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diff --git a/3637-h/3637-h.htm b/3637-h/3637-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8c528fb --- /dev/null +++ b/3637-h/3637-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,28774 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Garden of Allah, by Robert Hichens</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Garden Of Allah, by Robert Hichens</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Garden Of Allah</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Robert Hichens</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: June 27, 2001 [eBook #3637]<br /> +[Most recently updated: January 23, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Dagny, John Bickers and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN OF ALLAH ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>THE GARDEN OF ALLAH</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Robert Hichens</h2> + + +<h4>GROSSET & DUNLAP<br/> +Publishers — New York.<br/> +1904</h4> + + + <hr /> + + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>THE GARDEN OF ALLAH</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>BOOK I. PRELUDE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> <b>BOOK II. THE VOICE OF PRAYER</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> <b>BOOK III. THE GARDEN</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> <b>BOOK IV. THE JOURNEY</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> <b>BOOK V. THE REVELATION</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> + </p> +<p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> <b>BOOK VI. THE JOURNEY BACK</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI </a> + </p> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> + THE GARDEN OF ALLAH + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> + BOOK I. PRELUDE + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"></a> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>gendarmes</i> were still about, and a few French and + Spaniards at the Port, where, moored against the wharf, lay the steamer <i>Le + Général Bertrand</i>, in which Domini had arrived that evening from + Marseilles. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>salle-à-manger</i>, smoked a thin, dark cigar over a copy of the <i>Dépêche + Algérienne</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>persiennes</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>en + brosse</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>Le General Bertrand</i> began to move out slowly among the motionless + ships. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Dream + of Gerontius</i>, the other a volume of the Badminton Library. She chose + the former and began to read. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>persiennes</i>. + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"></a> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>auberge</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + And so she forgot. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + So Domini thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She thought again of her father. In some such region as this his soul must + surely be wandering, far away from God. + </p> + <p> + She let down the glass. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for it!” she murmured aloud. + </p> + <p> + Her own words woke her to a consciousness of ordinary things—or made + her sleep to the eternal. + </p> + <p> + She closed the window and sat down. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been asleep, Suzanne?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mam’zelle.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve had an orange?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t get it down, Mam’zelle.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to see if you can get a cup of coffee here?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you, Mam’zelle. I couldn’t touch this Arab stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall soon be there now.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>café + au lait</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame has seen the desert?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Never,” answered Domini. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How can that be?” asked Domini. + </p> + <p> + “Shal-lah. It is the will of God. One remembers nothing any more.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes were fixed upon the gigantic pinnacles of the rocks. There was + something fanatical and highly imaginative in their gaze. + </p> + <p> + “What is your name?” Domini asked. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch, Madame. You are going to Beni-Mora?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Batouch.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Domini caught hold of the short European jacket the Arab was wearing, and + said in French: + </p> + <p> + “You must let me get in at once. The train is going.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a boor!” Domini thought as she bent out of the window to do it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"></a> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>reveille</i>. + 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 <i>insouciance</i>, 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 <i>reveille</i> 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 <i>ennui</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"></a> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Which is Madame’s hotel?” + </p> + <p> + Domini looked round. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Batouch!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We are going to the Hotel du Desert,” Domini continued. “Is it far?” + </p> + <p> + “Only a few minutes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall like to walk there.” + </p> + <p> + Suzanne collapsed. Her bones became as wax with apprehension. She saw + herself toiling over leagues of sand towards some nameless hovel. + </p> + <p> + “Suzanne, you can get into the omnibus and take the handbags.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That is the Kaid of Tonga, Madame,” whispered Batouch, looking at the + pale man reverently. “He is here <i>en permission</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “How white he is.” + </p> + <p> + “They tried to poison him. Ever since he is ill inside. That is his + brother. The brown gloves are very chic.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That is the Agha’s son with Mabrouk.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But Batouch loved to talk, and soon began a languid monologue. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>marechale</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That is Hadj,” said Batouch in his soft, rich voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hadj?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He is my cousin. He lives in Beni-Mora, but he, too, has been in + Paris. He has been in prison too.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “Stabbing.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch gave this piece of information with quiet indifference, and + continued + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Then he is a guide?” + </p> + <p> + “Many people in Beni-Mora are guides. But Hadj is always lucky in getting + the English.” + </p> + <p> + “That man with him isn’t English!” Domini exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>fete</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + Here Batouch looked steadily at Domini with his large, unconcerned eyes. + </p> + <p> + “This one speaks Arabic a little.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>attaches</i> of those two nations, whom she had met frequently in + London, had hair of that shade of rather warm brown. + </p> + <p> + “He does not look like an Englishman,” she said presently. + </p> + <p> + “He can talk in French and in Arabic, but Hadj says he is English.” + </p> + <p> + “How should Hadj know?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a funny man that is!” said Batouch. “What does he want to do?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There is the hotel, Madame!” said Batouch. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>aperitif</i> 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What was he doing? Looking over the parapet into the fruit gardens, where + the white figures of the Arabs were flitting through the trees? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Suzanne!” she called. + </p> + <p> + Her maid appeared, yawning, with various parcels in her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + “I sha’n’t go down to the <i>salle-a-manger</i> to-night. Tell them to + give me some dinner in my <i>salon</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + “You did not see who was on the verandah just now?” + </p> + <p> + The maid looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “I was in Mademoiselle’s room.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. How near the church is.” + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle will have no difficulty in getting to Mass. She will not be + obliged to go among all the Arabs.” + </p> + <p> + Domini smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I have come here to be among the Arabs, Suzanne.” + </p> + <p> + “The porter of the omnibus tells me they are dirty and very dangerous. + They carry knives, and their clothes are full of fleas.” + </p> + <p> + “You will feel quite differently about them in the morning. Don’t forget + about dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “I will speak about it at once, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + Suzanne disappeared, walking as one who suspects an ambush. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Not to-night, Batouch. I must go to bed. I haven’t slept for two nights.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do not sleep, Madame. In the night I compose verses. My brain is + alive. My heart is on fire.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The poet looked displeased. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What has he done to her?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>fete</i> + of Ramadan. I also wish to buy a new costume.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am too tired to go out to-night,” she said decisively. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not get up early to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If Monsieur will permit me—” he began. + </p> + <p> + But the stranger took the cigar hastily from his mouth and flung it away. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to smoke,” Domini heard him say in French. + </p> + <p> + Then he walked away with Hadj into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + As they disappeared Domini heard a faint shrieking in the distance. It was + the music of the African hautboy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"></a> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Of the Imitation of Christ</i>, + and she opened it at haphazard and glanced down on a sunlit page. Her eyes + fell on these words: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + She rose from that prayer to the first of her new days. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame has slept well?” asked the poet as she emerged into the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty well,” she answered, nodding again to Hadj, whose grin became more + mischievous, and opening her parasol. “Where are we going?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A garden,” said Domini. “Is it a beautiful one?” + </p> + <p> + Batouch was about to burst into a lyric ecstasy, but he checked himself + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Madame shall see for herself and tell me afterwards if in all Europe + there is one such garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the English gardens are wonderful,” she said, smiling at his + patriotic conceit. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt. Madame shall tell me, Madame shall tell me,” he repeated with + imperturbable confidence. + </p> + <p> + “But first I wish to go for a moment into the church,” she said. “Wait for + me here, Batouch.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how little, how little!” she whispered to herself. “Let me be bigger! + Oh, let me grow, and here, not only hereafter!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she answered. “I have been looking round already.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a Catholic, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The priest looked pleased. There was something childlike in the mobility + of his face. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Cardinal Lavigerie?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The priest’s eyes lit up as he spoke. The almost tragic expression of his + face changed to one of enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “He loved Africa, I believe,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + “His heart was here. And what he did! I was to have been one of his <i>freres + armes</i>, but my health prevented, and afterwards the association was + dissolved.” + </p> + <p> + The sad expression returned to his face. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You wish you were with them?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Saint Bruno ordonne a ses disciples + De renoncer aux biens terrestres + Pour acquerir les biens celestes.” + </pre> + <p> + The disciples stood around the saint in grotesque attitudes of pious + attention. + </p> + <p> + “That, I think, is very beautiful,” he said. “Who could look at it without + feeling that the greatest act of man is renunciation?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Bous-Bous wants me,” he said, and he opened the door for Domini to pass + out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My little companion, Madame,” he said. “He was not with me yesterday, as + he was being washed.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Domini stood for a moment under the palm trees looking after them. There + was a steady shining in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is a Catholic too?” asked Batouch, staring steadily at her. + </p> + <p> + Domini nodded. She did not want to discuss religion with an Arab minor + poet just then. + </p> + <p> + “Take me to the market,” she said, mindful of her secret resolve to get + rid of her companion as soon as possible. + </p> + <p> + They set out across the gardens. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is very strong. Madame walks like a Bedouin.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch’s voice sounded seriously astonished, and Domini burst out + laughing. + </p> + <p> + “In England there are many strong women. But I shall grow stronger here. I + shall become a real Arab. This air gives me life.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got some good horses here,” she said when the Spahi had + disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “Madame knows how to ride?” + </p> + <p> + She laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve ridden ever since I was a child.” + </p> + <p> + “You can buy a fine horse here for sixteen pounds,” remarked Batouch, + using the pronoun “tu,” as is the custom of the Arabs. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You must not go alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “There are bandits in the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take my revolver,” Domini said carelessly. “But I will go alone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a quantity of people! Do they all live in Beni-Mora?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, they come from all parts of the desert to sell and to buy. But most + of those who sell are Mozabites.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fete</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I sha’n’t stay here,” she said to him. “But I’ll buy some perfumes. Where + can I get them?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “For perfumes you must go to Ahmeda, under the arcade.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ahmeda!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What perfume does Madame desire?” he said in French. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Please give me something that is of the East—not violets, not + lilac.” + </p> + <p> + “Amber,” said Batouch. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Now, smell it,” he commanded. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Please give me some of that,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Pay him,” she said, giving Batouch her purse. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And the woman—she was set afar off, as woman is by white-robed men + in Africa. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Batouch, you can carry the perfume to the hotel and I will go to + that garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Alone? Madame will never find it.” + </p> + <p> + “I can ask the way.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is he? French?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Domini began to feel interested in this wandering maker of gardens, who + was a pilgrim over the world like Monte Cristo. + </p> + <p> + “Is he young?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Married?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Then there is danger at night?” + </p> + <p> + “The garden touches the desert, and those who are in the desert without + arms are as birds in the air without wings.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Batouch assented without enthusiasm, having always lived in the light. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “They have no furniture?” she asked Batouch. + </p> + <p> + “No. What do they want with it? They live out here in the sun and go in to + sleep.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Will Madame take me to London with her when she returns?” said Batouch, + slyly. + </p> + <p> + “I am not going back to London for a very long time,” she replied with + energy. + </p> + <p> + “You will stay here many weeks?” + </p> + <p> + “Months, perhaps. And perhaps I shall travel on into the desert. Yes, I + must do that.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you be afraid to go?” Domini asked him, curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Why afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “Of being killed?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You have no fear of death, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Have you, Madame?” He gazed at Domini with genuine + astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + And she wondered and could not tell. + </p> + <p> + “There is the Villa Anteoni.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a strange house!” Domini said. “There are no windows.” + </p> + <p> + “They are all on the other side, looking into the garden.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will wait here for Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “May I walk about the garden a little?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “You can go where you will. Shall I show you the paths?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You need not stay by the door?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No one will come. There is no one in Beni-Mora. And Hassan will stay.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, then.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Those are the bedrooms,” murmured the Arab at her side. + </p> + <p> + “There are only bedrooms?” she asked in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go down that path,” Domini said almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is your name?” she added. + </p> + <p> + “Smain,” replied the Arab. “I was born in this garden. My father, + Mohammed, was with Monsieur the Count.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There is the room of the little dog,” said Smain. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur the Count paid much money for the dog,” murmured Smain. “He is + very valuable.” + </p> + <p> + “How long has he been there?” + </p> + <p> + “For many years. He was there when I was born, and I have been married + twice and divorced twice.” + </p> + <p> + Domini turned from the window and looked at Smain with astonishment. He + was smelling his rose like a dreamy child. + </p> + <p> + “You have been divorced twice?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Now I will show Madame the smoking-room.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Smain, how you must love this garden!” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I could live here for ever,” she added, “without once wishing to go out + into the world.” + </p> + <p> + Smain looked drowsily pleased. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This is the part of the garden that Monsieur the Count loves,” said + Smain. “He comes here every day.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” said Domini, suddenly stopping on the pale sand. + </p> + <p> + A thin and remote sound stole to them down the alley, clear and frail as + the note of a night bird. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” he said, and his voice was very low. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, he is among the trees beyond.” + </p> + <p> + “But someone is there.