzzed beneath the ragged leaves of the fig trees and crawled in the hot +cracks of the earth. + +The landlord wished to put a table under the vine close to the cabaret +wall, but Domini begged him to bring it to the end of the garden near +the stream. With the furious assistance of honest Mustapha he carried it +there and quickly laid it in the shadow of a fig tree, while Domini and +Androvsky waited in silence on two straw-bottomed chairs. + +The atmosphere of the garden was hostile to conversation. The sluggish +muddy stream, the almost motionless trees, the imprisoned heat between +the surrounding walls, the faint buzz of the flies caused drowsiness to +creep upon the spirit. The long ride, too, and the ardent desert +air, made this repose a luxury. Androvsky’s face lost its emotional +expression as he gazed almost vacantly at the brown water shifting +slowly by between the brown banks and the brown walls above which +the palm trees peered. His aching limbs relaxed. His hands hung loose +between his knees. And Domini half closed her eyes. A curious peace +descended upon her. Lapped in the heat and silence for the moment she +wanted nothing. The faint buzz of the flies sounded in her ears and +seemed more silent than even the silence to which it drew attention. +Never before, not in Count Anteoni’s garden, had she felt more utterly +withdrawn from the world. The feathery tops of the palms were like +the heads of sentinels guarding her from contact with all that she had +known. And beyond them lay the desert, the empty, sunlit waste. She shut +her eyes, and murmured to herself, “I am in far away. I am in far +away.” And the flies said it in her ears monotonously. And the lizards +whispered it as they slipped in and out of the little dark holes in the +walls. She heard Androvsky stir, and she moved her lips slowly. And the +flies and the lizards continued the refrain. But she said now, “We are +in far away.” + +Honest Mustapha strode forward. He had a Bashi-Bazouk tread to wake up a +world. _Dejeuner_ was ready. Domini sighed. They took their places under +the fig tree on either side of the deal table covered with a rough white +cloth, and Mustapha, with tremendous gestures, and gigantic postures +suggesting the untamed descendant of legions of freeborn, sun-suckled +men, served them with red fish, omelette, gazelle steaks, cheese, +oranges and dates, with white wine and Vals water. + +Androvsky scarcely spoke. Now that he was sitting at a meal with Domini +he was obviously embarrassed. All his movements were self-conscious. He +seemed afraid to eat and refused the gazelle. Mustapha broke out into +turbulent surprise and prolonged explanations of the delicious flavour +of this desert food. But Androvsky still refused, looking desperately +disconcerted. + +“It really is delicious,” said Domini, who was eating it. “But perhaps +you don’t care about meat.” + +She spoke quite carelessly and was surprised to see him look at her as +if with sudden suspicion and immediately help himself to the gazelle. + +This man was perpetually giving a touch of the whip to her curiosity to +keep it alert. Yet she felt oddly at ease with him. He seemed somehow +part of her impression of the desert, and now, as they sat under the +fig tree between the high earth walls, and at their _al fresco_ meal in +unbroken silence--for since her last remark Androvsky had kept his eyes +down and had not uttered a word--she tried to imagine the desert without +him. + +She thought of the gorge of El-Akbara, the cold, the darkness, and then +the sun and the blue country. They had framed his face. She thought of +the silent night when the voice of the African hautboy had died away. +His step had broken its silence. She thought of the garden of Count +Anteoni, and of herself kneeling on the hot sand with her arms on the +white parapet and gazing out over the regions of the sun, of her dream +upon the tower, of her vision when Irena danced. He was there, part +of the noon, part of the twilight, chief surely of the worshippers who +swept on in the pale procession that received gifts from the desert’s +hands. She could no longer imagine the desert without him. The almost +painful feeling that had come to her in the garden--of the human power +to distract her attention from the desert power--was dying, perhaps had +completely died away. Another feeling was surely coming to replace it; +that Androvsky belonged to the desert more even than the Arabs did, that +the desert spirits were close about him, clasping his hands, whispering +in his ears, and laying their unseen hands about his heart. But---- + +They had finished their meal. Domini set her chair once more in front +of the sluggish stream, while honest Mustapha bounded, with motions +suggestive of an ostentatious panther, to get the coffee. Androvsky +followed her after an instant of hesitation. + +“Do smoke,” she said. + +He lit a small cigar with difficulty. She did not wish to watch him, +but she could not help glancing at him once or twice, and the conviction +came to her that he was unaccustomed to smoking. She lit a cigarette, +and saw him look at her with a sort of horrified surprise which changed +to staring interest. There was more boy, more child in this man than +in any man she had ever known. Yet at moments she felt as if he +had penetrated more profoundly into the dark and winding valleys of +experience than all the men of her acquaintance. + +“Monsieur Androvsky,” she said, looking at the slow waters of the stream +slipping by towards the hidden gardens, “is the desert new to you?” + +She longed to know. + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“I thought perhaps--I wondered a little whether you had travelled in it +already.” + +“No, Madame. I saw it for the first time the day before yesterday.” + +“When I did.” + +“Yes.” + +So they had entered it for the first time together. She was silent, +watching the pale smoke curl up through the shade and out into the glare +of the sun, the lizards creeping over the hot earth, the flies circling +beneath the lofty walls, the palm trees looking over into this garden +from the gardens all around, gardens belonging to Eastern people, born +here, and who would probably die here, and go to dust among the roots of +the palms. + +On the earthen bank on the far side of the stream there appeared, while +she gazed, a brilliant figure. It came soundlessly on bare feet from +a hidden garden; a tall, unveiled girl, dressed in draperies of vivid +magenta, who carried in her exquisitely-shaped brown hands a number of +handkerchiefs--scarlet, orange, yellow green and flesh colour. She did +not glance into the _auberge_ garden, but caught up her draperies into +a bunch with one hand, exposing her slim legs far above the knees, waded +into the stream, and bending, dipped the handkerchiefs in the water. + +The current took them. They streamed out on the muddy surface of the +stream, and tugged as if, suddenly endowed with life, they were striving +to escape from the hand that held them. + +The girl’s face was beautiful, with small regular features and lustrous, +tender eyes. Her figure, not yet fully developed, was perfect in shape, +and seemed to thrill softly with the spirit of youth. Her tint of bronze +suggested statuary, and every fresh pose into which she fell, while the +water eddied about her, strengthened the suggestion. With the golden +sunlight streaming upon her, the brown banks, the brown waters, the +brown walls throwing up the crude magenta of her bunched-up draperies, +the vivid colours of the handkerchiefs that floated from her hand, with +the feathery palms beside her, the cloudless blue sky above her, she +looked so strangely African and so completely lovely that Domini watched +her with an almost breathless attention. + +She withdrew the handkerchiefs from the stream, waded out, and spread +them one by one upon the low earth wall to dry, letting her draperies +fall. When she had finished disposing them she turned round, and, no +longer preoccupied with her task, looked under her level brows into the +garden opposite and saw Domini and her companion. She did not start, +but stood quite still for a moment, then slipped away in the direction +whence she had come. Only the brilliant patches of colour on the wall +remained to hint that she had been there and would come again. Domini +sighed. + +“What a lovely creature!” she said, more to herself than to Androvsky. + +He did not speak, and his silence made her consciously demand his +acquiescence in her admiration. + +“Did you ever see anything more beautiful and more characteristic of +Africa?” she asked. + +“Madame,” he said in a slow, stern voice, “I did not look at her.” + +Domini felt piqued. + +“Why not?” she retorted. + +Androvsky’s face was cloudy and almost cruel. + +“These native women do not interest me,” he said. “I see nothing +attractive in them.” + +Domini knew that he was telling her a lie. Had she not seen him watching +the dancing girls in Tahar’s café? Anger rose in her. She said to +herself then that it was anger at man’s hypocrisy. Afterwards she knew +that it was anger at Androvsky’s telling a lie to her. + +“I can scarcely believe that,” she answered bluntly. + +They looked at each other. + +“Why not, Madame?” he said. “If I say it is so?” + +She hesitated. At that moment she realised, with hot astonishment, that +there was something in this man that could make her almost afraid, that +could prevent her even, perhaps, from doing the thing she had resolved +to do. Immediately she felt hostile to him, and she knew that, at that +moment, he was feeling hostile to her. + +“If you say it is so naturally I am bound to take your word for it,” she +said coldly. + +He flushed and looked down. The rigid defiance that had confronted her +died out of his face. + +Honest Mustapha broke joyously upon them with the coffee. Domini helped +Androvsky to it. She had to make a great effort to perform this simple +act with quiet, and apparently indifferent, composure. + +“Thank you, Madame.” + +His voice sounded humble, but she felt hard and as if ice were in all +her veins. She sipped her coffee, looking straight before her at the +stream. The magenta robe appeared once more coming out from the brown +wall. A yellow robe succeeded it, a scarlet, a deep purple. The girl, +with three curious young companions, stood in the sun examining the +foreigners with steady, unflinching eyes. Domini smiled grimly. Fate +gave her an opportunity. She beckoned to the girls. They looked at each +other but did not move. She held up a bit of silver so that the sun was +on it, and beckoned them again. The magenta robe was lifted above the +pretty knees it had covered. The yellow, the scarlet, the deep purple +robes rose too, making their separate revelations. And the four girls, +all staring at the silver coin, waded through the muddy water and stood +before Domini and Androvsky, blotting out the glaring sunshine with +their young figures. Their smiling faces were now eager and confident, +and they stretched out their delicate hands hopefully to the silver. +Domini signified that they must wait a moment. + +She felt full of malice. + +The girls wore many ornaments. She began slowly and deliberately to +examine them; the huge gold earrings that were as large as the little +ears that sustained them, the bracelets and anklets, the triangular +silver skewers that fastened the draperies across the gentle swelling +breasts, the narrow girdles, worked with gold thread, and hung with +lumps of coral, that circled the small, elastic waists. Her inventory +was an adagio, and while it lasted Androvsky sat on his low straw chair +with this wall of young womanhood before him, of young womanhood no +longer self-conscious and timid, but eager, hardy, natural, warm with +the sun and damp with the trickling drops of the water. The vivid +draperies touched him, and presently a little hand stole out to his +breast, caught at the silver chain that lay across it, and jerked out of +its hiding-place--a wooden cross. + +Domini saw the light on it for a second, heard a low, fierce +exclamation, saw Androvsky’s arm push the pretty hand roughly away, and +then a thing that was strange. + +He got up violently from his chair with the cross hanging loose on his +breast. Then he seized hold of it, snapped the chain in two, threw the +cross passionately into the stream and walked away down the garden. The +four girls, with a twittering cry of excitement, rushed into the +water, heedless of draperies, bent down, knelt down, and began to feel +frantically in the mud for the vanished ornament. Domini stood up and +watched them. Androvsky did not come back. Some minutes passed. Then +there was an exclamation of triumph from the stream. The girl in magenta +held up the dripping cross with the bit of silver chain in her +dripping fingers. Domini cast a swift glance behind her. Androvsky had +disappeared. Quickly she went to the edge of the water. As she was in +riding-dress she wore no ornaments except two earrings made of large +and beautiful turquoises. She took them hastily out of her ears and held +them out to the girl, signifying by gestures that she bartered them for +the little cross and chain. The girl hesitated, but the clear blue tint +of the turquoise pleased her eyes. She yielded, snatched the earrings +with an eager, gave up the cross and chain with a reluctant, hand. +Domini’s fingers closed round the wet gold. She threw some coins across +the stream on to the bank, and turned away, thrusting the cross into her +bosom. + +And she felt at that moment as if she had saved a sacred thing from +outrage. + +At the cabaret door she found Androvsky, once more surrounded by Arabs, +whom honest Mustapha was trying to beat off. He turned when he heard +her. His eyes were still full of a light that revealed an intensity of +mental agitation, and she saw his left hand, which hung down, quivering +against his side. But he succeeded in schooling his voice as he asked: + +“Do you wish to visit the village, Madame?” + +“Yes. But don’t let me bother you if you would rather--” + +“I will come. I wish to come.” + +She did not believe it. She felt that he was in great pain, both of body +and mind. His fall had hurt him. She knew that by the way he moved his +right arm. The unaccustomed exercise had made him stiff. Probably the +physical discomfort he was silently enduring had acted as an irritant to +the mind. She remembered that it was caused by his determination to be +her companion, and the ice in her melted away. She longed to make him +calmer, happier. Secretly she touched the little cross that lay under +her habit. He had thrown it away in a passion. Well, some day perhaps +she would have the pleasure of giving it back to him. Since he had +worn it he must surely care for it, and even perhaps for that which it +recalled. + +“We ought to visit the mosque, I think,” she said. + +“Yes, Madame.” + +The assent sounded determined yet reluctant. She knew this was all +against his will. Mustapha took charge of them, and they set out down +the narrow street, accompanied by a little crowd. They crossed the +glaring market-place, with its booths of red meat made black by flies, +its heaps of refuse, its rows of small and squalid hutches, in which +sat serious men surrounded by their goods. The noise here was terrific. +Everyone seemed shouting, and the uproar of the various trades, the +clamour of hammers on sheets of iron, the dry tap of the shoemaker’s +wooden wand on the soles of countless slippers, the thud of the +coffee-beater’s blunt club on the beans, and the groaning grunt with +which he accompanied each downward stroke mingled with the incessant +roar of camels, and seemed to be made more deafening and intolerable by +the fierce heat of the sun, and by the innumerable smells which seethed +forth upon the air. Domini felt her nerves set on edge, and was thankful +when they came once more into the narrow alleys that ran everywhere +between the brown, blind houses. In them there was shade and silence and +mystery. Mustapha strode before to show the way, Domini and Androvsky +followed, and behind glided the little mob of barefoot inquisitors in +long shirts, speechless and intent, and always hopeful of some chance +scattering of money by the wealthy travellers. + +The tumult of the market-place at length died away, and Domini was +conscious of a curious, far-off murmur. At first it was so faint that +she was scarcely aware of it, and merely felt the soothing influence of +its level monotony. But as they walked on it grew deeper, stronger. It +was like the sound of countless multitudes of bees buzzing in the noon +among flowers, drowsily, ceaselessly. She stopped under a low mud arch +to listen. And when she listened, standing still, a feeling of awe +came upon her, and she knew that she had never heard such a strangely +impressive, strangely suggestive sound before. + +“What is that?” she said. + +She looked at Androvsky. + +“I don’t know, Madame. It must be people.” + +“But what can they be doing?” + +“They are praying in the mosque where Sidi-Zerzour is buried,” said +Mustapha. + +Domini remembered the perfume-seller. This was the sound she had beard +in his sunken chamber, infinitely multiplied. They went on again slowly. +Mustapha had lost something of his flaring manner, and his gait was +subdued. He walked with a sort of soft caution, like a man approaching +holy ground. And Domini was moved by his sudden reverence. It was +impressive in such a fierce and greedy scoundrel. The level murmur +deepened, strengthened. All the empty and dim alleys surrounding the +unseen mosque were alive with it, as if the earth of the houses, the +palm-wood beams, the iron bars of the tiny, shuttered windows, the very +thorns of the brushwood roofs were praying ceaselessly and intently in +secret under voices. This was a world intense with prayer as a flame is +intense with heat, with prayer penetrating and compelling, urgent in its +persistence, powerful in its deep and sultry concentration, yet almost +oppressive, almost terrible in its monotony. + +“Allah-Akbar! Allah-Akbar!” It was the murmur of the desert and the +murmur of the sun. It was the whisper of the mirage, and of the airs +that stole among the palm leaves. It was the perpetual heart-beat of +this world that was engulfing her, taking her to its warm and glowing +bosom with soft and tyrannical intention. + +“Allah! Allah! Allah!” Surely God must be very near, bending to such an +everlasting cry. Never before, not even when the bell sounded and the +Host was raised, had Domini felt the nearness of God to His world, the +absolute certainty of a Creator listening to His creatures, watching +them, wanting them, meaning them some day to be one with Him, as she +felt it now while she threaded the dingy alleys towards these countless +men who prayed. + +Androvsky was walking slowly as if in pain. + +“Your shoulder isn’t hurting you?” she whispered. + +This long sound of prayer moved her to the soul, made her feel very full +of compassion for everybody and everything, and as if prayer were a cord +binding the world together. He shook his head silently. She looked at +him, and felt that he was moved also, but whether as she was she could +not tell. His face was like that of a man stricken with awe. Mustapha +turned round to them. The everlasting murmur was now so near that +it seemed to be within them, as if they, too, prayed at the tomb of +Zerzour. + +“Follow me into the court, Madame,” Mustapha said, “and remain at the +door while I fetch the slippers.” + +They turned a corner, and came to an open space before an archway, +which led into the first of the courts surrounding the mosque. Under +the archway Arabs were sitting silently, as if immersed in profound +reveries. They did not move, but stared upon the strangers, and Domini +fancied that there was enmity in their eyes. Beyond them, upon an +uneven pavement surrounded with lofty walls, more Arabs were gathered, +kneeling, bowing their heads to the ground, and muttering ceaseless +words in deep, almost growling, voices. Their fingers slipped over the +beads of the chaplets they wore round their necks, and Domini thought +of her rosary. Some prayed alone, removed in shady corners, with faces +turned to the wall. Others were gathered into knots. But each one +pursued his own devotions, immersed in a strange, interior solitude to +which surely penetrated an unseen ray of sacred light. There were young +boys praying, and old, wrinkled men, eagles of the desert, with fierce +eyes that did not soften as they cried the greatness of Allah, the +greatness of his Prophet, but gleamed as if their belief were a thing +of flame and bronze. The boys sometimes glanced at each other while they +prayed, and after each glance they swayed with greater violence, and +bowed down with more passionate abasement. The vision of prayer had +stirred them to a young longing for excess. The spirit of emulation +flickered through them and turned their worship into war. + +In a second and smaller court before the portal of the mosque men +were learning the Koran. Dressed in white they sat in circles, holding +squares of some material that looked like cardboard covered with minute +Arab characters, pretty, symmetrical curves and lines, dots and dashes. +The teachers squatted in the midst, expounding the sacred text in nasal +voices with a swiftness and vivacity that seemed pugnacious. There +was violence within these courts. Domini could imagine the worshippers +springing up from their knees to tear to pieces an intruding dog of an +unbeliever, then sinking to their knees again while the blood trickled +over the sun-dried pavement and the lifeless body, lay there to rot and +draw the flies. + +“Allah! Allah! Allah!” + +There was something imperious in such ardent, such concentrated and +untiring worship, a demand which surely could not be overlooked or set +aside. The tameness, the half-heartedness of Western prayer and Western +praise had no place here. This prayer was hot as the sunlight, this +praise was a mounting fire. The breath of this human incense was as the +breath of a furnace pouring forth to the gates of the Paradise of Allah. +It gave to Domini a quite new conception of religion, of the relation +between Creator and created. The personal pride which, like blood in +a body, runs through all the veins of the mind of Mohammedanism, that +measureless hauteur which sets the soul of a Sultan in the twisted +frame of a beggar at a street corner, and makes impressive, even almost +majestical, the filthy marabout, quivering with palsy and devoured by +disease, who squats beneath a holy bush thick with the discoloured rags +of the faithful, was not abased at the shrine of the warrior, Zerzour, +was not cast off in the act of adoration. These Arabs humbled themselves +in the body. Their foreheads touched the stones. By their attitudes they +seemed as if they wished to make themselves even with the ground, to +shrink into the space occupied by a grain of sand. Yet they were proud +in the presence of Allah, as if the firmness of their belief in him and +his right dealing, the fury of their contempt and hatred for those who +looked not towards Mecca nor regarded Ramadan, gave them a patent of +nobility. Despite their genuflections they were all as men who knew, +and never forgot, that on them was conferred the right to keep on their +head-covering in the presence of their King. With their closed eyes +they looked God full in the face. Their dull and growling murmur had the +majesty of thunder rolling through the sky. + +Mustapha had disappeared within the mosque, leaving Domini and Androvsky +for the moment alone in the midst of the worshippers. From the shadowy +interior came forth a ceaseless sound of prayer to join the prayer +without. There was a narrow stone seat by the mosque door and she sat +down upon it. She felt suddenly weary, as one being hypnotised feels +weary when the body and spirit begin to yield to the spell of the +operator. Androvsky remained standing. His eyes were fixed on the +ground, and she thought his face looked almost phantom-like, as if the +blood had sunk away from it, leaving it white beneath the brown tint +set there by the sun. He stayed quite still. The dark shadow cast by the +towering mosque fell upon him, and his immobile figure suggested to her +ranges of infinite melancholy. She sighed as one oppressed. There was +an old man praying near them at the threshold of the door, with his face +turned towards the interior. He was very thin, almost a skeleton, was +dressed in rags through which his copper-coloured body, sharp with +scarce-covered bones, could be seen, and had a scanty white beard +sticking up, like a brush, at the tip of his pointed chin. His face, +worn with hardship and turned to the likeness of parchment by time +and the action of the sun, was full of senile venom; and his toothless +mouth, with its lips folded inwards, moved perpetually, as if he +were trying to bite. With rhythmical regularity, like one obeying a +conductor, he shot forth his arms towards the mosque as if he wished to +strike it, withdrew them, paused, then shot them forth again. And as +his arms shot forth he uttered a prolonged and trembling shriek, full of +weak, yet intense, fury. + +He was surely crying out upon God, denouncing God for the evils that +had beset his nearly ended life. Poor, horrible old man! Androvsky was +closer to him than she was, but did not seem to notice him. Once she had +seen him she could not take her eyes from him. His perpetual gesture, +his perpetual shriek, became abominable to her in the midst of the +bowing bodies and the humming voices of prayer. Each time he struck +at the mosque and uttered his piercing cry she seemed to hear an oath +spoken in a sanctuary. She longed to stop him. This one blasphemer began +to destroy for her the mystic atmosphere created by the multitudes of +adorers, and at last she could no longer endure his reiterated enmity. + +She touched Androvsky’s arm. He started and looked at her. + +“That old man,” she whispered. “Can’t you speak to him?” + +Androvsky glanced at him for the first time. + +“Speak to him, Madame? Why?” + +“He--he’s horrible!” + +She felt a sudden disinclination to tell Androvsky why the old man was +horrible to her. + +“What do you wish me to say to him?” + +“I thought perhaps you might be able to stop him from doing that.” + +Androvsky bent down and spoke to the old man in Arabic. + +He shot out his arms and reiterated his trembling shriek. It pierced the +sound of prayer as lightning pierces cloud. + +Domini got up quickly. + +“I can’t bear it,” she said, still in a whisper. “It’s as if he were +cursing God.” + +Androvsky looked at the old man again, this time with profound +attention. + +“Isn’t it?” she said. “Isn’t it as if he were cursing God while the +whole world worshipped? And that one cry of hatred seems louder than the +praises of the whole world.” + +“We can’t stop it.” + +Something in his voice made her say abruptly: + +“Do you wish to stop it?” + +He did not answer. The old man struck at the mosque and shrieked. Domini +shuddered. + +“I can’t stay here,” she said. + +At this moment Mustapha appeared, followed by the guardian of the +mosque, who carried two pairs of tattered slippers. + +“Monsieur and Madame must take off their boots. Then I will show the +mosque.” + +Domini put on the slippers hastily, and went into the mosque without +waiting to see whether Androvsky was following. And the old man’s +furious cry pursued her through the doorway. + +Within there was space and darkness. The darkness seemed to be praying. +Vistas of yellowish-white arches stretched away in front, to right and +left. On the floor, covered with matting, quantities of shrouded figures +knelt and swayed, stood up suddenly, knelt again, bowed down their +foreheads. Preceded by Mustapha and the guide, who walked on their +stockinged feet, Domini slowly threaded her way among them, following +a winding path whose borders were praying men. To prevent her slippers +from falling off she had to shuffle along without lifting her feet from +the ground. With the regularity of a beating pulse the old man’s shriek, +fainter now, came to her from without. But presently, as she penetrated +farther into the mosque, it was swallowed up by the sound of prayer. No +one seemed to see her or to know that she was there. She brushed against +the white garments of worshippers, and when she did so she felt as if +she touched the hem of the garments of mystery, and she held her habit +together with her hands lest she should recall even one of these hearts +that were surely very far off. + +Mustapha and the guardian stood still and looked round at Domini. Their +faces were solemn. The expression of greedy anxiety had gone out of +Mustapha’s eyes. For the moment the thought of money had been driven out +of his mind by some graver pre-occupation. She saw in the semi-darkness +two wooden doors set between pillars. They were painted green and +red, and fastened with clamps and bolts of hammered copper that looked +enormously old. Against them were nailed two pictures of winged horses +with human heads, and two more pictures representing a fantastical town +of Eastern houses and minarets in gold on a red background. Balls of +purple and yellow glass, and crystal chandeliers, hung from the high +ceiling above these doors, with many ancient lamps; and two tattered +and dusty banners of pale pink and white silk, fringed with gold and +powdered with a gold pattern of flowers, were tied to the pillars with +thin cords of camel’s hair. + +“This is the tomb of Sidi-Zerzour,” whispered Mustapha. “It is opened +once a year.” + +The guardian of the mosque fell on his knees before the tomb. + +“That is Mecca.” + +Mustapha pointed to the pictures of the city. Then he, too, dropped down +and pressed his forehead against the matting. Domini glanced round for +Androvsky. He was not there. She stood alone before the tomb of Zerzour, +the only human being in the great, dim building who was not worshipping. +And she felt a terrible isolation, as if she were excommunicated, as +if she dared not pray, for a moment almost as if the God to whom this +torrent of worship flowed were hostile to her alone. + +Had her father ever felt such a sensation of unutterable solitude? + +It passed quickly, and, standing under the votive lamps before the +painted doors, she prayed too, silently. She shut her eyes and imagined +a church of her religion--the little church of Beni-Mora. She tried +to imagine the voice of prayer all about her, the voice of the great +Catholic Church. But that was not possible. Even when she saw nothing, +and turned her soul inward upon itself, and strove to set this new +world into which she had come far off, she heard in the long murmur that +filled it a sound that surely rose from the sand, from the heart and the +spirit of the sand, from the heart and the spirit of desert places, and +that went up in the darkness of the mosque and floated under the arches +through the doorway, above the palms and the flat-roofed houses, and +that winged its fierce way, like a desert eagle, towards the sun. + +Mustapha’s hand was on her arm. The guardian, too, had risen from his +knees and drawn from his robe and lit a candle. She came to a tiny +doorway, passed through it and began to mount a winding stair. The sound +of prayer mounted with her from the mosque, and when she came out upon +the platform enclosed in the summit of the minaret she heard it still +and it was multiplied. For all the voices from the outside courts joined +it, and many voices from the roofs of the houses round about. + +Men were praying there too, praying in the glare of the sun upon their +housetops. She saw them from the minaret, and she saw the town that had +sprung up round the tomb of the saint, and all the palms of the oasis, +and beyond them immeasurable spaces of desert. + +“Allah-Akbar! Allah-Akbar!” + +She was above the eternal cry now. She had mounted like a prayer towards +the sun, like a living, pulsing prayer, like the soul of prayer. She +gazed at the far-off desert and saw prayer travelling, the soul +of prayer travelling--whither? Where was the end? Where was the +halting-place, with at last the pitched tent, the camp fires, and the +long, the long repose? + +* * * * * + +When she came down and reached the court she found the old man still +striking at the mosque and shrieking out his trembling imprecation. And +she found Androvsky still standing by him with fascinated eyes. + +She had mounted with the voice of prayer into the sunshine, surely a +little way towards God. + +Androvsky had remained in the dark shadow with a curse. + +It was foolish, perhaps--a woman’s vagrant fancy--but she wished he had +mounted with her. + + + + +BOOK III. THE GARDEN + + + +CHAPTER X + +It was noon in the desert. + +The voice of the Mueddin died away on the minaret, and the golden +silence that comes out of the heart of the sun sank down once more +softly over everything. Nature seemed unnaturally still in the heat. +The slight winds were not at play, and the palms of Beni-Mora stood +motionless as palm trees in a dream. The day was like a dream, intense +and passionate, yet touched with something unearthly, something almost +spiritual. In the cloudless blue of the sky there seemed a magical +depth, regions of colour infinitely prolonged. In the vision of the +distances, where desert blent with sky, earth surely curving up to meet +the downward curving heaven, the dimness was like a voice whispering +strange petitions. The ranges of mountains slept in the burning sand, +and the light slept in their clefts like the languid in cool places. +For there was a glorious languor even in the light, as if the sun were +faintly oppressed by the marvel of his power. The clearness of the +atmosphere in the remote desert was not obscured, but was impregnated +with the mystery that is the wonder child of shadows. The far-off +gold that kept it seemed to contain a secret darkness. In the oasis of +Beni-Mora men, who had slowly roused themselves to pray, sank down to +sleep again in the warm twilight of shrouded gardens or the warm night +of windowless rooms. + +In the garden of Count Anteoni Larbi’s flute was silent. + +“It is like noon in a mirage,” Domini said softly. + +Count Anteoni nodded. + +“I feel as if I were looking at myself a long way off,” she added. “As +if I saw myself as I saw the grey sea and the islands on the way to +Sidi-Zerzour. What magic there is here. And I can’t get accustomed +to it. Each day I wonder at it more and find it more inexplicable. It +almost frightens me.” + +“You could be frightened?” + +“Not easily by outside things--it least I hope not.” + +“But what then?” + +“I scarcely know. Sometimes I think all the outside things, which do +what are called the violent deeds in life, are tame, and timid, and +ridiculously impotent in comparison with the things we can’t see, which +do the deeds we can’t describe.” + +“In the mirage of this land you begin to see the exterior life as a +mirage? You are learning, you are learning.” + +There was a creeping sound of something that was almost impish in his +voice. + +“Are you a secret agent?” Domini asked him. + +“Of whom, Madame?” + +She was silent. She seemed to be considering. He watched her with +curiosity in his bright eyes. + +“Of the desert,” she answered at length, quite seriously. + +“A secret agent has always a definite object. What is mine?” + +“How can I know? How can I tell what the desert desires?” + +“Already you personify it!” + +The network of wrinkles showed itself in his brown face as he smiled, +surely with triumph. + +“I think I did that from the first,” she answered gravely. “I know I +did.” + +“And what sort of personage does the desert seem to you?” + +“You ask me a great many questions to-day.” + +“Mirage questions, perhaps. Forgive me. Let us listen to the +question--or is it the demand?--of the desert in this noontide hour, the +greatest hour of all the twenty-four in such a land as this.” + +They were silent again, watching the noon, listening to it, feeling it, +as they had been silent when the Mueddin’s nasal voice rose in the call +to prayer. + +Count Anteoni stood in the sunshine by the low white parapet of the +garden. Domini sat on a low chair in the shadow cast by a great jamelon +tree. At her feet was a bush of vivid scarlet geraniums, against +which her white linen dress looked curiously blanched. There was a +half-drowsy, yet imaginative light in her gipsy eyes, and her motionless +figure, her quiet hands, covered with white gloves, lying loosely in her +lap, looked attentive and yet languid, as if some spell began to bind +her but had not completed its work of stilling all the pulses of life +that throbbed within her. And in truth there was a spell upon her, the +spell of the golden noon. By turns she gave herself to it consciously, +then consciously strove to deny herself to its subtle summons. And each +time she tried to withdraw it seemed to her that the spell was a little +stronger, her power a little weaker. Then her lips curved in a smile +that was neither joyous nor sad, that was perhaps rather part perplexed +and part expectant. + +After a minute of this silence Count Anteoni drew back from the sun and +sat down in a chair beside Domini. He took out his watch. + +“Twenty-five minutes,” he said, “and my guests will be here.” + +“Guests!” she said with an accent of surprise. + +“I invited the priest to make an even number.” + +“Oh!” + +“You don’t dislike him?” + +“I like him. I respect him.” + +“But I’m afraid you aren’t pleased?” + +Domini looked him straight in the face. + +“Why did you invite Father Roubier?” she said. + +“Isn’t four better than three?” + +“You don’t want to tell me.” + +“I am a little malicious. You have divined it, so why should I not +acknowledge it? I asked Father Roubier because I wished to see the man +of prayer with the man who fled from prayer.” + +“Mussulman prayer,” she said quickly. + +“Prayer,” he said. + +His voice was peculiarly harsh at that moment. It grated like an +instrument on a rough surface. Domini knew that secretly he was standing +up for the Arab faith, that her last words had seemed to strike against +the religion of the people whom he loved with an odd, concealed passion +whose fire she began to feel at moments as she grew to know him better. + +It was plain from their manner to each other that their former slight +acquaintance had moved towards something like a pleasant friendship. + +Domini looked as if she were no longer a wonder-stricken sight-seer in +this marvellous garden of the sun, but as if she had become familiar +with it. Yet her wonder was not gone. It was only different. There was +less sheer amazement, more affection in it. As she had said, she had not +become accustomed to the magic of Africa. Its strangeness, its contrasts +still startled and moved her. But she began to feel as if she belonged +to Beni-Mora, as if Beni-Mora would perhaps miss her a little if she +went away. + +Ten days had passed since the ride to Sidi-Zerzour--days rather like a +dream to Domini. + +What she had sought in coming to Beni-Mora she was surely finding. Her +act was bringing forth its fruit. She had put a gulf, in which rolled +the sea, between the land of the old life and the land in which at least +the new life was to begin. The completeness of the severance had acted +upon her like a blow that does not stun, but wakens. The days went like +a dream, but in the dream there was the stir of birth. Her lassitude was +permanently gone. There had been no returning after the first hours +of excitement. The frost that had numbed her senses had utterly melted +away. Who could be frost-bound in this land of fire? She had longed +for peace and she was surely finding it, but it was a peace without +stagnation. Hope dwelt in it, and expectancy, vague but persistent. +As to forgetfulness, sometimes she woke from the dream and was almost +dazed, almost ashamed to think how much she was forgetting, and how +quickly. Her European life and friends--some of them intimate and +close--were like a far-off cloud on the horizon, flying still farther +before a steady wind that set from her to it. Soon it would disappear, +would be as if it had never been. Now and then, with a sort of fierce +obstinacy, she tried to stay the flight she had desired, and desired +still. She said to herself, “I will remember. It’s contemptible to +forget like this. It’s weak to be able to.” Then she looked at the +mountains or the desert, at two Arabs playing the ladies’ game under the +shadow of a café wall, or at a girl in dusty orange filling a goatskin +pitcher at a well beneath a palm tree, and she succumbed to the lulling +influence, smiling as they smile who hear the gentle ripple of the +waters of Lethe. + +She heard them perhaps most clearly when she wandered in Count Anteoni’s +garden. He had made her free of it in their first interview. She had +ventured to take him at his word, knowing that if he repented she would +divine it. He had made her feel that he had not repented. Sometimes +she did not see him as she threaded the sandy alleys between the little +rills, hearing the distant song of Larbi’s amorous flute, or sat in the +dense shade of the trees watching through a window-space of quivering +golden leaves the passing of the caravans along the desert tracks. +Sometimes a little wreath of ascending smoke, curling above the purple +petals of bougainvilleas, or the red cloud of oleanders, told her of his +presence, in some retired thinking-place. Oftener he joined her, with +an easy politeness that did not conceal his oddity, but clothed it in a +pleasant garment, and they talked for a while or stayed for a while in +an agreeable silence that each felt to be sympathetic. + +Domini thought of him as a new species of man--a hermit of the world. +He knew the world and did not hate it. His satire was rarely quite +ungentle. He did not strike her as a disappointed man who fled to +solitude in bitterness of spirit, but rather as an imaginative man with +an unusual feeling for romance, and perhaps a desire for freedom that +the normal civilised life restrained too much. He loved thought as many +love conversation, silence as some love music. Now and then he said a +sad or bitter thing. Sometimes she seemed to be near to something stern. +Sometimes she felt as if there were a secret link which connected him +with the perfume-seller in his little darkened chamber, with the legions +who prayed about the tomb of Sidi-Zerzour. But these moments were rare. +As a rule he was whimsical and kind, with the kindness of a good-hearted +man who was human even in his detachment from ordinary humanity. His +humour was a salt with plenty of savour. His imagination was of a sort +which interested and even charmed her. + +She felt, too, that she interested him and that he was a man not readily +interested in ordinary human beings. He had seen too many and judged +too shrewdly and too swiftly to be easily held for very long. She had no +ambition to hold him, and had never in her life consciously striven to +attract or retain any man, but she was woman enough to find his +obvious pleasure in her society agreeable. She thought that her genuine +adoration of the garden he had made, of the land in which it was set, +had not a little to do with the happy nature of their intercourse. For +she felt certain that beneath the light satire of his manner, his often +smiling airs of detachment and quiet independence, there was something +that could seek almost with passion, that could cling with resolution, +that could even love with persistence. And she fancied that he sought +in the desert, that he clung to its mystery, that he loved it and the +garden he had created in it. Once she had laughingly called him a desert +spirit. He had smiled as if with contentment. + +They knew little of each other, yet they had become friends in the +garden which he never left. + +One day she said to him: + +“You love the desert. Why do you never go into it?” + +“I prefer to watch it,” he relied. “When you are in the desert it +bewilders you.” + +She remembered what she had felt during her first ride with Androvsky. + +“I believe you are afraid of it,” she said challengingly. + +“Fear is sometimes the beginning of wisdom,” he answered. “But you are +without it, I know.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Every day I see you galloping away into the sun.” + +She thought there was a faint sound of warning--or was it of rebuke--in +his voice. It made her feel defiant. + +“I think you lose a great deal by not galloping into the sun too,” she +said. + +“But if I don’t ride?” + +That made her think of Androvsky and his angry resolution. It had not +been the resolution of a day. Wearied and stiffened as he had been by +the expedition to Sidi-Zerzour, actually injured by his fall--she knew +from Batouch that he had been obliged to call in the Beni-Mora doctor to +bandage his shoulder--she had been roused at dawn on the day following +by his tread on the verandah. She had lain still while it descended +the staircase, but then the sharp neighing of a horse had awakened an +irresistible curiosity in her. She had got up, wrapped herself in a +fur coat and slipped out on to the verandah. The sun was not above the +horizon line of the desert, but the darkness of night was melting into a +luminous grey. The air was almost cold. The palms looked spectral, even +terrible, the empty and silent gardens melancholy and dangerous. It +was not an hour for activity, for determination, but for reverie, for +apprehension. + +Below, a sleepy Arab boy, his hood drawn over his head, held the +chestnut horse by the bridle. Androvsky came out from the arcade. He +wore a cap pulled down to his eyebrows which changed his appearance, +giving him, as seen from above, the look of a groom or stable hand. He +stood for a minute and stared at the horse. Then he limped round to the +left side and carefully mounted, following out the directions Domini had +given him the previous day: to avoid touching the animal with his foot, +to have the rein in his fingers before leaving the ground, and to come +down in the saddle as lightly as possible. She noted that all her hints +were taken with infinite precaution. Once on the horse he tried to sit +up straight, but found the effort too great in his weary and bruised +condition. He leaned forward over the saddle peak, and rode away in +the luminous greyness towards the desert. The horse went quietly, as if +affected by the mystery of the still hour. Horse and rider disappeared. +The Arab boy wandered off in the direction of the village. But Domini +remained looking after Androvsky. She saw nothing but the grim palms and +the spectral atmosphere in which the desert lay. Yet she did not move +till a red spear was thrust up out of the east towards the last waning +star. + +He had gone to learn his lesson in the desert. + +Three days afterwards she rode with him again. She did not let him know +of her presence on the verandah, and he said nothing of his departure in +the dawn. He spoke very little and seemed much occupied with his +horse, and she saw that he was more than determined--that he was apt at +acquiring control of a physical exercise new to him. His great strength +stood him in good stead. Only a man hard in the body could have so +rapidly recovered from the effects of that first day of defeat and +struggle. His absolute reticence about his efforts and the iron will +that prompted them pleased Domini. She found them worthy of a man. + +She rode with him on three occasions, twice in the oasis through the +brown villages, once out into the desert on the caravan road that +Batouch had told her led at last to Tombouctou. They did not travel far +along it, but Domini knew at once that this route held more fascination +for her than the route to Sidi-Zerzour. There was far more sand in this +region of the desert. The little humps crowned with the scrub the +camels feed on were fewer, so that the flatness of the ground was more +definite. Here and there large dunes of golden-coloured sand rose, +some straight as city walls, some curved like seats in an amphitheatre, +others indented, crenellated like battlements, undulating in beastlike +shapes. The distant panorama of desert was unbroken by any visible oasis +and powerfully suggested Eternity to Domini. + +“When I go out into the desert for my long journey I shall go by this +road,” she said to Androvsky. + +“You are going on a journey?” he said, looking at her as if startled. + +“Some day.” + +“All alone?” + +“I suppose I must take a caravan, two or three Arabs, some horses, a +tent or two. It’s easy to manage. Batouch will arrange it for me.” + +Androvsky still looked startled, and half angry, she thought. + +They had pulled up their horses among the sand dunes. It was near +sunset, and the breath of evening was in the sir, making its coolness +even more ethereal, more thinly pure than in the daytime. The atmosphere +was so clear that when they glanced back they could see the flag +fluttering upon the white of the great hotel of Beni-Mora, many +kilometres away among the palms; so still that they could hear the bark +of a Kabyle off near a nomad’s tent pitched in the green land by the +water-springs of old Beni-Mora. When they looked in front of them they +seemed to see thousands of leagues of flatness, stretching on and on +till the pale yellowish brown of it grew darker, merged into a strange +blueness, like the blue of a hot mist above a southern lake, then into +violet, then into--the thing they could not see, the summoning thing +whose voice Domini’s imagination heard, like a remote and thrilling +echo, whenever she was in the desert. + +“I did not know you were going on a journey, Madame,” Androvsky said. + +“Don’t you remember?” she rejoined laughingly, “that I told you on the +tower I thought peace must dwell out there. Well, some day I shall set +out to find it.” + +“That seems a long time ago, Madame,” he muttered. + +Sometimes, when speaking to her, he dropped his voice till she could +scarcely hear him, and sounded like a man communing with himself. + +A red light from the sinking sun fell upon the dunes. As they rode +back over them their horses seemed to be wading through a silent sea +of blood. The sky in the west looked like an enormous conflagration, in +which tortured things were struggling and lifting twisted arms. + +Domini’s acquaintance with Androvsky had not progressed as easily and +pleasantly as her intercourse with Count Anteoni. She recognised that +he was what is called a “difficult man.” Now and then, as if under the +prompting influence of some secret and violent emotion, he spoke with +apparent naturalness, spoke perhaps out of his heart. Each time he did +so she noticed that there was something of either doubt or amazement in +what he said. She gathered that he was slow to rely, quick to mistrust. +She gathered, too, that very many things surprised him, and felt sure +that he hid nearly all of them from her, and would--had not his own will +sometimes betrayed him--have hidden all. His reserve was as intense as +everything about him. There was a fierceness in it that revealed its +existence. He always conveyed to her a feeling of strength, physical and +mental. Yet he always conveyed, too, a feeling of uneasiness. To a woman +of Domini’s temperament uneasiness usually implies a public or secret +weakness. In Androvsky’s she seemed to be aware of passion, as if it +were one to dash obstacles aside, to break through doors of iron, to +rush out into the open. And then--what then? To tremble at the world +before him? At what he had done? She did not know. But she did know +that even in his uneasiness there seemed to be fibre, muscle, sinew, +nerve--all which goes to make strength, swiftness. + +Speech was singularly difficult to him. Silence seemed to be natural, +not irksome. After a few words he fell into it and remained in it. And +he was less self-conscious in silence than in speech. He seemed, she +fancied, to feel himself safer, more a man when he was not speaking. To +him the use of words was surely like a yielding. + +He had a peculiar faculty of making his presence felt when he was +silent, as if directly he ceased from speaking the flame in him was +fanned and leaped up at the outside world beyond its bars. + +She did not know whether he was a gentleman or not. + +If anyone had asked her, before she came to Beni-Mora, whether it would +be possible for her to take four solitary rides with a man, to meet +him--if only for a few minutes--every day of ten days, to sit opposite +to him, and not far from him, at meals during the same space of time, +and to be unable to say to herself whether he was or was not a gentleman +by birth and education--feeling set aside--she would have answered +without hesitation that it would be utterly impossible. Yet so it was. +She could not decide. She could not place him. She could not imagine +what his parentage, what his youth, his manhood had been. She could +not fancy him in any environment--save that golden light, that blue +radiance, in which she had first consciously and fully met him face to +face. She could not hear him in converse with any set of men or women, +or invent, in her mind, what he might be likely to say to them. She +could not conceive him bound by any ties of home, or family, mother, +sister, wife, child. When she looked at him, thought about him, he +presented himself to her alone, like a thing in the air. + +Yet he was more male than other men, breathed humanity--of some kind--as +fire breathes heat. + +The child there was in him almost confused her, made her wonder whether +long contact with the world had tarnished her own original simplicity. +But she only saw the child in him now and then, and she fancied that it, +too, he was anxious to conceal. + +This man had certainly a power to rouse feeling in others. She knew +it by her own experience. By turns he had made her feel motherly, +protecting, curious, constrained, passionate, energetic, timid--yes, +almost timid and shy. No other human being had ever, even at moments, +thus got the better of her natural audacity, lack of self-consciousness, +and inherent, almost boyish, boldness. Nor was she aware what it was in +him which sometimes made her uncertain of herself. + +She wondered. But he often woke up wonder in her. + +Despite their rides, their moments of intercourse in the hotel, on +the verandah, she scarcely felt more intimate with him than she had +at first. Sometimes indeed she thought that she felt less so, that the +moment when the train ran out of the tunnel into the blue country was +the moment in which they had been nearest to each other since they trod +the verges of each other’s lives. + +She had never definitely said to herself: “Do I like him or dislike +him?” + +Now, as she sat with Count Anteoni watching the noon, the half-drowsy, +half-imaginative expression had gone out of her face. She looked rather +rigid, rather formidable. + +Androvsky and Count Anteoni had never met. The Count had seen Androvsky +in the distance from his garden more than once, but Androvsky had not +seen him. The meeting that was about to take place was due to Domini. +She had spoken to Androvsky on several occasions of the romantic beauty +of this desert garden. + +“It is like a garden of the _Arabian Nights_,” she had said. + +He did not look enlightened, and she was moved to ask him abruptly +whether he had ever read the famous book. He had not. A doubt came to +her whether he had ever even heard of it. She mentioned the fact of +Count Anteoni’s having made the garden, and spoke of him, sketching +lightly his whimsicality, his affection for the Arabs, his love of +solitude, and of African life. She also mentioned that he was by birth a +Roman. + +“But scarcely of the black world I should imagine,” she added. + +Androvsky said nothing. + +“You should go and see the garden,” she continued. “Count Anteoni allows +visitors to explore it.” + +“I am sure it must be very beautiful, Madame,” he replied, rather +coldly, she thought. + +He did not say that he would go. + +As the garden won upon her, as its enchanted mystery, the airy wonder +of its shadowy places, the glory of its trembling golden vistas, the +restfulness of its green defiles, the strange, almost unearthly peace +that reigned within it embalmed her spirit, as she learned not only to +marvel at it, to be entranced by it, but to feel at home in it and love +it, she was conscious of a persistent desire that Androvsky should know +it too. + +Perhaps his dogged determination about the riding had touched her more +than she was aware. She often saw before her the bent figure, that +looked tired, riding alone into the luminous grey; starting thus early +that his act, humble and determined, might not be known by her. He did +not know that she had seen him, not only on that morning, but on many +subsequent mornings, setting forth to study the new art in the solitude +of the still hours. But the fact that she had seen, had watched till +horse and rider vanished beyond the palms, had understood why, perhaps +moved her to this permanent wish that he could share her pleasure in the +garden, know it as she did. + +She did not argue with herself about the matter. She only knew that she +wished, that presently she meant Androvsky to pass through the white +gate and be met on the sand by Smain with his rose. + +One day Count Anteoni had asked her whether she had made acquaintance +with the man who had fled from prayer. + +“Yes,” she said. “You know it.” + +“How?” + +“We have ridden to Sidi-Zerzour.” + +“I am not always by the wall.” + +“No, but I think you were that day.” + +“Why do you think so?” + +“I am sure you were.” + +He did not either acknowledge or deny it. + +“He has never been to see my garden,” he said. + +“No.” + +“He ought to come.” + +“I have told him so.” + +“Ah? Is he coming?” + +“I don’t think so.” + +“Persuade him to. I have a pride in my garden--oh, you have no idea what +a pride! Any neglect of it, any indifference about it rasps me, plays +upon the raw nerve each one of us possesses.” + +He spoke smilingly. She did not know what he was feeling, whether the +remote thinker or the imp within him was at work or play. + +“I doubt if he is a man to be easily persuaded,” she said. + +“Perhaps not--persuade him.” + +After a moment Domini said: + +“I wonder whether you recognise that there are obstacles which the human +will can’t negotiate?” + +“I could scarcely live where I do without recognising that the grains of +sand are often driven by the wind. But when there is no wind!” + +“They lie still?” + +“And are the desert. I want to have a strange experience.” + +“What?” + +“A _fete_ in my garden.” + +“A fantasia?” + +“Something far more banal. A lunch party, a _dejeuner_. Will you honour +me?” + +“By breakfasting with you? Yes, of course. Thank you.” + +“And will you bring--the second sun worshipper?” + +She looked into the Count’s small, shining eyes. + +“Monsieur Androvsky?” + +“If that is his name. I can send him an invitation, of course. But +that’s rather formal, and I don’t think he is formal.” + +“On what day do you ask us?” + +“Any day--Friday.” + +“And why do you ask us?” + +“I wish to overcome this indifference to my garden. It hurts me, not +only in my pride, but in my affections.” + +The whole thing had been like a sort of serious game. Domini had not +said that she would convey the odd invitation; but when she was alone, +and thought of the way in which Count Anteoni had said “Persuade him,” + she knew she would, and she meant Androvsky to accept it. This was an +opportunity of seeing him in company with another man, a man of the +world, who had read, travelled, thought, and doubtless lived. + +She asked him that evening, and saw the red, that came as it comes in a +boy’s face, mount to his forehead. + +“Everybody who comes to Beni-Mora comes to see the garden,” she said +before he could reply. “Count Anteoni is half angry with you for being +an exception.” + +“But--but, Madame, how can Monsieur the Count know that I am here? I +have not seen him.” + +“He knows there is a second traveller, and he’s a hospitable man. +Monsieur Androvsky, I want you to come; I want you to see the garden.” + +“It is very kind of you, Madame.” + +The reluctance in his voice was extreme. Yet he did not like to say no. +While he hesitated, Domini continued: + +“You remember when I asked you to ride?” + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“That was new to you. Well, it has given you pleasure, hasn’t it?” + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“So will the garden. I want to put another pleasure into your life.” + +She had begun to speak with the light persuasiveness of a woman of the +world--wishing to overcome a man’s diffidence or obstinacy, but while +she said the words she felt a sudden earnestness rush over her. It went +into the voice, and surely smote upon him like a gust of the hot wind +that sometimes blows out of the desert. + +“I shall come, Madame,” he said quickly. + +“Friday. I may be in the garden in the morning. I’ll meet you at the +gate at half-past twelve.” + +“Friday?” he said. + +Already he seemed to be wavering in his acceptance. Domini did not stay +with him any longer. + +“I’m glad,” she said in a finishing tone. + +And she went away. + +Now Count Anteoni told her that he had invited the priest. She +felt vexed, and her face showed that she did. A cloud came down and +immediately she looked changed and disquieting. Yet she liked the +priest. As she sat in silence her vexation became more profound. She +felt certain that if Androvsky had known the priest was coming he would +not have accepted the invitation. She wished him to come, yet she +wished he had known. He might think that she had known the fact and had +concealed it. She did not suppose for a moment that he disliked Father +Roubier personally, but he certainly avoided him. He bowed to him in the +coffee-room of the hotel, but never spoke to him. Batouch had told her +about the episode with Bous-Bous. And she had seen Bous-Bous endeavour +to renew the intimacy and repulsed with determination. Androvsky must +dislike the priesthood. He might fancy that she, a believing Catholic, +had--a number of disagreeable suppositions ran through her mind. She had +always been inclined to hate the propagandist since the tragedy in +her family. It was a pity Count Anteoni had not indulged his imp in a +different fashion. The beauty of the noon seemed spoiled. + +“Forgive my malice,” Count Anteoni said. “It was really a thing of +thistledown. Can it be going to do harm? I can scarcely think so.” + +“No, no.” + +She roused herself, with the instinct of a woman who has lived much +in the world, to conceal the vexation that, visible, would cause a +depression to stand in the natural place of cheerfulness. + +“The desert is making me abominably natural,” she thought. + +At this moment the black figure of Father Roubier came out of the +shadows of the trees with Bous-Bous trotting importantly beside it. + +“Ah, Father,” said Count Anteoni, going to meet him, while Domini got +up from her chair, “it is good of you to come out in the sun to eat fish +with such a bad parishioner as I am. Your little companion is welcome.” + +He patted Bous-Bous, who took little notice of him. + +“You know Miss Enfilden, I think?” continued the Count. + +“Father Roubier and I meet every day,” said Domini, smiling. + +“Mademoiselle has been good enough to take a kind interest in the humble +work of the Church in Beni-Mora,” said the priest with the serious +simplicity characteristic of him. + +He was a sincere man, utterly without pretension, and, as such men often +are, quietly at home with anybody of whatever class or creed. + +“I must go to the garden gate,” Domini said. “Will you excuse me for a +moment?” + +“To meet Monsieur Androvsky? Let us accompany you if Father Roubier--” + +“Please don’t trouble. I won’t be a minute.” + +Something in her voice made Count Anteoni at once acquiesce, defying his +courteous instinct. + +“We will wait for you here,” he said. + +There was a whimsical plea for forgiveness in his eyes. Domini’s did +not reject it; they did not answer it. She walked away, and the two men +looked after her tall figure with admiration. As she went along the +sand paths between the little streams, and came into the deep shade, her +vexation seemed to grow darker like the garden ways. For a moment she +thought she understood the sensations that must surely sometimes beset +a treacherous woman. Yet she was incapable of treachery. Smain was +standing dreamily on the great sweep of sand before the villa. She and +he were old friends now, and every day he calmly gave her a flower when +she came into the garden. + +“What time is it, Smain?” + +“Nearly half-past twelve, Madame.” + +“Will you open the door and see if anyone is coming?” + +He went towards the great door, and Domini sat down on a bench under the +evergreen roof to wait. She had seldom felt more discomposed, and began +to reason with herself almost angrily. Even if the presence of the +priest was unpleasant to Androvsky, why should she mind? Antagonism to +the priesthood was certainly not a mental condition to be fostered, but +a prejudice to be broken down. But she had wished--she still wished with +ardour--that Androvsky’s first visit to the garden should be a happy +one, should pass off delightfully. She had a dawning instinct to make +things smooth for him. Surely they had been rough in the past, rougher +even than for herself. And she wondered for an instant whether he had +come to Beni-Mora, as she had come, vaguely seeking for a happiness +scarcely embodied in a definite thought. + +“There is a gentleman coming, Madame.” + +It was the soft voice of Smain from the gate. In a moment Androvsky +stood before it. Domini saw him framed in the white wood, with a +brilliant blue behind him and a narrow glimpse of the watercourse. He +was standing still and hesitating. + +“Monsieur Androvsky!” she called. + +He started, looked across the sand, and stepped into the garden with a +sort of reluctant caution that pained her, she scarcely knew why. She +got up and went towards him, and they met full in the sunshine. + +“I came to be your cicerone.” + +“Thank you, Madame.” + +There was the click of wood striking against wood as Smain closed the +gate. Androvsky turned quickly and looked behind him. His demeanour was +that of a man whose nerves were tormenting him. Domini began to dread +telling him of the presence of the priest, and, characteristically, did +without hesitation what she feared to do. + +“This is the way,” she said. + +Then, as they turned into the shadow of the trees and began to walk +between the rills of water, she added abruptly: + +“Father Roubier is here already, so our party is complete.” + +Androvsky stood still. + +“Father Roubier! You did not tell me he was coming.” + +“I did not know it till five minutes ago.” + +She stood still too, and looked at him. There was a flaming of distrust +in his eyes, his lips were compressed, and his whole body betokened +hostility. + +“I did not understand. I thought Senor Anteoni would be alone here.” + +“Father Roubier is a pleasant companion, sincere and simple. Everyone +likes him.” + +“No doubt, Madame. But--the fact is I”--he hesitated, then added, almost +with violence--“I do not care for priests.” + +“I am sorry. Still, for once--for an hour--you can surely----” + +She did not finish the sentence. While she was speaking she felt the +banality of such phrases spoken to such a man, and suddenly changed tone +and manner. + +“Monsieur Androvsky,” she said, laying one hand on his arm, “I knew you +would not like Father Roubier’s being here. If I had known he was coming +I should have told you in order that you might have kept away if you +wished to. But now that you are here--now that Smain has let you in and +the Count and Father Roubier must know of it, I am sure you will stay +and govern your dislike. You intend to turn back. I see that. Well, I +ask you to stay.” + +She was not thinking of herself, but of him. Instinct told her to teach +him the way to conceal his aversion. Retreat would proclaim it. + +“For yourself I ask you,” she added. “If you go, you tell them what you +have told me. You don’t wish to do that.” + +They looked at each other. Then, without a word, he walked on again. As +she kept beside him she felt as if in that moment their acquaintanceship +had sprung forward, like a thing that had been forcibly restrained and +that was now sharply released. They did not speak again till they saw, +at the end of an alley, the Count and the priest standing together +beneath the jamelon tree. Bous-Bous ran forward barking, and Domini was +conscious that Androvsky braced himself up, like a fighter stepping into +the arena. Her keen sensitiveness of mind and body was so infected +by his secret impetuosity of feeling that it seemed to her as if his +encounter with the two men framed in the sunlight were a great event +which might be fraught with strange consequences. She almost held her +breath as she and Androvsky came down the path and the fierce sunrays +reached out to light up their faces. + +Count Anteoni stepped forward to greet them. + +“Monsieur Androvsky--Count Anteoni,” she said. + +The hands of the two men met. She saw that Androvsky’s was lifted +reluctantly. + +“Welcome to my garden,” Count Anteoni said with his invariable easy +courtesy. “Every traveller has to pay his tribute to my domain. I dare +to exact that as the oldest European inhabitant of Beni-Mora.” + +Androvsky said nothing. His eyes were on the priest. The Count noticed +it, and added: + +“Do you know Father Roubier?” + +“We have often seen each other in the hotel,” Father Roubier said with +his usual straightforward simplicity. + +He held out his hand, but Androvsky bowed hastily and awkwardly and did +not seem to see it. Domini glanced at Count Anteoni, and surprised a +piercing expression in his bright eyes. It died away at once, and he +said: + +“Let us go to the _salle-a-manger_. _Dejeuner_ will be ready, Miss +Enfilden.” + +She joined him, concealing her reluctance to leave Androvsky with the +priest, and walked beside him down the path, preceded by Bous-Bous. + +“Is my _fete_ going to be a failure?” he murmured. + +She did not reply. Her heart was full of vexation, almost of bitterness. +She felt angry with Count Anteoni, with Androvsky, with herself. She +almost felt angry with poor Father Roubier. + +“Forgive me! do forgive me!” the Count whispered. “I meant no harm.” + +She forced herself to smile, but the silence behind them, where the two +men were following, oppressed her. If only Androvsky would speak! He had +not said one word since they were all together. Suddenly she turned her +head and said: + +“Did you ever see such palms, Monsieur Androvsky? Aren’t they +magnificent?” + +Her voice was challenging, imperative. It commanded him to rouse +himself, to speak, as a touch of the lash commands a horse to quicken +his pace. Androvsky raised his head, which had been sunk on his breast +as he walked. + +“Palms!” he said confusedly. + +“Yes, they are wonderful.” + +“You care for trees?” asked the Count, following Domini’s lead and +speaking with a definite intention to force a conversation. + +“Yes, Monsieur, certainly.” + +“I have some wonderful fellows here. After _dejeuner_ you must let me +show them to you. I spent years in collecting my children and teaching +them to live rightly in the desert.” + +Very naturally, while he spoke, he had joined Androvsky, and now walked +on with him, pointing out the different varieties of trees. Domini was +conscious of a sense of relief and of a strong feeling of gratitude +to their host. Following upon the gratitude came a less pleasant +consciousness of Androvsky’s lack of good breeding. He was certainly not +a man of the world, whatever he might be. To-day, perhaps absurdly, she +felt responsible for him, and as if he owed it to her to bear himself +bravely and govern his dislikes if they clashed with the feelings of +his companions. She longed hotly for him to make a good impression, and, +when her eyes met Father Roubier’s, was almost moved to ask his pardon +for Androvsky’s rudeness. But the Father seemed unconscious of it, and +began to speak about the splendour of the African vegetation. + +“Does not its luxuriance surprise you after England?” he said. + +“No,” she replied bluntly. “Ever since I have been in Africa I have felt +that I was in a land of passionate growth.” + +“But--the desert?” he replied with a gesture towards the long flats of +the Sahara, which were still visible between the trees. + +“I should find it there too,” she answered. “There, perhaps, most of +all.” + +He looked at her with a gentle wonder. She did not explain that she was +no longer thinking of growth in Nature. + +The _salle-a-manger_ stood at the end of a broad avenue of palms not far +from the villa. Two Arab servants were waiting on each side of the white +step that led into an ante-room filled with divans and coffee-tables. +Beyond was a lofty apartment with an arched roof, in the centre of +which was an oval table laid for breakfast, and decorated with masses of +trumpet-shaped scarlet flowers in silver vases. Behind each of the four +high-backed chairs stood an Arab motionless as a statue. Evidently the +Count’s _fete_ was to be attended by a good deal of ceremony. Domini +felt sorry, though not for herself. She had been accustomed to ceremony +all her life, and noticed it, as a rule, almost as little as the air +she breathed. But she feared that to Androvsky it would be novel and +unpleasant. As they came into the shady room she saw him glance swiftly +at the walls covered with dark Persian hangings, at the servants in +their embroidered jackets, wide trousers, and snow-white turbans, at +the vivid flowers on the table, then at the tall windows, over which +flexible outside blinds, dull green in colour, were drawn; and it seemed +to her that he was feeling like a trapped animal, full of a fury of +uneasiness. Father Roubier’s unconscious serenity in the midst of a +luxury to which he was quite unaccustomed emphasised Androvsky’s secret +agitation, which was no secret to Domini, and which she knew must be +obvious to Count Anteoni. She began to wish ardently that she had let +Androvsky follow his impulse to go when he heard of Father Roubier’s +presence. + +They sat down. She was on the Count’s right hand, with Androvsky +opposite to her and Father Roubier on her left. As they took their +places she and the Father said a silent grace and made the sign of the +Cross, and when she glanced up after doing so she saw Androvsky’s hand +lifted to his forehead. For a moment she fancied that he had joined +in the tiny prayer, and was about to make the sacred sign, but as she +looked at him his hand fell heavily to the table. The glasses by his +plate jingled. + +“I only remembered this morning that this is a _jour maigre_,” said +Count Anteoni as they unfolded their napkins. “I am afraid, Father +Roubier, you will not be able to do full justice to my chef, Hamdane, +although he has thought of you and done his best for you. But I hope +Miss Enfilden and--” + +“I keep Friday,” Domini interrupted quietly. + +“Yes? Poor Hamdane!” + +He looked in grave despair, but she knew that he was really pleased that +she kept the fast day. + +“Anyhow,” he continued, “I hope that you, Monsieur Androvsky, will be +able to join me in testing Hamdane’s powers to the full. Or are you +too----” + +He did not continue, for Androvsky at once said, in a loud and firm +voice: + +“I keep no fast days.” + +The words sounded like a defiance flung at the two Catholics, and for a +moment Domini thought that Father Roubier was going to treat them as a +challenge, for he lifted his head and there was a flash of sudden fire +in his eyes. But he only said, turning to the Count: + +“I think Mademoiselle and I shall find our little Ramadan a very easy +business. I once breakfasted with you on a Friday--two years ago it was, +I think--and I have not forgotten the banquet you gave me.” + +Domini felt as if the priest had snubbed Androvsky, as a saint might +snub, without knowing that he did so. She was angry with Androvsky, and +yet she was full of pity for him. Why could he not meet courtesy with +graciousness? There was something almost inhuman in his demeanour. +To-day he had returned to his worst self, to the man who had twice +treated her with brutal rudeness. + +“Do the Arabs really keep Ramadan strictly?” she asked, looking away +from Androvsky. + +“Very,” said Father Roubier. “Although, of course, I am not in sympathy +with their religion, I have often been moved by their adherence to its +rules. There is something very grand in the human heart deliberately +taking upon itself the yoke of discipline.” + +“Islam--the very word means the surrender of the human will to the will +of God,” said Count Anteoni. “That word and its meaning lie like the +shadow of a commanding hand on the soul of every Arab, even of the +absinthe-drinking renegades one sees here and there who have caught the +vices of their conquerors. In the greatest scoundrel that the Prophet’s +robe covers there is an abiding and acute sense of necessary surrender. +The Arabs, at any rate, do not buzz against their Creator, like midges +raging at the sun in whose beams they are dancing.” + +“No,” assented the priest. “At least in that respect they are superior +to many who call themselves Christians. Their pride is immense, but it +never makes itself ridiculous.” + +“You mean by trying to defy the Divine Will?” said Domini. + +“Exactly, Mademoiselle.” + +She thought of her dead father. + +The servants stole round the table, handing various dishes noiselessly. +One of them, at this moment, poured red wine into Androvsky’s glass. He +uttered a low exclamation that sounded like the beginning of a protest +hastily checked. + +“You prefer white wine?” said Count Anteoni. + +“No, thank you, Monsieur.” + +He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it. + +“Are you a judge of wine?” added the Count. “That is made from my own +grapes. I have vineyards near Tunis.” + +“It is excellent,” said Androvsky. + +Domini noticed that he spoke in a louder voice than usual, as if he were +making a determined effort to throw off the uneasiness that evidently +oppressed him. He ate heartily, choosing almost ostentatiously dishes +in which there was meat. But everything that he did, even this eating +of meat, gave her the impression that he was--subtly, how she did not +know--defying not only the priest, but himself. Now and then she glanced +across at him, and when she did so he was always looking away from +her. After praising the wine he had relapsed into silence, and Count +Anteoni--she thought moved by a very delicate sense of tact--did not +directly address him again just then, but resumed the interrupted +conversation about the Arabs, first explaining that the servants +understood no French. He discussed them with a minute knowledge that +evidently sprang from a very real affection, and presently she could not +help alluding to this. + +“I think you love the Arabs far more than any Europeans,” she said. + +He fixed his bright eyes upon her, and she thought that just then they +looked brighter than ever before. + +“Why?” he asked quietly. + +“Do you know the sound that comes into the voice of a lover of children +when it speaks of a child?” + +“Ah!--the note of a deep indulgence?” + +“I hear it in yours whenever you speak of the Arabs.” + +She spoke half jestingly. For a moment he did not reply. Then he said to +the priest: + +“You have lived long in Africa, Father. Have not you something of the +same feeling towards these children of the sun?” + +“Yes, and I have noticed it in our dead Cardinal.” + +“Cardinal Lavigerie.” + +Androvsky bent over his plate. He seemed suddenly to withdraw his mind +forcibly from this conversation in which he was taking no active part, +as if he refused even to listen to it. + +“He is your hero, I know,” the Count said sympathetically. + +“He did a great deal for me.” + +“And for Africa. And he was wise.” + +“You mean in some special way?” Domini said. + +“Yes. He looked deep enough into the dark souls of the desert men +to find out that his success with them must come chiefly through his +goodness to their dark bodies. You aren’t shocked, Father?” + +“No, no. There is truth in that.” + +But the priest assented rather sadly. + +“Mahomet thought too much of the body,” he added. + +Domini saw the Count compress his lips. Then he turned to Androvsky and +said: + +“Do you think so, Monsieur?” + +It was a definite, a resolute attempt to draw his guest into the +conversation. Androvsky could not ignore it. He looked up reluctantly +from his plate. His eyes met Domini’s, but immediately travelled away +from them. + +“I doubt----” he said. + +He paused, laid his hands on the table, clasping its edge, and continued +firmly, even with a sort of hard violence: + +“I doubt if most good men, or men who want to be good, think enough +about the body, consider it enough. I have thought that. I think it +still.” + +As he finished he stared at the priest, almost menacingly. Then, as if +moved by an after-thought, he added: + +“As to Mahomet, I know very little about him. But perhaps he obtained +his great influence by recognising that the bodies of men are of great +importance, of tremendous--tremendous importance.” + +Domini saw that the interest of Count Anteoni in his guest was suddenly +and vitally aroused by what he had just said, perhaps even more by his +peculiar way of saying it, as if it were forced from him by some secret, +irresistible compulsion. And the Count’s interest seemed to take +hands with her interest, which had had a much longer existence. Father +Roubier, however, broke in with a slightly cold: + +“It is a very dangerous thing, I think, to dwell upon the importance of +the perishable. One runs the risk of detracting from the much greater +importance of the imperishable.” + +“Yet it’s the starved wolves that devour the villages,” said Androvsky. + +For the first time Domini felt his Russian origin. There was a silence. +Father Roubier looked straight before him, but Count Anteoni’s eyes were +fixed piercingly upon Androvsky. At last he said: + +“May I ask, Monsieur, if you are a Russian?” + +“My father was. But I have never set foot in Russia.” + +“The soul that I find in the art, music, literature of your country is, +to me, the most interesting soul in Europe,” the Count said with a ring +of deep earnestness in his grating voice. + +Spoken as he spoke it, no compliment could have been more gracious, even +moving. But Androvsky only replied abruptly: + +“I’m afraid I know nothing of all that.” + +Domini felt hot with a sort of shame, as at a close friend’s public +display of ignorance. She began to speak to the Count of Russian music, +books, with an enthusiasm that was sincere. For she, too, had found in +the soul from the Steppes a meaning and a magic that had taken her soul +prisoner. And suddenly, while she talked, she thought of the Desert +as the burning brother of the frigid Steppes. Was it the wonder of the +eternal flats that had spoken to her inmost heart sometimes in London +concert-rooms, in her room at night when she read, forgetting time, +which spoke to her now more fiercely under the palms of Africa? At the +thought something mystic seemed to stand in her enthusiasm. The mystery +of space floated about her. But she did not express her thought. Count +Anteoni expressed it for her. + +“The Steppes and the Desert are akin, you know,” he said. “Despite the +opposition of frost and fire.” + +“Just what I was thinking!” she exclaimed. “That must be why--” + +She stopped short. + +“Yes?” said the Count. + +Both Father Roubier and Androvsky looked at her with expectancy. But she +did not continue her sentence, and her failure to do so was covered, or +at the least excused, by a diversion that secretly she blessed. At this +moment, from the ante-room, there came a sound of African music, both +soft and barbarous. First there was only one reiterated liquid note, +clear and glassy, a note that suggested night in a remote place. Then, +beneath it, as foundation to it, rose a rustling sound as of a forest +of reeds through which a breeze went rhythmically. Into this stole the +broken song of a thin instrument with a timbre rustic and antique as +the timbre of the oboe, but fainter, frailer. A twang of softly-plucked +strings supported its wild and pathetic utterance, and presently the +almost stifled throb of a little tomtom that must have been placed at a +distance. It was like a beating heart. + +The Count and his guests sat listening in silence. Domini began to +feel curiously expectant, yet she did not recognise the odd melody. Her +sensation was that some other music must be coming which she had heard +before, which had moved her deeply at some time in her life. She glanced +at the Count and found him looking at her with a whimsical expression, +as if he were a kind conspirator whose plot would soon be known. + +“What is it?” she asked in a low voice. + +He bent towards her. + +“Wait!” he whispered. “Listen!” + +She saw Androvsky frown. His face was distorted by an expression of +pain, and she wondered if he, like some Europeans, found the barbarity +of the desert music ugly and even distressing to the nerves. While +she wondered a voice began to sing, always accompanied by the four +instruments. It was a contralto voice, but sounded like a youth’s. + +“What is that song?” she asked under her breath. “Surely I must have +heard it!” + +“You don’t know?” + +“Wait!” + +She searched her heart. It seemed to her that she knew the song. At some +period of her life she had certainly been deeply moved by it--but when? +where? The voice died away, and was succeeded by a soft chorus singing +monotonously: + +“Wurra-Wurra.” + +Then it rose once more in a dreamy and reticent refrain, like the voice +of a soul communing with itself in the desert, above the instruments and +the murmuring chorus. + +“You remember?” whispered the Count. + +She moved her head in assent but did not speak. She could not speak. It +was the song the Arab had sung as he turned into the shadow of the palm +trees, the song of the freed negroes of Touggourt: + + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + +The priest leaned back in his chair. His dark eyes were cast down, and +his thin, sun-browned hands were folded together in a way that suggested +prayer. Did this desert song of the black men, children of God like +him as their song affirmed, stir his soul to some grave petition that +embraced the wants of all humanity? + +Androvsky was sitting quite still. He was also looking down and the lids +covered his eyes. An expression of pain still lingered on his face, but +it was less cruel, no longer tortured, but melancholy. And Domini, as +she listened, recalled the strange cry that had risen within her as the +Arab disappeared in the sunshine, the cry of the soul in life surrounded +by mysteries, by the hands, the footfalls, the voices of hidden +things--“What is going to happen to me here?” But that cry had risen in +her, found words in her, only when confronted by the desert. Before it +had been perhaps hidden in the womb. Only then was it born. And now the +days had passed and the nights, and the song brought with it the cry +once more, the cry and suddenly something else, another voice that, very +far away, seemed to be making answer to it. That answer she could not +hear. The words of it were hidden in the womb as, once, the words of her +intense question. Only she felt that an answer had been made. The future +knew, and had begun to try to tell her. She was on the very edge of +knowledge while she listened, but she could not step into the marvellous +land. + +Presently Count Anteoni spoke to the priest. + +“You have heard this song, no doubt, Father?” + +Father Roubier shook his head. + +“I don’t think so, but I can never remember the Arab music” + +“Perhaps you dislike it?” + +“No, no. It is ugly in a way, but there seems a great deal of meaning in +it. In this song especially there is--one might almost call it beauty.” + +“Wonderful beauty,” Domini said in a low voice, still listening to the +song. + +“The words are beautiful,” said the Count, this time addressing himself +to Androvsky. “I don’t know them all, but they begin like this: + + “‘The gazelle dies in the water, + The fish dies in the air, + And I die in the dunes of the desert sand + For my love that is deep and sad.’ + +“And when the chorus sounds, as now”--and he made a gesture toward the +inner room, in which the low murmur of “ Wurra-Wurra” rose again, “the +singer reiterates always the same refrain: + + “‘No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.’” + +Almost as he spoke the contralto voice began to sing the refrain. +Androvsky turned pale. There were drops of sweat on his forehead. He +lifted his glass of wine to his lips and his hand trembled so that some +of the wine was spilt upon the tablecloth. And, as once before, Domini +felt that what moved her deeply moved him even more deeply, whether in +the same way or differently she could not tell. The image of the taper +and the torch recurred to her mind. She saw Androvsky with fire round +about him. The violence of this man surely resembled the violence of +Africa. There was something terrible about it, yet also something noble, +for it suggested a male power, which might make for either good or evil, +but which had nothing to do with littleness. For a moment Count Anteoni +and the priest were dwarfed, as if they had come into the presence of a +giant. + +The Arabs handed round fruit. And now the song died softly away. Only +the instruments went on playing. The distant tomtom was surely the +beating of that heart into whose mysteries no other human heart could +look. Its reiterated and dim throbbing affected Domini almost terribly. +She was relieved, yet regretful, when at length it ceased. + +“Shall we go into the ante-room?” the Count said. “Coffee will be +brought there.” + +“Oh, but--don’t let us see them!” Domini exclaimed. + +“The musicians?” + +She nodded. + +“You would rather not hear any more music?” + +“If you don’t mind!” + +He gave an order in Arabic. One of the servants slipped away and +returned almost immediately. + +“Now we can go,” the Count said. “They have vanished.” + +The priest sighed. It was evident that the music had moved him too. As +they got up he said: + +“Yes, there was beauty in that song and something more. Some of these +desert poets can teach us to think.” + +“A dangerous lesson, perhaps,” said the Count. “What do you say, +Monsieur Androvsky?” + +Androvsky was on his feet. His eyes were turned toward the door through +which the sound of the music had come. + +“I!” he answered. “I--Monsieur, I am afraid that to me this music means +very little. I cannot judge of it.” + +“But the words?” asked the Count with a certain pressure. + +“They do not seem to me to suggest much more than the music.” + +The Count said no more. As she went into the outer room Domini felt +angry, as she had felt angry in the garden at Sidi-Zerzour when +Androvsky said: + +“These native women do not interest me. I see nothing attractive in +them.” + +For now, as then, she knew that he had lied. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +Domini came into the ante-room alone. The three men had paused for a +moment behind her, and the sound of a match struck reached her ears +as she went listlessly forward to the door which was open to the broad +garden path, and stood looking out into the sunshine. Butterflies were +flitting here and there through the riot of gold, and she heard faint +bird-notes from the shadows of the trees, echoed by the more distant +twitter of Larbi’s flute. On the left, between the palms, she caught +glimpses of the desert and of the hard and brilliant mountains, and, +as she stood there, she remembered her sensations on first entering the +garden and how soon she had learned to love it. It had always seemed to +her a sunny paradise of peace until this moment. But now she felt as if +she were compassed about by clouds. + +The vagrant movement of the butterflies irritated her eyes, the distant +sound of the flute distressed her ears, and all the peace had gone. Once +again this man destroyed the spell Nature had cast upon her. Because +she knew that he had lied, her joy in the garden, her deeper joy in the +desert that embraced it, were stricken. Yet why should he not lie? Which +of us does not lie about his feelings? Has reserve no right to armour? + +She heard her companions entering the room and turned round. At that +moment her heart was swept by an emotion almost of hatred to Androvsky. +Because of it she smiled. A forced gaiety dawned in her. She sat down on +one of the low divans, and, as she asked Count Anteoni for a cigarette +and lit it, she thought, “How shall I punish him?” That lie, not even +told to her and about so slight a matter, seemed to her an attack which +she resented and must return. Not for a moment did she ask herself if +she were reasonable. A voice within her said, “I will not be lied to, +I will not even bear a lie told to another in my presence by this man.” + And the voice was imperious. + +Count Anteoni remained beside her, smoking a cigar. Father Roubier took +a seat by the little table in front of her. But Androvsky went over to +the door she had just left, and stood, as she had, looking out into the +sunshine. Bous-Bous followed him, and snuffed affectionately round his +feet, trying to gain his attention. + +“My little dog seems very fond of your friend,” the priest said to +Domini. + +“My friend!” + +“Monsieur Androvsky.” + +She lowered her voice. + +“He is only a travelling acquaintance. I know nothing of him.” + +The priest looked gently surprised and Count Anteoni blew forth a +fragrant cloud of smoke. + +“He seems a remarkable man,” the priest said mildly. + +“Do you think so?” + +She began to speak to Count Anteoni about some absurdity of Batouch, +forcing her mind into a light and frivolous mood, and he echoed her tone +with a clever obedience for which secretly she blessed him. In a moment +they were laughing together with apparent merriment, and Father Roubier +smiled innocently at their light-heartedness, believing in it sincerely. +But Androvsky suddenly turned around with a dark and morose countenance. + +“Come in out of the sunshine,” said the Count. “It is too strong. Try +this chair. Coffee will be--ah, here it is!” + +Two servants appeared, carrying it. + +“Thank you, Monsieur,” Androvsky said with reluctant courtesy. + +He came towards them with determination and sat down, drawing forward +his chair till he was facing Domini. Directly he was quiet Bous-Bous +sprang upon his knee and lay down hastily, blinking his eyes, which were +almost concealed by hair, and heaving a sigh which made the priest look +kindly at him, even while he said deprecatingly: + +“Bous-Bous! Bous-Bous! Little rascal, little pig--down, down!” + +“Oh, leave him, Monsieur!” muttered Androvsky. “It’s all the same to +me.” + +“He really has no shame where his heart is concerned.” + +“Arab!” said the Count. “He has learnt it in Beni-Mora.” + +“Perhaps he has taken lessons from Larbi,” said Domini. “Hark! He is +playing to-day. For whom?” + +“I never ask now,” said the Count. “The name changes so often.” + +“Constancy is not an Arab fault?” Domini asked. + +“You say ‘fault,’ Madame,” interposed the priest. + +“Yes, Father,” she returned with a light touch of conscious cynicism. +“Surely in this world that which is apt to bring inevitable misery with +it must be accounted a fault.” + +“But can constancy do that?” + +“Don’t you think so, into a world of ceaseless change?” + +“Then how shall we reckon truth in a world of lies?” asked the Count. +“Is that a fault, too?” + +“Ask Monsieur Androvsky,” said Domini, quickly. + +“I obey,” said the Count, looking over at his guest. + +“Ah, but I am sure I know,” Domini added. “I am sure you think truth a +thing we should all avoid in such a world as this. Don’t you, Monsieur?” + +“If you are sure, Madame, why ask me?” Androvsky replied. + +There was in his voice a sound that was startling. Suddenly the priest +reached out his hand and lifted Bous-Bous on to his knee, and Count +Anteoni very lightly and indifferently interposed. + +“Truth-telling among Arabs becomes a dire necessity to Europeans. One +cannot out-lie them, and it doesn’t pay to run second to Orientals. So +one learns, with tears, to be sincere. Father Roubier is shocked by my +apologia for my own blatant truthfulness.” + +The priest laughed. + +“I live so little in what is called ‘the world’ that I’m afraid I’m very +ready to take drollery for a serious expression of opinion.” + +He stroked Bous-Bous’s white back, and added, with a simple geniality +that seemed to spring rather from a desire to be kind than from any +temperamental source: + +“But I hope I shall always be able to enjoy innocent fun.” + +As he spoke his eyes rested on Androvsky’s face, and suddenly he looked +grave and put Bous-Bous gently down on the floor. + +“I’m afraid I must be going,” he said. + +“Already?” said his host. + +“I dare not allow myself too much idleness. If once I began to be idle +in this climate I should become like an Arab and do nothing all day but +sit in the sun.” + +“As I do. Father, we meet very seldom, but whenever we do I feel myself +a cumberer of the earth.” + +Domini had never before heard him speak with such humbleness. The priest +flushed like a boy. + +“We each serve in our own way,” he said quickly. “The Arab who sits all +day in the sun may be heard as a song of praise where He is.” + +And then he took his leave. This time he did not extend his hand to +Androvsky, but only bowed to him, lifting his white helmet. As he went +away in the sun with Bous-Bous the three he had left followed him +with their eyes. For Androvsky had turned his chair sideways, as if +involuntarily. + +“I shall learn to love Father Roubier,” Domini said. + +Androvsky moved his seat round again till his back was to the garden, +and placed his broad hands palm downward on his knees. + +“Yes?” said the Count. + +“He is so transparently good, and he bears his great disappointment so +beautifully.” + +“What great disappointment?” + +“He longed to become a monk.” + +Androvsky got up from his seat and walked back to the garden doorway. +His restless demeanour and lowering expression destroyed all sense of +calm and leisure. Count Anteoni looked after him, and then at Domini, +with a sort of playful surprise. He was going to speak, but before the +words came Smain appeared, carrying reverently a large envelope covered +with Arab writing. + +“Will you excuse me for a moment?” the Count said. + +“Of course.” + +He took the letter, and at once a vivid expression of excitement shone +in his eyes. When he had read it there was a glow upon his face as if +the flames of a fire played over it. + +“Miss Enfilden,” he said, “will you think me very discourteous if I +leave you for a moment? The messenger who brought this has come from far +and starts to-day on his return journey. He has come out of the south, +three hundred kilometres away, from Beni-Hassan, a sacred village--a +sacred village.” + +He repeated the last words, lowering his voice. + +“Of course go and see him.” + +“And you?” + +He glanced towards Androvsky, who was standing with his back to them. + +“Won’t you show Monsieur Androvsky the garden?” + +Hearing his name Androvsky turned, and the Count at once made his +excuses to him and followed Smain towards the garden gate, carrying the +letter that had come from Beni-Hassan in his hand. + +When he had gone Domini remained on the divan, and Androvsky by the +door, with his eyes on the ground. She took another cigarette from the +box on the table beside her, struck a match and lit it carefully. Then +she said: + +“Do you care to see the garden?” + +She spoke indifferently, coldly. The desire to show her Paradise to him +had died away, but the parting words of the Count prompted the question, +and so she put it as to a stranger. + +“Thank you, Madame--yes,” he replied, as if with an effort. + +She got up, and they went out together on to the broad walk. + +“Which way do you want to go?” she asked. + +She saw him glance at her quickly, with anxiety in his eyes. + +“You know best where we should go, Madame.” + +“I daresay you won’t care about it. Probably you are not interested in +gardens. It does not matter really which path we take. They are all very +much alike.” + +“I am sure they are all very beautiful.” + +Suddenly he had become humble, anxious to please her. But now the +violent contrasts in him, unlike the violent contrasts of nature in this +land, exasperated her. She longed to be left alone. She felt ashamed of +Androvsky, and also of herself; she condemned herself bitterly for the +interest she had taken in him, for her desire to put some pleasure into +a life she had deemed sad, for her curiosity about him, for her wish +to share joy with him. She laughed at herself secretly for what she now +called her folly in having connected him imaginatively with the desert, +whereas in reality he made the desert, as everything he approached, lose +in beauty and wonder. His was a destructive personality. She knew it +now. Why had she not realised it before? He was a man to put gall in the +cup of pleasure, to create uneasiness, self-consciousness, constraint +round about him, to call up spectres at the banquet of life. Well, in +the future she could avoid him. After to-day she need never have any +more intercourse with him. With that thought, that interior sense of +her perfect freedom in regard to this man, an abrupt, but always cold, +content came to her, putting him a long way off where surely all that he +thought and did was entirely indifferent to her. + +“Come along then,” she said. “We’ll go this way.” + +And she turned down an alley which led towards the home of the purple +dog. She did not know at the moment that anything had influenced her to +choose that particular path, but very soon the sound of Larbi’s flute +grew louder, and she guessed that in reality the music had attracted +her. Androvsky walked beside her without a word. She felt that he +was not looking about him, not noticing anything, and all at once she +stopped decisively. + +“Why should we take all this trouble?” she said bluntly. “I hate +pretence and I thought I had travelled far away from it. But we are both +pretending.” + +“Pretending, Madame?” he said in a startled voice. + +“Yes. I that I want to show you this garden, you that you want to see +it. I no longer wish to show it to you, and you have never wished to see +it. Let us cease to pretend. It is all my fault. I bothered you to come +here when you didn’t want to come. You have taught me a lesson. I was +inclined to condemn you for it, to be angry with you. But why should I +be? You were quite right. Freedom is my fetish. I set you free, Monsieur +Androvsky. Good-bye.” + +As she spoke she felt that the air was clearing, the clouds were flying. +Constraint at least was at an end. And she had really the sensation of +setting a captive at liberty. She turned to leave him, but he said: + +“Please, stop, Madame.” + +“Why?” + +“You have made a mistake.” + +“In what?” + +“I do want to see this garden.” + +“Really? Well, then, you can wander through it.” + +“I do not wish to see it alone.” + +“Larbi shall guide you. For half a franc he will gladly give up his +serenading.” + +“Madame, if you will not show me the garden I will not see it at all. I +will go now and will never come into it again. I do not pretend.” + +“Ah!” she said, and her voice was quite changed. “But you do worse.” + +“Worse!” + +“Yes. You lie in the face of Africa.” + +She did not wish or mean to say it, and yet she had to say it. She knew +it was monstrous that she should speak thus to him. What had his lies to +do with her? She had been told a thousand, had heard a thousand told to +others. Her life had been passed in a world of which the words of the +Psalmist, though uttered in haste, are a clear-cut description. And +she had not thought she cared. Yet really she must have cared. For, in +leaving this world, her soul had, as it were, fetched a long breath. And +now, at the hint of a lie, it instinctively recoiled as from a gust of +air laden with some poisonous and suffocating vapour. + +“Forgive me,” she added. “I am a fool. Out here I do love truth.” + +Androvsky dropped his eyes. His whole body expressed humiliation, and +something that suggested to her despair. + +“Oh, you must think me mad to speak like this!” she exclaimed. “Of +course people must be allowed to arm themselves against the curiosity +of others. I know that. The fact is I am under a spell here. I have been +living for many, many years in the cold. I have been like a woman in a +prison without any light, and--” + +“You have been in a prison!” he said, lifting his head and looking at +her eagerly. + +“I have been living in what is called the great world.” + +“And you call that a prison?” + +“Now that I am living in the greater world, really living at last. I +have been in the heart of insincerity, and now I have come into the +heart, the fiery heart of sincerity. It’s there--there”--she pointed +to the desert. “And it has intoxicated me; I think it has made me +unreasonable. I expect everyone--not an Arab--to be as it is, and every +little thing that isn’t quite frank, every pretence, is like a horrible +little hand tugging at me, as if trying to take me back to the prison I +have left. I think, deep down, I have always loathed lies, but never as +I have loathed them since I came here. It seems to me as if only in the +desert there is freedom for the body, and only in truth there is freedom +for the soul.” + +She stopped, drew a long breath, and added: + +“You must forgive me. I have worried you. I have made you do what you +didn’t want to do. And then I have attacked you. It is unpardonable.” + +“Show me the garden, Madame,” he said in a very low voice. + +Her outburst over, she felt a slight self-consciousness. She wondered +what he thought of her and became aware of her unconventionality. His +curious and persistent reticence made her frankness the more marked. +Yet the painful sensation of oppression and exasperation had passed away +from her and she no longer thought of his personality as destructive. +In obedience to his last words she walked on, and he kept heavily beside +her, till they were in the deep shadows of the closely-growing trees and +the spell of the garden began to return upon her, banishing the thought +of self. + +“Listen!” she said presently. + +Larbi’s flute was very near. + +“He is always playing,” she whispered. + +“Who is he?” + +“One of the gardeners. But he scarcely ever works. He is perpetually in +love. That is why he plays.” + +“Is that a love-tune then?” Androvsky asked. + +“Yes. Do you think it sounds like one?” + +“How should I know, Madame?” + +He stood looking in the direction from which the music came, and now it +seemed to hold him fascinated. After his question, which sounded to her +almost childlike, and which she did not answer, Domini glanced at his +attentive face, to which the green shadows lent a dimness that was +mysterious, at his tall figure, which always suggested to her both +weariness and strength, and remembered the passionate romance to whose +existence she awoke when she first heard Larbi’s flute. It was as if +a shutter, which had closed a window in the house of life, had been +suddenly drawn away, giving to her eyes the horizon of a new world. +Was that shutter now drawn back for him? No doubt the supposition was +absurd. Men of his emotional and virile type have travelled far in that +world, to her mysterious, ere they reach his length of years. What was +extraordinary to her, in the thought of it alone, was doubtless quite +ordinary to him, translated into act. Not ignorant, she was nevertheless +a perfectly innocent woman, but her knowledge told her that no man of +Androvsky’s strength, power and passion is innocent at Androvsky’s age. +Yet his last dropped-out question was very deceptive. It had sounded +absolutely natural and might have come from a boy’s pure lips. Again he +made her wonder. + +There was a garden bench close to where they were standing. “If you like +to listen for a moment we might sit down,” she said. + +He started. + +“Yes. Thank you.” + +When they were sitting side by side, closely guarded by the gigantic fig +and chestnut trees which grew in this part of the garden, he added: + +“Whom does he love?” + +“No doubt one of those native women whom you consider utterly without +attraction,” she answered with a faint touch of malice which made him +redden. + +“But you come here every day?” he said. + +“I!” + +“Yes. Has he ever seen you?” + +“Larbi? Often. What has that to do with it?” + +He did not reply. + +Odd and disconnected as Larbi’s melodies were, they created an +atmosphere of wild tenderness. Spontaneously they bubbled up out of the +heart of the Eastern world and, when the player was invisible as now, +suggested an ebon faun couched in hot sand at the foot of a palm tree +and making music to listening sunbeams and amorous spirits of the waste. + +“Do you like it?” she said presently in an under voice. + +“Yes, Madame. And you?” + +“I love it, but not as I love the song of the freed negroes. That is a +song of all the secrets of humanity and of the desert too. And it does +not try to tell them. It only says that they exist and that God knows +them. But, I remember, you do not like that song.” + +“Madame,” he answered slowly, and as if he were choosing his words, “I +see that you understood. The song did move me though I said not. But no, +I do not like it.” + +“Do you care to tell me why?” + +“Such a song as that seems to me an--it is like an intrusion. There are +things that should be let alone. There are dark places that should be +left dark.” + +“You mean that all human beings hold within them secrets, and that no +allusion even should ever be made to those secrets?” + +“Yes.” + +“I understand.” + +After a pause he said, anxiously, she thought: + +“Am I right, Madame, or is my thought ridiculous?” + +He asked it so simply that she felt touched. + +“I’m sure you could never be ridiculous,” she said quickly. “And perhaps +you are right. I don’t know. That song makes me think and feel, and so I +love it. Perhaps if you heard it alone--” + +“Then I should hate it,” he interposed. + +His voice was like an uncontrolled inner voice speaking. + +“And not thought and feeling--” she began. + +But he interrupted her. + +“They make all the misery that exists in the world.” + +“And all the happiness.” + +“Do they?” + +“They must.” + +“Then you want to think deeply, to feel deeply?” + +“Yes. I would rather be the central figure of a world-tragedy than die +without having felt to the uttermost, even if it were sorrow. My whole +nature revolts against the idea of being able to feel little or nothing +really. It seems to me that when we begin to feel acutely we begin to +grow, like the palm tree rising towards the African sun.” + +“I do not think you have ever been very unhappy,” he said. The sound of +his voice as he said it made her suddenly feel as if it were true, as if +she had never been utterly unhappy. Yet she had never been really happy. +Africa had taught her that. + +“Perhaps not,” she answered. “But--some day--” + +She stopped. + +“Yes, Madame?” + +“Could one stay long in such a world as this and not be either intensely +happy or intensely unhappy? I don’t feel as if it would be possible. +Fierceness and fire beat upon one day after day and--one must learn to +feel here.” + +As she spoke a sensation of doubt, almost of apprehension, came to her. +She was overtaken by a terror of the desert. For a moment it seemed to +her that he was right, that it were better never to be the prey of any +deep emotion. + +“If one does not wish to feel one should never come to such a place as +this,” she added. + +And she longed to ask him why he was here, he, a man whose philosophy +told him to avoid the heights and depths, to shun the ardours of nature +and of life. + +“Or, having come, one should leave it.” + +A sensation of lurking danger increased upon her, bringing with it the +thought of flight. + +“One can always do that,” she said, looking at him. She saw fear in his +eyes, but it seemed to her that it was not fear of peril, but fear of +flight. So strongly was this idea borne in upon her that she bluntly +exclaimed: + +“Unless it is one’s nature to face things, never to turn one’s back. Is +it yours, Monsieur Androvsky?” + +“Fear could never drive me to leave Beni-Moni,” he answered. + +“Sometimes I think that the only virtue in us is courage,” she said, +“that it includes all the others. I believe I could forgive everything +where I found absolute courage.” + +Androvsky’s eyes were lit up as if by a flicker of inward fire. + +“You might create the virtue you love,” he said hoarsely. + +They looked at each other for a moment. Did he mean that she might +create it in him? + +Perhaps she would have asked, or perhaps he would have told her, but at +that moment something happened. Larbi stopped playing. In the last few +minutes they had both forgotten that he was playing, but when he ceased +the garden changed. Something was withdrawn in which, without knowing +it, they had been protecting themselves, and when the music faded their +armour dropped away from them. With the complete silence came an altered +atmosphere, the tenderness of mysticism instead of the tenderness of a +wild humanity. The love of man seemed to depart out of the garden and +another love to enter it, as when God walked under the trees in the cool +of the day. And they sat quite still, as if a common impulse muted their +lips. In the long silence that followed Domini thought of her mirage of +the palm tree growing towards the African sun, feeling growing in the +heart of a human being. But was it a worthy image? For the palm tree +rises high. It soars into the air. But presently it ceases to grow. +There is nothing infinite in its growth. And the long, hot years pass +away and there it stands, never nearer to the infinite gold of the sun. +But in the intense feeling of a man or woman is there not infinitude? Is +there not a movement that is ceaseless till death comes to destroy--or +to translate? + +That was what she was thinking in the silence of the garden. And +Androvsky? He sat beside her with his head bent, his hands hanging +between his knees, his eyes gazing before him at the ordered tangle +of the great trees. His lips were slightly parted, and on his +strongly-marked face there was an expression as of emotional peace, as +if the soul of the man were feeling deeply in calm. The restlessness, +the violence that had made his demeanour so embarrassing during +and after the _dejeuner_ had vanished. He was a different man. And +presently, noticing it, feeling his sensitive serenity, Domini seemed +to see the great Mother at work about this child of hers, Nature at her +tender task of pacification. The shared silence became to her like +a song of thanksgiving, in which all the green things of the garden +joined. And beyond them the desert lay listening, the Garden of Allah +attentive to the voices of man’s garden. She could hardly believe that +but a few minutes before she had been full of irritation and bitterness, +not free even from a touch of pride that was almost petty. But when she +remembered that it was so she realised the abysses and the heights of +which the heart is mingled, and an intense desire came to her to be +always upon the heights of her own heart. For there only was the light +of happiness. Never could she know joy if she forswore nobility. Never +could she be at peace with the love within her--love of something that +was not self, of something that seemed vaguer than God, as if it had +entered into God and made him Love--unless she mounted upwards during +her little span of life. Again, as before in this land, in the first +sunset, on the tower, on the minaret of the mosque of Sidi-Zerzour, +Nature spoke to her intimate words of inspiration, laid upon her +the hands of healing, giving her powers she surely had not known or +conceived of till now. And the passion that is the chiefest grace of +goodness, making it the fire that purifies, as it is the little +sister of the poor that tends the suffering, the hungry, the groping +beggar-world, stirred within her, like the child not yet born, but whose +destiny is with the angels. And she longed to make some great offering +at the altar on whose lowest step she stood, and she was filled, for the +first time consciously, with woman’s sacred desire for sacrifice. + +A soft step on the sand broke the silence and scattered her aspirations. +Count Anteoni was coming towards them between the trees. The light of +happiness was still upon his face and made him look much younger than +usual. His whole bearing, in its elasticity and buoyant courage, was +full of anticipation. As he came up to them he said to Domini: + +“Do you remember chiding me?” + +“I!” she said. “For what?” + +Androvsky sat up and the expression of serenity passed away from his +face. + +“For never galloping away into the sun.” + +“Oh!--yes, I do remember.” + +“Well, I am going to obey you. I am going to make a journey.” + +“Into the desert?” + +“Three hundred kilometers on horseback. I start to-morrow.” + +She looked up at him with a new interest. He saw it and laughed, almost +like a boy. + +“Ah, your contempt for me is dying!” + +“How can you speak of contempt?” + +“But you were full of it.” He turned to Androvsky. “Miss Enfilden +thought I could not sit a horse, Monsieur, unlike you. Forgive me for +saying that you are almost more dare-devil than the Arabs themselves. I +saw you the other day set your stallion at the bank of the river bed. I +did not think any horse could have done it, but you knew better.” + +“I did not know at all,” said Androvsky. “I had not ridden for over +twenty years until that day.” + +He spoke with a blunt determination which made Domini remember their +recent conversation on truth-telling. + +“Dio mio!” said the Count, slowly, and looking at him with undisguised +wonder. “You must have a will and a frame of iron.” + +“I am pretty strong.” + +He spoke rather roughly. Since the Count had joined them Domini noticed +that Androvsky had become a different man. Once more he was on the +defensive. The Count did not seem to notice it. Perhaps he was too +radiant. + +“I hope I shall endure as well as you, Monsieur,” he said. “I go to +Beni-Hassan to visit Sidi El Hadj Aissa, one of the mightiest marabouts +in the Sahara. In your Church,” he added, turning again to Domini, “he +would be a powerful Cardinal.” + +She noticed the “your.” Evidently the Count was not a professing +Catholic. Doubtless, like many modern Italians, he was a free-thinker in +matters of religion. + +“I am afraid I have never heard of him,” she said. “In which direction +does Beni-Hassan lie?” + +“To go there one takes the caravan route that the natives call the route +to Tombouctou.” + +An eager look came into her face. + +“My road!” she said. + +“Yours?” + +“The one I shall travel on. You remember, Monsieur Androvsky?” + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“Let me into your secret,” said the Count, laughingly, yet with interest +too. + +“It is no secret. It is only that I love that route. It fascinates me, +and I mean some day to make a desert journey along it.” + +“What a pity that we cannot join forces,” the Count said. “I should feel +it an honour to show the desert to one who has the reverence for it, the +understanding of its spell, that you have.” + +He spoke earnestly, paused, and then added: + +“But I know well what you are thinking.” + +“What is that?” + +“That you will go to the desert alone. You are right. It is the only +way, at any rate the first time. I went like that many years ago.” + +She said nothing in assent, and Androvsky got up from the bench. + +“I must go, Monsieur.” + +“Already! But have you seen the garden?” + +“It is wonderful. Good-bye, Monsieur. Thank you.” + +“But--let me see you to the gate. On Fridays----” + +He was turning to Domini when she got up too. + +“Don’t you distribute alms on Fridays?” she said. + +“How should you know it?” + +“I have heard all about you. But is this the hour?” + +“Yes.” + +“Let me see the distribution.” + +“And we will speed Monsieur Androvsky on his way at the same time.” + +She noticed that there was no question in his mind of her going with +Androvsky. Did she mean to go with him? She had not decided yet. + +They walked towards the gate and were soon on the great sweep of sand +before the villa. A murmur of many voices was audible outside in the +desert, nasal exclamations, loud guttural cries that sounded angry, the +twittering of flutes and the snarl of camels. + +“Do you hear my pensioners?” said the Count. “They are always +impatient.” + +There was the noise of a tomtom and of a whining shriek. + +“That is old Bel Cassem’s announcement of his presence. He has been +living on me for years, the old ruffian, ever since his right eye +was gouged out by his rival in the affections of the Marechale of the +dancing-girls. Smain!” + +He blew his silver whistle. Instantly Smain came out of the villa +carrying a money-bag. The Count took it and weighed it in his hand, +looking at Domini with the joyous expression still upon his face. + +“Have you ever made a thank-offering?” he said. + +“No.” + +“That tells me something. Well, to-day I wish to make a thank-offering +to the desert.” + +“What has it done for you?” + +“Who knows? Who knows?” + +He laughed aloud, almost like a boy. Androvsky glanced at him with a +sort of wondering envy. + +“And I want you to share in my little distribution,” he added. “And +you, Monsieur, if you don’t mind. There are moments when--Open the gate, +Smain!” + +His ardour was infectious and Domini felt stirred by it to a sudden +sense of the joy of life. She looked at Androvsky, to include him in +the rigour of gaiety which swept from the Count to her, and found him +staring apprehensively at the Count, who was now loosening the string +of the bag. Smain had reached the gate. He lifted the bar of wood and +opened it. Instantly a crowd of dark faces and turbaned heads were +thrust through the tall aperture, a multitude of dusky hands fluttered +frantically, and the cry of eager voices, saluting, begging, calling +down blessings, relating troubles, shrieking wants, proclaiming virtues +and necessities, rose into an almost deafening uproar. But not a +foot was lifted over the lintel to press the sunlit sand. The Count’s +pensioners might be clamorous, but they knew what they might not do. As +he saw them the wrinkles in his face deepened and his fingers quickened +to achieve their purpose. + +“My pensioners are very hungry to-day, and, as you see, they don’t mind +saying so. Hark at Bel Cassem!” + +The tomtom and the shriek that went with it made it a fierce crescendo. + +“That means he is starving--the old hypocrite! Aren’t they like the +wolves in your Russia, Monsieur? But we must feed them. We mustn’t let +them devour our Beni-Mora. That’s it!” + +He threw the string on to the sand, plunged his hand into the bag and +brought it out full of copper coins. The mouths opened wider, the hands +waved more frantically, and all the dark eyes gleamed with the light of +greed. + +“Will you help me?” he said to Domini. + +“Of course. What fun!” + +Her eyes were gleaming too, but with the dancing fires of a gay impulse +of generosity which made her wish that the bag contained her money. He +filled her hands with coins. + +“Choose whom you will. And now, Monsieur!” + +For the moment he was so boyishly concentrated on the immediate present +that he had ceased to observe whether the whim of others jumped with +his own. Otherwise he must have been struck by Androvsky’s marked +discomfort, which indeed almost amounted to agitation. The sight of the +throng of Arabs at the gateway, the clamour of their voices, evidently +roused within him something akin to fear. He looked at them with +distaste, and had drawn back several steps upon the sand, and now, as +the Count held out to him a hand filled with money, he made no motion +to take it, and half turned as if he thought of retreating into the +recesses of the garden. + +“Here, Monsieur! here!” exclaimed the Count, with his eyes on the crowd, +towards which Domini was walking with a sort of mischievous slowness, to +whet those appetites already so voracious. + +Androvsky set his teeth and took the money, dropping one or two pieces +on the ground. For a moment the Count seemed doubtful of his guest’s +participation in his own lively mood. + +“Is this boring you?” he asked. “Because if so--” + +“No, no, Monsieur, not at all! What am I to do?” + +“Those hands will tell you.” + +The clamour grew more exigent. + +“And when you want more come to me!” + +Then he called out in Arabic, “Gently! Gently!” as the vehement +scuffling seemed about to degenerate into actual fighting at Domini’s +approach, and hurried forward, followed more slowly by Androvsky. + +Smain, from whose velvety eyes the dreams were not banished by the +uproar, stood languidly by the porter’s tent, gazing at Androvsky. +Something in the demeanour of the new visitor seemed to attract him. +Domini, meanwhile, had reached the gateway. Gently, with a capricious +deftness and all a woman’s passion for personal choice, she dropped the +bits of money into the hands belonging to the faces that attracted her, +disregarding the bellowings of those passed over. The light from all +these gleaming eyes made her feel warm, the clamour that poured from +these brown throats excited her. When her fingers were empty she touched +the Count’s arm eagerly. + +“More, more, please!” + +“Ecco, Signora.” + +He held out to her the bag. She plunged her hands into it and came +nearer to the gate, both hands full of money and held high above her +head. The Arabs leapt up at her like dogs at a bone, and for a moment +she waited, laughing with all her heart. Then she made a movement to +throw the money over the heads of the near ones to the unfortunates who +were dancing and shrieking on the outskirts of the mob. But suddenly her +hands dropped and she uttered a startled exclamation. + +The sand-diviner of the red bazaar, slipping like a reptile under the +waving arms and between the furious bodies of the beggars, stood up +before her with a smile on his wounded face, stretched out to her his +emaciated hands with a fawning, yet half satirical, gesture of desire. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +The money dropped from Domini’s fingers and rolled upon the sand at the +Diviner’s feet. But though he had surely come to ask for alms, he took +no heed of it. While the Arabs round him fell upon their knees and +fought like animals for the plunder, he stood gaping at Domini. The +smile still flickered about his lips. His hand was still stretched out. + +Instinctively she had moved backwards. Something that was like a thrill +of fear, mental, not physical, went through her, but she kept her eyes +steadily on his, as if, despite the fear, she fought against him. + +The contest of the beggars had become so passionate that Count Anteoni’s +commands were forgotten. Urged by the pressure from behind those in +the front scrambled or fell over the sacred threshold. The garden was +invaded by a shrieking mob. Smain ran forward, and the autocrat that +dwelt in the Count side by side with the benefactor suddenly emerged. He +blew his whistle four times. At each call a stalwart Arab appeared. + +“Shut the gate!” he commanded sternly. + +The attendants furiously repulsed the mob, using their fists and feet +without mercy. In the twinkling of an eye the sand was cleared and Smain +had his hand upon the door to shut it. But the Diviner stopped him with +a gesture, and in a fawning yet imperious voice called out something to +the Count. + +The Count turned to Domini. + +“This is an interesting fellow. Would you like to know him?” + +Her mind said no, yet her body assented. For she bowed her head. The +Count beckoned. The Diviner stepped stealthily on to the sand with an +air of subtle triumph, and Smain swung forward the great leaf of palm +wood. + +“Wait!” the Count cried, as if suddenly recollecting something. “Where +is Monsieur Androvsky?” + +“Isn’t he----?” Domini glanced round. “I don’t know.” + +He went quickly to the door and looked out. The Arabs, silent now and +respectful, crowded about him, salaaming. He smiled at them kindly, +and spoke to one or two. They answered gravely. An old man with one +eye lifted his hand, in which was a tomtom of stretched goatskin, and +pointed towards the oasis, rapidly moving his toothless jaws. The Count +stepped back into the garden, dismissed his pensioners with a masterful +wave of the hand, and himself shut the door. + +“Monsieur Androvsky has gone--without saying good-bye,” he said. + +Again Domini felt ashamed for Androvsky. + +“I don’t think he likes my pensioners,” the Count added, in amused +voice, “or me.” + +“I am sure--” Domini began. + +But he stopped her. + +“Miss Enfilden, in a world of lies I look to you for truth.” + +His manner chafed her, but his voice had a ring of earnestness. She +said nothing. All this time the Diviner was standing on the sand, still +smiling, but with downcast eyes. His thin body looked satirical and +Domini felt a strong aversion from him, yet a strong interest in him +too. Something in his appearance and manner suggested power and mystery +as well as cunning. The Count said some words to him in Arabic, and +at once he walked forward and disappeared among the trees, going so +silently and smoothly that she seemed to watch a panther gliding into +the depths of a jungle where its prey lay hid. She looked at the Count +interrogatively. + +“He will wait in the _fumoir_.” + +“Where we first met?” + +“Yes.” + +“What for?” + +“For us, if you choose.” + +“Tell me about him. I have seen him twice. He followed me with a bag of +sand.” + +“He is a desert man. I don’t know his tribe, but before he settled here +he was a nomad, one of the wanderers who dwell in tents, a man of the +sand; as much of the sand as a viper or a scorpion. One would suppose +such beings were bred by the marriage of the sand-grains. The sand tells +him secrets.” + +“He says. Do you believe it?” + +“Would you like to test it?” + +“How?” + +“By coming with me to the _fumoir_?” + +She hesitated obviously. + +“Mind,” he added, “I do not press it. A word from me and he is gone. +But you are fearless, and you have spoken already, will speak much more +intimately in the future, with the desert spirits.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“The ‘much more intimately’?” + +“Yes.” + +“I do not know it, but--which is much more--I feel it.” + +She was silent, looking towards the trees where the Diviner had +disappeared. Count Anteoni’s boyish merriment had faded away. He looked +grave, almost sad. + +“I am not afraid,” she said at last. “No, but--I will confess it--there +is something horrible about that man to me. I felt it the first time +I saw him. His eyes are too intelligent. They look diseased with +intelligence.” + +“Let me send him away. Smain!” + +But she stopped him. Directly he made the suggestion she felt that she +must know more of this man. + +“No. Let us go to the _fumoir_.” + +“Very well. Go, Smain!” + +Smain went into the little tent by the gate, sat down on his haunches +and began to smell at a sprig of orange blossoms. Domini and the Count +walked into the darkness of the trees. + +“What is his name?” she asked. + +“Aloui.” + +“Aloui.” + +She repeated the word slowly. There was a reluctant and yet fascinated +sound in her voice. + +“There is melody in the name,” he said. + +“Yes. Has he--has he ever looked in the sand for you?” + +“Once--a long time ago.” + +“May I--dare I ask if he found truth there?” + +“He found nothing for all the years that have passed since then.” + +“Nothing!” + +There was a sound of relief in her voice. + +“For those years.” + +She glanced at him and saw that once again his face had lit up into +ardour. + +“He found what is still to come?” she said. + +And he repeated: + +“He found what is still to come.” + +Then they walked on in silence till they saw the purple blossoms of +the bougainvillea clinging to the white walls of the _fumoir_. Domini +stopped on the narrow path. + +“Is he in there?” she asked almost in a whisper. + +“No doubt.” + +“Larbi was playing the first day I came here.” + +“Yes.” + +“I wish he was playing now.” + +The silence seemed to her unnaturally intense. + +“Even his love must have repose.” + +She went on a step or two till, but still from a distance, she could +look over the low plaster wall beneath the nearest window space into the +little room. + +“Yes, there he is,” she whispered. + +The Diviner was crouching on the floor with his back towards them and +his head bent down. Only his shoulders could be seen, covered with a +white gandoura. They moved perpetually but slightly. + +“What is he doing?” + +“Speaking with his ancestor.” + +“His ancestor?” + +“The sand. Aloui!” + +He called softly. The figure rose, without sound and instantly, and the +face of the Diviner smiled at them through the purple flowers. Again +Domini had the sensation that her body was a glass box in which her +thoughts, feelings and desires were ranged for this man’s inspection; +but she walked resolutely through the narrow doorway and sat down on one +of the divans. Count Anteoni followed. + +She now saw that in the centre of the room, on the ground, there was +a symmetrical pyramid of sand, and that the Diviner was gently folding +together a bag in his long and flexible fingers. + +“You see!” said the Count. + +She nodded, without speaking. The little sand heap held her eyes. She +strove to think it absurd and the man who had shaken it out a charlatan +of the desert, but she was really gripped by an odd feeling of awe, as +if she were secretly expectant of some magical demonstration. + +The Diviner squatted down once more on his haunches, stretched out his +fingers above the sand heap, looked at her and smiled. + +“La vie de Madame--I see it in the sable--la vie de Madame dans le grand +desert du Sahara.” + +His eyes seemed to rout out the secrets from every corner of her being, +and to scatter them upon the ground as the sand was scattered. + +“Dans le grand desert du Sahara,” Count Anteoni repeated, as if he loved +the music of the words. “Then there is a desert life for Madame?” + +The Diviner dropped his fingers on to the pyramid, lightly pressing the +sand down and outward. He no longer looked at Domini. The searching +and the satire slipped away from his eyes and body. He seemed to have +forgotten the two watchers and to be concentrated upon the grains of +sand. Domini noticed that the tortured expression, which had come into +his face when she met him in the street and he stared into the bag, had +returned to it. After pressing down the sand he spread the bag which +had held it at Domini’s feet, and deftly transferred the sand to it, +scattering the grains loosely over the sacking, in a sort of pattern. +Then, bending closely over them, he stared at them in silence for a +long time. His pock-marked face was set like stone. His emaciated hands, +stretched out, rested above the grains like carven things. His body +seemed entirely breathless in its absolute immobility. + +The Count stood in the doorway, still as he was, surrounded by the +motionless purple flowers. Beyond, in their serried ranks, stood the +motionless trees. No incense was burning in the little brazier to-day. +This cloistered world seemed spell-bound. + +A low murmur at last broke the silence. It came from the Diviner. He +began to talk rapidly, but as if to himself, and as he talked he moved +again, broke up with his fingers the patterns in the sand, formed fresh +ones; spirals, circles, snake-like lines, series of mounting dots +that reminded Domini of spray flung by a fountain, curves, squares and +oblongs. So swiftly was it done and undone that the sand seemed to be +endowed with life, to be explaining itself in these patterns, to be +presenting deliberate glimpses of hitherto hidden truths. And always the +voice went on, and the eyes were downcast, and the body, save for the +moving hands and arms, was absolutely motionless. + +Domini looked over the Diviner to Count Anteoni, who came gently forward +and sat down, bending his head to listen to the voice. + +“Is it Arabic?” she whispered. + +He nodded. + +“Can you understand it?” + +“Not yet. Presently it will get slower, clearer. He always begins like +this.” + +“Translate it for me.” + +“Exactly as it is?” + +“Exactly as it is.” + +“Whatever it may be?” + +“Whatever it may be.” + +He glanced at the tortured face of the Diviner and looked grave. + +“Remember you have said I am fearless,” she said. + +He answered: + +“Whatever it is you shall know it.” + +Then they were silent again. Gradually the Diviner’s voice grew clearer, +the pace of its words less rapid, but always it sounded mysterious and +inward, less like the voice of a man than the distant voice of a secret. + +“I can hear now,” whispered the Count. + +“What is he saying?” + +“He is speaking about the desert.” + +“Yes?” + +“He sees a great storm. Wait a moment!” + +The voice spoke for some seconds and ceased, and once again the Diviner +remained absolutely motionless, with his hands extended above the grains +like carven things. + +“He sees a great sand-storm, one of the most terrible that has ever +burst over the Sahara. Everything is blotted out. The desert vanishes. +Beni-Mora is hidden. It is day, yet there is a darkness like night. In +this darkness he sees a train of camels waiting by a church.” + +“A mosque?” + +“No, a church. In the church there is a sound of music. The roar of the +wind, the roar of the camels, mingles with the chanting and drowns it. +He cannot hear it any more. It is as if the desert is angry and wishes +to kill the music. In the church your life is beginning.” + +“My life?” + +“Your real life. He says that now you are fully born, that till now +there has been a veil around your soul like the veil of the womb around +a child.” + +“He says that!” + +There was a sound of deep emotion in her voice. + +“That is all. The roar of the wind from the desert has silenced the +music in the church, and all is dark.” + +The Diviner moved again, and formed fresh patterns in the sand with +feverish rapidity, and again began to speak swiftly. + +“He sees the train of camels that waited by the church starting on a +desert journey. The storm has not abated. They pass through the oasis +into the desert. He sees them going towards the south.” + +Domini leaned forward on the divan, looking at Count Anteoni above the +bent body of the Diviner. + +“By what route?” she whispered. + +“By the route which the natives call the road to Tombouctou.” + +“But--it is my journey!” + +“Upon one of the camels, in a palanquin such as the great sheikhs use to +carry their women, there are two people, protected against the storm by +curtains. They are silent, listening to the roaring of the wind. One of +them is you.” + +“Two people!” + +“Two people.” + +“But--who is the other?” + +“He cannot see. It is as if the blackness of the storm were deeper round +about the other and hid the other from him. The caravan passes on and is +lost in the desolation and the storm.” + +She said nothing, but looked down at the thin body of the Diviner +crouched close to her knees. Was this pock-marked face the face of +a prophet? Did this skin and bone envelop the soul of a seer? She no +longer wished that Larbi was playing upon his flute or felt the silence +to be unnatural. For this man had filled it with the roar of the desert +wind. And in the wind there struggled and was finally lost the sound of +voices of her Faith chanting--what? The wind was too strong. The voices +were too faint. She could not hear. + +Once more the Diviner stirred. For some minutes his fingers were busy +in the sand. But now they moved more slowly and no words came from his +lips. Domini and the Count bent low to watch what he was doing. The +look of torture upon his face increased. It was terrible, and made upon +Domini an indelible impression, for she could not help connecting it +with his vision of her future, and it suggested to her formless phantoms +of despair. She looked into the sand, as if she, too, would be able to +see what he saw and had not told, looked till she began to feel almost +hypnotised. The Diviner’s hands trembled now as they made the patterns, +and his breast heaved under his white robe. Presently he traced in the +sand a triangle and began to speak. + +The Count bent down till his ear was almost at the Diviner’s lips, +and Domini held her breath. That caravan lost in the desolation of the +desert, in the storm and the darkness--where was it? What had been its +fate? Sweat ran down over the Diviner’s face, and dropped upon his +robe, upon his hands, upon the sand, making dark spots. And the voice +whispered on huskily till she was in a fever of impatience. She saw upon +the face of the Count the Diviner’s tortured look reflected. Was it not +also on her face? A link surely bound them all together in this tiny +room, close circled by the tall trees and the intense silence. She +looked at the triangle in the sand. It was very distinct, more distinct +than the other patterns had been. What did it represent? She searched +her mind, thinking of the desert, of her life there, of man’s life in +the desert. Was it not tent-shaped? She saw it as a tent, as her tent +pitched somewhere in the waste far from the habitations of men. Now the +trembling hands were still, the voice was still, but the sweat did not +cease from dropping down upon the sand. + +“Tell me!” she murmured to the Count. + +He obeyed, seeming now to speak with an effort. + +“It is far away in the desert----” + +He paused. + +“Yes? Yes?” + +“Very far away in a sandy place. There are immense dunes, immense white +dunes of sand on every side, like mountains. Near at hand there is a +gleam of many fires. They are lit in the market-place of a desert city. +Among the dunes, with camels picketed behind it, there is a tent----” + +She pointed to the triangle traced upon the sand. + +“I knew it,” she whispered. “It is my tent.” + +“He sees you there, as he saw you in the palanquin. But now it is night +and you are quite alone. You are not asleep. Something keeps you awake. +You are excited. You go out of the tent upon the dunes and look towards +the fires of the city. He hears the jackals howling all around you, and +sees the skeletons of dead camels white under the moon.” + +She shuddered in spite of herself. + +“There is something tremendous in your soul. He says it is as if all the +date palms of the desert bore their fruit together, and in all the +dry places, where men and camels have died of thirst in bygone years, +running springs burst forth, and as if the sand were covered with +millions of golden flowers big as the flower of the aloe.” + +“But then it is joy, it must be joy!” + +“He says it is great joy.” + +“Then why does he look like that, breathe like that?” + +She indicated the Diviner, who was trembling where he crouched, and +breathing heavily, and always sweating like one in agony. + +“There is more,” said the Count, slowly. + +“Tell me.” + +“You stand alone upon the dunes and you look towards the city. He hears +the tomtoms beating, and distant cries as if there were a fantasia. Then +he sees a figure among the dunes coming towards you.” + +“Who is it?” she asked. + +He did not answer. But she did not wish him to answer. She had spoken +without meaning to speak. + +“You watch this figure. It comes to you, walking heavily.” + +“Walking heavily?” + +“That’s what he says. The dates shrivel on the palms, the streams dry +up, the flowers droop and die in the sand. In the city the tomtoms faint +away and the red fires fade away. All is dark and silent. And then he +sees--” + +“Wait!” Domini said almost sharply. + +He sat looking at her. She pressed her hands together. In her dark face, +with its heavy eyebrows and strong, generous mouth, a contest showed, a +struggle between some quick desire and some more sluggish but determined +reluctance. In a moment she spoke again. + +“I won’t hear anything more, please.” + +“But you said ‘whatever it may be.’” + +“Yes. But I won’t hear anything more.” + +She spoke very quietly, with determination. + +The Diviner was beginning to move his hands again, to make fresh +patterns in the sand, to speak swiftly once more. + +“Shall I stop him?” + +“Please.” + +“Then would you mind going out into the garden? I will join you in a +moment. Take care not to disturb him.” + +She got up with precaution, held her skirts together with her hands, and +slipped softly out on to the garden path. For a moment she was inclined +to wait there, to look back and see what was happening in the _fumoir_. +But she resisted her inclination, and walked on slowly till she reached +the bench where she had sat an hour before with Androvsky. There she sat +down and waited. In a few minutes she saw the Count coming towards her +alone. His face was very grave, but lightened with a slight smile when +he saw her. + +“He has gone?” she asked. + +“Yes.” + +He was about to sit beside her, but she said quickly: + +“Would you mind going back to the jamelon tree?” + +“Where we sat this morning?” + +“Was it only--yes.” + +“Certainly.” + +“Oh; but you are going away to-morrow! You have a lot to do probably?” + +“Nothing. My men will arrange everything.” + +She got up, and they walked in silence till they saw once more the +immense spaces of the desert bathed in the afternoon sun. As Domini +looked at them again she knew that their wonder, their meaning, had +increased for her. The steady crescendo that was beginning almost to +frighten her was maintained--the crescendo of the voice of the Sahara. +To what tremendous demonstration was this crescendo tending, to +what ultimate glory or terror? She felt that her soul was as yet too +undeveloped to conceive. The Diviner had been right. There was a veil +around it, like the veil of the womb that hides the unborn child. + +Under the jamelon tree she sat down once more. + +“May--I light a cigar?” the Count asked. + +“Do.” + +He struck a match, lit a cigar, and sat down on her left, by the garden +wall. + +“Tell me frankly,” he said. “Do you wish to talk or to be silent?” + +“I wish to speak to you.” + +“I am sorry now I asked you to test Aloui’s powers.” + +“Why?” + +“Because I fear they made an unpleasant impression upon you.” + +“That was not why I made you stop him.” + +“No?” + +“You don’t understand me. I was not afraid. I can only say that, but I +can’t give you my reason for stopping him. I wished to tell you that it +was not fear.” + +“I believe--I know that you are fearless,” he said with an unusual +warmth. “You are sure that I don’t understand you?” + +“Remember the refrain of the Freed Negroes’ song!” + +“Ah, yes--those black fellows. But I know something of you, Miss +Enfilden--yes, I do.” + +“I would rather you did--you and your garden.” + +“And--some day--I should like you to know a little more of me.” + +“Thank you. When will you come back?” + +“I can’t tell. But you are not leaving?” + +“Not yet.” + +The idea of leaving Beni-Mora troubled her heart strangely. + +“No, I am too happy here.” + +“Are you really happy?” + +“At any rate I am happier than I have ever been before.” + +“You are on the verge.” + +He was looking at her with eyes in which there was tenderness, but +suddenly they flashed fire, and he exclaimed: + +“My desert land must not bring you despair.” + +She was startled by his sudden vehemence. + +“What I would not hear!” she said. “You know it!” + +“It is not my fault. I am ready to tell it to you.” + +“No. But do you believe it? Do you believe that man can read the future +in the sand? How can it be?” + +“How can a thousand things be? How can these desert men stand in fire, +with their naked feet set on burning brands, with burning brands under +their armpits, and not be burned? How can they pierce themselves with +skewers and cut themselves with knives and no blood flow? But I told you +the first day I met you; the desert always makes me the same gift when I +return to it.” + +“What gift?” + +“The gift of belief.” + +“Then you do believe in that man--Aloui?” + +“Do you?” + +“I can only say that it seemed to me as if it might be divination. If I +had not felt that I should not have stopped it. I should have treated it +as a game.” + +“It impressed you as it impresses me. Well, for both of us the desert +has gifts. Let us accept them fearlessly. It is the will of Allah.” + +She remembered her vision of the pale procession. Would she walk in it +at last? + +“You are as fatalistic as an Arab,” she said. + +“And you?” + +“I!” she answered simply. “I believe that I am in the hands of God, and +I know that perfect love can never harm me.” + +After a moment he said, gently: + +“Miss Enfilden, I want to ask something of you.” + +“Yes?” + +“Will you make a sacrifice? To-morrow I start at dawn. Will you be here +to wish me God speed on my journey?” + +“Of course I will.” + +“It will be good of you. I shall value it from you. And--and when--if +you ever make your long journey on that road--the route to the south--I +will wish you Allah’s blessing in the Garden of Allah.” + +He spoke with solemnity, almost with passion, and she felt the tears +very near her eyes. Then they sat in silence, looking out over the +desert. + +And she heard its voices calling. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +On the following morning, before dawn, Domini awoke, stirred from sleep +by her anxiety, persistent even in what seemed unconsciousness, to +speed Count Anteoni upon his desert journey. She did not know why he +was going, but she felt that some great issue in his life hung upon +the accomplishment of the purpose with which he set out, and without +affectation she ardently desired that accomplishment. As soon as she +awoke she lit a candle and glanced at her watch. She knew by the hour +that the dawn was near, and she got up at once and made her toilet. She +had told Batouch to be at the hotel door before sunrise to accompany her +to the garden, and she wondered if he were below. A stillness as of deep +night prevailed in the house, making her movements, while she dressed, +seem unnaturally loud. When she put on her hat, and looked into the +glass to see if it were just at the right angle, she thought her face, +always white, was haggard. This departure made her a little sad. It +suggested to her the instability of circumstance, the perpetual change +that occurs in life. The going of her kind host made her own going more +possible than before, even more likely. Some words from the Bible kept +on running through her brain “Here have we no continuing city.” In the +silent darkness their cadence held an ineffable melancholy. Her mind +heard them as the ear, in a pathetic moment, hears sometimes a distant +strain of music wailing like a phantom through the invisible. And the +everlasting journeying of all created things oppressed her heart. + +When she had buttoned her jacket and drawn on her gloves she went to the +French window and pushed back the shutters. A wan semi-darkness looked +in upon her. Again she wondered whether Batouch had come. It seemed to +her unlikely. She could not imagine that anyone in all the world was up +and purposeful but herself. This hour seemed created as a curtain for +unconsciousness. Very softly she stepped out upon the verandah and +looked over the parapet. She could see the white road, mysteriously +white, below. It was deserted. She leaned down. + +“Batouch!” she called softly. “Batouch!” + +He might be hidden under the arcade, sleeping in his burnous. + +“Batouch! Batouch!” + +No answer came. She stood by the parapet, waiting and looking down the +road. + +All the stars had faded, yet there was no suggestion of the sun. +She faced an unrelenting austerity. For a moment she thought of this +atmosphere, this dense stillness, this gravity of vague and shadowy +trees, as the environment of those who had erred, of the lost spirits of +men who had died in mortal sin. + +Almost she expected to see the desperate shade of her dead father pass +between the black stems of the palm trees, vanish into the grey mantle +that wrapped the hidden world. + +“Batouch! Batouch!” + +He was not there. That was certain. She resolved to set out alone and +went back into her bedroom to get her revolver. When she came out again +with it in her hand Androvsky was standing on the verandah just +outside her window. He took off his hat and looked from her face to the +revolver. She was startled by his appearance, for she had not heard his +step, and had been companioned by a sense of irreparable solitude. This +was the first time she had seen him since he vanished from the garden on +the previous day. + +“You are going out, Madame?” he said. + +“Yes.” + +“Not alone?” + +“I believe so. Unless I find Batouch below.” + +She slipped the revolver into the pocket of the loose coat she wore. + +“But it is dark.” + +“It will be day very soon. Look!” + +She pointed towards the east, where a light, delicate and mysterious as +the distant lights in the opal, was gently pushing in the sky. + +“You ought not to go alone.” + +“Unless Batouch is there I must. I have given a promise and I must keep +it. There is no danger.” + +He hesitated, looking at her with an anxious, almost a suspicious, +expression. + +“Good-bye, Monsieur Androvsky.” + +She went towards the staircase. He followed her quickly to the head of +it. + +“Don’t trouble to come down with me.” + +“If--if Batouch is not there--might not I guard you, Madame?” She +remembered the Count’s words and answered: + +“Let me tell you where I am going. I am going to say good-bye to Count +Anteoni before he starts for his desert journey.” + +Androvsky stood there without a word. + +“Now, do you care to come if I don’t find Batouch? Mind, I’m not the +least afraid.” + +“Perhaps he is there--if you told him.” He muttered the words. His +whole manner had changed. Now he looked more than suspicious--cloudy and +fierce. + +“Possibly.” + +She began to descend the stairs. He did not follow her, but stood +looking after her. When she reached the arcade it was deserted. Batouch +had forgotten or had overslept himself. She could have walked on under +the roof that was the floor of the verandah, but instead she stepped out +into the road. Androvsky was above her by the parapet. She glanced up +and said: + +“He is not here, but it is of no consequence. Dawn is breaking. _Au +revoir_!” + +Slowly he took off his hat. As she went away down the road he was +holding it in his hand, looking after her. + +“He does not like the Count,” she thought. + +At the corner she turned into the street where the sand-diviner had +his bazaar, and as she neared his door she was aware of a certain +trepidation. She did not want to see those piercing eyes looking at her +in the semi-darkness, and she hurried her steps. But her anxiety was +needless. All the doors were shut, all the inhabitants doubtless wrapped +in sleep. Yet, when she had gained the end of the street, she looked +back, half expecting to see an apparition of a thin figure, a tortured +face, to hear a voice, like a goblin’s voice, calling after her. Midway +down the street there was a man coming slowly behind her. For a moment +she thought it was the Diviner in pursuit, but something in the gait +soon showed her her mistake. There was a heaviness in the movement +of this man quite unlike the lithe and serpentine agility of Aloui. +Although she could not see the face, or even distinguish the costume in +the morning twilight, she knew it for Androvsky. From a distance he was +watching over her. She did not hesitate, but walked on quickly again. +She did not wish him to know that she had seen him. When she came to the +long road that skirted the desert she met the breeze of dawn that blows +out of the east across the flats, and drank in its celestial purity. +Between the palms, far away towards Sidi-Zerzour, above the long indigo +line of the Sahara, there rose a curve of deep red gold. The sun was +coming up to take possession of his waiting world. She longed to ride +out to meet him, to give him a passionate welcome in the sand, and +the opening words of the Egyptian “Adoration of the Sun by the Perfect +Souls” came to her lips: + +“Hommage a Toi. Dieu Soleil. Seigneur du Ciel, Roi sur la Terre! Lion du +Soir! Grande Ame divine, vivante a toujours.” + +Why had she not ordered her horse to ride a little way with Count +Anteoni? She might have pretended that she was starting on her great +journey. + +The red gold curve became a semi-circle of burnished glory resting upon +the deep blue, then a full circle that detached itself majestically and +mounted calmly up the cloudless sky. A stream of light poured into the +oasis, and Domini, who had paused for a moment in silent worship, went +on swiftly through the negro village which was all astir, and down the +track to the white villa. + +She did not glance round again to see whether Androvsky was still +following her, for, since the sun had come, she had the confident +sensation that he was no longer near. + +He had surely given her into the guardianship of the sun. + +The door of the garden stood wide open, and, as she entered, she saw +three magnificent horses prancing upon the sweep of sand in the midst +of a little group of Arabs. Smain greeted her with graceful warmth and +begged her to follow him to the _fumoir_, where the Count was waiting +for her. + +“It is good of you!” the Count said, meeting her in the doorway. “I +relied on you, you see!” + +Breakfast for two was scattered upon the little smoking-tables; coffee, +eggs, rolls, fruit, sweetmeats. And everywhere sprigs of orange blossom +filled the cool air with delicate sweetness. + +“How delicious!” she exclaimed. “A breakfast here! But--no, not there!” + +“Why not?” + +“That is exactly where he was.” + +“Aloui! How superstitious you are!” + +He moved her table. She sat down near the doorway and poured out coffee +for them both. + +“You look workmanlike.” + +She glanced at his riding-dress and long whip. Smoked glasses hung +across his chest by a thin cord. + +“I shall have some hard riding, but I’m tough, though you may not think +it. I’ve covered many a league of my friend in bygone years.” + +He tapped an eggshell smartly, and began to eat with appetite. + +“How gravely gay you are!” she said, lifting the steaming coffee to her +lips. He smiled. + +“Yes. To-day I am happy, as a pious man is happy when after a long +illness, he goes once more to church.” + +“The desert seems to be everything to you.” + +“I feel that I am going out to freedom, to more than freedom.” He +stretched out his arms above his head. + +“Yet you have stayed always in this garden all these days.” + +“I was waiting for my summons, as you will wait for yours.” + +“What summons could I have?” + +“It will come!” he said with conviction. “It will come!” She was silent, +thinking of the diviner’s vision in the sand, of the caravan of camels +disappearing in the storm towards the south. Presently she asked him: + +“Are you ever coming back?” + +He looked at her in surprise, then laughed. + +“Of course. What are you thinking?” + +“That perhaps you will not come back, that perhaps the desert will keep +you.” + +“And my garden?” + +She looked out across the tiny sand-path and the running rill of water +to the great trees stirred by the cool breeze of dawn. + +“It would miss you.” + +After a moment, during which his bright eyes followed hers, he said: + +“Do you know, I have a great belief in the intuitions of good women?” + +“Yes?” + +“An almost fanatical belief. Will you answer me a question at once, +without consideration, without any time for thought?” + +“If you ask me to.” + +“I do ask you.” + +“Then----?” + +“Do you see me in this garden any more?” + +A voice answered: + +“No.” + +It was her own, yet it seemed another’s voice, with which she had +nothing to do. + +A great feeling of sorrow swept over her as she heard it. + +“Do come back!” she said. + +The Count had got up. The brightness of his eyes was obscured. + +“If not here, we shall meet again,” he said slowly. + +“Where?” + +“In the desert.” + +“Did the Diviner--? No, don’t tell me.” + +She got up too. + +“It is time for you to start?” + +“Nearly.” + +A sort of constraint had settled over them. She felt it painfully for a +moment. Did it proceed from something in his mind or in hers? She could +not tell. They walked slowly down one of the little paths and presently +found themselves before the room in which sat the purple dog. + +“If I am never to come back I must say good-bye to him,” the Count said. + +“But you will come back.” + +“That voice said ‘No.’” + +“It was a lying voice.” + +“Perhaps.” + +They looked in at the window and met the ferocious eyes of the dog. + +“And if I never come back will he bay the moon for his old master?” said +the Count with a whimsical, yet sad, smile. “I put him here. And will +these trees, many of which I planted, whisper a regret? Absurd, isn’t +it, Miss Enfilden? I never can feel that the growing things in my garden +do not know me as I know them.” + +“Someone will regret you if--” + +“Will you? Will you really?” + +“Yes.” + +“I believe it.” + +He looked at her. She could see, by the expression of his eyes, that he +was on the point of saying something, but was held back by some fighting +sensation, perhaps by some reserve. + +“What is it?” + +“May I speak frankly to you without offence?” he asked. “I am really +rather old, you know.” + +“Do speak.” + +“That guest of mine yesterday--” + +“Monsieur Androvsky?” + +“Yes. He interested me enormously, profoundly.” + +“Really! Yet he was at his worst yesterday.” + +“Perhaps that was why. At any rate, he interested me more than any man I +have seen for years. But--” He paused, looking in at the little chamber +where the dog kept guard. + +“But my interest was complicated by a feeling that I was face to face +with a human being who was at odds with life, with himself, even with +his Creator--a man who had done what the Arabs never do--defied Allah in +Allah’s garden.” + +“Oh!” + +She uttered a little exclamation of pain. It seemed to her that he was +gathering up and was expressing scattered, half formless thoughts of +hers. + +“You know,” he continued, looking more steadily into the room of the +dog, “that in Algeria there is a floating population composed of many +mixed elements. I could tell you strange stories of tragedies that have +occurred in this land, even here in Beni-Mora, tragedies of violence, of +greed, of--tragedies that were not brought about by Arabs.” + +He turned suddenly and looked right into her eyes. + +“But why am I saying all this?” he suddenly exclaimed. “What is written +is written, and such women as you are guarded.” + +“Guarded? By whom?” + +“By their own souls.” + +“I am not afraid,” she said quietly. + +“Need you tell me that? Miss Enfilden, I scarcely know why I have said +even as little as I have said. For I am, as you know, a fatalist. But +certain people, very few, so awaken our regard that they make us forget +our own convictions, and might even lead us to try to tamper with the +designs of the Almighty. Whatever is to be for you, you will be able to +endure. That I know. Why should I, or anyone, seek to know more for you? +But still there are moments in which the bravest want a human hand to +help them, a human voice to comfort them. In the desert, wherever I may +be--and I shall tell you--I am at your service.” + +“Thank you,” she said simply. + +She gave him her hand. He held it almost as a father or a guardian might +have held it. + +“And this garden is yours day and night--Smain knows.” + +“Thank you,” she said again. + +The shrill whinnying of a horse came to them from a distance. Their +hands fell apart. Count Anteoni looked round him slowly at the great +cocoanut tree, at the shaggy grass of the lawn, at the tall bamboos +and the drooping mulberry trees. She saw that he was taking a silent +farewell of them. + +“This was a waste,” he said at last with a half-stifled sigh. “I turned +it into a little Eden and now I am leaving it.” + +“For a time.” + +“And if it were for ever? Well, the great thing is to let the waste +within one be turned into an Eden, if that is possible. And yet how many +human beings strive against the great Gardener. At any rate I will not +be one of them.” + +“And I will not be one.” + +“Shall we say good-bye here?” + +“No. Let us say it from the wall, and let me see you ride away into the +desert.” + +She had forgotten for the moment that his route was the road through +the oasis. He did not remind her of it. It was easy to ride across the +desert and join the route where it came out from the last palms. + +“So be it. Will you go to the wall then?” + +He touched her hand again and walked away towards the villa, slowly on +the pale silver of the sand. When his figure was hidden by the trunks of +the trees Domini made her way to the wide parapet. She sat down on one +of the tiny seats cut in it, leaned her cheek in her hand and waited. +The sun was gathering strength, but the air was still deliciously cool, +almost cold, and the desert had not yet put on its aspect of fiery +desolation. It looked dreamlike and romantic, not only in its distances, +but near at hand. There must surely be dew, she fancied, in the Garden +of Allah. She could see no one travelling in it, only some far away +camels grazing. In the dawn the desert was the home of the breeze, of +gentle sunbeams and of liberty. Presently she heard the noise of +horses cantering near at hand, and Count Anteoni, followed by two Arab +attendants, came round the bend of the wall and drew up beneath her. He +rode on a high red Arab saddle, and a richly-ornamented gun was slung in +an embroidered case behind him on the right-hand side. A broad and soft +brown hat kept the sun from his forehead. The two attendants rode on a +few paces and waited in the shadow of the wall. + +“Don’t you wish you were going out?” he said. “Out into that?” And he +pointed with his whip towards the dreamlike blue of the far horizon. She +leaned over, looking down at him and at his horse, which fidgeted and +arched his white neck and dropped foam from his black flexible lips. + +“No,” she answered after a moment of thought. “I must speak the truth, +you know.” + +“To me, always.” + +“I feel that you were right, that my summons has not yet come to me.” + +“And when it comes?” + +“I shall obey it without fear, even if I go in the storm and the +darkness.” + +He glanced at the radiant sky, at the golden beams slanting down upon +the palms. + +“The Coran says: ‘The fate of every man have We bound about his neck.’ +May yours be as serene, as beautiful, as a string of pearls.” + +“But I have never cared to wear pearls,” she answered. + +“No? What are your stones?” + +“Rubies.” + +“Blood! No others?” + +“Sapphires.” + +“The sky at night.” + +“And opals.” + +“Fires gleaming across the white of moonlit dunes. Do you remember?” + +“I remember.” + +“And you do not ask me for the end of the Diviner’s vision even now?” + +“No.” + +She hesitated for an instant. Then she added: + +“I will tell you why. It seemed to me that there was another’s fate in +it as well as my own, and that to hear would be to intrude, perhaps, +upon another’s secrets.” + +“That was your reason?” + +“My only reason.” And then she added, repeating consciously Androvsky’s +words: “I think there are things that should be let alone.” + +“Perhaps you are right.” + +A stronger breath of the cool wind came over the flats, and all the palm +trees rustled. Through the garden there was a delicate stir of life. + +“My children are murmuring farewell,” said the Count. “I hear them. It +is time! Good-bye, Miss Enfilden--my friend, if I may call you so. +May Allah have you in his keeping, and when your summons comes, obey +it--alone.” + +As he said the last word his grating voice dropped to a deep note of +earnest, almost solemn, gravity. Then he lifted his hat, touched his +horse with his heel, and galloped away into the sun. + +Domini watched the three riders till they were only specks on the +surface of the desert. Then they became one with it, and were lost in +the dreamlike radiance of the morning. But she did not move. She sat +with her eyes fixed up on the blue horizon. A great loneliness had +entered into her spirit. Till Count Anteoni had gone she did not realise +how much she had become accustomed to his friendship, how near their +sympathies had been. But directly those tiny, moving specks became one +with the desert she knew that a gap had opened in her life. It might be +small, but it seemed dark and deep. For the first time the desert, which +she had hitherto regarded as a giver, had taken something from her. And +now, as she sat looking at it, while the sun grew stronger and the light +more brilliant, while the mountains gradually assumed a harsher aspect, +and the details of things, in the dawn so delicately clear, became, +as it were, more piercing in their sharpness, she realised a new and +terrible aspect of it. That which has the power to bestow has another +power. She had seen the great procession of those who had received gifts +of the desert’s hands. Would she some day, or in the night when the sky +was like a sapphire, see the procession of those from whom the desert +had taken away perhaps their dreams, perhaps their hopes, perhaps even +all that they passionately loved and had desperately clung to? + +And in which of the two processions would she walk? + +She got up with a sigh. The garden had become tragic to her for the +moment, full of a brooding melancholy. As she turned to leave it she +resolved to go to the priest. She had never yet entered his house. Just +then she wanted to speak to someone with whom she could be as a little +child, to whom she could liberate some part of her spirit simply, +certain of a simple, yet not foolish, reception of it by one to whom she +could look up. She desired to be not with the friend so much as with +the spiritual director. Something was alive within her, something of +distress, almost of apprehension, which needed the soothing hand, not of +human love, but of religion. + +When she reached the priest’s house Beni-Mora was astir with a pleasant +bustle of life. The military note pealed through its symphony. Spahis +were galloping along the white roads. Tirailleurs went by bearing +despatches. Zouaves stood under the palms, staring calmly at the +morning, their sunburned hands loosely clasped upon muskets whose butts +rested in the sand. But Domini scarcely noticed the brilliant gaiety of +the life about her. She was preoccupied, even sad. Yet, as she entered +the little garden of the priest, and tapped gently at his door, a +sensation of hope sprang up in her heart, born of the sustaining power +of her religion. + +An Arab boy answered her knock, said that the Father was in and led her +at once to a small, plainly-furnished room, with whitewashed walls, and +a window opening on to an enclosure at the back, where several large +palm trees reared their tufted heads above the smoothly-raked sand. In +a moment the priest came in, smiling with pleasure and holding out his +hands in welcome. + +“Father,” she said at once, “I am come to have a little talk with you. +Have you a few moments to give me?” + +“Sit down, my child,” he said. + +He drew forward a straw chair for her and took one opposite. + +“You are not in trouble?” + +“I don’t know why I should be, but----” + +She was silent for a moment. Then she said: + +“I want to tell you a little about my life.” + +He looked at her kindly without a word. + +His eyes were an invitation for her to speak, and, without further +invitation, in as few and simple words as possible, she told him why +she had come to Beni-Mora, and something of her parents’ tragedy and its +effect upon her. + +“I wanted to renew my heart, to find myself,” she said. “My life has +been cold, careless. I never lost my faith, but I almost forgot that I +had it. I made little use of it. I let it rust.” + +“Many do that, but a time comes when they feel that the great weapon +with which alone we can fight the sorrows and dangers of the world must +be kept bright, or it may fail us in the hour of need.” + +“Yes.” + +“And this is an hour of need for you. But, indeed, is there ever an hour +that is not?” + +“I feel to-day, I----” + +She stopped, suddenly conscious of the vagueness of her apprehension. +It made her position difficult, speech hard for her. She felt that she +wanted something, yet scarcely knew what, or exactly why she had come. + +“I have been saying good-bye to Count Anteoni,” she resumed. “He has +gone on a desert journey.” + +“For long?” + +“I don’t know, but I feel that it will be.” + +“He comes and goes very suddenly. Often he is here and I do not even +know it.” + +“He is a strange man, but I think he is a good man.” + +As she spoke about him she began to realise that something in him had +roused the desire in her to come to the priest. + +“And he sees far,” she added. + +She looked steadily at the priest, who was waiting quietly to hear more. +She was glad he did not trouble her mind just then by trying to help her +to go on, to be explicit. + +“I came here to find peace,” she continued. “And I thought I had found +it. I thought so till to-day.” + +“We only find peace in one place, and only there by our own will +according with God’s.” + +“You mean within ourselves.” + +“Is it not so?” + +“Yes. Then I was foolish to travel in search of it.” + +“I would not say that. Place assists the heart, I think, and the way of +life. I thought so once.” + +“When you wished to be a monk?” + +A deep sadness came into his eyes. + +“Yes,” he said. “And even now I find it very difficult to say, ‘It was +not thy will, and so it is not mine.’ But would you care to tell me if +anything has occurred recently to trouble you?” + +“Something has occurred, Father.” + +More excitement came into her face and manner. + +“Do you think,” she went on, “that it is right to try to avoid what life +seems to be bringing to one, to seek shelter from--from the storm? Don’t +monks do that? Please forgive me if--” + +“Sincerity will not hurt me,” he interrupted quietly. “If it did I +should indeed be unworthy of my calling. Perhaps it is not right for +all. Perhaps that is why I am here instead of--” + +“Ah, but I remember, you wanted to be one of the _freres armes_.” + +“That was my first hope. But you”--very simply he turned from his +troubles to hers--“you are hesitating, are you not, between two +courses?” + +“I scarcely know. But I want you to tell me. Ought we not always to +think of others more than of ourselves?” + +“So long as we take care not to put ourselves in too great danger. The +soul should be brave, but not foolhardy.” + +His voice had changed, had become stronger, even a little stern. + +“There are risks that no good Christian ought to run: it is not +cowardice, it is wisdom that avoids the Evil One. I have known people +who seemed almost to think it was their mission to convert the fallen +angels. They confused their powers with the powers that belong to God +only.” + +“Yes, but--it is so difficult to--if a human being were possessed by the +devil, would not you try--would you not go near to that person?” + +“If I had prayed, and been told that any power was given me to do what +Christ did.” + +“To cast out--yes, I know. But sometimes that power is given--even to +women.” + +“Perhaps especially to them. I think the devil has more fear of a good +mother than of many saints.” + +Domini realised almost with agony in that moment how her own soul had +been stripped of a precious armour. A feeling of bitter helplessness +took possession of her, and of contempt for what she now suddenly looked +upon as foolish pride. The priest saw that his words had hurt her, yet +he did not just then try to pour balm upon the wound. + +“You came to me to-day as to a spiritual director, did you not?” he +asked. + +“Yes, Father.” + +“Yet you do not wish to be frank with me. Isn’t that true?” + +There was a piercing look in the eyes he fixed upon her. + +“Yes,” she answered bravely. + +“Why? Cannot you--at least will not you tell me?” + +A similar reason to that which had caused her to refuse to hear what the +Diviner had seen in the sand caused her now to answer: + +“There is something I cannot say. I am sure I am right not to say it.” + +“Do you wish me to speak frankly to you, my child?” + +“Yes, you may.” + +“You have told me enough of your past life to make me feel sure that for +some time to come you ought to be very careful in regard to your faith. +By the mercy of God you have been preserved from the greatest of all +dangers--the danger of losing your belief in the teachings of the only +true Church. You have come here to renew your faith which, not killed, +has been stricken, reduced, may I not say? to a sort of invalidism. Are +you sure you are in a condition yet to help”--he hesitated obviously, +then slowly--“others? There are periods in which one cannot do what +one may be able to do in the far future. The convalescent who is just +tottering in the new attempt to walk is not wise enough to lend an arm +to another. To do so may seem nobly unselfish, but is it not folly? +And then, my child, we ought to be scrupulously aware what is our +real motive for wishing to assist another. Is it of God, or is it of +ourselves? Is it a personal desire to increase a perhaps unworthy, a +worldly happiness? Egoism is a parent of many children, and often they +do not recognise their father.” + +Just for a moment Domini felt a heat of anger rise within her. She did +not express it, and did not know that she had shown a sign of it till +she heard Father Roubier say: + +“If you knew how often I have found that what for a moment I believed +to be my noblest aspirations had sprung from a tiny, hidden seed of +egoism!” + +At once her anger died away. + +“That is terribly true,” she said. “Of us all, I mean.” + +She got up. + +“You are going?” + +“Yes. I want to think something out. You have made me want to. I must do +it. Perhaps I’ll come again.” + +“Do. I want to help you if I can.” + +There was such a heartfelt sound in his voice that impulsively she held +out her hand. + +“I know you do. Perhaps you will be able to.” + +But even as she said the last words doubt crept into her mind, even into +her voice. + +The priest came to his gate to see Domini off, and directly she had +left him she noticed that Androvsky was under the arcade and had been +a witness of their parting. As she went past him and into the hotel she +saw that he looked greatly disturbed and excited. His face was lit up by +the now fiery glare of the sun, and when, in passing, she nodded to +him, and he took off his hat, he cast at her a glance that was like an +accusation. As soon as she gained the verandah she heard his heavy step +upon the stair. For a moment she hesitated. Should she go into her room +and so avoid him, or remain and let him speak to her? She knew that he +was following her with that purpose. Her mind was almost instantly made +up. She crossed the verandah and sat down in the low chair that was +always placed outside her French window. Androvsky followed her and +stood beside her. He did not say anything for a moment, nor did she. +Then he spoke with a sort of passionate attempt to sound careless and +indifferent. + +“Monsieur Anteoni has gone, I suppose, Madame?” + +“Yes, he has gone. I reached the garden safely, you see.” + +“Batouch came later. He was much ashamed when he found you had gone. I +believe he is afraid, and is hiding himself till your anger shall have +passed away.” + +She laughed. + +“Batouch could not easily make me angry. I am not like you, Monsieur +Androvsky.” + +Her sudden challenge startled him, as she had meant it should. He moved +quickly, as at an unexpected touch. + +“I, Madame?” + +“Yes; I think you are very often angry. I think you are angry now.” + +His face was flooded with red. + +“Why should I be angry?” he stammered, like a man completely taken +aback. + +“How can I tell? But, as I came in just now, you looked at me as if you +wanted to punish me.” + +“I--I am afraid--it seems that my face says a great deal that--that--” + +“Your lips would not choose to say. Well, it does. Why are you angry +with me?” She gazed at him mercilessly, studying the trouble of his +face. The combative part of her nature had been roused by the glance +he had cast at her. What right had he, had any man, to look at her like +that? + +Her blunt directness lashed him back into the firmness he had lost. +She felt in a moment that there was a fighting capacity in him equal, +perhaps superior, to her own. + +“When I saw you come from the priest’s house, Madame, I felt as if you +had been there speaking about me--about my conduct of yesterday.” + +“Indeed! Why should I do that?” + +“I thought as you had kindly wished me to come--” + +He stopped. + +“Well?” she said, in rather a hard voice. + +“Madame, I don’t know what I thought, what I think--only I cannot bear +that you should apologise for any conduct of mine. Indeed, I cannot bear +it.” + +He looked fearfully excited and moved two or three steps away, then +returned. + +“Were you doing that?” he asked. “Were you, Madame?” + +“I never mentioned your name to Father Roubier, nor did he to me,” she +answered. + +For a moment he looked relieved, then a sudden suspicion seemed to +strike him. + +“But without mentioning my name?” he said. + +“You wish to accuse me of quibbling, of insincerity, then!” she +exclaimed with a heat almost equal to his own. + +“No, Madame, no! Madame, I--I have suffered much. I am suspicious of +everybody. Forgive me, forgive me!” + +He spoke almost with distraction. In his manner there was something +desperate. + +“I am sure you have suffered,” she said more gently, yet with a certain +inflexibility at which she herself wondered, yet which she could not +control. “You will always suffer if you cannot govern yourself. You will +make people dislike you, be suspicious of you.” + +“Suspicious! Who is suspicious of me?” he asked sharply. “Who has any +right to be suspicious of me?” + +She looked up and fancied that, for an instant, she saw something as +ugly as terror in his eyes. + +“Surely you know that people don’t ask permission to be suspicious of +their fellow-men?” she said. + +“No one here has any right to consider me or my actions,” he said, +fierceness blazing out of him. “I am a free man, and can do as I will. +No one has any right--no one!” + +Domini felt as if the words were meant for her, as if he had struck +her. She was so angry that she did not trust herself to speak, and +instinctively she put her hand up to her breast, as a woman might who +had received a blow. She touched something small and hard that was +hidden beneath her gown. It was the little wooden crucifix Androvsky had +thrown into the stream at Sidi-Zerzour. As she realised that her anger +died. She was humbled and ashamed. What was her religion if, at a word, +she could be stirred to such a feeling of passion? + +“I, at least, am not suspicious of you,” she said, choosing the very +words that were most difficult for her to say just then. “And Father +Roubier--if you included him--is too fine-hearted to cherish unworthy +suspicions of anyone.” + +She got up. Her voice was full of a subdued, but strong, emotion. + +“Oh, Monsieur Androvsky!” she said. “Do go over and see him. Make +friends with him. Never mind yesterday. I want you to be friends with +him, with everyone here. Let us make Beni-Mora a place of peace and good +will.” + +Then she went across the verandah quickly to her room, and passed in, +closing the window behind her. + +_Dejeuner_ was brought into her sitting-room. She ate it in solitude, +and late in the afternoon she went out on the verandah. She had made +up her mind to spend an hour in the church. She had told Father Roubier +that she wanted to think something out. Since she had left him the +burden upon her mind had become heavier, and she longed to be alone in +the twilight near the altar. Perhaps she might be able to cast down the +burden there. In the verandah she stood for a moment and thought how +wonderful was the difference between dawn and sunset in this land. The +gardens, that had looked like a place of departed and unhappy spirits +when she rose that day, were now bathed in the luminous rays of the +declining sun, were alive with the softly-calling voices of children, +quivered with romance, with a dreamlike, golden charm. The stillness +of the evening was intense, enclosing the children’s voices, which +presently died away; but while she was marvelling at it she was +disturbed by a sharp noise of knocking. She looked in the direction from +which it came and saw Androvsky standing before the priest’s door. As +she looked, the door was opened by the Arab boy and Androvsky went in. + +Then she did not think of the gardens any more. With a radiant +expression in her eyes she went down and crossed over to the church. It +was empty. She went softly to a _prie-dieu_ near the altar, knelt down +and covered her eyes with her hands. + +At first she did not pray, or even think consciously, but just rested in +the attitude which always seems to bring humanity nearest its God. +And, almost immediately, she began to feel a quietude of spirit, as +if something delicate descended upon her, and lay lightly about her, +shrouding her from the troubles of the world. How sweet it was to have +the faith that brings with it such tender protection, to have the trust +that keeps alive through the swift passage of the years the spirit of +the little child. How sweet it was to be able to rest. There was at this +moment a sensation of deep joy within her. It grew in the silence of +the church, and, as it grew, brought with it presently a growing +consciousness of the lives beyond those walls, of other spirits capable +of suffering, of conflict, and of peace, not far away; till she knew +that this present blessing of happiness came to her, not only from +the scarce-realised thought of God, but also from the scarce-realised +thought of man. + +Close by, divided from her only by a little masonry, a few feet of sand, +a few palm trees, Androvsky was with the priest. + +Still kneeling, with her face between her hands, Domini began to think +and pray. The memory of her petition to Notre Dame de la Garde came back +to her. Before she knew Africa she had prayed for men wandering, and +perhaps unhappy, there, for men whom she would probably never see again, +would never know. And now that she was growing familiar with this land, +divined something of its wonders and its dangers, she prayed for a man +in it whom she did not know, who was very near to her making a sacrifice +of his prejudices, perhaps of his fears, at her desire. She prayed for +Androvsky without words, making of her feelings of gratitude to him a +prayer, and presently, in the darkness framed by her hands, she seemed +to see Liberty once more, as in the shadows of the dancing-house, +standing beside a man who prayed far out in the glory of the desert. The +storm, spoken of by the Diviner, did not always rage. It was stilled to +hear his prayer. And the darkness had fled, and the light drew near to +listen. She pressed her face more strongly against her hands, and began +to think more definitely. + +Was this interview with the priest the first step taken by Androvsky +towards the gift the desert held for him? + +He must surely be a man who hated religion, or thought he hated it. + +Perhaps he looked upon it as a chain, instead of as the hammer that +strikes away the fetters from the slave. + +Yet he had worn a crucifix. + +She lifted her head, put her hand into her breast, and drew out the +crucifix. What was its history? She wondered as she looked at it. Had +someone who loved him given it to him, someone, perhaps, who grieved +at his hatred of holiness, and who fancied that this very humble symbol +might one day, as the humble symbols sometimes do, prove itself a little +guide towards shining truth? Had a woman given it to him? + +She laid the cross down on the edge of the _prie-dieu_. + +There was red fire gleaming now on the windows of the church. She +realised the pageant that was marching up the west, the passion of the +world as well as the purity which lay beyond the world. Her mind was +disturbed. She glanced from the red radiance on the glass to the dull +brown wood of the cross. Blood and agony had made it the mystical symbol +that it was--blood and agony. + +She had something to think out. That burden was still upon her mind, +and now again she felt its weight, a weight that her interview with the +priest had not lifted. For she had not been able to be quite frank with +the priest. Something had held her back from absolute sincerity, and so +he had not spoken quite plainly all that was in his mind. His words had +been a little vague, yet she had understood the meaning that lay behind +them. + +Really, he had warned her against Androvsky. There were two men of very +different types. One was unworldly as a child. The other knew the world. +Neither of them had any acquaintance with Androvsky’s history, and both +had warned her. It was instinct then that had spoken in them, telling +them that he was a man to be shunned, perhaps feared. And her own +instinct? What had it said? What did it say? + +For a long time she remained in the church. But she could not think +clearly, reason calmly, or even pray passionately. For a vagueness had +come into her mind like the vagueness of twilight that filled the space +beneath the starry roof, softening the crudeness of the ornaments, the +garish colours of the plaster saints. It seemed to her that her thoughts +and feelings lost their outlines, that she watched them fading like the +shrouded forms of Arabs fading in the tunnels of Mimosa. But as they +vanished surely they whispered, “That which is written is written.” + +The mosques of Islam echoed these words, and surely this little church +that bravely stood among them. + +“That which is written is written.” + +Domini rose from her knees, hid the wooden cross once more in her +breast, and went out into the evening. + +As she left the church door something occurred which struck the +vagueness from her. She came upon Androvsky and the priest. They were +standing together at the latter’s gate, which he was in the act of +opening to an accompaniment of joyous barking from Bous-Bous. Both men +looked strongly expressive, as if both had been making an effort of some +kind. She stopped in the twilight to speak to them. + +“Monsieur Androvsky has kindly been paying me a visit,” said Father +Roubier. + +“I am glad,” Domini said. “We ought all to be friends here.” + +There was a perceptible pause. Then Androvsky lifted his hat. + +“Good-evening, Madame,” he said. “Good-evening, Father.” And he walked +away quickly. + +The priest looked after him and sighed profoundly. + +“Oh, Madame!” he exclaimed, as if impelled to liberate his mind to +someone, “what is the matter with that man? What is the matter?” + +He stared fixedly into the twilight after Androvsky’s retreating form. + +“With Monsieur Androvsky?” + +She spoke quietly, but her mind was full of apprehension, and she looked +searchingly at the priest. + +“Yes. What can it be?” + +“But--I don’t understand.” + +“Why did he come to see me?” + +“I asked him to come.” + +She blurted out the words without knowing why, only feeling that she +must speak the truth. + +“You asked him!” + +“Yes. I wanted you to be friends--and I thought perhaps you might----” + +“Yes?” + +“I wanted you to be friends.” She repeated it almost stubbornly. + +“I have never before felt so ill at ease with any human being,” + exclaimed the priest with tense excitement. “And yet I could not let +him go. Whenever he was about to leave me I was impelled to press him to +remain. We spoke of the most ordinary things, and all the time it was +as if we were in a great tragedy. What is he? What can he be?” (He still +looked down the road.) + +“I don’t know. I know nothing. He is a man travelling, as other men +travel.” + +“Oh, no!” + +“What do you mean, Father?” + +“I mean that other travellers are not like this man.” + +He leaned his thin hands heavily on the gate, and she saw, by the +expression of his eyes, that he was going to say something startling. + +“Madame,” he said, lowering his voice, “I did not speak quite frankly +to you this afternoon. You may, or you may not, have understood what I +meant. But now I will speak plainly. As a priest I warn you, I warn you +most solemnly, not to make friends with this man.” + +There was a silence, then Domini said: + +“Please give me your reason for this warning.” + +“That I can’t do.” + +“Because you have no reason, or because it is not one you care to tell +me?” + +“I have no reason to give. My reason is my instinct. I know nothing of +this man--I pity him. I shall pray for him. He needs prayers, yes, he +needs them. But you are a woman out here alone. You have spoken to me of +yourself, and I feel it my duty to say that I advise you most earnestly +to break off your acquaintance with Monsieur Androvsky.” + +“Do you mean that you think him evil?” + +“I don’t know whether he is evil, I don’t know what he is.” + +“I know he is not evil.” + +The priest looked at her, wondering. + +“You know--how?” + +“My instinct,” she said, coming a step nearer, and putting her hand, +too, on the gate near his. “Why should we desert him?” + +“Desert him, Madame!” + +Father Roubier’s voice sounded amazed. + +“Yes. You say he needs prayers. I know it. Father, are not the first +prayers, the truest, those that go most swiftly to Heaven--acts?” + +The priest did not reply for a moment. He looked at her and seemed to be +thinking deeply. + +“Why did you send Monsieur Androvsky to me this afternoon?” he said at +last abruptly. + +“I knew you were a good man, and I fancied if you became friends you +might help him.” + +His face softened. + +“A good man,” he said. “Ah!” He shook his head sadly, with a sound that +was like a little pathetic laugh. “I--a good man! And I allow an almost +invincible personal feeling to conquer my inward sense of right! Madame, +come into the garden for a moment.” + +He opened the gate, she passed in, and he led her round the house to the +enclosure at the back, where they could talk in greater privacy. Then he +continued: + +“You are right, Madame. I am here to try to do God’s work, and sometimes +it is better to act for a human being, perhaps, even than to pray for +him. I will tell you that I feel an almost invincible repugnance to +Monsieur Androvsky, a repugnance that is almost stronger than my will +to hold it in check.” He shivered slightly. “But, with God’s help, I’ll +conquer that. If he stays on here I’ll try to be his friend. I’ll do all +I can. If he is unhappy, far away from good, perhaps--I say it humbly, +Madame, I assure you--I might help him. But”--and here his face and +manner changed, became firmer, more dominating--“you are not a priest, +and--” + +“No, only a woman,” she said, interrupting him. + +Something in her voice arrested him. There was a long silence in which +they paced slowly up and down on the sand between the palm trees. The +twilight was dying into night. Already the tomtoms were throbbing in the +street of the dancers, and the shriek of the distant pipes was faintly +heard. At last the priest spoke again. + +“Madame,” he said, “when you came to me this afternoon there was +something that you could not tell me.” + +“Yes.” + +“Had it anything to do with Monsieur Androvsky?” + +“I meant to ask you to advise me about myself.” + +“My advice to you was and is--be strong but not too foolhardy.” + +“Believe me I will try not to be foolhardy. But you said something else +too, something about women. Don’t you remember?” + +She stopped, took his hands impulsively and pressed them. + +“Father, I’ve scarcely ever been of any use all my life. I’ve scarcely +ever tried to be. Nothing within me said, ‘You could be,’ and if it had +I was so dulled by routine and sorrow that I don’t think I should +have heard it. But here it is different. I am not dulled. I can hear. +And--suppose I can be of use for the first time! You wouldn’t say to me, +‘Don’t try!’ You couldn’t say that?” + +He stood holding her hands and looking into her face for a moment. Then +he said, half-humorously, half-sadly: + +“My child, perhaps you know your own strength best. Perhaps your safest +spiritual director is your own heart. Who knows? But whether it be so or +not you will not take advice from me.” + +She knew that was true now and, for a moment, felt almost ashamed. + +“Forgive me,” she said. “But--it is strange, and may seem to you +ridiculous or even wrong--ever since I have been here I have felt as if +everything that happened had been arranged beforehand, as if it had to +happen. And I feel that, too, about the future.” + +“Count Anteoni’s fatalism!” the priest said with a touch of impatient +irritation. “I know. It is the guiding spirit of this land. And you too +are going to be led by it. Take care! You have come to a land of fire, +and I think you are made of fire.” + +For a moment she saw a fanatical expression in his eyes. She thought of +it as the look of the monk crushed down within his soul. He opened his +lips again, as if to pour forth upon her a torrent of burning words. But +the look died away, and they parted quietly like two good friends. Yet, +as she went to the hotel, she knew that Father Roubier could not give +her the kind of help she wanted, and she even fancied that perhaps no +priest could. Her heart was in a turmoil, and she seemed to be in the +midst of a crowd. + +Batouch was at the door, looking elaborately contrite and ready with +his lie. He had been seized with fever in the night, in token whereof he +held up hands which began to shake like wind-swept leaves. Only now had +he been able to drag himself from his quilt and, still afflicted as he +was, to creep to his honoured patron and crave her pardon. Domini gave +it with an abstracted carelessness that evidently hurt his pride, and +was passing into the hotel when he said: + +“Irena is going to marry Hadj, Madame.” + +Since the fracas at the dancing-house both the dancer and her victim had +been under lock and key. + +“To marry her after she tried to kill him!” said Domini. + +“Yes, Madame. He loves her as the palm tree loves the sun. He will take +her to his room, and she will wear a veil, and work for him and never go +out any more.” + +“What! She will live like the Arab women?” + +“Of course, Madame. But there is a very nice terrace on the roof outside +Hadj’s room, and Hadj will permit her to take the air there, in the +evening or when it is hot.” + +“She must love Hadj very much.” + +“She does, or why should she try to kill him?” + +So that was an African love--a knife-thrust and a taking of the veil! +The thought of it added a further complication to the disorder that was +in her mind. + +“I will see you after dinner, Batouch,” she said. + +She felt that she must do something, go somewhere that night. She could +not remain quiet. + +Batouch drew himself up and threw out his broad chest. His air gave +place to importance, and, as he leaned against the white pillar of the +arcade, folded his ample burnous round him, and glanced up at the sky he +saw, in fancy, a five-franc piece glittering in the chariot of the moon. + +The priest did not come to dinner that night, but Androvsky was already +at his table when Domini came into the _salle-a-manger_. He got up from +his seat and bowed formally, but did not speak. Remembering his outburst +of the morning she realised the suspicion which her second interview +with the priest had probably created in his mind, and now she was not +free from a feeling of discomfort that almost resembled guilt. For now +she had been led to discuss Androvsky with Father Roubier, and had it +not been almost an apology when she said, “I know he is not evil”? Once +or twice during dinner, when her eyes met Androvsky’s for a moment, she +imagined that he must know why she had been at the priest’s house, that +anger was steadily increasing in him. + +He was a man who hated to be observed, to be criticised. His +sensitiveness was altogether abnormal, and made her wonder afresh where +his previous life had been passed. It must surely have been a very +sheltered existence. Contact with the world blunts the fine edge of our +feeling with regard to others’ opinion of us. In the world men learn to +be heedless of the everlasting buzz of comment that attends their goings +out and their comings in. But Androvsky was like a youth, alive to the +tiniest whisper, set on fire by a glance. To such a nature life in +the world must be perpetual torture. She thought of him with a sorrow +that--strangely in her--was not tinged with contempt. That which +manifested by another man would certainly have moved her to impatience, +if not to wrath, in this man woke other sensations--curiosity, pity, +terror. + +Yes--terror. To-night she knew that. The long day, begun in the +semidarkness before the dawn and ending in the semidarkness of the +twilight, had, with its events that would have seemed to another +ordinary and trivial enough, carried her forward a stage on an emotional +pilgrimage. The half-veiled warnings of Count Anteoni and of the priest, +followed by the latter’s almost passionately abrupt plain speaking, +had not been without effect. To-night something of Europe and her +life there, with its civilised experience and drastic training in the +management of woman’s relations with humanity in general, crept back +under the palm trees and the brilliant stars of Africa; and despite the +fatalism condemned by Father Roubier, she was more conscious than she +had hitherto been of how others--the outside world--would be likely +to regard her acquaintance with Androvsky. She stood, as it were, and +looked on at the events in which she herself had been and was involved, +and in that moment she was first aware of a thrill of something akin to +terror, as if, perhaps, without knowing it, she had been moving amid +a great darkness, as if perhaps a great darkness were approaching. +Suddenly she saw Androvsky as some strange and ghastly figure of legend; +as the wandering Jew met by a traveller at cross roads and distinguished +for an instant in an oblique lightning flash; as Vanderdecken passing +in the hurricane and throwing a blood-red illumination from the sails +of his haunted ship; as the everlasting climber of the Brocken, as the +shrouded Arab of the Eastern legend, who announced coming disaster to +the wanderers in the desert by beating a death-roll on a drum among the +dunes. + +And with Count Anteoni and the priest she set another figure, that of +the sand-diviner, whose tortured face had suggested a man looking on a +fate that was terrible. Had not he, too, warned her? Had not the warning +been threefold, been given to her by the world, the Church, and the +under-world--the world beneath the veil? + +She met Androvsky’s eyes. He was getting up to leave the room. His +movement caught her away from things visionary, but not from worldly +things. She still looked on herself moving amid these events at which +her world would laugh or wonder, and perhaps for the first time in her +life she was uneasily self-conscious because of the self that watched +herself, as if that self held something coldly satirical that mocked at +her and marvelled. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +“What shall I do to-night?” + +Alone in the now empty _salle-a-manger_ Domini asked herself the +question. She was restless, terribly restless in mind, and wanted +distraction. The idea of going to her room, of reading, even of sitting +quietly in the verandah, was intolerable to her. She longed for action, +swiftness, excitement, the help of outside things, of that exterior life +which she had told Count Anteoni she had begun to see as a mirage. Had +she been in a city she would have gone to a theatre to witness some +tremendous drama, or to hear some passionate or terrible opera. +Beni-Mora might have been a place of many and strange tragedies, would +be no doubt again, but it offered at this moment little to satisfy her +mood. The dances of the Cafes Maures, the songs of the smokers of +the keef, the long histories of the story-tellers between the lighted +candles--she wanted none of these, and, for a moment, she wished she +were in London, Paris, any great capital that spent itself to suit +the changing moods of men. With a sigh she got up and went out to the +Arcade. Batouch joined her immediately. + +“What can I do to-night, Batouch?” she said. + +“There are the femmes mauresques,” he began. + +“No, no.” + +“Would Madame like to hear the story-teller?” + +“No. I should not understand him.” + +“I can explain to Madame.” + +“No.” + +She stepped out into the road. + +“There will be a moon to-night, won’t there?” she said, looking up at +the starry sky. + +“Yes, Madame, later.” + +“What time will it rise?” + +“Between nine and ten.” + +She stood in the road, thinking. It had occurred to her that she had +never seen moonrise in the desert. + +“And now it is”--she looked at her watch--“only eight.” + +“Does Madame wish to see the moon come up pouring upon the palms--” + +“Don’t talk so much, Batouch,” she said brusquely. + +To-night the easy and luscious imaginings of the poet worried her like +the cry of a mosquito. His presence even disturbed her. Yet what could +she do without him? After a pause she said: + +“Can one go into the desert at night?” + +“On foot, Madame? It would be dangerous. One cannot tell what may be in +the desert by night.” + +These words made her long to go. They had a charm, a violence perhaps, +of the unknown. + +“One might ride,” she said. “Why not? Who could hurt us if we were +mounted and armed?” + +“Madame is brave as the panther in the forests of the Djurdjurah.” + +“And you, Batouch? Aren’t you brave?” + +“Madame, I am afraid of nothing.” He did not say it boastfully, like +Hadj, but calmly, almost loftily. + +“Well, we are neither of us afraid. Let us ride out on the Tombouctou +road and see the moon rise. I’ll go and put on my habit.” + +“Madame should take her revolver.” + +“Of course. Bring the horses round at nine.” + +When she had put on her habit it was only a few minutes after eight. She +longed to be in the saddle, going at full speed up the long, white road +between the palms. Physical movement was necessary to her, and she began +to pace up and down the verandah quickly. She wished she had ordered the +horses at once, or that she could do something definite to fill up the +time till they came. As she turned at the end of the verandah she saw +a white form approaching her; when it drew near she recognised Hadj, +looking self-conscious and mischievous, but a little triumphant too. At +this moment she was glad to see him. He received her congratulations on +his recovery and approaching marriage with a sort of skittish gaiety, +but she soon discovered that he had come with a money-making reason. +Having seen his cousin safely off the premises, it had evidently +occurred to him to turn an honest penny. And pennies were now specially +needful to him in view of married life. + +“Does Madame wish to see something strange and wonderful to-night?” he +asked, after a moment, looking at her sideways out of the corners of his +wicked eyes, which, as Domini could see, were swift to read character +and mood. + +“I am going out riding.” + +He looked astonished. + +“In the night?” + +“Yes. Batouch has gone to fetch the horses.” + +Hadj’s face became a mask of sulkiness. + +“If Madame goes out with Batouch she will be killed. There are robbers +in the desert, and Batouch is afraid of--” + +“Could we see the strange and wonderful thing in an hour?” she +interrupted. + +The gay and skittish expression returned instantly to his face. + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“What is it?” + +He shook his head and made an artful gesture with his hand in the air. + +“Madame shall see.” + +His long eyes were full of mystery, and he moved towards the staircase. + +“Come, Madame.” + +Domini laughed and followed him. She felt as if she were playing a game, +yet her curiosity was roused. They went softly down and slipped out of +the hotel like children fearing to be caught. + +“Batouch will be angry. There will be white foam on his lips,” whispered +Hadj, dropping his chin and chuckling low in his throat. “This way, +Madame.” + +He led her quickly across the gardens to the Rue Berthe, and down a +number of small streets, till they reached a white house before which, +on a hump, three palm trees grew from one trunk. Beyond was waste +ground, and further away a stretch of sand and low dunes lost in the +darkness of the, as yet, moonless night. Domini looked at the house and +at Hadj, and wondered if it would be foolish to enter. + +“What is it?” she asked again. + +But he only replied, “Madame will see!” and struck his flat hand upon +the door. It was opened a little way, and a broad face covered with +little humps and dents showed, the thick lips parted and muttering +quickly. Then the face was withdrawn, the door opened wider, and Hadj +beckoned to Domini to go in. After a moment’s hesitation she did so, and +found herself in a small interior court, with a tiled floor, +pillars, and high up a gallery of carved wood, from which, doubtless, +dwelling-rooms opened. In the court, upon cushions, were seated four +vacant-looking men, with bare arms and legs and long matted hair, before +a brazier, from which rose a sharply pungent perfume. Two of these men +were very young, with pale, ascetic faces and weary eyes. They looked +like young priests of the Sahara. At a short distance, upon a red +pillow, sat a tiny boy of about three years old, dressed in yellow and +green. When Domini and Hadj came into the court no one looked at them +except the child, who stared with slowly-rolling, solemn eyes, slightly +shifting on the pillow. Hadj beckoned to Domini to seat herself upon +some rugs between the pillars, sat down beside her and began to make +a cigarette. Complete silence prevailed. The four men stared at the +brazier, holding their nostrils over the incense fumes which rose from +it in airy spirals. The child continued to stare at Domini. Hadj lit his +cigarette. And time rolled on. + +Domini had desired violence, and had been conveyed into a dumbness of +mystery, that fell upon her turmoil of spirit like a blow. What struck +her as especially strange and unnatural was the fact that the men with +whom she was sitting in the dim court of this lonely house had not +looked at her, did not appear to know that she was there. Hadj had +caught the aroma of their meditations with the perfume of the incense, +for his eyes had lost their mischief and become gloomily profound, as +if they stared on bygone centuries or watched a far-off future. Even +the child began to look elderly, and worn as with fastings and with +watchings. As the fumes perpetually ascended from the red-hot coals of +the brazier the sharp smell of the perfume grew stronger. There was in +it something provocative and exciting that was like a sound, and +Domini marvelled that the four men who crouched over it and drank it in +perpetually could be unaffected by its influence when she, who was +at some distance from it, felt dawning on her desires of movement, +of action, almost a physical necessity to get up and do something +extraordinary, absurd or passionate, such as she had never done or +dreamed of till this moment. + +A low growl like that of a wild beast broke the silence. Domini did not +know at first whence it came. She stared at the four men, but they were +all gazing vacantly into the brazier, their naked arms dropping to the +floor. She glanced at Hadj. He was delicately taking a cigarette paper +from a little case. The child--no, it was absurd even to think of a +child emitting such a sound. + +Someone growled again more fiercely, and this time Domini saw that it +was the palest of the ascetic-looking youths. He shook back his long +hair, rose to his feet with a bound, and moving into the centre of the +court gazed ferociously at his companions. As if in obedience to the +glance, two of them stretched their arms backwards, found two tomtoms, +and began to beat them loudly and monotonously. The young ascetic bowed +to the tomtoms, dropping his lower jaw and jumping on his bare feet. He +bowed again as if saluting a fetish, and again and again. Ceaselessly he +bowed to the tomtoms, always jumping softly from the pavement. His long +hair fell over his face and back upon his shoulders with a monotonous +regularity that imitated the tomtoms, as if he strove to mould his life +in accord with the fetish to which he offered adoration. Flecks of foam +appeared upon his lips, and the asceticism in his eyes changed to a +bestial glare. His whole body was involved in a long and snake-like +undulation, above which his hair flew to and fro. Presently the second +youth, moving reverently like a priest about the altar, stole to a +corner and returned with a large and curved sheet of glass. Without +looking at Domini he came to her and placed it in her hands. When the +dancer saw the glass he stood still, growled again long and furiously, +threw himself on his knees before Domini, licked his lips, then, +abruptly thrusting forward his face, set his teeth in the sheet +of glass, bit a large piece off, crunched it up with a loud noise, +swallowed it with a gulp, and growled for more. She fed him again, while +the tomtoms went on roaring, and the child in its red pillow watched +with its weary eyes. And when he was full fed, only a fragment of glass +remained between her fingers, he fell upon the ground and lay like one +in a trance. + +Then the second youth bowed to the tomtoms, leaping gently on the +pavement, foamed at the mouth, growled, snuffed up the incense fumes, +shook his long mane, and placed his naked feet in the red-hot coals of +the brazier. He plucked out a coal and rolled his tongue round it. He +placed red coals under his bare armpits and kept them there, pressing +his arms against his sides. He held a coal, like a monocle, in his eye +socket against his eye. And all the time he leaped and bowed and foamed, +undulating his body like a snake. The child looked on with a still +gravity, and the tomtoms never ceased. From the gallery above painted +faces peered down, but Domini did not see them. Her attention was taken +captive by the young priests of the Sahara. For so she called them in +her mind, realising that there were religious fanatics whose half-crazy +devotion seemed to lift them above the ordinary dangers to the body. One +of the musicians now took his turn, throwing his tomtom to the eater +of glass, who had wakened from his trance. He bowed and leaped; thrust +spikes behind his eyes, through his cheeks, his lips, his arms; drove a +long nail into his head with a wooden hammer; stood upon the sharp edge +of an upturned sword blade. With the spikes protruding from his face in +all directions, and his eyes bulging out from them like balls, he spun +in a maze of hair, barking like a dog. The child regarded him with a +still attention, and the incense fumes were cloudy in the court. Then +the last of the four men sprang up in the midst of a more passionate +uproar from the tomtoms. He wore a filthy burnous, and, with a shriek, +he plunged his hand into its hood and threw some squirming things upon +the floor. They began to run, rearing stiff tails into the air. He sank +down, blew upon them, caught them, letting them set their tail weapons +in his fingers, and lifting them thus, imbedded, high above the floor. +Then again he put them down, breathed upon each one, drew a circle +round each with his forefinger. His face had suddenly become intense, +hypnotic. The scorpions, as if mesmerised, remained utterly still, each +in its place within its imaginary circle, that had become a cage; and +their master bowed to the fetish of the tomtoms, leaped, grinned, and +bowed again, undulating his body in a maze of hair. + +Domini felt as if she, like the scorpions, had been mesmerised. She, +too, was surely bound in a circle, breathed upon by some arrogant +breath of fanaticism, commanded by some horrid power. She looked at the +scorpions and felt a sort of pity for them. From time to time the bowing +fanatic glanced at them through his hair out of the corners of his eyes, +licked his lips, shook his shoulders, and uttered a long howl, thrilling +with the note of greed. The tomtoms pulsed faster and faster, louder and +louder, and all the men began to sing a fierce chant, the song surely +of desert souls driven crazy by religion. One of the scorpions moved +slightly, reared its tail, began to run. Instantly, as if at a signal, +the dancer fell upon his knees, bent down his head, seized it in his +teeth, munched it and swallowed it. At the same moment with the uproar +of the tomtoms there mingled a loud knocking on the door. + +Hadj’s lips curled back from his pointed teeth and he looked dangerous. + +“It is Batouch!” he snarled. + +Domini got up. Without a word, turning her back upon the court, she made +her way out, still hearing the howl of the scorpion-eater, the roar of +the tomtoms, and the knocking on the door. Hadj followed her quickly, +protesting. At the door was the man with the pitted white face and the +thick lips. When he saw her he held out his hand. She gave him some +money, he opened the door, and she came out into the night by the triple +palm tree. Batouch stood there looking furious, with the bridles of +two horses across his arm. He began to speak in Arabic to Hadj, but +she stopped him with an imperious gesture, gave Hadj his fee, and in a +moment was in the saddle and cantering away into the dark. She heard the +gallop of Batouch’s horse coming up behind her and turned her head. + +“Batouch,” she said, “you are the smartest”--she used the word +_chic_--“Arab here. Do you know what is the fashion in London when a +lady rides out with the attendant who guards her--the really smart thing +to do?” + +She was playing on his vanity. He responded with a ready smile. + +“No, Madame.” + +“The attendant rides at a short distance behind her, so that no one can +come up near her without his knowledge.” + +Batouch fell back, and Domini cantered on, congratulating herself on the +success of her expedient. + +She passed through the village, full of strolling white figures, lights +and the sound of music, and was soon at the end of the long, straight +road that was significant to her as no other road had ever been. Each +time she saw it, stretching on till it was lost in the serried masses +of the palms, her imagination was stirred by a longing to wander through +barbaric lands, by a nomad feeling that was almost irresistible. This +road was a track of fate to her. When she was on it she had a strange +sensation as if she changed, developed, drew near to some ideal. It +influenced her as one person may influence another. Now for the first +time she was on it in the night, riding on the crowded shadows of +its palms. She drew rein and went more slowly. She had a desire to be +noiseless. + +In the obscurity the thickets of the palms looked more exotic than in +the light of day. There was no motion in them. Each tree stood like a +delicately carven thing, silhouetted against the remote purple of the +void. In the profound firmament the stars burned with a tremulous ardour +they never show in northern skies. The mystery of this African night +rose not from vaporous veils and the long movement of winds, but was +breathed out by clearness, brightness, stillness. It was the deepest of +all mystery--the mystery of vastness and of peace. + +No one was on the road. The sound of the horse’s feet were sharply +distinct in the night. On all sides, but far off, the guard dogs were +barking by the hidden homes of men. The air was warm as in a hothouse, +but light and faintly impregnated with perfume shed surely by the +mystical garments of night as she glided on with Domini towards the +desert. From the blackness of the palms there came sometimes thin notes +of the birds of night, the whizzing noise of insects, the glassy pipe of +a frog in the reeds by a pool behind a hot brown wall. + +She rode through one of the villages of old Beni-Mora, silent, +unlighted, with empty streets and closed cafés maures, touched her horse +with the whip, and cantered on at a quicker pace. As she drew near to +the desert her desire to be in it increased. There was some coarse +grass here. The palm trees grew less thickly. She heard more clearly the +barking of the Kabyle dogs, and knew that tents were not far off. Now, +between the trunks of the trees, she saw the twinkling of distant fires, +and the sound of running water fell on her ears, mingling with the +persistent noise of the insects, and the faint cries of the birds and +frogs. In front, where the road came out from the shadows of the last +trees, lay a vast dimness, not wholly unlike another starless sky, +stretched beneath the starry sky in which the moon had not yet risen. +She set her horse at a gallop and came into the desert, rushing through +the dark. + +“Madame! Madame!” + +Batouch’s voice was calling her. She galloped faster, like one in +flight. Her horse’s feet padded over sand almost as softly as a camel’s. +The vast dimness was surely coming to meet her, to take her to itself +in the night. But suddenly Batouch rode furiously up beside her, his +burnous flying out behind him over his red saddle. + +“Madame, we must not go further, we must keep near the oasis.” + +“Why?” + +“It is not safe at night in the desert, and besides--” + +His horse plunged and nearly rocketed against hers. She pulled in. His +company took away her desire to keep on. + +“Besides?” + +Leaning over his saddle peak he said, mysteriously: + +“Besides, Madame, someone has been following us all the way from +Beni-Mora.” + +“Who?” + +“A horseman. I have heard the beat of the hoofs on the hard road. Once +I stopped and turned, but I could see nothing, and then I could hear +nothing. He, too, had stopped. But when I rode on again soon I heard him +once more. Someone found out we were going and has come after us.” + +She looked back into the violet night without speaking. She heard no +sound of a horse, saw nothing but the dim track and the faint, shadowy +blackness where the palms began. Then she put her hand into the pocket +of her saddle and silently held up a tiny revolver. + +“I know, but there might be more than one. I am not afraid, but if +anything happens to Madame no one will ever take me as a guide any +more.” + +She smiled for a moment, but the smile died away, and again she looked +into the night. She was not afraid physically, but she was conscious of +a certain uneasiness. The day had been long and troubled, and had left +its mark upon her. Restlessness had driven her forth into the darkness, +and behind the restlessness there was a hint of the terror of which she +had been aware when she was left alone in the _salle-a-manger_. Was it +not that vague terror which, shaking the restlessness, had sent her +to the white house by the triple palm tree, had brought her now to the +desert? she asked herself, while she listened, and the hidden horseman +of whom Batouch had spoken became in her imagination one with the +legendary victims of fate; with the Jew by the cross roads, the mariner +beating ever about the rock-bound shores of the world, the climber in +the witches’ Sabbath, the phantom Arab in the sand. Still holding her +revolver, she turned her horse and rode slowly towards the distant +fires, from which came the barking of the dogs. At some hundreds of +yards from them she paused. + +“I shall stay here,” she said to Batouch. “Where does the moon rise?” + +He stretched his arm towards the desert, which sloped gently, almost +imperceptibly, towards the east. + +“Ride back a little way towards the oasis. The horseman was behind us. +If he is still following you will meet him. Don’t go far. Do as I tell +you, Batouch.” + +With obvious reluctance he obeyed her. She saw him pull up his horse at +a distance where he had her just in sight. Then she turned so that +she could not see him and looked towards the desert and the east. The +revolver seemed unnaturally heavy in her hand. She glanced at it for a +moment and listened with intensity for the beat of horse’s hoofs, and +her wakeful imagination created a sound that was non-existent in her +ears. With it she heard a gallop that was spectral as the gallop of the +black horses which carried Mephistopheles and Faust to the abyss. It +died away almost at once, and she knew it for an imagination. To-night +she was peopling the desert with phantoms. Even the fires of the nomads +were as the fires that flicker in an abode of witches, the shadows that +passed before them were as goblins that had come up out of the sand to +hold revel in the moonlight. Were they, too, waiting for a signal from +the sky? + +At the thought of the moon she drew up the reins that had been lying +loosely on her horse’s neck and rode some paces forward and away from +the fires, still holding the revolver in her hand. Of what use would +it be against the spectres of the Sahara? The Jew would face it without +fear. Why not the horseman of Batouch? She dropped it into the pocket of +the saddle. + +Far away in the east the darkness of the sky was slowly fading into a +luminous mystery that rose from the underworld, a mystery that at first +was faint and tremulous, pale with a pallor of silver and primrose, but +that deepened slowly into a live and ardent gold against which a group +of three palm trees detached themselves from the desert like messengers +sent forth by it to give a salutation to the moon. They were jet black +against the gold, distinct though very distant. The night, and the vast +plain from which they rose, lent them a significance that was unearthly. +Their long, thin stems and drooping, feathery leaves were living and +pathetic as the night thoughts of a woman who has suffered, but who +turns, with a gesture of longing that will not be denied, to the +luminance that dwells at the heart of the world. And those black palms +against the gold, that stillness of darkness and light in immensity, +banished Domini’s faint sense of horror. The spectres faded away. She +fixed her eyes on the palms. + +Now all the notes of the living things that do not sleep by night, but +make music by reedy pools, in underwood, among the blades of grass and +along the banks of streams, were audible to her again, filling her mind +with the mystery of existence. The glassy note of the frogs was like +a falling of something small and pointed upon a sheet of crystal. The +whirs of the insects suggested a ceaselessly active mentality. The faint +cries of the birds dropped down like jewels slipping from the trees. +And suddenly she felt that she was as nothing in the vastness and the +complication of the night. Even the passion that she knew lay, like a +dark and silent flood, within her soul, a flood that, once released from +its boundaries, had surely the power to rush irresistibly forward to +submerge old landmarks and change the face of a world--even that seemed +to lose its depth for a moment, to be shallow as the first ripple of +a tide upon the sand. And she forgot that the first ripple has all the +ocean behind it. + +Red deepened and glowed in the gold behind the three palms, and the +upper rim of the round moon, red too as blood, crept about the desert. +Domini, leaning forward with one hand upon her horse’s warm neck, +watched until the full circle was poised for a moment on the horizon, +holding the palms in its frame of fire. She had never seen a moon look +so immense and so vivid as this moon that came up into the night like a +portent, fierce yet serene, moon of a barbaric world, such as might have +shone upon Herod when he heard the voice of the Baptist in his dungeon, +or upon the wife of Pilate when in a dream she was troubled. It +suggested to her the powerful watcher of tragic events fraught with long +chains of consequence that would last on through centuries, as it turned +its blood-red gaze upon the desert, upon the palms, upon her, and, +leaning upon her horse’s neck, she too--like Pilate’s wife--fell into +a sort of strange and troubled dream for a moment, full of strong, yet +ghastly, light and of shapes that flitted across a background of fire. + +In it she saw the priest with a fanatical look of warning in his eyes, +Count Anteoni beneath the trees of his garden, the perfume-seller in +his dark bazaar, Irena with her long throat exposed and her thin +arms drooping, the sand-diviner spreading forth his hands, Androvsky +galloping upon a horse as if pursued. This last vision returned again +and again. As the moon rose a stream of light that seemed tragic fell +across the desert and was woven mysteriously into the light of her +waking dream. The three palms looked larger. She fancied that she saw +them growing, becoming monstrous as they stood in the very centre of +the path of the nocturnal glory, and suddenly she remembered her thought +when she sat with Androvsky in the garden, that feeling grew in human +hearts like palms rising in the desert. But these palms were tragic and +aspired towards the blood-red moon. Suddenly she was seized with a +fear of feeling, of the growth of an intense sensation within her, and +realised, with an almost feverish vividness, the impotence of a soul +caught in the grip of a great passion, swayed hither and thither, led +into strange paths, along the edges, perhaps into depths of immeasurable +abysses. She had said to Androvsky that she would rather be the centre +of a world tragedy than die without having felt to the uttermost even if +it were sorrow. Was that not the speech of a mad woman, or at least of +a woman who was so ignorant of the life of feeling that her words were +idle and ridiculous? Again she felt desperately that she did not know +herself, and this lack of the most essential of all knowledge reduced +her for a moment to a bitterness of despair that seemed worse than the +bitterness of death. The vastness of the desert appalled her. The red +moon held within its circle all the blood of the martyrs, of life, of +ideals. She shivered in the saddle. Her nature seemed to shrink and +quiver, and a cry for protection rose within her, the cry of the woman +who cannot face life alone, who must find a protector, and who must +cling to a strong arm, who needs man as the world needs God. + +Then again it seemed to her that she saw Androvsky galloping upon a +horse as if pursued. + +Moved by a desire to do something to combat this strange despair, +born of the moonrise and the night, she sat erect in her saddle, and +resolutely looked at the desert, striving to get away from herself in +a hard contemplation of the details that surrounded her, the outward +things that were coming each moment into clearer view. She gazed +steadily towards the palms that sharply cut the moonlight. As she did so +something black moved away from them, as if it had been part of them +and now detached itself with the intention of approaching her along the +track. At first it was merely a moving blot, formless and small, but +as it drew nearer she saw that it was a horseman riding slowly, perhaps +stealthily, across the sand. She glanced behind her, and saw Batouch not +far off, and the fires of the nomads. Then she turned again to watch the +horseman. He came steadily forward. + +“Madame!” + +It was the voice of Batouch. + +“Stay where you are!” she called out to him. + +She heard the soft sound of the horse’s feet and could see the attitude +of its rider. He was leaning forward as if searching the night. She rode +to meet him, and they came to each other in the path of the light she +had thought tragic. + +“You followed me?” + +“I cannot see you go out alone into the desert at night,” Androvsky +replied. + +“But you have no right to follow me.” + +“I cannot let harm come to you, Madame.” + +She was silent. A moment before she had been longing for a protector. +One had come to her, the man whom she had been setting with those +legendary figures who have saddened and appalled the imagination of men. +She looked at the dark figure of Androvsky leaning forward on the +horse whose feet were set on the path of the moon, and she did not know +whether she felt confidence in him or fear of him. All that the priest +had said rose up in her mind, all that Count Anteoni had hinted and that +had been visible in the face of the sand-diviner. This man had followed +her into the night as a guardian. Did she need someone, something, to +guard her from him? A faint horror was still upon her. Perhaps he knew +it and resented it, for he drew himself upright on his horse and spoke +again, with a decision that was rare in him. + +“Let me send Batouch back to Beni-Mora, Madame.” + +“Why?” she asked, in a low voice that was full of hesitation. + +“You do not need him now.” + +He was looking at her with a defiant, a challenging expression that was +his answer to her expression of vague distrust and apprehension. + +“How do you know that?” + +He did not answer the question, but only said: + +“It is better here without him. May I send him away, Madame?” + +She bent her head. Androvsky rode off and she saw him speaking to +Batouch, who shook his head as if in contradiction. + +“Batouch!” she called out. “You can ride back to Beni-Mora. We shall +follow directly.” + +The poet cantered forward. + +“Madame, it is not safe.” + +The sound of his voice made Domini suddenly know what she had not been +sure of before--that she wished to be alone with Androvsky. + +“Go, Batouch!” she said. “I tell you to go.” + +Batouch turned his horse without a word, and disappeared into the +darkness of the distant palms. + +When they were alone together Domini and Androvsky sat silent on their +horses for some minutes. Their faces were turned towards the desert, +which was now luminous beneath the moon. Its loneliness was overpowering +in the night, and made speech at first an impossibility, and even +thought difficult. At last Androvsky said: + +“Madame, why did you look at me like that just now, as if you--as if you +hesitated to remain alone with me?” + +Suddenly she resolved to tell him of her oppression of the night. She +felt as if to do so would relieve her of something that was like a pain +at her heart. + +“Has it never occurred to you that we are strangers to each other?” she +said. “That we know nothing of each other’s lives? What do you know of +me or I of you?” + +He shifted in his saddle and moved the reins from one hand to the other, +but said nothing. + +“Would it seem strange to you if I did hesitate--if even now--” + +“Yes,” he interrupted violently, “it would seem strange to me.” + +“Why?” + +“You would rely on an Arab and not rely upon me,” he said with intense +bitterness. + +“I did not say so.” + +“Yet at first you wished to keep Batouch.” + +“Yes.” + +“Then----” + +“Batouch is my attendant.” + +“And I? Perhaps I am nothing but a man whom you distrust; whom--whom +others tell you to think ill of.” + +“I judge for myself.” + +“But if others speak ill of me?” + +“It would not influence me----for long.” + +She added the last words after a pause. She wished to be strictly +truthful, and to-night she was not sure that the words of the priest had +made no impression upon her. + +“For long!” he repeated. Then he said abruptly, “The priest hates me.” + +“No.” + +“And Count Anteoni?” + +“You interested Count Anteoni greatly.” + +“Interested him!” + +His voice sounded intensely suspicious in the night. + +“Don’t you wish to interest anyone? It seems to me that to be +uninteresting is to live eternally alone in a sunless desert.” + +“I wish--I should like to think that I--” He stopped, then said, with a +sort of ashamed determination: “Could I ever interest you, Madame?” + +“Yes,” she answered quietly. + +“But you would rather be protected by an Arab than by me. The priest +has--” + +“To-night I do not seem to be myself,” she said, interrupting him. +“Perhaps there is some physical reason. I got up very early, and--don’t +you ever feel oppressed, suspicious, doubtful of life, people, yourself, +everything, without apparent reason? Don’t you know what it is to have +nightmare without sleeping?” + +“I! But you are different.” + +“To-night I have felt--I do feel as if there were tragedy near me, +perhaps coming towards me,” she said simply, “and I am oppressed, I am +almost afraid.” + +When she had said it she felt happier, as if a burden she carried were +suddenly lighter. As he did not speak she glanced at him. The moon rays +lit up his face. It looked ghastly, drawn and old, so changed that she +scarcely recognised it and felt, for a moment, as if she were with a +stranger. She looked away quickly, wondering if what she had seen was +merely some strange effect of the moon, or whether Androvsky was really +altered for a moment by the action of some terrible grief, one of those +sudden sorrows that rush upon a man from the hidden depths of his nature +and tear his soul, till his whole being is lacerated and he feels as +if his soul were flesh and were streaming with the blood from mortal +wounds. The silence between them was long. In it she presently heard a +reiterated noise that sounded like struggle and pain made audible. It +was Androvsky’s breathing. In the soft and exquisite air of the desert +he was gasping like a man shut up in a cellar. She looked again towards +him, startled. As she did so he turned his horse sideways and rode away +a few paces. Then he pulled up his horse. He was now merely a black +shape upon the moonlight, motionless and inaudible. She could not take +her eyes from this shape. Its blackness suggested to her the blackness +of a gulf. Her memory still heard that sound of deep-drawn breathing +or gasping, heard it and quivered beneath it as a tender-hearted person +quivers seeing a helpless creature being ill-used. She hesitated for +a moment, and then, carried away by an irresistible impulse to try to +soothe this extremity of pain which she was unable to understand, she +rode up to Androvsky. When she reached him she did not know what she had +meant to say or do. She felt suddenly impotent and intrusive, and even +horribly shy. But before she had time for speech or action he turned +to her and said, lifting up his hands with the reins in them and then +dropping them down heavily upon his horse’s neck: + +“Madame, I wanted to tell you that to-morrow I----” He stopped. + +“Yes?” she said. + +He turned his head away from her till she could not see his face. + +“To-morrow I am leaving Beni-Mora.” + +“To-morrow!” she said. + +She did not feel the horse under her, the reins in her hand. She did not +see the desert or the moon. Though she was looking at Androvsky she no +longer perceived him. At the sound of his words it seemed to her as if +all outside things she had ever known had foundered, like a ship +whose bottom is ripped up by a razor-edged rock, as if with them had +foundered, too, all things within herself: thoughts, feelings, even +the bodily powers that were of the essence of her life; sense of taste, +smell, hearing, sight, the capacity of movement and of deliberate +repose. Nothing seemed to remain except the knowledge that she was still +alive and had spoken. + +“Yes, to-morrow I shall go away.” + +His face was still turned from her, and his voice sounded as if it spoke +to someone at a distance, someone who could hear as man cannot hear. + +“To-morrow,” she repeated. + +She knew she had spoken again, but it did not seem to her as if she had +heard herself speak. She looked at her hands holding the reins, knew +that she looked at them, yet felt as if she were not seeing them while +she did so. The moonlit desert was surely flickering round her, and away +to the horizon in waves that were caused by the disappearance of that +ship which had suddenly foundered with all its countless lives. And she +knew of the movement of these waves as the soul of one of the drowned, +already released from the body, might know of the movement on the +surface of the sea beneath which its body was hidden. + +But the soul was evidently nothing without the body, or, at most, merely +a continuance of power to know that all which had been was no more. All +which had been was no more. + +At last her mind began to work again, and those words went through +it with persistence. She thought of the fascination of Africa, that +enormous, overpowering fascination which had taken possession of her +body and spirit. What had become of it? What had become of the romance +of the palm gardens, of the brown villages, of the red mountains, of the +white town with its lights, its white figures, its throbbing music? And +the mystical attraction of the desert--where was it now? Its voice, that +had called her persistently, was suddenly silent. Its hand, that had +been laid upon her, was removed. She looked at it in the moonlight and +it was no longer the desert, sand with a soul in it, blue distances full +of a music of summons, spaces, peopled with spirits from the sun. It +was only a barren waste of dried-up matter, arid, featureless, desolate, +ghastly with the bones of things that had died. + +She heard the dogs barking by the tents of the nomads and the noises of +the insects, but still she did not feel the horse underneath her. Yet +she was gradually recovering her powers, and their recovery brought with +it sharp, physical pain, such as is felt by a person who has been nearly +drowned and is restored from unconsciousness. + +Androvsky turned round. She saw his eyes fastened upon her, and +instantly pride awoke in her, and, with pride, her whole self. + +She felt her horse under her, the reins in her hands, the stirrup at her +foot. She moved in her saddle. The blood tingled in her veins fiercely, +bitterly, as if it had become suddenly acrid. She felt as if her face +were scarlet, as if her whole body flushed, and as if the flush could be +seen by her companion. For a moment she was clothed from head to foot +in a fiery garment of shame. But she faced Androvsky with calm eyes, and +her lips smiled. + +“You are tired of it?” she said. + +“I never meant to stay long,” he answered, looking down. + +“There is not very much to do here. Shall we ride back to the village +now?” + +She turned her horse, and as she did so cast one more glance at the +three palm trees that stood far out on the path of the moon. They looked +like three malignant fates lifting up their hands in malediction. For a +moment she shivered in the saddle. Then she touched her horse with the +whip and turned her eyes away. Androvsky followed her and rode by her +side in silence. + +To gain the oasis they passed near to the tents of the nomads, whose +fires were dying out. The guard dogs were barking furiously, and +straining at the cords which fastened them to the tent pegs, by the +short hedges of brushwood that sheltered the doors of filthy rags. The +Arabs were all within, no doubt huddled up on the ground asleep. One +tent was pitched alone, at a considerable distance from the others, and +under the first palms of the oasis. A fire smouldered before it, casting +a flickering gleam of light upon something dark which lay upon the +ground between it and the tent. Tied to the tent was a large white dog, +which was not barking, but which was howling as if in agony of fear. +Before Domini and Androvsky drew near to this tent the howling of the +dog reached them and startled them. There was in it a note that seemed +humanly expressive, as if it were a person trying to scream out words +but unable to from horror. Both of them instinctively pulled up their +horses, listened, then rode forward. When they reached the tent they saw +the dark thing lying by the fire. + +“What is it?” Domini whispered. + +“An Arab asleep, I suppose,” Androvsky answered, staring at the +motionless object. + +“But the dog----” She looked at the white shape leaping frantically +against the tent. “Are you sure?” + +“It must be. Look, it is wrapped in rags and the head is covered.” + +“I don’t know.” + +She stared at it. The howling of the dog grew louder, as if it were +straining every nerve to tell them something dreadful. + +“Do you mind getting off and seeing what it is? I’ll hold the horse.” + +He swung himself out of the saddle. She caught his rein and watched him +go forward to the thing that lay by the fire, bend down over it, touch +it, recoil from it, then--as if with a determined effort--kneel down +beside it on the ground and take the rags that covered it in his hands. +After a moment of contemplation of what they had hidden he dropped the +rags--or rather threw them from him with a violent gesture--got up and +came back to Domini, and looked at her without speaking. She bent down. + +“I’ll tell you,” she said. “I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a dead +woman.” + +It seemed to her as if the dark thing lying by the fire was herself. + +“Yes,” he said. “It’s a woman who has been strangled.” + +“Poor woman!” she said. “Poor--poor woman!” + +And it seemed to her as if she said it of herself. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +Lying in bed in the dark that night Domini heard the church clock chime +the hours. She was not restless, though she was wakeful. Indeed, she +felt like a woman to whom an injection of morphia had been administered, +as if she never wished to move again. She lay there counting the minutes +that made the passing hours, counting them calmly, with an inexorable +and almost cold self-possession. The process presently became +mechanical, and she was able, at the same time, to dwell upon the events +that had followed upon the discovery of the murdered woman by the tent: +Androvsky’s pulling aside of the door of the tent to find it empty, +their short ride to the encampment close by, their rousing up of the +sleeping Arabs within, filthy nomads clothed in patched garments, +unveiled women with wrinkled, staring faces and huge plaits of false +hair and amulets. From the tents the strange figures had streamed forth +into the light of the moon and the fading fires, gesticulating, talking +loudly, furiously, in an uncouth language that was unintelligible to +her. Led by Androvsky they had come to the corpse, while the air was +rent by the frantic barking of all the guard dogs and the howling of the +dog that had been a witness of the murder. Then in the night had risen +the shrill wailing of the women, a wailing that seemed to pierce the +stars and shudder out to the remotest confines of the desert, and in +the cold white radiance of the moon a savage vision of grief had been +presented to her eyes: naked arms gesticulating as if they strove to +summon vengeance from heaven, claw-like hands casting earth upon the +heads from which dangled Fatma hands, chains of tarnished silver and +lumps of coral that reminded her of congealed blood, bodies that swayed +and writhed as if stricken with convulsions or rent by seven devils. +She remembered how strange had seemed to her the vast calm, the +vast silence, that encompassed this noisy outburst of humanity, how +inflexible had looked the enormous moon, how unsympathetic the brightly +shining stars, how feverish and irritable the flickering illumination of +the flames that spurted up and fainted away like things still living but +in the agonies of death. + +Then had followed her silent ride back to Beni-Mora with Androvsky along +the straight road which had always fascinated her spirit of adventure. +They had ridden slowly, without looking at each other, without +exchanging a word. She had felt dry and weary, like an old woman who had +passed through a long life of suffering and emerged into a region where +any acute feeling is unable to exist, as at a certain altitude from the +earth human life can no longer exist. The beat of the horses’ hoofs upon +the road had sounded hard, as her heart felt, cold as the temperature +of her mind. Her body, which usually swayed to her horse’s slightest +movement, was rigid in the saddle. She recollected that once, when her +horse stumbled, she had thrilled with an abrupt anger that was almost +ferocious, and had lifted her whip to lash it. But the hand had slipped +down nervelessly, and she had fallen again into her frigid reverie. + +When they reached the hotel she had dropped to the ground, heavily, and +heavily had ascended the steps of the verandah, followed by Androvsky. +Without turning to him or bidding him good-night she had gone to +her room. She had not acted with intentional rudeness or +indifference--indeed, she had felt incapable of an intention. Simply, +she had forgotten, for the first time perhaps in her life, an ordinary +act of courtesy, as an old person sometimes forgets you are there and +withdraws into himself. Androvsky had said nothing, had not tried to +attract her attention to himself. She had heard his steps die away on +the verandah. Then, mechanically, she had undressed and got into bed, +where she was now mechanically counting the passing moments. + +Presently she became aware of her own stillness and connected it with +the stillness of the dead woman, by the tent. She lay, as it were, +watching her own corpse as a Catholic keeps vigil beside a body that has +not yet been put into the grave. But in this chamber of death there were +no flowers, no lighted candles, no lips that moved in prayer. She +had gone to bed without praying. She remembered that now, but with +indifference. Dead people do not pray. The living pray for them. But +even the watcher could not pray. Another hour struck in the belfry of +the church. She listened to the chime and left off counting the moments, +and this act of cessation made more perfect the peace of the dead woman. + +When the sun rose her sensation of death passed away, leaving behind it, +however, a lethargy of mind and body such as she had never known before +the previous night. Suzanne, coming in to call her, exclaimed: + +“Mam’selle is ill?” + +“No. Why should I be ill?” + +“Mam’selle looks so strange,” the maid said, regarding her with round +and curious eyes. “As if--” + +She hesitated. + +“Give me my tea,” Domini said. + +When she was drinking it she asked: + +“Do you know at what time the train leaves Beni-Mora--the passenger +train?” + +“Yes, Mam’selle. There is only one in the day. It goes soon after +twelve. Monsieur Helmuth told me.” + +“Oh!” + +“What gown will--?” + +“Any gown--the white linen one I had on yesterday.” + +“Yes, Mam’selle.” + +“No, not that. Any other gown. Is it to be hot?” + +“Very hot, Mam’selle. There is not a cloud in the sky.” + +“How strange!” Domini said, in a low voice that Suzanne did not hear. +When she was up and dressed she said: + +“I am going out to Count Anteoni’s garden. I think I’ll--yes, I’ll take +a book with me.” + +She went into her little salon and looked at the volumes scattered about +there, some books of devotion, travel, books on sport, Rossetti’s and +Newman’s poems, some French novels, and the novels of Jane Austen, of +which, oddly, considering her nature, she was very fond. For the first +time in her life they struck her as shrivelled, petty chronicles of +shrivelled, bloodless, artificial lives. She turned back into her +bedroom, took up the little white volume of the _Imitation_, which lay +always near her bed, and went out into the verandah. She looked neither +to right nor left, but at once descended the staircase and took her way +along the arcade. + +When she reached the gate of the garden she hesitated before knocking +upon it. The sight of the villa, the arches, the white walls and +clustering trees she knew so well hurt her so frightfully, so +unexpectedly, that she felt frightened and sick, and as if she must go +away quickly to some place which she had never seen, and which could +call up no reminiscences in her mind. + +Perhaps she would have gone into the oasis, or along the path that +skirted the river bed, had not Smain softly opened the gate and come out +to meet her, holding a great velvety rose in his slim hand. + +He gave it to her without a word, smiling languidly with eyes in which +the sun seemed caught and turned to glittering darkness, and as she took +it and moved it in her fingers, looking at the wine-coloured petals on +which lay tiny drops of water gleaming with thin and silvery lights, she +remembered her first visit to the garden, and the mysterious enchantment +that had floated out to her through the gate from the golden vistas and +the dusky shadows of the trees, the feeling of romantic expectation that +had stirred within her as she stepped on to the sand and saw before her +the winding ways disappearing into dimness between the rills edged by +the pink geraniums. + +How long ago that seemed, like a remembrance of early childhood in the +heart of one who is old. + +Now that the gate was open she resolved to go into the garden. She might +as well be there as elsewhere. She stepped in, holding the rose in her +hand. One of the drops of water slipped from an outer petal and fell +upon the sand. She thought of it as a tear. The rose was weeping, but +her eyes were dry. She touched the rose with her lips. + +To-day the garden was like a stranger to her, but a stranger with whom +she had once--long, long ago--been intimate, whom she had trusted, and +by whom she had been betrayed. She looked at it and knew that she had +thought it beautiful and loved it. From its recesses had come to her +troops of dreams. The leaves of its trees had touched her as with tender +hands. The waters of its rills had whispered to her of the hidden things +that lie in the breast of joy. The golden rays that played through its +scented alleys had played, too, through the shadows of her heart, making +a warmth and light there that seemed to come from heaven. She knew this +as one knows of the apparent humanity that greeted one’s own humanity in +the friend who is a friend no longer, and she sickened at it as at the +thought of remembered intimacy with one proved treacherous. There seemed +to her nothing ridiculous in this personification of the garden, as +there had formerly seemed to her nothing ridiculous in her thought of +the desert as a being; but the fact that she did thus instinctively +personify the nature that surrounded her gave to the garden in her eyes +an aspect that was hostile and even threatening, as if she faced a love +now changed to hate, a cold and inimical watchfulness that knew too much +about her, to which she had once told all her happy secrets and murmured +all her hopes. She did not hate the garden, but she felt as if she +feared it. The movements of its leaves conveyed to her uneasiness. The +hidden places, which once had been to her retreats peopled with tranquil +blessings, were now become ambushes in which lay lurking enemies. + +Yet she did not leave it, for to-day something seemed to tell her that +it was meant that she should suffer, and she bowed in spirit to the +decree. + +She went on slowly till she reached the _fumoir_. She entered it and sat +down. + +She had not seen any of the gardeners or heard the note of a flute. +The day was very still. She looked at the narrow doorway and remembered +exactly the attitude in which Count Anteoni had stood during their first +interview, holding a trailing branch of the bougainvillea in his hand. +She saw him as a shadow that the desert had taken. Glancing down at the +carpet sand she imagined the figure of the sand-diviner crouching there +and recalled his prophecy, and directly she did this she knew that she +had believed in it. She had believed that one day she would ride, out +into the desert in a storm, and that with her, enclosed in the curtains +of a palanquin, there would be a companion. The Diviner had not told +her who would be this companion. Darkness was about him rendering him +invisible to the eyes of the seer. But her heart had told her. She had +seen the other figure in the palanquin. It was a man. It was Androvsky. + +She had believed that she would go out into the desert with Androvsky, +with this traveller of whose history, of whose soul, she knew nothing. +Some inherent fatalism within her had told her so. And now----? + +The darkness of the shade beneath the trees in this inmost recess of the +garden fell upon her like the darkness of that storm in which the desert +was blotted out, and it was fearful to her because she felt that she +must travel in the storm alone. Till now she had been very much alone +in life and had realised that such solitude was dreary, that in it +development was difficult, and that it checked the steps of the pilgrim +who should go upward to the heights of life. But never till now had she +felt the fierce tragedy of solitude, the utter terror of it. As she sat +in the _fumoir_, looking down on the smoothly-raked sand, she said to +herself that till this moment she had never had any idea of the meaning +of solitude. It was the desert within a human soul, but the desert +without the sun. And she knew this because at last she loved. The dark +and silent flood of passion that lay within her had been released from +its boundaries, the old landmarks were swept away for ever, the face of +the world was changed. + +She loved Androvsky. Everything in her loved him; all that she had been, +all that she was, all that she could ever be loved him; that which was +physical in her, that which was spiritual, the brain, the heart, the +soul, body and flame burning within it--all that made her the wonder +that is woman, loved him. She was love for Androvsky. It seemed to her +that she was nothing else, had never been anything else. The past years +were nothing, the pain by which she was stricken when her mother fled, +by which she was tormented when her father died blaspheming, were +nothing. There was no room in her for anything but love of Androvsky. At +this moment even her love of God seemed to have been expelled from her. +Afterwards she remembered that. She did not think of it now. For her +there was a universe with but one figure in it--Androvsky. She was +unconscious of herself except as love for him. She was unconscious of +any Creative Power to whom she owed the fact that he was there to be +loved by her. She was passion, and he was that to which passion flowed. + +The world was the stream and the sea. + +As she sat there with her hands folded on her knees, her eyes bent down, +and the purple flowers all about her, she felt simplified and cleansed, +as if a mass of little things had been swept from her, leaving space +for the great thing that henceforth must for ever dwell within her and +dominate her life. The burning shame of which she had been conscious on +the previous night, when Androvsky told her of his approaching departure +and she was stricken as by a lightning flash, had died away from her +utterly. She remembered it with wonder. How should she be ashamed of +love? She thought that it would be impossible to her to be ashamed, even +if Androvsky knew all that she knew. Just then the immense truth of her +feeling conquered everything else, made every other thing seem false, +and she said to herself that of truth she did not know how to be +ashamed. But with the knowledge of the immense truth of her love came +the knowledge of the immense sorrow that might, that must, dwell side by +side with it. + +Suddenly she moved. She lifted her eyes from the sand and looked out +into the garden. Besides this truth within her there was one other thing +in the world that was true. Androvsky was going away. While she sat +there the moments were passing. They were making the hours that were +bent upon destruction. She was sitting in the garden now and Androvsky +was close by. A little time would pass noiselessly. She would be sitting +there and Androvsky would be far away, gone from the desert, gone out of +her life no doubt for ever. And the garden would not have changed. Each +tree would stand in its place, each flower would still give forth its +scent. The breeze would go on travelling through the lacework of the +branches, the streams slipping between the sandy walls of the rills. +The inexorable sun would shine, and the desert would whisper in its blue +distances of the unseen things that always dwell beyond. And Androvsky +would be gone. Their short intercourse, so full of pain, uneasiness, +reserve, so fragmentary, so troubled by abrupt violences, by ignorance, +by a sense of horror even on the one side, and by an almost constant +suspicion on the other, would have come to an end. + +She was stunned by the thought, and looked round her as if she expected +inanimate Nature to take up arms for her against this fate. Yet she did +not for a moment think of taking up arms herself. She had left the hotel +without trying to see Androvsky. She did not intend to return to it till +he was gone. The idea of seeking him never came into her mind. There is +an intensity of feeling that generates action, but there is a greater +intensity of feeling that renders action impossible, the feeling that +seems to turn a human being into a shell of stone within which burn all +the fires of creation. Domini knew that she would not move out of the +_fumoir_ till the train was creeping along the river-bed on its way from +Beni-Mora. + +She had laid down the _Imitation_ upon the seat by her side, and now she +took it up. The sight of its familiar pages made her think for the first +time, “Do I love God any more?” And immediately afterwards came +the thought: “Have I ever loved him?” The knowledge of her love for +Androvsky, for this body that she had seen, for this soul that she had +seen through the body like a flame through glass, made her believe just +then that if she had ever thought--and certainly she had thought--that +she loved a being whom she had never seen, never even imaginatively +projected, she had deceived herself. The act of faith was not +impossible, but the act of love for the object on which that faith was +concentrated now seemed to her impossible. For her body, that remained +passive, was full of a riot, a fury of life. The flesh that had slept +was awakened and knew itself. And she could no longer feel that she +could love that which her flesh could not touch, that which could not +touch her flesh. And she said to herself, without terror, even without +regret, “I do not love, I never have loved, God.” + +She looked into the book: + +“Unspeakable, indeed, is the sweetness of thy contemplation, which thou +bestowest on them that love thee.” + +The sweetness of thy contemplation! She remembered Androvsky’s face +looking at her out of the heart of the sun as they met for the first +time in the blue country. In that moment she put him consciously in +the place of God, and there was nothing within her to say, “You are +committing mortal sin.” + +She looked into the book once more and her eyes fell upon the words +which she had read on her first morning in Beni-Mora: + +“Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is not +tired; when straitened it is not constrained; when frightened it is +not disturbed; but like a vivid flame and a burning torch it mounteth +upwards and securely passeth through all. Whosoever loveth knoweth the +cry of this voice.” + +She had always loved these words and thought them the most beautiful in +the book, but now they came to her with the newness of the first spring +morning that ever dawned upon the world. The depth of them was laid bare +to her, and, with that depth, the depth of her own heart. The paralysis +of anguish passed from her. She no longer looked to Nature as one +dumbly seeking help. For they led her to herself, and made her look +into herself and her own love and know it. “When frightened it is +not disturbed--it securely passeth through all.” That was absolutely +true--true as her love. She looked down into her love, and she saw there +the face of God, but thought she saw the face of human love only. And +it was so beautiful and so strong that even the tears upon it gave her +courage, and she said to herself: “Nothing matters, nothing can matter +so long as I have this love within me. He is going away, but I am not +sad, for I am going with him--my love, all that I am--that is going with +him, will always be with him.” + +Just then it seemed to her that if she had seen Androvsky lying dead +before her on the sand she could not have felt unhappy. Nothing could do +harm to a great love. It was the one permanent, eternally vital thing, +clad in an armour of fire that no weapon could pierce, free of all +terror from outside things because it held its safety within its own +heart, everlastingly enough, perfectly, flawlessly complete for and in +itself. For that moment fear left her, restlessness left her. Anyone +looking in upon her from the garden would have looked in upon a great, +calm happiness. + +Presently there came a step upon the sand of the garden walks. A man, +going slowly, with a sort of passionate reluctance, as if something +immensely strong was trying to hold him back, but was conquered with +difficulty by something still stronger that drove him on, came out of +the fierce sunshine into the shadow of the garden, and began to search +its silent recesses. It was Androvsky. He looked bowed and old and +guilty. The two lines near his mouth were deep. His lips were working. +His thin cheeks had fallen in like the cheeks of a man devoured by a +wasting illness, and the strong tinge of sunburn on them seemed to be +but an imperfect mark to a pallor that, fully visible, would have been +more terrible than that of a corpse. In his eyes there was a fixed +expression of ferocious grief that seemed mingled with ferocious anger, +as if he were suffering from some dreadful misery, and cursed himself +because he suffered, as a man may curse himself for doing a thing that +he chooses to do but need not do. Such an expression may sometimes be +seen in the eyes of those who are resisting a great temptation. + +He began to search the garden, furtively but minutely. Sometimes he +hesitated. Sometimes he stood still. Then he turned back and went a +little way towards the wide sweep of sand that was bathed in sunlight +where the villa stood. Then with more determination, and walking +faster, he again made his way through the shadows that slept beneath +the densely-growing trees. As he passed between them he several times +stretched out trembling hands, broke off branches and threw them on the +sand, treading on them heavily and crushing them down below the surface. +Once he spoke to himself in a low voice that shook as if with difficulty +dominating sobs that were rising in his throat. + +“_De profundis_--” he said. “_De profundis_--_de profundis_--” + +His voice died away. He took hold of one hand with the other and went on +silently. + +Presently he made his way at last towards the _fumoir_ in which Domini +was still sitting, with one hand resting on the open page whose words +had lit up the darkness in her spirit. He came to it so softly that she +did not hear his step. He saw her, stood quite still under the trees, +and looked at her for a long time. As he did so his face changed till he +seemed to become another man. The ferocity of grief and anger faded from +his eyes, which were filled with an expression of profound wonder, then +of flickering uncertainty, then of hard, manly resolution--a fighting +expression that was full of sex and passion. The guilty, furtive look +which had been stamped upon all his features, specially upon his +lips, vanished. Suddenly he became younger in appearance. His figure +straightened itself. His hands ceased from trembling. He moved away from +the trees, and went to the doorway of the _fumoir_. + +Domini looked up, saw him, and got up quietly, clasping her fingers +round the little book. + +Androvsky stood just beyond the doorway, took off his hat, kept it in +his hand, and said: + +“I came here to say good-bye.” + +He made a movement as if to come into the _fumoir_, but she stopped it +by coming at once to the opening. She felt that she could not speak to +him enclosed within walls, under a roof. He drew back, and she came out +and stood beside him on the sand. + +“Did you know I should come?” he said. + +She noticed that he had ceased to call her “Madame,” and also that there +was in his voice a sound she had not heard in it before, a note of new +self-possession that suggested a spirit concentrating itself and aware +of its own strength to act. + +“No,” she answered. + +“Were you coming back to the hotel this morning?” he asked. + +“No.” + +He was silent for a moment. Then he said slowly: + +“Then--then you did not wish--you did not mean to see me again before I +went?” + +“It was not that. I came to the garden--I had to come--I had to be +alone.” + +“You want to be alone?” he said. “You want to be alone?” + +Already the strength was dying out of his voice and face, and the old +uneasiness was waking up in him. A dreadful expression of pain came into +his eyes. + +“Was that why you--you looked so happy?” he said in a harsh, trembling +voice. + +“When?” + +“I stood for a long while looking at you when you were in there”--he +pointed to the _fumoir_--“and your face was happy--your face was happy.” + +“Yes, I know.” + +“You will be happy alone?--alone in the desert?” + +When he said that she felt suddenly the agony of the waterless spaces, +the agony of the unpeopled wastes. Her whole spirit shrank and quivered, +all the great joy of her love died within her. A moment before she had +stood upon the heights of her heart. Now she shrank into its deepest, +blackest abysses. She looked at him and said nothing. + +“You will not be happy alone.” + +His voice no longer trembled. He caught hold of her left hand, +awkwardly, nervously, but held it strongly with his close to his side, +and went on speaking. + +“Nobody is happy alone. Nothing is--men and women--children--animals.” A +bird flew across the shadowy space under the trees, followed by another +bird; he pointed to them; they disappeared. “The birds, too, they must +have companionship. Everything wants a companion.” + +“Yes.” + +“But then--you will stay here alone in the desert?” + +“What else can I do?” she said. + +“And that journey,” he went on, still holding her hand fast against his +side, “Your journey into the desert--you will take it alone?” + +“What else can I do?” she repeated in a lower voice. + +It seemed to her that he was deliberately pressing her down into the +uttermost darkness. + +“You will not go.” + +“Yes, I shall go.” + +She spoke with conviction. Even in that moment--most of all in that +moment--she knew that she would obey the summons of the desert. + +“I--I shall never know the desert,” he said. “I thought--it seemed to me +that I, too, should go out into it. I have wanted to go. You have made +me want to go.” + +“I?” + +“Yes. Once you said to me that peace must dwell out there. It was on the +tower the--the first time you ever spoke to me.” + +“I remember.” + +“I wondered--I often wonder why you spoke to me.” + +She knew he was looking at her with intensity, but she kept her eyes on +the sand. There was something in them that she felt he must not see, a +light that had just come into them as she realised that already, on the +tower before she even knew him, she had loved him. It was that love, +already born in her heart but as yet unconscious of its own existence, +which had so strangely increased for her the magic of the African +evening when she watched it with him. But before--suddenly she knew that +she had loved Androvsky from the beginning, from the moment when his +face looked at her as if out of the heart of the sun. That was why her +entry into the desert had been full of such extraordinary significance. +This man and the desert were, had always been, as one in her mind. +Never had she thought of the one without the other. Never had she been +mysteriously called by the desert without hearing as a far-off echo the +voice of Androvsky, or been drawn onward by the mystical summons of the +blue distances without being drawn onward, too, by the mystical summons +of the heart to which her own responded. The link between the man +and the desert was indissoluble. She could not conceive of its being +severed, and as she realised this, she realised also something that +turned her whole nature into flame. + +She could not conceive of Androvsky’s not loving her, of his not having +loved her from the moment when he saw her in the sun. To him, too, the +desert had made a revelation--the revelation of her face, and of the +soul behind it looking through it. In the flames of the sun, as they +went into the desert, the flames of their two spirits had been blended. +She knew that certainly and for ever. Then how could it be possible that +Androvsky should not go out with her into the desert? + +“Why did you speak to me?” he said. + +“We came into the desert together,” she answered simply. “We had to know +each other.” + +“And now--now--we have to say----” + +His voice ceased. Far away there was the thin sound of a chime. Domini +had never before heard the church bell in the garden, and now she felt +as if she heard it, not with her ears, but with her spirit. As she heard +she felt Androvsky’s hand, which had been hot upon hers, turn cold. He +let her hand go, and again she was stricken by the horrible sound she +had heard the previous night in the desert, when he turned his horse +and rode away with her. And now, as then, he turned away from her in +silence, but she knew that this time he was leaving her, that this +movement was his final good-bye. With his head bowed down he took a few +steps. He was near to a turning of the path. She watched him, knowing +that within less than a moment she would be watching only the trees and +the sand. She gazed at the bent figure, calling up all her faculties, +crying out to herself passionately, desperately, “Remember it--remember +it as it is--there--before you--just as it is--for ever.” As it reached +the turning, in the distance of the garden rose the twitter of the flute +of Larbi. Androvsky stopped, stood still with his back turned towards +her. And Larbi, hidden and far off, showered out his little notes of +African love, of love in the desert where the sun is everlasting, and +the passion of man is hot as the sun, where Liberty reigns, lifting her +cymbals that are as spheres of fire, and the footsteps of Freedom are +heard upon the sand, treading towards the south. + +Larbi played--played on and on, untiring as the love that blossomed with +the world, but that will not die when the world dies. + +Then Androvsky came back quickly till he reached the place where Domini +was standing. He put his hands on her shoulders. Then he sank down on +the sand, letting his hands slip down over her breast and along her +whole body till they clasped themselves round her knees. He pressed his +face into her dress against her knees. + +“I love you,” he said. “I love you but don’t listen to me--you mustn’t +hear it--you mustn’t. But I must say it. I can’t--I can’t go till I say +it. I love you--I love you.” + +She heard him sobbing against her knees, and the sound was as the sound +of strength made audible. She put her hands against his temples. + +“I am listening,” she said. “I must hear it.” + +He looked up, rose to his feet, put his hands behind her shoulders, held +her, and set his lips on hers, pressing his whole body against hers. + +“Hear it!” he said, muttering against her lips. “Hear it. I love you--I +love you.” + +The two birds they had seen flew back beneath the trees, turned in an +airy circle, rose above the trees into the blue sky, and, side by side, +winged their way out of the garden to the desert. + + + + +BOOK IV. THE JOURNEY + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +In the evening before the day of Domini’s marriage with Androvsky there +was a strange sunset, which attracted even the attention and roused the +comment of the Arabs. The day had been calm and beautiful, one of the +most lovely days of the North African spring, and Batouch, resting from +the triumphant labour of superintending the final preparations for a +long desert journey, augured a morning of Paradise for the departure +along the straight road that led at last to Tombouctou. But as the +radiant afternoon drew to its end there came into the blue sky a +whiteness that suggested a heaven turning pale in the contemplation of +some act that was piteous and terrible. And under this blanching heaven +the desert, and all things and people of the oasis of Beni-Mora, assumed +an aspect of apprehension, as if they felt themselves to be in the +thrall of some power whose omnipotence they could not question and whose +purpose they feared. This whiteness was shot, at the hour of sunset, +with streaks of sulphur yellow and dappled with small, ribbed clouds +tinged with yellow-green, a bitter and cruel shade of green that +distressed the eyes as a merciless light distresses them, but these +colours quickly faded, and again the whiteness prevailed for a brief +space of time before the heavy falling of a darkness unpierced by stars. +With this darkness came a faint moaning of hollow wind from the desert, +a lamentable murmur that shuddered over the great spaces, crept among +the palms and the flat-roofed houses, and died away at the foot of the +brown mountains beyond the Hammam Salahine. The succeeding silence, +short and intense, was like a sound of fear, like the cry of a voice +lifted up in protest against the approach of an unknown, but dreaded, +fate. Then the wind came again with a stronger moaning and a lengthened +life, not yet forceful, not yet with all its powers, but more tenacious, +more acquainted with itself and the deeds that it might do when the +night was black among the vast sands which were its birth-place, among +the crouching plains and the trembling palm groves that would be its +battle-ground. + +Batouch looked grave as he listened to the wind and the creaking of the +palm stems one against another. Sand came upon his face. He pulled the +hood of his burnous over his turban and across his cheeks, covered his +mouth with a fold of his haik and stared into the blackness, like an +animal in search of something his instinct has detected approaching from +a distance. + +Ali was beside him in the doorway of the Cafe Maure, a slim Arab boy, +bronze-coloured and serious as an idol, who was a troubadour of the +Sahara, singer of “Janat” and many lovesongs, player of the guitar +backed with sand tortoise and faced with stretched goatskin. Behind them +swung an oil lamp fastened to a beam of palm, and the red ashes glowed +in the coffee niche and shed a ray upon the shelf of small white cups +with faint designs of gold. In a corner, his black face and arms faintly +relieved against the wall, an old negro crouched, gazing into vacancy +with bulging eyes, and beating with a curved palm stem upon an oval +drum, whose murmur was deep and hollow as the murmur of the wind, and +seemed indeed its echo prisoned within the room and striving to escape. + +“There is sand on my eyelids,” said Batouch. “It is bad for to-morrow. +When Allah sends the sands we should cover the face and play the ladies’ +game within the café, we should not travel on the road towards the +south.” + +Ali said nothing, but drew up his haik over his mouth and nose, and +looked into the night, folding his thin hands in his burnous. + +“Achmed will sleep in the Bordj of Arba,” continued Batouch in a low, +murmuring voice, as if speaking to himself. “And the beasts will be +in the court. Nothing can remain outside, for there will be a greater +roaring of the wind at Arba. Can it be the will of Allah that we rest in +the tents to-morrow?” + +Ali made no answer. The wind had suddenly died down. + +The sand grains came no more against their eyelids and the folds of +their haiks. Behind them the negro’s drum gave out monotonously its echo +of the wind, filling the silence of the night. + +“Whatever Allah sends,” Batouch went on softly after a pause, “Madame +will go. She is brave as the lion. There is no jackal in Madame. Irena +is not more brave than she is. But Madame will never wear the veil for +a man’s sake. She will not wear the veil, but she could give a +knife-thrust if he were to look at another woman as he has looked at +her, as he will look at her to-morrow. She is proud as a Touareg and +there is fierceness in her. But he will never look at another woman as +he will look at her to-morrow. The Roumi is not as we are.” + +The wind came back to join its sound with the drum, imprisoning the two +Arabs in a muttering circle. + +“They will not care,” said Batouch. “They will go out into the storm +without fear.” + +The sand pattered more sharply on his eyelids. He drew back into the +café. Ali followed him, and they squatted down side by side upon the +ground and looked before them seriously. The noise of the wind increased +till it nearly drowned the noise of the negro’s drum. Presently the +one-eyed owner of the café brought them two cups of coffee, setting the +cups near their stockinged feet. They rolled two cigarettes and smoked +in silence, sipping the coffee from time to time. Then Ali began to +glance towards the negro. Half shutting his eyes, and assuming a languid +expression that was almost sickly, he stretched his lips in a smile, +gently moving his head from side to side. Batouch watched him. Presently +he opened his lips and began to sing: + + “The love of women is like a date that is golden in the sun, + That is golden-- + The love of women is like a gazelle that + comes to drink-- + To drink at the water springs-- + The love of women is like the nargileh, and like the dust of + the keef + That is mingled with tobacco and with honey. + Put the reed between thy lips, O loving man! + And draw dreams from the haschish that is the love of women! + Janat! Janat! Janat!” + +The wind grew louder and sand was blown along the café floor and about +the coffee-cups. + + “The love of women is like the rose of the Caid’s garden + That is full of silver tears-- + The love of women is like the first day of the spring + When the children play at Cora-- + The love of women is like the Derbouka that has been warmed at + the fire + And gives out a sweet sound. + Take it in thy hands, O loving man! + And sing to the Derbouka that is the love of women. + Janat! Janat! Janat!” + +In the doorway, where the lamp swung from the beam, a man in European +dress stood still to listen. The wind wailed behind him and stirred his +clothes. His eyes shone in the faint light with a fierceness of emotion +in which there was a joy that was almost terrible, but in which there +seemed also to be something that was troubled. When the song died away, +and only the voices of the wind and the drum spoke to the darkness, he +disappeared into the night. The Arabs did not see him. + +“Janat! Janat! Janat!” + +The night drew on and the storm increased. All the doors of the houses +were closely shut. Upon the roofs the guard dogs crouched, shivering +and whining, against the earthen parapets. The camels groaned in the +fondouks, and the tufted heads of the palms swayed like the waves of the +sea. And the Sahara seemed to be lifting up its voice in a summons that +was tremendous as a summons to Judgment. + +Domini had always known that the desert would summon her. She heard its +summons now in the night without fear. The roaring of the tempest was +sweet in her ears as the sound of the Derbouka to the loving man of the +sands. It accorded with the fire that lit up the cloud of passion in +her heart. Its wildness marched in step with a marching wildness in +her veins and pulses. For her gipsy blood was astir to-night, and the +recklessness of the boy in her seemed to clamour with the storm. The +sound of the wind was as the sound of the clashing cymbals of Liberty, +calling her to the adventure that love would glorify, to the far-away +life that love would make perfect, to the untrodden paths of the sun +of which she had dreamed in the shadows, and on which she would set her +feet at last with the comrade of her soul. + +To-morrow her life would begin, her real life, the life of which men +and women dream as the prisoner dreams of freedom. And she was glad, +she thanked God, that her past years had been empty of joy, that in her +youth she had been robbed of youth’s pleasures. She thanked God that she +had come to maturity without knowing love. It seemed to her that to love +in early life was almost pitiful, was a catastrophe, an experience for +which the soul was not ready, and so could not appreciate at its full +and wonderful value. She thought of it as of a child being taken away +from the world to Paradise without having known the pain of existence in +the world, and at that moment she worshipped suffering. Every tear that +she had ever shed she loved, every weary hour, every despondent thought, +every cruel disappointment. She called around her the congregation of +her past sorrows, and she blessed them and bade them depart from her for +ever. + +As she heard the roaring of the wind she smiled. The Sahara was +fulfilling the words of the Diviner. To-morrow she and Androvsky would +go out into the storm and the darkness together. The train of camels +would be lost in the desolation of the desert. And the people of +Beni-Mora would see it vanish, and, perhaps, would pity those who were +hidden by the curtains of the palanquin. They would pity her as Suzanne +pitied her, openly, with eyes that were tragic. She laughed aloud. + +It was late in the night. Midnight had sounded yet she did not go to +bed. She feared to sleep, to lose the consciousness of her joy of the +glory which had come into her life. She was a miser of the golden hours +of this black and howling night. To sleep would be to be robbed. A +splendid avarice in her rebelled against the thought of sleep. + +Was Androvsky sleeping? She wondered and longed to know. + +To-night she was fully aware for the first time of the inherent +fearlessness of her character, which was made perfect at last by her +perfect love. Alone, she had always had courage. Even in her most +listless hours she had never been a craven. But now she felt the +completeness of a nature clothed in armour that rendered