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is not Larbi. He would not go in there. It must be——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"></a> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Domini drew back and glanced at Smain. She was not accustomed to feeling + intrusive, and the sudden sensation rendered her uneasy. + </p> + <p> + “It is Monsieur the Count,” Smain said calmly and quite aloud. + </p> + <p> + The man in the doorway took off his soft hat, as if the words effected an + introduction between Domini and him. + </p> + <p> + “You were coming to see my little room, Madame?” he said in French. “If I + may show it to you I shall feel honoured.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Monsieur,” she answered. “I was told at the gate you gave + permission to travellers to visit your garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke a few words in fluent Arabic to Smain, who turned away and + disappeared among the trees. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you.” + </p> + <p> + The way in which the change of companion had been effected made it seem a + pleasant, inevitable courtesy, which neither implied nor demanded + anything. + </p> + <p> + “This is my little retreat,” Count Anteoni continued, standing aside from + the doorway that Domini might enter. + </p> + <p> + She drew a long breath when she was within. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And still the flute of Larbi showered soft, clear, whimsical music from + some hidden place close by. + </p> + <p> + Domini looked at her host, who was standing by the doorway, leaning one + arm against the ivory-white wall. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I have come here for peace,” Domini replied simply. + </p> + <p> + She said it because she felt as if it was already understood by her + companion. + </p> + <p> + Count Anteoni took down his arm from the white wall and pulled a branch of + the purple flowers slowly towards him through the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He let the flowers go, and they sprang softly back, and hung quivering in + the space beyond his thin figure. Then he added: + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps one should not say more than that.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But may not one think, feel a little more?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why not? If one can, if one must? But how? Africa is as fierce and + full of meaning as a furnace, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know—already,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine was when I was a boy of sixteen.” + </p> + <p> + “This garden wasn’t here then?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I had it made. I came here with my mother. She spoilt me. She let me + have my whim.” + </p> + <p> + “This garden is your boy’s whim?” + </p> + <p> + “It was. Now it is a man’s——” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to hesitate. + </p> + <p> + “Paradise,” suggested Domini. + </p> + <p> + “I think I was going to say hiding-place.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I come here to be foolish, Madame, for I come here to think. This is my + special thinking place.” + </p> + <p> + “How strange!” Domini exclaimed impulsively, and leaning forward on the + divan. + </p> + <p> + “Is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I only mean that already Beni-Mora has seemed to me the ideal place for + that.” + </p> + <p> + “For thought?” + </p> + <p> + “For finding out interior truth.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And sending it forth, like Ishmael, to shift for itself in the desert,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + The odd remark sounded like neither statement nor question, merely like + the sudden exclamation of a mind at work. + </p> + <p> + “Will you allow me to take you through the rest of the garden, Madame?” he + added in a more formal voice. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Domini, who had already got up, moved by the examining + look cast at her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As they came out on the pale riband of sand which circled the little room + Domini said: + </p> + <p> + “How wild and extraordinary that tune is!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “This is a love-song, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Larbi is always in love, they tell me. Each new dancer catches him + in her net. Happy Larbi!” + </p> + <p> + “Because he can love so easily?” + </p> + <p> + “Or unlove so easily. Look at him, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And I pay him so much a week all the year round for doing that,” the + Count said. + </p> + <p> + His grating voice sounded kind and amused. They walked on, and Larbi’s + tune died gradually away. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. + </p> + <p> + “No one must think here but you!” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to keep all the folly to myself. Is not that a grand cocoanut?” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a tree so tall that it seemed soaring to heaven. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed. Like the one that presides over the purple dog.” + </p> + <p> + “You have seen my fetish?” + </p> + <p> + “Smain showed him to me, with reverence.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he is king here. The Arabs declare that on moonlight nights they have + heard him joining in the chorus of the Kabyle dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “You speak almost as if you believed it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I believe more here than I believe anywhere else. That is partly + why I come here.” + </p> + <p> + “I can understand that—I mean believing much here.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Already you feel the spell of Beni-Mora, the desert spell! Yes, + there is enchantment here—and so I never stay too long.” + </p> + <p> + “For fear of what?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And now, Madame, which path shall we take? This one leads to my + drawing-room, that on the right to the Moorish bath.” + </p> + <p> + “And that?” + </p> + <p> + “That one goes straight down to the wall that overlooks the Sahara.” + </p> + <p> + “Please let us take it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He turned up the tail of the sentence and his harsh voice gave a little + grating crack. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe they are so different from one another as the garden and + the desert.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him directly. + </p> + <p> + “It would be too ironical.” + </p> + <p> + “But nothing is,” the Count said. + </p> + <p> + “You have discovered that in this garden?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it is new to you, Madame!” + </p> + <p> + For the first time there was a sound of faint bitterness in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “One often discovers the saddest thing in the loveliest place,” he added. + “There you begin to see the desert.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I can only see the sun,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “The imagination? But perhaps I am not disposed to allow that it is a + liar.” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows? You may be right.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I begin to see the desert now,” Domini said after a moment of silent + walking. “How wonderful it is!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is. The most wonderful thing in Nature. You will think it much + more wonderful when you fancy you know it well.” + </p> + <p> + “Fancy!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But then, one might learn to hate it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so. Truth does just the same, you know. And yet men keep on + trying to draw near.” + </p> + <p> + “But sometimes they succeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Do they? Not when they live in gardens.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed for the first time since they had been together, and all his + face was covered with a network of little moving lines. + </p> + <p> + “One should never live in a garden, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “I will try to take your word for it, but the task will be difficult.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? More difficult, perhaps, when you see what lies beside my thoughts + of truth.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But how tremendous!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are afraid of it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. But it startled me. We don’t know the sun really in Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Please.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There is the world on which I look for my hiding-place,” he said. “A vast + world, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Domini nodded without speaking. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what he is singing?” the Count asked. + </p> + <p> + Domini shook her head. She was straining her ears to hear the melody as + long as possible. + </p> + <p> + “It is a desert song of the freed negroes of Touggourt—‘No one but + God and I knows what is in my heart.’” + </p> + <p> + Domini lowered her parasol to conceal her face. In the distance she could + still hear the song, but it was dying away. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! what is going to happen to me here?” she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At first she persistently explored the distances, carried forcibly by an + <i>elan</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Count Anteoni took out his watch and glanced at it. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You turn to the desert as the faithful turn towards Mecca?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I like to see men praying in the desert.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke indifferently, but Domini felt suddenly sure that within him + there were depths of imagination, of tenderness, even perhaps of + mysticism. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I can see five,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you are not accustomed to the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “There are more?” + </p> + <p> + “I could count up to a dozen. Which are yours?” + </p> + <p> + “The men with the camels and the men under that tower.” + </p> + <p> + “There are four playing the <i>jeu des dames</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have splendid eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “They are trained to the desert. But there are probably a score of Arabs + within sight whom I don’t see.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is curious. And he is in the full blaze of the sun. That can’t be + an Arab.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Count Anteoni took the glasses from Smain and looked through them, + adjusting them carefully to suit his sight. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ecco!</i>” he said. “I was right. That man is not an Arab.” + </p> + <p> + He moved the glasses and glanced at Domini. + </p> + <p> + “You are not the only traveller here, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + He looked through the glasses again. + </p> + <p> + “I knew that,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed?” + </p> + <p> + “There is one at my hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you care to see if you can recognise him? These are really + marvellous glasses.” + </p> + <p> + Domini took them from him with some eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “Twist them about till they suit your eyes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He looks as if he had only one eye!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “The palm-tree man—yes.” + </p> + <p> + She travelled cautiously away from him, keeping the glasses level. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she said on an indrawn breath. + </p> + <p> + As she spoke the thin, nasal cry of a distant voice broke upon her ears, + prolonging a strange call. + </p> + <p> + “The Mueddin,” said Count Anteoni. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Domini laid the glasses down on the wall and looked at Count Anteoni. + </p> + <p> + “You say an atheist in the desert is unimaginable? + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it true?” + </p> + <p> + “Has an atheist a hatred, a horror of prayer?” + </p> + <p> + “Chi lo sa? The devil shrank away from the lifted Cross.” + </p> + <p> + “Because he knew how much that was true it symbolised.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt had it been otherwise he would have jeered, not cowered. But why + do you ask me this question, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “I have just seen a man flee from the sight of prayer.” + </p> + <p> + “Your fellow-traveller?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It was horrible.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him back the glasses. + </p> + <p> + “They reveal that which should be hidden,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The desert is full of truth. Is that what you mean?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She made no reply. Count Anteoni stretched out his hand to the shining + expanse before them. + </p> + <p> + “The man who is afraid of prayer is unwise to set foot beyond the palm + trees,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why unwise?” + </p> + <p> + He answered her very gravely. + </p> + <p> + “The Arabs have a saying: ‘The desert is the garden of Allah.’” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall take you at your word,” she said frankly. “I feel that I may.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He pencilled some words in Arabic on the back from right to left. + </p> + <p> + “You write Arabic, too?” Domini said, watching the forming of the pretty + curves with interest. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I am more than half African, though my father was a Sicilian and + my mother a Roman.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Madame?” said Batouch. “Have I spoken the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. No European garden can be so beautiful as that. Now I am going + straight home.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled to herself as she said the last word. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with him?” Domini asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Because he does not want a guide every day! But neither shall I.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame is quite different. I would give my life for Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is like the lion. She is afraid of nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “This very evening I will—” + </p> + <p> + “No, Batouch. I said to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>dejeuner</i>, + and towards sunset to go to the big hotel and mount alone to the summit of + the tower. + </p> + <p> + It was half-past twelve, and a faint rattle of knives and forks from the + <i>salle-a-manger</i> told her that <i>dejeuner</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + The <i>salle-a-manger</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>dejeuner</i> 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>salle-a-manger</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + No doubt—then why could she not believe it? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Arab waiter brought her some ragout of mutton and peas, and she looked + down again at her plate. + </p> + <p> + As she left the room after <i>dejeuner</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + The priest spoke well of Count Anteoni. + </p> + <p> + “He is very generous,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Then he paused, twisting his napkin, and added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thinking,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The priest looked slightly surprised. + </p> + <p> + “It would be difficult not to think, Madame, would it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. But Count Anteoni thinks rather as a Bashi-Bazouk fights, I + fancy.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, but could not help looking at him with interest. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame, come in, venez avec moi. Venez—venez! I have much—I + will show—j’ai des choses extraordinaires! Tenez! Look!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + She had hesitated, but was now determined. + </p> + <p> + “I have no time to-day.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Mon Dieu! Ah! Mon Dieu! I see it—I see—je vois la vie de + Madame—Ah! Mon Dieu!” + </p> + <p> + There was an accent of dreadful suffering in his voice. It made Domini + shudder. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Can I go up the tower to see the sunset?” she asked, giving him the card. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go up alone,” Domini said. “I shall stay some time and I would + rather not keep you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> + BOOK II. THE VOICE OF PRAYER + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"></a> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said in French. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it wonderful here?” she said; and she made her voice rather loud, + and almost sharp, to arrest his attention. + </p> + <p> + He turned round swiftly, yet somehow reluctantly, looked at her anxiously, + and seemed doubtful whether he would reply. + </p> + <p> + After a silence that was short, but that seemed, and in such circumstances + was, long, he answered, in French: + </p> + <p> + “Very wonderful, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We seem to be the only travellers here.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame; there are not many here.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause, and with an uncertain accent, he added: + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, Madame—for yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I know it was only an accident. Don’t think of it any more.” + </p> + <p> + She did not look at him. + </p> + <p> + “Where money is concerned the Arabs are very persistent,” she continued. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But they are very picturesque. They look almost like some religious order + when they wear their hoods. Don’t you think so?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Presently, without turning to her companion, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Could anything look ugly in Beni-Mora from here at this hour, do you + think?” + </p> + <p> + Again there was the silence that seemed characteristic of this man before + he spoke, as if speech were very difficult to him. + </p> + <p> + “I believe not, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Even that woman down there on that roof looks graceful—the one + dancing for those soldiers.” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. She glanced at him and pointed. + </p> + <p> + “Down there, do you see?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>gaucherie</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “One ought to find happiness here,” she said to him very simply. + </p> + <p> + She saw his hand strain itself round the wood of his stick. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he said. + </p> + <p> + He turned right round to her and looked at her with a sort of anger. + </p> + <p> + “Why should you suppose so?” he added, speaking quite quickly, and without + his former uneasiness and consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “Because it is so beautiful and so calm.” + </p> + <p> + “Calm!” he said. “Here!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You find calm here,” he said slowly. “Yes, I see.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But away out there must be the real home of peace, I think,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” said the man, quickly. + </p> + <p> + She pointed towards the south. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “It may be fanciful,” she replied. “But I think there must. Surely Nature + has not a lying face.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yah-ah-la! Yah-ah-la!” + </p> + <p> + The howling chorus came up to the tower, with a clash of enormous + castanets, and of poles beaten rhythmically together. + </p> + <p> + “Yi-yi-yi-yi!” went the shrill voices of the women. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Madame,” he said. “Bon soir!” + </p> + <p> + “I am coming too,” Domini answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Did the gentleman who has just gone out give you his card?” she said + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + The Arab assumed a fawning, servile expression. + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame, but he is a very good gentleman, and I know well that + Monsieur the Count—” + </p> + <p> + Domini cut him short. + </p> + <p> + “Of what nationality is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur the Count, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no.” + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman? I do not know. But he can speak Arabic. Oh, he is a very + nice—” + </p> + <p> + “Bon soir,” said Domini, giving him a franc. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>salle-a-manger</i>. + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Suzanne!” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mam’zelle!” + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Three years, Mam’zelle.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Would you say that I am the same sort of person to-day as I was three + years ago?” + </p> + <p> + Suzanne looked like a cat that has been startled by a sudden noise. + </p> + <p> + “The same, Mam’zelle?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Do you think I have altered in that time?” + </p> + <p> + Suzanne considered the question with her head slightly on one side. + </p> + <p> + “Only here, Mam’zelle,” she replied at length. + </p> + <p> + “Here!” said Domini, rather eagerly. “Why, I have only been here + twenty-six hours.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but what is there to be emotional about here?” + </p> + <p> + Suzanne looked vaguely crafty. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Who is that?” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “Anything! What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>café-au-lait</i> countenance and huge body + expressed enduring pathos, as of an injured, patient creature laid out for + the trampling of Domini’s cruel feet. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said, sitting down by the basket table. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He threw his burnous over his left shoulder with a sudden gesture of + despair that was full of exaggeration. Domini smiled. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been very good to-day,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I am always good, Madame. I am of a serious disposition. Not one keeps + Ramadan as I do.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure of it. Go downstairs and wait for me under the arcade.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch’s large face became suddenly a rendezvous of all the gaieties. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is coming out to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Presently. Be in the arcade.” + </p> + <p> + He swept away with the ample magnificence of joyous bearing and movement + that was like a loud Te Deum. + </p> + <p> + “Suzanne! Suzanne!” + </p> + <p> + Domini had finished her coffee. + </p> + <p> + “Mam’zelle!” answered Suzanne, appearing. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to come out with me to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Mam’zelle is going out?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to see the village by night.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we not be murdered, Mam’zelle, and are there interesting things to + see?” + </p> + <p> + “There are interesting things to see—dancers, singers, keef smokers. + But if you are afraid don’t come.” + </p> + <p> + “Dancers, Mam’zelle! But the Arabs carry knives. And is there singing? I—I + should not like Mam’zelle to go without me. But——” + </p> + <p> + “Come and protect me from the knives then. Bring my jacket—any one. + I don’t suppose I shall put it on.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke the distant tomtoms began. Suzanne started nervously and + looked at Domini with sincere apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “We had better not go, Mam’zelle. It is not safe out here. Men who make a + noise like that would not respect us.” + </p> + <p> + “I like it.” + </p> + <p> + “That sound? But it is always the same and there is no music in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps there is more in it than music. The jacket?” + </p> + <p> + Suzanne went gingerly to fetch it. The faint cry of the African hautboy + rose up above the tomtoms. The evening <i>fete</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “We are not going quite alone, Mam’zelle?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. Batouch will protect us.” + </p> + <p> + Suzanne breathed a furtive sigh. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You come with us too,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Hadj squared his shoulders and instantly looked vivacious and almost + smart. But an undecided expression came into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Madame going?” + </p> + <p> + “To see the village.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch shot a glance at Hadj and smiled unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “I will come with Madame.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch still smiled. + </p> + <p> + “We are going to the Ouled Nails,” he said significantly to Hadj. + </p> + <p> + “I—I will come.” + </p> + <p> + They set out. Suzanne looked gently at the poet’s legs and seemed + comforted. + </p> + <p> + “Take great care of Mademoiselle Suzanne,” Domini said to the poet. “She + is a little nervous in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The prospect drew from Suzanne a startled gulp. Batouch placed himself + tenderly at her side and they set out, Domini walking behind with Hadj. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"></a> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Venez, Madame, venez! Come! come!” + </p> + <p> + Suzanne seized Domini’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “Not to-night!” Domini called out. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How loud the music is getting,” Domini said to him. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>mal-au-coeur</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch began to look like an idol on whose large face the artificer had + carved an expression of savage ferocity. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is my client,” he said fiercely. “Madame trusts in me.” + </p> + <p> + Hadj laughed with a snarl: + </p> + <p> + “He who smokes the keef is like a Mehari with a swollen tongue,” he + rejoined. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall show to Madame a dancer who is modest, who is beautiful, + Hadj-ben-Ibrahim,” he said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Fatma is sick,” said Hadj, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “It will not be Fatma.” + </p> + <p> + Hadj began suddenly to gesticulate with his thin, delicate hands and to + look fiercely excited. + </p> + <p> + “Halima is at the Fontaine Chaude,” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “Keltoum will be there.” + </p> + <p> + “She will not. Her foot is sick. She cannot dance. For a week she will not + dance. I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “And—Irena? Is she sick? Is she at the Hammam Salahine?” + </p> + <p> + Hadj’s countenance fell. He looked at his cousin sideways, always showing + his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not know, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ana ma ‘audi ma nek oul lek!</i>”[*] growled Hadj in his throat. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [*] “I have nothing to say to you.” + </pre> + <p> + 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 <i>cafés + maures</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hadj can go home if he is afraid of anything in the dancing street,” said + Domini, rather maliciously. “Let us follow the soldiers.” + </p> + <p> + Hadj started as if he had been stung, and looked at Domini as if he would + like to strangle her. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid of nothing,” he exclaimed proudly. “Madame does not know + Hadj-ben-Ibrahim.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do you often come here at night, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, Madame, when I am alone. But with ladies—” + </p> + <p> + “You were here last night, weren’t you, with the traveller from the + hotel?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have a barbarian in me,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch!” she said sharply. + </p> + <p> + The poet turned a distorted face to her. + </p> + <p> + “Madame!” + </p> + <p> + “That will do. Take us to the dancing-house.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch shot a last ferocious glance at Hadj and they went on into the + crowd of strolling men. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame!” + </p> + <p> + Hadj’s thin hand was pulling Domini’s sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “This is the best dancing-house. The children dance here.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t want to see children,” she said. “That’s too—” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at her escort and did not finish. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Batouch. “Madame wishes for the real ouleds.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, take me in here,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Batouch laughed softly, and Hadj uttered a word below his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Madame will see Irena here,” said Batouch, pushing the watching Arabs + unceremoniously away. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to sit quite near the door,” she whispered to Batouch as they went + in. + </p> + <p> + “But it is much better—” + </p> + <p> + “Do what I tell you,” she said. “The left side of the room.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For it was this dance of the <i>ennui</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She wants him to give her money,” Batouch whispered to Domini. “Why does + not he give her money?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Domini grew hot as she saw the look that came into the stranger’s face + when the woman touched his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Go and tell him it’s money she wants!” she whispered to Batouch. “Go and + tell him!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His angel had been in fear, perhaps, while his devil—— + </p> + <p> + But Domini tried resolutely to turn her thoughts from the smiling face. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hadj is nearly dead with fear,” whispered Batouch, complacently. Domini’s + lips curled. + </p> + <p> + “Does not Madame think Irena beautiful as the moon on the waters of the + Oued Beni-Mora?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Little! But Irena is tall as a female palm in Ourlana.” + </p> + <p> + “Tall!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So she is; but who could be afraid of her? Why, I could pick her up and + throw her over that moon of yours.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Domini laughed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why do they murder the dancers?” she asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The great hiding-place!” + </p> + <p> + “The desert, Madame.” He sipped his coffee. Domini looked at him, + fascinated. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “The great hiding-place.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Hadj crouched right back against the wall. The voice of the Jewess ceased + in a shout. The hautboys stopped playing. Only the tomtoms roared. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For some reason that she could not understand her heart began to beat + fast, and she felt a burning sensation behind her eyes. + </p> + <p> + She thought that this extraordinary music, that this amazing dance, + excited her too much. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The spirit blazed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for getting me out,” she said rather bluntly. “Where’s my + maid?” + </p> + <p> + “She got away before us with your guide, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + He held up his hands and looked at them hard, eagerly, questioningly. + </p> + <p> + “You weren’t hurt?” + </p> + <p> + He dropped his hands quickly. “Oh, no, it wasn’t——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What people!” she said. “What wild creatures!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed again. The patrol pushed its way roughly in at the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “The Arabs are always like that, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, then she said, abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “Do you speak English?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + And directly he had said it she saw by his face that he wished he had said + “No.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am an Englishwoman,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She has stabbed Hadj,” Domini said. “Batouch will be glad.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you once more,” she said to her companion. “Goodnight.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am very much obliged to you for getting me out,” she said, looking + straight at him. “And now, good-night.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go with you, Madame,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s night.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go with you, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + He said it again harshly and kept his eyes on her, frowning. + </p> + <p> + “And if I refuse?” she said, wondering whether she was going to refuse or + not. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll follow you, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come with me,” she said. + </p> + <p> + They went on together. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I think, Madame, it would be better to take a side street,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He started. + </p> + <p> + “The sand-diviner?” he said in his low, strong voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She walked on into a tiny alley. He followed her. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t seen the thin man with the bag of sand?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “He reads your past in sand from the desert and tells what your future + will be.” + </p> + <p> + The man made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “Will you pay him a visit?” Domini asked curiously. + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame. I do not care for such things.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she stood still. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, look!” she said. “How strange! And there are others all down the + street.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The woman had not once looked at the man, but only at the money in his + scaly hand. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + They were at a few steps from the hotel door in the road. The man stopped, + and Domini stopped too. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” he said earnestly, with a sort of hardly controlled excitement, + “I—I am glad. I was ashamed—I was ashamed.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be almost trembling with agitation. + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know,” she said. “Besides, it was nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, it was abominable. I understand that. I am not so coarse-fibred + as not to understand that.” + </p> + <p> + Domini suddenly felt that to take his view of the matter, exaggerated + though it was, would be the kindest course, even the most delicate. + </p> + <p> + “You were rude to me,” she said, “but I shall forget it from this moment.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand. He grasped it, and again she felt as if a furnace + were pouring its fiery heat upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Madame. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + She was going away to the hotel door, but she stopped. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Domini Enfilden,” she said in English. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “My name is Boris—Boris Androvsky.” + </p> + <p> + “Batouch told me you were English,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “My mother was English, but my father was a Russian from Tiflis. That is + my name.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound in his voice as if he were insisting like a man making + an assertion not readily to be believed. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” Domini said again. + </p> + <p> + And she went away slowly, leaving him standing on the moonlit road. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"></a> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “Hadj-ben-Ibrahim will know from henceforth whether the Mehari with the + swollen tongue can bite.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I fear not, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Au revoir</i>,” she said, turning to go down. + </p> + <p> + “May I—might I see you get up?” said Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Up on the horse?” + </p> + <p> + She could not help smiling at his fashion of expressing the act of + mounting. He was not a sportsman evidently, despite his muscular strength. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, if you like. Come along.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky stood near the waiter, looking at Domini and at the horse with + wonder and alarm in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + The animal, irritated by inaction, began to plunge violently and to get + out of hand. + </p> + <p> + “Give me the reins,” Domini said to the poet. “That’s it. Now put your + hand for me.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch obeyed. Her foot just touched his hand and she was in the saddle. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky sprang forward on to the pavement. His eyes were blazing with + anxiety. She saw it and laughed gaily. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I can get a horse for Monsieur too. Would Monsieur like to have a horse?” + </p> + <p> + It was the poet’s amply seductive voice. Androvsky started. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t ride,” he said curtly. + </p> + <p> + “I will teach Monsieur. I am the best teacher in Beni-Mora. In three + lessons Monsieur will—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t ride, I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning, M’sieur,” he said politely, raising his hat. “I see you + like dogs.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That’s my little dog,” the priest continued in a gentle voice. “He has + evidently taken a great fancy to you.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch was watching Androvsky under the arcade, and noted the sudden + change in his expression and his whole bearing. + </p> + <p> + “I—I did not know he was your dog, Monsieur, or I should not have + interfered with him,” said Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You will not go alone, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + It was the priest’s voice. She smiled down at him gaily. + </p> + <p> + “Should I be carried off by nomads, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “It would not be safe for a lady, believe me.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t need you, Batouch,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But the poet was inexorable, backed up by the priest. + </p> + <p> + “It is my duty to accompany Madame. I am responsible for her safety.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, you cannot go into the desert alone,” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He started. + </p> + <p> + “Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come with me for a ride into the desert?” + </p> + <p> + His face was flooded with scarlet, and he came a step forward, looking up + at her. + </p> + <p> + “I!” he said with an accent of infinite surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Will you?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” she said, almost brutally in her vexation at what she had + done. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch!” + </p> + <p> + The poet was about to spring upon the horse when Androvsky caught him by + the arm. + </p> + <p> + “I will go,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Batouch looked vicious. “But Monsieur told me he did not——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s an Arab saddle,” said Domini. + </p> + <p> + “It does not matter, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + His face was stern. + </p> + <p> + “Are you accustomed to them?” + </p> + <p> + “It makes no difference.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Take care!” said Domini. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” Batouch began, speaking to Domini, “that Monsieur cannot—” + </p> + <p> + “Give me the rein!” said Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He will be killed,” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + Bous-Bous barked frantically. + </p> + <p> + “It is his own fault,” said the poet. “He told me himself just now that he + did not know how to ride.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you tell me so?” Domini exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Madame——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “His strength must be enormous,” Domini thought with a startled + admiration. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I almost thought——” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he said, on a great gasping breath that was like a sob. + </p> + <p> + “—that you were off to the centre of the earth, or—I don’t + know what I thought. You aren’t hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + He could only speak in monosyllables as yet. She looked his horse over. + </p> + <p> + “He won’t give much more trouble just now. Shall we ride back?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “But you——” She hesitated. “Perhaps you aren’t accustomed to + horses, and with that saddle——” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head again, drew a tremendous breath and said + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care, I’ll go on, I won’t go back.” + </p> + <p> + He put up one hand, brushed the foam from his streaming forehead, and said + again fiercely: + </p> + <p> + “I won’t go back.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come on then.