it impregnable. +It was a strange thing that man should have the power to put the +finishing touch to God’s work, that religion should stoop to be a +handmaid to faith in a human being, but she did not think it strange. +Everything in life seemed to her to be in perfect accord because her +heart was in perfect accord with another heart. + +And she welcomed the storm. She even welcomed something else that came +to her now in the storm: the memory of the sand-diviner’s tortured +face as he gazed down, reading her fate in the sand. For what was an +untroubled fate? Surely a life that crept along the hollows and had no +impulse to call it to the heights. Knowing the flawless perfection of +her armour she had a wild longing to prove it. She wished that there +should be assaults upon her love, because she knew she could resist +them one and all, and she wished to have the keen joy of resisting them. +There is a health of body so keen and vital that it desires combat. The +soul sometimes knows a precisely similar health and is filled with a +similar desire. + +“Put my love to the proof, O God!” was Domini’s last prayer that night +when the storm was at its wildest. “Put my love to the uttermost proof +that he may know it, as he can never know it otherwise.” + +And she fell asleep at length, peacefully, in the tumult of the night, +feeling that God had heard her prayer. + +The dawn came struggling like an exhausted pilgrim through the windy +dark, pale and faint, with no courage, it seemed, to grow bravely +into day. As if with the sedulous effort of something weary but of +unconquered will, it slowly lit up Beni-Mora with a feeble light that +flickered in a cloud of whirling sand, revealing the desolation of an +almost featureless void. The village, the whole oasis, was penetrated by +a passionate fog that instead of brooding heavily, phlegmatically, over +the face of life and nature travelled like a demented thing bent upon +instant destruction, and coming thus cloudily to be more free for crime. +It was an emissary of the desert, propelled with irresistible force from +the farthest recess of the dunes, and the desert itself seemed to be +hurrying behind it as if to spy upon the doing of its deeds. + +As the sea in a great storm rages against the land, ferocious that land +should be, so the desert now raged against the oasis that ventured to +exist in its bosom. Every palm tree was the victim of its wrath, every +running rill, every habitation of man. Along the tunnels of mimosa +it went like a foaming tide through a cavern, roaring towards the +mountains. It returned and swept about the narrow streets, eddying at +the corners, beating upon the palmwood doors, behind which the painted +dancing-girls were cowering, cold under their pigments and their heavy +jewels, their red hands trembling and clasping one another, clamouring +about the minarets of the mosques on which the frightened doves were +sheltering, shaking the fences that shut in the gazelles in their +pleasaunce, tearing at the great statue of the Cardinal that faced it +resolutely, holding up the double cross as if to exorcise it, battering +upon the tall, white tower on whose summit Domini had first spoken with +Androvsky, raging through the alleys of Count Anteoni’s garden, the +arcades of his villa, the window-spaces of the _fumoir_, from whose +walls it tore down frantically the purple petals of the bougainvillea +and dashed them, like enemies defeated, upon the quivering paths which +were made of its own body. + +Everywhere in the oasis it came with a lust to kill, but surely its +deepest enmity was concentrated upon the Catholic Church. + +There, despite the tempest, people were huddled, drawn together not so +much by the ceremony that was to take place within as by the desire to +see the departure of an unusual caravan. In every desert centre news is +propagated with a rapidity seldom equalled in the home of civilisation. +It runs from mouth to mouth like fire along straw. And Batouch, in his +glory, had not been slow to speak of the wonders prepared under his +superintendence to make complete the desert journey of his mistress and +Androvsky. The main part of the camp had already gone forward, and must +have reached Arba, the first halting stage outside Beni-Mora; tents, the +horses for the Roumis, the mules to carry necessary baggage, the cooking +utensils and the guard dogs. But the Roumis themselves were to depart +from the church on camel-back directly the marriage was accomplished. +Domini, who had a native hatred of everything that savoured of +ostentation, had wished for a tiny expedition, and would gladly have +gone out into the desert with but one tent, Batouch and a servant to do +the cooking. But the journey was to be long and indefinite, an aimless +wandering through the land of liberty towards the south, without fixed +purpose or time of returning. She knew nothing of what was necessary for +such a journey, and tired of ceaseless argument, and too much occupied +with joy to burden herself with detail, at last let Batouch have his +way. + +“I leave it to you, Batouch,” she said. “But, remember, as few people +and beasts as possible. And as you say we must have camels for certain +parts of the journey, we will travel the first stage on camel-back.” + +Consciously she helped to fulfil the prediction of the Diviner, and then +she left Batouch free. + +Now outside the church, shrouded closely in hoods and haiks, grey and +brown bundles with staring eyes, the desert men were huddled against the +church wall in the wind. Hadj was there, and Smain, sheltering in his +burnous roses from Count Anteoni’s garden. Larbi had come with his flute +and the perfume-seller from his black bazaar. For Domini had bought +perfumes from him on her last day in Beni-Mora. Most of Count Anteoni’s +gardeners had assembled. They looked upon the Roumi lady, who rode +magnificently, but who could dream as they dreamed, too, as a friend. +Had she not haunted the alleys where they worked and idled till they had +learned to expect her, and to miss her when she did not come? And with +those whom Domini knew were assembled their friends, and their friends’ +friends, men of Beni-Mora, men from the near oasis, and also many +of those desert wanderers who drift in daily out of the sands to the +centres of buying and selling, barter their goods for the goods of the +South, or sell their loads of dates for money, and, having enjoyed the +dissipation of the cafés and of the dancing-houses, drift away again +into the pathless wastes which are their home. + +Few of the French population had ventured out, and the church itself was +almost deserted when the hour for the wedding drew nigh. + +The priest came from his little house, bending forward against the wind, +his eyes partially protected from the driving sand by blue spectacles. +His face, which was habitually grave, to-day looked sad and stern, +like the face of a man about to perform a task that was against his +inclination, even perhaps against his conscience. He glanced at the +waiting Arabs and hastened into the church, taking off his spectacles +as he did so, and wiping his eyes, which were red from the action of +the sand-grains, with a silk pocket-handkerchief. When he reached the +sacristy he shut himself into it alone for a moment. He sat down on +a chair and, leaning his arms upon the wooden table that stood in the +centre of the room, bent forward and stared before him at the wall +opposite, listening to the howling of the wind. + +Father Roubier had an almost passionate affection for his little church +of Beni-Mora. So long and ardently had he prayed and taught in it, so +often had he passed the twilight hours in it alone wrapped in religious +reveries, or searching his conscience for the shadows of sinful +thoughts, that it had become to him as a friend, and more than a friend. +He thought of it sometimes as his confessor and sometimes as his child. +Its stones were to him as flesh and blood, its altars as lips that +whispered consolation in answer to his prayers. The figures of its +saints were heavenly companions. In its ugliness he perceived only +beauty, in its tawdriness only the graces that are sweet offerings to +God. The love that, had he not been a priest, he might have given to +a woman he poured forth upon his church, and with it that other love +which, had it been the design of his Heavenly Father, would have fitted +him for the ascetic, yet impassioned, life of an ardent and devoted +monk. To defend this consecrated building against outrage he would, +without hesitation, have given his last drop of blood. And now he was to +perform in it an act against which his whole nature revolted; he was +to join indissolubly the lives of these two strangers who had come to +Beni-Mora--Domini Enfilden and Boris Androvsky. He was to put on the +surplice and white stole, to say the solemn and irreparable “Ego Jungo,” + to sprinkle the ring with holy water and bless it. + +As he sat there alone, listening to the howling of the storm outside, he +went mentally through the coming ceremony. He thought of the wonderful +grace and beauty of the prayers of benediction, and it seemed to him +that to pronounce them with his lips, while his nature revolted against +his own utterance, was to perform a shameful act, was to offer an insult +to this little church he loved. + +Yet how could he help performing this act? He knew that he would do it. +Within a few minutes he would be standing before the altar, he would be +looking into the faces of this man and woman whose love he was called +upon to consecrate. He would consecrate it, and they would go out from +him into the desert man and wife. They would be lost to his sight in the +town. + +His eye fell upon a silver crucifix that was hanging upon the wall in +front of him. He was not a very imaginative man, not a man given to +fancies, a dreamer of dreams more real to him than life, or a seer of +visions. But to-day he was stirred, and perhaps the unwonted turmoil of +his mind acted subtly upon his nervous system. Afterward he felt certain +that it must have been so, for in no other way could he account for a +fantasy that beset him at this moment. + +As he looked at the crucifix there came against the church a more +furious beating of the wind, and it seemed to him that the Christ upon +the crucifix shuddered. + +He saw it shudder. He started, leaned across the table and stared at the +crucifix with eyes that were full of an amazement that was mingled with +horror. Then he got up, crossed the room and touched the crucifix with +his finger. As he did so, the acolyte, whose duty it was to help him +to robe, knocked at the sacristy door. The sharp noise recalled him to +himself. He knew that for the first time in his life he had been the +slave of an optical delusion. He knew it, and yet he could not banish +the feeling that God himself was averse from the act that he was on +the point of committing in this church that confronted Islam, that God +himself shuddered as surely even He, the Creator, must shudder at some +of the actions of his creatures. And this feeling added immensely to the +distress of the priest’s mind. In performing this ceremony he now +had the dreadful sensation that he was putting himself into direct +antagonism with God. His instinctive horror of Androvsky had never been +so great as it was to-day. In vain he had striven to conquer it, to draw +near to this man who roused all the repulsion of his nature. His efforts +had been useless. He had prayed to be given the sympathy for this man +that the true Christian ought to feel towards every human being, even +the most degraded. But he felt that his prayers had not been answered. +With every day his antipathy for Androvsky increased. Yet he was +entirely unable to ground it upon any definite fact in Androvsky’s +character. He did not know that character. The man was as much a mystery +to him as on the day when they first met. And to this living mystery +from which his soul recoiled he was about to consign, with all the +beautiful and solemn blessings of his Church, a woman whose character +he respected, whose innate purity, strength and nobility he had quickly +divined, and no less quickly learned to love. + +It was a bitter, even a horrible, moment to him. + +The little acolyte, a French boy, son of the postmaster of Beni-Mora, +was startled by the sight of the Father’s face when he opened the +sacristy door. He had never before seen such an expression of almost +harsh pain in those usually kind eyes, and he drew back from the +threshold like one afraid. His movement recalled the priest to a sharp +consciousness of the necessities of the moment, and with a strong effort +he conquered his pain sufficiently to conceal all outward expression of +it. He smiled gently at the little boy and said: + +“Is it time?” + +The child looked reassured. + +“Yes, Father.” + +He came into the sacristy and went towards the cupboard where the +vestments were kept, passing the silver crucifix. As he did so he +glanced at it. He opened the cupboard, then stood for a moment and again +turned his eyes to the Christ. The Father watched him. + +“What are you looking at, Paul?” he asked. + +“Nothing, Father,” the boy replied, with a sudden expression of +reluctance that was almost obstinate. + +And he began to take the priest’s robes out of the cupboard. + +Just then the wind wailed again furiously about the church, and the +crucifix fell down upon the floor of the sacristy. + +The priest started forward, picked it up, and stood with it in his +hand. He glanced at the wall, and saw at once that the nail to which the +crucifix had been fastened had come out of its hole. A flake of plaster +had been detached, perhaps some days ago, and the hole had become too +large to retain the nail. The explanation of the matter was perfect, +simple and comprehensible. Yet the priest felt as if a catastrophe had +just taken place. As he stared at the cross he heard a little noise near +him. The acolyte was crying. + +“Why, Paul, what’s the matter?” he said. + +“Why did it do that?” exclaimed the boy, as if alarmed. “Why did it do +that?” + +“Perhaps it was the wind. Everything is shaking. Come, come, my child, +there is nothing to be afraid of.” + +He laid the crucifix on the table. Paul dried his eyes with his fists. + +“I don’t like to-day,” he said. “I don’t like to-day.” + +The priest patted him on the shoulder. + +“The weather has upset you,” he said, smiling. + +But the nervous behaviour of the child deepened strangely his own sense +of apprehension. When he had robed he waited for the arrival of the +bride and bridegroom. There was to be no mass, and no music except the +Wedding March, which the harmonium player, a Marseillais employed in the +date-packing trade, insisted on performing to do honour to Mademoiselle +Enfilden, who had taken such an interest in the music of the church. +Androvsky, as the priest had ascertained, had been brought up in the +Catholic religion, but, when questioned, he had said quietly that he was +no longer a practising Catholic and that he never went to confession. +Under these circumstances it was not possible to have a nuptial mass. +The service would be short and plain, and the priest was glad that this +was so. Presently the harmonium player came in. + +“I may play my loudest to-day, Father,” he said, “but no one will hear +me.” + +He laughed, settled the pin--Joan of Arc’s face in metal--in his azure +blue necktie, and added: + +“Nom d’un chien, the wind’s a cruel wedding guest!” + +The priest nodded without speaking. + +“Would you believe, Father,” the man continued, “that Mademoiselle and +her husband are going to start for Arba from the church door in all this +storm! Batouch is getting the palanquin on to the camel. How they will +ever--” + +“Hush!” said the priest, holding up a warning finger. + +This idle chatter displeased him in the church, but he had another +reason for wishing to stop the conversation. It renewed his dread to +hear of the projected journey, and made him see, as in a shadowy vision, +Domini Enfilden’s figure disappearing into the windy desolation of the +desert protected by the living mystery he hated. Yes, at this moment, he +no longer denied it to himself. There was something in Androvsky that +he actually hated with his whole soul, hated even in his church, at the +very threshold of the altar where stood the tabernacle containing the +sacred Host. As he thoroughly realised this for a moment he was shocked +at himself, recoiled mentally from his own feeling. But then something +within him seemed to rise up and say, “Perhaps it is because you are +near to the Host that you hate this man. Perhaps you are right to hate +him when he draws nigh to the body of Christ.” + +Nevertheless when, some minutes later, he stood within the altar rails +and saw the face of Domini, he was conscious of another thought, that +came through his mind, dark with doubt, like a ray of gold: “Can I be +right in hating what this good woman--this woman whose confession I have +received, whose heart I know--can I be right in hating what she loves, +in fearing what she trusts, in secretly condemning what she openly +enthrones?” And almost in despite of himself he felt reassured for an +instant, even happy in the thought of what he was about to do. + +Domini’s face at all times suggested strength. The mental and emotional +power of her were forcibly expressed, too, through her tall and +athletic body, which was full of easy grace, but full, too, of well-knit +firmness. To-day she looked not unlike a splendid Amazon who could have +been a splendid nun had she entered into religion. As she stood there by +Androvsky, simply dressed for the wild journey that was before her, the +slight hint in her personality of a Spartan youth, that stamped her with +a very definite originality, was blended with, even transfigured by, a +womanliness so intense as to be almost fierce, a womanliness that had +the fervour, the glowing vigour of a glory that had suddenly become +fully aware of itself, and of all the deeds that it could not only +conceive, but do. She was triumph embodied in the flesh, not the triumph +that is a school-bully, but that spreads wings, conscious at last that +the human being has kinship with the angels, and need not, should +not, wait for death to seek bravely their comradeship. She was love +triumphant, woman utterly fearless because instinctively aware that she +was fulflling her divine mission. + +As he gazed at her the priest had a strange thought--of how Christ’s +face must have looked when he said, “Lazarus, come forth!” + +Androvsky stood by her, but the priest did not look at him. + +The wind roared round the church, the narrow windows rattled, and +the clouds of sand driven against them made a pattering as of fingers +tapping frantically upon the glass. The buff-coloured curtains trembled, +and the dusty pink ribands tied round the ropes of the chandeliers +shook incessantly to and fro, as if striving to escape and to join the +multitudes of torn and disfigured things that were swept through space +by the breath of the storm. Beyond the windows, vaguely seen at moments +through the clouds of sand, the outlines of the palm leaves wavered, +descended, rose, darted from side to side, like hands of the demented. + +Suzanne, who was one of the witnesses, trembled, and moved her full lips +nervously. She disapproved utterly of her mistress’ wedding, and still +more of a honeymoon in the desert. For herself she did not care, very +shortly she was going to marry Monsieur Helmuth, the important person in +livery who accompanied the hotel omnibus to the station, and meanwhile +she was to remain at Beni-Mora under the chaperonage of Madame Armande, +the proprietor of the hotel. But it shocked her that a mistress of hers, +and a member of the English aristocracy, should be married in a costume +suitable for a camel ride, and should start off to go to _le Bon Dieu_ +alone knew where, shut up in a palanquin like any black woman covered +with lumps of coral and bracelets like handcuffs. + +The other witnesses were the mayor of Beni-Mora, a middle-aged doctor, +who wore the conventional evening-dress of French ceremony, and +looked as if the wind had made him as sleepy as a bear on the point of +hibernating, and the son of Madame Armande, a lively young man, with a +bullet head and eager, black eyes. The latter took a keen interest +in the ceremony, but the mayor blinked pathetically, and occasionally +rubbed his large hooked nose as if imploring it to keep his whole person +from drooping down into a heavy doze. + +The priest, speaking in a conventional voice that was strangely +inexpressive of his inward emotion, asked Androvsky and Domini whether +they would take each other for wife and husband, and listened to their +replies. Androvsky’s voice sounded to him hard and cold as ice when it +replied, and suddenly he thought of the storm as raging in some northern +land over snowbound wastes whose scanty trees were leafless. But +Domini’s voice was clear, and warm as the sun that would shine again +over the desert when the storm was past. The mayor, constraining himself +to keep awake a little longer, gave Domini away, while Suzanne dropped +tears into a pocket-handkerchief edged with rose-coloured frilling, the +gift of Monsieur Helmuth. Then, when the troth had been plighted in the +midst of a more passionate roaring of the wind, the priest, conquering a +terrible inward reluctance that beset him despite his endeavour to feel +detached and formal, merely a priest engaged in a ceremony that it was +his office to carry out, but in which he had no personal interest, spoke +the fateful words: + +“_Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus +Sancti. Amen_.” + +He said this without looking at the man and woman who stood before him, +the man on the right hand and the woman on the left, but when he lifted +his hand to sprinkle them with holy water he could not forbear glancing +at them, and he saw Domini as a shining radiance, but Androvsky as a +thing of stone. With a movement that seemed to the priest sinister in +its oppressed deliberation, Androvsky placed gold and silver upon the +book and the marriage ring. + +The priest spoke again, slowly, in the uproar of the wind, after +blessing the ring: + +“_Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini_.” + +After the reply the “_Domine, exaudi orationem meam_,” the “_Et +clamor_,” the “_Dominus vobiscum_,” and the “_Et cum spiritu tuo_,” the +“_Oremus_,” and the prayer following, he sprinkled the ring with holy +water in the form of a cross and gave it to Androvsky to give with gold +and silver to Domini. Androvsky took the ring, repeated the formula, +“With this ring,” etc., then still, as it seemed to the priest, with +the same sinister deliberation, placed it on the thumb of the bride’s +uncovered hand, saying, “_In the name of the Father_,” then on her +second finger, saying, “_Of the Son_,” then on her third finger, saying, +“_Of the Holy Ghost_,” then on her fourth finger. But at this moment, +when he should have said “_Amen_,” there was a long pause of silence. +During it--why he did not know--the priest found himself thinking of the +saying of St. Isidore of Seville that the ring of marriage is left on +the fourth finger of the bride’s hand because that finger contains a +vein directly connected with the heart. + +“_Amen_.” + +Androvsky had spoken. The priest started, and went on with the +“_Confirma, hoc, Deus_.” And from this point until the “_Per Christum +Dominum nostrum, Amen_,” which, since there was no Mass, closed the +ceremony, he felt more master of himself and his emotions than at +any time previously during this day. A sensation of finality, of the +irrevocable, came to him. He said within himself, “This matter has +passed out of my hands into the hands of God.” And in the midst of the +violence of the storm a calm stole upon his spirit. “God knows best!” he +said within himself. “God knows best!” + +Those words and the state of feeling that was linked with them were and +had always been to him as mighty protecting arms that uplifted him above +the beating waves of the sea of life. The Wedding March sounded when the +priest bade good-bye to the husband and wife whom he had made one. He +was able to do it tranquilly. He even pressed Androvsky’s hand. + +“Be good to her,” he said. “She is--she is a good woman.” + +To his surprise Androvsky suddenly wrung his hand almost passionately, +and the priest saw that there were tears in his eyes. + +That night the priest prayed long and earnestly for all wanderers in the +desert. + +When Domini and Androvsky came out from the church they saw vaguely +a camel lying down before the door, bending its head and snarling +fiercely. Upon its back was a palanquin of dark-red stuff, with a roof +of stuff stretched upon strong, curved sticks, and curtains which could +be drawn or undrawn at pleasure. The desert men crowded about it like +eager phantoms in the wind, half seen in the driving mist of sand. +Clinging to Androvsky’s arm, Domini struggled forward to the camel. As +she did so, Smain, unfolding for an instant his burnous, pressed into +her hands his mass of roses. She thanked him with a smile he scarcely +saw and a word that was borne away upon the wind. At Larbi’s lips she +saw the little flute and his thick fingers fluttering upon the holes. +She knew that he was playing his love-song for her, but she could not +hear it except in her heart. The perfume-seller sprinkled her gravely +with essence, and for a moment she felt as if she were again in his dark +bazaar, and seemed to catch among the voices of the storm the sound of +men muttering prayers to Allah as in the mosque of Sidi-Zazan. + +Then she was in the palanquin with Androvsky close beside her. + +At this moment Batouch took hold of the curtains of the palanquin to +draw them close, but she put out her hand and stopped him. She wanted to +see the last of the church, of the tormented gardens she had learnt to +love. + +He looked astonished, but yielded to her gesture, and told the +camel-driver to make the animal rise to its feet. The driver took his +stick and plied it, crying out, “A-ah! A-ah!” The camel turned its +head towards him, showing its teeth, and snarling with a sort of dreary +passion. + +“A-ah!” shouted the driver. “A-ah! A-ah!” + +The camel began to get up. + +As it did so, from the shrouded group of desert men one started forward +to the palanquin, throwing off his burnous and gesticulating with +thin naked arms, as if about to commit some violent act. It was the +sand-diviner. Made fantastic and unreal by the whirling sand grains, +Domini saw his lean face pitted with small-pox; his eyes, blazing with +an intelligence that was demoniacal, fixed upon her; the long wound that +stretched from his cheek to his forehead. The pleading that had been +mingled with the almost tyrannical command of his demeanour had vanished +now. He looked ferocious, arbitrary, like a savage of genius full of +some frightful message of warning or rebuke. As the camel rose he +cried aloud some words in Arabic. Domini heard his voice, but could not +understand the words. Laying his hands on the stuff of the palanquin he +shouted again, then took away his hands and shook them above his head +towards the desert, still staring at Domini with his fanatical eyes. + +The wind shrieked, the sand grains whirled in spirals about his body, +the camel began to move away from the church slowly towards the village. + +“A-ah!” cried the camel-driver. “A-ah!” + +In the storm his call sounded like a wail of despair. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +As the voice of the Diviner fainted away on the wind, and the vision of +his wounded face and piercing eyes was lost in the whirling sand grains, +Androvsky stretched out his hand and drew together the heavy curtains +of the palanquin. The world was shut out. They were alone for the first +time as man and wife; moving deliberately on this beast they could not +see, but whose slow and monotonous gait swung them gently to and fro, +out from the last traces of civilisation into the life of the sands. +With each soft step the camel took they went a little farther from +Beni-Mora, came a little nearer to that liberty of which Domini +sometimes dreamed, to the smiling eyes and the lifted spheres of fire. + +She shut her eyes now. She did not want to see her husband or to touch +his hand. She did not want to speak. She only wanted to feel in the +uttermost depths of her spirit this movement, steady and persistent, +towards the goal of her earthly desires, to realise absolutely the +marvellous truth that after years of lovelessness, and a dreaminess more +benumbing than acute misery, happiness more intense than any she had +been able to conceive of in her moments of greatest yearning was being +poured into her heart, that she was being taken to the place where she +would be with the one human being whose presence blotted out even the +memory of the false world and gave to her the true. And whereas in +the dead years she had sometimes been afraid of feeling too much the +emptiness and the desolation of her life, she was now afraid of feeling +too little its fulness and its splendour, was afraid of some day looking +back to this superb moment of her earthly fate, and being conscious that +she had not grasped its meaning till it was gone, that she had done that +most terrible of all things--realised that she had been happy to +the limits of her capacity for happiness only when her happiness was +numbered with the past. + +But could that ever be? Was Time, such Time as this, not Eternity? Could +such earthly things as this intense joy ever have been and no longer +be? It seemed to her that it could not be so. She felt like one who held +Eternity’s hand, and went out with that great guide into the endlessness +of supreme perfection. For her, just then, the Creator’s scheme was +rounded to a flawless circle. All things fell into order, stars and men, +the silent growing things, the seas, the mountains and the plains, +fell into order like a vast choir to obey the command of the canticle: + +“Benedicite, omnia opera!” + +“Bless ye the Lord!” The roaring of the wind about the palanquin became +the dominant voice of this choir in Domini’s ears. + +“Bless ye the Lord!” It was obedient, not as the slave, but as the free +will is obedient, as her heart, which joined its voice with this wind +of the desert was obedient, because it gloriously chose with all its +powers, passions, aspirations to be so. The real obedience is only love +fulfilling its last desire, and this great song was the fulfilling of +the last desire of all created things. Domini knew that she did not +realise the joy of this moment of her life now when she felt no longer +that she was a woman, but only that she was a living praise winging +upward to God. + +A warm, strong hand clasped hers. She opened her eyes. In the dim +twilight of the palanquin she saw the darkness of Androvsky’s tall +figure sitting in the crouched attitude rendered necessary by the +peculiar seat, and swaying slightly to the movement of the camel. The +light was so obscure that she could not see his eyes or clearly discern +his features, but she felt that he was gazing at her shadowy figure, +that his mind was passionately at work. Had he, too, been silently +praising God for his happiness, and was he now wishing the body to join +in the soul’s delight? + +She left her hand in his passively. The sense of her womanhood, lost for +a moment in the ecstasy of worship, had returned to her, but with a +new and tremendous meaning which seemed to change her nature. Androvsky +forcibly pressed her hand with his, let it go, then pressed it again, +repeating the action with a regularity that seemed suggested by some +guidance. She imagined him pressing her hand each time his heart pulsed. +She did not want to return the pressure. As she felt his hand thus +closing and unclosing over hers, she was conscious that she, who in +their intercourse had played a dominant part, who had even deliberately +brought about that intercourse by her action on the tower, now longed to +be passive and, forgetting her own power and the strength and force of +her nature, to lose herself in the greater strength and force of this +man to whom she had given herself. Never before had she wished to be +anything but strong. Nor did she desire weakness now, but only that his +nature should rise above hers with eagle’s wings, that when she looked +up she should see him, never when she looked down. She thought that to +see him below her would kill her, and she opened her lips to say so. But +something in the windy darkness kept her silent. The heavy curtains of +the palanquin shook perpetually, and the tall wooden rods on which they +were slung creaked, making a small, incessant noise like a complaining, +which joined itself with the more distant but louder noise made by the +leaves of the thousands of palm trees dashed furiously together. From +behind came the groaning of one of the camels, borne on the gusts of +the wind, and faint sounds of the calling voices of the Arabs who +accompanied them. It was not a time to speak. + +She wondered where they were, in what part of the oasis, whether +they had yet gained the beginning of the great route which had always +fascinated her, and which was now the road to the goal of all her +earthly desires. But there was nothing to tell her. She travelled in a +world of dimness and the roar of wind, and in this obscurity and uproar, +combined with perpetual though slight motion, she lost all count of +time. She had no idea how long it was since she had come out of the +church door with Androvsky. At first she thought it was only a few +minutes, and that the camels must be just coming to the statue of the +Cardinal. Then she thought that it might be an hour, even more; that +Count Anteoni’s garden was long since left behind, and that they +were passing, perhaps, along the narrow streets of the village of old +Beni-Mora, and nearing the edge of the oasis. But even in this confusion +of mind she felt that something would tell her when the last palms had +vanished in the sand mist and the caravan came out into the desert. +The sound of the wind would surely be different when they met it on the +immense flats, where there was nothing to break its fury. Or even if it +were not different, she felt that she would know, that the desert would +surely speak to her in the moment when, at last, it took her to itself. +It could not be that they would be taken by the desert and she not +know it. But she wanted Androvsky to know it too. For she felt that the +moment when the desert took them, man and wife, would be a great moment +in their lives, greater even than that in which they met as they came +into the blue country. And she set herself to listen, with a passionate +expectation, with an attention so close and determined that it thrilled +her body, and even affected her muscles. + +What she was listening for was a rising of the wind, a crescendo of its +voice. She was anticipating a triumphant cry from the Sahara, unlimited +power made audible in a sound like the blowing of the clarion of the +sands. + +Androvsky’s hand was still on hers, but now it did not move as if +obeying the pulsations of his heart. It held hers closely, warmly, and +sent his strength to her, and presently, for an instant, taking her mind +from the desert, she lost herself in the mystery and the wonder of human +companionship. She realised that the touch of Androvsky’s hand on hers +altered for her herself, and the whole universe as it was presented to +her, as she observed and felt it. Nothing remained as it was when he did +not touch her. There was something stupefying in the thought, something +almost terrible. The wonder that is alive in the tiny things of love, +and that makes tremendously important their presence in, or absence +from, a woman’s life, took hold on her completely for the first time, +and set her forever in a changed world, a world in which a great +knowledge ruled instead of a great ignorance. With the consciousness +of exactly what Androvsky’s touch meant to her came a multiple +consciousness of a thousand other things, all connected with him and her +consecrated relation to him. She quivered with understanding. All +the gates of her soul were being opened, and the white light of +comprehension of those things which make life splendid and fruitful was +pouring in upon her. Within the dim, contained space of the palanquin, +that was slowly carried onward through the passion of the storm, there +was an effulgence of unseen glory that grew in splendour moment by +moment. A woman was being born of a woman, woman who knew herself of +woman who did not know herself, woman who henceforth would divinely love +her womanhood of woman who had often wondered why she had been created +woman. + +The words muttered by the man of the sand in Count Anteoni’s garden were +coming true. In the church of Beni-Mora the life of Domini had begun +more really than when her mother strove in the pains of childbirth and +her first faint cry answered the voice of the world’s light when it +spoke to her. + +Slowly the caravan moved on. The camel-drivers sang low under the folds +of their haiks those mysterious songs of the East that seem the songs +of heat and solitude. Batouch, smothered in his burnous, his large head +sunk upon his chest, slumbered like a potentate relieved from cares of +State. Till Arba was reached his duty was accomplished. Ali, perched +behind him on the camel, stared into the dimness with eyes steady and +remote as those of a vulture of the desert. The houses of Beni-Mora +faded in the mist of the sand, the statue of the Cardinal holding the +double cross, the tower of the hotel, the shuddering trees of Count +Anteoni’s garden. Along the white blue which was the road the camels +painfully advanced, urged by the cries and the sticks of the running +drivers. Presently the brown buildings of old Beni-Mora came partially +into sight, peeping here and there through the flying sands and the +frantic palm leaves. The desert was at hand. + +Ali began to sing, breathing his song into the back of Batouch’s hood. + + “The love of women is like the holiday song that the boy sings + gaily + In the sunny garden-- + The love of women is like the little moon, the little happy moon + In the last night of Ramadan. + The love of women is like the great silence that steals at dusk + To kiss the scented blossoms of the orange tree. + Sit thee down beneath the orange tree, O loving man! + That thou mayst know the kiss that tells the love of women. + +“Janat! Janat! Janat!” + +Batouch stirred uneasily, pulled his hood from his eyes and looked into +the storm gravely. Then he shifted on the camel’s hump and said to Ali: + +“How shall we get to Arba? The wind is like all the Touaregs going to +battle. And when we leave the oasis----” + +“The wind is going down, Batouch-ben-Brahim,” responded Ali, calmly. +“This evening the Roumis can lie in the tents.” + +Batouch’s thick lips curled with sarcasm. He spat into the wind, blew +his nose in his burnous, and answered: + +“You are a child, and can sing a pretty song, but--” + +Ali pointed with his delicate hand towards the south. + +“Do you not see the light in the sky?” + +Batouch stared before him, and perceived that there was in truth a +lifting of the darkness beyond, a whiteness growing where the desert +lay. + +“As we come into the desert the wind will fall,” said Ali; and again he +began to sing to himself: + +“Janat! Janat! Janat!” + +Domini could not see the light in the south, and no premonition warned +her of any coming abatement of the storm. Once more she had begun to +listen to the roaring of the wind and to wait for the larger voice of +the desert, for the triumphant clarion of the sands that would announce +to her her entry with Androvsky into the life of the wastes. Again she +personified the Sahara, but now more vividly than ever before. In the +obscurity she seemed to see it far away, like a great heroic figure, +waiting for her and her passion, waiting in a region of gold and silken +airs at the back of the tempest to crown her life with a joy wide as its +dreamlike spaces, to teach her mind the inner truths that lie beyond the +crowded ways of men and to open her heart to the most profound messages +of Nature. + +She listened, holding Androvsky’s hand, and she felt that he was +listening too, with an intensity strong as her own, or stronger. +Presently his hand closed upon hers more tightly, almost hurting her +physically. As it did so she glanced up, but not at him, and noticed +that the curtains of the palanquin were fluttering less fiercely. Once, +for an instant, they were almost still. Then again they moved as if +tugged by invisible hands; then were almost still once more. At the same +time the wind’s voice sank in her ears like a music dropping downward +in a hollow place. It rose, but swiftly sank a second time to a softer +hush, and she perceived in the curtained enclosure a faintly growing +light which enabled her to see, for the first time since she had left +the church, her husband’s features. He was looking at her with an +expression of anticipation in which there was awe, and she realised that +in her expectation of the welcome of the desert she had been mistaken. +She had listened for the sounding of a clarion, but she was to be +greeted by a still, small voice. She understood the awe in her husband’s +eyes and shared it. And she knew at once, with a sudden thrill of +rapture, that in the scheme of things there are blessings and nobilities +undreamed of by man and that must always come upon him with a glorious +shock of surprise, showing him the poor faultiness of what he had +thought perhaps his most magnificent imaginings. Elisha sought for the +Lord in the fire and in the whirlwind; but in the still, small voice +onward came the Lord. + +Incomparably more wonderful than what she had waited for seemed to her +now this sudden falling of the storm, this mystical voice that came to +them out of the heart of the sands telling them that they were passing +at last into the arms of the Sahara. The wind sank rapidly. The light +grew in the palanquin. From without the voices of the camel-drivers and +of Batouch and Ali talking together reached their ears distinctly. Yet +they remained silent. It seemed as if they feared by speech to break +the spell of the calm that was flowing around them, as if they feared to +interrupt the murmur of the desert. Domini now returned the gaze of her +husband. She could not take her eyes from his, for she wished him to +read all the joy that was in her heart; she wished him to penetrate her +thoughts, to understand her desires, to be at one with the woman who had +been born on the eve of the passing of the wind. With the coming of this +mystic calm was coming surely something else. The silence was bringing +with it the fusing of two natures. The desert in this moment was drawing +together two souls into a union which Time and Death would have no power +to destroy. Presently the wind completely died away, only a faint breeze +fluttered the curtains of the palanquin, and the light that penetrated +between them here and there was no longer white, but sparkled with a +tiny dust of gold. Then Androvsky moved to open the curtains, and Domini +spoke for the first time since their marriage. + +“Wait,” she said in a low voice. + +He dropped his hand obediently, and looked at her with inquiry in his +eyes. + +“Don’t let us look till we are far out,” she said, “far away from +Beni-Mora.” + +He made no answer, but she saw that he understood all that was in her +heart. He leaned a little nearer to her and stretched out his arm as if +to put it round her. But he did not put it round her, and she knew why. +He was husbanding his great joy as she had husbanded the dark hours of +the previous night that to her were golden. And that unfinished action, +that impulse unfulfilled, showed her more clearly the depths of his +passion for her even than had the desperate clasp of his hands about +her knees in the garden. That which he did not do now was the greatest +assertion possible of all that he would do in the life that was before +them, and made her feel how entirely she belonged to him. Something +within her trembled like a poor child before whom is suddenly set the +prospect of a day of perfect happiness. She thought of the ending of +this day, of the coming of the evening. Always the darkness had parted +them; at the ending of this day it would unite them. In Androvsky’s +eyes she read her thought of the darkness reflected, reflected and yet +changed, transmuted by sex. It was as if at that moment she read the +same story written in two ways--by a woman and by a man, as if she saw +Eden, not only as Eve saw it, but as Adam. + +A long time passed, but they did not feel it to be long. When their +camel halted they unclasped their hands slowly like sleepers reluctantly +awaking. + +They heard Batouch’s voice outside the palanquin. + +“Madame!” he called. “Madame!” + +“What is it?” asked Domini, stifling a sigh. + +“Madame should draw the curtains. We are halfway to Arba. It is time for +_dejeuner_. I will make the camel of Madame lie down.” + +A loud “A-a-ah!” rose up, followed by a fierce groaning from the camel, +and a lethargic, yet violent, movement that threw them forward and +backward. They sank. A hand from without pulled back the curtains and +light streamed over them. They set their feet in sand, stood up, and +looked about them. + +Already they were far out in the desert, though not yet beyond the limit +of the range of red mountains, which stretched forward upon their left +but at no great distance beyond them ended in the sands. The camels were +lying down in a faintly defined track which was bordered upon either +side by the plain covered with little humps of sandy soil on which grew +dusty shrub. Above them was a sky of faint blue, heavy with banks of +clouds towards the east, and over their heads dressed in wispy veils +of vaporous white, through which the blue peered in sections that grew +larger as they looked. Towards the south, where Arba lay on a low hill +of earth, without grass or trees, beyond a mound covered thickly with +tamarisk bushes, which was a feeding-place for immense herds of camels, +the blue was clear and the light of the sun intense. A delicate breeze +travelled about them, stirring the bushes and the robes of the Arabs, +who were throwing back their hoods, and uncovering their mouths, and +smiling at them, but seriously, as Arabs alone can smile. Beside them +stood two white and yellow guard dogs, blinking and looking weary. + +For a moment they stood still, blinking too, almost like the dogs. +The change to this immensity and light from the narrow darkness of the +palanquin overwhelmed their senses. They said nothing, but only stared +silently. Then Domini, with a large gesture, stretched her arms above +her head, drawing a deep breath which ended in a little, almost sobbing, +laugh of exultation. + +“Out of prison,” she said disconnectedly. “Out of prison--into this!” + Suddenly she turned upon Androvsky and caught his arm, and twined both +of her arms round it with a strong confidence that was careless of +everything in the intensity of its happiness. + +“All my life I’ve been in prison,” she said. “You’ve unlocked the +door!” And then, as suddenly as she had caught his arm, she let it go. +Something surged up in her, making her almost afraid; or, if not that, +confused. It was as if her nature were a horse taking the bit between +its teeth preparatory to a tremendous gallop. Whither? She did not know. +She was intoxicated by the growing light, the sharp, delicious air, the +huge spaces around her, the solitude with this man who held her soul +surely in his hands. She had always connected him with the desert. Now +he was hers into the desert, and the desert was hers with him. But was +it possible? Could such a fate have been held in reserve for her? She +scarcely dared even to try to realise the meaning of her situation, +lest at a breath it should be changed. Just then she felt that if she +ventured to weigh and measure her wonderful gift Androvsky would fall +dead at her feet and the desert be folded together like a scroll. + +“There is Beni-Mora, Madame,” said Batouch. + +She was glad he spoke to her, turned and followed with her eyes his +pointing hand. Far off she saw a green darkness of palms, and above it a +white tower, small, from here, as the tower of a castle of dolls. + +“The tower!” she said to Androvsky. “We first spoke in it. We must bid +it good-bye.” + +She made a gesture of farewell towards it. Androvsky watched the +movement of her hand. She noticed now that she made no movement that he +did not observe with a sort of passionate attention. The desert did not +exist for him. She saw that in his eyes. He did not look towards the +tower even when she repeated: + +“We must--we owe it that.” + +Batouch and Ali were busy spreading a cloth upon the sand, making it +firm with little stones, taking out food, plates, knives, glasses, +bottles from a great basket slung on one of the camels. They moved +deftly, seriously intent upon their task. The camel-drivers were +loosening the cords that bound the loads upon their beasts, who roared +venomously, opening their mouths, showing long decayed teeth, and +turning their heads from side to side with a serpentine movement. Domini +and Androvsky were not watched for a moment. + +“Why won’t you look? Why won’t you say good-bye?” she asked, coming +nearer to him on the sand softly, with a woman’s longing to hear him +explain what she understood. + +“What do I care for it, or the palms, or the sky, or the desert?” he +answered almost savagely. “What can I care? If you were mine behind +iron bars in that prison you spoke of--don’t you think it’s enough for +me--too much--a cup running over?” + +And he added some words under his breath, words she could not hear. + +“Not even the desert!” she said with a catch in her voice. + +“It’s all in you. Everything’s in you--everything that brought us +together, that we’ve watched and wanted together.” + +“But then,” she said, and now her voice was very quiet, “am I peace for +you?” + +“Peace!” said Androvsky. + +“Yes. Don’t you remember once I said that there must be peace in the +desert. Then is it in me--for you?” + +“Peace!” he repeated. “To-day I can’t think of peace, or want it. Don’t +you ask too much of me! Let me live to-day, live as only a man can +who--let me live with all that is in me to-day--Domini. Men ask to die +in peace. Oh, Domini--Domini!” + +His expression was like arms that crushed her, lips that pressed her +mouth, a heart that beat on hers. + +“Madame est servie!” cried Batouch in a merry voice. + +His mistress did not seem to hear him. He cried again: + +“Madame est servie!” + +Then Domini turned round and came to the first meal in the sand. Two +cushions lay beside the cloth upon an Arab quilt of white, red, and +orange colour. Upon the cloth, in vases of rough pottery, stained with +designs in purple, were arranged the roses brought by Smain from Count +Anteoni’s garden. + +“Our wedding breakfast!” Domini said under her breath. + +She felt just then as if she were living in a wonderful romance. + +They sat down side by side and ate with a good appetite, served by +Batouch and Ali. Now and then a pale yellow butterfly, yellow as the +sand, flitted by them. Small yellow birds with crested heads ran swiftly +among the scrub, or flew low over the flats. In the sky the vapours +gathered themselves together and moved slowly away towards the east, +leaving the blue above their heads unflecked with white. With each +moment the heat of the sun grew more intense. The wind had gone. It was +difficult to believe that it had ever roared over the desert. A little +way from them the camel-drivers squatted beside the beasts, eating flat +loaves of yellow bread, and talking together in low, guttural voices. +The guard dogs roamed round them, uneasily hungry. In the distance, +before a tent of patched rags, a woman, scantily clad in bright red +cotton, was suckling a child and staring at the caravan. + +Domini and Androvsky scarcely spoke as they ate. Once she said: + +“Do you realise that this is a wedding breakfast?” + +She was thinking of the many wedding receptions she had attended in +London, of crowds of smartly-dressed women staring enviously at +tiaras, and sets of jewels arranged in cases upon tables, of brides and +bridegrooms, looking flushed and anxious, standing under canopies of +flowers and forcing their tired lips into smiles as they replied to +stereotyped congratulations, while detectives--poorly disguised as +gentlemen--hovered in the back-ground to see that none of the presents +mysteriously disappeared. Her presents were the velvety roses in the +earthen vases, the breezes of the desert, the sand humps, the yellow +butterflies, the silence that lay around like a blessing pronounced +by the God who made the still places where souls can learn to know +themselves and their great destiny. + +“A wedding breakfast,” Androvsky said. + +“Yes. But perhaps you have never been to one.” + +“Never.” + +“Then you can’t love this one as much as I do.” + +“Much more,” he answered. + +She looked at him, remembering how often in the past, when she had been +feeling intensely, she had it borne in upon her that he was feeling even +more intensely than herself. But could that be possible now? + +“Do you think,” she said, “that it is possible for you, who have never +lived in cities, to love this land as I love it?” + +Androvsky moved on his cushion and leaned down till his elbow touched +the sand. Lying thus, with his chin in his hand, and his eyes fixed upon +her, he answered: + +“But it is not the land I am loving.” + +His absolute concentration upon her made her think that, perhaps, he +misunderstood her meaning in speaking of the desert, her joy in it. +She longed to explain how he and the desert were linked together in +her heart, and she dropped her hand upon his left hand, which lay palm +downwards in the warm sand. + +“I love this land,” she began, “because I found you in it, because I +feel----” + +She stopped. + +“Yes, Domini?” he said. + +“No, not now. I can’t tell you. There’s too much light.” + +“Domini,” he repeated. + +Then they were silent once more, thinking of how the darkness would come +to them at Arba. + +In the late afternoon they drew near to the Bordj, moving along a +difficult route full of deep ruts and holes, and bordered on either side +by bushes so tall that they looked almost like trees. Here, tended by +Arabs who stared gravely at the strangers in the palanquin, were grazing +immense herds of camels. Above the bushes to the horizon on either side +of the way appeared the serpentine necks flexibly moving to and fro, +now bending deliberately towards the dusty twigs, now stretched straight +forward as if in patient search for some solace of the camel’s fate that +lay in the remoteness of the desert. Baby camels, many of them only +a few days old, yet already vowed to the eternal pilgrimages of the +wastes, with mild faces and long, disobedient-looking legs, ran from +the caravan, nervously seeking their morose mothers, who cast upon them +glances that seemed expressive of a disdainful pity. In front, beyond a +watercourse, now dried up, rose the low hill on which stood the Bordj, +a huge, square building, with two square towers pierced with loopholes. +From a distance it resembled a fort threatening the desert in +magnificent isolation. Its towers were black against the clear lemon of +the failing sunlight. Pigeons, that looked also black, flew perpetually +about them, and the telegraph posts, that bordered the way at regular +intervals on the left, made a diminishing series of black vertical lines +sharply cutting the yellow till they were lost to sight in the south. +To Domini these posts were like pointing fingers beckoning her onward to +the farthest distances of the sun. Drugged by the long journey over the +flats, and the unceasing caress of the air, that was like an importunate +lover ever unsatisfied, she watched from the height on which she was +perched this evening scene of roaming, feeding animals, staring nomads, +monotonous herbage and vague, surely-retreating mountains, with quiet, +dreamy eyes. Everything which she saw seemed to her beautiful, a little +remote and a little fantastic. The slow movement of the camels, the +swifter movements of the circling pigeons about the square towers on +the hill, the motionless, or gently-gliding, Arabs with their clubs held +slantwise, the telegraph poles, one smaller than the other, diminishing +till--as if magically--they disappeared in the lemon that was growing +into gold, were woven together for her by the shuttle of the desert +into a softly brilliant tapestry--one of those tapestries that is like +a legend struck to sleep as the Beauty in her palace. As they began to +mount the hill, and the radiance of the sky increased, this impression +faded, for the life that centred round the Bordj was vivid, though +sparse in comparison with the eddying life of towns, and had that air +of peculiar concentration which may be noted in pictures representing a +halt in the desert. + +No longer did the strongly-built Bordj seem to Domini like a fort +threatening the oncomer, but like a stalwart host welcoming him, a host +who kept open house in this treeless desolation that yet had, for her, +no feature that was desolate. It was earth-coloured, built of stone, and +had in the middle of the facade that faced them an immense hospitable +doorway with a white arch above it. This doorway gave a partial view of +a vast courtyard, in which animals and people were moving to and fro. +Round about, under the sheltering shadow of the windowless wall, were +many Arabs, some squatting on their haunches, some standing upright with +their backs against the stone, some moving from one group to another, +gesticulating and talking vivaciously. Boys were playing a game with +stones set in an ordered series of small holes scooped by their fingers +in the dust. A negro crossed the flat space before the Bordj carrying on +his head a huge earthen vase to the well near by, where a crowd of black +donkeys, just relieved of their loads of brushwood, was being watered. +From the south two Spahis were riding in on white horses, their scarlet +cloaks floating out over their saddles; and from the west, moving slowly +to a wailing sound of indistinct music, a faint beating of tomtoms, was +approaching a large caravan in a cloud of dust which floated back from +it and melted away into the radiance of the sunset. + +When they gained the great open space before the building they were +bathed in the soft golden light, in which all these figures of Africans, +and all these animals, looked mysterious and beautiful, and full of that +immeasurable significance which the desert sheds upon those who move in +it, specially at dawn or at sundown. From the plateau they dominated the +whole of the plain they had traversed as far as Beni-Mora, which on the +morrow would fade into the blue horizon. Its thousands of palms made +a darkness in the gold, and still the tower of the hotel was faintly +visible, pointing like a needle towards the sky. The range of mountains +showed their rosy flanks in the distance. They, too, on the morrow would +be lost in the desert spaces, the last outposts of the world of hill +and valley, of stream and sea. Only in the deceptive dream of the mirage +would they appear once more, looming in a pearl-coloured shaking veil +like a fluid on the edge of some visionary lagune. + +Domini was glad that on this first night of their journey they could +still see Beni-Mora, the place where they had found each other and been +given to each other by the Church. As the camel stopped before the great +doorway of the Bordj she turned in the palanquin and looked down upon +the desert, motioning to the camel-driver to leave the beast for a +moment. She put her arm through Androvsky’s and made his eyes follow +hers across the vast spaces made magical by the sinking sun to that +darkness of distant palms which, to her, would be a sacred place for +ever. And as they looked in silence all that Beni-Mora meant to her came +upon her. She saw again the garden hushed in the heat of noon. She saw +Androvsky at her feet on the sand. She heard the chiming church bell and +the twitter of Larbi’s flute. The dark blue of trees was as the heart of +the world to her and as the heart of life. It had seen the birth of her +soul and given to her another newborn soul. There was a pathos in +seeing it fade like a thing sinking down till it became one with the +immeasurable sands, and at that moment she said to herself, “When shall +I see Beni-Mora again--and how?” She looked at Androvsky, met his eyes, +and thought: “When I see it again how different I shall be! How I shall +be changed!” And in the sunset she seemed to be saying a mute good-bye +to one who was fading with Beni-Mora. + +As soon as they had got off the camel and were standing in the group +of staring Arabs, Batouch begged them to come to their tents, where +tea would be ready. He led them round the angle of the wall towards the +west, and there, pitched in the full radiance of the sunset, with a wide +space of hard earth gleaming with gypse around it, was a white tent. +Before it, in the open air, was stretched a handsome Arab carpet, and on +this carpet were set a folding table and two folding chairs. The table +held a japanned tray with tea-cups, a milk jug and plates of biscuits +and by it, in an attitude that looked deliberately picturesque stood +Ouardi, the youth selected by Batouch to fill the office of butler in +the desert. + +Ouardi smiled a broad welcome as they approached, and having made sure +that his pose had been admired, retired to the cook’s abode to fetch the +teapot, while Batouch invited Domini and Androvsky to inspect the tent +prepared for them. Domini assented with a dropped-out word. She still +felt in a dream. But Androvsky, after casting towards the tent door +a glance that was full of a sort of fierce shyness, moved away a few +steps, and stood at the edge of the hill looking down upon the incoming +caravan, whose music was now plainly audible in the stillness of the +waste. + +Domini went into the tent that was to be their home for many weeks, +alone. And she was glad just then that she was alone. For she too, like +Androvsky, felt a sort of exquisite trouble moving, like a wave, in her +heart. On some pretext, but only after an expression of admiration, she +got rid of Batouch. Then she stood and looked round. + +From the big tent opened a smaller one, which was to serve Androvsky as +a dressing-room and both of them as a baggage room. She did not go into +that, but saw, with one glance of soft inquiry, the two small, low beds, +the strips of gay carpet, the dressing-table, the stand and the two cane +chairs which furnished the sleeping-tent. Then she looked back to the +aperture. In the distance, standing alone at the edge of the hill, she +saw Androvsky, bathed in the sunset, looking out over the hidden desert +from which rose the wild sound of African music, steadily growing +louder. It seemed to her as if he must be gazing at the plains of +heaven, so magically brilliant and tender, so pellucidly clear and +delicate was the atmosphere and the colour of the sky. She saw no other +form, only his, in this poem of light, in this wide world of the sinking +sun. And the music seemed to be about his feet, to rise from the sand +and throb in its breast. + +At that moment the figure of Liberty, which she had seen in the shadows +of the dancing-house, came in at the tent door and laid, for the first +time, her lips on Domini’s. That kiss was surely the consecration of +the life of the sands. But to-day there had been another consecration. +Domini had a sudden impulse to link the two consecrations together. + +She drew from her breast the wooden crucifix Androvsky had thrown into +the stream at Sidi-Zerzour, and, softly going to one of the beds, she +pinned the crucifix above it on the canvas of the tent. Then she turned +and went out into the glory of the sunset to meet the fierce music that +was rising from the desert. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Night had fallen over the desert, a clear purple night, starry but +without a moon. Around the Bordj, and before a Cafe Maure built of brown +earth and palm-wood, opposite to it, the Arabs who were halting to sleep +at Arba on their journeys to and from Beni-Mora were huddled, sipping +coffee, playing dominoes by the faint light of an oil lamp, smoking +cigarettes and long pipes of keef. Within the court of the Bordj the +mules were feeding tranquilly in rows. The camels roamed the plain +among the tamarisk bushes, watched over by shrouded shadowy guardians +sleepless as they were. The mountains, the palms of Beni-Mora, were lost +in the darkness that lay over the desert. + +On the low hill, at some distance beyond the white tent of Domini and +Androvsky, the obscurity was lit up fiercely by the blaze of a huge +fire of brushwood, the flames of which towered up towards the stars, +flickering this way and that as the breeze took them, and casting a wild +illumination upon the wild faces of the rejoicing desert men who were +gathered about it, telling stories of the wastes, singing songs that +were melancholy and remote to Western ears, even though they hymned +past victories over the infidels, or passionate ecstasies of love in the +golden regions of the sun. The steam from bowls of cous-cous and stews +of mutton and vegetables curled up to join the thin smoke that made a +light curtain about this fantasia, and from time to time, with a shrill +cry of exultation, a half-naked form, all gleaming eyes and teeth and +polished bronze-hued limbs, rushed out of the blackness beyond the fire, +leaped through the tongues of flame and vanished like a spectre into the +embrace of the night. + +All the members of the caravan, presided over by Batouch in glory, were +celebrating the wedding night of their master and mistress. + +Domini and Androvsky had already visited them by their bonfire, had +received their compliments, watched the sword dance and the dance of +the clubs, touched with their lips, or pretended to touch, the stem of a +keef, listened to a marriage song warbled by Ali to the accompaniment +of a flute and little drums, and applauded Ouardi’s agility in leaping +through the flames. Then, with many good-nights, pressures of the hand, +and auguries for the morrow, they had gone away into the cool darkness, +silently towards their tent. + +They walked slowly, a little apart from each other. Domini looked up at +the stars and saw among them the star of Liberty. Androvsky looked at +her and saw all the stars in her face. When they reached the tent door +they stopped on the warm earth. A lamp was lit within, casting a soft +light on the simple furniture and on the whiteness of the two beds, +above one of which Domini imagined, though from without she could not +see, the wooden crucifix Androvsky had once worn in his breast. + +“Shall we stay here a little?” Domini said in a low voice. “Out here?” + There was a long pause. Then Androvsky answered: + +“Yes. Let us feel it all--all. Let us feel it to the full.” + +He caught hold of her hand with a sort of tender roughness and twined +his fingers between hers, pressing his palm against hers. + +“Don’t let us miss anything to-night,” he said. “All my life is +to-night. I’ve had no life yet. To-morrow--who knows whether we shall +be dead to-morrow? Who knows? But we’re alive to-night, flesh and blood, +heart and soul. And there’s nothing here, there can be nothing here to +take our life from us, the life of our love to-night. For we’re out in +the desert, we’re right away from anyone, everything. We’re in the great +freedom. Aren’t we, Domini? Aren’t we?” + +“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” + +He took her other hand in the same way. He was facing her, and he held +his hands against his heart with hers in them, then pressed her hands +against her heart, then drew them back again to his. + +“Then let us realise it. Let us forget our prison. Let us forget +everything, everything that we ever knew before Beni-Mora, Domini. It’s +dead, absolutely dead, unless we make it live by thinking. And that’s +mad, crazy. Thought’s the great madness. Domini, have you forgotten +everything before we knew each other?” + +“Yes,” she said. “Now--but only now. You’ve made me forget it all.” + +There was a deep breathing under her voice. He held up her hands to his +shoulders and looked closely into her eyes, as if he were trying to send +all himself into her through those doors of the soul opened to seeing +him. And now, in this moment, she felt that her fierce desire was +realised, that he was rising above her on eagle’s wings. And as on the +night before the wedding she had blessed all the sorrows of her life, +now she blessed silently all the long silence of Androvsky, all +his strange reticence, his uncouthness, his avoidance of her in the +beginning of their acquaintance. That which had made her pain by being, +now made her joy by having been and being no more. The hidden man was +rushing forth to her at last in his love. She seemed to hear in the +night the crash of a great obstacle, and the voice of the flood of +waters that had broken it down at length and were escaping into liberty. +His silence of the past now made his speech intensely beautiful and +wonderful to her. She wanted to hear the waters more intensely, more +intensely. + +“Speak to me,” she said. “You’ve spoken so little. Do you know how +little? Tell me all you are. Till now I’ve only felt all you are. And +that’s so much, but not enough for a woman--not enough. I’ve taken you, +but now--give me all I’ve taken. Give--keep on giving and giving. From +to-night to receive will be my life. Long ago I’ve given all I had to +you. Give to me, give me everything. You know I’ve given all.” + +“All?” he said, and there was a throb in his deep voice, as if some +intense feeling rose from the depths of him and shook it. + +“Yes, all,” she whispered. “Already--and long ago--that day in the +garden. When I--when I put my hands against your forehead--do you +remember? I gave you all, for ever.” + +And as she spoke she bent down her face with a sort of proud submission +and put her forehead against his heart. + +The purity in her voice and in her quiet, simple action dazzled him like +a flame shining suddenly in his eyes out of blackness. And he, too, in +that moment saw far up above him the beating of an eagle’s wings. To +each one the other seemed to be on high, and as both looked up that was +their true marriage. + +“I felt it,” he said, touching her hair with his lips. “I felt it in +your hands. When you touched me that day it was as if you were giving me +the world and the stars. It frightened me to receive so much. I felt as +if I had no place to put my gift in.” + +“Did your heart seem so small?” she said. + +“You make everything I have and am seem small--and yet great. What does +it mean?” + +“That you are great, as I am, because we love. No one is small who +loves. No one is poor, no one is bad, who loves. Love burns up evil. +It’s the angel that destroys.” + +Her words seemed to send through his whole body a quivering joy. He took +her face between his hands and lifted it from his heart. + +“Is that true? Is that true?” he said. “I’ve--I’ve tried to think that. +If you know how I’ve tried.” + +“And don’t you know it is true?” + +“I don’t feel as if I knew anything that you do not tell me to-night. I +don’t feel as if I have, or am, anything but what you give me, make me +to-night. Can you understand that? Can you understand what you are to +me? That you are everything, that I have nothing else, that I have never +had anything else in all these years that I have lived and that I have +forgotten? Can you understand it? You said just now ‘Speak to me, tell +me all you are.’ That’s what I am, all I am, a man you have made a man. +You, Domini--you have made me a man, you have created me.” + +She was silent. The intensity with which he spoke, the intensity of his +eyes while he was speaking, made her hear those rushing waters as if she +were being swept away by them. + +“And you?” he said. “You?” + +“I?” + +“This afternoon in the desert, when we were in the sand looking at +Beni-Mora, you began to tell me something and then you stopped. And you +said, ‘I can’t tell you. There’s too much light.’ Now the sun has gone.” + +“Yes. But--but I want to listen to you. I want----” + +She stopped. In the distance, by the great fire where the Arabs were +assembled, there rose a sound of music which arrested her attention. Ali +was singing, holding in his hand a brand from the fire like a torch. She +had heard him sing before, and had loved the timbre of his voice, but +only now did she realise when she had first heard him and who he was. It +was he who, hidden from her, had sung the song of the freed negroes of +Touggourt in the gardens of Count Anteoni that day when she had been +angry with Androvsky and had afterwards been reconciled with him. And +she knew now it was he, because, once more hidden from her--for against +the curtain of darkness she only saw the flame from the torch he held +and moved rhythmically to the burden of his song--he was singing it +again. Androvsky, when she ceased to speak, suddenly put his arms round +her, as if he were afraid of her escaping from him in her silence, and +they stood thus at the tent door listening: + + “The gazelle dies in the water, + The fish dies in the air, + And I die in the dunes of the desert sand + For my love that is deep and sad.” + +The chorus of hidden men by the fire rose in a low murmur that was like +the whisper of the desert in the night. Then the contralto voice of Ali +came to Domini and Androvsky again, but very faintly, from the distance +where the flaming torch was moving: + + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + +When the voice died away for a moment Domini whispered the refrain. Then +she said: + +“But is it true? Can it be true for us to-night?” + +Androvsky did not reply. + +“I don’t think it is true,” she added. “You know--don’t you?” + +The voice of Ali rose again, and his torch flickered on the soft wind +of the night. Its movement was slow and eerie. It seemed like his voice +made visible, a voice of flame in the blackness of the world. They +watched it. Presently she said once more: + +“You know what is in my heart--don’t you?” + +“Do I?” he said. “All?” + +“All. My heart is full of one thing--quite full.” + +“Then I know.” + +“And,” she hesitated, then added, “and yours?” + +“Mine too.” + +“I know all that is in it then?” + +She still spoke questioningly. He did not reply, but held her more +closely, with a grasp that was feverish in its intensity. + +“Do you remember,” she went on, “in the garden what you said about that +song?” + +“No.” + +“You have forgotten?” + +“I told you,” he said, “I mean to forget everything.” + +“Everything before we came to Beni-Mora?” + +“And more. Everything before you put your hands against my forehead, +Domini. Your touch blotted out the past.” + +“Even the past at Beni-Mora?” + +“Yes, even that. There are many things I did and left undone, many +things I said and never said that--I have forgotten--I have forgotten +for ever.” + +There was a sternness in his voice now, a fiery intention. + +“I understand,” she said. “I have forgotten them too, but not some +things.” + +“Which?” + +“Not that night when you took me out of the dancing-house, not our +ride to Sidi-Zerzour, not--there are things I shall remember. When I am +dying, after I am dead, I shall remember them.” + +The song faded away. The torch was still, then fell downwards and became +one with the fire. Then Androvsky drew Domini down beside him on to the +warm earth before the tent door, and held her hand in his against the +earth. + +“Feel it,” he said. “It’s our home, it’s our liberty. Does it feel alive +to you?” + +“Yes.” + +“As if it had pulses, like the pulses in our hearts, and knew what we +know?” + +“Yes. Mother Earth--I never understood what that meant till to-night.” + +“We are beginning to understand together. Who can understand anything +alone?” + +He kept her hand always in his pressed against the desert as against +a heart. They both thought of it as a heart that was full of love and +protection for them, of understanding of them. Going back to their words +before the song of Ali, he said: + +“Love burns up evil, then love can never be evil.” + +“Not the act of loving.” + +“Or what it leads to,” he said. + +And again there was a sort of sternness in his voice, as if he were +insisting on something, were bent on conquering some reluctance, or some +voice contradicting. + +“I know that you are right,” he added. + +She did not speak, but--why she did not know--her thought went to the +wooden crucifix fastened in the canvas of the tent close by, and for a +moment she felt a faint creeping sadness in her. But he pressed her hand +more closely, and she was conscious only of these two warmths---of his +hand above her hand and of the desert beneath it. Her whole life seemed +set in a glory of fire, in a heat that was life-giving, that dominated +her and evoked at the same time all of power that was in her, causing +her dormant fires, physical and spiritual, to blaze up as if they were +sheltered and fanned. The thought of the crucifix faded. It was as if +the fire destroyed it and it became ashes--then nothing. She fixed her +eyes on the distant fire of the Arabs, which was beginning to die down +slowly as the night grew deeper. + +“I have doubted many things,” he said. “I’ve been afraid.” + +“You!” she said. + +“Yes. You know it.” + +“How can I? Haven’t I forgotten everything--since that day in the +garden?” + +He drew up her hand and put it against his heart. + +“I’m jealous of the desert even,” he whispered. “I won’t let you touch +it any more tonight.” + +He looked into her eyes and saw that she was looking at the distant +fire, steadily, with an intense eagerness. + +“Why do you do that?” he said. + +“To-night I like to look at fire,” she answered. + +“Tell me why.” + +“It is as if I looked at you, at all that there is in you that you have +never said, never been able to say to me, all that you never can say to +me but that I know all the same.” + +“But,” he said, “that fire is----” + +He did not finish the sentence, but put up his hand and turned her face +till she was looking, not at the fire, but at him. + +“It is not like me,” he said. “Men made it, and--it’s a fire that can +sink into ashes.” + +An expression of sudden exaltation shone in her eyes. + +“And God made you,” she said. “And put into you the spark that is +eternal.” + +And now again she thought, she dared, she loved to think of the crucifix +and of the moment when he would see it in the tent. + +“And God made you love me,” she said. “What is it?” + +Androvsky had moved suddenly, as if he were going to get up from the +warm ground. + +“Did you--?” + +“No,” he said in a low voice. “Go on, Domini. Speak to me.” + +He sat still. + +A sudden longing came to her to know if to-night he were feeling as +she was the sacredness of their relation to each other. Never had they +spoken intimately of religion or of the mysteries that lie beyond and +around human life. Once or twice, when she had been about to open her +heart to him, to let him understand her deep sense of the things unseen, +something had checked her, something in him. It was as if he had divined +her intention and had subtly turned her from it, without speech, merely +by the force of his inward determination that she should not break +through his reserve. But to-night, with his hand on hers and the starry +darkness above them, with the waste stretching around them, and the +cool air that was like the breath of liberty upon their faces, she was +unconscious of any secret, combative force in him. It was impossible to +her to think there could have been any combat, however inward, however +subtle, between them. Surely if it were ever permitted to two natures to +be in perfect accord theirs were in perfect accord to-night. + +“I never felt the presence of God in His world so keenly as I feel it +to-night,” she went on, drawing a little closer to him. “Even in the +church to-day He seemed farther away than tonight. But somehow--one +has these thoughts without knowing why--I have always believed that the +farther I went into the desert the nearer I should come to God.” + +Androvsky moved again. The clasp of his hand on hers loosened, but he +did not take his hand away. + +“Why should--what should make you think that?” he asked slowly. + +“Don’t you know what the Arabs call the desert?” + +“No. What do they call it?” + +“The Garden of Allah.” + +“The Garden of Allah!” he repeated. + +There was a sound like fear in his voice. Even her great joy did not +prevent her from noticing it, and she remembered, with a thrill of pain, +where and under what circumstances she had first heard the Arab’s name +for the desert. + +Could it be that this man she loved was secretly afraid of something in +the desert, some influence, some--? Her thought stopped short, like a +thing confused. + +“Don’t you think it a very beautiful name?” she asked, with an almost +fierce longing to be reassured, to be made to know that he, like her, +loved the thought that God was specially near to those who travelled in +this land of solitude. + +“Is it beautiful?” + +“To me it is. It makes me feel as if in the desert I were specially +watched over and protected, even as if I were specially loved there.” + +Suddenly Androvsky put his arm round her and strained her to him. + +“By me! By me!” he said. “Think of me to-night, only of me, as I think +only of you.” + +He spoke as if he were jealous even of her thought of God, as if he did +not understand that it was the very intensity of her love for him that +made her, even in the midst of the passion of the body, connect +their love of each other with God’s love of them. In her heart this +overpowering human love which, in the garden, when first she realised +it fully, had seemed to leave no room in her for love of God, now in the +moment when it was close to absolute satisfaction seemed almost to be +one with her love of God. Perhaps no man could understand how, in a +good woman, the two streams of the human love which implies the intense +desire of the flesh, and the mystical love which is absolutely purged +of that desire, can flow the one into the other and mingle their waters. +She tried to think that, and then she ceased to try. Everything was +forgotten as his arms held her fast in the night, everything except this +great force of human love which was like iron, and yet soft about her, +which was giving and wanting, which was concentrated upon her to the +exclusion of all else, plunging the universe in darkness and setting her +in light. + +“There is nothing for me to-night but you,” he said, crushing her in his +arms. “The desert is your garden. To me it has always been your garden, +only that, put here for you, and for me because you love me--but for me +only because of that.” + +The Arabs’ fire was rapidly dying down. + +“When it goes out, when it goes out!” Androvsky whispered it her ear. + +His breath stirred the thick tresses of her hair. + +“Let us watch it!” he whispered. + +She pressed his hand but did not reply. She could not speak any more. +At last the something wild and lawless, the something that was more than +passionate, that was hot and even savage in her nature, had risen up in +its full force to face a similar force in him, which insistently called +it and which it answered without shame. + +“It is dying,” Androvsky said. “It is dying. Look how small the circle +of the flame is, how the darkness is creeping up about it! Domini--do +you see?” + +She pressed his hand again. + +“Do you long for the darkness?” he asked. “Do you, Domini? The desert +is sending it. The desert is sending it for you, and for me because you +love me.” + +A log in the fire, charred by the flames, broke in two. Part of it fell +down into the heart of the fire, which sent up a long tongue of red gold +flame. + +“That is like us,” he said. “Like us together in the darkness.” + +She felt his body trembling, as if the vehemence of the spirit confined +within it shook it. In the night the breeze slightly increased, making +the flame of the lamp behind them in the tent flicker. And the breeze +was like a message, brought to them from the desert by some envoy in +the darkness, telling them not to be afraid of their wonderful gift of +freedom with each other, but to take it open-handed, open-hearted, with +the great courage of joy. + +“Domini, did you feel that gust of the wind? It carried away a cloud of +sparks from the fire and brought them a little way towards us. Did you +see? Fire wandering on the wind through the night calling to the fire +that is in us. Wasn’t it beautiful? Everything is beautiful to-night. +There were never such stars before.” + +She looked up at them. Often she had watched the stars, and known the +vague longings, the almost terrible aspirations they wake in their +watchers. But to her also they looked different to-night, nearer to the +earth, she thought, brighter, more living than ever before, like strange +tenderness made visible, peopling the night with an unconquerable +sympathy. The vast firmament was surely intent upon their happiness. +Again the breeze came to them across the waste, cool and breathing of +the dryness of the sands. Not far away a jackal laughed. After a pause +it was answered by another jackal at a distance. The voices of these +desert beasts brought home to Domini with an intimacy not felt by her +before the exquisite remoteness of their situation, and the shrill, +discordant noise, rising and falling with a sort of melancholy and +sneering mirth, mingled with bitterness, was like a delicate music in +her ears. + +“Hark!” Androvsky whispered. + +The first jackal laughed once more, was answered again. A third beast, +evidently much farther off, lifted up a faint voice like a dismal echo. +Then there was silence. + +“You loved that, Domini. It was like the calling of freedom to you--and +to me. We’ve found freedom; we’ve found it. Let us feel it. Let us take +hold of it. It is the only thing, the only thing. But you can’t know +that as I do, Domini.” + +Again she was conscious that his intensity surpassed hers, and the +consciousness, instead of saddening or vexing, made her thrill with joy. + +“I am maddened by this freedom,” he said; “maddened by it, Domini. I +can’t help--I can’t--” + +He laid his lips upon hers in a desperate caress that almost suffocated +her. Then he took his lips away from her lips and kissed her throat, +holding her head back against his shoulder. She shut her eyes. He was +indeed teaching her to forget. Even the memory of the day in the garden +when she heard the church bell chime and the sound of Larbi’s flute went +from her. She remembered nothing any more. The past was lost or laid in +sleep by the spell of sensation. Her nature galloped like an Arab horse +across the sands towards the sun, towards the fire that sheds warmth +afar but that devours all that draws near to it. At that moment she +connected Androvsky with the tremendous fires eternally blazing in +the sun. She had a desire that he should hurt her in the passionate +intensity of his love for her. Her nature, which till now had been ever +ready to spring into hostility at an accidental touch, which had shrunk +instinctively from physical contact with other human beings, melted, was +utterly transformed. She felt that she was now the opposite of all that +she had been--more woman than any other woman who had ever lived. +What had been an almost cold strength in her went to increase the +completeness of this yielding to one stronger than herself. What had +seemed boyish and almost hard in her died away utterly under the embrace +of this fierce manhood. + +“Domini,” he spoke, whispering while he kissed her, “Domini, the fire’s +gone out. It’s dark.” + +He lifted her a little in his arms, still kissing her. + +“Domini, it’s dark, it’s dark.” + +He lifted her more. She stood up, with his arms about her, looking +towards where the fire had been. She put her hands against his face and +softly pressed it back from hers, but with a touch that was a caress. He +yielded to her at once. + +“Look!” he said. “Do you love the darkness? Tell me--tell me that you +love it.” + +She let her hand glide over his cheek in answer. + +“Look at it. Love it. All the desert is in it, and our love in the +desert. Let us stay in the desert, let us stay in it for ever--for ever. +It is your garden--yours. It has brought us everything, Domini.” + +He took her hand and pressed it again and again over his cheek +lingeringly. Then, abruptly, he dropped it. + +“Come!” he said. “Domini.” + +And he drew her in through the tent door almost violently. + +A stronger gust of the night wind followed them. Androvsky took his arms +slowly from Domini and turned to let down the flap of the tent. While he +was doing this she stood quite still. The flame of the lamp flickered, +throwing its light now here, now there, uneasily. She saw the crucifix +lit up for an instant and the white bed beneath it. The wind stirred +her dark hair and was cold about her neck. But the warmth there met and +defied it. In that brief moment, while Androvsky was fastening the tent, +she seemed to live through centuries of intense and complicated emotion. +When the light flickered over the crucifix she felt as if she could +spend her life in passionate adoration at its foot; but when she did not +see it, and the wind, coming in from the desert through the tent door, +where she heard the movement of Androvsky, stirred in her hair, she felt +reckless, wayward, savage--and something more. A cry rose in her that +was like the cry of a stranger, who yet was of her and in her, and from +whom she would not part. + +Again the lamp flame flickered upon the crucifix. Quickly, while she saw +the crucifix plainly, she went forward to the bed and fell on her knees +by it, bending down her face upon its whiteness. + +When Androvsky had fastened the tent door he turned round and saw her +kneeling. He stood quite still as if petrified, staring at her. Then, +as the flame, now sheltered from the wind, burned steadily, he saw the +crucifix. He started as if someone had struck him, hesitated, then, with +a look of fierce and concentrated resolution on his face, went swiftly +to the crucifix and pulled it from the canvas roughly. He held it in his +hand for an instant, then moved to the tent door and stooped to unfasten +the cords that held it to the pegs, evidently with the intention of +throwing the crucifix out into the night. But he did not unfasten +the cords. Something--some sudden change of feeling, some secret and +powerful reluctance--checked him. He thrust the crucifix into his +pocket. Then, returning to where Domini was kneeling, he put his arms +round her and drew her to her feet. + +She did not resist him. Still holding her in his arms he blew out the +lamp. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +The Arabs have a saying, “In the desert one forgets everything, one +remembers nothing any more.” + +To Domini it sometimes seemed the truest of all the true and beautiful +sayings of the East. Only three weeks had passed away since the first +halt at Arba, yet already her life at Beni-Mora was faint in her mind +as the dream of a distant past. Taken by the vast solitudes, journeying +without definite aim from one oasis to another through empty regions +bathed in eternal sunshine, camping often in the midst of the sand +by one of the wells sunk for the nomads by the French engineers, +strengthened perpetually, yet perpetually soothed, by airs that were +soft and cool, as if mingled of silk and snow, they lived surely in a +desert dream with only a dream behind them. They had become as one with +the nomads, whose home is the moving tent, whose hearthstone is the +yellow sand of the dunes, whose God is liberty. + +Domini loved this life with a love which had already become a passion. +All that she had imagined that the desert might be to her she found that +it was. In its so-called monotony she discovered eternal interest. Of +old she had thought the sea the most wonderful thing in Nature. In the +desert she seemed to possess the sea with something added to it, a +calm, a completeness, a mystical tenderness, a passionate serenity. She +thought of the sea as a soul striving to fulfil its noblest aspirations, +to be the splendid thing it knew how to dream of. But she thought of +the desert as a soul that need strive no more, having attained. And she, +like the Arabs, called it always in her heart the Garden of Allah. For +in this wonderful calm, bright as the child’s idea of heaven; clear as +a crystal with a sunbeam caught in it, silent as a prayer that will +be answered silently, God seemed to draw very near to His wandering +children. In the desert was the still, small voice, and the still, small +voice was the Lord. + +Often at dawn or sundown, when, perhaps in the distance of the sands, +or near at hand beneath the shade of the palms of some oasis by a +waterspring, she watched the desert men in their patched rags, with +their lean, bronzed faces and eagle eyes turned towards Mecca, bowing +their heads in prayer to the soil that the sun made hot, she remembered +Count Anteoni’s words, “I like to see men praying in the desert,” and +she understood with all her heart and soul why. For the life of the +desert was the most perfect liberty that could be found on earth, and to +see men thus worshipping in liberty set before her a vision of free will +upon the heights. When she thought of the world she had known and left, +of the men who would always live in it and know no other world, she was +saddened for a moment. Could she ever find elsewhere such joy as she had +found in the simple and unfettered life of the wastes? Could she ever +exchange this life for another life, even with Androvsky? + +One day she spoke to him of her intense joy in the wandering fate, and +the pain that came to her whenever she thought of exchanging it for a +life of civilisation in the midst of fixed groups of men. + +They had halted for the noonday rest at a place called Sidi-Hamdam, and +in the afternoon were going to ride on to a Bordj called Mogar, where +they meant to stay two or three days, as Batouch had told them it was +a good halting place, and near to haunts of the gazelle. The tents had +already gone forward, and Domini and Androvsky were lying upon a rug +spread on the sand, in the shadow of the grey wall of a traveller’s +house beside a well. Behind them their horses were tethered to an +iron ring in the wall. Batouch and Ali were in the court of the house, +talking to the Arab guardian who dwelt there, but their voices were not +audible by the well, and absolute silence reigned, the intense yet +light silence that is in the desert at noontide, when the sun is at +the zenith, when the nomad sleeps under his low-pitched tent, and the +gardeners in the oasis cease even from pretending to work among the +palms. From before the well the ground sank to a plain of pale grey +sand, which stretched away to a village hard in aspect, as if carved out +of bronze and all in one piece. In the centre of it rose a mosque with +a minaret and a number of cupolas, faintly gilded and shining modestly +under the fierce rays of the sun. + +At the foot of the village the ground was white with saltpetre, which +resembled a covering of new-fallen snow. To right and left of it were +isolated groups of palms growing in threes and fours, like trees that +had formed themselves into cliques and set careful barriers of sand +between themselves and their despised brethren. Here and there on the +grey sand dark patches showed where nomads had pitched their tents. But +there was no movement of human life. No camels were visible. No guard +dogs barked. The noon held all things in its golden grip. + +“Boris!” Domini said, breaking a long silence. + +“Yes, Domini?” + +He turned towards her on the rug, stretching his long, thin body lazily +as if in supreme physical contentment. + +“You know that saying of the Arabs about forgetting everything in the +desert?” + +“Yes, Domini, I know it.” + +“How long shall we stay in this world of forgetfulness?” + +He lifted himself up on his elbow quickly, and fixed his eyes on hers. + +“How long!” + +“Yes.” + +“But--do you wish to leave it? Are you tired of it?” + +There was a note of sharp anxiety in his voice. + +“I don’t answer such a question,” she said, smiling at him. + +“Ah, then, why do you try to frighten me?” + +She put her hand in his. + +“How burnt you are!” she said. “You are like an Arab of the South.” + +“Let me become more like one. There’s health here.” + +“And peace, perfect peace.” + +He said nothing. He was looking down now at the sand. + +She laid her lips on his warm brown hand. + +“There’s all I want here,” she added. + +“Let us stay here.” + +“But some day we must go back, mustn’t we?” + +“Why?” + +“Can anything be lifelong--even our honeymoon?” + +“Suppose we choose that it shall be?” + +“Can we choose such a thing? Is anybody allowed to choose to live always +quite happily without duties? Sometimes I wonder. I love this wandering +life so much, I am so happy in it, that I sometimes think it cannot last +much longer.” + +He began to sift the sand through his fingers swiftly. + +“Duties?” he said in a low voice. + +“Yes. Oughtn’t we to do something presently, something besides being +happy?” + +“What do you mean, Domini?” + +“I hardly know, I don’t know. You tell me.” + +There was an urging in her voice, as if she wanted, almost demanded, +something of him. + +“You mean that a man must do some work in his life if he is to keep +himself a man,” he said, not as if he were asking a question. + +He spoke reluctantly but firmly. + +“You know,” he added, “that I have worked hard all my life, hard like a +labourer.” + +“Yes, I know,” she said. + +She stroked his hand, that was worn and rough, and spoke eloquently of +manual toil it had accomplished in the past. + +“I know. Before we were married, that day when we sat in the garden, you +told me your life and I told you mine. How different they have been!” + +“Yes,” he said. + +He lit a cigar and watched the smoke curling up into the gold of the +sunlit atmosphere. + +“Mine in the midst of the world and yours so far away from it. I often +imagine that little place, El Krori, the garden, your brother, your +twin-brother Stephen, that one-eyed Arab servant--what was his name?” + +“El Magin.” + +“Yes, El Magin, who taught you to play Cora and to sing Arab songs, and +to eat cous-cous with your fingers. I can almost see Father Andre, +from whom you learnt to love the Classics, and who talked to you of +philosophy. He’s dead too, isn’t he, like your mother?” + +“I don’t know whether Pere Andre is dead. I have lost sight of him,” + Androvsky said. + +He still looked steadily at the rings of smoke curling up into the +golden air. There was in his voice a sound of embarrassment. She guessed +that it came from the consciousness of the pain he must have caused +the good priest who had loved him when he ceased from practising the +religion in which he had been brought up. Even to her he never spoke +frankly on religious subjects, but she knew that he had been baptised a +Catholic and been educated for a time by priests. She knew, too, that +he was no longer a practising Catholic, and that, for some reason, he +dreaded any intimacy with priests. He never spoke against them. He had +scarcely ever spoken of them to her. But she remembered his words in the +garden, “I do not care for priests.” She remembered, too, his action +in the tunnel on the day of his arrival in Beni-Mora. And the reticence +that they both preserved on the subject of religion, and its reason, +were the only causes of regret in this desert dream of hers. Even this +regret, too, often faded in hope. For in the desert, the Garden of +Allah, she had it borne in upon her that Androvsky would discover what +he must surely secretly be seeking--the truth that each man must find +for himself, truth for him of the eventual existence in which the +mysteries of this present existence will be made plain, and of the Power +that has fashioned all things. + +And she was able to hope in silence, as women do for the men they love. + +“Don’t think I do not realise that you have worked,” she went on after +a pause. “You told me how you always cultivated the land yourself, even +when you were still a boy, that you directed the Spanish labourers in +the vineyards, that--you have earned a long holiday. But should it last +for ever?” + +“You are right. Well, let us take an oasis; let us become palm gardeners +like that Frenchman at Meskoutine.” + +“And build ourselves an African house, white, with a terrace roof.” + +“And sell our dates. We can give employment to the Arabs. We can choose +the poorest. We can improve their lives. After all, if we owe a debt to +anyone it is to them, to the desert. Let us pay our debt to the desert +men and live in the desert.” + +“It would be an ideal life,” she said with her eyes shining on his. + +“And a possible life. Let us live it. I could not bear to leave the +desert. Where should we go?” + +“Where should we go!” she repeated. + +She was still looking at him, but now the expression of her eyes had +quite changed. They had become grave, and examined him seriously with a +sort of deep inquiry. He sat upon the Arab rug, leaning his back against +the wall of the traveller’s house. + +“Why do you look at me like that, Domini?” he asked with a sudden +stirring of something that was like uneasiness. + +“I! I was wondering what you would like, what other life would suit +you.” + +“Yes?” he said quickly. “Yes?” + +“It’s very strange, Boris, but I cannot connect you with anything but +the desert, or see you anywhere but in the desert. I cannot even imagine +you among your vines in Tunisia.” + +“They were not altogether mine,” he corrected, still with a certain +excitement which he evidently endeavoured to repress. “I--I had the +right, the duty of cultivating the land.” + +“Well, however it was, you were always at work; you were responsible, +weren’t you?” + +“Yes.” + +“I can’t see you even in the vineyards or the wheat-fields. Isn’t it +strange?” + +She was always looking at him with the same deep and wholly +unselfconscious inquiry. + +“And as to London, Paris--” + +Suddenly she burst into a little laugh and her gravity vanished. + +“I think you would hate them,” she said. “And they--they wouldn’t like +you because they wouldn’t understand you.” + +“Let us buy our oasis,” he said abruptly. “Build our African house, sell +our dates and remain in the desert. I hear Batouch. It must be time to +ride on to Mogar. Batouch! Batouch!” + +Batouch came from the courtyard of the house wiping the remains of a +cous-cous from his languid lips. + +“Untie the horses,” said Androvsky. + +“But, Monsieur, it is still too hot to travel. Look! No one is stirring. +All the village is asleep.” + +He waved his enormous hand, with henna-tinted nails, towards the distant +town, carved surely out of one huge piece of bronze. + +“Untie the horses. There are gazelle in the plain near Mogar. Didn’t you +tell me?” + +“Yes, Monsieur, but--” + +“We’ll get there early and go out after them at sunset. Now, Domini.” + +They rode away in the burning heat of the noon towards the southwest +across the vast plains of grey sand, followed at a short distance by +Batouch and Ali. + +“Monsieur is mad to start in the noon,” grumbled Batouch. “But Monsieur +is not like Madame. He may live in the desert till he is old and his +hair is grey as the sand, but he will never be an Arab in his heart.” + +“Why, Batouch-ben-Brahim?” + +“He cannot rest. To Madame the desert gives its calm, but to Monsieur--” + He did not finish his sentence. In front Domini and Androvsky had put +their horses to a gallop. The sand flew up in a thin cloud around them. + +“Nom d’un chien!” said Batouch, who, in unpoetical moments, occasionally +indulged in the expletives of the French infidels who were his country’s +rulers. “What is there in the mind of Monsieur which makes him ride as +if he fled from an enemy?” + +“I know not, but he goes like a hare before the sloughi, Batouch-ben +Brahim,” answered Ali, gravely. + +Then they sent their horses on in chase of the cloud of sand towards the +southwest. + +About four in the afternoon they reached the camp at Mogar. + +As they rode in slowly, for their horses were tired and streaming with +heat after their long canter across the sands, both Domini and Androvsky +were struck by the novelty of this halting-place, which was quite unlike +anything they had yet seen. The ground rose gently but continuously for +a considerable time before they saw in the distance the pitched tents +with the dark forms of the camels and mules. Here they were out of the +sands, and upon hard, sterile soil covered with small stones embedded +in the earth. Beyond the tents they could see nothing but the sky, +which was now covered with small, ribbed grey clouds, sad-coloured and +autumnal, and a lonely tower built of stone, which rose from the waste +at about two hundred yards from the tents to the east. Although they +could see so little, however, they were impressed with a sensation that +they were on the edge of some vast vision, of some grandiose effect of +Nature, that would bring to them a new and astonishing knowledge of the +desert. Perhaps it was the sight of the distant tower pointing to +the grey clouds that stirred in them this almost excited feeling of +expectation. + +“It is like a watch-tower,” Domini said, pointing with her whip. “But +who could live in such a place, far from any oasis?” + +“And what can it overlook?” said Androvsky. “This is the nearest horizon +line we have seen since we came into the desert.” + +“Yes, but----” + +She glanced at him as they put their horses into a gentle canter. Then +she added: + +“You, too, feel that we are coming to something tremendous, don’t you?” + +Her horse whinnied shrilly. Domini stroked his foam-flecked neck with +her hand. + +“Abou is as full of anticipation as we are,” she said. Androvsky was +looking towards the tower. + +“That was built for French soldiers,” he said. A moment afterwards he +added: + +“I wonder why Batouch chose this place for us to camp in?” + +There was a faint sound as of irritation in his voice. + +“Perhaps we shall know in a minute,” Domini answered. They cantered on. +Their horses’ hoofs rang with a hard sound on the stony ground. + +“It’s inhospitable here,” Androvsky said. She looked at him in surprise. + +“I never knew you to take a dislike to any halting-place before,” she +said. “What’s the matter, Boris?” + +He smiled at her, but almost immediately his face was clouded by the +shadow of a gloom that seemed to respond to the gloom of the sky. And he +fixed his eyes again upon the tower. + +“I like a far horizon,” he answered. “And there’s no sun to-day.” + +“I suppose even in the desert we cannot have it always,” she said. And +in her voice, too, there was a touch of melancholy, as if she had caught +his mood. A minute later she added: + +“I feel exactly as if I were on a hill top and were coming to a view of +the sea.” + +Almost as she spoke they cantered in among the tents of the attendants, +and reined in their horses at the edge of a slope that was almost a +precipice. Then they sat still in their saddles, gazing. + +They had been living for weeks in the midst of vastness, and had become +accustomed to see stretched out around them immense tracts of land +melting away into far blue distances, but this view from Mogar made them +catch their breath and stiffed their pulses. + +It was gigantic. There was even something unnatural in its appearance +of immensity, as if it were, perhaps, deceptive, and existed in their +vision of it only. So, surely, might look a plain to one who had taken +haschish, which enlarges, makes monstrous and threateningly terrific. +Domini had a feeling that no human eyes could really see such infinite +tracts of land and water as those she seemed to be seeing at this +moment. For there was water here, in the midst of the desert. Infinite +expanses of sea met infinite plains of snow. Or so it seemed to both +of them. And the sea was grey and calm as a winter sea, breathing its +plaint along a winter land. From it, here and there, rose islets whose +low cliffs were a deep red like the red of sandstone, a sad colour that +suggests tragedy, islets that looked desolate, and as if no life had +ever been upon them, or could be. Back from the snowy plains stretched +sand dunes of the palest primrose colour, sand dunes innumerable, +myriads and myriads of them, rising and falling, rising and falling, +till they were lost in the grey distance of this silent world. In the +foreground, at their horses’ feet, wound from the hill summit a broad +track faintly marked in the deep sand, and flanked by huge dunes shaped, +by the action of the winds, into grotesque semblances of monsters, +leviathans, beasts with prodigious humps, sphinxes, whales. This track +was presently lost in the blanched plains. Far away, immeasurably far, +sea and snow blended and faded into the cloudy grey. Above the near +dunes two desert eagles were slowly wheeling in a weary flight, +occasionally sinking towards the sand, then rising again towards the +clouds. And the track was strewn with the bleached bones of camels that +had perished, or that had been slaughtered, on some long desert march. + +To the left of them the solitary tower commanded this terrific vision +of desolation, seemed to watch it steadily, yet furtively, with its tiny +loophole eyes. + +“We have come into winter,” Domini murmured. + +She looked at the white of the camels’ bones, of the plains, at the grey +white of the sky, at the yellow pallor of the dunes. + +“How wonderful! How terrible!” she said. + +She drew her horse to one side, a little nearer to Androvsky’s. + +“Does the Russian in you greet this land?” she asked him. + +He did not reply. He seemed to be held in thrall by the sad immensity +before them. + +“I realise here what it must be to die in the desert, to be killed by +it--by hunger, by thirst in it,” she said presently, speaking, as if to +herself, and looking out over the mirage sea, the mirage snow. “This is +the first time I have really felt the terror of the desert.” + +Her horse drooped its head till its nose nearly touched the earth, and +shook itself in a long shiver. She shivered too, as if constrained to +echo an animal’s distress. + +“Things have died here,” Androvsky said, speaking at last in a low voice +and pointing with his long-lashed whip towards the camels’ skeletons. +“Come, Domini, the horses are tired.” + +He cast another glance at the tower, and they dismounted by their tent, +which was pitched at the very edge of the steep slope that sank down to +the beast-like shapes of the near dunes. + +An hour later Domini said to Androvsky: + +“You won’t go after gazelle this evening surely?” + +They had been having coffee in the tent and had just finished. Androvsky +got up from his chair and went to the tent door. The grey of the sky was +pierced by a gleaming shaft from the sun. + +“Do you mind if I go?” he said, turning towards her after a glance to +the desert. + +“No, but aren’t you tired?” + +He shook his head. + +“I couldn’t ride, and now I can ride. I couldn’t shoot, and I’m just +beginning--” + +“Go,” she said quickly. “Besides, we want gazelle for dinner, Batouch +says, though I don’t suppose we should starve without it.” She came to +the tent door and stood beside him, and he put his arm around her. + +“If I were alone here, Boris,” she said, leaning against his shoulder, +“I believe I should feel horribly sad to-day.” + +“Shall I stay?” + +He pressed her against him. + +“No. I shall know you are coming back. Oh, how extraordinary it is to +think we lived so many years without knowing of each other’s existence, +that we lived alone. Were you ever happy?” + +He hesitated before he replied. + +“I sometimes thought I was.” + +“But do you think now you ever really were?” + +“I don’t know--perhaps in a lonely sort of way.” + +“You can never be happy in that way now?” + +He said nothing, but, after a moment, he kissed her long and hard, and +as if he wanted to draw her being into his through the door of his lips. + +“Good-bye,” he said, releasing her. “I shall be back directly after +sundown.” + +“Yes. Don’t wait for the dark down there. If you were lost in the +dunes!” + +She pointed to the distant sand hills rising and falling monotonously to +the horizon. + +“If you are not back in good time,” she said, “I shall stand by the +tower and wave a brand from the fire.” + +“Why by the tower?” + +“The ground is highest by the tower.” + +She watched him ride away on a mule, with two Arabs carrying guns. They +went towards the plains of saltpetre that looked like snow beside the +sea that was only a mirage. Then she turned back into the tent, took +up a volume of Fromentin’s, and sat down in a folding-chair at the tent +door. She read a little, but it was difficult to read with the mirage +beneath her. Perpetually her eyes were attracted from the book to its +mystery and plaintive sadness, that was like the sadness of something +unearthly, of a spirit that did not move but that suffered. She did not +put away the book, but presently she laid it down on her knees, open, +and sat gazing. Androvsky had disappeared with the Arabs into some fold +of the sands. The sun-ray had vanished with him. Without Androvsky and +the sun--she still connected them together, and knew she would for ever. + +The melancholy of this desert scene was increased for her till it became +oppressive and lay upon her like a heavy weight. She was not a woman +inclined to any morbid imaginings. Indeed, all that was morbid roused +in her an instinctive disgust. But the sudden greyness of the weather, +coming after weeks of ardent sunshine, and combined with the fantastic +desolation of the landscape, which was half real and half unreal, turned +her for the moment towards a dreariness of spirit that was rare in her. + +She realised suddenly, as she looked and did not see Androvsky even as a +black and moving speck upon the plain; what the desert would seem to her +without him, even in sunshine, the awfulness of the desolation of it, +the horror of its distances. And realising this she also realised the +uncertainty of the human life in connection with any other human life. +To be dependent on another is to double the sum of the terrors of +uncertainty. She had done that. + +If the immeasurable sands took Androvsky and never gave him back to her! +What would she do? + +She gazed at the mirage sea with its dim red islands, and at the sad +white plains along its edge. + +Winter--she would be plunged in eternal winter. And each human life +hangs on a thread. All deep love, all consuming passion, holds a great +fear within the circle of a great glory. To-day the fear within the +circle of her glory seemed to grow. But she suddenly realised that she +ought to dominate it, to confine it--as it were--to its original and +permanent proportions. + +She got up, came out upon the edge of the hill, and walked along it +slowly towards the tower. + +Outside, freed from the shadow of the tent, she felt less oppressed, +though still melancholy, and even slightly apprehensive, as if some +trouble were coming to her and were near at hand. Mentally she had made +the tower the limit of her walk, and therefore when she reached it she +stood still. + +It was a squat, square tower, strongly constructed, with loopholes in +the four sides, and now that she was by it she saw built out at the back +of it a low house with small shuttered windows and a narrow courtyard +for mules. No doubt Androvsky was right and French soldiers had once +been here to work the optic telegraph. She thought of the recruits and +of Marseilles, of Notre Dame de la Garde, the Mother of God, looking +towards Africa. Such recruits came to live in such strange houses as +this tower lost in the desert and now abandoned. She glanced at the +shuttered windows and turned back towards the tent; but something in the +situation of the tower--perhaps the fact that it was set on the highest +point of the ground--attracted her, and she presently made Batouch bring +her out some rugs and ensconced herself under its shadow, facing the +mirage sea. + +How long she sat there she did not know. Mirage hypnotises the +imaginative and suggests to them dreams strange and ethereal, sad +sometimes, as itself. How long she might have sat there dreaming, +but for an interruption, she knew still less. It was towards evening, +however, but before evening had fallen, that a weary and travel-stained +party of three French soldiers, Zouaves, and an officer rode slowly up +the sandy track from the dunes. They were mounted on mules, and carried +their small baggage with them on two led mules. When they reached the +top of the hill they turned to the right and came towards the tower. The +officer was a little in advance of his men. He was a smart-looking, fair +man of perhaps thirty-two, with blonde moustaches, blue eyes with blonde +lashes, and hair very much the colour of the sand dunes. His face was +bright red, burnt, as a fair delicate skin burns, by the sun. His eyes, +although protected by large sun spectacles, were inflamed. The skin was +peeling from his nose. His hair was full of sand, and he rode leaning +forward over his animal’s neck, holding the reins loosely in his hands, +that seemed nerveless from fatigue. Yet he looked smart and well-bred +despite his evident exhaustion, as if on parade he would be a dashing +officer. It was evident that both he and his men were riding in from +some tremendous journey. The latter looked dog-tired, scarcely human in +their collapse. They kept on their mules with difficulty, shaking this +way and that like sacks, with their unshaven chins wagging loosely up +and down. But as they saw the tower they began to sing in chorus half +under their breath, and leaning their broad hands on the necks of the +beasts for support they looked with a sort of haggard eagerness in its +direction. + +Domini was roused from her contemplation of the mirage and the daydreams +it suggested by the approach of this small cavalcade. The officer was +almost upon her ere she heard the clatter of his mule among the stones. +She looked up, startled, and he looked down, even more surprised, +apparently, to see a lady ensconced at the foot of the tower. His +astonishment and exhaustion did not, however, get the better of his +instinctive good breeding, and sitting straight up in the saddle he took +off his sun helmet and asked Domini’s pardon for disturbing her. + +“But this is my home for the night, Madame,” he added, at the same time +drawing a key from the pocket of his loose trousers. “And I’m thankful +to reach it. _Ma foi_! there have been several moments in the last days +when I never thought to see Mogar.” + +Slowly he swung himself off his mule and stood up, catching on to the +saddle with one hand. + +“F-f-f-f!” he said, pursing his lips. “I can hardly stand. Excuse me, +Madame.” + +Domini had got up. + +“You are tired out,” she said, looking at him and his men, who had now +come up, with interest. + +“Pretty well indeed. We have been three days lost in the great dunes +in a sand-storm, and hit the track here just as we were preparing for +a--well, a great event.” + +“A great event?” said Domini. + +“The last in a man’s life, Madame.” + +He spoke simply, even with a light touch of humour that was almost +cynical, but she felt beneath his words and manner a solemnity and a +thankfulness that attracted and moved her. + +“Those terrible dunes!” she said. + +And, turning, she looked out over them. + +There was no sunset, but the deepening of the grey into a dimness that +seemed to have blackness behind it, the more ghastly hue of the white +plains of saltpetre, and the fading of the mirage sea, whose islands now +looked no longer red, but dull brown specks in a pale mist, hinted at +the rapid falling of night. + +“My husband is out in them,” she added. + +“Your husband, Madame!” + +He looked at her rather narrowly, shifted from one leg to the other as +if trying his strength, then added: + +“Not far, though, I suppose. For I see you have a camp here.” + +“He has only gone after gazelle.” + +As she said the last word she saw one of the soldiers, a mere boy, lick +his lips and give a sort of tragic wink at his companions. A sudden +thought struck her. + +“Don’t think me impertinent, Monsieur, but--what about provisions in +your tower?” + +“Oh, as to that, Madame, we shall do well enough. Here, open the door, +Marelle!” + +And he gave the key to a soldier, who wearily dismounted and thrust it +into the door of the tower. + +“But after three days in the dunes! Your provisions must be exhausted +unless you’ve been able to replenish them.” + +“You are too good, Madame. We shall manage a cous-cous.” + +“And wine? Have you any wine?” + +She glanced again at the exhausted soldiers covered with sand and saw +that their eyes were fixed upon her and were shining eagerly. All the +“good fellow” in her nature rose up. + +“You must let me send you some,” she said. “We have plenty.” + +She thought of some bottles of champagne they had brought with them and +never opened. + +“In the desert we are all comrades,” she added, as if speaking to the +soldiers. + +They looked at her with an open adoration which lit up their tired +faces. + +“Madame,” said the officer, “you are much too good; but I accept your +offer as frankly as you have made it. A little wine will be a godsend to +us to-night. Thank you, Madame.” + +The soldiers looked as if they were going to cheer. + +“I’ll go to the camp--” + +“Cannot one of the men go for you, Madame? You were sitting here. Pray, +do not let us disturb you.” + +“But night is falling and I shall have to go back in a moment.” + +While they had been speaking the darkness had rapidly increased. She +looked towards the distant dunes and no longer saw them. At once her +mind went to Androvsky. Why had he not returned? She thought of the +signal. From the camp, behind their sleeping-tent, rose the flames of a +newly-made fire. + +“If one of your men can go and tell Batouch--Batouch--to come to me here +I shall be grateful,” she answered. “And I want him to bring me a big +brand from the fire over there.” + +She saw wonder dawning in the eyes fixed upon her, and smiled. + +“I want to signal to my husband,” she said, “and this is the highest +point. He will see it best if I stand here.” + +“Go, Marelle, ask for Batouch, and be sure you bring the brand from the +fire.” + +The man saluted and rode off with alacrity. The thought of wine had +infused a gaiety into him and his companions. + +“Now, Monsieur, don’t stand on ceremony,” Domini said to the officer. +“Go in and make your toilet. You are longing to, I know.” + +“I am longing to look a little more decent--now, Madame,” he said +gallantly, and gazing at her with a sparkle of admiration in his +inflamed eyes. “You will let me return in a moment to escort you to the +camp.” + +“Thank you.” + +“Will you permit me--my name is De Trevignac.” + +“And mine is Madame Androvsky.” + +“Russian!” the officer said. “The alliance in the desert! Vive la +Russie!” + +She laughed. + +“That is for my husband, for I am English.” + +“Vive l’Angleterre!” he said. + +The two soldier echoed his words impulsively, lifting up in the +gathering darkness hoarse voices. + +“Vive l’Angleterre!” + +“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “Now, Monsieur, please don’t let me +keep you.” + +“I shall be back directly,” the officer replied. + +And he turned and went into the tower, while the soldiers rode round to +the court, tugging at the cords of the led mules. + +Domini waited for the return of Marelle. Her mood had changed. A glow of +cordial humanity chased away her melancholy. The hostess that lurks in +every woman--that housewife-hostess sense which goes hand-in-hand with +the mother sense--was alive in her. She was keenly anxious to play the +good fairy simply, unostentatiously, to these exhausted men who had come +to Mogar out of the jaws of Death, to see their weary faces shine under +the influence of repose and good cheer. But the tower looked desolate. +The camp was gayer, cosier. Suddenly she resolved to invite them all to +dine in the camp that night. + +Marelle returned with Batouch. She saw them from a distance coming +through the darkness with blazing torches in their hands. When they came +to her she said: + +“Batouch, I want you to order dinner in camp for the soldiers.” + +A broad and radiant smile irradiated the blunt Breton features of +Marelle. + +“And Monsieur the officer will dine with me and Monsieur. Give us all +you can. Perhaps there will be some gazelle.” + +She saw him opening his lips to say that the dinner would be poor and +stopped him. + +“You are to open some of the champagne--the Pommery. We will drink to +all safe returns. Now, give me the brand and go and tell the cook.” + +As he took his torch and disappeared into the darkness De Trevignac +came out from the tower. He still looked exhausted and walked with some +difficulty, but he had washed the sand from his face with water from the +artesian well behind the tower, changed his uniform, brushed the sand +from his yellow hair, and put on a smart gold-laced cap instead of his +sun-helmet. The spectacles were gone from his eyes, and between his lips +was a large Havana--his last, kept by him among the dunes as a possible +solace in the dreadful hour of death. + +“Monsieur de Trevignac, I want you to dine with us in camp +to-night--only to dine. We won’t keep you from your bed one moment after +the coffee and the cognac. You must seal the triple alliance--France, +Russia, England--in some champagne.” + +She had spoken gaily, cordially. She added more gravely: + +“One doesn’t escape from death among the dunes every day. Will you +come?” + +She held out her hand frankly, as a man might to another man. He pressed +it as a man presses a woman’s hand when he is feeling very soft and +tender. + +“Madame, what can I say, but that you are too good to us poor fellows +and that you will find it very difficult to get rid of us, for we shall +be so happy in your camp that we shall forget all about our tower.” + +“That’s settled then.” + +With the brand in her hand she walked to the edge of the hill. De +Trevignac followed her. He had taken the other brand from Marelle. They +stood side by side, overlooking the immense desolation that was now +almost hidden in the night. + +“You are going to signal to your husband, Madame?” + +“Yes.” + +“Let me do it for you. See, I have the other brand!” + +“Thank you--but I will do it.” + +In the light of the flame that leaped up as if striving to touch her +face he saw a light in her eyes that he understood, and he drooped his +torch towards the earth while she lifted hers on high and waved it in +the blackness. + +He watched her. The tall, strong, but exquisitely supple figure, the +uplifted arm with the torch sending forth a long tongue of golden flame, +the ardent and unconscious pose, that set before him a warm passionate +heart calling to another heart without shame, made him think of her +as some Goddess of the Sahara. He had let his torch droop towards the +earth, but, as she waved hers, he had an irresistible impulse to join +her in the action she made heroic and superb. And presently he lifted +his torch, too, and waved it beside hers in the night. + +She smiled at him in the flames. + +“He must see them surely,” she said. + +From below, in the distance of the desert, there rose a loud cry in a +strong man’s voice. + +“Aha!” she exclaimed. + +She called out in return in a warm, powerful voice. The man’s voice +answered, nearer. She dropped her brand to the earth. + +“Monsieur, you will come then--in half an hour?” + +“Madame, with the most heartfelt pleasure. But let me accompany--” + +“No, I am quite safe. And bring your men with you. We’ll make the best +feast we can for them. And there’s enough champagne for all.” + +Then she went away quickly, eagerly, into the darkness. + +“To be her husband!” murmured De Trevignac. “Lucky--lucky fellow!” And +he dropped his brand beside hers on the ground, and stood watching the +two flames mingle. + +“Lucky--lucky fellow!” he said again aloud. “I wonder what he’s like.” + + + +CHAPTER XX + +When Domini reached the camp she found it in a bustle. Batouch, resigned +to the inevitable, had put the cook upon his mettle. Ouardi was already +to be seen with a bottle of Pommery in each hand, and was only prevented +from instantly uncorking them by the representations of his mistress +and an elaborate exposition of the peculiar and evanescent virtues of +champagne. Ali was humming a mysterious song about a lovesick camel-man, +with which he intended to make glad the hearts of the assembly when the +halting time was over. And the dining-table was already set for three. + +When Androvsky rode in with the Arabs Domini met him at the edge of the +hill. + +“You saw my signal, Boris?” + +“Yes--” + +He was going to say more, when she interrupted him eagerly. + +“Have you any gazelle? Ah----” + +Across the mule of one of the Arabs she saw a body drooping, a delicate +head with thin, pointed horns, tiny legs with exquisite little feet that +moved as the mule moved. + +“We shall want it to-night. Take it quickly to the cook’s tent, Ahmed.” + Androvsky got off his mule. + +“There’s a light in the tower!” he said, looking at her and then +dropping his eyes. + +“Yes.” + +“And I saw two signals. There were two brands being waved together.” + +“To-night, we have comrades in the desert.” + +“Comrades!” he said. + +His voice sounded startled. + +“Men who have escaped from a horrible death in the dunes.” + +“Arabs?” + +“French.” + +Quickly she told him her story. He listened in silence. When she had +finished he said nothing. But she saw him look at the dining-table laid +for three and his expression was dark and gloomy. + +“Boris, you don’t mind!” she said in surprise. “Surely you would not +refuse hospitality to these poor fellows!” + +She put her hand through his arm and pressed it. + +“Have I done wrong? But I know I haven’t!” + +“Wrong! How could you do that?” + +He seemed to make an effort, to conquer something within him. + +“It’s I who am wrong, Domini. The truth is, I can’t bear our happiness +to be intruded upon even for a night. I want to be alone with you. This +life of ours in the desert has made me desperately selfish. I want to be +alone, quite alone, with you.” + +“It’s that! How glad I am!” + +She laid her cheek against his arm. + +“Then,” he said, “that other signal?” + +“Monsieur de Trevignac gave it.” + +Androvsky took his arm from hers abruptly. + +“Monsieur de Trevignac!” he said. “Monsieur de Trevignac?” + +He stood as if in deep and anxious thought. + +“Yes, the officer. That’s his name. What is it, Boris?” + +“Nothing.” + +There was a sound of voices approaching the camp in the darkness. They +were speaking French. + +“I must,” said Androvsky, “I must----” + +He made an uncertain movement, as if to go towards the dunes, checked +it, and went hurriedly into the dressing-tent. As he disappeared De +Trevignac came into the camp with his men. Batouch conducted the latter +with all ceremony towards the fire which burned before the tents of +the attendants, and, for the moment, Domini was left alone with De +Trevignac. + +“My husband is coming directly,” she said. “He was late in returning, +but he brought gazelle. Now you must sit down at once.” + +She led the way to the dining-tent. De Trevignac glanced at the table +laid for three with an eager anticipation which he was far too natural +to try to conceal. + +“Madame,” he said, “if I disgrace myself to-night, if I eat like an ogre +in a fairy tale, will you forgive me?” + +“I will not forgive you if you don’t.” + +She spoke gaily, made him sit down in a folding-chair, and insisted +on putting a soft cushion at his back. Her manner was cheerful, almost +eagerly kind and full of a camaraderie rare in a woman, yet he noticed a +change in her since they stood together waving the brands by the tower. +And he said to himself: + +“The husband--perhaps he’s not so pleased at my appearance. I wonder how +long they’ve been married?” + +And he felt his curiosity to see “Monsieur Androvsky” deepen. + +While they waited for him Domini made De Trevignac tell her the story of +his terrible adventure in the dunes. He did so simply, like a soldier, +without exaggeration. When he had finished she said: + +“You thought death was certain then?” + +“Quite certain, Madame.” + +She looked at him earnestly. + +“To have faced a death like that in utter desolation, utter loneliness, +must make life seem very different afterwards.” + +“Yes, Madame. But I did not feel utterly alone.” + +“Your men!” + +“No, Madame.” + +After a pause he added, simply: + +“My mother is a devout Catholic, Madame. I am her only child, and--she +taught me long ago that in any peril one is never quite alone.” + +Domini’s heart warmed to him. She loved this trust in God so frankly +shown by a soldier, member of an African regiment, in this wild land. +She loved this brave reliance on the unseen in the midst of the terror +of the seen. Before they spoke again Androvsky crossed the dark space +between the tents and came slowly into the circle of the lamplight. + +De Trevignac got up from his chair, and Domini introduced the two men. +As they bowed each shot a swift glance at the other. Then Androvsky +looked down, and two vertical lines appeared on his high forehead above +his eyebrows. They gave to his face a sudden look of acute distress. De +Trevignac thanked him for his proffered hospitality with the ease of a +man of the world, assuming that the kind invitation to him and to his +men came from the husband as well as from the wife. When he had finished +speaking, Androvsky, without looking up, said, in a voice that sounded +to Domini new, as if he had deliberately assumed it: + +“I am glad, Monsieur. We found gazelle, and so I hope--I hope you will +have a fairly good dinner.” + +The words could scarcely have been more ordinary, but the way in which +they were uttered was so strange, sounded indeed so forced, and so +unnatural, that both De Trevignac and Domini looked at the speaker in +surprise. There was a pause. Then Batouch and Ouardi came in with the +soup. + +“Come!” Domini said. “Let us begin. Monsieur de Trevignac, will you sit +here on my right?” + +They sat down. The two men were opposite to each other at the ends of +the small table, with a lamp between them. Domini faced the tent door, +and could see in the distance the tents of the attendants lit up by the +blaze of the fire, and the forms of the French soldiers sitting at their +table close to it, with the Arabs clustering round them. Sounds of loud +conversation and occasional roars of laughter, that was almost childish +in its frank lack of all restraint, told her that one feast was a +success. She looked at her companions and made a sudden resolve--almost +fierce--that the other, over which she was presiding, should be a +success, too. But why was Androvsky so strange with other men? Why did +he seem to become almost a different human being directly he was brought +into any close contact with his kind? Was it shyness? Had he a profound +hatred of all society? She remembered Count Anteoni’s luncheon and +the distress Androvsky had caused her by his cold embarrassment, his +unwillingness to join in conversation on that occasion. But then he +was only her friend. Now he was her husband. She longed for him to show +himself at his best. That he was not a man of the world she knew. Had he +not told her of his simple upbringing in El Kreir, a remote village of +Tunisia, by a mother who had been left in poverty after the death of +his father, a Russian who had come to Africa to make a fortune by +vine-growing, and who had had his hopes blasted by three years of +drought and by the visitation of the dreaded phylloxera? Had he not told +her of his own hard work on the rich uplands among the Spanish workmen, +of how he had toiled early and late in all kinds of weather, not for +himself, but for a company that drew a fortune from the land and gave +him a bare livelihood? Till she met him he had never travelled--he had +never seen almost anything of life. A legacy from a relative had at last +enabled him to have some freedom and to gratify a man’s natural taste +for change. And, strangely, perhaps, he had come first to the desert. +She could not--she did not--expect him to show the sort of easy +cultivation that a man acquires only by long contact with all sorts and +conditions of men and women. But she knew that he was not only full of +fire and feeling--a man with a great temperament, but also that he was a +man who had found time to study, whose mind was not empty. He was a man +who had thought profoundly. She knew this, although even with her, even +in the great intimacy that is born of a great mutual passion, she knew +him for a man of naturally deep reserve, who could not perhaps speak all +his thoughts to anyone, even to the woman he loved. And knowing this, +she felt a fighting temper rise up in her. She resolved to use her will +upon this man who loved her, to force him to show his best side to the +guest who had come to them out of the terror of the dunes. She would be +obstinate for him. + +Her lips went down a little at the corners. De Trevignac glanced at her +above his soup-plate, and then at Androvsky. He was a man who had +seen much of society, and who divined at once the gulf that must have +separated the kind of life led in the past by his hostess from the +kind of life led by his host. Such gulfs, he knew, are bridged with +difficulty. In this case a great love must have been the bridge. His +interest in these two people, encountered by him in the desolation of +the wastes, and when all his emotions had been roused by the nearness +of peril, would have been deep in any case. But there was something that +made it extraordinary, something connected with Androvsky. It seemed to +him that he had seen, perhaps known Androvsky at some time in his life. +Yet Androvsky’s face was not familiar to him. He could not yet tell from +what he drew this impression, but it was strong. He searched his memory. + +Just at first fatigue was heavy upon him, but the hot soup, the first +glass of wine revived him. When Domini, full of her secret obstinacy, +began to talk gaily he was soon able easily to take his part, and to +join her in her effort to include Androvsky in the conversation. The +cheerful noise of the camp came to them from without. + +“I’m afraid my men are lifting up their voices rather loudly,” said De +Trevignac. + +“We like it,” said Domini. “Don’t we, Boris?” + +There was a long peal of laughter from the distance. As it died away +Batouch’s peculiar guttural chuckle, which had something negroid in +it, was audible, prolonging itself in a loneliness that spoke his +pertinacious sense of humour. + +“Certainly,” said Androvsky, still in the same strained and unnatural +voice which had surprised Domini when she introduced the two men. “We +are accustomed to gaiety round the camp fire.” + +“You are making a long stay in the desert, Monsieur?” asked De +Trevignac. + +“I hope so, Monsieur. It depends on my--it depends on Madame Androvsky.” + +“Why didn’t he say ‘my wife’?” thought De Trevignac. And again he +searched his memory. “Had he ever met this man? If so, where?” + +“I should like to stay in the desert for ever,” Domini said quickly, +with a long look at her husband. + +“I should not, Madame,” De Trevignac said. + +“I understand. The desert has shown you its terrors.” + +“Indeed it has.” + +“But to us it has only shown its enchantment. Hasn’t it?” She spoke to +Androvsky. After a pause he replied: + +“Yes.” + +The word, when it came, sounded like a lie. + +For the first time since her marriage Domini felt a cold, like a cold of +ice about her heart. Was it possible that Androvsky had not shared her +joy in the desert? Had she been alone in her happiness? For a moment she +sat like one stunned by a blow. Then knowledge, reason, spoke in her. +She knew of Androvsky’s happiness with her, knew it absolutely. There +are some things in which a woman cannot be deceived. When Androvsky +was with her he wanted no other human being. Nothing could take that +certainty from her. + +“Of course,” she said, recovered, “there are places in the desert in +which melancholy seems to brood, in which one has a sense of the terrors +of the wastes. Mogar, I think, is one of them, perhaps the only one we +have been in yet. This evening, when I was sitting under the tower, even +I”--and as she said “even I” she smiled happily at Androvsky--“knew some +forebodings.” + +“Forebodings?” Androvsky said quickly. “Why should you--?” He broke off. + +“Not of coming misfortune, I hope, Madame?” said De Trevignac in a voice +that was now irresistibly cheerful. + +He was helping himself to some gazelle, which sent forth an appetising +odour, and Ouardi was proudly pouring out for him the first glass of +blithely winking champagne. + +“I hardly know, but everything looked sad and strange; I began to think +about the uncertainties of life.” + +Domini and De Trevignac were sipping their champagne. Ouardi came behind +Androvsky to fill his glass. + +“Non! non!” he said, putting his hand over it and shaking his head. + +De Trevignac started. + +Ouardi looked at Domini and made a distressed grimace, pointing with a +brown finger at the glass. + +“Oh, Boris! you must drink champagne to-night!” she exclaimed. + +“I would rather not,” he answered. “I am not accustomed to it.” + +“But to drink our guest’s health after his escape from death!” + +Androvsky took his hand from the glass and Ouardi filled it with wine. + +Then Domini raised her glass and drank to De Trevignac. Androvsky +followed her example, but without geniality, and when he put his lips +to the wine he scarcely tasted it. Then he put the glass down and told +Ouardi to give him red wine. And during the rest of the evening he drank +no more champagne. He also ate very little, much less than usual, for in +the desert they both had the appetites of hunters. + +After thanking them cordially for drinking his health, De Trevignac +said: + +“I was nearly experiencing the certainty of death. But was it Mogar that +turned you to such thoughts, Madame?” + +“I think so. There is something sad, even portentous about it.” + +She looked towards the tent door, imagining the immense desolation that +was hidden in the darkness outside, the white plains, the mirage sea, +the sand dunes like monsters, the bleached bones of the dead camels with +the eagles hovering above them. + +“Don’t you think so, Boris? Don’t you think it looks like a place in +which--like a tragic place, a place in which tragedies ought to occur?” + +“It is not places that make tragedies,” he said, “or at least they make +tragedies far more seldom than the people in them.” + +He stopped, seemed to make an effort to throw off his taciturnity, +and suddenly to be able to throw it off, at least partially. For he +continued speaking with greater naturalness and ease, even with a +certain dominating force. + +“If people would use their wills they need not be influenced by place, +they need not be governed by a thousand things, by memories, by fears, +by fancies--yes, even by fancies that are the merest shadows, but out of +which they make phantoms. Half the terrors and miseries of life lie only +in the minds of men. They even cause the very tragedies they would avoid +by expecting them.” + +He said the last words with a sort of strong contempt--then, more +quietly, he added: + +“You, Domini, why should you feel the uncertainty of life, especially +at Mogar? You need not. You can choose not to. Life is the same in its +chances here as everywhere?” + +“But you,” she answered--“did you not feel a tragic influence when we +arrived here? Do you remember how you looked at the tower?” + +“The tower!” he said, with a quick glance at De Trevignac. “I--why +should I look at the tower?” + +“I don’t know, but you did, almost as if you were afraid of it.” + +“My tower!” said De Trevignac. + +Another roar of laughter reached them from the camp fire. It made Domini +smile in sympathy, but De Trevignac and Androvsky looked at each other +for a moment, the one with a sort of earnest inquiry, the other with +hostility, or what seemed hostility, across the circle of lamplight that +lay between them. + +“A tower rising in the desert emphasises the desolation. I suppose that +was it,” Androvsky said, as the laugh died down into Batouch’s throaty +chuckle. “It suggests lonely people watching.” + +“For something that never comes, or something terrible that comes,” De +Trevignac said. + +As he spoke the last words Androvsky moved uneasily in his chair, and +looked out towards the camp, as if he longed to get up and go into the +open air, as if the tent roof above his head oppressed him. + +Trevignac turned to Domini. + +“In this case, Madame, you were the lonely watcher, and I was the +something terrible that came.” + +She laughed. While she laughed De Trevignac noticed that Androvsky +looked at her with a sort of sad intentness, not reproachful or +wondering, as an older person might look at a child playing at the edge +of some great gulf into which a false step would precipitate it. He +strove to interpret this strange look, so obviously born in the face of +his host in connection with himself. It seemed to him that he must have +met Androvsky, and that Androvsky knew it, knew--what he did not yet +know--where it was and when. It seemed to him, too, that Androvsky +thought of him as the “something terrible” that had come to this woman +who sat between them out of the desert. + +But how could it be? + +A profound curiosity was roused in him and he mentally cursed his +treacherous memory--if it were treacherous. For possibly he might be +mistaken. He had perhaps never met his host before, and this strange +manner of his might be due to some inexplicable cause, or perhaps to +some cause explicable and even commonplace. This Monsieur Androvsky +might be a very jealous man, who had taken this woman away into the +desert to monopolise her, and who resented even the chance intrusion of +a stranger. De Trevignac knew life and the strange passions of men, knew +that there are Europeans with the Arab temperament, who secretly long +that their women should wear the veil and live secluded in the harem. +Androvsky might be one of these. + +When she had laughed Domini said: + +“On the contrary, Monsieur, you have turned my thoughts into a happier +current by your coming.” + +“How so?” + +“You made me think of what are called the little things of life that are +more to us women than to you men, I suppose.” + +“Ah,” he said. “This food, this wine, this chair with a cushion, this +gay light--Madame, they are not little things I have to be grateful for. +When I think of the dunes they seem to me--they seem--” + +Suddenly he stopped. His gay voice was choked. She saw that there were +tears in his blue eyes, which were fixed on her with an expression of +ardent gratitude. He cleared his throat. + +“Monsieur,” he said to Androvsky, “you will not think me presuming on an +acquaintance formed in the desert if I say that till the end of my life +I--and my men--can only think of Madame as of the good Goddess of the +desolate Sahara!” + +He did not know how Androvsky would take this remark, he did not +care. For the moment in his impulsive nature there was room only for +admiration of the woman and, gratitude for her frank kindness. Androvsky +said: + +“Thank you, Monsieur.” + +He spoke with an intensity, even a fervour, that were startling. For +the first time since they had been together his voice was absolutely +natural, his manner was absolutely unconstrained, he showed himself as +he was, a man on fire with love for the woman who had given herself to +him, and who received a warm word of praise of her as a gift made to +himself. De Trevignac no longer wondered that Domini was his wife. Those +three words, and the way they were spoken, gave him the man and what he +might be in a woman’s life. Domini looked at her husband silently. It +seemed to her as if her heart were flooded with light, as if desolate +Mogar were the Garden of Eden before the angel came. When they spoke +again it was on some indifferent topic. But from that moment the meal +went more merrily. Androvsky seemed to lose his strange uneasiness. De +Trevignac met him more than half-way. Something of the gaiety round the +camp fire had entered into the tent. A chain of sympathy had been forged +between these three people. Possibly, a touch might break it, but for +the moment it seemed strong. + +At the end of the dinner Domini got up. + +“We have no formalities in the desert,” she said. “But I’m going to +leave you together for a moment. Give Monsieur de Trevignac a cigar, +Boris. Coffee is coming directly.” + +She went out towards the camp fire. She wanted to leave the men together +to seal their good fellowship. Her husband’s change from taciturnity to +cordiality had enchanted her. Happiness was dancing within her. She felt +gay as a child. Between the fire and the tent she met Ouardi carrying a +tray. On it were a coffee-pot, cups, little glasses and a tall bottle of +a peculiar shape with a very thin neck and bulging sides. + +“What’s that, Ouardi?” she asked, touching it with her finger. + +“That is an African liqueur, Madame, that you have never tasted. Batouch +told me to bring it in honour of Monsieur the officer. They call it--” + +“Another surprise of Batouch’s!” she interrupted gaily. “Take it in! +Monsieur the officer will think we have quite a cellar in the desert.” + +He went on, and she stood for a few minutes looking at the blaze of the +fire, and at the faces lit up by it, French and Arab. The happy soldiers +were singing a French song with a chorus for the delectation of the +Arabs, who swayed to and fro, wagging their heads and smiling in an +effort to show appreciation of the barbarous music of the Roumis. +Dreary, terrible Mogar and its influences were being defied by the +wanderers halting in it. She thought of Androvsky’s words about the +human will overcoming the influence of place, and a sudden desire +came to her to go as far as the tower where she had felt sad and +apprehensive, to stand in its shadow for an instant and to revel in her +happiness. + +She yielded to the impulse, walked to the tower, and stood there facing +the darkness which hid the dunes, the white plains, the phantom sea, +seeing them in her mind, and radiantly defying them. Then she began to +return to the camp, walking lightly, as happy people walk. When she had +gone a very short way she heard someone coming towards her. It was too +dark to see who it was. She could only hear the steps among the stones. +They were hasty. They passed her and stopped behind her at the tower. +She wondered who it was, and supposed it must be one of the soldiers +come to fetch something, or perhaps tired and hastening to bed. + +As she drew near to the camp she saw the lamplight shining in the tent, +where doubtless De Trevignac and Androvsky were smoking and talking +in frank good fellowship. It was like a bright star, she thought, that +gleam of light that shone out of her home, the brightest of all the +stars of Africa. She went towards it. As she drew near she expected to +hear the voices of the two men, but she heard nothing. Nor did she see +the blackness of their forms in the circle of the light. Perhaps they +had gone out to join the soldiers and the Arabs round the fire. She +hastened on, came to the tent, entered it, and was confronted by her +husband, who was standing back in an angle formed by the canvas, in +the shadow, alone. On the floor near him lay a quantity of fragments of +glass. + +“Boris!” she said. “Where is Monsieur de Trevignac?” + +“Gone,” replied Androvsky in a loud, firm voice. + +She looked up at him. His face was grim and powerful, hard like the face +of a fighting man. + +“Gone already? Why?” + +“He’s tired out. He told me to make his excuses to you.” + +“But----” + +She saw in the table the coffee cups. Two of them were full of coffee. +The third, hers, was clean. + +“But he hasn’t drunk his coffee!” she said. + +She was astonished and showed it. She could not understand a man who had +displayed such warm, even touching, appreciation of her kindness leaving +her without a word, taking the opportunity of her momentary absence to +disappear, to shirk away--for she put it like that to herself. + +“No--he did not want coffee.” + +“But was anything the matter?” + +She looked down at the broken glass, and saw stains upon the ground +among the fragments. + +“What’s this?” she said. “Oh, the African liqueur!” + +Suddenly Androvsky put his arm round her with an iron grip, and led her +away out of the tent. They crossed the space to the sleeping-tent in +silence. She felt governed, and as if she must yield to his will, but +she also felt confused, even almost alarmed mentally. The sleeping-tent +was dark. When they reached it Androvsky took his arm from her, and she +heard him searching for the matches. She was in the tent door and could +see that there was a light in the tower. De Trevignac must be there +already. No doubt it was he who had passed her in the night when she was +returning to the camp. Androvsky struck a match and lit a candle. Then +he came to the tent door and saw her looking at the light in the tower. + +“Come in, Domini,” he said, taking her by the hand, and speaking gently, +but still with a firmness that hinted at command. + +She obeyed, and he quickly let down the flap of canvas, and shut out the +night. + +“What is it, Boris?” she asked. + +She was standing by one of the beds. + +“What has happened?” + +“Why--happened?” + +“I don’t understand. Why did Monsieur de Trevignac go away so suddenly?” + +“Domini, do you care whether he is here or gone? Do you care?” He sat on +the edge of the bed and drew her down beside him. + +“Do you want anyone to be with us, to break in upon our lives? Aren’t we +happier alone?” + +“Boris!” she said, “you--did you let him see that you wanted him to go?” + +It occurred to her suddenly that Androvsky, in his lack of worldly +knowledge, might perhaps have shown their guest that he secretly +resented the intrusion of a stranger upon them even for one evening, and +that De Trevignac, being a sensitive man, had been hurt and had abruptly +gone away. Her social sense revolted at this idea. + +“You didn’t let him see that, Boris!” she exclaimed. “After his escape +from death! It would have been inhuman.” + +“Perhaps my love for you might even make me that, Domini. And if it +did--if you knew why I was inhuman--would you blame me for it? Would you +hate me for it?” + +There was a strong excitement dawning in him. It recalled to her the +first night in the desert when they sat together on the ground and +watched the waning of the fire. + +“Could you--could you hate me for anything, Domini?” he said. “Tell +me--could you?” + +His face was close to hers. She looked at him with her long, steady +eyes, that had truth written in their dark fire. + +“No,” she answered. “I could never hate you--now.” + +“Not if--not if I had done you harm? Not if I had done you a wrong?” + +“Could you ever do me a wrong?” she asked. + +She sat, looking at him as if in deep thought, for a moment. + +“I could almost as easily believe that God could,” she said at last +simply. + +“Then you--you have perfect trust in me?” + +“But--have you ever thought I had not?” she asked. There was wonder in +her voice. + +“But I have given my life to you,” she added still with wonder. “I am +here in the desert with you. What more can I give? What more can I do?” + +He put his arms about her and drew her head down on his shoulder. + +“Nothing, nothing. You have given, you have done everything--too much, +too much. I feel myself below you, I know myself below you--far, far +down.” + +“How can you say that? I couldn’t have loved you if it were so.” She +spoke with complete conviction. + +“Perhaps,” he said, in a low voice, “perhaps women never realise what +their love can do. It might--it might--” + +“What, Boris?” + +“It might do what Christ did--go down into hell to preach to the--to the +spirits in prison.” + +His voice had dropped almost to a murmur. With one hand on her cheek he +kept her face pressed down upon his shoulder so that she could not see +his face. + +“It might do that, Domini.” + +“Boris,” she said, almost whispering too, for his words and manner +filled her with a sort of awe, “I want you to tell me something.” + +“What is it?” + +“Are you quite happy with me here in the desert? If you are I want you +to tell me that you are. Remember--I shall believe you.” + +“No other human being could ever give me the happiness you give me.” + +“But--” + +He interrupted her. + +“No other human being ever has. Till I met you I had no conception of +the happiness there is in the world for man and woman who love each +other.” + +“Then you are happy?” + +“Don’t I seem so?” + +She did not reply. She was searching her heart for the answer--searching +it with an almost terrible sincerity. He waited for her answer, sitting +quite still. His hand was always against her face. After what seemed to +him an eternity she said: + +“Boris!” + +“Yes.” + +“Why did you say that about a woman’s love being able even to go down +into hell to preach to the spirits in prison?” + +He did not answer. His hand seemed to her to lie more heavily on her +cheek. + +“I--I am not sure that you are quite happy with me,” she said. + +She spoke like one who reverenced truth, even though it slew her. There +was a note of agony in her voice. + +“Hush!” he said. “Hush, Domini!” + +They were both silent. Beyond the canvas of the tent that shut out from +them the camp they heard a sound of music. Drums were being beaten. The +African pipe was wailing. Then the voice of Ali rose in the song of the +“Freed Negroes”: + + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + +At that moment Domini felt that the words were true--horribly true. + +“Boris,” she said. “Do you hear?” + +“Hush, Domini.” + +“I think there is something in your heart that sometimes makes you sad +even with me. I think perhaps I partly guess what it is.” + +He took his hand away from her face, his arm from her shoulder, but she +caught hold of him, and her arm was strong like a man’s. + +“Boris, you are with me, you are close to me, but do you sometimes feel +far away from God?” + +He did not answer. + +“I don’t know; I oughtn’t to ask, perhaps. I don’t ask--no, I don’t. +But, if it’s that, don’t be too sad. It may all come right--here in the +desert. For the desert is the Garden of Allah. And, Boris--put out the +light.” + +He extinguished the candle with his hand. + +“You feel, perhaps, that you can’t pray honestly now, but some day you +may be able to. You will be able to. I know it. Before I knew I loved +you I saw you--praying in the desert.” + +“I!” he whispered. “You saw me praying in the desert!” + +It seemed to her that he was afraid. She pressed him more closely with +her arms. + +“It was that night in the dancing-house. I seemed to see a crowd of +people to whom the desert had given gifts, and to you it had given the +gift of prayer. I saw you far out in the desert praying.” + +She heard his hard breathing, felt it against her cheek. + +“If--if it is that, Boris, don’t despair. It may come. Keep the +crucifix. I am sure you have it. And I always pray for you.” + +They sat for a long while in the dark, but they did not speak again that +night. + +Domini did not sleep, and very early in the morning, just as dawn was +beginning, she stole out of the tent, shutting down the canvas flap +behind her. + +It was cold outside--cold almost as in a northern winter. The wind of +the morning, that blew to her across the wavelike dunes and the white +plains, seemed impregnated with ice. The sky was a pallid grey. The camp +was sleeping. What had been a fire, all red and gold and leaping beauty, +was now a circle of ashes, grey as the sky. She stood on the edge of the +hill and looked towards the tower. + +As she did so, from the house behind it came a string of mules, picking +their way among the stones over the hard earth. De Trevignac and his men +were already departing from Mogar. + +They came towards her slowly. They had to pass her to reach the track by +which they were going on to the north and civilisation. She stood to see +them pass. + +When they were quite near De Trevignac, who was riding, with his head +bent down on his chest, muffled in a heavy cloak, looked up and saw her. +She nodded to him. He sat up and saluted. For a moment she thought +that he was going on without stopping to speak to her. She saw that he +hesitated what to do. Then he pulled up his mule and prepared to get +off. + +“No, don’t, Monsieur,” she said. + +She held out her hand. + +“Good-bye,” she added. + +He took her hand, then signed to his men to ride on. When they had +passed, saluting her, he let her hand go. He had not spoken a word. His +face, burned scarlet by the sun, had a look of exhaustion on it, but +also another look--of horror, she thought, as if in his soul he was +recoiling from her. His inflamed blue eyes watched her, as if in a +search that was intense. She stood beside the mule in amazement. She +could hardly believe that this was the man who had thanked her, with +tears in his eyes, for her hospitality the night before. “Good-bye,” + he said, speaking at last, coldly. She saw him glance at the tent from +which she had come. The horror in his face surely deepened. “Goodbye, +Madame,” he repeated. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He pulled up the +rein to ride on. The mule moved a step or two. Then suddenly he checked +it and turned in the saddle. “Madame!” he said. “Madame!” + +She came up to him. It seemed to her that he was going to say something +of tremendous importance to her. His lips, blistered by the sun, opened +to speak. But he only looked again towards the tent in which Androvsky +was still sleeping, then at her. + +A long moment passed. + +Then De Trevignac, as if moved by an irresistable impulse, leaned from +the saddle and made over Domini the sign of the cross. His hand dropped +down against the mule’s side, and without another word, or look, he rode +away to the north, following his men. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +That same day, to the surprise of Batouch, they left Mogar. To both +Domini and Androvsky it seemed a tragic place, a place where the desert +showed them a countenance that was menacing. + +They moved on towards the south, wandering aimlessly through the warm +regions of the sun. Then, as the spring drew into summer, and the heat +became daily more intense, they turned again northwards, and on an +evening in May pitched their camp on the outskirts of the Sahara city of +Amara. + +This city, although situated in the northern part of the desert, was +called by the Arabs “The belly of the Sahara,” and also “The City of +Scorpions.” It lay in the midst of a vast region of soft and shifting +sand that suggested a white sea, in which the oasis of date palms, at +the edge of which the city stood, was a green island. From the south, +whence the wanderers came, the desert sloped gently upwards for a long +distance, perhaps half a day’s march, and many kilometres before the +city was reached, the minarets of its mosques were visible, pointing +to the brilliant blue sky that arched the whiteness of the sands. Round +about the city, on every side, great sand-hills rose like ramparts +erected by Nature to guard it from the assaults of enemies. These hills +were black with the tents of desert tribes, which, from far off, looked +like multitudes of flies that had settled on the sands. The palms of the +oasis, which stretched northwards from the city, could not be seen from +the south till the city was reached, and in late spring this region was +a strange and barbarous pageant of blue and white and gold; crude in +its intensity, fierce in its crudity, almost terrible in its blazing +splendour that was like the Splendour about the portals of the sun. + +Domini and Androvsky rode towards Amara at a foot’s pace, looking +towards its distant towers. A quivering silence lay around them, +yet already they seemed to hear the cries of the voices of a great +multitude, to be aware of the movement of thronging crowds of men. This +was the first Sahara city they had drawn near to, and their minds were +full of memories of the stories of Batouch, told to them by the camp +fire at night in the uninhabited places which, till now, had been their +home: stories of the wealthy date merchants who trafficked here and +dwelt in Oriental palaces, poor in aspect as seen from the dark and +narrow streets, or zgags, in which they were situated, but within full +of the splendours of Eastern luxury; of the Jew moneylenders who lived +apart in their own quarter, rapacious as wolves, hoarding their +gains, and practising the rites of their ancient and--according to the +Arabs--detestable religion; of the marabouts, or sacred men, revered +by the Mohammedans, who rode on white horses through the public ways, +followed by adoring fanatics who sought to touch their garments and +amulets, and demanded importunately miraculous blessings at their +hands--the hedgehog’s foot to protect their women in the peril of +childbirth; the scroll, covered with verses of the Koran and enclosed +in a sheaf of leather, that banishes ill dreams at night and stays the +uncertain feet of the sleep-walker; the camel’s skull that brings fruit +to the palm trees; the red coral that stops the flow of blood from a +knife-wound--of the dancing-girls glittering in an armour of golden +pieces, their heads tied with purple and red and yellow handkerchiefs +of silk, crowned with great bars of solid gold and tufted with ostrich +feathers; of the dwarfs and jugglers who by night perform in the +marketplace, contending for custom with the sorceresses who tell the +fates from shells gathered by mirage seas; with the snake-charmers--who +are immune from the poison of serpents and the acrobats who come from +far-off Persia and Arabia to spread their carpets in the shadow of the +Agha’s dwelling and delight the eyes of negro and Kabyle, of Soudanese +and Touareg with their feats of strength; of the haschish smokers who, +assembled by night in an underground house whose ceiling and walls were +black as ebony, gave themselves up to day-dreams of shifting glory, in +which the things of earth and the joys and passions of men reappeared, +but transformed by the magic influence of the drug, made monstrous or +fairylike, intensified or turned to voluptuous languors, through which +the Ouled Nail floated like a syren, promising ecstasies unknown even in +Baghdad, where the pale Circassian lifts her lustrous eyes, in which the +palms were heavy with dates of solid gold, and the streams were gliding +silver. + +Often they had smiled over Batouch’s opulent descriptions of the marvels +of Ain-Amara, which they suspected to be very far away from the reality, +and yet, nevertheless, when they saw the minarets soaring above the +sands to the brassy heaven, it seemed to them both as if, perhaps, they +might be true. The place looked intensely barbaric. The approach to it +was grandiose. + +Wide as the sands had been, they seemed to widen out into a greater +immensity of arid pallor before the city gates as yet unseen. The +stretch of blue above looked vaster here, the horizons more remote, the +radiance of the sun more vivid, more inexorable. Nature surely expanded +as if in an effort to hold her arm against some tremendous spectacle set +in its bosom by the activity of men, who were strong and ardent as +the giants of old, who had powers and a passion for employing them +persistently not known in any other region of the earth. The immensity +of Mogar brought sadness to the mind. The immensity of Ain-Amara brought +excitement. Even at this distance from it, when its minarets were still +like shadowy fingers of an unlifted hand, Androvsky and Domini were +conscious of influences streaming forth from its battlements over the +sloping sands like a procession that welcomed them to a new phase of +desert life. + +“And people talk of the monotony of the Sahara!” Domini said speaking +out of their mutual thought. “Everything is here, Boris; you’ve never +drawn near to London. Long before you reach the first suburbs you feel +London like a great influence brooding over the fields and the woods. +Here you feel Amara in the same way brooding over the sands. It’s as if +the sands were full of voices. Doesn’t it excite you?” + +“Yes,” he said. “But”--and he turned in his saddle and looked back--“I +feel as if the solitudes were safer.” + +“We can return to them.” + +“Yes.” + +“We are splendidly free. There’s nothing to prevent us leaving Amara +tomorrow.” + +“Isn’t there?” he answered, fixing his eyes upon the minarets. + +“What can there be?” + +“Who knows?” + +“What do you mean, Boris? Are you superstitious? But you reject the +influence of place. Don’t you remember--at Mogar?” + +At the mention of the name his face clouded and she was sorry she had +spoken it. Since they had left the hill above the mirage sea they had +scarcely ever alluded to their night there. They had never once talked +of the dinner in camp with De Trevignac and his men, or renewed their +conversation in the tent on the subject of religion. But since that day, +since her words about Androvsky’s lack of perfect happiness even with +her far out in the freedom of the desert, Domini had been conscious +that, despite their great love for each other, their mutual passion for +the solitude in which it grew each day more deep and more engrossing, +wrapping their lives in fire and leading them on to the inner abodes of +sacred understanding, there was at moments a barrier between them. + +At first she had striven not to recognise its existence. She had +striven to be blind. But she was essentially a brave woman and an almost +fanatical lover of truth for its own sake, thinking that what is called +an ugly truth is less ugly than the loveliest lie. To deny truth is to +play the coward. She could not long do that. And so she quickly learned +to face this truth with steady eyes and an unflinching heart. + +At moments Androvsky retreated from her, his mind became remote--more, +his heart was far from her, and, in its distant place, was suffering. Of +that she was assured. + +But she was assured, too, that she stood to him for perfection in human +companionship. A woman’s love is, perhaps, the only true divining rod. +Domini knew instinctively where lay the troubled waters, what troubled +them in their subterranean dwelling. She was certain that Androvsky was +at peace with her but not with himself. She had said to him in the tent +that she thought he sometimes felt far away from God. The conviction +grew in her that even the satisfaction of his great human love was not +enough for his nature. He demanded, sometimes imperiously, not only the +peace that can be understood gloriously, but also that other peace which +passeth understanding. And because he had it not he suffered. + +In the Garden of Allah he felt a loneliness even though she was with +him, and he could not speak with her of this loneliness. That was the +barrier between them, she thought. + +She prayed for him: in the tent by night, in the desert under the +burning sky by day. When the muezzin cried from the minaret of some +tiny village lost in the desolation of the wastes, turning to the north, +south, east and west, and the Mussulmans bowed their shaved heads, +facing towards Mecca, she prayed to the Catholics’ God, whom she felt to +be the God, too, of all the devout, of all the religions of the world, +and to the Mother of God, looking towards Africa. She prayed that this +man whom she loved, and who she believed was seeking, might find. And +she felt that there was a strength, a passion in her prayers, which +could not be rejected. She felt that some day Allah would show himself +in his garden to the wanderer there. She dared to feel that because she +dared to believe in the endless mercy of God. And when that moment came +she felt, too, that their love--hers and his--for each other would be +crowned. Beautiful and intense as it was it still lacked something. It +needed to be encircled by the protecting love of a God in whom they both +believed in the same way, and to whom they both were equally near. +While she felt close to this love and he far from it they were not quite +together. + +There were moments in which she was troubled, even sad, but they passed. +For she had a great courage, a great confidence. The hope that dwells +like a flame in the purity of prayer comforted her. + +“I love the solitudes,” he said. “I love to have you to myself.” + +“If we lived always in the greatest city of the world it would make no +difference,” she said quietly. “You know that, Boris.” + +He bent over from his saddle and clasped her hand in his, and they rode +thus up the great slope of the sands, with their horses close together. + +The minarets of the city grew more distinct. They dominated the waste as +the thought of Allah dominates the Mohammedan world. Presently, far away +on the left, Domini and Androvsky saw hills of sand, clearly defined +like small mountains delicately shaped. On the summits of these hills +were Arab villages of the hue of bronze gleaming in the sun. No trees +stood near them. But beyond them, much farther off, was the long green +line of the palms of a large oasis. Between them and the riders moved +slowly towards the minarets dark things that looked like serpents +writhing through the sands. These were caravans coming into the city +from long journeys. Here and there, dotted about in the immensity, were +solitary horsemen, camels in twos and threes, small troops of +donkeys. And all the things that moved went towards the minarets as if +irresistibly drawn onwards by some strong influence that sucked them in +from the solitudes of the whirlpool of human life. + +Again Domini thought of the approach to London, and of the dominion of +great cities, those octopus monsters created by men, whose tentacles +are strong to seize and stronger still to keep. She was infected by +Androvsky’s dread of a changed life, and through her excitement, that +pulsed with interest and curiosity, she felt a faint thrill of something +that was like fear. + +“Boris,” she said, “I feel as if your thoughts were being conveyed to me +by your touch. Perhaps the solitudes are best.” + +By a simultaneous impulse they pulled in their horses and listened. +Sounds came to them over the sands, thin and remote. They could not tell +what they were, but they knew that they heard something which suggested +the distant presence of life. + +“What is it?” said Domini. + +“I don’t know, but I hear something. It travels to us from the +minarets.” + +They both leaned forward on their horses’ necks, holding each other’s +hand. + +“I feel the tumult of men,” Androvsky said presently. + +“And I. But it seems as if no men could have elected to build a city +here.” + +“Here in the ‘Belly of the desert,’” he said, quoting the Arabs’ name +for Amara. + +“Boris”--she spoke in a more eager voice, clasping his hand +strongly--“you remember the _fumoir_ in Count Anteoni’s garden. The +place where it stood was the very heart of the garden.” + +“Yes.” + +“We understood each other there.” + +He pressed her hand without speaking. + +“Amara seems to me the heart of the Garden of Allah. Perhaps--perhaps we +shall----” + +She paused. Her eyes were fixed upon his face. + +“What, Domini?” he asked. + +He looked expectant, but anxious, and watched her, but with eyes that +seemed ready to look away from her at a word. + +“Perhaps we shall understand each other even better there.” + +He looked down at the white sand. + +“Better!” he repeated. “Could we do that?” + +She did not answer. The far-off villages gleamed mysteriously on their +little mountains, like unreal things that might fade away as castles +fade in the fire. The sky above the minarets was changing in colour +slowly. Its blue was being invaded by a green that was a sister colour. +A curious light, that seemed to rise from below rather than to descend +from above, was transmuting the whiteness of the sands. A lemon +yellow crept through them, but they still looked cold and strange, +and immeasurably vast. Domini fancied that the silence of the desert +deepened so that, in it, they might hear the voices of Amara more +distinctly. + +“You know,” she said, “when one looks out over the desert from a height, +as we did from the tower of Beni-Mora, it seems to call one. There’s +a voice in the blue distance that seems to say, ‘Come to me! I am +here--hidden in my retreat, beyond the blue, and beyond the mirage, and +beyond the farthest verge!’” + +“Yes, I know.” + +“I have always felt, when we travelled in the desert, that the calling +thing, the soul of the desert, retreated as I advanced, and still +summoned me onward but always from an infinite distance.” + +“And I too, Domini.” + +“Now I don’t feel that. I feel as if now we were coming near to the +voice, as if we should reach it at Amara, as if there it would tell us +its secret.” + +“Imagination!” he said. + +But he spoke seriously, almost mystically. His voice was at odds with +the word it said. She noticed that and was sure that he was secretly +sharing her sensation. She even suspected that he had perhaps felt it +first. + +“Let us ride on,” he said. “Do you see the change in the light? Do +you see the green in the sky? It is cooler, too. This is the wind of +evening.” + +Their hands fell apart and they rode slowly on, up the long slope of the +sands. + +Presently they saw that they had come out of the trackless waste and +that though still a long way from the city they were riding on a desert +road which had been trodden by multitudes of feet. There were many +footprints here. On either side were low banks of sand, beaten into a +rough symmetry by implements of men, and shallow trenches through which +no water ran. In front of them they saw the numerous caravans, now more +distinct, converging from left and right slowly to this great isle of +the desert which stretched in a straight line to the minarets. + +“We are on a highway,” Domini said. + +Androvsky sighed. + +“I feel already as if we were in the midst of a crowd,” he answered. + +“Our love for peace oughtn’t to make us hate our fellowmen!” she said. +“Come, Boris, let us chase away our selfish mood!” + +She spoke in a more cheerful voice and drew her rein a little tighter. +Her horse quickened its pace. + +“And think how our stay at Amara will make us love the solitudes when we +return to them again. Contrast is the salt of life.” + +“You speak as if you didn’t believe what you are saying.” + +She laughed. + +“If I were ever inclined to tell you a lie,” she said, “I should not +dare to. Your mind penetrates mine too deeply.” + +“You could not tell me a lie.” + +“Do you hear the dogs barking?” she said, after a moment. “They are +among those tents that are like flies on the sands around the city. That +is the tribe of the Ouled Nails I suppose. Batouch says they camp here. +What multitudes of tents! Those are the suburbs of Amara. I would rather +live in them than in the suburbs of London. Oh, how far away we are, as +if we were at the end of the world!” + +Either her last words, or her previous change of manner to a lighter +cheerfulness, almost a briskness, seemed to rouse Androvsky to a greater +confidence, even to anticipation of possible pleasure. + +“Yes. After all it is only the desert men who are here. Amara is their +Metropolis, and in it we shall only see their life.” + +His horse plunged. He had touched it sharply with his heel. + +“I believe you hate the thought of civilisation,” she exclaimed. + +“And you?” + +“I never think of it. I feel almost as if I had never known it, and +could never know it.” + +“Why should you? You love the wilds.” + +“They make my whole nature leap. Even when I was a child it was so. +I remember once reading _Maud_. In it I came upon a passage--I can’t +remember it well, but it was about the red man--” + +She thought for a moment, looking towards the city. + +“I don’t know how it is quite,” she murmured. “‘When the red man +laughs by his cedar tree, and the red man’s babe leaps beyond the +sea’--something like that. But I know that it made my heart beat, and +that I felt as if I had wings and were spreading them to fly away to +the most remote places of the earth. And now I have spread my wings, +and--it’s glorious. Come, Boris!” + +They put their horses to a canter, and soon drew near to the caravans. +They had sent Batouch and Ali, who generally accompanied them, on with +the rest of the camp. Both had many friends in Amara, and were eager to +be there. It was obvious that they and all the attendants, servants and +camel-men, thought of it as the provincial Frenchman thinks of Paris, as +a place of all worldly wonders and delights. Batouch was to meet them +at the entrance to the city, and when they had seen the marvels of its +market-place was to conduct them to the tents which would be pitched on +the sand-hills outside. + +Their horses pulled as if they, too, longed for a spell of city life +after the life of the wastes, and Domini’s excitement grew. She felt +vivid animal spirits boiling up within her, the sane and healthy sense +that welcomes a big manifestation of the ceaseless enterprise and keen +activity of a brotherhood of men. The loaded camels, the half-naked +running drivers, the dogs sensitively sniffing, as if enticing smells +from the city already reached their nostrils, the chattering desert +merchants discussing coming gains, the wealthy and richly-dressed Arabs, +mounted on fine horses, and staring with eyes that glittered up the +broad track in search of welcoming friends, were sympathetic to her +mood. Amara was sucking them all in together from the solitary places as +quiet waters are sucked into the turmoils of a mill-race. Although +still out in the sands they were already in the midst of a noise of +life flowing to meet the roar of life that rose up at the feet of the +minarets, which now looked tall and majestic in the growing beauty of +the sunset. + +They passed the caravans one by one, and came on to the crest of the +long sand slope just as the sky above the city was flushing with a +bright geranium red. The track from here was level to the city wall, +and was no longer soft with sand. A broad, hard road rang beneath their +horses’ hoofs, startling them with a music that was like a voice of +civilised life. Before them, under the red sky, they saw a dark blue of +distant houses, towers, and great round cupolas glittering like gold. +Forests of palm trees lay behind, the giant date palms for which Amara +was famous. To the left stretched the sands dotted with gleaming Arab +villages, to the right again the sands covered with hundreds of tents +among which quantities of figures moved lively like ants, black on the +yellow, arched by the sky that was alive with lurid colour, red fading +into gold, gold into primrose, primrose into green, green into the blue +that still told of the fading day. And to this multi-coloured sky, from +the barbaric city and the immense sands in which it was set, rose a +great chorus of life; voices of men and beasts, cries of naked children +playing Cora on the sand-hills, of mothers to straying infants, shrill +laughter of unveiled girls wantonly gay, the calls of men, the barking +of multitudes of dogs,--the guard dogs of the nomads that are never +silent night or day,--the roaring of hundreds of camels now being +unloaded for the night, the gibbering of the mad beggars who roam +perpetually on the outskirts of the encampments like wolves seeking what +they may devour, the braying of donkeys, the whinnying of horses. And +beneath these voices of living things, foundation of their uprising +vitality, pulsed barbarous music, the throbbing tomtoms that are for +ever heard in the lands of the sun, fetish music that suggests fatalism, +and the grand monotony of the enormous spaces, and the crude passion +that repeats itself, and the untiring, sultry loves and the untired, +sultry languors of the children of the sun. + +The silence of the sands, which Domini and Androvsky had known and +loved, was merged in the tumult of the sands. The one had been mystical, +laying the soul to rest. The other was provocative, calling the soul to +wake. At this moment the sands themselves seemed to stir with life and +to cry aloud with voices. + +“The very sky is barbarous to-night!” Domini exclaimed. “Did you ever +see such colour, Boris?” + +“Over the minarets it is like a great wound,” he answered. + +“No wonder men are careless of human life in such a land as this. All +the wildness of the world seems to be concentrated here. Amara is like +the desert city of some tremendous dream. It looks wicked and unearthly, +but how superb!” + +“Look at those cupolas!” he said. “Are there really Oriental palaces +here? Has Batouch told us the truth for once?” + +“Or less than the truth? I could believe anything of Amara at this +moment. What hundreds of camels! They remind me of Arba, our first +halting-place.” She looked at him and he at her. + +“How long ago that seems!” she said. + +“A thousand years ago.” + +They both had a memory of a great silence, in the midst of this growing +tumult in which the sky seemed now to take its part, calling with the +voices of its fierce colours, with the voices of the fires that burdened +it in the west. + +“Silence joined us, Domini,” Androvsky said. + +“Yes. Perhaps silence is the most beautiful voice in the world.” + +Far off, along the great white road, they saw two horsemen galloping to +meet them from the city, one dressed in brilliant saffron yellow, the +other in the palest blue, both crowned with large and snowy turbans. + +“Who can they be?” said Domini, as they drew near. “They look like two +princes of the Sahara.” + +Then she broke into a merry laugh. + +“Batouch! and Ali!” she exclaimed. + +The servants galloped up then, without slackening speed deftly wheeled +their horses in a narrow circle, and were beside them, going with them, +one on the right hand, the other on the left. + +“Bravo!” Domini cried, delighted at this feat of horsemanship. “But what +have you been doing? You are transformed!” + +“Madame, we have been to the Bain Maure,” replied Batouch, calmly, +swelling out his broad chest under his yellow jacket laced with gold. +“We have had our heads shaved till they are smooth and beautiful as +polished ivory. We have been to the perfumer”--he leaned confidentially +towards her, exhaling a pungent odour of amber--“to the tailor, to +the baboosh bazaar!”