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You weren’t hurt by the fall?” she said. “It looked a bad one.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether I was. I don’t care whether I was.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke almost roughly. + </p> + <p> + “You asked me to ride with you,” he added. “I’ll ride with you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The womanhood in her liked the tribute, almost more than liked it. + </p> + <p> + “Your horse goes better now,” she said at last to break the silence. + </p> + <p> + “Does it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know!” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I know nothing of horses or riding. I have not been on a horse + for twenty-three years.” + </p> + <p> + She was amazed. + </p> + <p> + “We ought to go back then,” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Why? Other men ride—I will ride. I do it badly. Forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive you!” she said. “I admire your pluck. But why have you never + ridden all these years?” + </p> + <p> + After a pause he answered: + </p> + <p> + “I—I did not—I had not the opportunity.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think we could go as far as that?” she asked Androvsky, pointing + with her whip. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be an oasis. Don’t you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I can go faster.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep your rein loose. Don’t pull his mouth. You don’t mind my telling + you. I’ve been with horses all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He cast a strange look at her. There was gratitude in it, but much more; a + fiery bitterness and something childlike and helpless. + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing to teach,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Water!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Water!” he said again. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>laguna morta</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it mirage?” she said to him almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + And suddenly she shivered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is, it must be.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At last he turned and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But you ought to know better than I do,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “I!” + </p> + <p> + “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——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m a man and I ought to know,” he replied. “Well, I don’t know, but + I mean to know.” + </p> + <p> + There was a savage sound in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know, too,” Domini said quietly. “And I feel as if it + was the desert that was going to teach me.” + </p> + <p> + “The desert—how?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed again to the mirage. + </p> + <p> + “But that’s what there is in the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “That—and what else?” + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps everything,” she answered. “I am like you. I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + He looked straight into her eyes and there was something dominating in his + expression. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She did not add “Do you?” but looked at him as if for a reply. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I do not speak it well,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Her horse neighed. + </p> + <p> + “Something is coming,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The change from mysterious peace to this vivid and concentrated life was + startling. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The inn! This is the inn! Madame will descend here. Madame will eat in + the garden. Monsieur Alphonse! Monsieur Alphonse! Here are clients for <i>dejeuner</i>. + I have brought them. Do not believe Mohammed. It is I that—I will + assist Madame to descend. I will——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + He answered in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “As we are here we ought to see. Do you know, I think we must yield to + honest Mustapha and have <i>dejeuner</i> in the garden. It is twelve + o’clock and I am hungry. We might visit the mosque afterwards and ride + home in the afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + He sat there hunched up on the horse and looked at her in silent + hesitation, while the Arabs stood round staring. + </p> + <p> + “You’d rather not?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let me do it,” she said abruptly. “Turn round.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “There, that’s better.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was practical. He did not move, but stood there. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done what I can, Monsieur Androvsky.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Honest Mustapha strode forward. He had a Bashi-Bazouk tread to wake up a + world. <i>Dejeuner</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It really is delicious,” said Domini, who was eating it. “But perhaps you + don’t care about meat.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>al fresco</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do smoke,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky,” she said, looking at the slow waters of the stream + slipping by towards the hidden gardens, “is the desert new to you?” + </p> + <p> + She longed to know. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought perhaps—I wondered a little whether you had travelled in + it already.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame. I saw it for the first time the day before yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “When I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>auberge</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a lovely creature!” she said, more to herself than to Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + He did not speak, and his silence made her consciously demand his + acquiescence in her admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see anything more beautiful and more characteristic of + Africa?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” he said in a slow, stern voice, “I did not look at her.” + </p> + <p> + Domini felt piqued. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky’s face was cloudy and almost cruel. + </p> + <p> + “These native women do not interest me,” he said. “I see nothing + attractive in them.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I can scarcely believe that,” she answered bluntly. + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Why not, Madame?” he said. “If I say it is so?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If you say it is so naturally I am bound to take your word for it,” she + said coldly. + </p> + <p> + He flushed and looked down. The rigid defiance that had confronted her + died out of his face. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She felt full of malice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And she felt at that moment as if she had saved a sacred thing from + outrage. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to visit the village, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But don’t let me bother you if you would rather—” + </p> + <p> + “I will come. I wish to come.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We ought to visit the mosque, I think,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” she said. + </p> + <p> + She looked at Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, Madame. It must be people.” + </p> + <p> + “But what can they be doing?” + </p> + <p> + “They are praying in the mosque where Sidi-Zerzour is buried,” said + Mustapha. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky was walking slowly as if in pain. + </p> + <p> + “Your shoulder isn’t hurting you?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Follow me into the court, Madame,” Mustapha said, “and remain at the door + while I fetch the slippers.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Allah! Allah! Allah!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She touched Androvsky’s arm. He started and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “That old man,” she whispered. “Can’t you speak to him?” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky glanced at him for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Speak to him, Madame? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “He—he’s horrible!” + </p> + <p> + She felt a sudden disinclination to tell Androvsky why the old man was + horrible to her. + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish me to say to him?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought perhaps you might be able to stop him from doing that.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky bent down and spoke to the old man in Arabic. + </p> + <p> + He shot out his arms and reiterated his trembling shriek. It pierced the + sound of prayer as lightning pierces cloud. + </p> + <p> + Domini got up quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t bear it,” she said, still in a whisper. “It’s as if he were + cursing God.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky looked at the old man again, this time with profound attention. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “We can’t stop it.” + </p> + <p> + Something in his voice made her say abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to stop it?” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. The old man struck at the mosque and shrieked. Domini + shuddered. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t stay here,” she said. + </p> + <p> + At this moment Mustapha appeared, followed by the guardian of the mosque, + who carried two pairs of tattered slippers. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur and Madame must take off their boots. Then I will show the + mosque.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This is the tomb of Sidi-Zerzour,” whispered Mustapha. “It is opened once + a year.” + </p> + <p> + The guardian of the mosque fell on his knees before the tomb. + </p> + <p> + “That is Mecca.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Had her father ever felt such a sensation of unutterable solitude? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Allah-Akbar! Allah-Akbar!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had mounted with the voice of prayer into the sunshine, surely a + little way towards God. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky had remained in the dark shadow with a curse. + </p> + <p> + It was foolish, perhaps—a woman’s vagrant fancy—but she wished + he had mounted with her. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> + BOOK III. THE GARDEN + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"></a> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + It was noon in the desert. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the garden of Count Anteoni Larbi’s flute was silent. + </p> + <p> + “It is like noon in a mirage,” Domini said softly. + </p> + <p> + Count Anteoni nodded. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You could be frightened?” + </p> + <p> + “Not easily by outside things—it least I hope not.” + </p> + <p> + “But what then?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “In the mirage of this land you begin to see the exterior life as a + mirage? You are learning, you are learning.” + </p> + <p> + There was a creeping sound of something that was almost impish in his + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a secret agent?” Domini asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Of whom, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + She was silent. She seemed to be considering. He watched her with + curiosity in his bright eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Of the desert,” she answered at length, quite seriously. + </p> + <p> + “A secret agent has always a definite object. What is mine?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I know? How can I tell what the desert desires?” + </p> + <p> + “Already you personify it!” + </p> + <p> + The network of wrinkles showed itself in his brown face as he smiled, + surely with triumph. + </p> + <p> + “I think I did that from the first,” she answered gravely. “I know I did.” + </p> + <p> + “And what sort of personage does the desert seem to you?” + </p> + <p> + “You ask me a great many questions to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-five minutes,” he said, “and my guests will be here.” + </p> + <p> + “Guests!” she said with an accent of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I invited the priest to make an even number.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t dislike him?” + </p> + <p> + “I like him. I respect him.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m afraid you aren’t pleased?” + </p> + <p> + Domini looked him straight in the face. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you invite Father Roubier?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t four better than three?” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t want to tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mussulman prayer,” she said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Prayer,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was plain from their manner to each other that their former slight + acquaintance had moved towards something like a pleasant friendship. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ten days had passed since the ride to Sidi-Zerzour—days rather like + a dream to Domini. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They knew little of each other, yet they had become friends in the garden + which he never left. + </p> + <p> + One day she said to him: + </p> + <p> + “You love the desert. Why do you never go into it?” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to watch it,” he relied. “When you are in the desert it + bewilders you.” + </p> + <p> + She remembered what she had felt during her first ride with Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you are afraid of it,” she said challengingly. + </p> + <p> + “Fear is sometimes the beginning of wisdom,” he answered. “But you are + without it, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Every day I see you galloping away into the sun.” + </p> + <p> + She thought there was a faint sound of warning—or was it of rebuke—in + his voice. It made her feel defiant. + </p> + <p> + “I think you lose a great deal by not galloping into the sun too,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “But if I don’t ride?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He had gone to learn his lesson in the desert. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “When I go out into the desert for my long journey I shall go by this + road,” she said to Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + “You are going on a journey?” he said, looking at her as if startled. + </p> + <p> + “Some day.” + </p> + <p> + “All alone?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky still looked startled, and half angry, she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I did not know you were going on a journey, Madame,” Androvsky said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That seems a long time ago, Madame,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, when speaking to her, he dropped his voice till she could + scarcely hear him, and sounded like a man communing with himself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She did not know whether he was a gentleman or not. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yet he was more male than other men, breathed humanity—of some kind—as + fire breathes heat. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She wondered. But he often woke up wonder in her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had never definitely said to herself: “Do I like him or dislike him?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is like a garden of the <i>Arabian Nights</i>,” she had said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But scarcely of the black world I should imagine,” she added. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “You should go and see the garden,” she continued. “Count Anteoni allows + visitors to explore it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure it must be very beautiful, Madame,” he replied, rather coldly, + she thought. + </p> + <p> + He did not say that he would go. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One day Count Anteoni had asked her whether she had made acquaintance with + the man who had fled from prayer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “You know it.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “We have ridden to Sidi-Zerzour.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not always by the wall.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I think you were that day.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure you were.” + </p> + <p> + He did not either acknowledge or deny it. + </p> + <p> + “He has never been to see my garden,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “He ought to come.” + </p> + <p> + “I have told him so.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah? Is he coming?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I doubt if he is a man to be easily persuaded,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not—persuade him.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment Domini said: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether you recognise that there are obstacles which the human + will can’t negotiate?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “They lie still?” + </p> + <p> + “And are the desert. I want to have a strange experience.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “A <i>fete</i> in my garden.” + </p> + <p> + “A fantasia?” + </p> + <p> + “Something far more banal. A lunch party, a <i>dejeuner</i>. Will you + honour me?” + </p> + <p> + “By breakfasting with you? Yes, of course. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “And will you bring—the second sun worshipper?” + </p> + <p> + She looked into the Count’s small, shining eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “On what day do you ask us?” + </p> + <p> + “Any day—Friday.” + </p> + <p> + “And why do you ask us?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to overcome this indifference to my garden. It hurts me, not only + in my pride, but in my affections.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She asked him that evening, and saw the red, that came as it comes in a + boy’s face, mount to his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but, Madame, how can Monsieur the Count know that I am here? I + have not seen him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + The reluctance in his voice was extreme. Yet he did not like to say no. + While he hesitated, Domini continued: + </p> + <p> + “You remember when I asked you to ride?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “That was new to you. Well, it has given you pleasure, hasn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “So will the garden. I want to put another pleasure into your life.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall come, Madame,” he said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Friday. I may be in the garden in the morning. I’ll meet you at the gate + at half-past twelve.” + </p> + <p> + “Friday?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Already he seemed to be wavering in his acceptance. Domini did not stay + with him any longer. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad,” she said in a finishing tone. + </p> + <p> + And she went away. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The desert is making me abominably natural,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the black figure of Father Roubier came out of the shadows + of the trees with Bous-Bous trotting importantly beside it. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He patted Bous-Bous, who took little notice of him. + </p> + <p> + “You know Miss Enfilden, I think?” continued the Count. + </p> + <p> + “Father Roubier and I meet every day,” said Domini, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + He was a sincere man, utterly without pretension, and, as such men often + are, quietly at home with anybody of whatever class or creed. + </p> + <p> + “I must go to the garden gate,” Domini said. “Will you excuse me for a + moment?” + </p> + <p> + “To meet Monsieur Androvsky? Let us accompany you if Father Roubier—” + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t trouble. I won’t be a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Something in her voice made Count Anteoni at once acquiesce, defying his + courteous instinct. + </p> + <p> + “We will wait for you here,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What time is it, Smain?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly half-past twelve, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you open the door and see if anyone is coming?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There is a gentleman coming, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky!” she called. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I came to be your cicerone.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This is the way,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Then, as they turned into the shadow of the trees and began to walk + between the rills of water, she added abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “Father Roubier is here already, so our party is complete.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky stood still. + </p> + <p> + “Father Roubier! You did not tell me he was coming.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know it till five minutes ago.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I did not understand. I thought Senor Anteoni would be alone here.” + </p> + <p> + “Father Roubier is a pleasant companion, sincere and simple. Everyone + likes him.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt, Madame. But—the fact is I”—he hesitated, then + added, almost with violence—“I do not care for priests.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry. Still, for once—for an hour—you can surely——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Count Anteoni stepped forward to greet them. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky—Count Anteoni,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The hands of the two men met. She saw that Androvsky’s was lifted + reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky said nothing. His eyes were on the priest. The Count noticed it, + and added: + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Father Roubier?” + </p> + <p> + “We have often seen each other in the hotel,” Father Roubier said with his + usual straightforward simplicity. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Let us go to the <i>salle-a-manger</i>. <i>Dejeuner</i> will be ready, + Miss Enfilden.” + </p> + <p> + She joined him, concealing her reluctance to leave Androvsky with the + priest, and walked beside him down the path, preceded by Bous-Bous. + </p> + <p> + “Is my <i>fete</i> going to be a failure?” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me! do forgive me!” the Count whispered. “I meant no harm.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see such palms, Monsieur Androvsky? Aren’t they + magnificent?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Palms!” he said confusedly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they are wonderful.” + </p> + <p> + “You care for trees?” asked the Count, following Domini’s lead and + speaking with a definite intention to force a conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I have some wonderful fellows here. After <i>dejeuner</i> you must let me + show them to you. I spent years in collecting my children and teaching + them to live rightly in the desert.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Does not its luxuriance surprise you after England?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she replied bluntly. “Ever since I have been in Africa I have felt + that I was in a land of passionate growth.” + </p> + <p> + “But—the desert?” he replied with a gesture towards the long flats + of the Sahara, which were still visible between the trees. + </p> + <p> + “I should find it there too,” she answered. “There, perhaps, most of all.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with a gentle wonder. She did not explain that she was no + longer thinking of growth in Nature. + </p> + <p> + The <i>salle-a-manger</i> 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 <i>fete</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I only remembered this morning that this is a <i>jour maigre</i>,” 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—” + </p> + <p> + “I keep Friday,” Domini interrupted quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes? Poor Hamdane!” + </p> + <p> + He looked in grave despair, but she knew that he was really pleased that + she kept the fast day. + </p> + <p> + “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——” + </p> + <p> + He did not continue, for Androvsky at once said, in a loud and firm voice: + </p> + <p> + “I keep no fast days.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do the Arabs really keep Ramadan strictly?” she asked, looking away from + Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean by trying to defy the Divine Will?” said Domini. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + She thought of her dead father. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You prefer white wine?” said Count Anteoni. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a judge of wine?” added the Count. “That is made from my own + grapes. I have vineyards near Tunis.” + </p> + <p> + “It is excellent,” said Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I think you love the Arabs far more than any Europeans,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He fixed his bright eyes upon her, and she thought that just then they + looked brighter than ever before. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the sound that comes into the voice of a lover of children + when it speaks of a child?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!—the note of a deep indulgence?” + </p> + <p> + “I hear it in yours whenever you speak of the Arabs.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke half jestingly. For a moment he did not reply. Then he said to + the priest: + </p> + <p> + “You have lived long in Africa, Father. Have not you something of the same + feeling towards these children of the sun?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and I have noticed it in our dead Cardinal.” + </p> + <p> + “Cardinal Lavigerie.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He is your hero, I know,” the Count said sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + “He did a great deal for me.” + </p> + <p> + “And for Africa. And he was wise.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean in some special way?” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. There is truth in that.” + </p> + <p> + But the priest assented rather sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Mahomet thought too much of the body,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Domini saw the Count compress his lips. Then he turned to Androvsky and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I doubt——” he said. + </p> + <p> + He paused, laid his hands on the table, clasping its edge, and continued + firmly, even with a sort of hard violence: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + As he finished he stared at the priest, almost menacingly. Then, as if + moved by an after-thought, he added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet it’s the starved wolves that devour the villages,” said Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “May I ask, Monsieur, if you are a Russian?” + </p> + <p> + “My father was. But I have never set foot in Russia.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Spoken as he spoke it, no compliment could have been more gracious, even + moving. But Androvsky only replied abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I know nothing of all that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The Steppes and the Desert are akin, you know,” he said. “Despite the + opposition of frost and fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I was thinking!” she exclaimed. “That must be why—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped short. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said the Count. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + He bent towards her. + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” he whispered. “Listen!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is that song?” she asked under her breath. “Surely I must have heard + it!” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Wurra-Wurra.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You remember?” whispered the Count. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + </pre> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Presently Count Anteoni spoke to the priest. + </p> + <p> + “You have heard this song, no doubt, Father?” + </p> + <p> + Father Roubier shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so, but I can never remember the Arab music” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you dislike it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful beauty,” Domini said in a low voice, still listening to the + song. + </p> + <p> + “The words are beautiful,” said the Count, this time addressing himself to + Androvsky. “I don’t know them all, but they begin like this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘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.’ +</pre> + <p> + “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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.’” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go into the ante-room?” the Count said. “Coffee will be brought + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but—don’t let us see them!” Domini exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “The musicians?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “You would rather not hear any more music?” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t mind!” + </p> + <p> + He gave an order in Arabic. One of the servants slipped away and returned + almost immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Now we can go,” the Count said. “They have vanished.” + </p> + <p> + The priest sighed. It was evident that the music had moved him too. As + they got up he said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there was beauty in that song and something more. Some of these + desert poets can teach us to think.” + </p> + <p> + “A dangerous lesson, perhaps,” said the Count. “What do you say, Monsieur + Androvsky?” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky was on his feet. His eyes were turned toward the door through + which the sound of the music had come. + </p> + <p> + “I!” he answered. “I—Monsieur, I am afraid that to me this music + means very little. I cannot judge of it.” + </p> + <p> + “But the words?” asked the Count with a certain pressure. + </p> + <p> + “They do not seem to me to suggest much more than the music.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “These native women do not interest me. I see nothing attractive in them.” + </p> + <p> + For now, as then, she knew that he had lied. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"></a> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My little dog seems very fond of your friend,” the priest said to Domini. + </p> + <p> + “My friend!” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky.” + </p> + <p> + She lowered her voice. + </p> + <p> + “He is only a travelling acquaintance. I know nothing of him.” + </p> + <p> + The priest looked gently surprised and Count Anteoni blew forth a fragrant + cloud of smoke. + </p> + <p> + “He seems a remarkable man,” the priest said mildly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come in out of the sunshine,” said the Count. “It is too strong. Try this + chair. Coffee will be—ah, here it is!” + </p> + <p> + Two servants appeared, carrying it. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Monsieur,” Androvsky said with reluctant courtesy. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Bous-Bous! Bous-Bous! Little rascal, little pig—down, down!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, leave him, Monsieur!” muttered Androvsky. “It’s all the same to me.” + </p> + <p> + “He really has no shame where his heart is concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “Arab!” said the Count. “He has learnt it in Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he has taken lessons from Larbi,” said Domini. “Hark! He is + playing to-day. For whom?” + </p> + <p> + “I never ask now,” said the Count. “The name changes so often.” + </p> + <p> + “Constancy is not an Arab fault?” Domini asked. + </p> + <p> + “You say ‘fault,’ Madame,” interposed the priest. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But can constancy do that?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think so, into a world of ceaseless change?” + </p> + <p> + “Then how shall we reckon truth in a world of lies?” asked the Count. “Is + that a fault, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask Monsieur Androvsky,” said Domini, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I obey,” said the Count, looking over at his guest. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “If you are sure, Madame, why ask me?” Androvsky replied. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The priest laughed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “But I hope I shall always be able to enjoy innocent fun.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke his eyes rested on Androvsky’s face, and suddenly he looked + grave and put Bous-Bous gently down on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I must be going,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Already?” said his host. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “As I do. Father, we meet very seldom, but whenever we do I feel myself a + cumberer of the earth.” + </p> + <p> + Domini had never before heard him speak with such humbleness. The priest + flushed like a boy. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall learn to love Father Roubier,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky moved his seat round again till his back was to the garden, and + placed his broad hands palm downward on his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said the Count. + </p> + <p> + “He is so transparently good, and he bears his great disappointment so + beautifully.” + </p> + <p> + “What great disappointment?” + </p> + <p> + “He longed to become a monk.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you excuse me for a moment?” the Count said. + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He repeated the last words, lowering his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Of course go and see him.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + He glanced towards Androvsky, who was standing with his back to them. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you show Monsieur Androvsky the garden?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do you care to see the garden?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Madame—yes,” he replied, as if with an effort. + </p> + <p> + She got up, and they went out together on to the broad walk. + </p> + <p> + “Which way do you want to go?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + She saw him glance at her quickly, with anxiety in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You know best where we should go, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure they are all very beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come along then,” she said. “We’ll go this way.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Pretending, Madame?” he said in a startled voice. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Please, stop, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You have made a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “In what?” + </p> + <p> + “I do want to see this garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? Well, then, you can wander through it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not wish to see it alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Larbi shall guide you. For half a franc he will gladly give up his + serenading.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she said, and her voice was quite changed. “But you do worse.” + </p> + <p> + “Worse!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You lie in the face of Africa.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” she added. “I am a fool. Out here I do love truth.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky dropped his eyes. His whole body expressed humiliation, and + something that suggested to her despair. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “You have been in a prison!” he said, lifting his head and looking at her + eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I have been living in what is called the great world.” + </p> + <p> + “And you call that a prison?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, drew a long breath, and added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Show me the garden, Madame,” he said in a very low voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Listen!” she said presently. + </p> + <p> + Larbi’s flute was very near. + </p> + <p> + “He is always playing,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “One of the gardeners. But he scarcely ever works. He is perpetually in + love. That is why he plays.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that a love-tune then?” Androvsky asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Do you think it sounds like one?” + </p> + <p> + “How should I know, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He started. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Whom does he love?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But you come here every day?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Has he ever seen you?” + </p> + <p> + “Larbi? Often. What has that to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + He did not reply. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like it?” she said presently in an under voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame. And you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you care to tell me why?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that all human beings hold within them secrets, and that no + allusion even should ever be made to those secrets?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause he said, anxiously, she thought: + </p> + <p> + “Am I right, Madame, or is my thought ridiculous?” + </p> + <p> + He asked it so simply that she felt touched. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Then I should hate it,” he interposed. + </p> + <p> + His voice was like an uncontrolled inner voice speaking. + </p> + <p> + “And not thought and feeling—” she began. + </p> + <p> + But he interrupted her. + </p> + <p> + “They make all the misery that exists in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “And all the happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Do they?” + </p> + <p> + “They must.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you want to think deeply, to feel deeply?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not,” she answered. “But—some day—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If one does not wish to feel one should never come to such a place as + this,” she added. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Or, having come, one should leave it.” + </p> + <p> + A sensation of lurking danger increased upon her, bringing with it the + thought of flight. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Unless it is one’s nature to face things, never to turn one’s back. Is it + yours, Monsieur Androvsky?” + </p> + <p> + “Fear could never drive me to leave Beni-Moni,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky’s eyes were lit up as if by a flicker of inward fire. + </p> + <p> + “You might create the virtue you love,” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other for a moment. Did he mean that she might create + it in him? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>dejeuner</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember chiding me?” + </p> + <p> + “I!” she said. “For what?” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky sat up and the expression of serenity passed away from his face. + </p> + <p> + “For never galloping away into the sun.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—yes, I do remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am going to obey you. I am going to make a journey.” + </p> + <p> + “Into the desert?” + </p> + <p> + “Three hundred kilometers on horseback. I start to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him with a new interest. He saw it and laughed, almost + like a boy. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, your contempt for me is dying!” + </p> + <p> + “How can you speak of contempt?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know at all,” said Androvsky. “I had not ridden for over twenty + years until that day.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a blunt determination which made Domini remember their + recent conversation on truth-telling. + </p> + <p> + “Dio mio!” said the Count, slowly, and looking at him with undisguised + wonder. “You must have a will and a frame of iron.” + </p> + <p> + “I am pretty strong.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I have never heard of him,” she said. “In which direction + does Beni-Hassan lie?” + </p> + <p> + “To go there one takes the caravan route that the natives call the route + to Tombouctou.” + </p> + <p> + An eager look came into her face. + </p> + <p> + “My road!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yours?” + </p> + <p> + “The one I shall travel on. You remember, Monsieur Androvsky?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me into your secret,” said the Count, laughingly, yet with interest + too. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke earnestly, paused, and then added: + </p> + <p> + “But I know well what you are thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing in assent, and Androvsky got up from the bench. + </p> + <p> + “I must go, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Already! But have you seen the garden?” + </p> + <p> + “It is wonderful. Good-bye, Monsieur. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “But—let me see you to the gate. On Fridays——” + </p> + <p> + He was turning to Domini when she got up too. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you distribute alms on Fridays?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “How should you know it?” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard all about you. But is this the hour?