--he kicked out a foot cased in a slipper that was +bright almost as a gold piece--“to him who sells the cherchia.” He shook +his head till the spangled muslin that flowed about it trembled. “Is it +not right that your servants should do you honour in the city?” + +“Perfectly right,” she answered with a careful seriousness. “I am proud +of you both.” + +“And Monsieur?” asked Ali, speaking in his turn. + +Androvsky withdrew his eyes from the city, which was now near at hand. + +“Splendid!” he said, but as if attending to the Arabs with difficulty. +“You are splendid.” + +As they came towards the old wall which partially surrounds Amara, and +which rises from a deep natural moat of sand, they saw that the ground +immediately before the city which, from a distance, had looked almost +fiat, was in reality broken up into a series of wavelike dunes, some +small with depressions like deep crevices between them, others large +with summits like plateaux. These dunes were of a sharp lemon yellow +in the evening light, a yellow that was cold in its clearness, almost +setting the teeth on edge. They went away into great rolling slopes of +sand on which the camps of the nomads and the Ouled Nails were pitched, +some near to, some distant from, the city, but they themselves were +solitary. No tents were pitched close to the city, under the shadow of +its wall. As Androvsky spoke, Domini exclaimed: + +“Boris---look! That is the most extraordinary thing I have ever seen!” + +She put her hand on his arm. He obeyed her eyes and looked to his right, +to the small lemon-yellow dunes that were close to them. At perhaps a +hundred yards from the road was a dune that ran parallel with it. The +fire of the sinking sun caught its smooth crest, and above this crest, +moving languidly towards the city, were visible the heads and busts of +three women, the lower halves of whose bodies were concealed by the +sand of the farther side of the dune. They were dancing-girls. On their +heads, piled high with gorgeous handkerchiefs, were golden crowns which +glittered in the sun-rays, and tufts of scarlet feathers. Their oval +faces, covered with paint, were partially concealed by long strings of +gold coins, which flowed from their crowns down over their large breasts +and disappeared towards their waists, which were hidden by the sand. +Their dresses were of scarlet, apple-green and purple silks, partially +covered by floating shawls of spangled muslin. Beneath their crowns and +handkerchiefs burgeoned forth plaits of false hair decorated with coral +and silver ornaments. Their hands, which they held high, gesticulating +above the crest of the dune, were painted blood red. + +These busts and heads glided slowly along in the setting sun, and +presently sank down and vanished into some depression of the dunes. For +an instant one blood-red hand was visible alone, waving a signal above +the sand to someone unseen. Its fingers fluttered like the wings of a +startled bird. Then it, too, vanished, and the sharply-cold lemon yellow +of the dunes stretched in vivid loneliness beneath the evening sky. + +To both of them this brief vision of women in the sand brought home +the solitude of the desert and the barbarity of the life it held, the +ascetism of this supreme manifestation of Nature and the animal passion +which fructifies in its heart. + +“Do you know what that made me think of, Boris?” Domini said, as the +red hand with its swiftly-moving fingers disappeared. “You’ll smile, +perhaps, and I scarcely know why. It made me think of the Devil in a +monastery.” + +Androvsky did not smile. Nor did he answer. She felt sure that he, too, +had been strongly affected by that glimpse of Sahara life. His silence +gave Batouch an opportunity of pouring forth upon them a flood of +poetical description of the dancing-girls of Amara, all of whom he +seemed to know as intimate friends. Before he ceased they came into the +city. + +The road was still majestically broad. They looked with interest at the +first houses, one on each side of the way. And here again they were met +by the sharp contrast which was evidently to be the keynote of Amara. +The house on the left was European, built of white stone, clean, +attractive, but uninteresting, with stout white pillars of plaster +supporting an arcade that afforded shade from the sun, windows with +green blinds, and an open doorway showing a little hall, on the floor +of which lay a smart rug glowing with gay colours; that on the right, +before which the sand lay deep as if drifted there by some recent +wind of the waste, was African and barbarous, an immense and rambling +building of brown earth, brushwood and palm, windowless, with a +flat-terraced roof, upon which were piled many strange-looking objects +like things collapsed, red and dark green, with fringes and rosettes, +and tall sticks of palm pointing vaguely to the sky. + +“Why, these are like our palanquin!” Domini said. + +“They are the palanquins of the dancing-girls, Madame,” said Batouch. +“That is the café of the dancers, and that”--he pointed to the neat +house opposite--“is the house of Monsieur the Aumonier of Amara.” + +“Aumonier,” said Androvsky, sharply. “Here!” + +He paused, then added more quietly: + +“What should he do here?” + +“But, Monsieur, he is for the French officers.” + +“There are French officers?” + +“Yes, Monsieur, four or five, and the commandant. They live in the +palace with the cupolas.” + +“I forgot,” Androvsky said to Domini. “We are not out of the sphere of +French influence. This place looks so remote and so barbarous that I +imagined it given over entirely to the desert men.” + +“We need not see the French,” she said. “We shall be encamped outside in +the sand.” + +“And we need not stay here long,” he said quickly. + +“Boris,” she asked him, half in jest, half in earnest, “shall we buy a +desert island to live in?” + +“Let us buy an oasis,” he said. “That would be the perf--the safest life +for us.” + +“The safest?” + +“The safest for our happiness. Domini, I have a horror of the world!” He +said the last words with a strong, almost fierce, emphasis. + +“Had you it always, or only since we have been married?” + +“I--perhaps it was born in me, perhaps it is part of me. Who knows?” + +He had relapsed into a gravity that was heavy with gloom, and looked +about him with eyes that seemed to wish to reject all that offered +itself to their sight. + +“I want the desert and you in it,” he said. “The lonely desert, with +you.” + +“And nothing else?” + +“I want that. I cannot have that taken from me.” + +He looked about him quickly from side to side as they rode up the +street, as if he were a scout sent in advance of an army and suspected +ambushes. His manner reminded her of the way he had looked towards the +tower as they rode into Mogar. And he had connected that tower with the +French. She remembered his saying to her that it must have been built +for French soldiers. As they rode into Mogar he had dreaded something in +Mogar. The strange incident with De Trevignac had followed. She had put +it from her mind as a matter of small, or no, importance, had resolutely +forgotten it, had been able to forget it in their dream of desert life +and desert passion. But the entry into a city for the moment destroyed +the dreamlike atmosphere woven by the desert, recalled her town sense, +that quick-wittedness, that sharpness of apprehension and swiftness of +observation which are bred in those who have long been accustomed to +a life in the midst of crowds and movement, and changing scenes and +passing fashions. Suddenly she seemed to herself to be reading Androvsky +with an almost merciless penetration, which yet she could not check. He +had dreaded something in Mogar. He dreaded something here in Amara. An +unusual incident--for the coming of a stranger into their lives out of +their desolation of the sand was unusual--had followed close upon the +first dread. Would another such incident follow upon this second dread? +And of what was this dread born? + +Batouch drew her attention to the fact that they were coming to the +marketplace, and to the curious crowds of people who were swarming out +of the tortuous, narrow streets into the main thoroughfare to watch them +pass, or to accompany them, running beside their horses. She divined +at once, by the passionate curiosity their entry aroused, that he had +misspent his leisure in spreading through the city lying reports of +their immense importance and fabulous riches. + +“Batouch,” she said, “you have been talking about us.” + +“No, Madame, I merely said that Madame is a great lady in her own land, +and that Monsieur--” + +“I forbid you ever to speak about me, Batouch,” said Androvsky, +brusquely. + +He seemed worried by the clamour of the increasing mob that surrounded +them. Children in long robes like night-gowns skipped before them, +calling out in shrill voices. Old beggars, with diseased eyes and +deformed limbs, laid filthy hands upon their bridles and demanded alms. +Impudent boys, like bronze statuettes suddenly endowed with a fury +of life, progressed backwards to keep them full in view, shouting +information at them and proclaiming their own transcendent virtues +as guides. Lithe desert men, almost naked, but with carefully-covered +heads, strode beside them, keeping pace with the horses, saying nothing, +but watching them with a bright intentness that seemed to hint at +unutterable designs. And towards them, through the air that seemed heavy +and almost suffocating now that they were among buildings, and through +clouds of buzzing flies, came the noise of the larger tumult of the +market-place. + +Looking over the heads of the throng Domini saw the wide road opening +out into a great space, with the first palms of the oasis thronging +on the left, and a cluster of buildings, many with small cupolas, like +down-turned white cups, on the right. On the farther side of this space, +which was black with people clad for the most in dingy garments, was an +arcade jutting out from a number of hovel-like houses, and to the right +of them, where the market-place, making a wide sweep, continued up hill +and was hidden from her view, was the end of the great building whose +gilded cupolas they had seen as they rode in from the desert, rising +above the city with the minarets of its mosques. + +The flies buzzed furiously about the horses’ heads and flanks, and the +people buzzed more furiously, like larger flies, about the riders. It +seemed to Domini as if the whole city was intent upon her and Androvsky, +was observing them, considering them, wondering about them, was full of +a thousand intentions all connected with them. + +When they gained the market-place the noise and the watchful curiosity +made a violent crescendo. It happened to be market day and, although the +sun was setting, buying and selling were not yet over. On the hot earth +over which, whenever there is any wind from the desert, the white sand +grains sift and settle, were laid innumerable rugs of gaudy colours on +which were disposed all sorts of goods for sale; heavy ornaments for +women, piles of burnouses, haiks, gandouras, gaiters of bright red +leather, slippers, weapons--many jewelled and gilt, or rich with +patterns in silver--pyramids of the cords of camels’ hair that bind the +turbans of the desert men, handkerchiefs and cottons of all the colours +of the rainbow, cheap perfumes in azure flasks powdered with golden and +silver flowers and leaves, incense twigs, panniers of henna to dye the +finger-nails of the faithful, innumerable comestibles, vegetables, corn, +red butcher’s meat thickly covered with moving insects, pale yellow +cakes crisp and shining, morsels of liver spitted on skewers--which, +cooked with dust of keef, produce a dreamy drunkenness more overwhelming +even than that produced by haschish--musical instruments, derboukas, +guitars, long pipes, and strange fiddles with two strings, tomtoms, +skins of animals with heads and claws, live birds, tortoise backs, and +plaits of false hair. + +The sellers squatted on the ground, their brown and hairy legs crossed, +calmly gazing before them, or, with frenzied voices and gestures, +driving bargains with the buyers, who moved to and fro, treading +carelessly among the merchandise. The tellers of fates glided through +the press, fingering the amulets that hung upon their hearts. Conjurors +proclaimed the merits of their miracles, bawling in the faces of the +curious. Dwarfs went to and fro, dressed in bright colours with green +and yellow turbans on their enormous heads, tapping with long staves, +and relating their deformities. Water-sellers sounded their gongs. +Before pyramids of oranges and dates, neatly arranged in patterns, +sat boys crying in shrill voices the luscious virtues of their fruits. +Idiots, with blear eyes and protending under-lips, gibbered and whined. +Dogs barked. Bakers hurried along with trays of loaves upon their heads. +From the low and smoky arcades to right and left came the reiterated +grunt of negroes pounding coffee. A fanatic was roaring out his prayers. +Arabs in scarlet and blue cloaks passed by to the Bain Maure, under +whose white and blue archway lounged the Kabyle masseurs with folded, +muscular arms. A marabout, black as a coal, rode on a white horse +towards the great mosque, followed by his servant on foot. + +Native soldiers went by to the Kasba on the height, or strolled down +towards the Cafes Maures smoking cigarettes. Circles of grave men bent +over card games, dominoes and draughts--called by the Arabs the Ladies’ +Game. Khodjas made their way with dignity towards the Bureau Arabe. +Veiled women, fat and lethargic, jingling with ornaments, waddled +through the arches of the arcades, carrying in their painted and +perspiring hands blocks of sweetmeats which drew the flies. Children +played in the dust by little heaps of refuse, which they stirred up into +clouds with their dancing, naked feet. In front, as if from the first +palms of the oasis, rose the roar of beaten drums from the negroes’ +quarter, and from the hill-top at the feet of the minarets came the +fierce and piteous noise that is the _leit-motif_ of the desert, the +multitudinous complaining of camels dominating all other sounds. + +As Domini and Androvsky rode into this whirlpool of humanity, above +which the sky was red like a great wound, it flowed and eddied round +them, making them its centre. The arrival of a stranger-woman was a +rare, if not an unparalleled, event in Amara, and Batouch had been very +busy in spreading the fame of his mistress. + +“Madame should dismount,” said Batouch. “Ali will take the horses, and +I will escort Madame and Monsieur up the hill to the place of the +fountain. Shabah will be there to greet Madame.” + +“What an uproar!” Domini exclaimed, half laughing, half confused. “Who +on earth is Shabah?” + +“Shabah is the Caid of Amara,” replied Batouch with dignity. “The +greatest man of the city. He awaits Madame by the fountain.” Domini cast +a glance at Androvsky. + +“Well?” she said. + +He shrugged his shoulders like a man who thinks strife useless and the +moment come for giving in to Fate. + +“The monster has opened his jaws for us,” he said, forcing a laugh. +“We had better walk in, I suppose. But--O Domini!--the silence of the +wastes!” + +“We shall know it again. This is only for the moment. We shall have all +its joy again.” + +“Who knows?” he said, as he had said when they were riding up the sand +slope. “Who knows?” + +Then they got off their horses and were taken by the crowd. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +The tumult of Amara waked up in Domini the town-sense that had been +slumbering. All that seemed to confuse, to daze, to repel Androvsky, +even to inspire him with fear, the noise of the teeming crowds, their +perpetual movement, their contact, startled her into a vividness of life +and apprehension of its various meanings, that sent a thrill through +her. And the thrill was musical with happiness. To the sad a great +vision of human life brings sadness because they read into the hearts +of others their own misery. But to the happy such a vision brings +exultation, for everywhere they find dancing reflections of their own +joy. Domini had lived much in crowds, but always she had been actively +unhappy, or at least coldly dreary in them. Now, for the first time, she +was surrounded by masses of fellow-beings in her splendid contentment. +And the effect of this return, as it were, to something like the +former material conditions of her life, with the mental and affectional +conditions of it transformed by joy, was striking even to herself. +Suddenly she realised to the full her own humanity, and the living +warmth of sympathy that is fanned into flame in a human heart by the +presence of human life with its hopes, desires, fears, passions, joys, +that leap to the eye. Instead of hating this fierce change from solitude +with the man she loved to a crowd with the man she loved she rejoiced in +it. Androvsky was the cause of both her joys, joy in the waste and joy +in Amara, but while he shared the one he did not share the other. + +This did not surprise her because of the conditions in which he had +lived. He was country-bred and had always dwelt far from towns. She was +returning to an old experience--old, for the London crowd and the +crowd of Amara were both crowds of men, however different--with a mind +transformed by happiness. To him the experience was new. Something +within her told her that it was necessary, that it had been ordained +because he needed it. The recalled town-sense, with its sharpness +of observation, persisted. As she rode in to Amara she had seemed to +herself to be reading Androvsky with an almost merciless penetration +which yet she could not check. Now she did not wish to check it, for the +penetration that is founded on perfect love can only yield good fruit. +It seemed to her that she was allowed to see clearly for Androvsky what +he could not see himself, almost as the mother sees for the child. This +contact with the crowds of Amara was, she thought, one of the gifts the +desert made to him. He did not like it. He wished to reject it. But he +was mistaken. For the moment his vision was clouded, as our vision for +ourselves so often is. She realised this, and, for the first time since +the marriage service at Beni-Mora, perhaps seemed to be selfish. She +opposed his wish. Hitherto there had never been any sort of contest +between them. Their desires, like their hearts, had been in accord. Now +there was not a contest, for Androvsky yielded to Domini’s preference, +when she expressed it, with a quickness that set his passion before her +in a new and beautiful light. But she knew that, for the moment, they +were not in accord. He hated and dreaded what she encountered with a +vivid sensation of sympathy and joy. + +She felt that there was something morbid in his horror of the crowd, and +the same strength of her nature said to her, “Uproot it!” + +Their camp was pitched on the sand-hills, to the north of the city near +the French and Arab cemeteries. They reached it only when darkness was +falling, going out of the city on foot by the great wall of dressed +stone which enclosed the Kasba of the native soldiers, and ascending +and descending various slopes of deep sand, over which the airs of night +blew with a peculiar thin freshness that renewed Domini’s sense of being +at the end of the world. Everything here whispered the same message, +said, “We are the denizens of far-away.” + +In their walk to the camp they were accompanied by a little procession. +Shabah, the Caid of Amara, a shortish man whose immense dignity made +him almost gigantic, insisted upon attending them to the tents, with his +young brother, a pretty, libertine boy of sixteen, the brother’s tutor, +an Arab black as a negro but without the negro’s look of having been +freshly oiled, and two attendants. To them joined himself the Caid of +the Nomads, a swarthy potentate who not only looked, but actually was, +immense, his four servants, and his uncle, a venerable person like +a shepherd king. These worthies surrounded Domini and Androvsky, and +behind streamed the curious, the envious, the greedy and the desultory +Arabs, who follow in the trail of every stranger, hopeful of the crumbs +that are said to fall from the rich man’s table. Shabah spoke French +and led the conversation, which was devoted chiefly to his condition +of health. Some years before an attempt had been made upon his life by +poison, and since that time, as he himself expressed it, his stomach +had been “perturbed as a guard dog in the night when robbers are +approaching.” All efforts to console or to inspire him with hope of +future cure were met with a stern hopelessness, a brusque certainty of +perpetual suffering. The idea that his stomach could again know peace +evidently shocked and distressed him, and as they all waded together +through the sand, pioneered by the glorified Batouch, Domini was +obliged to yield to his emphatic despair, and to join with him in his +appreciation of the perpetual indigestion which set him apart from the +rest of the world like some God within a shrine. The skittish boy, his +brother, who wore kid gloves, cast at her sly glances of admiration +which asked for a return. The black tutor grinned. And the Caid of the +Nomads punctuated their progress with loud grunts of heavy satisfaction, +occasionally making use of Batouch as interpreter to express his hopes +that they would visit his palace in the town, and devour a cous-cous on +his carpet. + +When they came to the tents it was necessary to entertain these +personages with coffee, and they finally departed promising a speedy +return, and full of invitations, which were cordially accepted by +Batouch on his employer’s behalf before either Domini or Androvsky had +time to say a word. + +As the _cortege_ disappeared over the sands towards the city Domini +burst into a little laugh, and drew Androvsky out to the tent door to +see them go. + +“Society in the sands!” she exclaimed gaily. “Boris, this is a new +experience. Look at our guests making their way to their palaces!” + +Slowly the potentates progressed across the white dunes towards the +city. Shabah wore a long red cloak. His brother was in pink and gold, +with white billowing trousers. The Caid of the Nomads was in green. +They all moved with a large and conscious majesty, surrounded by their +obsequious attendants. Above them the purple sky showed a bright evening +star. Near it was visible the delicate silhouette of the young moon. +Scattered over the waste rose many koubbahs, grey in the white, with +cupolas of gypse. Hundreds of dogs were barking in the distance. To the +left, on the vast, rolling slopes of sand, glared the innumerable fires +kindled before the tents of the Ouled Nails. Before the sleeping tent +rose the minarets and the gilded cupolas of the city which it dominated +from its mountain of sand. Behind it was the blanched immensity of the +plain, of the lonely desert from which Domini and Androvsky had come +to face this barbaric stir of life. And the city was full of music, of +tomtoms throbbing, of bugles blowing in the Kasba, of pipes shrieking +from hidden dwellings, and of the faint but multitudinous voices of men, +carried to them on their desolate and treeless height by the frail wind +of night that seemed a white wind, twin-brother of the sands. + +“Let us go a step or two towards the city, Boris,” Domini said, as their +guests sank magnificently down into a fold of the dunes. + +“Towards the city!” he answered. “Why not--?” He glanced behind him to +the vacant, noiseless sands. + +She set her impulse against his for the first time. + +“No, this is our town life, our Sahara season. Let us give ourselves to +it. The loneliness will be its antidote some day.” + +“Very well, Domini,” he answered. + +They went a little way towards the city, and stood still in the sand at +the edge of their height. + +“Listen, Boris! Isn’t it strange in the night all this barbaric music? +It excites me.” + +“You are glad to be here.” + +She heard the note of disappointment in his voice, but did not respond +to it. + +“And look at all those fires, hundreds of them in the sand!” + +“Yes,” he said, “it is wonderful, but the solitudes are best. This is +not the heart of the desert, this is what the Arabs call it, ‘The belly +of the Desert.’ In the heart of the desert there is silence.” + +She thought of the falling of the wind when the Sahara took them, and +knew that her love of the silence was intense. Nevertheless, to-night +the other part of her was in the ascendant. She wanted him to share it. +He did not. Could she provoke him to share it? + +“Yet, as we rode in, I had a feeling that the heart of the desert was +here,” she said. “You know I said so.” + +“Do you say so still?” + +“The heart, Boris, is the centre of life, isn’t it?” + +He was silent. She felt his inner feeling fighting hers. + +“To-night,” she said, putting her arm through his, and looking towards +the city. “I feel a tremendous sympathy with human life such as I never +felt before. Boris, it comes to me from you. Yes, it does. It is born +of my love for you, and seems to link me, and you with me, to all these +strangers, to all men and women, to everything that lives. It is as if +I was not quite human before, and my love for you had made me completely +human, had done something to me that even--even my love for God had not +been able to do.” + +She lowered her voice at the last words. After a moment she added: + +“Perhaps in isolation, even with you, I could not come to completeness. +Perhaps you could not in isolation even with me. Boris, I think it’s +good for us to be in the midst of life for a time.” + +“You wish to remain here, Domini?” + +“Yes, for a time.” + +The fatalistic feeling that had sometimes come upon her in this land +entered into her at this moment. She felt, “It is written that we are to +remain here.” + +“Let us remain here, Domini,” he said quietly. + +The note of disappointment had gone out of his voice, deliberately +banished from it by his love for her, but she seemed to hear it, +nevertheless, echoing far down in his soul. At that moment she loved him +like a woman he had made a lover, but also like a woman he had made a +mother by becoming a child. + +“Thank you, Boris,” she answered very quietly. “You are good to me.” + +“You are good to me,” he said, remembering the last words of Father +Roubier. “How can I be anything else?” + +Directly he had spoken the words his body trembled violently. + +“Boris, what is it?” she exclaimed, startled. + +He took his arm away from hers. + +“These--these noises of the city in the night coming across the +sand-hills are extraordinary. I have become so used to silence that +perhaps they get upon my nerves. I shall grow accustomed to them +presently.” + +He turned towards the tents, and she went with him. It seemed to her +that he had evaded her question, that he had not wished to answer it, +and the sense sharply awakened in her by a return to life near a city +made her probe for the reason of this. She did not find it, but in her +mental search she found herself presently at Mogar. It seemed to her +that the same sort of uneasiness which had beset her husband at Mogar +beset him now more fiercely at Amara, that, as he had just said, his +nerves were being tortured by something. But it could not be the noises +from the city. + +After dinner Batouch came to the tent to suggest that they should go +down with him into the city. Domini, feeling certain that Androvsky +would not wish to go, at once refused, alleging that she was tired. +Batouch then asked Androvsky to go with him, and, to Domini’s +astonishment, he said that if she did not mind his leaving her for a +short time he would like a stroll. + +“Perhaps,” he said to her, as Batouch and he were starting, “perhaps it +will make me more completely human; perhaps there is something still to +be done that even you, Domini, have not accomplished.” + +She knew he was alluding to her words before dinner. He stood looking at +her with a slight smile that did not suggest happiness, then added: + +“That link you spoke of between us and these strangers”--he made a +gesture towards the city--“I ought perhaps to feel it more strongly than +I do. I--I will try to feel it.” + +Then he turned away, and went with Batouch across the sand-hills, +walking heavily. + +As Domini watched him going she felt chilled, because there was +something in his manner, in his smile, that seemed for the moment to set +them apart from each other, something she did not understand. + +Soon Androvsky disappeared in a fold of the sands as he had disappeared +in a fold of the sands at Mogar, not long before De Trevignac came. +She thought of Mogar once more, steadily, reviewing mentally--with the +renewed sharpness of intellect that had returned to her, brought by +contact with the city--all that had passed there, as she never reviewed +it before. + +It had been a strange episode. + +She began to walk slowly up and down on the sand before the tent. Ouardi +came to walk with her, but she sent him away. Before doing so, however, +something moved her to ask him: + +“That African liqueur, Ouardi--you remember that you brought to the tent +at Mogar--have we any more of it?” + +“The monk’s liqueur, Madame?” + +“What do you mean--monk’s liqueur?” + +“It was invented by a monk, Madame, and is sold by the monks of +El-Largani.” + +“Oh! Have we any more of it?” + +“There is another bottle, Madame, but I should not dare to bring it +if----” + +He paused. + +“If what, Ouardi?” + +“If Monsieur were there.” + +Domini was on the point of asking him why, but she checked herself and +told him to leave her. Then she walked up and down once more on +the sand. She was thinking now of the broken glass on the ground at +Androvsky’s feet when she found him alone in the tent after De Trevignac +had gone. Ouardi’s words made her wonder whether this liqueur, brought +to celebrate De Trevignac’s presence in the camp, had turned the +conversation upon the subject of the religious orders; whether Androvsky +had perhaps said something against them which had offended De Trevignac, +a staunch Catholic; whether there had been a quarrel between the two +men on the subject of religion. It was possible. She remembered De +Trevignac’s strange, almost mystical, gesture in the dawn, following his +look of horror towards the tent where her husband lay sleeping. + +To-night her mind--her whole nature--felt terribly alive. + +She tried to think no more of Mogar, but her thoughts centred round it, +linked it with this great city, whose lights shone in the distance below +her, whose music came to her from afar over the silence of the sands. + +Mogar and Amara; what had they to do with one another? Leagues of desert +divided them. One was a desolation, the other was crowded with men. What +linked them together in her mind? + +Androvsky’s fear of both--that was the link. She kept on thinking of the +glance he had cast at the watch-tower, to which Trevignac had been even +then approaching, although they knew it not. De Trevignac! She walked +faster on the sand, to and fro before the tent. Why had he looked at the +tent in which Androvsky slept with horror? Was it because Androvsky had +denounced the religion that he reverenced and loved? Could it have been +that? But then--did Androvsky actively hate religion? Perhaps he hated +it, and concealed his hatred from her because he knew it would cause +her pain. Yet she had sometimes felt as if he were seeking, perhaps +with fear, perhaps with ignorance, perhaps with uncertainty, but still +seeking to draw near to God. That was why she had been able to hope +for him, why she had not been more troubled by his loss of the faith in +which he had been brought up, and to which she belonged heart and soul. +Could she have been wrong in her feeling--deceived? There were men in +the world, she knew, who denied the existence of a God, and bitterly +ridiculed all faith. She remembered the blasphemies of her father. Had +she married a man who, like him, was lost, who, as he had, furiously +denied God? + +A cold thrill of fear came into her heart. Suddenly she felt as if, +perhaps, even in her love, Androvsky had been a stranger to her. + +She stood upon the sand. It chanced that she looked towards the camp of +the Ouled Nails, whose fires blazed upon the dunes. While she looked she +was presently aware of a light that detached itself from the blaze of +the fires, and moved from them, coming towards the place where she was +standing, slowly. The young moon only gave a faint ray to the night. +This light travelled onward through the dimness like an earth-bound +star. She watched it with intentness, as people watch any moving thing +when their minds are eagerly at work, staring, yet scarcely conscious +that they see. + +The little light moved steadily on over the sands, now descending the +side of a dune, now mounting to a crest, and always coming towards the +place where Domini was standing, And presently this determined movement +towards her caught hold of her mind, drew it away from other thoughts, +fixed it on the light. She became interested in it, intent upon it. + +Who was bearing it? No doubt some desert man, some Arab. She imagined +him tall, brown, lithe, half-naked, holding the lamp in his muscular +fingers, treading on bare feet silently, over the deep sand. Why had he +left the camp? What was his purpose? + +The light drew near. It was now moving over the flats and seemed, she +thought, to travel more quickly. And always it came straight towards +where she was standing. A conviction dawned in her that it was +travelling with an intention of reaching her, that it was carried by +someone who was thinking of her. But how could that be? She thought of +the light as a thing with a mind and a purpose, borne by someone who +backed up its purpose, helping it to do what it wanted. And it wanted to +come to her. + +In Mogar! Androvsky had dreaded something in Mogar. De Trevignac had +come. He dreaded something in Amara. This light came. For an instant she +fancied that the light was a lamp carried by De Trevignac. Then she saw +that it gleamed upon a long black robe, the soutane of a priest. + +As she and Androvsky rode into Amara she had asked herself whether +his second dread would be followed, as his first dread had been, by an +unusual incident. When she saw the soutane of a priest, black in the +lamplight, moving towards her over the whiteness of the sand, she said +to herself that it was to be so followed. This priest stood in the place +of De Trevignac. + +Why did he come to her? + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +When the priest drew close to the tent Domini saw that it was not he +who carried the lantern, but a native soldier, one of the Tirailleurs, +formerly called Turcos, who walked beside him. The soldier saluted her, +and the priest took off his broad, fluffy black hat. + +“Good-evening, Madame,” he said, speaking French with the accent of +Marseilles. “I am the Aumonier of Amara, and have just heard of your +arrival here, and as I was visiting my friends on the sand-hills yonder, +I thought I would venture to call and ask whether I could be of any +service to you. The hour is informal, I know, but to tell the truth, +Madame, after five years in Amara one does not know how to be formal any +longer.” + +His eyes, which had a slightly impudent look, rare in a priest but not +unpleasing, twinkled cheerfully in the lamplight as he spoke, and his +whole expression betokened a highly social disposition and the most +genuine pleasure at meeting with a stranger. While she looked at him, +and heard him speak, Domini laughed at herself for the imaginations she +had just been cherishing. He had a broad figure, long arms, large feet +encased in stout, comfortable boots. His face was burnt brown by the sun +and partially concealed by a heavy black beard, whiskers and moustache. +His features were blunt and looked boyish, though his age must have been +about forty. The nose was snub, and accorded with the expression in his +eyes, which were black like his hair and full of twinkling lights. As +he smiled genially on Domini he showed two rows of small, square white +teeth. His Marseilles accent exactly suited his appearance, which was +rough but honest. Domini welcomed him gladly. Indeed, her reception +of him was more than cordial, almost eager. For she had been vaguely +expecting some tragic figure, some personality suggestive of mystery or +sorrow, and she thought of the incidents at Mogar, and associated the +moving light with the approach of further strange events. This +homely figure of her religion, beaming satisfaction and comfortable +anticipation of friendly intercourse, laid to rest fears which only now, +when she was conscious of relief, she knew she had been entertaining. +She begged the priest to come into the dining-tent, and, taking up the +little bell which was on the table, went out into the sand and rang it +for Ouardi. + +He came at once, like a shadow gliding over the waste. + +“Bring us coffee for two, Ouardi, biscuits”--she glanced at her +visitor--“bon-bons, yes, the bon-bons in the white box, and the cigars. +And take the soldier with you and entertain him well. Give him whatever +he likes.” + +Ouardi went away with the soldier, talking frantically, and Domini +returned to the tent, where she found the priest gleaming with joyous +anticipation. They sat down in the comfortable basket chairs before the +tent door, through which they could see the shining of the city’s lights +and hear the distant sound of its throbbing and wailing music. + +“My husband has gone to see the city,” Domini said after she had told +the priest her name and been informed that his was Max Beret. + +“We only arrived this evening.” + +“I know, Madame.” + +He beamed on her, and stroked his thick beard with his broad, sunburnt +hand. “Everyone in Amara knows, and everyone in the tents. We know, too, +how many tents you have, how many servants, how many camels, horses, +dogs.” + +He broke into a hearty laugh. + +“We know what you’ve just had for dinner!” + +Domini laughed too. + +“Not really!” + +“Well, I heard in the camp that it was soup and stewed mutton. But never +mind! You must forgive us. We are barbarians! We are sand-rascals! We +are ruffians of the sun!” + +His laugh was infectious. He leaned back in his chair and shook with the +mirth his own remarks had roused. + +“We are ruffians of the sun!” he repeated with gusto. “And we must be +forgiven everything.” + +Although clad in a soutane he looked, at that moment, like a type of the +most joyous tolerance, and Domini could not help mentally comparing him +with the priest of Beni-Mora. What would Father Roubier think of Father +Beret? + +“It is easy to forgive in the sun,” Domini said. + +The priest laid his hands on his knees, setting his feet well apart. She +noticed that his hands were not scrupulously clean. + +“Madame,” he said, “it is impossible to be anything but lenient in the +sun. That is my experience. Excuse me but are you a Catholic?” + +“Yes.” + +“So much the better. You must let me show you the chapel. It is in the +building with the cupolas. The congregation consists of five on a full +Sunday.” His laugh broke out again. “I hope the day after to-morrow +you and your husband will make it seven. But, as I was saying, the sun +teaches one a lesson of charity. When I first came to live in Africa +in the midst of the sand-rascals--eh; Madame!--I suppose as a priest I +ought to have been shocked by their goings-on. And indeed I tried to +be, I conscientiously did my best. But it was no good. I couldn’t be +shocked. The sunshine drove it all out of me. I could only say, ‘It +is not for me to question _le bon Dieu_, and _le bon Dieu_ has created +these people and set them here in the sand to behave as they do.’ What +is my business? I can’t convert them. I can’t change their morals. I +must just be a friend to them, cheer them up in their sorrows, give them +a bit if they’re starving, doctor them a little. I’m a first-rate hand +at making an Arab take a pill or a powder!--when they are ill, and make +them at home with the white marabout. That’s what the sun has taught me, +and every sand-rascal and sand-rascal’s child in Amara is a friend of +mine.” + +He stretched out his legs as if he wished to elongate his satisfaction, +and stared Domini full in the face with eyes that confidently, naively, +asked for her approval of his doctrine of the sun. She could not help +liking him, though she felt more as if she were sitting with a jolly, +big, and rather rowdy boy than with a priest. + +“You are fond of the Arabs then?” she said. + +“Of course I am, Madame. I can speak their language, and I’m as much +at home in their tents, and more, than I should ever be at the +Vatican--with all respect to the Holy Father.” + +He got up, went out into the sand, expectorated noisily, then +returned to the tent, wiping his bearded mouth with a large red cotton +pocket-handkerchief. + +“Are you staying here long, Madame?” + +He sat down again in his chair, making it creak with his substantial +weight. + +“I don’t know. If my husband is happy here. But he prefers the +solitudes, I think.” + +“Does he? And yet he’s gone into the city. Plenty of bustle there at +night, I can tell you. Well, now, I don’t agree with your husband. I +know it’s been said that solitude is good for the sad, but I think just +the contrary. Ah!” + +The last sonorously joyous exclamation jumped out of Father Beret at the +sight of Ouardi, who at this moment entered with a large tray, covered +with a coffee-pot, cups, biscuits, bon-bons, cigars, and a bulging flask +of some liqueur flanked by little glasses. + +“You fare generously in the desert I see, Madame,” he exclaimed. “And so +much the better. What’s your servant’s name?” + +Domini told him. + +“Ouardi! that means born in the time of the roses.” He addressed Ouardi +in Arabic and sent him off into the darkness chuckling gaily. “These +Arab names all have their meanings--Onlagareb, mother of scorpions, +Omteoni, mother of eagles, and so on. So much the better! Comforts are +rare here, but you carry them with you. Sugar, if you please.” + +Domini put two lumps into his cup. + +“If you allow me!” + +He added two more. + +“I never refuse a good cigar. These harmless joys are excellent for +man. They help his Christianity. They keep him from bitterness, harsh +judgments. But harshness is for northern climes--rainy England, eh? +Forgive me, Madame. I speak in joke. You come from England perhaps. It +didn’t occur to me that--” + +They both laughed. His garrulity was irresistible and made Domini feel +as if she were sitting with a child. Perhaps he caught her feeling, for +he added: + +“The desert has made me an _enfant terrible_, I fear. What have you +there?” + +His eyes had been attracted by the flask of liqueur, to which Domini was +stretching out her hand with the intention of giving him some. + +“I don’t know.” + +She leaned forward to read the name on the flask. + +“L o u a r i n e,” she said. + +“Pst!” exclaimed the priest, with a start. + +“Will you have some? I don’t know whether it’s good. I’ve never tasted +it, or seen it before. Will you have some?” + +She felt so absolutely certain that he would say “Yes” that she lifted +the flask to pour the liqueur into one of the little glasses, but, +looking at him, she saw that he hesitated. + +“After all--why not?” he ejaculated. “Why not?” + +She was holding the flask over the glass. He saw that his remark +surprised her. + +“Yes, Madame, thanks.” + +She poured out the liqueur and handed it to him. He set it down by his +coffee-cup. + +“The fact is, Madame--but you know nothing about this liqueur?” + +“No, nothing. What is it?” + +Her curiosity was roused by his hesitation, his words, but still more by +a certain gravity which had come into his face. + +“Well, this liqueur comes from the Trappist monastery of El-Largani.” + +“The monks’ liqueur!” she exclaimed. + +And instantly she thought of Mogar. + +“You do know then?” + +“Ouardi told me we had with us a liqueur made by some monks.” + +“This is it, and very excellent it is. I have tasted it in Tunis.” + +“But then why did you hesitate to take it here?” + +He lifted his glass up to the lamp. The light shone on its contents, +showing that the liquid was pale green. + +“Madame,” he said, “the Trappists of El-Largani have a fine property. +They grow every sort of things, but their vineyards are specially +famous, and their wines bring in a splendid revenue. This is their only +liqueur, this Louarine. It, too, has brought in a lot of money to the +community, but when what they have in stock at the monastery now is +exhausted they will never make another franc by Louarine.” + +“But why not?” + +“The secret of its manufacture belonged to one monk only. At his death +he was to confide it to another whom he had chosen.” + +“And he died suddenly without--” + +“Madame, he didn’t die.” + +The gravity had returned to the priest’s face and deepened there, +transforming it. He put the glass down without touching it with his +lips. + +“Then--I don’t understand.” + +“He disappeared from the monastery.” + +“Do you mean he left it--a Trappist?” + +“Yes.” + +“After taking the final vows?” + +“Oh, he had been a monk at El-Largani for over twenty years.” + +“How horrible!” Domini said. She looked at the pale-green liquid. “How +horrible!” she repeated. + +“Yes. The monks would have kept the matter a secret, but a servant +of the _hotellerie_--who had taken no vow of eternal silence--spoke, +and--well, I know it here in the ‘belly of the desert.’” + +“Horrible!” + +She said the word again, and as if she felt its meaning more acutely +each time she spoke it. + +“After twenty years to go!” she added after a moment. “And was there +no reason, no--no excuse--no, I don’t mean excuse! But had nothing +exceptional happened?” + +“What exceptional thing can happen in a Trappist monastery?” said the +priest. “One day is exactly like another there, and one year exactly +like another.” + +“Was it long ago?” + +“No, not very long. Only some months. Oh, perhaps it may be a year by +now, but not more. Poor fellow! I suppose he was a man who didn’t know +himself, Madame, and the devil tempted him.” + +“But after twenty years!” said Domini. + +The thing seemed to her almost incredible. + +“That man must be in hell now,” she added. “In the hell a man can make +for himself by his own act. Oh, here is my husband.” + +Androvsky stood in the tent door, looking in upon them with startled, +scrutinising eyes. He had come over the deep sand without noise. Neither +Domini nor the priest had heard a footstep. The priest got up from his +chair and bowed genially. + +“Good-evening, Monsieur,” he said, not waiting for any introduction. “I +am the Aumonier of Amara, and----” + +He paused in the full flow of his talk. Androvsky’s eyes had wandered +from his face to the table, upon which stood the coffee, the liqueur, +and the other things brought by Ouardi. It was evident even to the +self-centred priest that his host was not listening to him. There was a +moment’s awkward pause. Then Domini said: + +“Boris, Monsieur l’Aumonier!” + +She did not speak loudly, but with an intention that recalled the mind +of her husband. He stepped slowly into the tent and held out his hand in +silence to the priest. As he did so the lamplight fell full upon him. + +“Boris, are you ill?” Domini exclaimed. + +The priest had taken Androvsky’s hand, but with a doubtful air. His +cheerful and confident manner had died away, and his eyes, fixed upon +his host, shone with an astonishment which was mingled with a sort +of boyish glumness. It was evident that he felt that his presence was +unwelcome. + +“I have a headache,” Androvsky said. “I--that is why I returned.” + +He dropped the priest’s hand. He was again looking towards the table. + +“The sun was unusually fierce to-day,” Domini said. “Do you think--” + +“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “That’s it. I must have had a touch of the +sun.” + +He put his hand to his head. + +“Excuse me, Monsieur,” he said, speaking to the priest but not looking +at him. “I am really feeling unwell. Another day--” + +He went out of the tent and disappeared silently into the darkness. +Domini and the priest looked after him. Then the priest, with an air of +embarrassment, took up his hat from the table. His cigar had gone out, +but he pulled at it as if he thought it was still alight, then took it +out of his mouth and, glancing with a naive regret at the good things +upon the table, his half-finished coffee, the biscuits, the white box of +bon-bons--said: + +“Madame, I must be off. I’ve a good way to go, and it’s getting late. If +you will allow me--” + +He went to the tent door and called, in a powerful voice: + +“Belgassem! Belgassem!” + +He paused, then called again: + +“Belgassem!” + +A light travelled over the sand from the farther tents of the servants. +Then the priest turned round to Domini and shook her by the hand. + +“Good-night, Madame.” + +“I’m very sorry,” she said, not trying to detain him. “You must come +again. My husband is evidently ill, and--” + +“You must go to him. Of course. Of course. This sun is a blessing. +Still, it brings fever sometimes, especially to strangers. We +sand-rascals--eh, Madame!” he laughed, but the laugh had lost its +sonorous ring--“we can stand it. It’s our friend. But for travellers +sometimes it’s a little bit too much. But now, mind, I’m a bit of a +doctor, and if to-morrow your husband is no better I might--anyhow”--he +looked again longingly at the bon-bons and the cigars--“if you’ll allow +me I’ll call to know how he is.” + +“Thank you, Monsieur.” + +“Not at all, Madame, not at all! I can set him right in a minute, if +it’s anything to do with the sun, in a minute. Ah, here’s Belgassem!” + +The soldier stood like a statue without, bearing the lantern. The priest +hesitated. He was holding the burnt-out cigar in his hand, and now +he glanced at it and then at the cigar-box. A plaintive expression +overspread his bronzed and bearded face. It became almost piteous. +Quickly Domini wait to the table, took two cigars from the box and came +back. + +“You must have a cigar to smoke on the way.” + +“Really, Madame, you are too good, but--well, I rarely refuse a fine +cigar, and these--upon my word--are--” + +He struck a match on his broad-toed boot. His demeanour was becoming +cheerful again. Domini gave the other cigar to the soldier. + +“Good-night, Madame. A demain then, a demain! I trust your husband may +be able to rest. A demain! A demain!” + +The light moved away over the dunes and dropped down towards the city. +Then Domini hurried across the sand to the sleeping-tent. As she went +she was acutely aware of the many distant noises that rose up in the +night to the pale crescent of the young moon, the pulsing of the tomtoms +in the city, the faint screaming of the pipes that sounded almost like +human beings in distress, the passionate barking of the guard dogs +tied up to the tents on the sand-slopes where the multitudes of fires +gleamed. The sensation of being far away, and close to the heart of the +desert, deepened in her, but she felt now that it was a savage heart, +that there was something terrible in the remoteness. In the faint +moonlight the tent cast black shadows upon the wintry whiteness of the +sands, that rose and fell like waves of a smooth but foam-covered sea. +And the shadow of the sleeping-tent looked the blackest of them all. +For she began to feel as if there was another darkness about it than the +darkness that it cast upon the sand. Her husband’s face that night as +he came in from the dunes had been dark with a shadow cast surely by his +soul. And she did not know what it was in his soul that sent forth the +shadow. + +“Boris!” + +She was at the door of the sleeping-tent. He did not answer. + +“Boris!” + +He came in from the farther tent that he used as a dressing-room, +carrying a lit candle in his hand. She went up to him with a movement of +swift, ardent sincerity. + +“You felt ill in the city? Did Batouch let you come back alone?” + +“I preferred to be alone.” + +He set down the candle on the table, and moved so that the light of it +did not fall upon his face. She took his hands in hers gently. There was +no response in his hands. They remained in hers, nervelessly. They +felt almost like dead things in her hands. But they were not cold, but +burning hot. + +“You have fever!” she said. + +She let one of his hands go and put one of hers to his forehead. + +“Your forehead is burning, and your pulses--how they are beating! Like +hammers! I must--” + +“Don’t give me anything, Domini! It would be useless.” + +She was silent. There was a sound of hopelessness in his voice that +frightened her. It was like the voice of a man rejecting remedies +because he knew that he was stricken with a mortal disease. + +“Why did that priest come here to-night?” he asked. + +They were both standing up, but now he sat down in a chair heavily, +taking his hand from hers. + +“Merely to pay a visit of courtesy.” + +“At night?” + +He spoke suspiciously. Again she thought of Mogar, and of how, on his +return from the dunes, he had said to her, “There is a light in the +tower.” A painful sensation of being surrounded with mystery came upon +her. It was hateful to her strong and frank nature. It was like a miasma +that suffocated her soul. + +“Oh, Boris,” she exclaimed bluntly, “why should he not come at night?” + +“Is such a thing usual?” + +“But he was visiting the tents over there--of the nomads, and he had +heard of our arrival. He knew it was informal, but, as he said, in the +desert one forgets formalities.” + +“And--and did he ask for anything?” + +“Ask?” + +“I saw--on the table-coffee and--and there was liqueur.” + +“Naturally I offered him something.” + +“He didn’t ask?” + +“But, Boris, how could he?” + +After a moment of silence he said: + +“No, of course not.” + +He shifted in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, put his hands +on the arms of it, and continued: + +“What did he talk about?” + +“A little about Amara.” + +“That was all?” + +“He hadn’t been here long when you came--” + +“Oh.” + +“But he told me one thing that was horrible,” she added, obedient to her +instinct always to tell the complete truth to him, even about trifles +which had nothing to do with their lives or their relation to each +other. + +“Horrible!” Androvsky said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward in +his chair. + +She sat down by him. They both had their backs to the light and were in +shadow. + +“Yes.” + +“What was it about--some crime here?” + +“Oh, no! It was about that liqueur you saw on the table.” + +Androvsky was sitting upon a basket chair. As she spoke it creaked under +a violent movement that he made. + +“How could--what could there be that was horrible connected with that?” + he asked, speaking slowly. + +“It was made by a monk, a Trappist--” + +He got up from his chair and went to the opening of the tent. + +“What--” she began, thinking he was perhaps feeling the pain in his head +more severely. + +“I only want to be in the air. It’s rather hot there. Stay where, you +are, Domini, and--well, what else?” + +He stepped out into the sand, and stood just outside the tent in its +shadow. + +“It was invented by a Trappist monk of the monastery of El-Largani, who +disappeared from the monastery. He had taken the final vows. He had been +there for over twenty years.” + +“He--he disappeared--did the priest say?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where?” + +“I don’t think--I am sure he doesn’t know. But what does it matter? +The awful thing is that he should leave the monastery after taking the +eternal vows--vows made to God.” + +After a moment, during which neither of them spoke and Androvsky stood +quite still in the sand, she added: + +“Poor man!” + +Androvsky came a step towards her, then paused. + +“Why do you say that, Domini?” + +“I was thinking of the agony he must be enduring if he is still alive.” + +“Agony?” + +“Of mind, of heart. You--I know, Boris, you can’t feel with me on +certain subjects--yet--” + +“Yet!” he said. + +“Boris”--she got up and came to the tent door, but not out upon the +sand--“I dare to hope that some day perhaps----” + +She was silent, looking towards him with her brave, steady eyes. + +“Agony of heart?” Androvsky said, recurring to her words. “You +think--what--you pity that man then?” + +“And don’t you?” + +“I--what has he to do with--us? Why should we--?” + +“I know. But one does sometimes pity men one never has seen, never will +see, if one hears something frightful about them. Perhaps--don’t smile, +Boris--perhaps it was seeing that liqueur, which he had actually made in +the monastery when he was at peace with God, perhaps it was seeing that, +that has made me realise--such trifles stir the imagination, set it +working--at any rate--” + +She broke off. After a minute, during which he said nothing, she +continued: + +“I believe the priest felt something of the same sort. He could not +drink the liqueur that man had made, although he intended to.” + +“But--that might have been for a different reason,” Androvsky said in +a harsh voice; “priests have strange ideas. They often judge things +cruelly, very cruelly.” + +“Perhaps they do. Yes; I can imagine that Father Roubier of Beni-Mora +might, though he is a good man and leads a saintly life.” + +“Those are sometimes the most cruel. They do not understand.” + +“Perhaps not. It may be so. But this priest--he’s not like that.” + +She thought of his genial, bearded face, his expression when he said, +“We are ruffians of the sun,” including himself with the desert men, his +boisterous laugh. + +“His fault might be the other way.” + +“Which way?” + +“Too great a tolerance.” + +“Can a man be too tolerant towards his fellow-man?” said Androvsky. + +There was a strange sound of emotion in his deep voice which moved her. +It seemed to her--why, she did not know--to steal out of the depth of +something their mutual love had created. + +“The greatest of all tolerance is God’s,” she said. “I’m sure--quite +sure--of that.” + +Androvsky came in out of the shadow of the tent, took her in his arms +with passion, laid his lips on hers with passion, hot, burning force and +fire, and a hard tenderness that was hard because it was intense. + +“God will bless you,” he said. “God will bless you. Whatever life brings +you at the end you must--you must be blessed by Him.” + +“But He has blessed me,” she whispered, through tears that rushed from +her eyes, stirred from their well-springs by his sudden outburst of +love for her. “He has blessed me. He has given me you, your love, your +truth.” + +Androvsky released her as abruptly as he had taken her in his arms, +turned, and went out into the desert. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +True to his promise, on the following day the priest called to inquire +after Androvsky’s health. He happened to come just before _dejeuner_ was +ready, and met Androvsky on the sand before the tent door. + +“It’s not fever then, Monsieur,” he said, after they had shaken hands. + +“No, no,” Androvsky replied. “I am quite well this morning.” + +The priest looked at him closely with an unembarrassed scrutiny. + +“Have you been long in the desert, Monsieur?” he asked. + +“Some weeks.” + +“The heat has tired you. I know the look--” + +“I assure you, Monsieur, that I am accustomed to heat. I have lived in +North Africa all my life.” + +“Indeed. And yet by your appearance I should certainly suppose that you +needed a change from the desert. The air of the Sahara is magnificent, +but there are people--” + +“I am not one of them,” Androvsky said abruptly. “I have never felt so +strong physically as since I have lived in the sand.” + +The priest still looked at him closely, but said nothing further on +the subject of health. Indeed, almost immediately his attention was +distracted by the apparition of Ouardi bearing dishes from the cook’s +tent. + +“I am afraid I have called at a very unorthodox time,” he remarked, +looking at his watch; “but the fact is that here in Amara we--” + +“I hope you will stay to _dejeuner_,” Androvsky said. + +“It is very good of you. If you are certain that I shall not put you +out.” + +“Please stay.” + +“I will, then, with pleasure.” + +He moved his lips expectantly, as if only a sense of politeness +prevented him from smacking them. Androvsky went towards the +sleeping-tent, where Domini, who had been into the city, was washing her +hands. + +“The priest has called,” he said. “I have asked him to _dejeuner_.” + +She looked at him with frank astonishment in her dark eyes. + +“You--Boris!” + +“Yes, I. Why not?” + +“I don’t know. But generally you hate people.” + +“He seems a good sort of man.” + +She still looked at him with some surprise, even with curiosity. + +“Have you taken a fancy to a priest?” she asked, smiling. + +“Why not? This man is very different from Father Roubier, more human.” + +“Father Beret is very human, I think,” she answered. + +She was still smiling. It had just occurred to her that the priest had +timed his visit with some forethought. + +“I am coming,” she added. + +A sudden cheerfulness had taken possession of her. All the morning she +had been feeling grave, even almost apprehensive, after a bad night. +When her husband had abruptly left her and gone away into the darkness +she had been overtaken by a sudden wave of acute depression. She had +felt, more painfully than ever before, the mental separation which +existed between them despite their deep love, and a passionate but +almost hopeless longing had filled her heart that in all things they +might be one, not only in love of each other, but in love of God. When +Androvsky had taken his arms from her she had seemed to feel herself +released by a great despair, and this certainty--for as he vanished into +the darkness she was no more in doubt that his love for her left room +within his heart for such an agony--had for a moment brought her soul to +the dust. She had been overwhelmed by a sensation that instead of +being close together they were far apart, almost strangers, and a great +bitterness had entered into her. It was accompanied by a desire for +action. She longed to follow Androvsky, to lay her hand on his arm, to +stop him in the sand and force him to confide in her. For the first +time the idea that he was keeping something from her, a sorrow, almost +maddened her, even made her feel jealous. The fact that she divined what +that sorrow was, or believed she divined it, did not help her just then. +She waited a long while, but Androvsky did not return, and at last she +prayed and went to bed. But her prayers were feeble, disjointed, and +sleep did not come to her, for her mind was travelling with this man +who loved her and who yet was out there alone in the night, who was +deliberately separating himself from her. Towards dawn, when he stole +into the tent, she was still awake, but she did not speak or give any +sign of consciousness, although she was hot with the fierce desire to +spring up, to throw her arms round him, to draw his head down upon her +heart, and say, “I have given myself, body, heart and soul, to you. Give +yourself to me; give me the thing you are keeping back--your sorrow. +Till I have that I have not all of you. And till I have all of you I am +in hell.” + +It was a mad impulse. She resisted it and lay quite still. And when he +lay down and was quiet she slept at length. + +Now, as she heard him speak in the sunshine and knew that he had offered +hospitality to the comfortable priest her heart suddenly felt lighter, +she scarcely knew why. It seemed to her that she had been a little +morbid, and that the cloud which had settled about her was lifted, +revealing the blue. + +At _dejeuner_ she was even more reassured. Her husband seemed to get on +with the priest better than she had ever seen him get on with anybody. +He began by making an effort to be agreeable that was obvious to her; +but presently he was agreeable without effort. The simple geniality +and lack of self-consciousness in Father Beret evidently set him at +his ease. Once or twice she saw him look at his guest with an earnest +scrutiny that puzzled her, but he talked far more than usual and with +greater animation, discussing the Arabs and listening to the priest’s +account of the curiosities of life in Amara. When at length Father Beret +rose to go Androvsky said he would accompany him a little way, and they +went off together, evidently on the best of terms. + +She was delighted and surprised. She had been right, then. It was time +that Androvsky was subjected to another influence than that of the +unpeopled wastes. It was time that he came into contact with men whose +minds were more akin to his than the minds of the Arabs who had been +their only companions. She began to imagine him with her in civilised +places, to be able to imagine him. And she was glad they had come to +Amara and confirmed in her resolve to stay on there. She even began to +wish that the French officers quartered there--few in number, some five +or six--would find them in the sand, and that Androvsky would offer them +hospitality. It occurred to her that it was not quite wholesome for a +man to live in isolation from his fellow-men, even with the woman he +loved, and she determined that she would not be selfish in her love, +that she would think for Androvsky, act for him, even against her own +inclination. Perhaps his idea of life in an oasis apart from Europeans +was one she ought to combat, though it fascinated her. Perhaps it would +be stronger, more sane, to face a more ordinary, less dreamy, life, in +which they would meet with people, in which they would inevitably find +themselves confronted with duties. She felt powerful enough in that +moment to do anything that would make for Androvsky’s welfare of soul. +His body was strong and at ease. She thought of him going away with the +priest in friendly conversation. How splendid it would be if she could +feel some day that the health of his soul accorded completely with that +of his body! + +“Batouch!” she called almost gaily. + +Batouch appeared, languidly smoking a cigarette, and with a large flower +tied to a twig protending from behind his ear. + +“Saddle the horses. Monsieur has gone with the Pere Beret. I shall take +a ride, just a short ride round the camp over there--in at the city +gate, through the market-place, and home. You will come with me.” + +Batouch threw away his cigarette with energy. Poet though he was, all +the Arab blood in him responded to the thought of a gallop over the +sands. Within a few minutes they were off. When she was in the saddle it +was at all times difficult for Domini to be sad or even pensive. She had +a native passion for a good horse, and riding was one of the joys, +and almost the keenest, of her life. She felt powerful when she had +a spirited, fiery animal under her, and the wide spaces of the desert +summoned speed as they summoned dreams. She and Batouch went away at a +rapid pace, circled round the Arab cemetery, made a detour towards the +south, and then cantered into the midst of the camps of the Ouled Nails. +It was the hour of the siesta. Only a few people were stirring, coming +and going over the dunes to and from the city on languid errands for the +women of the tents, who reclined in the shade of their brushwood +arbours upon filthy cushions and heaps of multi-coloured rags, smoking +cigarettes, playing cards with Arab and negro admirers, or staring into +vacancy beneath their heavy eyebrows as they listened to the sound of +music played upon long pipes of reed. No dogs barked in their camp. +The only guardians were old women, whose sandy faces were scored with +innumerable wrinkles, and whose withered hands drooped under their loads +of barbaric rings and bracelets. Batouch would evidently have liked to +dismount here. Like all Arabs he was fascinated by the sight of these +idols of the waste, whose painted faces called to the surface the fluid +poetry within him, but Domini rode on, descending towards the city gate +by which she had first entered Amara. The priest’s house was there +and Androvsky was with the priest. She hoped he had perhaps gone in to +return the visit paid to them. As she rode into the city she glanced +at the house. The door was open and she saw the gay rugs in the little +hall. She had a strong inclination to stop and ask if her husband were +there. He might mount Batouch’s horse and accompany her home. + +“Batouch,” she said, “will you ask if Monsieur Androvsky is with Pere +Beret. I think--” + +She stopped speaking. She had just seen her husband’s face pass across +the window-space of the room on the right-hand side of the hall door. +She could not see it very well. The arcade built out beyond the house +cast a deep shade within, and in this shade the face had flitted like a +shadow. Batouch had sprung from his horse. But the sight of the shadowy +face had changed her mind. She resolved not to interrupt the two men. +Long ago at Beni-Mora she had asked Androvsky to call upon a priest. She +remembered the sequel to that visit. This time Androvsky had gone of his +own will. If he liked this priest, if they became friends, perhaps--she +remembered her vision in the dancing-house, her feeling that when she +drew near Amara she was drawing near to the heart of the desert. If she +should see Androvsky praying here! Yet Father Beret hardly seemed a man +likely to influence her husband, or anyone with a strong and serious +personality. He was surely too fond of the things of this world, too +obviously a lover and cherisher of the body. Nevertheless, there was +something attractive in him, a kindness, a geniality. In trouble he +would be sympathetic. Certainly her husband must have taken a liking to +him, and the chances of life and the influences of destiny were strange +and not to be foreseen. + +“No, Batouch,” she said. “We won’t stop.” + +“But, Madame,” he cried, “Monsieur is in there. I saw his face at the +window.” + +“Never mind. We won’t disturb them. I daresay they have something to +talk about.” + +They cantered on towards the market-place. It was not market-day, and +the town, like the camp of the Ouled Nails, was almost deserted. As she +rode up the hill towards the place of the fountain, however, she saw +two handsomely-dressed Arabs, followed by a servant, slowly strolling +towards her from the doorway of the Bureau Arabe. One, who was very +tall, was dressed in green, and carried a long staff, from which hung +green ribbons. The other wore a more ordinary costume of white, with a +white burnous and a turban spangled with gold. + +“Madame!” said Batouch. + +“Yes.” + +“Do you see the Arab dressed in green?” + +He spoke in an almost awestruck voice. + +“Yes. Who is he?” + +“The great marabout who lives at Beni-Hassan.” + +The name struck upon Domini’s ear with a strange familiarity. + +“But that’s where Count Anteoni went when he rode away from Beni-Mora +that morning.” + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“Is it far from Amara?” + +“Two hours’ ride across the desert.” + +“But then Count Anteoni may be near us. After he left he wrote to me and +gave me his address at the marabout’s house.” + +“If he is still with the marabout, Madame.” + +They were close to the fountain now, and the marabout and his companion +were coming straight towards them. + +“If Madame will allow me I will salute the marabout,” said Batouch. + +“Certainly.” + +He sprang off his horse immediately, tied it up to the railing of the +fountain, and went respectfully towards the approaching potentate to +kiss his hand. Domini saw the marabout stop and Batouch bend down, then +lift himself up and suddenly move back as if in surprise. The Arab who +was with the marabout seemed also surprised. He held out his hand to +Batouch, who took it, kissed it, then kissed his own hand, and turning, +pointed towards Domini. The Arab spoke a word to the marabout, then left +him, and came rapidly forward to the fountain. As he drew close to her +she saw a face browned by the sun, a very small, pointed beard, a pair +of intensely bright eyes surrounded by wrinkles. These eyes held her. +It seemed to her that she knew them, that she had often looked into them +and seen their changing expressions. Suddenly she exclaimed: + +“Count Anteoni!” + +“Yes, it is I!” + +He held out his hand and clasped hers. + +“So you have started upon your desert journey,” he added, looking +closely at her, as he had often looked in the garden. + +“Yes.” + +“And as I ventured to advise--that last time, do you remember?” + +She recollected his words. + +“No,” she replied, and there was a warmth of joy, almost of pride, in +her voice. “I am not alone.” + +Count Anteoni was standing with one hand on her horse’s neck. As she +spoke, his hand dropped down. + +“I have been away from Beni-Hassan,” he said slowly. “The marabout and +I have been travelling in the south and only returned yesterday. I have +heard no news for a long time from Beni-Mora, but I know. You are Madame +Androvsky.” + +“Yes,” she answered; “I am Madame Androvsky.” + +There was a silence between them. In it she heard the dripping water in +the fountain. At last Count Anteoni spoke again. + +“It was written,” he said quietly. “It was written in the sand.” + +She thought of the sand-diviner and was silent. An oppression of spirit +had suddenly come upon her. It seemed to her connected with something +physical, something obscure, unusual, such as she had never felt before. +It was, she thought, as if her body at that moment became more alive +than it had ever been, and as if that increase of life within her gave +to her a peculiar uneasiness. She was startled. She even felt alarmed, +as at the faint approach of something strange, of something that was +going to alter her life. She did not know at all what it was. For the +moment a sense of confusion and of pain beset her, and she was scarcely +aware with whom she was, or where. The sensation passed and she +recovered herself and met Count Anteoni’s eyes quietly. + +“Yes,” she answered; “all that has happened to me here in Africa was +written in the sand and in fire.” + +“You are thinking of the sun.” + +“Yes.” + +“I--where are you living?” + +“Close by on the sand-hill beyond the city wall.” + +“Where you can see the fires lit at night and hear the sound of the +music of Africa?” + +“Yes.” + +“As he said.” + +“Yes, as he said.” + +Again the overwhelming sense of some strange and formidable approach +came over her, but this time she fought it resolutely. + +“Will you come and see me?” she said. + +She had meant to say “us,” but did not say it. + +“If you will allow me.” + +“When?” + +“I--” she heard the odd, upward grating in his voice which she +remembered so well. “May I come now if you are riding to the tents?” + +“Please do.” + +“I will explain to the marabout and follow you.” + +“But the way? Shall Batouch--?” + +“No, it is not necessary.” + +She rode away. When she reached the camp she found that Androvsky had +not yet returned, and she was glad. She wanted to talk to Count Anteoni +alone. Within a few minutes she saw him coming towards the tent. His +beard and his Arab dress so altered him that at a short distance she +could not recognise him, could only guess that it was he. But directly +he was near, and she saw his eyes, she forgot that he was altered, and +felt that she was with her kind and whimsical host of the garden. + +“My husband is in the city,” she said. + +“Yes.” + +“With the priest.” + +She saw an expression of surprise flit over Count Anteoni’s face. It +went away instantly. + +“Pere Beret,” he said. “He is a cheerful creature and very good to the +Arabs.” + +They sat down just inside the shadow of the tent before the door, and he +looked out quietly towards the city. + +“Yes, this is the place,” he said. + +She knew that he was alluding to the vision of the sand-diviner, and +said so. + +“Did you believe at the time that what he said would come true?” she +asked. + +“How could I? Am I a child?” + +He spoke with gentle irony, but she felt he was playing with her. + +“Cannot a man believe such things?” + +He did not answer her, but said: + +“My fate has come to pass. Do you not care to know what it is?” + +“Yes, do tell me.” + +She spoke earnestly. She felt a change in him, a great change which +as yet she did not understand fully. It was as if he had been a man in +doubt and was now a man no longer in doubt, as if he had arrived at some +goal and was more at peace with himself than he had been. + +“I have become a Mohammedan,” he said simply. + +“A Mohammedan!” + +She repeated the words as a person repeats words in surprise, but her +voice did not sound surprised. + +“You wonder?” he asked. + +After a moment she answered: + +“No. I never thought of such a thing, but I am not surprised. Now +you have told me it seems to explain you, much that I noticed in you, +wondered about in you.” + +She looked at him steadily, but without curiosity. + +“I feel that you are happy now.” + +“Yes, I am happy. The world I used to know, my world and yours, would +laugh at me, would say that I was crazy, that it was a whim, that I +wished for a new sensation. Simply it had to be. For years I have been +tending towards it--who knows why? Who knows what obscure influences +have been at work in me, whether there is not perhaps far back, some +faint strain of Arab blood mingled with the Sicilian blood in my veins? +I cannot understand why. What I can understand is that at last I have +fulfilled my destiny! After years of unrest I am suddenly and completely +at peace. It is a magical sensation. I have been wandering all my life +and have come upon the open door of my home.” + +He spoke very quietly, but she heard the joy in his voice. + +“I remember you saying, ‘I like to see men praying in the desert.’” + +“Yes. When I looked at them I was longing to be one of them. For +years from my garden wall I watched them with a passion of envy, with +bitterness, almost with hatred sometimes. They had something I had not, +something that set them above me, something that made their lives plain +through any complication, and that gave to death a meaning like the +meaning at the close of a great story that is going to have a sequel. +They had faith. And it was difficult not to hate them. But now I am one +of them. I can pray in the desert.” + +“That was why you left Beni-Mora.” + +“Yes. I had long been wishing to become a Mohammedan. I came here to be +with the marabout, to enter more fully into certain questions, to see if +I had any lingering doubts.” + +“And you have none?” + +“None.” + +She looked at his bright eyes and sighed, thinking of her husband. + +“You will go back to Beni-Mora?” she asked. + +“I don’t think so. I am inclined to go farther into the desert, farther +among the people of my own faith. I don’t want to be surrounded by +French. Some day perhaps I may return. But at present everything draws +me onward. Tell me”--he dropped the earnest tone in which he had been +speaking, and she heard once more the easy, half-ironical man of the +world--“do you think me a half-crazy eccentric?” + +“No!” + +“You look at me very gravely, even sadly.” + +“I was thinking of the men who cannot pray,” she said, “even in the +desert.” + +“They should not come into the Garden of Allah. Don’t you remember that +day by the garden wall, when--” + +He suddenly checked himself. + +“Forgive me,” he said simply. “And now tell me about yourself. You never +wrote that you were going to be married.” + +“I knew you would know it in time--when we met again.” + +“And you knew we should meet again?” + +“Did not you?” + +He nodded. + +“In the heart of the desert. And you--where are you going? You are not +returning to civilisation?” + +“I don’t know. I have no plans. I want to do what my husband wishes.” + +“And he?” + +“He loves the desert. He has suggested our buying an oasis and setting +up as date merchants. What do you think of the idea?” + +She spoke with a smile, but her eyes were serious, even sad. + +“I cannot judge for others,” he answered. + +When he got up to go he held her hand fast for a moment. + +“May I speak what is in my heart?” he asked. + +“Yes--do.” + +“I feel as if what I have told you to-day about myself, about my having +come to the open door of a home I had long been wearily seeking, had +made you sad. Is it so?” + +“Yes,” she answered frankly. + +“Can you tell me why?” + +“It has made me realise more sharply than perhaps I did before what must +be the misery of those who are still homeless.” + +There was in her voice a sound as if she suppressed a sob. + +“Hope for them, remembering my many years of wandering.” + +“Yes, yes.” + +“Good-bye.” + +“Will you come again?” + +“You are here for long?” + +“Some days, I think.” + +“Whenever you ask me I will come.” + +“I want you and my husband to meet again. I want that very much.” She +spoke with a pressure of eagerness. + +“Send for me and I will come at any hour.” + +“I will send--soon.” + +When he was gone, Domini sat in the shadow of the tent. From where she +was she could see the Arab cemetery at a little distance, a quantity of +stones half drowned in the sand. An old Arab was wandering there alone, +praying for the dead in a loud, persistent voice. Sometimes he paused +by a grave, bowed himself in prayer, then rose and walked on again. His +voice was never silent. The sound of it was plaintive and monotonous. +Domini listened to it, and thought of homeless men, of those who had +lived and died without ever coming to that open door through which Count +Anteoni had entered. His words and the changed look in his face had made +a deep impression upon her. She realised that in the garden, when they +were together, his eyes, even when they twinkled with the slightly +ironical humour peculiar to him, had always held a shadow. Now that +shadow was lifted out of them. How deep was the shadow in her husband’s +eyes. How deep had it been in the eyes of her father. He had died with +that terrible darkness in his eyes and in his soul. If her husband were +to die thus! A terror came upon her. She looked out at the stones in +the sand and imagined herself there--as the old Arab was--praying for +Androvsky buried there, hidden from her on earth for ever. And suddenly +she felt, “I cannot wait, I must act.” + +Her faith was deep and strong. Nothing could shake it. But might it not +shake the doubt from another’s soul, as a great, pure wind shakes leaves +that are dead from a tree that will blossom with the spring? Hitherto +a sense of intense delicacy had prevented her from ever trying to draw +near definitely to her husband’s sadness. But her interview with Count +Anteoni, and the sound of this voice praying, praying for the dead men +in the sand, stirred her to an almost fierce resolution. She had given +herself to Androvsky. He had given himself to her. They were one. She +had a right to draw near to his pain, if by so doing there was a chance +that she might bring balm to it. She had a right to look closer into his +eyes if hers, full of faith, could lift the shadow from them. + +She leaned back in the darkness of the tent. The old Arab had wandered +further on among the graves. His voice was faint in the sand, faint and +surely piteous, as if, even while he prayed, he felt that his prayers +were useless, that the fate of the dead was pronounced beyond recall. +Domini listened to him no more. She was praying for the living as she +had never prayed before, and her prayer was the prelude not to patience +but to action. It was as if her conversation with Count Anteoni had set +a torch to something in her soul, something that gave out a great flame, +a flame that could surely burn up the sorrow, the fear, the secret +torture in her husband’s soul. All the strength of her character had +been roused by the sight of the peace she desired for the man she loved; +enthroned in the heart of this other man who was only her friend. + +The voice of the old Arab died away in the distance, but before it died +away Domini had ceased from hearing it. + +She heard only a voice within her, which said to her, “If you really +love be fearless. Attack this sorrow which stands like a figure of death +between you and your husband. Drive it away. You have a weapon--faith. +Use it.” + +It seemed to her then that through all their intercourse she had been +a coward in her love, and she resolved that she would be a coward no +longer. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +Domini had said to herself that she would speak to her husband that +night. She was resolved not to hesitate, not to be influenced from her +purpose by anything. Yet she knew that a great difficulty would stand +in her way--the difficulty of Androvsky’s intense, almost passionate, +reserve. This reserve was the dominant characteristic in his nature. She +thought of it sometimes as a wall of fire that he had set round about +the secret places of his soul to protect them even from her eyes. +Perhaps it was strange that she, a woman of a singularly frank +temperament, should be attracted by reserve in another, yet she knew +that she was so attracted by the reserve of her husband. Its existence +hinted to her depths in him which, perhaps, some day she might sound, +she alone, strength which was hidden for her some day to prove. + +Now, alone with her purpose, she thought of this reserve. Would she be +able to break it down with her love? For an instant she felt as if she +were about to enter upon a contest with her husband, but she did not +coldly tell over her armoury and select weapons. There was a heat of +purpose within her that beckoned her to the unthinking, to the reckless +way, that told her to be self-reliant and to trust to the moment for the +method. + +When Androvsky returned to the camp it was towards evening. A lemon +light was falling over the great white spaces of the sand. Upon their +little round hills the Arab villages glowed mysteriously. Many horsemen +were riding forth from the city to take the cool of the approaching +night. From the desert the caravans were coming in. The nomad children +played, half-naked, at Cora before the tents, calling shrilly to each +other through the light silence that floated airily away into the vast +distances that breathed out the spirit of a pale eternity. Despite the +heat there was an almost wintry romance in this strange land of white +sands and yellow radiance, an ethereal melancholy that stole with the +twilight noiselessly towards the tents. + +As Androvsky approached Domini saw that he had lost the energy which had +delighted her at _dejeuner_. He walked towards her slowly with his head +bent down. His face was grave, even sad, though when he saw her waiting +for him he smiled. + +“You have been all this time with the priest?” she said. + +“Nearly all. I walked for a little while in the city. And you?” + +“I rode out and met a friend.” + +“A friend?” he said, as if startled. + +“Yes, from Beni-Mora--Count Anteoni. He has been here to pay me a +visit.” + +She pulled forward a basket-chair for him. He sank into it heavily. + +“Count Anteoni here!” he said slowly. “What is he doing here?” + +“He is with the marabout at Beni-Hassan. And, Boris, he has become a +Mohammedan.” + +He lifted his head with a jerk and stared at her in silence. + +“You are surprised?” + +“A Mohammedan--Count Anteoni?” + +“Yes. Do you know, when he told me I felt almost as if I had been +expecting it.” + +“But--is he changed then? Is he--” + +He stopped. His voice had sounded to her bitter, almost fierce. + +“Yes, Boris, he is changed. Have you ever seen anyone who was lost, +and the same person walking along the road home? Well, that is Count +Anteoni.” + +They said no more for some minutes. Androvsky was the first to speak +again. + +“You told him?” he asked. + +“About ourselves?” + +“Yes.” + +“I told him.” + +“What did he say?” + +“He had expected it. When we ask him he is coming here again to see us +both together.” + +Androvsky got up from his chair. His face was troubled. Standing before +Domini, he said: + +“Count Anteoni is happy then, now that he--now that he has joined this +religion?” + +“Very happy.” + +“And you--a Catholic--what do you think?” + +“I think that, since that is his honest belief, it is a blessed thing +for him.” + +He said no more, but went towards the sleeping-tent. + +In the evening, when they were dining, he said to her: + +“Domini, to-night I am going to leave you again for a short time.” + +He saw a look of keen regret come into her face, and added quickly: + +“At nine I have promised to go to see the priest. He--he is rather +lonely here. He wants me to come. Do you mind?” + +“No, no. I am glad--very glad. Have you finished?” + +“Quite.” + +“Let us take a rug and go out a little way in the sand--that way towards +the cemetery. It is quiet there at night.” + +“Yes. I will get a rug.” He went to fetch it, threw it over his arm, and +they set out together. She had meant the Arab cemetery, but when they +reached it they found two or three nomads wandering there. + +“Let us go on,” she said. + +They went on, and came to the French cemetery, which was surrounded by +a rough hedge of brushwood, in which there were gaps here and there. +Through one of these gaps they entered it, spread out the rug, and lay +down on the sand. The night was still and silence brooded here. Faintly +they saw the graves of the exiles who had died here and been given to +the sand, where in summer vipers glided to and fro, and the pariah dogs +wandered stealthily, seeking food to still the desires in their starving +bodies. They were mostly very simple, but close to Domini and Androvsky +was one of white marble, in the form of a broken column, hung with +wreaths of everlasting flowers, and engraved with these words: + +ICI REPOSE + +JEAN BAPTISTE FABRIANI + +_Priez pour lui_. + +When they lay down they both looked at this grave, as if moved by a +simultaneous impulse, and read the words. + +“Priez pour lui!” Domini said in a low voice. + +She put out her hand and took hold of her husband’s, and pressed it down +on the sand. + +“Do you remember that first night, Boris,” she said, “at Arba, when +you took my hand in yours and laid it against the desert as against a +heart?” + +“Yes, Domini, I remember.” + +“That night we were one, weren’t we?” + +“Yes, Domini.” + +“Were we”--she was almost whispering in the night--“were we truly one?” + +“Why do you--truly one, you say?” + +“Yes--one in soul? That is the great union, greater than the union of +our bodies. Were we one in soul? Are we now?” + +“Domini, why do you ask me such questions? Do you doubt my love?” + +“No. But I do ask you. Won’t you answer me?” + +He was silent. His hand lay in hers, but did not press it. + +“Boris”--she spoke the cruel words very quietly,--“we are not truly one +in soul. We have never been. I know that.” + +He said nothing. + +“Shall we ever be? Think--if one of us were to die, and the other--the +one who was left--were left with the knowledge that in our love, even +ours, there had always been separation--could you bear that? Could I +bear it?” + +“Domini--” + +“Yes.” + +“Why do you speak like this? We are one. You have all my love. You are +everything to me.” + +“And yet you are sad, and you try to hide your sadness, your misery, +from me. Can you not give it me? I want it--more than I want anything +on earth. I want it, I must have it, and I dare to ask for it because I +know how deeply you love me and that you could never love another.” + +“I never have loved another,” he said. + +“I was the very first.” + +“The very first. When we married, although I was a man I was as you +were.” + +She bent down her head and laid her lips on his hand that was in hers. + +“Then make our union perfect, as no other union on earth has ever been. +Give me your sorrow, Boris. I know what it is.” + +“How can--you cannot know,” he said in a broken voice. + +“Yes. Love is a diviner, the only true diviner. I told you once what it +was, but I want you to tell me. Nothing that we take is beautiful to us, +only what we are given.” + +“I cannot,” he said. + +He tried to take his hand from hers, but she held it fast. And she felt +as if she were holding the wall of fire with which he surrounded the +secret places of his soul. + +“To-day, Boris, when I talked to Count Anteoni, I felt that I had been a +coward with you. I had seen you suffer and I had not dared to draw near +to your suffering. I have been afraid of you. Think of that.” + +“No.” + +“Yes, I have been afraid of you, of your reserve. When you withdrew from +me I never followed you. If I had, perhaps I could have done something +for you.” + +“Domini, do not speak like this. Our love is happy. Leave it as it is.” + +“I can’t. I will not. Boris, Count Anteoni has found a home. But you +are wandering. I can’t bear that, I can’t bear it. It is as if I were +sitting in the house, warm, safe, and you were out in the storm. It +tortures me. It almost makes me hate my own safety.” + +Androvsky shivered. He took his hand forcibly from Domini’s. + +“I have almost hated it, too,” he said passionately. “I have hated it. +I’m a--I’m--” + +His voice failed. He bent forward and took Domini’s face between his +hands. + +“And yet there are times when I can bless what I have hated. I do bless +it now. I--I love your safety. You--at least you are safe.” + +“You must share it. I will make you share it.” + +“You cannot.” + +“I can. I shall. I feel that we shall be together in soul, and perhaps +to-night, perhaps even to-night.” + +Androvsky looked profoundly agitated. His hands dropped down. + +“I must go,” he said. “I must go to the priest.” + +He got up from the sand. + +“Come to the tent, Domini.” + +She rose to her feet. + +“When you come back,” she said, “I shall be waiting for you, Boris.” + +He looked at her. There was in his eyes a piercing wistfulness. He +opened his lips. At that moment Domini felt that he was on the point of +telling her all that she longed to know. But the look faded. The lips +closed. He took her in his arms and kissed her almost desperately. + +“No, no,” he said. “I’ll keep your love--I’ll keep it.” + +“You could never lose it.” + +“I might.” + +“Never.” + +“If I believed that.” + +“Boris!” + +Suddenly burning tears rushed from her eyes. + +“Don’t ever say a thing like that to me again!” she said with passion. + +She pointed to the grave close to them. + +“If you were there,” she said, “and I was living, and you had died +before--before you had told me--I believe--God forgive me, but I do +believe that if, when you died, I were taken to heaven I should find my +hell there.” + +She looked through her tears at the words: “Priez pour lui.” + +“To pray for the dead,” she whispered, as if to herself. “To pray for +my dead--I could not do it--I could not. Boris, if you love me you must +trust me, you must give me your sorrow.” + +The night drew on. Androvsky had gone to the priest. Domini was alone, +sitting before the tent waiting for his return. She had told Batouch and +Ouardi that she wanted nothing more, that no one was to come to the tent +again that night. The young moon was rising over the city, but its light +as yet was faint. It fell upon the cupolas of the Bureau Arabe, the +towers of the mosque and the white sands, whose whiteness it seemed to +emphasise, making them pale as the face of one terror-stricken. The +city wall cast a deep shadow over the moat of sand in which, wrapped +in filthy rags, lay nomads sleeping. Upon the sand-hills the camps were +alive with movement. Fires blazed and smoke ascended before the tents +that made patches of blackness upon the waste. Round the fires were +seated groups of men devouring cous-cous and the red soup beloved of the +nomad. Behind them circled the dogs with quivering nostrils. Squadrons +of camels lay crouched in the sand, resting after their journeys. And +everywhere, from the city and from the waste, rose distant sounds of +music, thin, aerial flutings like voices of the night winds, acrid cries +from the pipes, and the far-off rolling of the African drums that are +the foundation of every desert symphony. + +Although she was now accustomed to the music of Africa, Domini could +never hear it without feeling the barbarity of the land from which it +rose, the wildness of the people who made and who loved it. Always it +suggested to her an infinite remoteness, as if it were music sounding +at the end of the world, full of half-defined meanings, melancholy +yet fierce passion, longings that, momentarily satisfied, continually +renewed themselves, griefs that were hidden behind thin veils like the +women of the East, but that peered out with expressive eyes, hinting +their story and desiring assuagement. And tonight the meaning of the +music seemed deeper than it had been before. She thought of it as an +outside echo of the voices murmuring in her mind and heart, and the +voices murmuring in the mind and heart of Androvsky, broken voices some +of them, but some strong, fierce, tense and alive with meaning. And as +she sat there alone she thought this unity of music drew her closer to +the desert than she had ever been before, and drew Androvsky with her, +despite his great reserve. In the heart of the desert he would surely +let her see at last fully into his heart. When he came back in the night +from the priest he would speak. She was waiting for that. + +The moon was mounting. Its light grew stronger. She looked across the +sands and saw fires in the city, and suddenly she said to herself, “This +is the vision of the sand-diviner realised in my life. He saw me as I +am now, in this place.” And she remembered the scene in the garden, +the crouching figure, the extended arms, the thin fingers tracing swift +patterns in the sand, the murmuring voice. + +To-night she felt deeply expectant, but almost sad, encompassed by the +mystery that hangs in clouds about human life and human relations. What +could be that great joy of which the Diviner had spoken? A woman’s great +joy that starred the desert with flowers and made the dry places run +with sweet waters. What could it be? + +Suddenly she felt again the oppression of spirit she had been +momentarily conscious of in the afternoon. It was like a load descending +upon her, and, almost instantly, communicated itself to her body. She +was conscious of a sensation of unusual weariness, uneasiness, even +dread, then again of an intensity of life that startled her. This +intensity remained, grew in her. It was as if the principle of life, +like a fluid, were being poured into her out of the vials of God, as +if the little cup that was all she had were too small to contain the +precious liquid. That seemed to her to be the cause of the pain of +which she was conscious. She was being given more than she felt herself +capable of possessing. She got up from her chair, unable to remain +still. The movement, slight though it was, seemed to remove a veil of +darkness that had hung over her and to let in upon her a flood of light. +She caught hold of the canvas of the tent. For a moment she felt weak as +a child, then strong as an Amazon. And the sense of strength remained, +grew. She walked out upon the sand in the direction by which Androvsky +would return. The fires in the city and the camps were to her as +illuminations for a festival. The music was the music of a great +rejoicing. The vast expanse of the desert, wintry white under the moon, +dotted with the fires of the nomads, blossomed as the rose. After a few +moments she stopped. She was on the crest of a sand-bank, and could see +below her the faint track in the sand which wound to the city gate. By +this track Androvsky would surely return. From a long distance she would +be able to see him, a moving darkness upon the white. She was near to +the city now, and could hear voices coming to her from behind its rugged +walls, voices of men singing, and calling one to another, the twang of +plucked instruments, the click of negroes’ castanets. The city was full +of joy as the desert was full of joy. The glory of life rushed upon her +like a flood of gold, that gold of the sun in which thousands of tiny +things are dancing. And she was given the power of giving life, of +adding to the sum of glory. She looked out over the sands and saw a +moving blot upon them coming slowly towards her, very slowly. It was +impossible at this distance to see who it was, but she felt that it was +her husband. For a moment she thought of going down to meet him, but +she did not move. The new knowledge that had come to her made her, just +then, feel shy even of him, as if he must come to her, as if she could +make no advance towards him. + +As the blackness upon the sand drew nearer she saw that it was a man +walking heavily. The man had her husband’s gait. When she saw that she +turned. She had resolved to meet him at the tent door, to tell him what +she had to tell him at the threshold of their wandering home. Her sense +of shyness died when she was at the tent door. She only felt now her +oneness with her husband, and that to-night their unity was to be made +more perfect. If it could be made quite perfect! If he would speak +too! Then nothing more would be wanting. At last every veil would have +dropped from between them, and as they had long been one flesh they +would be one in spirit. + +She waited in the tent door. + +After what seemed a long time she saw Androvsky coming across the +moonlit sand. He was walking very slowly, as if wearied out, with his +head drooping. He did not appear to see her till he was quite close to +the tent. Then he stopped and gazed at her. The moon--she thought it +must be the moon--made his face look strange, like a dying man’s face. +In this white face the eyes glittered feverishly. + +“Boris!” she said. + +“Domini!” + +“Come here, close to me. I have something to tell you--something +wonderful.” + +He came quite up to her. + +“Domini,” he said, as if he had not heard her. “Domini, I--I’ve been to +the priest to-night. I meant to confess to him.” + +“To confess!” she said. + +“This afternoon I asked him to hear my confession, but tonight I could +not make it. I can only make it to you, Domini--only to you. Do you +hear, Domini? Do you hear?” + +Something in his face and in his voice terrified her heart. Now she felt +as if she would stop him from speaking if she dared, but that she did +not dare. His spirit was beyond domination. He would do what he meant to +do regardless of her--of anyone. + +“What is it, Boris?” she whispered. “Tell me. Perhaps I can understand +best because I love best.” + +He put his arms round her and kissed her, as a man kisses the woman he +loves when he knows it may be for the last time, long and hard, with +a desperation of love that feels frustrated by the very lips it is +touching. At last he took his lips from hers. + +“Domini,” he said, and his voice was steady and clear, almost hard, +“you want to know what it is that makes me unhappy even in our +love--desperately unhappy. It is this. I believe in God, I love God, +and I have insulted Him. I have tried to forget God, to deny Him, to +put human love higher than love for Him. But always I am haunted by +the thought of God, and that thought makes me despair. Once, when I was +young, I gave myself to God solemnly. I have broken the vows I made. I +have--I have--” + +The hardness went out of his voice. He broke down for a moment and was +silent. + +“You gave yourself to God,” she said. “How?” + +He tried to meet her questioning eyes, but could not. + +“I--I gave myself to God as a monk,” he answered after a pause. + +As he spoke Domini saw before her in the moonlight De Trevignac. He +cast a glance of horror at the tent, bent over her, made the sign of +the Cross, and vanished. In his place stood Father Roubier, his eyes +shining, his hand upraised, warning her against Androvsky. Then he, too, +vanished, and she seemed to see Count Anteoni dressed as an Arab and +muttering words of the Koran. + +“Domini!” + +“Domini, did you hear me? Domini! Domini!” + +She felt his hands on her wrists. + +“You are the Trappist!” she said quietly, “of whom the priest told me. +You are the monk from the Monastery of El-Largani who disappeared after +twenty years.” + +“Yes,” he said, “I am he.” + +“What made you tell me? What made you tell me?” + +There was agony now in her voice. + +“You asked me to speak, but it was not that. Do you remember last night +when I said that God must bless you? You answered, ‘He has blessed me. +He has given me you, your love, your truth.’ It is that which makes me +speak. You have had my love, not my truth. Now take my truth. I’ve kept +it from you. Now I’ll give it you. It’s black, but I’ll give it you. +Domini! Domini! Hate me to-night, but in your hatred believe that I +never loved you as I love you now.” + +“Give me your truth,” she said. + + + + +BOOK V. THE REVELATION + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +They remained standing at the tent door, with the growing moonlight +about them. The camp was hushed in sleep, but sounds of music still came +to them from the city below them, and fainter music from the tents of +the Ouled Nails on the sandhill to the south. After Domini had spoken +Androvsky moved a step towards her, looked at her, then moved back and +dropped his eyes. If he had gone on looking at her he knew he could not +have begun to speak. + +“Domini,” he said, “I’m not going to try and excuse myself for what +I have done. I’m not going to say to you what I daren’t say to +God--‘Forgive me.’ How can such a thing be forgiven? That’s part of the +torture I’ve been enduring, the knowledge of the unforgivable nature of +my act. It can never be wiped out. It’s black on my judgment book for +ever. But I wonder if you can understand--oh, I want you to understand, +Domini, what has made the thing I am, a renegade, a breaker of oaths, +a liar to God and you. It was the passion of life that burst up in me +after years of tranquillity. It was the waking of my nature after years +of sleep. And you--you do understand the passion of life that’s in some +of us like a monster that must rule, must have its way. Even you in your +purity and goodness--you have it, that desperate wish to live really and +fully, as we have lived, Domini, together. For we have lived out in the +desert. We lived that night at Arba when we sat and watched the fire +and I held your hand against the earth. We lived then. Even now, when I +think of that night, I can hardly be sorry for what I’ve done, for what +I am.” + +He looked up at her now and saw that her eyes were fixed on him. She +stood motionless, with her hands joined in front of her. Her attitude +was calm and her face was untortured. He could not read any thought of +hers, any feeling that was in her heart. + +“You must understand,” he said almost violently. “You must understand +or I--. My father, I told you, was a Russian. He was brought up in the +Greek Church, but became a Freethinker when he was still a young man. +My mother was an Englishwoman and an ardent Catholic. She and my father +were devoted to each other in spite of the difference in their views. +Perhaps the chief effect my father’s lack of belief had upon my +mother was to make her own belief more steadfast, more ardent. I think +disbelief acts often as a fan to the faith of women, makes the flame +burn more brightly than it did before. My mother tried to believe +for herself and for my father too, and I could almost think that she +succeeded. He died long before she did, and he died without changing his +views. On his death-bed he told my mother that he was sure there was no +other life, that he was going to the dust. That made the agony of his +farewell. The certainty on his part that he and my mother were parting +for ever. I was a little boy at the time, but I remember that, when he +was dead, my mother said to me, ‘Boris, pray for your father every day. +He is still alive.’ She said nothing more, but I ran upstairs crying, +fell upon my knees and prayed--trying to think where my father was and +what he could be looking like. And in that prayer for my father, which +was also an act of obedience to my mother, I think I took the first step +towards the monastic life. For I remember that then, for the first time, +I was conscious of a great sense of responsibility. My mother’s command +made me say to myself, ‘Then perhaps my prayer can do something in +heaven. Perhaps a prayer from me can make God wish to do something He +had not wished to do before.’ That was a tremendous thought! It excited +me terribly. I remember my cheeks burned as I prayed, and that I was hot +all over as if I had been running in the sun. From that day my mother +and I seemed to be much nearer together than we had ever been before. I +had a twin brother to whom I was devoted, and who was devoted to me. +But he took after my father. Religious things, ceremonies, church music, +processions--even the outside attractions of the Catholic Church, which +please and stimulate emotional people who have little faith--never meant +much to him. All his attention was firmly fixed upon the life of the +present. He was good to my mother and loved her devotedly, as he loved +me, but he never pretended to be what he was not. And he was never a +Catholic. He was never anything. + +“My father had originally come to Africa for his health, which needed a +warm climate. He had some money and bought large tracts of land suitable +for vineyards. Indeed, he sunk nearly his whole fortune in land. I told +you, Domini, that the vines were devoured by the phylloxera. Most of +the money was lost. When my father died we were left very poor. We lived +quietly in a little village--I told you its name, I told you that part +of my life, all I dared tell, Domini--but now--why did I enter the +monastery? I was very young when I became a novice, just seventeen. You +are thinking, Domini, I know, that I was too young to know what I was +doing, that I had no vocation, that I was unfitted for the monastic +life. It seems so. The whole world would think so. And yet--how am I +to tell you? Even now I feel that then I had the vocation, that I was +fitted to enter the monastery, that I ought to have made a faithful +and devoted monk. My mother wished the life for me, but it was not only +that. I wished it for myself then. With my whole heart I wished it. I +knew nothing of the world. My youth had been one of absolute purity. And +I did not feel longings after the unknown. My mother’s influence upon me +was strong; but she did not force me into anything. Perhaps my love +for her led me more than I knew, brought me to the monastery door. The +passion of her life, the human passion, had been my father. After he was +dead the passion of her life was prayer for him. My love for her made me +share that passion, and the sharing of that passion eventually led me +to become a monk. I became as a child, a devotee of prayer. Oh! +Domini--think--I loved prayer--I loved it----” + +His voice broke. When he stopped speaking Domini was again conscious of +the music in the city. She remembered that earlier in the night she had +thought of it as the music of a great festival. + +“I resolved to enter the life of prayer, the most perfect life of +prayer. I resolved to become a ‘religious.’ It seemed to me that by so +doing I should be proving in the finest way my love for my mother. I +should be, in the strongest way, helping her. Her life was prayer for my +dead father and love for her children. By devoting myself to the life of +prayer I should show to her that I was as she was, as she had made me, +true son of her womb. Can you understand? I had a passion for my mother, +Domini--I had a passion. My brother tried to dissuade me from the +monastic life. He himself was going into business in Tunis. He wanted me +to join him. But I was firm. I felt driven towards the cloister then as +other men often feel driven towards the vicious life. The inclination +was irresistible. I yielded to it. I had to bid good-bye to my mother. +I told you--she was the passion of my life. And yet I hardly felt sad at +parting from her. Perhaps that will show you how I was then. It seemed +to me that we should be even closer together when I wore the monk’s +habit. I was in haste to put it on. I went to the monastery of +El-Largani and entered it as a novice of the Trappistine order. I +thought in the great silence of the Trappists there would be more room +for prayer. When I left my home and went to El-Largani I took with me +one treasure only. Domini, it was the little wooden crucifix you pinned +upon the tent at Arba. My mother gave it to me, and I was allowed to +keep it. Everything else in the way of earthly possessions I, of course, +had to give up. + +“You have never seen El-Largani, my home for nineteen years, my prison +for one. It is lonely, but not in the least desolate. It stands on a +high upland, and, from a distance, looks upon the sea. Far off there are +mountains. The land was a desert. The monks have turned it, if not into +an Eden, at least into a rich garden. There are vineyards, cornfields, +orchards, almost every fruit-tree flourishes there. The springs of +sweet waters are abundant. At a short way from the monastery is a large +village for the Spanish workmen whom the monks supervise in the labours +of the fields. For the Trappist life is not only a life of prayer, but a +life of diligent labour. When I became a novice I had not realised that. +I had imagined myself continually upon my knees. I found instead that I +was perpetually in the fields, in sun, and wind, and rain--that was in +the winter time--working like the labourers, and that often when we +went into the long, plain chapel to pray I was so tired--being only a +boy--that my eyes closed as I stood in my stall, and I could scarcely +hear the words of Mass or Benediction. But I had expected to be happy at +El-Largani, and I was happy. Labour is good for the body and better for +the soul. And the silence was not hard to bear. The Trappists have a +book of gestures, and are often allowed to converse by signs. We novices +were generally in little bands, and often, as we walked in the garden of +the monastery, we talked together gaily with our hands. Then the silence +is not perpetual. In the fields we often had to give directions to the +labourers. In the school, where we studied Theology, Latin, Greek, there +was heard the voice of the teacher. It is true that I have seen men +in the monastery day by day for twenty years with whom I have never +exchanged a word, but I have had permission to speak with monks. The +head of the monastery, the Reverend Pere, has the power to loose the +bonds of silence when he chooses, and to allow monks to walk and speak +with each other beyond the white walls that hem in the garden of the +monastery. Now and then we spoke, but I think most of us were not +unhappy in our silence. It became a habit. And then we were always +occupied. We had no time allowed us for sitting and being sad. Domini, +I don’t want to tell you about the Trappists, their life--only about +myself, why I was as I was, how I came to change. For years I was not +unhappy at El-Largani. When my time of novitiate was over I took the +eternal vows without hesitation. Many novices go out again into the +world. It never occurred to me to do so. I scarcely ever felt a stirring +of worldly desire. I scarcely ever had one of those agonising struggles +which many people probably attribute to monks. I was contented nearly +always. Now and then the flesh spoke, but not strongly. Remember, our +life was a life of hard and exhausting labour in the fields. The labour +kept the flesh in subjection, as the prayer lifted up the spirit. And +then, during all my earlier years at the monastery, we had an Abbe who +was quick to understand the characters and dispositions of men--Dom +Andre Herceline. He knew me far better than I knew myself. He knew, +what I did not suspect, that I was full of sleeping violence, that in my +purity and devotion--or beneath it rather--there was a strong strain of +barbarism. The Russian was sleeping in the monk, but sleeping soundly. +That can be. Half a man’s nature, if all that would call to it is +carefully kept from it, may sleep, I believe, through all his life. He +might die and never have known, or been, what all the time he was. +For years it was so with me. I knew only part of myself, a real vivid +part--but only a part. I thought it was the whole. And while I thought +it was the whole I was happy. If Dom Andre Herceline had not died, today +I should be a monk at El-Largani, ignorant of what I know, contented. + +“He never allowed me to come into any sort of contact with the many +strangers who visited the monastery. Different monks have different +duties. Certain duties bring monks into connection with the travellers +whom curiosity sends to El-Largani. The monk whose business it is to +look after the cemetery on the hill, where the dead Trappists are laid +to rest, shows visitors round the little chapel, and may talk with them +freely so long as they remain in the cemetery. The monk in charge of the +distillery also receives visitors and converses with them. So does the +monk in charge of the parlour at the great door of the monastery. He +sells the souvenirs of the Trappists, photographs of the church and +buildings, statues of saints, bottles of perfumes made by the monks. +He takes the orders for the wines made at the monastery, and for--for +the--what I made, Domini, when I was there.” + +She thought of De Trevignac and the fragments of glass lying upon the +ground in the tent at Mogar. + +“Had De Trevignac----” she said in a low, inward voice. + +“He had seen me, spoken with me at the monastery. When Ouardi brought in +the liqueur he remembered who I was.” + +She understood De Trevignac’s glance towards the tent where Androvsky +lay sleeping, and a slight shiver ran through her. Androvsky saw it and +looked down. + +“But the--the--” + +He cleared his throat, turned, looked out across the white sand as if +he longed to travel away into it and be lost for ever, then went on, +speaking quickly: + +“But the monk who has most to do with travellers is the monk who is +in charge of the _hotellerie_ of the monastery. He is the host to all +visitors, to those who come over for the day and have _dejeuner_, and +to any who remain for the night, or for a longer time. For when I was at +El-Largani it was permitted for people to stay in the _hotellerie_, on +payment of a small weekly sum, for as long as they pleased. The monk of +the _hotellerie_ is perpetually brought into contact with the outside +world. He talks with all sorts and conditions of men--women, of course, +are not admitted. The other monks, many of them, probably envy him. I +never did. I had no wish to see strangers. When, by chance, I met them +in the yard, the outbuildings, or the grounds of the monastery, I seldom +even raised my eyes to look at them. They were not, would never be, in +my life. Why should I look at them? What were they to me? Years went +on--quickly they passed--not slowly. I did not feel their monotony. I +never shrank from anything in the life. My health was splendid. I never +knew what it was to be ill for a day. My muscles were hard as iron. +The pallet on which I lay in my cubicle, the heavy robe I wore day and +night, the scanty vegetables I ate, the bell that called me from my +sleep in the darkness to go to the chapel, the fastings, the watchings, +the perpetual sameness of all I saw, all I did, neither saddened nor +fatigued me. I never sighed for change. Can you believe that, Domini? +It is true. So long as Dom Andre Herceline lived and ruled my life I was +calm, happy, as few people in the world, or none, can ever be. But Dom +Andre died, and then--” + +His face was contorted by a spasm. + +“My mother was dead. My brother lived on in Tunis, and was successful in +business. He remained unmarried. So far as I was concerned, although the +monastery was but two hours’ drive from the town, he might almost have +been dead too. I scarcely ever saw him, and then only by a special +permission from the Reverend Pere, and for a few moments. Once I visited +him at Tunis, when he was ill. When my mother died I seemed to sink down +a little deeper into the monastic life. That was all. It was as if I +drew my robe more closely round me and pulled my hood further forward +over my face. There was more reason for my prayers, and I prayed more +passionately. I lived in prayer like a sea-plant in the depths of the +ocean. Prayer was about me like a fluid. But Dom Andre Herceline +died, and a new Abbe was appointed, he who, I suppose, rules now at +El-Largani. He was a good man, but, I think, apt to misunderstand men. +The Abbe of a Trappist monastery has complete power over his community. +He can order what he will. Soon after he came to El-Largani--for some +reason that I cannot divine--he--removed the Pere Michel, who had been +for years in charge of the cemetery, from his duties there, and informed +me that I was to undertake them. I obeyed, of course, without a word. + +“The cemetery of El-Largani is on a low hill, the highest part of the +monastery grounds. It is surrounded by a white wall and by a hedge of +cypress trees. The road to it is an avenue of cypresses, among which are +interspersed niches containing carvings of the Fourteen Stations of +the Cross. At the entrance to this avenue, on the left, there is a high +yellow pedestal, surmounted by a black cross, on which hangs a silver +Christ. Underneath is written: + +“FACTUS OBEDIENS + +“USQUE + +“AD MORTEM + +“CRUCIS. + +“I remember, on the first day when I became the guardian of the +cemetery, stopping on my way to it before the Christ and praying. My +prayer--my prayer was, Domini, that I might die, as I had lived, in +innocence. I prayed for that, but with a sort of--yes, now I think +so--insolent certainty that my prayer would of course be granted. Then I +went on to the cemetery. + +“My work there was easy. I had only to tend the land about the graves, +and sweep out the little chapel where was buried the founder of La +Trappe of El-Largani. This done I could wander about the cemetery, or +sit on a bench in the sun. The Pere Michel, who was my predecessor, had +some doves, and had left them behind in a little house by my bench. I +took care of and fed them. They were tame, and used to flutter to my +shoulders and perch on my hands. To birds and animals I was always a +friend. At El-Largani there are all sorts of beasts, and, at one time +or another, it had been my duty to look after most of them. I loved all +living things. Sitting in the cemetery I could see a great stretch of +country, the blue of the lakes of Tunis with the white villages at their +edge, the boats gliding upon them towards the white city, the +distant mountains. Having little to do, I sat day after day for +hours meditating, and looking out upon this distant world. I remember +specially one evening, at sunset, just before I had to go to the chapel, +that a sort of awe came upon me as I looked across the lakes. The sky +was golden, the waters were dyed with gold, out of which rose the white +sails of boats. The mountains were shadowy purple. The little minarets +of the mosques rose into the gold like sticks of ivory. As I watched my +eyes filled with tears, and I felt a sort of aching in my heart, and as +if--Domini, it was as if at that moment a hand was laid, on mine, but +very gently, and pulled at my hand. It was as if at that moment someone +was beside me in the cemetery wishing to lead me out to those far-off +waters, those mosque towers, those purple mountains. Never before had I +had such a sensation. It frightened me. I felt as if the devil had come +into the cemetery, as if his hand was laid on mine, as if his voice were +whispering in my ear, ‘Come out with me into that world, that beautiful +world, which God made for men. Why do you reject it?’ + +“That evening, Domini, was the beginning of this--this end. Day after +day I sat in the cemetery and looked out over the world, and wondered +what it was like: what were the lives of the men who sailed in the +white-winged boats, who crowded on the steamers whose smoke I could see +sometimes faintly trailing away into the track of the sun; who kept the +sheep upon the mountains; who--who--Domini, can you imagine--no, you +cannot--what, in a man of my age, of my blood, were these first, very +first, stirrings of the longing for life? Sometimes I think they were +like the first birth-pangs of a woman who is going to be a mother.” + +Domini’s hands moved apart, then joined themselves again. + +“There was something physical in them. I felt as if my limbs had minds, +and that their minds, which had been asleep, were waking. My arms +twitched with a desire to stretch themselves towards the distant blue +of the lakes on which I should never sail. My--I was physically stirred. +And again and again I felt that hand laid closely upon mine, as if to +draw me away into something I had never known, could never know. Do not +think that I did not strive against these first stirrings of the nature +that had slept so long! For days I refused to let myself look out from +the cemetery. I kept my eyes upon the ground, upon the plain crosses +that marked the graves. I played with the red-eyed doves. I worked. +But my eyes at last rebelled. I said to myself, ‘It is not forbidden to +look.’ And again the sails, the seas, the towers, the mountains, were as +voices whispering to me, ‘Why will you never know us, draw near to us? +Why will you never understand our meaning? Why will you be ignorant for +ever of all that has been created for man to know?’ Then the pain within +me became almost unbearable. At night I could not sleep. In the chapel +it was difficult to pray. I looked at the monks around me, to most of +whom I had never addressed a word, and I thought, ‘Do they, too, hold +such longings within them? Are they, too, shaken with a desire of +knowledge?’ It seemed to me that, instead of a place of peace, the +monastery was, must be, a place of tumult, of the silent tumult that has +its home in the souls of men. But then I remembered for how long I had +been at peace. Perhaps all the silent men by whom I was surrounded were +still at peace, as I had been, as I might be again. + +“A young monk died in the monastery and was buried in the cemetery. I +made his grave against the outer wall, beneath a cypress tree. Some days +afterwards, when I was sitting on the bench by the house of the doves, +I heard a sound, which came from beyond the wall. It was like sobbing. +I listened, and heard it more distinctly, and knew that it was someone +crying and sobbing desperately, and near at hand. But now it seemed +to me to come from the wall itself. I got up and listened. Someone was +crying bitterly behind, or above, the wall, just where the young +monk had been buried. Who could it be? I stood listening, wondering, +hesitating what to do. There was something in this sound of lamentation +that moved one to the depths. For years I had not looked on a woman, or +heard a woman’s voice--but I knew that this was a woman mourning. +Why was she there? What could she want? I glanced up. All round the +cemetery, as I have said, grew cypress trees. As I glanced up I saw one +shake just above where the new grave was, and a woman’s voice said, ‘I +cannot see it, I cannot see it!’ + +“I do not know why, but I felt that someone was there who wished to see +the young monk’s grave. For a moment I stood there. Then I went to +the house where I kept my tools for my work in the cemetery, and got +a shears which I used for lopping the cypress trees. I took a ladder +quickly, set it against the wall, mounted it, and from the cypress I +had seen moving I lopped some of the boughs. The sobbing ceased. As +the boughs fell down from the tree I saw a woman’s face, tear-stained, +staring at me. It seemed to me a lovely face. + +“‘Which is his grave?’ she said. I pointed to the grave of the young +monk, which could now be seen through the gap I had made, descended the +ladder, and went away to the farthest corner of the cemetery. And I did +not look again in the direction of the woman’s face. + +“Who she was I do not know. When she went away I did not see. She loved +the monk who had died, and knowing that women cannot enter the precincts +of the monastery, she had come to the outside wall to cast, if she +might, a despairing glance at his grave. + +“Domini, I wonder--I wonder if you can understand how that incident +affected me. To an ordinary man it would seem nothing, I suppose. But +to a Trappist monk it seemed tremendous. I had seen a woman. I had done +something for a woman. I thought of her, of what I had done for her, +perpetually. The gap in the cypress tree reminded me of her every time +I looked towards it. When I was in the cemetery I could hardly turn +my eyes from it. But the woman never came again. I said nothing to the +Reverend Pere of what I had done. I ought to have spoken, but I did not. +I kept it back when I confessed. From that moment I had a secret, and it +was a secret connected with a woman. + +“Does it seem strange to you that this secret seemed to me to set me +apart from all the other monks--nearer the world? It was so. I felt +sometimes as if I had been out into the world for a moment, had known +the meaning that women have for men. I wondered who the woman was. I +wondered how she had loved the young monk who was dead. He used to sit +beside me in the chapel. He had a pure and beautiful face, such a face, +I supposed, as a woman might well love. Had this woman loved him, and +had he rejected her love for the life of the monastery? I remember one +day thinking of this and wondering how it had been possible for him to +do so, and then suddenly realising the meaning of my thought and turning +hot with shame. I had put the love of woman above the love of God, +woman’s service above God’s service. That day I was terrified of myself. +I went back to the monastery from the cemetery, quickly, asked to see +the Reverend Pere, and begged him to remove me from the cemetery, to +give me some other work. He did not ask my reason for wishing to change, +but three days afterwards he sent for me, and told me that I was to +be placed in charge of the _hotellerie_ of the monastery, and that my +duties there were to begin upon the morrow. + +“Domini, I wonder if I can make you realise what that change meant to +a man who had lived as I had for so many years. The _hotellerie_ of +El-Largani is a long, low, one-storied building standing in a garden +full of palms and geraniums. It contains a kitchen, a number of little +rooms like cells for visitors, and two large parlours in which guests +are entertained at meals. In one they sit to eat the fruit, eggs, and +vegetables provided by the monastery, with wine. If after the meal they +wish to take coffee they pass into the second parlour. Visitors who +stay in the monastery are free to do much as they please, but they must +conform to certain rules. They rise at a certain hour, feed at fixed +times, and are obliged to go to their bedrooms at half-past seven in +the evening in winter, and at eight in summer. The monk in charge of the +_hotellerie_ has to see to their comfort. He looks after the kitchen, is +always in the parlour at some moment or another during meals. He visits +the bedrooms and takes care that the one servant keeps everything +spotlessly clean. He shows people round the garden. His duties, you see, +are light and social. He cannot go into the world, but he can mix with +the world that comes to him. It is his task, if not his pleasure, to be +cheerful, talkative, sympathetic, a good host, with a genial welcome for +all who come to La Trappe. After my years of labour, solitude, silence, +and prayer, I was abruptly put into this new life. + +“Domini, to me it was like rushing out into the world. I was almost +dazed by the change. At first I was nervous, timid, awkward, and, +especially, tongue-tied. The habit of silence had taken such a hold upon +me that I could not throw it off. I dreaded the coming of visitors. I +did not know how to receive them, what to say to them. Fortunately, as +I thought, the tourist season was over, the summer was approaching. Very +few people came, and those only to eat a meal. I tried to be polite and +pleasant to them, and gradually I began to fall into the way of talking +without the difficulty I had experienced at first. In the beginning I +could not open my lips without feeling as if I were almost committing a +crime. But presently I was more natural, less taciturn. I even, now and +then, took some pleasure in speaking to a pleasant visitor. I grew +to love the garden with its flowers, its orange trees, its groves of +eucalyptus, its vineyard which sloped towards the cemetery. Often I +wandered in it alone, or sat under the arcade that divided it from the +large entrance court of the monastery, meditating, listening to the bees +humming, and watching the cats basking in the sunshine. + +“Sometimes, when I was there, I thought of the woman’s face above the +cemetery wall. Sometimes I seemed to feel the hand tugging at mine. But +I was more at peace than I had been in the cemetery. For from the garden +I could not see the distant world, and of the chance visitors none had +as yet set a match to the torch that, unknown to me, was ready--at the +coming of the smallest spark--to burst into a flame. + +“One day, it was in the morning towards half-past ten, when I was +sitting reading my Greek Testament on a bench just inside the doorway of +the _hotellerie_, I heard the great door of the monastery being opened, +and then the rolling of carriage wheels in the courtyard. Some visitor +had arrived from Tunis, perhaps some visitors--three or four. It was +a radiant morning of late May. The garden was brilliant with flowers, +golden with sunshine, tender with shade, and quiet--quiet and peaceful, +Domini! There was a wonderful peace in the garden that day, a peace that +seemed full of safety, of enduring cheerfulness. The flowers looked as +if they had hearts to understand it, and love it, the roses along the +yellow wall of the house that clambered to the brown red tiles, the +geraniums that grew in masses under the shining leaves of the orange +trees, the--I felt as if that day I were in the Garden of Eden, and I +remember that when I heard the carriage wheels I had a moment of selfish +sadness. I thought: ‘Why does anyone come to disturb my blessed peace, +my blessed solitude?’ Then I realised the egoism of my thought and that +I was there with my duty. I got up, went into the kitchen and said to +Francois, the servant, that someone had come and no doubt would stay to +_dejeuner_. And, as I spoke, already I was thinking of the moment when +I should hear the roll of wheels once more, the clang of the shutting +gate, and know that the intruders upon the peace of the Trappists had +gone back to the world, and that I could once more be alone in the +little Eden I loved. + +“Strangely, Domini, strangely, that day, of all the days of my life, I +was most in love--it was like that, like being in love--with my +monk’s existence. The terrible feeling that had begun to ravage me had +completely died away. I adored the peace in which my days were passed. +I looked at the flowers and compared my happiness with theirs. They +blossomed, bloomed, faded, died in the garden. So would I wish to +blossom, bloom, fade--when my time came--die in the garden--always +in peace, always in safety, always isolated from the terrors of life, +always under the tender watchful eye of--of--Domini, that day I was +happy, as perhaps they are--perhaps--the saints in Paradise. I was happy +because I felt no inclination to evil. I felt as if my joy lay entirely +in being innocent. Oh, what an ecstasy such a feeling is! ‘My will +accord with Thy design--I love to live as Thou intendest me to live! Any +other way of life would be to me a terror, would bring to me despair.’ + +“And I felt that--intensely I felt it at that moment in heart and +soul. It was as if I had God’s arms round me, caressing me as a father +caresses his child.” + +He moved away a step or two in the sand, came back, and went on with an +effort: + +“Within a few minutes the porter of the monastery came through the +archway of the arcade followed by a young man. As I looked up at him +I was uncertain of his nationality. But I scarcely thought about +it--except in the first moment. For something else seized my +attention--the intense, active misery in the stranger’s face. He looked +ravaged, eaten by grief. I said he was young--perhaps twenty-six or +twenty-seven. His face was rather dark-complexioned, with small, good +features. He had thick brown hair, and his eyes shone with intelligence, +with an intelligence that was almost painful--somehow. His eyes always +looked to me as if they were seeing too much, had always seen too much. +There was a restlessness in the swiftness of their observation. One +could not conceive of them closed in sleep. An activity that must surely +be eternal blazed in them. + +“The porter left the stranger in the archway. It was now my duty to +attend to him. I welcomed him in French. He took off his hat. When +he did that I felt sure he was an Englishman--by the look of him +bareheaded--and I told him that I spoke English as well as French. He +answered that he was at home in French, but that he was English. We +talked English. His entrance into the garden had entirely destroyed +my sense of its peace--even my own peace was disturbed at once by his +appearance. + +“I felt that I was in the presence of a misery that was like a devouring +element. Before we had time for more than a very few halting words the +bell was rung by Francois. + +“‘What’s that for, Father?’ the stranger said, with a start, which +showed that his nerves were shattered. + +“‘It is time for your meal,’ I answered. + +“‘One must eat!’ he said. Then, as if conscious that he was behaving +oddly, he added politely: + +“‘I know you entertain us too well here, and have sometimes been +rewarded with coarse ingratitude. Where do I go?’ + +“I showed him into the parlour. There was no one there that day. He sat +at the long table. + +“‘I am to eat alone?’ he asked. + +“‘Yes; I will serve you.’ + +“Francois, always waited on the guests, but that day--mindful of the +selfishness of my thoughts in the garden--I resolved to add to my +duties. I therefore brought the soup, the lentils, the omelette, the +oranges, poured out the wine, and urged the young man cordially to +eat. When I did so he looked up at me. His eyes were extraordinarily +expressive. It was as if I heard them say to me, ‘Why, I like you!’ and +as if, just for a moment, his grief were lessened. + +“In the empty parlour, long, clean, bare, with a crucifix on the wall +and the name ‘Saint Bernard’ above the door, it was very quiet, very +shady. The outer blinds of green wood were drawn over the window-spaces, +shutting out the gold of the garden. But its murmuring tranquillity +seemed to filter in, as if the flowers, the insects, the birds were +aware of our presence and were trying to say to us, ‘Are you happy as we +are? Be happy as we are.’ + +“The stranger looked at the shady room, the open windows. He sighed. + +“‘How quiet it is here!’ he said, almost as if to himself. ‘How quiet it +is!’ + +“‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Summer is beginning. For months now scarcely anyone +will come to us here.’ + +“‘Us?’ he said, glancing at me with a sudden smile. + +“‘I meant to us who are monks, who live always here.’ + +“‘May I--is it indiscreet to ask if you have been here long?’ + +“I told him. + +“‘More than nineteen years!’ he said. + +“‘Yes.’ + +“‘And always in this silence?’ + +“He sat as if listening, resting his head on his hand. + +“‘How extraordinary!’ he said at last. ‘How wonderful! Is it happiness?’ + +“I did not answer. The question seemed to me to be addressed to himself, +not to me. I could leave him to seek for the answer. After a moment he +went on eating and drinking in silence. When he had finished I asked him +whether he would take coffee. He said he would, and I made him pass +into the St. Joseph _salle_. There I brought him coffee and--and +that liqueur. I told him that it was my invention. He seemed to be +interested. At any rate, he took a glass and praised it strongly. I +was pleased. I think I showed it. From that moment I felt as if we were +almost friends. Never before had I experienced such a feeling for +anyone who had come to the monastery, or for any monk or novice in the +monastery. Although I had been vexed, irritated, at the approach of a +stranger I now felt regret at the idea of his going away. Presently +the time came to show him round the garden. We went out of the shadowy +parlour into the sunshine. No one was in the garden. Only the bees were +humming, the birds were passing, the cats were basking on the broad path +that stretched from the arcade along the front of the _hotellerie_. +As we came out a bell chimed, breaking for an instant the silence, and +making it seem the sweeter when it returned. We strolled for a little +while. We did not talk much. The stranger’s eyes, I noticed, were +everywhere, taking in every detail of the scene around us. Presently we +came to the vineyard, to the left of which was the road that led to the +cemetery, passed up the road and arrived at the cemetery gate. + +“‘Here I must leave you,’ I said. + +“‘Why?’ he asked quickly. + +“‘There is another Father who will show you the chapel. I shall wait for +you here.’ + +“I sat down and waited. When the stranger returned it seemed to me that +his face was calmer, that there was a quieter expression in his eyes. +When we were once more before the _hotellerie_ I said: + +“‘You have seen all my small domain now.’ + +“He glanced at the house. + +“‘But there seems to be a number of rooms,’ he said. + +“‘Only the bedrooms.’ + +“‘Bedrooms? Do people stay the night here?’ + +“‘Sometimes. If they please they can stay for longer than a night.’ + +“‘How much longer?’ + +“‘For any time they please, if they conform to one or two simple rules +and pay a small fixed sum to the monastery.’ + +“‘Do you mean that you could take anyone in for the summer?’ he said +abruptly. + +“‘Why not? The consent of the Reverend Pere has to be obtained. That is +all.’ + +“‘I should like to see the bedrooms.’ + +“I took him in and showed him one. + +“‘All the others are the same,’ I said. + +“He glanced round at the white walls, the rough bed, the crucifix above +it, the iron basin, the paved floor, then went to the window and looked +out. + +“‘Well,’ he said, drawing back into the room, ‘I will go now to see the +Pere Abbe, if it is permitted.’ + +“On the garden path I bade him good-bye. He shook my hand. There was an +odd smile in his face. Half-an-hour later I saw him coming again through +the arcade. + +“‘Father,’ he said, ‘I am not going away. I have asked the Pere Abbe’s +permission to stay here. He has given it to me. To-morrow such luggage +as I need will be sent over from Tunis. Are you--are you very vexed to +have a stranger to trouble your peace?’ + +“His intensely observant eyes were fixed upon me while he spoke. I +answered: + +“‘I do not think you will trouble my peace.’ + +“And my thought was: + +“‘I will help you to find the peace which you have lost.’ + +“Was it a presumptuous thought, Domini? Was it insolent? At the time +it seemed to me absolutely sincere, one of the best thoughts I had ever +had--a thought put into my heart by God. I didn’t know then--I didn’t +know.” + +He stopped speaking, and stood for a time quite still, looking down at +the sand, which was silver white under the moon. At last he lifted his +head and said, speaking slowly: + +“It was the coming of this man that put the spark to that torch. It was +he who woke up in me the half of myself which, unsuspected by me, had +been slumbering through all my life, slumbering and gathering strength +in slumber--as the body does--gathering a strength that was tremendous, +that was to overmaster the whole of me, that was to make of me one mad +impulse. He woke up in me the body and the body was to take possession +of the soul. I wonder--can I make you feel why this man was able to +affect me thus? Can I make you know this man? + +“He was a man full of secret violence, violence of the mind and violence +of the body, a volcanic man. He was English--he said so--but there must +have been blood that was not English in his veins. When I was with him +I felt as if I was with fire. There was the restlessness of fire in him. +There was the intensity of fire. He could be reserved. He could appear +to be cold. But always I was conscious that if there was stone without +there was scorching heat within. He was watchful of himself and of +everyone with whom he came into the slightest contact. He was very +clever. He had an immense amount of personal charm, I think, at any +rate for me. He was very human, passionately interested in humanity. +He was--and this was specially part of him, a dominant trait--he was +savagely, yes, savagely, eager to be happy, and when he came to live in +the _hotellerie_ he was savagely unhappy. An egoist he was, a thinker, +a man who longed to lay hold of something beyond this world, but who +had not been able to do so. Even his desire to find rest in a religion +seemed to me to have greed in it, to have something in it that was +akin to avarice. He was a human storm, Domini, as well as a human fire. +Think! what a man to be cast by the world--which he knew as they know it +only who are voracious for life and free--into my quiet existence. + +“Very soon he began to show himself to me as he was, with a sort of +fearlessness that was almost impudent. The conditions of our two lives +in the monastery threw us perpetually together in a curious isolation. +And the Reverend Pere, Domini, the Reverend Pere, set my feet in the +path of my own destruction. On the day after the stranger had arrived +the Reverend Pere sent for me to his private room, and said to me, +‘Our new guest is in a very unhappy state. He has been attracted by our +peace. If we can bring peace to him it will be an action acceptable +to God. You will be much with him. Try to do him good. He is not a +Catholic, but no matter. He wishes to attend the services in the chapel. +He may be influenced. God may have guided his feet to us, we cannot +tell. But we can act--we can pray for him. I do not know how long he +will stay. It may be for only a few days or for the whole summer. It +does not matter. Use each day well for him. Each day may be his last +with us.’ I went out from the Reverend Pere full of enthusiasm, feeling +that a great, a splendid interest had come into my life, an interest +such as it had never held before. + +“Day by day I was with this man. Of course there were many hours when +we were apart, the hours when I was at prayer in the chapel or occupied +with study. But each day we passed much time together, generally in the +garden. Scarcely any visitors came, and none to stay, except, from time +to time, a passing priest, and once two young men from Tunis, one of +whom had an inclination to become a novice. And this man, as I have +said, began to show himself to me with a tremendous frankness. + +“Domini, he was suffering under what I suppose would be called an +obsession, an immense domination such as one human being sometimes +obtains over another. At that time I had never realised that there were +such dominations. Now I know that there are, and, Domini, that they can +be both terrible and splendid. He was dominated by a woman, by a woman +who had come into his life, seized it, made it a thing of glory, broken +it. He described to me the dominion of this woman. He told me how she +had transformed him. Till he met her he had been passionate but free, +his own master through many experiences, many intrigues. He was very +frank, Domini. He did not attempt to hide from me that his life had been +evil. It had been a life devoted to the acquiring of experience, of all +possible experience, mental and bodily. I gathered that he had shrunk +from nothing, avoided nothing. His nature had prompted him to rush upon +everything, to grasp at everything. At first I was horrified at what he +told me. I showed it. I remember the second evening after his arrival +we were sitting together in a little arbour at the foot of the vineyard +that sloped up to the cemetery. It was half an hour before the last +service in the chapel. The air was cool with breath from the distant +sea. An intense calm, a heavenly calm, I think, filled the garden, +floated away to the cypresses beside the graves, along the avenue where +stood the Fourteen Stations of the Cross. And he told me, began to tell +me something of his life. + +“‘You thought to find happiness in such an existence?’ I exclaimed, +almost with incredulity I believe. + +“He looked at me with his shining eyes. + +“‘Why not, Father? Do you think I was a madman to do so?’ + +“‘Surely.’ + +“‘Why? Is there not happiness in knowledge?’ + +“‘Knowledge of evil?’ + +“‘Knowledge of all things that exist in life. I have never sought +for evil specially; I have sought for everything. I wished to bring +everything under my observation, everything connected with human life.’ + +“‘But human life,’ I said more quietly, ‘passes away from this world. It +is a shadow in a world of shadows.’ + +“‘You say that,’ he answered abruptly. ‘I wonder if you feel it--feel it +as you feel my hand on yours.’ + +“He laid his hand on mine. It was hot and dry as if with fever. Its +touch affected me painfully. + +“‘Is that hand the hand of a shadow?’ he said. ‘Is this body that +can enjoy and suffer, that can be in heaven or in hell--here--here--a +shadow?’ + +“‘Within a week it might be less than a shadow.’ + +“‘And what of that? This is now, this is now. Do you mean what you say? +Do you truly feel that you are a shadow--that this garden is but a world +of shadows? I feel that I, that you, are terrific realities, that this +garden is of immense significance. Look at that sky.’ + +“The sky above the cypresses was red with sunset. The trees looked black +beneath it. Fireflies were flitting near the arbour where we sat. + +“‘That is the sky that roofs what you would have me believe a world of +shadows. It is like the blood, the hot blood that flows and surges in +the veins of men--in our veins. Ah, but you are a monk!’ + +“The way he said the last words made me feel suddenly a sense of shame, +Domini. It was as if a man said to another man, ‘You are not a man.’ Can +you--can you understand the feeling I had just then? Something hot and +bitter was in me. A sort of desperate sense of nothingness came over me, +as if I were a skeleton sitting there with flesh and blood and trying to +believe, and to make it believe, that I, too, was and had been flesh and +blood. + +“‘Yes, thank God, I am a monk,’ I answered quietly. + +“Something in my tone, I think, made him feel that he had been brutal. + +“‘I am a brute and a fool,’ he said vehemently. ‘But it is always so +with me. I always feel as if what I want others must want. I always feel +universal. It’s folly. You have your vocation, I mine. Yours is to pray, +mine is to live.’ + +“Again I was conscious of the bitterness. I tried to put it from me. + +“‘Prayer is life,’ I answered, ‘to me, to us who are here.’ + +“‘Prayer! Can it be? Can it be vivid as the life of experience, as +the life that teaches one the truth of men and women, the truth of +creation--joy, sorrow, aspiration, lust, ambition of the intellect and +the limbs? Prayer--’ + +“‘It is time for me to go,’ I said. ‘Are you coming to the chapel?’ + +“‘Yes,’ he answered almost eagerly. ‘I shall look down on you from my +lonely gallery. Perhaps I shall be able to feel the life of prayer.’ + +“‘May it be so,’ I said. + +“But I think I spoke without confidence, and I know that that evening I +prayed without impulse, coldly, mechanically. The long, dim chapel, with +its lines of monks facing each other in their stalls, seemed to me a +sad place, like a valley of dry bones--for the first time, for the first +time. + +“I ought to have gone on the morrow to the Reverend Pere. I ought to +have asked him, begged him to remove me from the _hotellerie_. I ought +to have foreseen what was coming--that this man had a strength to live +greater than my strength to pray; that his strength might overcome mine. +I began to sin that night. Curiosity was alive in me, curiosity about +the life that I had never known, was--so I believed, so I thought I +knew--never to know. + +“When I came out of the chapel into the _hotellerie_ I met our guest--I +do not say his name. What would be the use?--in the corridor. It was +almost dark. There were ten minutes before the time for locking up +the door and going to bed. Francois, the servant, was asleep under the +arcade. + +“‘Shall we go on to the path and have a last breath of air?’ the +stranger said. + +“We stepped out and walked slowly up and down. + +“‘Do you not feel the beauty of peace?’ I asked. + +“I wanted him to say yes. I wanted him to tell me that peace, +tranquillity, were beautiful. He did not reply for a moment. I heard him +sigh heavily. + +“‘If there is peace in the world at all,’ he said at length, ‘it is only +to be found with the human being one loves. With the human being one +loves one might find peace in hell.’ + +“We did not speak again before we parted for the night. + +“Domini, I did not sleep at all that night. It was the first of many +sleepless nights, nights in which my thoughts travelled like winged +Furies--horrible, horrible nights. In them I strove to imagine all the +stranger knew by experience. It was like a ghastly, physical effort. I +strove to conceive of all that he had done--with the view, I told myself +at first, of bringing myself to a greater contentment, of realising how +worthless was all that I had rejected and that he had grasped at. In +the dark I, as it were, spread out his map of life and mine and +examined them. When, still in the dark, I rose to go to the chapel I was +exhausted. I felt unutterably melancholy. That was at first. Presently +I felt an active, gnawing hunger. But--but--I have not come to that yet. +This strange, new melancholy was the forerunner. It was a melancholy +that seemed to be caused by a sense of frightful loneliness such as I +had never previously experienced. Till now I had almost always felt God +with me, and that He was enough. Now, suddenly, I began to feel that I +was alone. I kept thinking of the stranger’s words: ‘If there is peace +in the world at all it is only to be found with the human being one +loves.’ + +“‘That is false,’ I said to myself again and again. ‘Peace is only to be +found by close union with God. In that I have found peace for many, many +years.’ + +“I knew that I had been at peace. I knew that I had been happy. And yet, +when I looked back upon my life as a novice and a monk, I now felt as if +I had been happy vaguely, foolishly, bloodlessly, happy only because +I had been ignorant of what real happiness was--not really happy. I +thought of a bird born in a cage and singing there. I had been as that +bird. And then, when I was in the garden, I looked at the swallows +winging their way high in the sunshine, between the garden trees and the +radiant blue, winging their way towards sea and mountains and plains, +and that bitterness, like an acid that burns and eats away fine metal, +was once more at my heart. + +“But the sensation of loneliness was the most terrible of all. I +compared union with God, such as I thought I had known, with that other +union spoken of by my guest--union with the human being one loves. I set +the two unions as it were in comparison. Night after night I did this. +Night after night I told over the joys of union with God--joys which +I dared to think I had known--and the joys of union with a loved human +being. On the one side I thought of the drawing near to God in prayer, +of the sensation of approach that comes with earnest prayer, of the +feeling that ears are listening to you, that the great heart is loving +you, the great heart that loves all living things, that you are being +absolutely understood, that all you cannot say is comprehended, and +all you say is received as something precious. I recalled the joy, the +exaltation, that I had known when I prayed. That was union with God. +In such union I had sometimes felt that the world, with all that it +contained of wickedness, suffering and death, was utterly devoid of +power to sadden or alarm the humblest human being who was able to draw +near to God. + +“I had had a conquering feeling--not proud--as of one upborne, protected +for ever, lifted to a region in which no enemy could ever be, no +sadness, no faint anxiety even. + +“Then I strove to imagine--and this, Domini, was surely a deliberate +sin--exactly what it must be to be united with a beloved human being. I +strove and I was able. For not only did instinct help me, instinct +that had been long asleep, but--I have told you that the stranger was +suffering under an obsession, a terrible dominion. This dominion he +described to me with an openness that perhaps--that indeed I believe--he +would not have shown had I not been a monk. He looked upon me as a being +apart, neither man nor woman, a being without sex. I am sure he did. +And yet he was immensely intelligent. But he knew that I had entered the +monastery as a novice, that I had been there through all my adult life. +And then my manner probably assisted him in his illusion. For I gave--I +believe--no sign of the change that was taking place within me under his +influence. I seemed to be calm, detached, even in my sympathy for +his suffering. For he suffered frightfully. This woman he loved was a +Parisian, he told me. He described her beauty to me, as if in order to +excuse himself for having become the slave to her he was. I suppose she +was very beautiful. He said that she had a physical charm so intense +that few men could resist it, that she was famous throughout Europe for +it. He told me that she was not a good woman. I gathered that she lived +for pleasure, admiration, that she had allowed many men to love her +before he knew her. But she had loved him genuinely. She was not a very +young woman, and she was not a married woman. He said that she was a +woman men loved but did not marry, a woman who was loved by the husbands +of married women, a woman to marry whom would exclude a man from the +society of good women. She had never lived, or thought of living, for +one man till he came into her life. Nor had he ever dreamed of living +for one woman. He had lived to gain experience; she too. But when he met +her--knowing thoroughly all she was--all other women ceased to exist for +him. He became her slave. Then jealousy awoke in him, jealousy of all +the men who had been in her life, who might be in her life again. He was +tortured by loving such a woman--a woman who had belonged to many, who +would no doubt in the future belong to others. For despite the fact that +she loved him he told me that at first he had no illusions about her. He +knew the world too well for that, and he cursed the fate that had bound +him body and soul to what he called a courtesan. Even the fact that she +loved him at first did not blind him to the effect upon character that +her life must inevitably have had. She had dwelt in an atmosphere of +lies, he said, and to lie was nothing to her. Any original refinement +of feeling as regards human relations that she might have had had become +dulled, if it had not been destroyed. At first he blindly, miserably, +resigned himself to this. He said to himself, ‘Fate has led me to love +this sort of woman. I must accept her as she is, with all her defects, +with her instinct for treachery, with her passion for the admiration +of the world, with her incapability for being true to an ideal, or for +isolating herself in the adoration of one man. I cannot get away from +her. She has me fast. I cannot live without her. Then I must bear the +torture that jealousy of her will certainly bring me in silence. I must +conceal it. I must try to kill it. I must make the best of whatever +she will give me, knowing that she can never, with her nature and her +training, be exclusively mine as a good woman might be.’ This he said to +himself. This plan of conduct he traced for himself. But he soon +found that he was not strong enough to keep to it. His jealousy was a +devouring fire, and he could not conceal it. Domini, he described to me +minutely the effect of jealousy in a human heart. I had never imagined +what it was, and, when he described it, I felt as if I looked down into +a bottomless pit lined with the flames of hell. By the depth of that pit +I measured the depth of his passion for this woman, and I gained an idea +of what human love--not the best sort of human love, but still genuine, +intense love of some kind--could be. Of this human love I thought at +night, putting it in comparison with the love God’s creature can have +for God. And my sense of loneliness increased, and I felt as if I had +always been lonely. Does this seem strange to you? In the love of God +was calm, peace, rest, a lying down of the soul in the Almighty arms. In +the other love described to me was restlessness, agitation, torture, the +soul spinning like an atom driven by winds, the heart devoured as by a +disease, a cancer. On the one hand was a beautiful trust, on the other +a ceaseless agony of doubt and terror. And yet I came to feel as if the +one were unreal in comparison with the other, as if in the one were a +loneliness, in the other fierce companionship. I thought of the Almighty +arms, Domini, and of the arms of a woman, and--Domini, I longed to have +known, if only once, the pressure of a woman’s arms about my neck, about +my breast, the touch of a woman’s hand upon my heart. + +“And of all this I never spoke at confession. I committed the deadly sin +of keeping back at confession all that.” He stopped. Then he said, “Till +the end my confessions were incomplete, were false. + +“The stranger told me that as his love for this woman grew he found it +impossible to follow the plan he had traced for himself of shutting his +eyes to the sight of other eyes admiring, desiring her, of shutting his +ears to the voices that whispered, ‘This it will always be, for others +as well as for you.’ He found it impossible. His jealousy was too +importunate, and he resolved to make any effort to keep her for himself +alone. He knew she had love for him, but he knew that love would not +necessarily, or even probably, keep her entirely faithful to him. She +thought too little of passing intrigues. To her they seemed trifles, +meaningless, unimportant. She told him so, when he spoke his jealousy. +She said, ‘I love you. I do not love these other men. They are in my +life for a moment only.’ + +“‘And that moment plunges me into hell!’ he said. + +“He told her he could not bear it, that it was impossible, that she must +belong to him entirely and solely. He asked her to marry him. She was +surprised, touched. She understood what a sacrifice such a marriage +would be to a man in his position. He was a man of good birth. His +request, his vehement insistence on it, made her understand his love as +she had not understood it before. Yet she hesitated. For so long had +she been accustomed to a life of freedom, of changing _amours_, that she +hesitated to put her neck under the yoke of matrimony. She understood +thoroughly his character and his aim in marrying her. She knew that as +his wife she must bid an eternal farewell to the life she had known. And +it was a life that had become a habit to her, a life that she was fond +of. For she was enormously vain, and she was a--she was a very physical +woman, subject to physical caprices. There are things that I pass over, +Domini, which would explain still more her hesitation. He knew what +caused it, and again he was tortured. But he persisted. And at last he +overcame. She consented to marry him. They were engaged. Domini, I +need not tell you much more, only this fact--which had driven him from +France, destroyed his happiness, brought him to the monastery. Shortly +before the marriage was to take place he discovered that, while they +were engaged, she had yielded to the desires of an old admirer who had +come to bid her farewell and to wish her joy in her new life. He was +tempted, he said, to kill her. But he governed himself and left her. +He travelled. He came to Tunis. He came to La Trappe. He saw the peace +there. He thought, ‘Can I seize it? Can it do something for me?’ He saw +me. He thought, ‘I shall not be quite alone. This monk--he has lived +always in peace, he has never known the torture of women. Might not +intercourse with him help me?’ + +“Such was his history, such was the history poured, with infinite detail +that I have not told you, day by day, into my ears. It was the history, +you see, of a passion that was mainly physical. I will not say entirely. +I do not know whether any great passion can be entirely physical. But it +was the history of the passion of one body for another body, and he +did not attempt to present it to me as anything else. This man made me +understand the meaning of the body. I had never understood it before. +I had never suspected the immensity of the meaning there is in physical +things. I had never comprehended the flesh. Now I comprehended it. +Loneliness rushed upon me, devoured me--loneliness of the body. ‘God is +a spirit and those that worship him must worship him in spirit.’ Now I +felt that to worship in spirit was not enough. I even felt that it was +scarcely anything. Again I thought of my life as the life of a skeleton +in a world of skeletons. Again the chapel was as a valley of dry bones. +It was a ghastly sensation. I was plunged in the void. I--I--I can’t +tell you my exact sensation, but it was as if I was the loneliest +creature in the whole of the universe, and as if I need not have been +lonely, as if I, in my ignorance and fatuity, had selected loneliness +thinking it was the happiest fate. + +“And yet you will say I was face to face with this man’s almost frantic +misery. I was, and it made no difference. I envied him, even in his +present state. He wanted to gain consolation from me if that were +possible. Oh, the irony of my consoling him! In secret I laughed at it +bitterly. When I strove to console him I knew that I was an incarnate +lie. He had told me the meaning of the body and, by so doing, had +snatched from me the meaning of the spirit. And then he said to me, +‘Make me feel the meaning of the spirit. If I can grasp that I may find +comfort.’ He called upon me to give him what I no longer had--the peace +of God that passeth understanding. Domini, can you feel at all what that +was to me? Can you realise? Can you--is it any wonder that I could do +nothing for him, for him who had done such a frightful thing for me? Is +it any wonder? Soon he realised that he would not find peace with me in +the garden. Yet he stayed on. Why? He did not know where to go, what +to do. Life offered him nothing but horror. His love of experiences was +dead. His love of life had completely vanished. He saw the worldly life +as a nightmare, yet he had nothing to put in the place of it. And in the +monastery he was ceaselessly tormented by jealousy. Ceaselessly his mind +was at work about this woman, picturing her in her life of change, of +intrigue, of new lovers, of new hopes and aims in which he had no part, +in which his image was being blotted out, doubtless from her memory +even. He suffered, he suffered as few suffer. But I think I suffered +more. The melancholy was driven on into a gnawing hunger, the gnawing +hunger of the flesh wishing to have lived, wishing to live, wishing +to--to know. + +“Domini, to you I can’t say more of that--to you whom I--whom I love +with spirit and flesh. I will come to the end, to the incident which +made the body rise up, strike down the soul, trample out over it into +the world like a wolf that was starving. + +“One day the Reverend Pere gave me a special permission to walk with our +visitor beyond the monastery walls towards the sea. Such permission was +an event in my life. It excited me more than you can imagine. I found +that the stranger had begged him to let me come. + +“‘Our guest is very fond of you,’ the Reverend Pere said to me. ‘I think +if any human being can bring him to a calmer, happier state of mind and +spirit, you can. You have obtained a good influence over him.’ + +“Domini, when the Reverend Pere spoke to me thus my mouth was suddenly +contracted in a smile. Devil’s smile, I think. I put up my hand to +my face. I saw the Reverend Pere looking at me with a dawning of +astonishment in his kind, grave eyes, and I controlled myself at once. +But I said nothing. I could not say anything, and I went out from the +parlour quickly, hot with a sensation of shame. + +“‘You are coming?’ the stranger said. + +“‘Yes,’ I answered. + +“It was a fiery day of late June. Africa was bathed in a glare of +light that hurt the eyes. I went into my cell and put on a pair of blue +glasses and my wide straw hat, the hat in which I formerly used to work +in the fields. When I came out my guest was standing on the garden path. +He was swinging a stick in one hand. The other hand, which hung down by +his side, was twitching nervously. In the glitter of the sun his face +looked ghastly. In his eyes there seemed to be terrors watching without +hope. + +“‘You are ready?’ he said. ‘Let us go.’ + +“We set off, walking quickly. + +“‘Movement--pace--sometimes that does a little good,’ he said. ‘If one +can exhaust the body the mind sometimes lies almost still for a moment. +If it would only lie still for ever.’ + +“I said nothing. I could say nothing. For my fever was surely as his +fever. + +“‘Where are we going?’ he asked when we reached the little house of the +keeper of the gate by the cemetery. + +“‘We cannot walk in the sun,’ I answered. ‘Let us go into the eucalyptus +woods.’ + +“The first Trappists had planted forests of eucalyptus to keep off the +fever that sometimes comes in the African summer. We made our way along +a tract of open land and came into a deep wood. Here we began to walk +more slowly. The wood was empty of men. The hot silence was profound. +He took off his white helmet and walked on, carrying it in his hand. Not +till we were far in the forest did he speak. Then he said, ‘Father, I +cannot struggle on much longer.’ + +“He spoke abruptly, in a hard voice. + +“‘You must try to gain courage,’ I said. + +“‘From where?’ he exclaimed. ‘No, no, don’t say from God. If there is a +God He hates me.’ + +“When he said that I felt as if my soul shuddered, hearing a frightful +truth spoken about itself. My lips were dry. My heart seemed to shrivel +up, but I made an effort and answered: + +“‘God hates no being whom He has created.’ + +“‘How can you know? Almost every man, perhaps every living man hates +someone. Why not--?’ + +“‘To compare God with a man is blasphemous,’ I answered. + +“‘Aren’t we made in His image? Father, it’s as I said--I can’t struggle +on much longer. I shall have to end it. I wish now--I often wish that I +had yielded to my first impulse and killed her. What is she doing now? +What is she doing now--at this moment?’ + +“He stood still and beat with his stick on the ground. + +“‘You don’t know the infinite torture there is in knowing that, far +away, she is still living that cursed life, that she is free to continue +the acts of which her existence has been full. Every moment I am +imagining--I am seeing--’ + +“He forced his stick deep into the ground. + +“‘If I had killed her,’ he said in a low voice, ‘at least I should know +that she was sleeping--alone--there--there--under the earth. I should +know that her body was dissolved into dust, that her lips could kiss no +man, that her arms could never hold another as they have held me!’ + +“‘Hush!’ I said sternly. ‘You deliberately torture yourself and me.’ He +glanced up sharply. + +“‘You! What do you mean?’ + +“‘I must not listen to such things,’ I said. ‘They are bad for you and +for me.’ + +“‘How can they be bad for you--a monk?’ + +“‘Such talk is evil--evil for everyone.’ + +“‘I’ll be silent then. I’ll go into the silence. I’ll go soon.’ + +“I understood that he thought of putting an end to himself. + +“‘There are few men,’ I said, speaking with deliberation, with effort, +‘who do not feel at some period of life that all is over for them, that +there is nothing to hope for, that happiness is a dream which will visit +them no more.’ + +“‘Have you ever felt like that? You speak of it calmly, but have you +ever experienced it?’ + +“I hesitated. Then I said: + +“‘Yes.’ + +“‘You, who have been a monk for so many years!’ + +“‘Yes.’ + +“‘Since you have been here?’ + +“‘Yes, since then.’ + +“‘And you would tell me that the feeling passed, that hope came again, +and the dream as you call it?’ + +“‘I would say that what has lived in a heart can die, as we who live in +this world shall die.’ + +“‘Ah, that--the sooner the better! But you are wrong. Sometimes a thing +lives in the heart that cannot die so long as the heart beats. Such is +my passion, my torture. Don’t you, a monk--don’t dare to say to me that +this love of mine could die.’ + +“‘Don’t you wish it to die?’ I asked. ‘You say it tortures you.’ + +“‘Yes. But no--no--I don’t wish it to die. I could never wish that.’ + +“I looked at him, I believe, with a deep astonishment. + +“‘Ah, you don’t understand!’ he said. ‘You don’t understand. At all +costs one must keep it--one’s love. With it I am--as you see. But +without it--man, without it, I should be nothing--no more than that.’ + +“He picked up a rotten leaf, held it to me, threw it down on the ground. +I hardly looked at it. He had said to me: ‘Man!’ That word, thus said by +him, seemed to me to mark the enormous change in me, to indicate that it +was visible to the eyes of another, the heart of another. I had passed +from the monk--the sexless being--to the man. He set me beside himself, +spoke of me as if I were as himself. An intense excitement surged up +in me. I think--I don’t know what I should have said--done--but at that +moment a boy, who acted as a servant at the monastery, came running +towards us with a letter in his hand. + +“‘It is for Monsieur!’ he said. ‘It was left at the gate.’ + +“‘A letter for me!’ the stranger said. + +“He held out his hand and took it indifferently. The boy gave it, and +turning, went away through the wood. Then the stranger glanced at the +envelope. Domini, I wish I could make you see what I saw then, the +change that came. I can’t. There are things the eyes must see. The +tongue can’t tell them. The ghastly whiteness went out of his face. A +hot flood of scarlet rushed over it up to the roots of his hair. His +hands and his whole body began to tremble violently. His eyes, which +were fixed on the envelope, shone with an expression--it was like all +the excitement in the world condensed into two sparks. He dropped his +stick and sat down on the trunk of a tree, fell down almost. + +“‘Father!’ he muttered, ‘it’s not been through the post--it’s not been +through the post!’ + +“I did not understand. + +“‘What do you mean?’ I asked. + +“‘What----’ + +“The flush left his face. He turned deadly white again. He held out the +letter. + +“‘Read it for me!’ he said. ‘I can’t see--I can’t see anything.’ + +“I took the letter. He covered his eyes with his hands. I opened it and +read: + +“‘GRAND HOTEL, TUNIS. + +“‘I have found out where you are. I have come. Forgive me--if you can. +I will marry you--or I will live with you. As you please; but I cannot +live without you. I know women are not admitted to the monastery. Come +out on the road that leads to Tunis. I am there. At least come for a +moment and speak to me. VERONIQUE.’ + +“Domini, I read this slowly; and it was as if I read my own fate. When I +had finished he got up. He was still pale as ashes and trembling. + +“‘Which is the way to the road?’ he said. ‘Do you know?’ + +“‘Yes.’ + +“‘Take me there. Give me your arm, Father.’ + +“He took it, leaned on it heavily. We walked through the wood towards +the highroad. I had almost to support him. The way seemed long. I felt +tired, sick, as if I could scarcely move, as if I were bearing--as if I +were bearing a cross that was too heavy for me. We came at last out of +the shadow of the trees into the glare of the sun. A flat field divided +us from the white road. + +“‘Is there--is there a carriage?’ he whispered in my ear. + +“I looked across the field and saw on the road a carriage waiting. + +“‘Yes,’ I said. + +“I stopped, and tried to take his arm from mine. + +“‘Go,’ I said. ‘Go on!’ + +“‘I can’t. Come with me, Father.’ + +“We went on in the blinding sun. I looked down on the dry earth as I +walked. Presently I saw at my feet the white dust of the road. At the +same time I heard a woman’s cry. The stranger took his arm violently +from mine. + +“‘Father,’ he said. ‘Good-bye--God bless you!’ + +“He was gone. I stood there. In a moment I heard a roll of wheels. Then +I looked up. I saw a man and a woman together, Domini. Their faces were +like angels’ faces--with happiness. The dust flew up in the sunshine. +The wheels died away--I was alone. + +“Presently--I think after a very long time--I turned and went back to +the monastery. Domini, that night I left the monastery. I was as one +mad. The wish to live had given place to the determination to live. I +thought of nothing else. In the chapel that evening I heard nothing--I +did not see the monks. I did not attempt to pray, for I knew that I +was going. To go was an easy matter for me. I slept alone in the +_hotellerie_, of which I had the key. When it was night I unlocked +the door. I walked to the cemetery--between the Stations of the Cross. +Domini, I did not see them. In the cemetery was a ladder, as I told you. + +“Just before dawn I reached my brother’s house outside of Tunis, not far +from the Bardo. I knocked. My brother himself came down to know who was +there. He, as I told you, was without religion, and had always hated my +being a monk. I told him all, without reserve. I said, ‘Help me to go +away. Let me go anywhere--alone.’ He gave me clothes, money. I shaved +off my beard and moustache. I shaved my head, so that the tonsure was +no longer visible. In the afternoon of that day I left Tunis. I was let +loose into life. Domini--Domini, I won’t tell you where I wandered till +I came to the desert, till I met you. + +“I was let loose into life, but, with my freedom, the wish to live +seemed to die in me. I was afraid of life. I was haunted by terrors. I +had been a monk so long that I did not know how to live as other men. I +did not live, I never lived--till I met you. And then--then I realised +what life may be. And then, too, I realised fully what I was. I +struggled, I fought myself. You know--now, if you look back, I think you +know that I tried--sometimes, often--I tried to--to--I tried to----” + +His voice broke. + +“That last day in the garden I thought that I had conquered myself, and +it was in that moment that I fell for ever. When I knew you loved me I +could fight no more. Do you understand? You have seen me, you have lived +with me, you have divined my misery. But don’t--don’t think, Domini, +that it ever came from you. It was the consciousness of my lie to you, +my lie to God, that--that--I can’t go on--I can’t tell you--I can’t tell +you--you know.” + +He was silent. Domini said nothing, did not move. He did not look at +her, but her silence seemed to terrify him. He drew back from it sharply +and turned to the desert. He stared across the vast spaces lit up by the +moon. Still she did not move. + +“I’ll go--I’ll go!” he muttered. + +And he stepped forward. Then Domini spoke. + +“Boris!” she said. + +He stopped. + +“What is it?” he murmured hoarsely. + +“Boris, now at last you--you can pray.” + +He looked at her as if awe-stricken. + +“Pray!” he whispered. “You tell me I can pray--now!” + +“Now at last.” + +She went into the tent and left him alone. He stood where he was for a +moment. He knew that, in the tent, she was praying. He stood, trying +to listen to her prayer. Then, with an uncertain hand, he felt in his +breast. He drew out the wooden crucifix. He bent down his head, touched +it with his lips, and fell upon his knees in the desert. + +The music had ceased in the city. There was a great silence. + + + + +BOOK VI. THE JOURNEY BACK + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +The good priest of Amara, strolling by chance at the dinner-hour of +the following day towards the camp of the hospitable strangers, was +surprised and saddened to find only the sand-hill strewn with debris. +The tents, the camels, the mules, the horses--all were gone. No servants +greeted him. No cook was busy. No kind hostess bade him come in and stay +to dine. Forlornly he glanced around and made inquiry. An Arab told him +that in the morning the camp had been struck and ere noon was far on +its way towards the north. The priest had been on horseback to an +neighbouring oasis, so had heard nothing of this flitting. He asked its +explanation, and was told a hundred lies. The one most often repeated +was to the effect that Monsieur, the husband of Madame, was overcome by +the heat, and that for this reason the travellers were making their way +towards the cooler climate that lay beyond the desert. + +As he heard this a sensation of loneliness came to the priest. His +usually cheerful countenance was overcast with gloom. For a moment +he loathed his fate in the sands and sighed for the fleshpots of +civilisation. With his white umbrella spread above his helmet he stood +still and gazed towards the north across the vast spaces that were +lemon-yellow in the sunset. He fancied that on the horizon he saw +faintly a cloud of sand grains whirling, and imagined it stirred up by +the strangers’ caravan. Then he thought of the rich lands of the Tell, +of the olive groves of Tunis, of the blue Mediterranean, of France, his +country which he had not seen for many years. He sighed profoundly. + +“Happy people,” he thought to himself. “Rich, free, able to do as they +like, to go where they will! Why was I born to live in the sand and to +be alone?” + +He was moved by envy. But then he remembered his intercourse with +Androvsky on the previous day. + +“After all,” he thought more comfortably, “he did not look a happy man!” + And he took himself to task for his sin of envy, and strolled to the inn +by the fountain where he paid his pension. + +The same day, in the house of the marabout of Beni-Hassan, Count Anteoni +received a letter brought from Amara by an Arab. It was as follows: + + +“AMARA. + +“MY DEAR FRIEND: Good-bye. We are just leaving. I had expected to be +here longer, but we must go. We are returning to the north and shall +not penetrate farther into the desert. I shall think of you, and of your +journey on among the people of your faith. You said to me, when we sat +in the tent door, that now you could pray in the desert. Pray in the +desert for us. And one thing more. If you never return to Beni-Mora, and +your garden is to pass into other hands, don’t let it go into the hands +of a stranger. I could not bear that. Let it come to me. At any price +you name. Forgive me for writing thus. Perhaps you will return, or +perhaps, even if you do not, you will keep your garden.--Your Friend, +DOMINI.” + + +In a postscript was an address which would always find her. + +Count Anteoni read this letter two or three times carefully, with a +grave face. + +“Why did she not put Domini Androvsky?” he said to himself. He locked +the letter in a drawer. All that night he was haunted by thoughts of +the garden. Again and again it seemed to him that he stood with Domini +beside the white wall and saw, in the burning distance of the desert, at +the call of the Mueddin, the Arabs bowing themselves in prayer, and +the man--the man to whom now she had bound herself by the most holy +tie--fleeing from prayer as if in horror. + +“But it was written,” he murmured to himself. “It was written in the +sand and in fire: ‘The fate of every man have we bound about his neck.’” + +In the dawn when, turning towards the rising sun, he prayed, he +remembered Domini and her words: “Pray in the desert for us.” And in the +Garden of Allah he prayed to Allah for her, and for Androvsky. + +Meanwhile the camp had been struck, and the first stage of the journey +northward, the journey back, had been accomplished. Domini had given the +order of departure, but she had first spoken with Androvsky. + +After his narrative, and her words that followed it, he did not come +into the tent. She did not ask him to. She did not see him in the +moonlight beyond the tent, or when the moonlight waned before the coming +of the dawn. She was upon her knees, her face hidden in her hands, +striving as surely few human beings have ever had to strive in the +difficult paths of life. At first she had felt almost calm. When she had +spoken to Androvsky there had even been a strange sensation that was not +unlike triumph in her heart. In this triumph she had felt disembodied, +as if she were a spirit standing there, removed from earthly suffering, +but able to contemplate, to understand, to pity it, removed from earthly +sin, but able to commit an action that might help to purge it. + +When she said to Androvsky, “Now you can pray,” she had passed into a +region where self had no existence. Her whole soul was intent upon this +man to whom she had given all the treasures of her heart and whom she +knew to be writhing as souls writhe in Purgatory. He had spoken at last, +he had laid bare his misery, his crime, he had laid bare the agony of +one who had insulted God, but who repented his insult, who had wandered +far away from God, but who could never be happy in his wandering, who +could never be at peace even in a mighty human love unless that love was +consecrated by God’s contentment with it. As she stood there Domini had +had an instant of absolutely clear sight into the depths of another’s +heart, another’s nature. She had seen the monk in Androvsky, not +slain by his act of rejection, but alive, sorrow-stricken, quivering, +scourged. And she had been able to tell this monk--as God seemed to be +telling her, making of her his messenger--that now at last he might pray +to a God who again would hear him, as He had heard him in the garden of +El-Largani, in his cell, in the chapel, in the fields. She had been able +to do this. Then she had turned away, gone into the tent and fallen upon +her knees. + +But with that personal action her sense of triumph passed away. As her +body sank down her soul seemed to sink down with it into bottomless +depths of blackness where no light had ever been, into an underworld, +airless, peopled with invisible violence. And it seemed to her as if +it was her previous flight upward which had caused this descent into a +place which had surely never before been visited by a human soul. All +the selflessness suddenly vanished from her, and was replaced by a +burning sense of her own personality, of what was due to it, of what had +been done to it, of what it now was. She saw it like a cloth that had +been white and that now was stained with indelible filth. And anger came +upon her, a bitter fury, in which she was inclined to cry out, not only +against man, but against God. The strength of her nature was driven into +a wild bitterness, the sweet waters became acrid with salt. She had been +able a moment before to say to Androvsky, almost with tenderness, “Now +at last you can pray.” Now she was on her knees hating him, hating--yes, +surely hating--God. It was a frightful sensation. + +Soul and body felt defiled. She saw Androvsky coming into her clean +life, seizing her like a prey, rolling her in filth that could never be +cleansed. And who had allowed him to do her this deadly wrong? God. And +she was on her knees to this God who had permitted this! She was in the +attitude of worship. Her whole being rebelled against prayer. It seemed +to her as if she made a furious physical effort to rise from her knees, +but as if her body was paralysed and could not obey her will. She +remained kneeling, therefore, like a woman tied down, like a blasphemer +bound by cords in the attitude of prayer, whose soul was shrieking +insults against heaven. + +Presently she remembered that outside Androvsky was praying, that she +had meant to join with him in prayer. She had contemplated, then, a +further, deeper union with him. Was she a madwoman? Was she a slave? +Was she as one of those women of history who, seized in a rape, resigned +themselves to love and obey their captors? She began to hate herself. +And still she knelt. Anyone coming in at the tent door would have seen a +woman apparently entranced in an ecstasy of worship. + +This great love of hers, to what had it brought her? This awakening of +her soul, what was its meaning? God had sent a man to rouse her +from sleep that she might look down into hell. Again and again, with +ceaseless reiteration, she recalled the incidents of her passion in the +desert. She thought of the night at Arba when Androvsky blew out the +lamp. That night had been to her a night of consecration. Nothing in +her soul had risen up to warn her. No instinct, no woman’s instinct, had +stayed her from unwitting sin. The sand-diviner had been wiser than she; +Count Anteoni more far-seeing; the priest of Beni-Mora more guided by +holiness, by the inner flame that flickers before the wind that blows +out of the caverns of evil. God had blinded her in order that she might +fall, had brought Androvsky to her in order that her religion, her +Catholic faith, might be made hideous to her for ever. She trembled all +over as she knelt. Her life had been sad, even tormented. And she had +set out upon a pilgrimage to find peace. She had been led to Beni-Mora. +She remembered her arrival in Africa, its spell descending upon her, +her sensation of being far off, of having left her former life with its +sorrows for ever. She remembered the entrancing quiet of Count Anteoni’s +garden, how as she entered it she seemed to be entering an earthly +Paradise, a place prepared by God for one who was weary as she was +weary, for one who longed to be renewed as she longed to be renewed. +And in that Paradise, in the inmost recess of it, she had put her hands +against Androvsky’s temples and given her life, her fate, her heart into +his keeping. That was why the garden was there, that she might be led to +commit this frightful action in it. Her soul felt physically sick. As +to her body--but just then she scarcely thought of the body. For she was +thinking of her soul as of a body, as if it were the core of the body +blackened, sullied, destroyed for ever. She was hot with shame, she was +hot with a fiery indignation. Always, since she was a child, if she +were suddenly touched by anyone whom she did not love, she had had an +inclination to strike a blow on the one who touched her. Now it was as +if an unclean hand had been laid on her soul. And the soul quivered with +longing to strike back. + +Again she thought of Beni-Mora, of all that had taken place there. She +realised that during her stay there a crescendo of calm had taken place +within her, calm of the spirit, a crescendo of strength, spiritual +strength, a crescendo of faith and of hope. The religion which had +almost seemed to be slipping from her she had grasped firmly again. Her +soul had arrived in Beni-Mora an invalid and had become a convalescent. + +It had been reclining wearily, fretfully. In Beni-Mora it had stood up, +walked, sung as the morning stars sang together. But then--why? If this +was to be the end--why--why? + +And at this question she paused, as before a great portal that was shut. +She went back. She thought again of this beautiful crescendo, of this +gradual approach to the God from whom she had been if not entirely +separated at any rate set a little apart. Could it have been only in +order that her catastrophe might be the more complete, her downfall the +more absolute? + +And then, she knew not why, she seemed to see in the hands that were +pressed against her face words written in fire, and to read them slowly +as a child spelling out a great lesson, with an intense attention, with +a labour whose result would be eternal recollection: + +“Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is not +tired; when straitened it is not constrained; when frightened it is +not disturbed; but like a vivid flame and a burning torch it mounteth +upwards and securely passeth through all. Whosover loveth knoweth the +cry of this voice.” + +The cry of this voice! At that moment, in the vast silence of the +desert, she seemed to hear it. And it was the cry of her own voice. It +was the cry of the voice of her own soul. Startled, she lifted her face +from her hands and listened. She did not look out at the tent door, but +she saw the moonlight falling upon the matting that was spread upon +the sand within the tent, and she repeated, “Love watcheth--Love +watcheth--Love watcheth,” moving her lips like the child who reads with +difficulty. Then came the thought, “I am watching.” + +The passion of personal anger had died away as suddenly as it had come. +She felt numb and yet excited. She leaned forward and once more laid her +face in her hands. + +“Love watcheth--I am watching.” Then a moment--then--“God is watching +me.” + +She whispered the words over again and again. And the numbness began +to pass away. And the anger was dead. Always she had felt as if she had +been led to Africa for some definite end. Did not the freed negroes, far +out in the Desert, sing their song of the deeper mysteries--“No one but +God and I knows what is in my heart”? And had not she heard it again and +again, and each time with a sense of awe? She had always thought that +the words were wonderful and beautiful. But she had thought that perhaps +they were not true. She had said to Androvsky that he knew what was in +her heart. And now, in this night, in its intense stillness, close to +the man who for so long had not dared to pray but who now was praying, +again she thought that they were not quite true. It seemed to her that +she did not know what was in her heart, and that she was waiting there +for God to come and tell her. Would He come? She waited. Patience +entered into her. + +The silence was long. Night was travelling, turning her thoughts to +a distant world. The moon waned, and a faint breath of wind that was +almost cold stole over the sands, among the graves in the cemetery, to +the man and the woman who were keeping vigil upon their knees. The wind +died away almost ere it had risen, and the rigid silence that precedes +the dawn held the desert in its grasp. And God came to Domini in the +silence, Allah through Allah’s garden that was shrouded still in the +shadows of night. Once, as she journeyed through the roaring of the +storm, she had listened for the voice of the desert. And as the desert +took her its voice had spoken to her in a sudden and magical silence, in +a falling of the wind. Now, in a more magical silence, the voice of God +spoke to her. And the voice of the desert and of God were as one. As she +knelt she heard God telling her what was in her heart. It was a strange +and passionate revelation. She trembled as she heard. And sometimes +she was inclined to say, “It is not so.” And sometimes she was afraid, +afraid of what this--all this that was in her heart--would lead her to +do. For God told her of a strength which she had not known her heart +possessed, which--so it seemed to her--she did not wish it to possess, +of a strength from which something within her shrank, against which +something within her protested. But God would not be denied. He told +her she had this strength. He told her that she must use it. He told +her that she would use it. And she began to understand something of +the mystery of the purposes of God in relation to herself, and to +understand, with it, how closely companioned even those who strive after +effacement of self are by selfishness--how closely companioned she had +been on her African pilgrimage. Everything that had happened in Africa +she had quietly taken to herself, as a gift made to her for herself. + +The peace that had descended upon her was balm for her soul, and was +sent merely for that, to stop the pain she suffered from old wounds +that she might be comfortably at rest. The crescendo--the beautiful +crescendo--of calm, of strength, of faith, of hope which she had, as it +were, heard like a noble music within her spirit had been the David sent +to play upon the harp to her Saul, that from her Saul the black demon +of unrest, of despair, might depart. That was what she had believed. She +had believed that she had come to Africa for herself, and now God, in +the silence, was telling her that this was not so, that He had brought +her to Africa to sacrifice herself in the redemption of another. And as +she listened--listened, with bowed head, and eyes in which tears were +gathering, from which tears were falling upon her clasped hands--she +knew that it was true, she knew that God meant her to put away her +selfishness, to rise above it. Those eagle’s wings of which she had +thought--she must spread them. She must soar towards the place of the +angels, whither good women soar in the great moments of their +love, borne up by the winds of God. On the minaret of the mosque of +Sidi-Zerzour, while Androvsky remained in the dark shadow with a curse, +she had mounted, with prayer, surely a little way towards God. And now +God said to her, “Mount higher, come nearer to me, bring another with +you. That was my purpose in leading you to Beni-Mora, in leading you far +out into the desert, in leading you into the heart of the desert.” + +She had been led to Africa for a definite end, and now she knew what +that end was. On the mosque of the minaret of Sidi-Zerzour she had +surely seen prayer travelling, the soul of prayer travelling. And +she had asked herself--“Whither?” She had asked herself where was the +halting-place, with at last the pitched tent, the camp fires, and the +long, the long repose? And when she came down into the court of the +mosque and found Androvsky watching the old Arab who struck against the +mosque and cursed, she had wished that Androvsky had mounted with her a +little way towards God. + +He should mount with her. Always she had longed to see him above her. +Could she leave him below? She knew she could not. She understood that +God did not mean her to. She understood perfectly. And tears streamed +from her eyes. For now there came upon her a full comprehension of her +love for Androvsky. His revelation had not killed it, as, for a moment, +in her passionate personal anger, she had been inclined to think. Indeed +it seemed to her now that, till this hour of silence, she had never +really loved him, never known how to love. Even in the tent at Arba she +had not fully loved him, perfectly loved him. For the thought of self, +the desires of self, the passion of self, had entered into and been +mingled with her love. But now she loved him perfectly, because she +loved as God intended her to love. She loved him as God’s envoy sent to +him. + +She was still weeping, but she began to feel calm, as if the stillness +of this hour before the dawn entered into her soul. She thought of +herself now only as a vessel into which God was pouring His purpose and +His love. + +Just as dawn was breaking, as the first streak of light stole into the +east and threw a frail spear of gold upon the sands, she was conscious +again of a thrill of life within her, of the movement of her unborn +child. Then she lifted her head from her hand, looking towards the east, +and whispered: + +“Give me strength for one more thing--give me strength to be silent!” + +She waited as if for an answer. Then she rose from her knees, bathed her +face and went out to the tent door to Androvsky. + +“Boris!” she said. + +He rose from his knees and looked at her, holding the little wooden +crucifix in his hand. + +“Domini?” he said in an uncertain voice. + +“Put it back into your breast. Keep it for ever, Boris.” + +As if mechanically, and not removing his eyes from her, he put the +crucifix into his breast. After a moment she spoke again, quietly. + +“Boris, you never wished to stay here. You meant to stay here for me. +Let us go away from Amara. Let us go to-day, now, in the dawn.” + +“Us!” he said. + +There was a profound amazement in his voice. + +“Yes,” she answered. + +“Away from Amara--you and I--together?” + +“Yes, Boris, together.” + +“Where--where can we go?” + +The amazement seemed to deepen in his voice. His eyes were watching her +with an almost fierce intentness. In a flash of insight she realised +that, just then, he was wondering about her as he had never wondered +before, wondering whether she was really the good woman at whose feet +his sin-stricken soul had worshipped. Yes, he was asking himself that +question. + +“Boris,” she said, “will you leave yourself in my hands? We have talked +of our future life. We have wondered what we should do. Will you let me +do as I will, let the future be as I choose?” + +In her heart she said “as God chooses.” + +“Yes, Domini,” he answered. “I am in your hands, utterly in your hands.” + +“No,” she said. + +Neither of them spoke after that till the sunlight lay above the towers +and minarets of Amara. Then Domini said: + +“We will go to-day--now.” + +And that morning the camp was struck, and the new journey began--the +journey back. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +A silence had fallen between Domini and Androvsky which neither seemed +able to break. They rode on side by side across the sands towards the +north through the long day. The tower of Amara faded in the sunshine +above the white crests of the dunes. The Arab villages upon their little +hills disappeared in the quivering gold. New vistas of desert opened +before them, oases crowded with palms, salt lakes and stony ground. They +passed by native towns. They saw the negro gardeners laughing among +the rills of yellow water, or climbing with bare feet the wrinkled tree +trunks to lop away dead branches. They heard tiny goatherds piping, +solitary, in the wastes. Dreams of the mirage rose and faded far off +on the horizon, rose and faded mystically, leaving no trembling trace +behind. And they were silent as the mirage, she in her purpose, he in +his wonder. And the long day waned, and towards evening the camp was +pitched and the evening meal was prepared. And still they could not +speak. + +Sometimes Androvsky watched her, and there was a great calm in her face, +but there was no rebuke, no smallness of anger, no hint of despair. +Always he had felt her strength of mind and body, but never so much as +now. Could he rest on it? Dared he? He did not know. And the day seemed +to him to become a dream, and the silence recalled to him the silence of +the monastery in which he had worshipped God before the stranger +came. He thought that in this silence he ought to feel that she was +deliberately raising barriers between them, but--it was strange--he +could not feel this. In her silence there was no bitterness. When is +there bitterness in strength? He rode on and on beside her, and his +sense of a dream deepened, helped by the influence of the desert. Where +were they going? He did not know. What was her purpose? He could not +tell. But he felt that she had a purpose, that her mind was resolved. +Now and then, tearing himself with an effort from the dream, he asked +himself what it could be. What could be in store for him, for them, +after the thing he had told? What could be their mutual life? Must it +not be for ever at an end? Was it not shattered? Was it not dust, like +the dust of the desert that rose round their horses’ feet? The silence +did not tell him, and again he ceased from wondering and the dream +closed round him. Were they not travelling in a mirage, mirage people, +unreal, phantomlike, who would presently fade away into the spaces of +the sun? The sand muffled the tread of the horses’ feet. The desert +understood their silence, clothed it in a silence more vast and more +impenetrable. And Androvsky had made his effort. He had spoken the truth +at last. He could do no more. He was incapable of any further action. As +Domini felt herself to be in the hands of God, he felt himself to be +in the hands of this woman who had received his confession with +this wonderful calm, who was leading him he knew not whither in this +wonderful silence. + +When the camp was pitched, however, he noticed something that caught +him sharply away from the dreamlike, unreal feeling, and set him face to +face with fact that was cold as steel. Always till now the dressing-tent +had been pitched beside their sleeping-tent, with the flap of the +entrance removed so that the two tents communicated. To-night it stood +apart, near the sleeping-tent, and in it was placed one of the small +camp beds. Androvsky was alone when he saw this. On reaching the +halting-place he had walked a little way into the desert. When he +returned he found this change. It told him something of what was passing +in Domini’s mind, and it marked the transformation of their mutual life. +As he gazed at the two tents he felt stricken, yet he felt a curious +sense of something that was like--was it not like--relief? It was as if +his body had received a frightful blow and on his soul a saint’s hand +had been gently laid, as if something fell about him in ruins, and at +the same time a building which he loved, and which for a moment he had +thought tottering, stood firm before him founded upon rock. He was a man +capable of a passionate belief, despite his sin, and he had always had a +passionate belief in Domini’s religion. That morning, when she came out +to him in the sand, a momentary doubt had assailed him. He had known the +thought, “Does she love me still--does she love me more than she +loves God, more than she loves his dictates manifested in the Catholic +religion?” When she said that word “together” that had been his thought. +Now, as he looked at the two tents, a white light seemed to fall upon +Domini’s character, and in this white light stood the ruin and the house +that was founded upon a rock. He was torn by conflicting sensations +of despair and triumph. She was what he had believed. That made the +triumph. But since she was that where was his future with her? The monk +and the man who had fled from the monastery stood up within him to do +battle. The monk knew triumph, but the man was in torment. + +Presently, as Androvsky looked at the two tents, the monk in him seemed +to die a new death, the man who had left the monastery to know a new +resurrection. He was seized by a furious desire to go backward in time, +to go backward but a few hours, to the moment when Domini did not know +what now she knew. He cursed himself for what he had done. At last he +had been able to pray. Yes, but what was prayer now, what was prayer to +the man who looked at the two tents and understood what they meant? He +moved away and began to walk up and down near to the two tents. He did +not know where Domini was. At a little distance he saw the servants +busy preparing the evening meal. Smoke rose up before the cook’s tent, +curling away stealthily among a group of palm trees, beneath which some +Arab boys were huddled, staring with wide eyes at the unusual sight of +travellers. They came from a tiny village at a short distance off, half +hidden among palm gardens. The camels were feeding. A mule was rolling +voluptuously in the sand. At a well a shepherd was watering his flocks, +which crowded about him baaing expectantly. The air seemed to breathe +out a subtle aroma of peace and of liberty. And this apparent presence +of peace, this vision of the calm of others, human beings and animals, +added to the torture of Androvsky. As he walked to and fro he felt as +if he were being devoured by his passions, as if he were losing the +last vestiges of self-control. Never in the monastery, never even in the +night when he left it, had he been tormented like this. For now he had +a terrible companion whom, at that time, he had not known. Memory walked +with him before the tents, the memory of his body, recalling and calling +for the past. + +He had destroyed that past himself. But for him it might have been also +the present, the future. It might have lasted for years, perhaps till +death took him or Domini. Why not? He had only had to keep silence, to +insist on remaining in the desert, far from the busy ways of men. +They could have lived as certain others lived, who loved the free, the +solitary life, in an oasis of their own, tending their gardens of palms. +Life would have gone like a sunlit dream. And death? At that thought he +shuddered. Death--what would that have been to him? What would it be now +when it came? He put the thought from him with force, as a man thrusts +away from him the filthy hand of a clamouring stranger assailing him in +the street. + +This evening he had no time to think of death. Life was enough, life +with this terror which he had deliberately placed in it. + +He thought of himself as a madman for having spoken to Domini. He cursed +himself as a madman. For he knew, although he strove furiously not to +know, how irrevocable was his act, in consequence of the great strength +of her nature. He knew that though she had been to him a woman of fire +she might be to him a woman of iron--even to him whom she loved. + +How she had loved him! + +He walked faster before the tents, to and fro. + +How she had loved him! How she loved him still, at this moment after she +knew what he was, what he had done to her. He had no doubt of her love +as he walked there. He felt it, like a tender hand upon him. But that +hand was inflexible too. In its softness there was firmness--firmness +that would never yield to any strength in him. + +Those two tents told him the story of her strength. As he looked at them +he was looking into her soul. And her soul was in direct conflict with +his. That was what he felt. She had thought, she had made up her mind. +Quietly, silently she had acted. By that action, without a word, she had +spoken to him, told him a tremendous thing. And the man--the passionate +man who had left the monastery--loose in him now was aflame with an +impotent desire that was like a heat of fury against her, while the +monk, hidden far down in him, was secretly worshipping her cleanliness +of spirit. + +But the man who had left the monastery was in the ascendant in him, and +at last drove him to a determination that the monk secretly knew to be +utterly vain. He made up his mind to enter into conflict with Domini’s +strength. He felt that he must, that he could not quietly, without a +word, accept this sudden new life of separation symbolised for him by +the two tents standing apart. + +He stood still. In the distance, under the palms, he saw Batouch +laughing with Ouardi. Near them Ali was reposing on a mat, moving his +head from side to side, smiling with half-shut, vacant eyes, and singing +a languid song. + +This music maddened him. + +“Batouch!” he called out sharply. “Batouch!” + +Batouch stopped laughing, glanced round, then came towards him with a +large pace, swinging from his hips. + +“Monsieur?” + +“Batouch!” Androvsky said. + +But he could not go on. He could not say anything about the two tents to +a servant. + +“Where--where is Madame?” he said almost stammering. + +“Out there, Monsieur.” + +With a sweeping arm the poet pointed towards a hump of sand crowned by +a few palms. Domini was sitting there, surrounded by Arab children, to +whom she was giving sweets out of a box. As Androvsky saw her the anger +in him burnt up more fiercely. This action of Domini’s, simple, natural +though it was, seemed to him in his present condition cruelly heartless. +He thought of her giving the order about the tents and then going calmly +to play with these children, while he--while he---- + +“You can go, Batouch,” he said. “Go away.” + +The poet stared at him with a superb surprise, then moved slowly towards +Ouardi, holding his burnous with his large hands. + +Androvsky looked again at the two tents as a man looks at two enemies. +Then, walking quickly, he went towards the hump of sand. As he +approached it Domini had her side face turned towards him. She did not +see him. The little Arabs were dancing round her on their naked feet, +laughing, showing their white teeth and opening their mouths wide for +the sugar-plums--gaiety incarnate. Androvsky gazed at the woman who was +causing this childish joy, and he saw a profound sadness. Never had +he seen Domini’s face look like this. It was always white, but now its +whiteness was like a whiteness of marble. She moved her head, turning to +feed one of the little gaping mouths, and he saw her eyes, tearless, +but sadder than if they had been full of tears. She was looking at these +children as a mother looks at her children who are fatherless. He did +not--how could he?--understand the look, but it went to his heart. +He stopped, watching. One of the children saw him, shrieked, pointed. +Domini glanced round. As she saw him she smiled, threw the last +sugar-plums and came towards him. + +“Do you want me?” she said, coming up to him. + +His lips trembled. + +“Yes,” he said, “I want you.” + +Something in his voice seemed to startle her, but she said nothing more, +only stood looking at him. The children, who had followed her, crowded +round them, touching their clothes curiously. + +“Send them away,” he said. + +She made the children go, pushing them gently, pointing to the village, +and showing the empty box to them. Reluctantly at last they went towards +the village, turning their heads to stare at her till they were a long +way off, then holding up their skirts and racing for the houses. + +“Domini--Domini,” he said. “You can--you can play with +children--to-day.” + +“I wanted to feel I could give a little happiness to-day,” she +answered--“even to-day.” + +“To-day when--when to me--to me--you are giving----” + +But before her steady gaze all the words he had meant to say, all the +words of furious protest, died on his lips. + +“To me--to me--” he repeated. + +Then he was silent. + +“Boris,” she said, “I want to give you one thing, the thing that you +have lost. I want to give you back peace.” + +“You never can.” + +“I must try. Even if I cannot I shall know that I have tried.” + +“You are giving me--you are giving me not peace, but a sword,” he said. + +She understood that he had seen the two tents. + +“Sometimes a sword can give peace.” + +“The peace of death.” + +“Boris--my dear one--there are many kinds of deaths. Try to trust me. +Leave me to act as I must act. Let me try to be guided--only let me +try.” + +He did not say another word. + +That night they slept apart for the first time since their marriage. + +“Domini, where are you taking me? Where are we going?” + +* * * * * + +The camp was struck once more and they were riding through the desert. +Domini hesitated to answer his question. It had been put with a sort of +terror. + +“I know nothing,” he continued. “I am in your hands like a child. It +cannot be always so. I must know, I must understand. What is our life to +be? What is our future? A man cannot--” + +He paused. Then he said: + +“I feel that you have come to some resolve. I feel it perpetually. It +is as if you were in light and I in darkness, you in knowledge and I in +ignorance. You--you must tell me. I have told you all now. You must tell +me.” + +But she hesitated. + +“Not now,” she answered. “Not yet.” + +“We are to journey on day by day like this, and I am not to know where +we are going! I cannot, Domini--I will not.” + +“Boris, I shall tell you.” + +“When?” + +“Will you trust me, Boris, completely? Can you?” + +“How?” + +“Boris, I have prayed so much for you that at last I feel that I can act +for you. Don’t think me presumptuous. If you could see into my heart you +would see that--indeed, I don’t think it would be possible to feel more +humble than I do in regard to you.” + +“Humble--you, Domini! You can feel humble when you think of me, when you +are with me.” + +“Yes. You have suffered so terribly. God has led you. I feel that He has +been--oh, I don’t know how to say it quite naturally, quite as I feel +it--that He has been more intent on you than on anyone I have ever +known. I feel that His meaning in regarding to you is intense, Boris, as +if He would not let you go.” + +“He let me go when I left the monastery.” + +“Does one never return?” + +Again a sensation almost of terror assailed him. He felt as if he were +fighting in darkness something that he could not see. + +“Return!” he said. “What do you mean?” + +She saw the expression of almost angry fear in his face. It warned her +not to give the reins to her natural impulse, which was always towards a +great frankness. + +“Boris, you fled from God, but do you not think it possible that you +could ever return to Him? Have you not taken the first step? Have you +not prayed?” His face changed, grew slightly calmer. + +“You told me I could pray,” he answered, almost like a child. “Otherwise +I--I should not have dared to. I should have felt that I was insulting +God.” + +“If you trusted me in such a thing, can you not trust me now?” + +“But”--he said uneasily--“but this is different, a worldly matter, a +matter of daily life. I shall have to know.” + +“Yes.” + +“Then why should I not know now? At any moment I could ask Batouch.” + +“Batouch only knows from day to day. I have a map of the desert. I got +it before we left Beni-Mora.” + +Something--perhaps a very slight hesitation in her voice just before she +said the last words--startled him. He turned on his horse and looked at +her hard. + +“Domini,” he said, “are we--we are not going back to Beni-Mora?” + +“I will tell you to-night,” she replied in a low voice. “Let me tell you +tonight.” + +He said no more, but he gazed at her for a long time as if striving +passionately to read her thoughts. But he could not. Her white face +was calm, and she rode looking straight before her, as one that looked +towards some distant goal to which all her soul was journeying with +her body. There was something mystical in her face, in that straight, +far-seeing glance, that surely pierced beyond the blue horizon line and +reached a faroff world. What world? He asked himself the question, but +no answer came, and he dropped his eyes. A new and horrible sadness came +to him, a new sensation of separation from Domini. She had set their +bodies apart, and he had yielded. Now, was she not setting something +else apart? For, in spite of all, in spite of his treacherous existence +with her, he had so deeply and entirely loved her that he had sometimes +felt, dared to feel, that in their passion in the desert their souls had +been fused together. His was black--he knew it--and hers was white. But +had not the fire and the depth of their love conquered all differences, +made even their souls one as their bodies had been one? And now was +she not silently, subtly, withdrawing her soul from his? A sensation of +acute despair swept over him, of utter impotence. + +“Domini!” he said, “Domini!” + +“Yes,” she answered. + +And this time she withdrew her eyes from the blue distance and looked at +him. + +“Domini, you must trust me.” + +He was thinking of the two tents set the one apart from the other. + +“Domini, I’ve borne something in silence. I haven’t spoken. I wanted +to speak. I tried--but I did not. I bore my punishment--you don’t know, +you’ll never know what I felt last--last night--when--I’ve borne that. +But there’s one thing I can’t bear. I’ve lived a lie with you. My love +for you overcame me. I fell. I have told you that I fell. Don’t--don’t +because of that--don’t take away your heart from me entirely. +Domini--Domini--don’t do that.” + +She heard a sound of despair in his voice. + +“Oh, Boris,” she said, “if you knew! There was only one moment when I +fancied my heart was leaving you. It passed almost before it came, and +now--” + +“But,” he interrupted, “do you know--do you know that since--since I +spoke, since I told you, you’ve--you’ve never touched me?” + +“Yes, I know it,” she replied quietly. + +Something told him to be silent then. Something told him to wait till +the night came and the camp was pitched once more. + +They rested at noon for several hours, as it was impossible to travel +in the heat of the day. The camp started an hour before they did. Only +Batouch remained behind to show them the way to Ain-la-Hammam, where +they would pass the following night. When Batouch brought the horses he +said: + +“Does Madame know the meaning of Ain-la-Hammam?” + +“No,” said Domini. “What is it?” + +“Source des tourterelles,” replied Batouch. “I was there once with an +English traveller.” + +“Source des tourterelles,” repeated Domini. “Is it beautiful, Batouch? +It sounds as if it ought to be beautiful.” + +She scarcely knew why, but she had a longing that Ain-la-Hammam might be +tender, calm, a place to soothe the spirit, a place in which Androvsky +might be influenced to listen to what she had to tell him without +revolt, without despair. Once he had spoken about the influence of +place, about rising superior to it. But she believed in it, and she +waited, almost anxiously, for the reply of Batouch. As usual it was +enigmatic. + +“Madame will see,” he answered. “Madame will see. But the +Englishman----” + +“Yes?” + +“The Englishman was ravished. ‘This,’ he said to me, ‘this, Batouch, is +a little Paradise!’ And there was no moon then. To-night there will be a +moon.” + +“Paradise!” exclaimed Androvsky. + +He sprang upon his horse and pulled up the reins. Domini said no more. +They had started late. It was night when they reached Ain-la-Hammam. As +they drew near Domini looked before her eagerly through the pale gloom +that hung over the sand. She saw no village, only a very small grove of +palms and near it the outline of a bordj. The place was set in a cup of +the Sahara. All around it rose low hummocks of sand. On two or three of +them were isolated clumps of palms. Here the eyes roamed over no vast +distances. There was little suggestion of space. She drew up her horse +on one of the hummocks and gazed down. She heard doves murmuring in +their soft voices among the trees. The tents were pitched near the +bordj. + +“What does Madame think?” asked Batouch. “Does Madame agree with the +Englishman?” + +“It is a strange little place,” she answered. + +She listened to the voices of the doves. A dog barked by the bordj. + +“It is almost like a hiding-place,” she added. + +Androvsky said nothing, but he, too, was gazing intently at the trees +below them, he, too, was listening to the voices of the doves. After a +moment he looked at her. + +“Domini,” he whispered. “Here--won’t you--won’t you let me touch your +hand again here?” + +“Come, Boris,” she answered. “It is late.” + +They rode down into Ain-la-Hammam. + +The tents had all been pitched near together on the south of the bordj, +and separated by it from the tiny oasis. Opposite to them was a Cafe +Maure of the humblest kind, a hovel of baked earth and brushwood, with +earthen divans and a coffee niche. Before this was squatting a group +of five dirty desert men, the sole inhabitants of Ain-la-Hammam. Just +before dinner Domini gave an order to Batouch, and, while they were +dining, Androvsky noticed that their people were busy unpegging the two +sleeping-tents. + +“What are they doing?” he said to Domini, uneasily. In his present +condition everything roused in him anxiety. In every unusual action he +discerned the beginning of some tragedy which might affect his life. + +“I told Batouch to put our tents on the other side of the bordj,” she +answered. + +“Yes. But why?” + +“I thought that to-night it would be better if we were a little more +alone than we are here, just opposite to that Cafe Maure, and with the +servants. And on the other side there are the palms and the water. And +the doves were talking there as we rode in. When we have finished dinner +we can go and sit there and be quiet.” + +“Together,” he said. + +An eager light had come into his eyes. He leaned forward towards her +over the little table and stretched out his hand. + +“Yes, together,” she said. + +But she did not take his hand. + +“Domini!” he said, still keeping his hand on the table, “Domini!” + +An expression, that was like an expression of agony, flitted over her +face and died away, leaving it calm. + +“Let us finish,” she said quietly. “Look, they have taken the tents! In +a moment we can go.” + +The doves were silent. The night was very still in this nest of the +Sahara. Ouardi brought them coffee, and Batouch came to say that the +tents were ready. + +“We shall want nothing more to-night, Batouch,” Domini said. “Don’t +disturb us.” + +Batouch glanced towards the Cafe Maure. A red light gleamed through +its low doorway. One or two Arabs were moving within. Some of the camp +attendants had joined the squatting men without. A noise of busy voices +reached the tents. + +“To-night, Madame,” Batouch said proudly, “I am going to tell stories +from the _Thousand and One Nights_. I am going to tell the story of the +young Prince of the Indies, and the story of Ganem, the Slave of Love. +It is not often that in Ain-la-Hammam a poet--” + +“No, indeed. Go to them, Batouch. They must be impatient for you.” + +Batouch smiled broadly. + +“Madame begins to understand the Arabs,” he rejoined. “Madame will soon +be as the Arabs.” + +“Go, Batouch. Look--they are longing for you.” + +She pointed to the desert men, who were gesticulating and gazing towards +the tents. + +“It is better so, Madame,” he answered. “They know that I am here only +for one night, and they are eager as the hungry jackal is eager for food +among the yellow dunes of the sand.” + +He threw his burnous over his shoulder and moved away smiling, and +murmuring in a luscious voice the first words of Ganem, the Slave of +Love. + +“Let us go now, Boris,” Domini said. + +He got up at once from the table, and they walked together round the +bordj. + +On its further side there was no sign of life. No traveller was resting +there that night, and the big door that led into the inner court was +closed and barred. The guardian had gone to join the Arabs at the Cafe +Maure. Between the shadow cast by the bordj and the shadow cast by +the palm trees stood the two tents on a patch of sand. The oasis was +enclosed in a low earth wall, along the top of which was a ragged edging +of brushwood. In this wall were several gaps. Through one, opposite to +the tents, was visible a shallow pool of still water by which tall reeds +were growing. They stood up like spears, absolutely motionless. A frog +was piping from some hidden place, giving forth a clear flute-like note +that suggested glass. It reminded Domini of her ride into the desert +at Beni-Mora to see the moon rise. On that night Androvsky had told +her that he was going away. That had been the night of his tremendous +struggle with himself. When he had spoken she had felt a sensation as if +everything that supported her in the atmosphere of life and of happiness +had foundered. And now--now she was going to speak to him--to tell +him--what was she going to tell him? How much could she, dared she, tell +him? She prayed silently to be given strength. + +In the clear sky the young moon hung. Beneath it, to the left, was one +star like an attendant, the star of Venus. The faint light of the +moon fell upon the water of the pool. Unceasingly the frog uttered its +nocturne. + +Domini stood for a moment looking at the water listening. Then she +glanced up at the moon and the solitary star. Androvsky stood by her. + +“Shall we--let us sit on the wall, where the gap is,” she said. +“The water is beautiful, beautiful with that light on it, and the +palms--palms are always beautiful, especially at night. I shall never +love any other trees as I love palm trees.” + +“Nor I,” he answered. + +They sat down on the wall. At first they did not speak any more. The +stillness of the water, the stillness of reeds and palms, was against +speech. And the little flute-like note that came to them again and again +at regular intervals was like a magical measuring of the silence of the +night in the desert. At last Domini said, in a low voice: + +“I heard that note on the night when I rode out of Beni-Mora to see the +moon rise in the desert. Boris, you remember that night?” + +“Yes,” he answered. + +He was gazing at the pool, with his face partly averted from her, one +hand on the wall, the other resting on his knee. + +“You were brave that night, Boris,” she said. + +“I--I wished to be--I tried to be. And if I had been--” + +He stopped, then went on: “If I had been, Domini, really brave, if I +had done what I meant to do that night, what would our lives have been +to-day?” + +“I don’t know. We mustn’t think of that to-night. We must think of the +future. Boris, there’s no life, no real life without bravery. No man or +woman is worthy of living who is not brave.” + +He said nothing. + +“Boris, let us--you and I--be worthy of living to-night--and in the +future.” + +“Give me your hand then,” he answered. “Give it me, Domini.” + +But she did not give it to him. Instead she went on, speaking a little +more rapidly: + +“Boris, don’t rely too much on my strength. I am only a woman, and I +have to struggle. I have had to struggle more than perhaps you will +ever know. You--must not make--make things impossible for me. I am +trying--very hard--to--I’m--you must not touch me to-night, Boris.” + +She drew a little farther away from him. A faint breath of air made the +leaves of the palm trees rustle slightly, made the reeds move for an +instant by the pool. He laid his hand again on the wall from which he +had lifted it. There was a pleading sound in her voice which made him +feel as if it were speaking close against his heart. + +“I said I would tell you to-night where we are going.” + +“Tell me now.” + +“We are going back to Beni-Mora. We are not very far off from Beni-Mora +to-night--not very far.” + +“We are going to Beni-Mora!” he repeated in a dull voice. “We are----” + +He sat up on the wall, looking straight into her face. + +“Why?” he said. His voice was sharp now, sharp with fear. + +“Boris, do you want to be at peace, not with me, but with God? Do +you want to get rid of your burden of misery, which increases--I know +it--day by day?” + +“How can I?” he said hopelessly. + +“Isn’t expiation the only way? I think it is.” + +“Expiation! How--how can--I can never expiate my sin.” + +“There’s no sin that cannot be expiated. God isn’t merciless. Come back +with me to Beni-Mora. That little church--where you married me--come +back to it with me. You could not confess to the--to Father Beret. I +feel as if I knew why. Where you married me you will--you must--make +your confession.” + +“To the priest who--to Father Roubier!” + +There was fierce protest in his voice. + +“It does not matter who is the priest who will receive your confession. +Only make it there--make it in the church at Beni-Mora where you married +me.” + +“That was your purpose! That is where you are taking me! I can’t go, I +won’t! Domini, think what you are doing! You are asking too much--” + +“I feel that God is asking that of you. Don’t refuse Him.” + +“I cannot go--at Beni-Mora where we--where everything will remind us--” + +“Ah, don’t you think I shall feel it too? Don’t you think I shall +suffer?” + +He felt horribly ashamed when she said that, bowed down with an +overwhelming weight of shame. + +“But our lives”--he stammered--“but--if I go--afterwards--if I make my +confession--afterwards--afterwards?” + +“Isn’t it enough to think of that one thing? Isn’t it better to put +everything else, every other thought, away? It seems so clear to me that +we should go to Beni-Mora. I feel as if I had been told--as a child is +told to do something by its father.” + +She looked up into the clear sky. + +“I am sure I have been told,” she added. “I know I have.” + +There was a long silence between them. Androvsky felt that he did not +dare to break it. Something in Domini’s face and voice cast out from him +the instinct of revolt, of protest. He began to feel exhausted, without +power, like a sick man who is being carried by bearers in a litter, and +who looks at the landscape through which he is passing with listless +eyes, and who scarcely has the force to care whither he is being borne. + +“Domini,” he said at last, and his voice sounded very tired, “if you +say I must go to Beni-Mora I will go. I have done you a great wrong +and--and--” + +“Don’t think of me any more,” she said. “Think--think as I +do--of--of---- + +“What am I? I have loved you, I shall always love you, but I am as you +are, here for a little while, elsewhere for all eternity. You told +him--that man in the monastery--that we are shadows set in a world of +shadows.” + +“That was a lie,” he interrupted, and the weariness had gone out of his +voice. “When I said that I had never loved, I had never loved you.” + +“Or was it a half-truth? Aren’t we, perhaps, shadow now in +comparison--comparison to what we shall be? Isn’t this world, even +this--this desert, this pool with the light on it, this silence of the +night around us--isn’t all this a shadow in comparison to the world +where we are going, you and I? Boris, I think if we are brave now we +shall be together in that world. But if we are cowards now, I think, I +am sure, that in that world--the real world--we shall be separated for +ever. You and I, whatever we may be, whatever we may have done, at least +are one thing--we are believers. We don’t think this is all. If we did +it would be different. But we can’t change the truth that is in our +souls, and as we can’t change it we must live by it, we must act by it. +We can’t do anything else. I can’t--and you? Don’t you feel, don’t you +know, that you can’t?” + +“To-night,” he said, “I feel that I know nothing--nothing except that I +am suffering.” + +His voice broke on the last words. Tears were shining in his eyes. After +a long silence he said: + +“Domini, take me where you will. If it is to Beni-Mora I will go. +But--but--afterwards?” + +“Afterwards----” she said. + +Then she stopped. + +The little note of the frog sounded again and again by the still water +among the reeds. The moon was higher in the sky. “Don’t let us think +of afterwards, Boris,” she said at length. “That song we have heard +together, that song we love--‘No one but God and I knows what is in +my heart.’ I hear it now so often, always almost. It seems to gather +meaning, it seems to--God knows what is in your heart and mine. He will +take care of the--afterwards. Perhaps in our hearts already He has put a +secret knowledge of the end.” + +“Has He--has He put it--that knowledge--into yours?” + +“Hush!” she said. + +They spoke no more that night. + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +The caravan of Domini and Androvsky was leaving Arba. + +Already the tents and the attendants, with the camels and the mules, +were winding slowly along the plain through the scrub in the direction +of the mountains, and the dark shadow which indicated the oasis of +Beni-Mora. Batouch was with them. Domini and Androvsky were going to be +alone on this last stage of their desert journey. They had mounted their +horses before the great door of the bordj, said goodbye to the Sheikh of +Arba, scattered some money among the ragged Arabs gathered to watch them +go, and cast one last look behind them. + +In that mutual, instinctive look back they were both bidding a silent +farewell to the desert, that had sheltered their passion, surely taken +part in the joy of their love, watched the sorrow and the terror grow +in it to the climax at Amara, and was now whispering to them a faint and +mysterious farewell. + +To Domini the desert had always been as a great and significant +personality, a personality that had called her persistently to come to +it. Now, as she turned on her horse, she felt as if it were calling her +no longer, as if its mission to her were accomplished, as if its voice +had sunk into a deep and breathless silence. She wondered if Androvsky +felt this too, but she did not ask him. His face was pale and severe. +His eyes stared into the distance. His hands lay on his horse’s neck +like tired things with no more power to grip and hold. His lips were +slightly parted, and she heard the sound of his breath coming and going +like the breath of a man who is struggling. This sound warned her not to +try his strength or hers. + +“Come, Boris,” she said, and her voice held none of the passionate +regret that was in her heart, “we mustn’t linger, or it will be night +before we reach Beni-Mora.” + +“Let it be night,” he said. “Dark night!” + +The horses moved slowly on, descending the hill on which stood the +bordj. + +“Dark--dark night!” he said again. + +She said nothing. They rode into the plain. When they were there he +said: + +“Domini, do you understand--do you realise?” + +“What, Boris?” she asked quietly. + +“All that we are leaving to-day?” + +“Yes, I understand.” + +“Are we--are we leaving it for ever?” + +“We must not think of that.” + +“How can we help it? What else can we think of? Can one govern the +mind?” + +“Surely, if we can govern the heart.” + +“Sometimes,” he said, “sometimes I wonder----” + +He looked at her. Something in her face made it impossible for him to +go on, to say what he had been going to say. But she understood the +unfinished sentence. + +“If you can wonder, Boris,” she said, “you don’t know me, you don’t know +me at all!” + +“Domini,” he said, “I don’t wonder. But sometimes I understand your +strength, and sometimes it seems to me scarcely human, scarcely the +strength of a woman.” + +She lifted her whip and pointed to the dark shadow far away. + +“I can just see the tower,” she said. “Can’t you?” + +“I will not look,” he said. “I cannot. If you can, you are stronger than +I. When I remember that it was on that tower you first spoke to me--oh, +Domini, if we could only go back! It is in our power. We have only to +draw a rein and--and--” + +“I look at the tower,” she said, “as once I looked at the desert. It +calls us, the shadow of the palm trees calls us, as once the desert +did.” + +“But the voice--what a different voice! Can you listen to it?” + +“I have been listening to it ever since we left Amara. Yes, it is a +different voice, but we must obey it as we obeyed the voice of the +desert. Don’t you feel that?” + +“If I do it is because you tell me to feel it; you tell me that I must +feel it.” + +His words seemed to hurt her. An expression of pain came into her face. + +“Boris,” she said, “don’t make me regret too terribly that I ever came +into your life. When you speak like that I feel almost as if you were +putting me in the place of--of--I feel as if you were depending upon me +for everything that you are doing, as if you were letting your own will +fall asleep. The desert brings dreams. I know that. But we, you and I, +we must not dream any more.” + +“A dream, you call it--the life we have lived together, our desert +life?” + +“Boris, I only mean that we must live strongly now, act strongly now, +that we must be brave. I have always felt that there was strength in +you.” + +“Strength!” he said bitterly. + +“Yes. Otherwise I could never have loved you. Don’t ever prove to me +that I was utterly wrong. I can bear a great deal. But that--I don’t +feel as if I could bear that.” + +After a moment he answered: + +“I will try to give you nothing more to bear for me.” + +And he lifted his eyes and fixed them upon the tower with a sort of +stern intentness, as a man looks at something cruel, terrible. + +She saw him do this. + +“Let us ride quicker,” she said. “To-night we must be in Beni-Mora.” + +He said nothing, but he touched his horse with his heel. His eyes were +always fixed upon the tower, as if they feared to look at the desert +any more. She understood that when he had said “I will try to give you +nothing more to bear for me,” he had not spoken idly. He had waked up +from the egoism of his despair. He had been able to see more clearly +into her heart, to feel more rightly what she was feeling than he had +before. As she watched him watching the tower, she had a sensation that +a bond, a new bond between them, was chaining them together in a new +way. Was it not a bond that would be strong and lasting, that the +future, whatever it held, would not be able to break? Ties, sacred ties, +that had bound them together might, must, be snapped asunder. And the +end was not yet. She saw, as she gazed at the darkness of the palms of +Beni-Mora, a greater darkness approaching, deeper than any darkness of +palms, than any darkness of night. But now she saw also a ray of +light in the gloom, the light of the dawning strength, the dawning +unselfishness in Androvsky. And she resolved to fix her eyes upon it as +he fixed his eyes upon the tower. + +Just after sunset they rode into Beni-Mora in advance of the camp, which +they had passed upon their way. To the right were the trees of Count +Anteoni’s garden. Domini felt them, but she did not look towards them. +Nor did Androvsky. They kept their eyes fixed upon the distance of +the white road. Only when they reached the great hotel, now closed and +deserted, did she glance away. She could not pass the tower without +seeing it. But she saw it through a mist of tears, and her hands +trembled upon the reins they held. For a moment she felt that she must +break down, that she had no more strength left in her. But they came to +the statue of the Cardinal holding the double cross towards the desert +like a weapon. And she looked at it and saw the Christ. + +“Boris,” she whispered, “there is the Christ. Let us think only of that +tonight.” + +She saw him look at it steadily. + +“You remember,” she said, at the bottom of the avenue of cypresses--“at +El-Largani--_Factus obediens usque ad mortem Crucis_?” + +“Yes, Domini.” + +“We can be obedient too. Let us be obedient too.” + +When she said that, and looked at him, Androvsky felt as if he were on +his knees before her, as he was upon his knees in the garden when he +could not go away. But he felt, too, that then, though he had loved her, +he had not known how to love her, how to love anyone. She had taught him +now. The lesson sank into his heart like a sword and like balm. It was +as if he were slain and healed by the same stroke. + +That night, as Domini lay in the lonely room in the hotel, with the +French windows open to the verandah, she heard the church clock chime +the hour and the distant sound of the African hautboy in the street of +the dancers, she heard again the two voices. The hautboy was barbarous +and provocative, but she thought that it was no more shrill with a +persistent triumph. Presently the church bell chimed again. + +Was it the bell of the church of Beni-Mora, or the bell of the chapel +of El-Largani? Or was it not rather the voice of the great religion to +which she belonged, to which Androvsky was returning? + +When it ceased she whispered to herself, “_Factus obediens usque ad +mortem Crucis_.” And with these words upon her lips towards dawn +she fell asleep. They had dined upstairs in the little room that had +formerly been Domini’s salon, and had not seen Father Roubier, who +always came to the hotel to take his evening meal. In the morning, after +they had breakfasted, Androvsky said: + +“Domini, I will go. I will go now.” + +He got up and stood by her, looking down at her. In his face there was a +sort of sternness, a set expression. + +“To Father Roubier, Boris?” she said. + +“Yes. Before I go won’t you--won’t you give me your hand?” + +She understood all the agony of spirit he was enduring, all the shame +against which he was fighting. She longed to spring up, to take him in +her arms, to comfort him as only the woman he loves and who loves him +can comfort a man, without words, by the pressure of her arms, the +pressure of her lips, the beating of her heart against his heart. She +longed to do this so ardently that she moved restlessly, looking up at +him with a light in her eyes that he had never seen in them before, not +even when they watched the fire dying down at Arba. But she did not lift +her hand to his. + +“Boris,” she said, “go. God will be with you.” + +After a moment she added: + +“And all my heart.” + +He stood, as if waiting, a long time. She had ceased from moving and +had withdrawn her eyes from his. In his soul a voice was saying, “If she +does not touch you now she will never touch you again.” And he waited. +He could not help waiting. + +“Boris,” she whispered, “good-bye.” + +“Good-bye?” he said. + +“Come to me--afterwards. Come to me in the garden. I shall be there +where we--I shall be there waiting for you.” + +He went out without another word. + +When he was gone she went on to the verandah quickly and looked over the +parapet. She saw him come out from beneath the arcade and walk slowly +across the road to the little gate of the enclosure before the house of +the priest. As he lifted his hands to open the gate there was the sound +of a bark, and she saw Bous-Bous run out with a manner of stern +inquiry, which quickly changed to joyful welcome as he recognised an old +acquaintance. Androvsky bent down, took up the little dog in his arms, +and, holding him, walked to the house door. In a moment it was opened +and he went in. Then Domini set out towards the garden, avoiding the +village street, and taking a byway which skirted the desert. She walked +quickly. She longed to be within the shadows of the garden behind the +white wall. She did not feel much, think much, as she walked. Without +self-consciously knowing it she was holding all her nature, the whole of +herself, fiercely in check. She did not look about her, did not see the +sunlit reaches of the desert, or the walls of the houses of Beni-Mora, +or the palm trees. Only when she had passed the hotel and the negro +village and turned to the left, to the track at the edge of which the +villa of Count Anteoni stood, did she lift her eyes from the ground. +They rested on the white arcade framing the fierce blue of the cloudless +sky. She stopped short. Her nature seemed to escape from the leash by +which she had held it in with a rush, to leap forward, to be in the +garden and in the past, in the past with its passion and its fiery +hopes, its magnificent looking forward, its holy desires of joy that +would crown her woman’s life, of love that would teach her all +the depth, and the height, and the force and the submission of her +womanhood. And then, from that past, it strove on into the present. The +shock was as the shock of battle. There were noises in her ears, voices +clamouring in her heart. All her pulses throbbed like hammers, and then +suddenly she felt as weak as a little sick child, and as if she must lie +down there on the dust of the white road in the sunshine, lie down and +die at the edge of the desert that had treated her cruelly, that had +slain the hopes it had given to her and brought into her heart this +terrible despair. + +For now she knew a moment of utter despair, in which all things seemed +to dissolve into atoms and sink down out of her sight. She stood +quivering in blackness. She stood absolutely alone, more absolutely +alone than any woman had ever been, than any human being had ever been. +She seemed presently, as the blackness faded into something pale, like a +ghastly twilight, to see herself--her wraith, as it were--standing in a +vast landscape, vast as the desert, companionless, lost, forgotten, out +of mind, watching for something that would never come, listening for +some voice that was hushed in eternal silence. + +That was to be her life, she thought--could she face it? Could she +endure it? And everything within her said to her that she could not. + +And then, just then, when she felt that she must sink down and give +up the battle of life, she seemed to see by her side a shape, a little +shape like a child. And it lifted up a hand to her hand. + +And she knew that the vast landscape was God’s garden, the Garden of +Allah, and that no day, no night could ever pass without God walking in +it. + +Hearing a knock upon the great gate of the garden Smain uncurled himself +on his mat within the tent, rose lazily to his feet, and, without a +rose, strolled languidly to open to the visitor. Domini stood without. +When he saw her he smiled quietly, with no surprise. + +“Madame has returned?” + +Domini smiled at him, but her lips were trembling, and she said nothing. + +Smain observed her with a dawning of curiosity. + +“Madame is changed,” he said at length. “Madame looks tired. The sun is +hot in the desert now. It is better here in the garden.” + +With an effort she controlled herself. + +“Yes, Smain,” she answered, “it is better here. But I can not stay here +long.” + +“You are going away?” + +“Yes, I am going away.” + +She saw more quiet questions fluttering on his lips, and added: + +“And now I want to walk in the garden alone.” + +He waved his hand towards the trees. + +“It is all for Madame. Monsieur the Count has always said so. But +Monsieur?” + +“He is in Beni-Mora. He is coming presently to fetch me.” + +Then she turned away and walked slowly across the great sweep of sand +towards the trees and was taken by their darkness. She heard again the +liquid bubbling of the hidden waterfall, and was again companioned by +the mystery of this desert Paradise, but it no longer whispered to +her of peace for her. It murmured only its own personal peace and +accentuated her own personal agony and struggle. All that it had been it +still was, but all that she had been in it was changed. And she felt the +full terror of Nature’s equanimity environing the fierce and tortured +lives of men. + +As she walked towards the deepest recesses of the garden along the +winding tracks between the rills she had no sensation of approaching the +hidden home of the Geni of the garden. Yet she remembered acutely all +her first feelings there. Not one was forgotten. They returned to her +like spectres stealing across the sand. They lurked like spectres among +the dense masses of the trees. She strove not to see their pale shapes, +not to hear their terrible voices. She strove to draw calm once more +from this infinite calm of silently-growing things aspiring towards the +sun. But with each step she took the torment in her heart increased. At +last she came to the deeper darkness and the blanched sand, and saw +pine needles strewed about her feet. Then she stood still, instinctively +listening for a sound that would complete the magic of the garden and +her own despair. She waited for it. She even felt, strangely, that she +wanted, that she needed it--the sound of the flute of Larbi playing his +amorous tune. But his flute to-day was silent. Had he fallen out of an +old love and not yet found a new? or had he, perhaps, gone away? or was +he dead? For a long time she stood there, thinking about Larbi. He and +his flute and his love were mingled with her life in the desert. And she +felt that she could not leave the desert without bidding them farewell. + +But the silence lasted and she went on and came to the _fumoir_. She +went into it at once and sat down. She was going to wait for Androvsky +here. + +Her mind was straying curiously to-day. Suddenly she found herself +thinking of the fanatical religious performance she had seen with Hadj +on the night when she had ridden out to watch the moon rise. She saw in +imagination the bowing bodies, the foaming mouths, the glassy eyes +of the young priests of the Sahara. She saw the spikes behind their +eyeballs, the struggling scorpions descending into their throats, the +flaming coals under their arm-pits, the nails driven into their heads. +She heard them growling as they saw the glass, like hungry beasts at the +sight of meat. And all this was to them religion. This madness was +their conception of worship. A voice seemed to whisper to her: “And your +madness?” + +It was like the voice that whispered to Androvsky in the cemetery of +El-Largani, “Come out with me into that world, that beautiful world +which God made for men. Why do you reject it?” + +For a moment she saw all religions, all the practices, the renunciations +of the religions of the world, as varying forms of madness. She compared +the self-denial of the monk with the fetish worship of the savage. And +a wild thrill of something that was almost like joy rushed through her, +the joy that sometimes comes to the unbelievers when they are about to +commit some act which they feel would be contrary to God’s will if there +were a God. It was a thrill of almost insolent human emancipation. The +soul cried out: “I have no master. When I thought I had a master I was +mad. Now I am sane.” + +But it passed almost as it came, like a false thing slinking from the +sunlight, and Domini bowed her head in the obscurity of Count Anteoni’s +thinking-place and returned to her true self. That moment had been like +the moment upon the tower when she saw below her the Jewess dancing upon +the roof for the soldiers, a black speck settling for an instant upon +whiteness, then carried away by a purifying wind. She knew that she +would always be subject to such moments so long as she was a human +being, that there would always be in her blood something that was +self-willed. Otherwise, would she not be already in Paradise? She sat +and prayed for strength in the battle of life, that could never be +anything else but a battle. + +At last something within her told her to look up, to look out through +the window-space into the garden. She had not heard a step, but she +knew that Androvsky was approaching, and, as she looked up, she prepared +herself for a sight that would be terrible. She remembered his face when +he came to bid her good-bye in the garden, and she feared to see his +face now. But she schooled herself to be strong, for herself and for +him. + +He was near her on the path coming towards her. As she saw him she +uttered a little cry and stood up. An immense surprise came to her, +followed in a moment by an immense joy--the greatest joy, she thought, +that she had ever experienced. For she looked on a face in which she +saw for the first time a pale dawning of peace. There was sadness in it, +there was awe, but there was a light of calm, such as sometimes settles +upon the faces of men who have died quietly without agony or fear. And +she felt fully, as she saw it, the rapture of having refused cowardice +and grasped the hand of bravery. Directly afterwards there came to her a +sensation of wonder that at this moment of their lives she and Androvsky +should be capable of a feeling of joy, of peace. When the wonder passed +it was as if she had seen God and knew for ever the meaning of His +divine compensations. + +Androvsky came to the doorway of the _fumoir_ without looking up, +stood still there--just where Count Anteoni had stood during his first +interview with Domini--and said: + +“Domini, I have been to the priest. I have made my confession.” + +“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Boris!” + +He came into the _fumoir_ and sat down near her, but not close to her, +on one of the divans. Now the sad look in his face had deepened and the +peace seemed to be fading. She had thought of the dawn--that pale light +which is growing into day. Now she thought of the twilight which is +fading into night. And the terrible knowledge struck her, “I am the +troubler of his peace. Without me only could he ever regain fully the +peace which he has lost.” + +“Domini,” he said, looking up at her, “you know the rest. You meant it +to be as it will be when we left Amara.” + +“Was there any other way? Was there any other possible life for us--for +you--for me?” + +“For you!” he said, and there was a sound almost of despair in his +voice. “But what is to be your life? I have never protected you--you +have protected me. I have never been strong for you--you have been +strong for me. But to leave you--all alone, Domini, must I do that? Must +I think of you out in the world alone?” + +For a moment she was tempted to break her silence, to tell him the +truth, that she would perhaps not be alone, that another life, sprung +from his and hers, was coming to be with her, was coming to share the +great loneliness that lay before her. But she resisted the temptation +and only said: + +“Do not think of me, Boris.” + +“You tell me not to think of you!” he said with an almost fierce wonder. +“Do you--do you wish me not to think of you?” + +“What I wish--that is so little, but--no, Boris, I can’t say--I don’t +think I could ever truly say that I wish you to think no more of me. +After all, one has a heart, and I think if it’s worth anything it must +be often a rebellious heart. I know mine is rebellious. But if you don’t +think too much of me--when you are there--” + +She paused, and they looked at each other for a moment in silence. Then +she continued: + +“Surely it will be easier for you, happier for you.” + +Androvsky clenched his right hand on the divan and turned round till he +was facing her full. His eyes blazed. + +“Domini,” he said, “you are truthful. I’ll be truthful to you. Till +the end of my life I’ll think of you--every day, every hour. If it were +mortal sin to think of you I would commit it--yes, Domini, deliberately, +I would commit it. But--God doesn’t ask so much of us; no, God doesn’t. +I’ve made my confession. I know what I must do. I’ll do it. You are +right--you are always right--you are guided, I know that. But I will +think of you. And I’ll tell you something--don’t shirk from it, because +it’s truth, the truth of my soul, and you love truth. Domini--” + +Suddenly he got up from the divan and stood before her, looking down at +her steadily. + +“Domini, I can’t regret that I have seen you, that we have been +together, that we have loved each other, that we do love each other for +ever. I can’t regret it; I can’t even try or wish to. I can’t regret +that I have learned from you the meaning of life. I know that God has +punished me for what I have done. In my love for you--till I told +you the truth, that other truth--I never had a moment of peace--of +exultation, yes, of passionate exultation; but never, never a moment of +peace. For always, even in the most beautiful moments, there has been +agony for me. For always I have known that I was sinning against God and +you, against myself, my eternal vows. And yet now I tell you, Domini, +as I have told God since I have been able to pray again, that I am glad, +thankful, that I have loved you, been loved by you. Is it wicked? I +don’t know. I can scarcely even care, because it’s true. And how can I +deny the truth, strive against truth? I am as I am, and I am that. God +has made me that. God will forgive me for being as I am. I’m not afraid. +I believe--I dare to believe--that He wishes me to think of you always +till the end of my life. I dare to believe that He would almost hate me +if I could ever cease from loving you. That’s my other confession--my +confession to you. I was born, perhaps, to be a monk. But I was born, +too, that I might love you and know your love, your beauty, your +tenderness, your divinity. If I had not known you, if I had died a monk, +a good monk who had never denied his vows, I should have died--I feel +it, Domini--in a great, a terrible ignorance. I should have known the +goodness of God, but I should never have known part, a beautiful part, +of His goodness. For I should never have known the goodness that He has +put into you. He has taught me through you. He has tortured me through +you; yes, but through you, too, He has made me understand Him. When I +was in the monastery, when I was at peace, when I lost myself in prayer, +when I was absolutely pure, absolutely--so I thought--the child of +God, I never really knew God. Now, Domini, now I know Him. In the worst +moments of the new agony that I must meet at least I shall always have +that help. I shall always feel that I know what God is. I shall always, +when I think of you, when I remember you, be able to say, ‘God is +love.’” + +He was silent, but his face still spoke to her, his eyes read her eyes. +And in that moment at last they understood each other fully and for +ever. “It was written”--that was Domini’s thought--“it was written by +God.” Far away the church bell chimed. + +“Boris,” Domini said quietly, “we must go to-day. We must leave +Beni-Mora. You know that?” + +“Yes,” he said, “I know.” + +He looked out into the garden. The almost fierce resolution, that had +something in it of triumph, faded from him. + +“Yes,” he said, “this is the end, the real end, for--there, it will all +be different--it will be terrible.” + +“Let us sit here for a little while together,” Domini said, “and be +quiet. Is it like the garden of El-Largani, Boris?” + +“No. But when I first came here, when I saw the white walls, the great +door, when I saw the poor Arabs gathered there to receive alms, it made +me feel almost as if I were at El-Largani. That was why----” he paused. + +“I understand, Boris, I understand everything now.” + +And then they were silent. Such a silence as theirs was then could +never be interpreted to others. In it the sorrows, the aspirations, the +struggles, the triumphs, the torturing regrets, the brave determinations +of poor, great, feeble, noble humanity were enclosed as in a casket--a +casket which contains many kinds of jewels, but surely none that are not +precious. + +And the garden listened, and beyond the garden the desert listened--that +other garden of Allah. And in this garden was not Allah, too, listening +to this silence of his children, this last mutual silence of theirs in +the garden where they had wandered, where they had loved, where they had +learned a great lesson and drawn near to a great victory? + +They might have sat thus for hours; they had lost all count of time. But +presently, in the distance among the trees, there rose a light, frail +sound that struck into both their hearts like a thin weapon. It was the +flute of Larbi, and it reminded them--of what did it not remind them? +All their passionate love of the body, all their lawlessness, all the +joy of liberty and of life, of the barbaric life that is liberty, all +their wandering in the great spaces of the sun, were set before them in +Larbi’s fluttering tune, that was like the call of a siren, the call +of danger, the call of earth and of earthly things, summoning them to +abandon the summons of the spirit. Domini got up swiftly. + +“Come, Boris,” she said, without looking at him. + +He obeyed her and rose to his feet. + +“Let us go to the wall,” she said, “and look out once more on the +desert. It must be nearly noon. Perhaps--perhaps we shall hear the call +to prayer.” + +They walked down the winding alleys towards the edge of the garden. The +sound of the flute of Larbi died away gradually into silence. Soon they +saw before them the great spaces of the Sahara flooded with the blinding +glory of the summer sunlight. They stood and looked out over it from the +shelter of some pepper trees. No caravans were passing. No Arabs were +visible. The desert seemed utterly empty, given over, naked, to the +dominion of the sun. While they stood there the nasal voice of the +Mueddin rose from the minaret of the mosque of Beni-Mora, uttered its +fourfold cry, and died away. + +“Boris,” Domini said, “that is for the Arabs, but for us, too, for we +belong to the garden of Allah as they do, perhaps even more than they.” + +“Yes, Domini.” + +She remembered how, long ago, Count Anteoni had stood there with her and +repeated the words of the angel to the Prophet, and she murmured them +now: + +“O thou that art covered, arise, and magnify thy Lord, and purify thy +clothes, and depart from uncleanness.” + +Then, standing side by side, they prayed, looking at the desert. + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +In the evening of that day they left Beni-Mora. + +Domini wished to go quietly, but, knowing the Arabs, she feared it would +be impossible. Nevertheless, when she paid Batouch in the hotel and +thanked him for all his services, she said: + +“We’ll say adieu here, Batouch.” + +The poet displayed a large surprise. + +“But I will accompany Madame to the station. I will--” + +“It is not necessary.” + +Batouch looked offended but obstinate. His ample person became almost +rigid. + +“If I am not at the station, Madame, what will Hadj think, and Ali, and +Ouardi, and--” + +“They will be there?” + +“Of course, Madame. Where else should they be? Does Madame wish to leave +us like a thief in the night, or like--” + +“No, no, Batouch. I am very grateful to you all, but especially to you.” + +Batouch began to smile. + +“Madame has entered into our hearts as no other stranger has ever done,” + he remarked. “Madame understands the Arabs. We shall all come to say _au +revoir_ and to wish Madame and Monsieur a happy journey.” + +For the moment the irony of her situation struck Domini so forcibly that +she could say nothing. She only looked at Batouch in silence. + +“What is it? But I know. Madame is sad at leaving the desert, at leaving +Beni-Mora.” + +“Yes, Batouch. I am sad at leaving Beni-Mora.” + +“But Madame will return?” + +“Who knows?” + +“I know. The desert has a spell. He who has once seen the desert must +see it again. The desert calls and its voice is always heard. Madame +will hear it when she is far away, and some day she will feel, ‘I +must come back to the land of the sun and to the beautiful land of +forgetfulness.’” + +“I shall see you at the station, Batouch,” Domini said quickly. +“Good-bye till then.” + +The train for Tunis started at sundown, in order that the travellers +might avoid the intense heat of the day. All the afternoon they kept +within doors. The Arabs were sleeping in dark rooms. The gardens were +deserted. Domini could not sleep. She sat near the French window that +opened on to the verandah and said a silent good-bye to life. For that +was what she felt--that life was leaving her, life with its intensity, +its fierce meaning. She had come out of a sort of death to find life in +Beni-Mora, and now she felt that she was going back again to something +that would be like death. After her strife there came a numbness of the +spirit, a heavy dullness. Time passed and she sat there without moving. +Sometimes she looked at the trunks lying on the floor ready for the +journey, at the labels on which was written “Tunis _via_ Constantine.” + And then she tried to imagine what it would be like to travel in the +train after her long travelling in the desert, and what it would be like +to be in a city. But she could not. The heat was intense. Perhaps it +affected her mind through her body. Faintly, far down in her mind and +heart, she knew that she was wishing, even longing, to realise all +that these last hours in Beni-Mora meant, to gather up in them all +the threads of her life and her sensations there, to survey, as from a +height, the panorama of the change that had come to her in Africa. But +she was frustrated. + +The hours fled, and she remained cold, listless. Often she was hardly +thinking at all. When the Arab servant came in to tell her that it +was time to start for the station she got up slowly and looked at him +vaguely. + +“Time to go already?” she asked. + +“Yes, Madame. I have told Monsieur.” + +“Very well.” + +At this moment Androvsky came into the room. + +“The carriage is waiting,” he said. + +She felt almost as if a stranger was speaking to her. + +“I am ready,” she said. + +And without looking round the room she went downstairs and got into the +carriage. + +They drove to the station without speaking. She had not seen Father +Roubier. Androvsky took the tickets. When they came out upon the +platform they found there a small crowd of Arab friends, with Batouch +in command. Among them were the servants who had accompanied them upon +their desert journey, and Hadj. He came forward smiling to shake hands. +When she saw him Domini remembered Irena, and, forgetting that it is not +etiquette to inquire after an Arab’s womenfolk, she said: + +“Ah, Hadj, and are you happy now? How is Irena?” + +Hadj’s face fell, and he showed his pointed teeth in a snarl. For a +moment he hesitated, looking round at the other Arabs. Then he said: + +“I am always happy, Madame.” + +Domini saw that she had made a mistake. She took out her purse and gave +him five francs. + +“A parting present,” she said. + +Hadj shook his head with recovered cheerfulness, tucked in his chin +and laughed. Domini turned away, shook hands with all her dark +acquaintances, and climbed up into the train, followed by Androvsky. +Batouch sprang upon the step as the porter shut the door. + +“Madame!” he exclaimed. + +“What is it, Batouch?” + +“To-day you have put Hadj to shame.” + +He smiled broadly. + +“I? How? What have I done?” + +“Irena is dancing at Onargla, far away in the desert beyond Amara.” + +“Irena! But--” + +“She could not live shut up in a room. She could not wear the veil for +Hadj.” + +“But then--?” + +“She has divorced him, Madame. It is easy here. For a few francs one +can--” + +The whistle sounded. The train jerked. Batouch seized her hand, seized +Androvsky’s, sprang back to the platform. + +“Good-bye, Batouch! Good-bye, Ouardi! Good-bye, Smain!” + +The train moved on. As it reached the end of the platform Domini saw an +emaciated figure standing there alone, a thin face with glittering eyes +turned towards her with a glaring scrutiny. It was the sand-diviner. He +smiled at her, and his smile contracted the wound upon his face, making +it look wicked and grotesque like the face of a demon. She sank down on +the seat. For a moment, a hideous moment, she felt as if he personified +Beni-Mora, as if this smile were Beni-Mora’s farewell to her and to +Androvsky. + +And Irena was dancing at Onargla, far away in the desert. + +She remembered the night in the dancing-house, Irena’s attack upon Hadj. + +That love of Africa was at an end. Was not everything at an end? Yet +Larbi still played upon his flute in the garden of Count Anteoni, still +played the little tune that was as the _leit motif_ of the eternal +renewal of life. And within herself she carried God’s mystery of +renewal, even she, with her numbed mind, her tired heart. She, too, was +to help to carry forward the banner of life. + +She had come to Beni-Mora in the sunset, and now, in the sunset, she was +leaving it. But she did not lean from the carriage window to watch the +pageant that was flaming in the west. Instead, she shut her eyes +and remembered it as it was on that evening when they, who now were +journeying away from the desert together, had been journeying towards it +together. Strangers who had never spoken to each other. And the evening +came, and the train stole into the gorge of El-Akbara, and still she +kept her eyes closed. Only when the desert was finally left behind, +divided from them by the great wall of rock, did she look up and speak +to Androvsky. + +“We met here, Boris,” she said. + +“Yes,” he answered, “at the gate of the desert. I shall never be here +again.” + +Soon the night fell around them. + +* * * * * + +In the evening of the following day they reached Tunis, and drove to the +Hotel d’Orient, where they had written to engage rooms for one night. +They had expected that the city would be almost deserted by its European +inhabitants now the summer had set in, but when they drove up to the +door of the hotel the proprietor came out to inform them that, owing +to the arrival of a ship full of American tourists who, personally +conducted, were “viewing” Tunis after an excursion to the East and +to the Holy Land, he had been unable to keep for them a private +sitting-room. With many apologies he explained that all the +sitting-rooms in the house had been turned into bedrooms, but only for +one night. On the morrow the personally-conducted ones would depart and +Madame and Monsieur could have a charming salon. They listened silently +to his explanations and apologies, standing in the narrow entrance +hall, which was blocked up with piles of luggage. “Tomorrow,” he kept on +repeating, “to-morrow” all would be different. + +Domini glanced at Androvsky, who stood with his head bent down, looking +on the ground. + +“Shall we try another hotel?” she asked. + +“If you wish,” he answered in a low voice. + +“It would be useless, Madame,” said the proprietor. “All the hotels are +full. In the others you will not find even a bedroom.” + +“Perhaps we had better stay here,” she said to Androvsky. + +Her voice, too, was low and tired. In her heart something seemed to say, +“Do not strive any more. In the garden it was finished. Already you are +face to face with the end.” + +When she was alone in her small bedroom, which was full of the noises +of the street, and had washed and put on another dress, she began to +realise how much she had secretly been counting on one more evening +alone with Androvsky. She had imagined herself dining with him in their +sitting-room unwatched, sitting together afterwards, for an hour or two, +in silence perhaps, but at least alone. She had imagined a last solitude +with him with the darkness of the African night around them. She had +counted upon that. She realised it now. Her whole heart and soul had +been asking for that, believing that at least that would be granted to +her. But it was not to be. She must go down with him into a crowd of +American tourists, must--her heart sickened. It seemed to her for a +moment that if only she could have this one more evening quietly with +the man she loved she could brace herself to bear anything afterwards, +but that if she could not have it she must break down. She felt +desperate. + +A gong sounded below. She did not move, though she heard it, knew what +it meant. After a few minutes there was a tap at the door. + +“What is it?” she said. + +“Dinner is ready, Madame,” said a voice in English with a strong foreign +accent. + +Domini went to the door and opened it. + +“Does Monsieur know?” + +“Monsieur is already in the hall waiting for Madame.” + +She went down and found Androvsky. + +They dined at a small table in a room fiercely lit up with electric +light and restless with revolving fans. Close to them, at an immense +table decorated with flowers, dined the American tourists. The women +wore hats with large hanging veils. The men were in travelling suits. +They looked sunburnt and gay, and talked and laughed with an intense +vivacity. Afterwards they were going in a body to see the dances of the +Almees. Androvsky shot one glance at them as he came in, then looked +away quickly. The lines near his mouth deepened. For a moment he +shut his eyes. Domini did not speak to him, did not attempt to talk. +Enveloped by the nasal uproar of the gay tourists they ate in silence. +When the short meal was over they got up and went out into the hall. The +public drawing-room opened out of it on the left. They looked into it +and saw red plush settees, a large centre table covered with a rummage +of newspapers, a Jew with a bald head writing a letter, and two old +German ladies with caps drinking coffee and knitting stockings. + +“The desert!” Androvsky whispered. + +Suddenly he drew away from the door and walked out into the street. +Lines of carriages stood there waiting to be hired. He beckoned to one, +a victoria with a pair of small Arab horses. When it was in front of the +hotel he said to Domini: + +“Will you get in, Domini?” + +She obeyed. Androvsky said to the mettse driver: + +“Drive to the Belvedere. Drive round the park till I tell you to +return.” + +The man whipped his horses, and they rattled down the broad street, past +the brilliantly-lighted cafés, the Cercle Militaire, the palace of the +Resident, where Zouaves were standing, turned to the left and were soon +out on a road where a tram line stretched between villas, waste ground +and flat fields. In front of them rose a hill with a darkness of trees +scattered over it. They reached it, and began to mount it slowly. The +lights of the city shone below them. Domini saw great sloping lawns +dotted with streets and by trees. Scents of hidden flowers came to her +in the night, and she heard a whirr of insects. Still they mounted, and +presently reached the top of the hill. + +“Stop!” said Androvsky to the driver. + +He drew up his horses. + +“Wait for us here.” + +Androvsky got out. + +“Shall we walk a little way?” he said to Domini. + +“Yes--yes.” + +She got out too, and they walked slowly along the deserted road. Below +them she saw the lights of ships gliding upon the lakes, the bright +eyes of a lighthouse, the distant lamps of scattered villages along the +shores, and, very far off, a yellow gleam that dominated the sea beyond +the lakes and seemed to watch patiently all those who came and went, the +pilgrims to and from Africa. That gleam shone in Carthage. + +From the sea over the flats came to them a breeze that had a savour of +freshness, of cool and delicate life. + +They walked for some time without speaking, then Domini said: + +“From the cemetery of El-Largani you looked out over this, didn’t you, +Boris?” + +“Yes, Domini,” he answered. “It was then that the voice spoke to me.” + +“It will never speak again. God will not let it speak again.” + +“How can you know that?” + +“We are tried in the fire, Boris, but we are not burnt to death.” + +She said it for herself, to reassure herself, to give a little comfort +to her own soul. + +“To-night I feel as if it were not so,” he answered. “When we came to +the hotel it seemed--I thought that I could not go on.” + +“And now?” + +“Now I do not know anything except that this is my last night with you. +And, Domini, that seems to me to be absolutely incredible although I +know it. I cannot imagine any future away from you, any life in which +I do not see you. I feel as if in parting from you I am parting from +myself, as if the thing left would be no more a man, but only a broken +husk. Can I pray without you, love God without you?” + +“Best without me.” + +“But can I live without you, Domini? Can I wake day after day to the +sunshine, and know that I shall never see you again, and go on living? +Can I do that? I don’t feel as if it could be. Perhaps, when I have done +my penance, God will have mercy.” + +“How, Boris?” + +“Perhaps He will let me die.” + +“Let us fix all the thoughts of our hearts on the life in which He +may let us be together once more. Look, Boris, there are lights in the +darkness, there will always be lights.” + +“I can’t see them,” he said. + +She looked at him and saw that tears were running down his cheeks. +Again, on this last night of companionship, God summoned her to be +strong for him. On the edge of the hill, close to them, she saw a +Moorish temple built of marble, with narrow arches and columns, and +marble seats. + +“Let us sit here for a moment, Boris,” she said. + +He followed her up the marble steps. Two or three times he stumbled, but +she did not give him her hand. They sat down between the slender columns +and looked out over the city, whose blanched domes and minarets were +faintly visible in the night. Androvsky was shaken with sobs. + +“How can I part from you?” he said brokenly. “How am I to do it? How can +I--how can I? Why was I given this love for you, this terrible thing, +this crying out, this reaching out of the flesh and heart and soul +to you? Domini--Domini--what does it all mean--this mystery of +torture--this scourging of the body--this tearing in pieces of my soul +and yours? Domini, shall we know--shall we ever know?” + +“I am sure we shall know, we shall all know some day, the meaning of the +mystery of pain. And then, perhaps, then surely, we shall each of us +be glad that we have suffered. The suffering will make the glory of our +happiness. Even now sometimes when I am suffering, Boris, I feel as if +there were a kind of splendour, even a kind of nobility in what I am +doing, as if I were proving my own soul, proving the force that God has +put into me. Boris, let us--you and I--learn to say in all this terror, +‘I am unconquered, I am unconquerable.’” + +“I feel that I could say that, be it in the most frightful +circumstances, if only I could sometimes see you--even far away as now I +see those lights.” + +“You will see me in your prayers every day, and I shall see you in +mine.” + +“But the cry of the body, Domini, of the eyes, of the hands, to see, to +touch--it’s so fierce, it’s so--it’s so--” + +“I know, I hear it too, always. But there is another voice, which will +be strong when the other has faded into eternal silence. In all bodily +things, even the most beautiful, there is something finite. We must +reach out our poor, feeble, trembling hands to the infinite. I think +everyone who is born does that through life, often without being +conscious of it. We shall do it consciously, you and I. We shall be able +to do it because of our dreadful suffering. We shall want, we shall have +to do it, you--where you are going, and I----” + +“Where will you be?” + +“I don’t know, I don’t know. I won’t think of the afterwards now, in +these last few hours--in these last----” + +Her voice faltered and broke. Then the tears came to her also, and for a +while she could not see the distant lights. + +Then she spoke again; she said: + +“Boris, let us go now.” + +He got up without a word. They found the carriage and drove back to +Tunis. + +When they reached the hotel they came into the midst of the American +tourists, who were excitedly discussing the dances they had seen, and +calling for cooling drinks to allay the thirst created by the heat of +the close rooms of Oriental houses. + +Early next morning a carriage was at the door. When they had got into it +the coachman looked round. + +“Where shall I drive to, Monsieur?” + +Androvsky looked at him and made no reply. + +“To El-Largani,” Domini said. + +“To the monastery, Madame?” + +He whistled to his horses gaily. As they trotted on bells chimed about +their necks, chimed a merry peal to the sunshine that lay over the land. +They passed soldiers marching, and heard the call of bugles, the rattle +of drums. And each sound seemed distant and each moving figure far +away. This world of Africa, fiercely distinct in the clear air under +the cloudless sky, was unreal to them both, was vague as a northern +land wrapped in a mist of autumn. The unreal was about them. Within +themselves was the real. They sat beside each other without speaking. +Words to them now were useless things. What more had they to say? +Everything and nothing. Lifetimes would not have been long enough for +them to speak their thoughts for each other, of each other, to speak +their emotions, all that was in their minds and hearts during that drive +from the city to the monastery that stood upon the hill. Yet did not +their mutual action of that morning say all that need be said? The +silence of the Trappists surely floated out to them over the plains and +the pale waters of the bitter lakes and held them silent. + +But the bells on the horses’ necks rang always gaily, and the coachman, +who would presently drive Domini back alone to Tunis, whistled and sang +on his high seat. + +Presently they came to a great wooden cross standing on a pedestal of +stone by the roadside at the edge of a grove of olive trees. It marked +the beginning of the domain of El-Largani. When Domini saw it she looked +at Androvsky, and his eyes answered her silent question. The coachman +whipped his horses into a canter, as if he were in haste to reach his +destination. He was thinking of the good red wine of the monks. In a +cloud of white dust the carriage rolled onwards between vineyards in +which, here and there, labourers were working, sheltered from the sun by +immense straw hats. A long line of waggons, laden with barrels and drawn +by mules covered with bells, sheltered from the flies by leaves, met +them. In the distance Domini saw forests of eucalyptus trees. Suddenly +it seemed to her as if she saw Androvsky coming from them towards +the white road, helping a man who was pale, and who stumbled as if +half-fainting, yet whose face was full of a fierce passion of joy--the +stranger whose influence had driven him out of the monastery into the +world. She bent down her head and hid her face in her hands, praying, +praying with all her strength for courage in this supreme moment of her +life. But almost directly the prayers died on her lips and in her heart, +and she found herself repeating the words of _The Imitation_: + +“Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is not +tired; when straitened it is not constrained; when frightened it is +not disturbed; but like a vivid flame and a burning torch it mounteth +upwards and securely passeth through all. Whosoever loveth knoweth the +cry of this voice.” + +Again and again she said the words: “It securely passeth through +all--it securely passeth through all.” Now, at last, she was to know +the uttermost truth of those words which she had loved in her happiness, +which she clung to now as a little child clings to its father’s hand. + +The carriage turned to the right, went on a little way, then stopped. + +Domini lifted her face from her hands. She saw before her a great door +which stood open. Above it was a statue of the Madonna and Child, and +on either side were two angels with swords and stars. Underneath was +written, in great letters: + +JANUA COELI. + +Beyond, through the doorway, she saw an open space upon which the +sunlight streamed, three palm trees, and a second door which was shut. +Above this second door was written: + +“_Les dames n’entrent pas ici._” + +As she looked the figure of a very old monk with a long white beard +shuffled slowly across the patch of sunlight and disappeared. + +The coachman turned round. + +“You descend here,” he said in a cheerful voice. “Madame will be +entertained in the parlour on the right of the first door, but Monsieur +can go on to the _hotellerie_. It’s over there.” + +He pointed with his whip and turned his back to them again. + +Domini sat quite still. Her lips moved, once more repeating the words of +_The Imitation_. Androvsky got up from his seat, stepped heavily out of +the carriage, and stood beside it. The coachman was busy lighting a +long cigar. Androvsky leaned forward towards Domini with his arms on the +carriage and looked at her with tearless eyes. + +“Domini,” at last he whispered. “Domini!” + +Then she turned to him, bent towards him, put her hands on his shoulders +and looked into his face for a long time, as if she were trying to see +it now for all the years that were perhaps to come. Her eyes, too, were +tearless. + +At last she leaned down and touched his forehead with her lips. + +She said nothing. Her hands dropped from his shoulders, she turned away +and her lips moved once more. + +Then Androvsky moved slowly in through the doorway of the monastery, +crossed the patch of sunlight, lifted his hand and rang the bell at the +second door. + +“Drive back to Tunis, please.” + +“Madame!” said the coachman. + +“Drive back to Tunis.” + +“Madame is not going to enter! But Monsieur--” + +“Drive back to Tunis!” + +Something in the voice that spoke to him startled the coachman. He +hesitated a moment, staring at Domini from his seat, then, with +a muttered curse, he turned his horses’ heads and plied the whip +ferociously. + +* * * * * + +“Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is not +tired. When weary--it--is not--tired.” + +Domini’s lips ceased to move. She could not speak any more. She could +not even pray without words. + +Yet, in that moment, she did not feel alone. + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +In the garden of Count Anteoni, which has now passed into other hands, +a little boy may often be seen playing. He is gay, as children are, and +sometimes he is naughty and, as if out of sheer wantonness, he destroys +the pyramids of sand erected by the Arab gardeners upon the narrow paths +between the hills, or tears off the petals of the geraniums and scatters +them to the breezes that whisper among the trees. But when Larbi’s flute +calls to him he runs to hear. He sits at the feet of that persistent +lover, and watches the big fingers fluttering at the holes of the +reed, and his small face becomes earnest and dreamy, as if it looked +on far-off things, or watched the pale pageant of the mirages rising +mysteriously out of the sunlit spaces of the sands to fade again, +leaving no trace behind. + +Only one other song he loves more than the twittering tune of Larbi. + +Sometimes, when twilight is falling over the Sahara, his mother calls +him to her, to the white wall where she is sitting beneath a jamelon +tree. + +“Listen, Boris!” she whispers. + +The little boy climbs up on her knee, leans his face against her breast +and obeys. An Arab is passing below on the desert track, singing to +himself as he goes towards his home in the oasis: + + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + +He is singing the song of the freed negroes. When his voice has died +away the mother puts the little boy down. It is bed time, and Smain is +there to lead him to the white villa, where he will sleep dreamlessly +till morning. + +But the mother stays alone by the wall till the night falls and the +desert is hidden. + + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + +She whispers the words to herself. The cool wind of the night blows over +the vast spaces of the Sahara and touches her cheek, reminding her of +the wind that, at Arba, carried fire towards her as she sat before the +tent, reminding her of her glorious days of liberty, of the passion that +came to her soul like fire in the desert. + +But she does not rebel. + +For always, when night falls, she sees the form of a man praying who +once fled from prayer in the desert; she sees a wanderer who at last has +reached his home. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN OF ALLAH *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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