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see the distribution.” + </p> + <p> + “And we will speed Monsieur Androvsky on his way at the same time.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear my pensioners?” said the Count. “They are always impatient.” + </p> + <p> + There was the noise of a tomtom and of a whining shriek. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever made a thank-offering?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “That tells me something. Well, to-day I wish to make a thank-offering to + the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “What has it done for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows? Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed aloud, almost like a boy. Androvsky glanced at him with a sort + of wondering envy. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My pensioners are very hungry to-day, and, as you see, they don’t mind + saying so. Hark at Bel Cassem!” + </p> + <p> + The tomtom and the shriek that went with it made it a fierce crescendo. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you help me?” he said to Domini. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. What fun!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Choose whom you will. And now, Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is this boring you?” he asked. “Because if so—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Monsieur, not at all! What am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Those hands will tell you.” + </p> + <p> + The clamour grew more exigent. + </p> + <p> + “And when you want more come to me!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “More, more, please!” + </p> + <p> + “Ecco, Signora.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"></a> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shut the gate!” he commanded sternly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Count turned to Domini. + </p> + <p> + “This is an interesting fellow. Would you like to know him?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” the Count cried, as if suddenly recollecting something. “Where is + Monsieur Androvsky?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t he——?” Domini glanced round. “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky has gone—without saying good-bye,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Again Domini felt ashamed for Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think he likes my pensioners,” the Count added, in amused voice, + “or me.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure—” Domini began. + </p> + <p> + But he stopped her. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Enfilden, in a world of lies I look to you for truth.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He will wait in the <i>fumoir</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Where we first met?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “For us, if you choose.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about him. I have seen him twice. He followed me with a bag of + sand.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He says. Do you believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to test it?” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “By coming with me to the <i>fumoir</i>?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated obviously. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “The ‘much more intimately’?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know it, but—which is much more—I feel it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me send him away. Smain!” + </p> + <p> + But she stopped him. Directly he made the suggestion she felt that she + must know more of this man. + </p> + <p> + “No. Let us go to the <i>fumoir</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Go, Smain!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is his name?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Aloui.” + </p> + <p> + “Aloui.” + </p> + <p> + She repeated the word slowly. There was a reluctant and yet fascinated + sound in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “There is melody in the name,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Has he—has he ever looked in the sand for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Once—a long time ago.” + </p> + <p> + “May I—dare I ask if he found truth there?” + </p> + <p> + “He found nothing for all the years that have passed since then.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing!” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of relief in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “For those years.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him and saw that once again his face had lit up into + ardour. + </p> + <p> + “He found what is still to come?” she said. + </p> + <p> + And he repeated: + </p> + <p> + “He found what is still to come.” + </p> + <p> + Then they walked on in silence till they saw the purple blossoms of the + bougainvillea clinging to the white walls of the <i>fumoir</i>. Domini + stopped on the narrow path. + </p> + <p> + “Is he in there?” she asked almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt.” + </p> + <p> + “Larbi was playing the first day I came here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish he was playing now.” + </p> + <p> + The silence seemed to her unnaturally intense. + </p> + <p> + “Even his love must have repose.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there he is,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is he doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Speaking with his ancestor.” + </p> + <p> + “His ancestor?” + </p> + <p> + “The sand. Aloui!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You see!” said the Count. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Diviner squatted down once more on his haunches, stretched out his + fingers above the sand heap, looked at her and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “La vie de Madame—I see it in the sable—la vie de Madame dans + le grand desert du Sahara.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Domini looked over the Diviner to Count Anteoni, who came gently forward + and sat down, bending his head to listen to the voice. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Arabic?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Can you understand it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. Presently it will get slower, clearer. He always begins like + this.” + </p> + <p> + “Translate it for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly as it is?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly as it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever it may be?” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever it may be.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at the tortured face of the Diviner and looked grave. + </p> + <p> + “Remember you have said I am fearless,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He answered: + </p> + <p> + “Whatever it is you shall know it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I can hear now,” whispered the Count. + </p> + <p> + “What is he saying?” + </p> + <p> + “He is speaking about the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “He sees a great storm. Wait a moment!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A mosque?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My life?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He says that!” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of deep emotion in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “That is all. The roar of the wind from the desert has silenced the music + in the church, and all is dark.” + </p> + <p> + The Diviner moved again, and formed fresh patterns in the sand with + feverish rapidity, and again began to speak swiftly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Domini leaned forward on the divan, looking at Count Anteoni above the + bent body of the Diviner. + </p> + <p> + “By what route?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “By the route which the natives call the road to Tombouctou.” + </p> + <p> + “But—it is my journey!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Two people!” + </p> + <p> + “Two people.” + </p> + <p> + “But—who is the other?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me!” she murmured to the Count. + </p> + <p> + He obeyed, seeming now to speak with an effort. + </p> + <p> + “It is far away in the desert——” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “Yes? Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “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——” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the triangle traced upon the sand. + </p> + <p> + “I knew it,” she whispered. “It is my tent.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered in spite of herself. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But then it is joy, it must be joy!” + </p> + <p> + “He says it is great joy.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why does he look like that, breathe like that?” + </p> + <p> + She indicated the Diviner, who was trembling where he crouched, and + breathing heavily, and always sweating like one in agony. + </p> + <p> + “There is more,” said the Count, slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. But she did not wish him to answer. She had spoken + without meaning to speak. + </p> + <p> + “You watch this figure. It comes to you, walking heavily.” + </p> + <p> + “Walking heavily?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” Domini said almost sharply. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t hear anything more, please.” + </p> + <p> + “But you said ‘whatever it may be.’” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I won’t hear anything more.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke very quietly, with determination. + </p> + <p> + The Diviner was beginning to move his hands again, to make fresh patterns + in the sand, to speak swiftly once more. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I stop him?” + </p> + <p> + “Please.” + </p> + <p> + “Then would you mind going out into the garden? I will join you in a + moment. Take care not to disturb him.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fumoir</i>. + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He has gone?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He was about to sit beside her, but she said quickly: + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind going back to the jamelon tree?” + </p> + <p> + “Where we sat this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Was it only—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh; but you are going away to-morrow! You have a lot to do probably?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. My men will arrange everything.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Under the jamelon tree she sat down once more. + </p> + <p> + “May—I light a cigar?” the Count asked. + </p> + <p> + “Do.” + </p> + <p> + He struck a match, lit a cigar, and sat down on her left, by the garden + wall. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me frankly,” he said. “Do you wish to talk or to be silent?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry now I asked you to test Aloui’s powers.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I fear they made an unpleasant impression upon you.” + </p> + <p> + “That was not why I made you stop him.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe—I know that you are fearless,” he said with an unusual + warmth. “You are sure that I don’t understand you?” + </p> + <p> + “Remember the refrain of the Freed Negroes’ song!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes—those black fellows. But I know something of you, Miss + Enfilden—yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “I would rather you did—you and your garden.” + </p> + <p> + “And—some day—I should like you to know a little more of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. When will you come back?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell. But you are not leaving?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + The idea of leaving Beni-Mora troubled her heart strangely. + </p> + <p> + “No, I am too happy here.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you really happy?” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate I am happier than I have ever been before.” + </p> + <p> + “You are on the verge.” + </p> + <p> + He was looking at her with eyes in which there was tenderness, but + suddenly they flashed fire, and he exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “My desert land must not bring you despair.” + </p> + <p> + She was startled by his sudden vehemence. + </p> + <p> + “What I would not hear!” she said. “You know it!” + </p> + <p> + “It is not my fault. I am ready to tell it to you.” + </p> + <p> + “No. But do you believe it? Do you believe that man can read the future in + the sand? How can it be?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What gift?” + </p> + <p> + “The gift of belief.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you do believe in that man—Aloui?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She remembered her vision of the pale procession. Would she walk in it at + last? + </p> + <p> + “You are as fatalistic as an Arab,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “I!” she answered simply. “I believe that I am in the hands of God, and I + know that perfect love can never harm me.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment he said, gently: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Enfilden, I want to ask something of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you make a sacrifice? To-morrow I start at dawn. Will you be here to + wish me God speed on my journey?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I will.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And she heard its voices calling. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"></a> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch!” she called softly. “Batouch!” + </p> + <p> + He might be hidden under the arcade, sleeping in his burnous. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch! Batouch!” + </p> + <p> + No answer came. She stood by the parapet, waiting and looking down the + road. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch! Batouch!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are going out, Madame?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Not alone?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe so. Unless I find Batouch below.” + </p> + <p> + She slipped the revolver into the pocket of the loose coat she wore. + </p> + <p> + “But it is dark.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be day very soon. Look!” + </p> + <p> + She pointed towards the east, where a light, delicate and mysterious as + the distant lights in the opal, was gently pushing in the sky. + </p> + <p> + “You ought not to go alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Unless Batouch is there I must. I have given a promise and I must keep + it. There is no danger.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, looking at her with an anxious, almost a suspicious, + expression. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Monsieur Androvsky.” + </p> + <p> + She went towards the staircase. He followed her quickly to the head of it. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t trouble to come down with me.” + </p> + <p> + “If—if Batouch is not there—might not I guard you, Madame?” + She remembered the Count’s words and answered: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky stood there without a word. + </p> + <p> + “Now, do you care to come if I don’t find Batouch? Mind, I’m not the least + afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “He is not here, but it is of no consequence. Dawn is breaking. <i>Au + revoir</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Slowly he took off his hat. As she went away down the road he was holding + it in his hand, looking after her. + </p> + <p> + “He does not like the Count,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Hommage a Toi. Dieu Soleil. Seigneur du Ciel, Roi sur la Terre! Lion du + Soir! Grande Ame divine, vivante a toujours.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He had surely given her into the guardianship of the sun. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fumoir</i>, where the Count was waiting for + her. + </p> + <p> + “It is good of you!” the Count said, meeting her in the doorway. “I relied + on you, you see!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How delicious!” she exclaimed. “A breakfast here! But—no, not + there!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “That is exactly where he was.” + </p> + <p> + “Aloui! How superstitious you are!” + </p> + <p> + He moved her table. She sat down near the doorway and poured out coffee + for them both. + </p> + <p> + “You look workmanlike.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at his riding-dress and long whip. Smoked glasses hung across + his chest by a thin cord. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He tapped an eggshell smartly, and began to eat with appetite. + </p> + <p> + “How gravely gay you are!” she said, lifting the steaming coffee to her + lips. He smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. To-day I am happy, as a pious man is happy when after a long + illness, he goes once more to church.” + </p> + <p> + “The desert seems to be everything to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel that I am going out to freedom, to more than freedom.” He + stretched out his arms above his head. + </p> + <p> + “Yet you have stayed always in this garden all these days.” + </p> + <p> + “I was waiting for my summons, as you will wait for yours.” + </p> + <p> + “What summons could I have?” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Are you ever coming back?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her in surprise, then laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. What are you thinking?” + </p> + <p> + “That perhaps you will not come back, that perhaps the desert will keep + you.” + </p> + <p> + “And my garden?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It would miss you.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment, during which his bright eyes followed hers, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, I have a great belief in the intuitions of good women?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “An almost fanatical belief. Will you answer me a question at once, + without consideration, without any time for thought?” + </p> + <p> + “If you ask me to.” + </p> + <p> + “I do ask you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then——?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you see me in this garden any more?” + </p> + <p> + A voice answered: + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + It was her own, yet it seemed another’s voice, with which she had nothing + to do. + </p> + <p> + A great feeling of sorrow swept over her as she heard it. + </p> + <p> + “Do come back!” she said. + </p> + <p> + The Count had got up. The brightness of his eyes was obscured. + </p> + <p> + “If not here, we shall meet again,” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “In the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “Did the Diviner—? No, don’t tell me.” + </p> + <p> + She got up too. + </p> + <p> + “It is time for you to start?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If I am never to come back I must say good-bye to him,” the Count said. + </p> + <p> + “But you will come back.” + </p> + <p> + “That voice said ‘No.’” + </p> + <p> + “It was a lying voice.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + They looked in at the window and met the ferocious eyes of the dog. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Someone will regret you if—” + </p> + <p> + “Will you? Will you really?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “May I speak frankly to you without offence?” he asked. “I am really + rather old, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Do speak.” + </p> + <p> + “That guest of mine yesterday—” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He interested me enormously, profoundly.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! Yet he was at his worst yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He turned suddenly and looked right into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “But why am I saying all this?” he suddenly exclaimed. “What is written is + written, and such women as you are guarded.” + </p> + <p> + “Guarded? By whom?” + </p> + <p> + “By their own souls.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not afraid,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said simply. + </p> + <p> + She gave him her hand. He held it almost as a father or a guardian might + have held it. + </p> + <p> + “And this garden is yours day and night—Smain knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “For a time.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And I will not be one.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we say good-bye here?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Let us say it from the wall, and let me see you ride away into the + desert.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So be it. Will you go to the wall then?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered after a moment of thought. “I must speak the truth, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “To me, always.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel that you were right, that my summons has not yet come to me.” + </p> + <p> + “And when it comes?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall obey it without fear, even if I go in the storm and the + darkness.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at the radiant sky, at the golden beams slanting down upon the + palms. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But I have never cared to wear pearls,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “No? What are your stones?” + </p> + <p> + “Rubies.” + </p> + <p> + “Blood! No others?” + </p> + <p> + “Sapphires.” + </p> + <p> + “The sky at night.” + </p> + <p> + “And opals.” + </p> + <p> + “Fires gleaming across the white of moonlit dunes. Do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “And you do not ask me for the end of the Diviner’s vision even now?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated for an instant. Then she added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That was your reason?” + </p> + <p> + “My only reason.” And then she added, repeating consciously Androvsky’s + words: “I think there are things that should be let alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + And in which of the two processions would she walk? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” she said at once, “I am come to have a little talk with you. + Have you a few moments to give me?” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, my child,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He drew forward a straw chair for her and took one opposite. + </p> + <p> + “You are not in trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why I should be, but——” + </p> + <p> + She was silent for a moment. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you a little about my life.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her kindly without a word. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And this is an hour of need for you. But, indeed, is there ever an hour + that is not?” + </p> + <p> + “I feel to-day, I——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have been saying good-bye to Count Anteoni,” she resumed. “He has gone + on a desert journey.” + </p> + <p> + “For long?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, but I feel that it will be.” + </p> + <p> + “He comes and goes very suddenly. Often he is here and I do not even know + it.” + </p> + <p> + “He is a strange man, but I think he is a good man.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke about him she began to realise that something in him had + roused the desire in her to come to the priest. + </p> + <p> + “And he sees far,” she added. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I came here to find peace,” she continued. “And I thought I had found it. + I thought so till to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “We only find peace in one place, and only there by our own will according + with God’s.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean within ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it not so?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Then I was foolish to travel in search of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I would not say that. Place assists the heart, I think, and the way of + life. I thought so once.” + </p> + <p> + “When you wished to be a monk?” + </p> + <p> + A deep sadness came into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Something has occurred, Father.” + </p> + <p> + More excitement came into her face and manner. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but I remember, you wanted to be one of the <i>freres armes</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I scarcely know. But I want you to tell me. Ought we not always to think + of others more than of ourselves?” + </p> + <p> + “So long as we take care not to put ourselves in too great danger. The + soul should be brave, but not foolhardy.” + </p> + <p> + His voice had changed, had become stronger, even a little stern. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “If I had prayed, and been told that any power was given me to do what + Christ did.” + </p> + <p> + “To cast out—yes, I know. But sometimes that power is given—even + to women.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps especially to them. I think the devil has more fear of a good + mother than of many saints.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You came to me to-day as to a spiritual director, did you not?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Father.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you do not wish to be frank with me. Isn’t that true?” + </p> + <p> + There was a piercing look in the eyes he fixed upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered bravely. + </p> + <p> + “Why? Cannot you—at least will not you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “There is something I cannot say. I am sure I am right not to say it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish me to speak frankly to you, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you may.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + At once her anger died away. + </p> + <p> + “That is terribly true,” she said. “Of us all, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + She got up. + </p> + <p> + “You are going?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I want to think something out. You have made me want to. I must do + it. Perhaps I’ll come again.” + </p> + <p> + “Do. I want to help you if I can.” + </p> + <p> + There was such a heartfelt sound in his voice that impulsively she held + out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I know you do. Perhaps you will be able to.” + </p> + <p> + But even as she said the last words doubt crept into her mind, even into + her voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Anteoni has gone, I suppose, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he has gone. I reached the garden safely, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch could not easily make me angry. I am not like you, Monsieur + Androvsky.” + </p> + <p> + Her sudden challenge startled him, as she had meant it should. He moved + quickly, as at an unexpected touch. + </p> + <p> + “I, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I think you are very often angry. I think you are angry now.” + </p> + <p> + His face was flooded with red. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I be angry?” he stammered, like a man completely taken aback. + </p> + <p> + “How can I tell? But, as I came in just now, you looked at me as if you + wanted to punish me.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I am afraid—it seems that my face says a great deal that—that—” + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! Why should I do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought as you had kindly wished me to come—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said, in rather a hard voice. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked fearfully excited and moved two or three steps away, then + returned. + </p> + <p> + “Were you doing that?” he asked. “Were you, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “I never mentioned your name to Father Roubier, nor did he to me,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + For a moment he looked relieved, then a sudden suspicion seemed to strike + him. + </p> + <p> + “But without mentioning my name?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You wish to accuse me of quibbling, of insincerity, then!” she exclaimed + with a heat almost equal to his own. + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame, no! Madame, I—I have suffered much. I am suspicious of + everybody. Forgive me, forgive me!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke almost with distraction. In his manner there was something + desperate. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Suspicious! Who is suspicious of me?” he asked sharply. “Who has any + right to be suspicious of me?” + </p> + <p> + She looked up and fancied that, for an instant, she saw something as ugly + as terror in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Surely you know that people don’t ask permission to be suspicious of + their fellow-men?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She got up. Her voice was full of a subdued, but strong, emotion. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Then she went across the verandah quickly to her room, and passed in, + closing the window behind her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Dejeuner</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>prie-dieu</i> near the altar, knelt down and + covered her eyes with her hands. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Close by, divided from her only by a little masonry, a few feet of sand, a + few palm trees, Androvsky was with the priest. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Was this interview with the priest the first step taken by Androvsky + towards the gift the desert held for him? + </p> + <p> + He must surely be a man who hated religion, or thought he hated it. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he looked upon it as a chain, instead of as the hammer that + strikes away the fetters from the slave. + </p> + <p> + Yet he had worn a crucifix. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + She laid the cross down on the edge of the <i>prie-dieu</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The mosques of Islam echoed these words, and surely this little church + that bravely stood among them. + </p> + <p> + “That which is written is written.” + </p> + <p> + Domini rose from her knees, hid the wooden cross once more in her breast, + and went out into the evening. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Androvsky has kindly been paying me a visit,” said Father + Roubier. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad,” Domini said. “We ought all to be friends here.” + </p> + <p> + There was a perceptible pause. Then Androvsky lifted his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Madame,” he said. “Good-evening, Father.” And he walked + away quickly. + </p> + <p> + The priest looked after him and sighed profoundly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Madame!” he exclaimed, as if impelled to liberate his mind to + someone, “what is the matter with that man? What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + He stared fixedly into the twilight after Androvsky’s retreating form. + </p> + <p> + “With Monsieur Androvsky?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke quietly, but her mind was full of apprehension, and she looked + searchingly at the priest. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What can it be?” + </p> + <p> + “But—I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did he come to see me?” + </p> + <p> + “I asked him to come.” + </p> + <p> + She blurted out the words without knowing why, only feeling that she must + speak the truth. + </p> + <p> + “You asked him!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I wanted you to be friends—and I thought perhaps you might——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted you to be friends.” She repeated it almost stubbornly. + </p> + <p> + “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.) + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I know nothing. He is a man travelling, as other men + travel.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that other travellers are not like this man.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence, then Domini said: + </p> + <p> + “Please give me your reason for this warning.” + </p> + <p> + “That I can’t do.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you have no reason, or because it is not one you care to tell + me?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you think him evil?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether he is evil, I don’t know what he is.” + </p> + <p> + “I know he is not evil.” + </p> + <p> + The priest looked at her, wondering. + </p> + <p> + “You know—how?” + </p> + <p> + “My instinct,” she said, coming a step nearer, and putting her hand, too, + on the gate near his. “Why should we desert him?” + </p> + <p> + “Desert him, Madame!” + </p> + <p> + Father Roubier’s voice sounded amazed. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + The priest did not reply for a moment. He looked at her and seemed to be + thinking deeply. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you send Monsieur Androvsky to me this afternoon?” he said at + last abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you were a good man, and I fancied if you became friends you might + help him.” + </p> + <p> + His face softened. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “No, only a woman,” she said, interrupting him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” he said, “when you came to me this afternoon there was something + that you could not tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Had it anything to do with Monsieur Androvsky?” + </p> + <p> + “I meant to ask you to advise me about myself.” + </p> + <p> + “My advice to you was and is—be strong but not too foolhardy.” + </p> + <p> + “Believe me I will try not to be foolhardy. But you said something else + too, something about women. Don’t you remember?” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, took his hands impulsively and pressed them. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He stood holding her hands and looking into her face for a moment. Then he + said, half-humorously, half-sadly: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She knew that was true now and, for a moment, felt almost ashamed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Irena is going to marry Hadj, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + Since the fracas at the dancing-house both the dancer and her victim had + been under lock and key. + </p> + <p> + “To marry her after she tried to kill him!” said Domini. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What! She will live like the Arab women?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She must love Hadj very much.” + </p> + <p> + “She does, or why should she try to kill him?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will see you after dinner, Batouch,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She felt that she must do something, go somewhere that night. She could + not remain quiet. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The priest did not come to dinner that night, but Androvsky was already at + his table when Domini came into the <i>salle-a-manger</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"></a> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + “What shall I do to-night?” + </p> + <p> + Alone in the now empty <i>salle-a-manger</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “What can I do to-night, Batouch?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “There are the femmes mauresques,” he began. + </p> + <p> + “No, no.” + </p> + <p> + “Would Madame like to hear the story-teller?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I should not understand him.” + </p> + <p> + “I can explain to Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + She stepped out into the road. + </p> + <p> + “There will be a moon to-night, won’t there?” she said, looking up at the + starry sky. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame, later.” + </p> + <p> + “What time will it rise?” + </p> + <p> + “Between nine and ten.” + </p> + <p> + She stood in the road, thinking. It had occurred to her that she had never + seen moonrise in the desert. + </p> + <p> + “And now it is”—she looked at her watch—“only eight.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Madame wish to see the moon come up pouring upon the palms—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk so much, Batouch,” she said brusquely. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Can one go into the desert at night?” + </p> + <p> + “On foot, Madame? It would be dangerous. One cannot tell what may be in + the desert by night.” + </p> + <p> + These words made her long to go. They had a charm, a violence perhaps, of + the unknown. + </p> + <p> + “One might ride,” she said. “Why not? Who could hurt us if we were mounted + and armed?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame is brave as the panther in the forests of the Djurdjurah.” + </p> + <p> + “And you, Batouch? Aren’t you brave?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I am afraid of nothing.” He did not say it boastfully, like Hadj, + but calmly, almost loftily. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame should take her revolver.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Bring the horses round at nine.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I am going out riding.” + </p> + <p> + He looked astonished. + </p> + <p> + “In the night?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Batouch has gone to fetch the horses.” + </p> + <p> + Hadj’s face became a mask of sulkiness. + </p> + <p> + “If Madame goes out with Batouch she will be killed. There are robbers in + the desert, and Batouch is afraid of—” + </p> + <p> + “Could we see the strange and wonderful thing in an hour?” she + interrupted. + </p> + <p> + The gay and skittish expression returned instantly to his face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head and made an artful gesture with his hand in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Madame shall see.” + </p> + <p> + His long eyes were full of mystery, and he moved towards the staircase. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Hadj’s lips curled back from his pointed teeth and he looked dangerous. + </p> + <p> + “It is Batouch!” he snarled. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch,” she said, “you are the smartest”—she used the word <i>chic</i>—“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?” + </p> + <p> + She was playing on his vanity. He responded with a ready smile. + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “The attendant rides at a short distance behind her, so that no one can + come up near her without his knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch fell back, and Domini cantered on, congratulating herself on the + success of her expedient. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame! Madame!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame, we must not go further, we must keep near the oasis.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not safe at night in the desert, and besides—” + </p> + <p> + His horse plunged and nearly rocketed against hers. She pulled in. His + company took away her desire to keep on. + </p> + <p> + “Besides?” + </p> + <p> + Leaning over his saddle peak he said, mysteriously: + </p> + <p> + “Besides, Madame, someone has been following us all the way from + Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>salle-a-manger</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall stay here,” she said to Batouch. “Where does the moon rise?” + </p> + <p> + He stretched his arm towards the desert, which sloped gently, almost + imperceptibly, towards the east. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then again it seemed to her that she saw Androvsky galloping upon a horse + as if pursued. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame!” + </p> + <p> + It was the voice of Batouch. + </p> + <p> + “Stay where you are!” she called out to him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You followed me?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot see you go out alone into the desert at night,” Androvsky + replied. + </p> + <p> + “But you have no right to follow me.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot let harm come to you, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let me send Batouch back to Beni-Mora, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she asked, in a low voice that was full of hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “You do not need him now.” + </p> + <p> + He was looking at her with a defiant, a challenging expression that was + his answer to her expression of vague distrust and apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer the question, but only said: + </p> + <p> + “It is better here without him. May I send him away, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + She bent her head. Androvsky rode off and she saw him speaking to Batouch, + who shook his head as if in contradiction. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch!” she called out. “You can ride back to Beni-Mora. We shall + follow directly.” + </p> + <p> + The poet cantered forward. + </p> + <p> + “Madame, it is not safe.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Go, Batouch!” she said. “I tell you to go.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch turned his horse without a word, and disappeared into the darkness + of the distant palms. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, why did you look at me like that just now, as if you—as if + you hesitated to remain alone with me?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He shifted in his saddle and moved the reins from one hand to the other, + but said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Would it seem strange to you if I did hesitate—if even now—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he interrupted violently, “it would seem strange to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You would rely on an Arab and not rely upon me,” he said with intense + bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “I did not say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet at first you wished to keep Batouch.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then——” + </p> + <p> + “Batouch is my attendant.” + </p> + <p> + “And I? Perhaps I am nothing but a man whom you distrust; whom—whom + others tell you to think ill of.” + </p> + <p> + “I judge for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “But if others speak ill of me?” + </p> + <p> + “It would not influence me——for long.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “For long!” he repeated. Then he said abruptly, “The priest hates me.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “And Count Anteoni?” + </p> + <p> + “You interested Count Anteoni greatly.” + </p> + <p> + “Interested him!” + </p> + <p> + His voice sounded intensely suspicious in the night. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you wish to interest anyone? It seems to me that to be + uninteresting is to live eternally alone in a sunless desert.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered quietly. + </p> + <p> + “But you would rather be protected by an Arab than by me. The priest has—” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I! But you are different.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I wanted to tell you that to-morrow I——” He stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” she said. + </p> + <p> + He turned his head away from her till she could not see his face. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow I am leaving Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow!” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to-morrow I shall go away.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky turned round. She saw his eyes fastened upon her, and instantly + pride awoke in her, and, with pride, her whole self. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are tired of it?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I never meant to stay long,” he answered, looking down. + </p> + <p> + “There is not very much to do here. Shall we ride back to the village + now?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” Domini whispered. + </p> + <p> + “An Arab asleep, I suppose,” Androvsky answered, staring at the motionless + object. + </p> + <p> + “But the dog——” She looked at the white shape leaping + frantically against the tent. “Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “It must be. Look, it is wrapped in rags and the head is covered.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + She stared at it. The howling of the dog grew louder, as if it were + straining every nerve to tell them something dreadful. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind getting off and seeing what it is? I’ll hold the horse.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you,” she said. “I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a dead woman.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to her as if the dark thing lying by the fire was herself. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. “It’s a woman who has been strangled.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor woman!” she said. “Poor—poor woman!” + </p> + <p> + And it seemed to her as if she said it of herself. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></a> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Mam’selle is ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Why should I be ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Mam’selle looks so strange,” the maid said, regarding her with round and + curious eyes. “As if—” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Give me my tea,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + When she was drinking it she asked: + </p> + <p> + “Do you know at what time the train leaves Beni-Mora—the passenger + train?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mam’selle. There is only one in the day. It goes soon after twelve. + Monsieur Helmuth told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “What gown will—?” + </p> + <p> + “Any gown—the white linen one I had on yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mam’selle.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not that. Any other gown. Is it to be hot?” + </p> + <p> + “Very hot, Mam’selle. There is not a cloud in the sky.” + </p> + <p> + “How strange!” Domini said, in a low voice that Suzanne did not hear. When + she was up and dressed she said: + </p> + <p> + “I am going out to Count Anteoni’s garden. I think I’ll—yes, I’ll + take a book with me.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Imitation</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + How long ago that seemed, like a remembrance of early childhood in the + heart of one who is old. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She went on slowly till she reached the <i>fumoir</i>. She entered it and + sat down. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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——? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fumoir</i>, + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The world was the stream and the sea. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fumoir</i> + till the train was creeping along the river-bed on its way from Beni-Mora. + </p> + <p> + She had laid down the <i>Imitation</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + She looked into the book: + </p> + <p> + “Unspeakable, indeed, is the sweetness of thy contemplation, which thou + bestowest on them that love thee.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>De profundis</i>—” he said. “<i>De profundis</i>—<i>de + profundis</i>—” + </p> + <p> + His voice died away. He took hold of one hand with the other and went on + silently. + </p> + <p> + Presently he made his way at last towards the <i>fumoir</i> 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 <i>fumoir</i>. + </p> + <p> + Domini looked up, saw him, and got up quietly, clasping her fingers round + the little book. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky stood just beyond the doorway, took off his hat, kept it in his + hand, and said: + </p> + <p> + “I came here to say good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + He made a movement as if to come into the <i>fumoir</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Did you know I should come?” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Were you coming back to the hotel this morning?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a moment. Then he said slowly: + </p> + <p> + “Then—then you did not wish—you did not mean to see me again + before I went?” + </p> + <p> + “It was not that. I came to the garden—I had to come—I had to + be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “You want to be alone?” he said. “You want to be alone?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Was that why you—you looked so happy?” he said in a harsh, + trembling voice. + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “I stood for a long while looking at you when you were in there”—he + pointed to the <i>fumoir</i>—“and your face was happy—your + face was happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “You will be happy alone?—alone in the desert?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You will not be happy alone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But then—you will stay here alone in the desert?” + </p> + <p> + “What else can I do?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And that journey,” he went on, still holding her hand fast against his + side, “Your journey into the desert—you will take it alone?” + </p> + <p> + “What else can I do?” she repeated in a lower voice. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to her that he was deliberately pressing her down into the + uttermost darkness. + </p> + <p> + “You will not go.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I shall go.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “I wondered—I often wonder why you spoke to me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Why did you speak to me?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “We came into the desert together,” she answered simply. “We had to know + each other.” + </p> + <p> + “And now—now—we have to say——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Larbi played—played on and on, untiring as the love that blossomed + with the world, but that will not die when the world dies. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am listening,” she said. “I must hear it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hear it!” he said, muttering against her lips. “Hear it. I love you—I + love you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"></a> + BOOK IV. THE JOURNEY + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"></a> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Ali made no answer. The wind had suddenly died down. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The wind came back to join its sound with the drum, imprisoning the two + Arabs in a muttering circle. + </p> + <p> + “They will not care,” said Batouch. “They will go out into the storm + without fear.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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!” + </pre> + <p> + The wind grew louder and sand was blown along the café floor and about the + coffee-cups. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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!” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Janat! Janat! Janat!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Was Androvsky sleeping? She wondered and longed to know. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And she fell asleep at length, peacefully, in the tumult of the night, + feeling that God had heard her prayer. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fumoir</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + Everywhere in the oasis it came with a lust to kill, but surely its + deepest enmity was concentrated upon the Catholic Church. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Consciously she helped to fulfil the prediction of the Diviner, and then + she left Batouch free. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Few of the French population had ventured out, and the church itself was + almost deserted when the hour for the wedding drew nigh. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was a bitter, even a horrible, moment to him. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Is it time?” + </p> + <p> + The child looked reassured. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Father.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What are you looking at, Paul?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, Father,” the boy replied, with a sudden expression of reluctance + that was almost obstinate. + </p> + <p> + And he began to take the priest’s robes out of the cupboard. + </p> + <p> + Just then the wind wailed again furiously about the church, and the + crucifix fell down upon the floor of the sacristy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Paul, what’s the matter?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why did it do that?” exclaimed the boy, as if alarmed. “Why did it do + that?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it was the wind. Everything is shaking. Come, come, my child, + there is nothing to be afraid of.” + </p> + <p> + He laid the crucifix on the table. Paul dried his eyes with his fists. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like to-day,” he said. “I don’t like to-day.” + </p> + <p> + The priest patted him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “The weather has upset you,” he said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I may play my loudest to-day, Father,” he said, “but no one will hear + me.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed, settled the pin—Joan of Arc’s face in metal—in his + azure blue necktie, and added: + </p> + <p> + “Nom d’un chien, the wind’s a cruel wedding guest!” + </p> + <p> + The priest nodded without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said the priest, holding up a warning finger. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky stood by her, but the priest did not look at him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>le Bon Dieu</i> alone + knew where, shut up in a palanquin like any black woman covered with lumps + of coral and bracelets like handcuffs. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus + Sancti. Amen</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The priest spoke again, slowly, in the uproar of the wind, after blessing + the ring: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini</i>.” + </p> + <p> + After the reply the “<i>Domine, exaudi orationem meam</i>,” the “<i>Et + clamor</i>,” the “<i>Dominus vobiscum</i>,” and the “<i>Et cum spiritu tuo</i>,” + the “<i>Oremus</i>,” 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, “<i>In the name of the Father</i>,” then on her + second finger, saying, “<i>Of the Son</i>,” then on her third finger, + saying, “<i>Of the Holy Ghost</i>,” then on her fourth finger. But at this + moment, when he should have said “<i>Amen</i>,” 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Amen</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky had spoken. The priest started, and went on with the “<i>Confirma, + hoc, Deus</i>.” And from this point until the “<i>Per Christum Dominum + nostrum, Amen</i>,” 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Be good to her,” he said. “She is—she is a good woman.” + </p> + <p> + To his surprise Androvsky suddenly wrung his hand almost passionately, and + the priest saw that there were tears in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + That night the priest prayed long and earnestly for all wanderers in the + desert. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then she was in the palanquin with Androvsky close beside her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “A-ah!” shouted the driver. “A-ah! A-ah!” + </p> + <p> + The camel began to get up. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “A-ah!” cried the camel-driver. “A-ah!” + </p> + <p> + In the storm his call sounded like a wail of despair. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"></a> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Benedicite, omnia opera!” + </p> + <p> + “Bless ye the Lord!” The roaring of the wind about the palanquin became + the dominant voice of this choir in Domini’s ears. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ali began to sing, breathing his song into the back of Batouch’s hood. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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. +</pre> + <p> + “Janat! Janat! Janat!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “How shall we get to Arba? The wind is like all the Touaregs going to + battle. And when we leave the oasis——” + </p> + <p> + “The wind is going down, Batouch-ben-Brahim,” responded Ali, calmly. “This + evening the Roumis can lie in the tents.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch’s thick lips curled with sarcasm. He spat into the wind, blew his + nose in his burnous, and answered: + </p> + <p> + “You are a child, and can sing a pretty song, but—” + </p> + <p> + Ali pointed with his delicate hand towards the south. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not see the light in the sky?” + </p> + <p> + Batouch stared before him, and perceived that there was in truth a lifting + of the darkness beyond, a whiteness growing where the desert lay. + </p> + <p> + “As we come into the desert the wind will fall,” said Ali; and again he + began to sing to himself: + </p> + <p> + “Janat! Janat! Janat!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” she said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + He dropped his hand obediently, and looked at her with inquiry in his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let us look till we are far out,” she said, “far away from + Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They heard Batouch’s voice outside the palanquin. + </p> + <p> + “Madame!” he called. “Madame!” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Domini, stifling a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Madame should draw the curtains. We are halfway to Arba. It is time for + <i>dejeuner</i>. I will make the camel of Madame lie down.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “There is Beni-Mora, Madame,” said Batouch. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The tower!” she said to Androvsky. “We first spoke in it. We must bid it + good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “We must—we owe it that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + And he added some words under his breath, words she could not hear. + </p> + <p> + “Not even the desert!” she said with a catch in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all in you. Everything’s in you—everything that brought us + together, that we’ve watched and wanted together.” + </p> + <p> + “But then,” she said, and now her voice was very quiet, “am I peace for + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Peace!” said Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Don’t you remember once I said that there must be peace in the + desert. Then is it in me—for you?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + His expression was like arms that crushed her, lips that pressed her + mouth, a heart that beat on hers. + </p> + <p> + “Madame est servie!” cried Batouch in a merry voice. + </p> + <p> + His mistress did not seem to hear him. He cried again: + </p> + <p> + “Madame est servie!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Our wedding breakfast!” Domini said under her breath. + </p> + <p> + She felt just then as if she were living in a wonderful romance. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Domini and Androvsky scarcely spoke as they ate. Once she said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you realise that this is a wedding breakfast?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “A wedding breakfast,” Androvsky said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But perhaps you have never been to one.” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you can’t love this one as much as I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Much more,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “But it is not the land I am loving.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I love this land,” she began, “because I found you in it, because I feel——” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, not now. I can’t tell you. There’s too much light.” + </p> + <p> + “Domini,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + Then they were silent once more, thinking of how the darkness would come + to them at Arba. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"></a> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + All the members of the caravan, presided over by Batouch in glory, were + celebrating the wedding night of their master and mistress. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we stay here a little?” Domini said in a low voice. “Out here?” + There was a long pause. Then Androvsky answered: + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Let us feel it all—all. Let us feel it to the full.” + </p> + <p> + He caught hold of her hand with a sort of tender roughness and twined his + fingers between hers, pressing his palm against hers. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “Now—but only now. You’ve made me forget it all.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And as she spoke she bent down her face with a sort of proud submission + and put her forehead against his heart. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did your heart seem so small?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You make everything I have and am seem small—and yet great. What + does it mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is that true? Is that true?” he said. “I’ve—I’ve tried to think + that. If you know how I’ve tried.” + </p> + <p> + “And don’t you know it is true?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And you?” he said. “You?” + </p> + <p> + “I?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But—but I want to listen to you. I want——” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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.” + </pre> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + </pre> + <p> + When the voice died away for a moment Domini whispered the refrain. Then + she said: + </p> + <p> + “But is it true? Can it be true for us to-night?” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky did not reply. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it is true,” she added. “You know—don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “You know what is in my heart—don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I?” he said. “All?” + </p> + <p> + “All. My heart is full of one thing—quite full.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I know.” + </p> + <p> + “And,” she hesitated, then added, “and yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Mine too.” + </p> + <p> + “I know all that is in it then?” + </p> + <p> + She still spoke questioningly. He did not reply, but held her more + closely, with a grasp that was feverish in its intensity. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember,” she went on, “in the garden what you said about that + song?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You have forgotten?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you,” he said, “I mean to forget everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything before we came to Beni-Mora?” + </p> + <p> + “And more. Everything before you put your hands against my forehead, + Domini. Your touch blotted out the past.” + </p> + <p> + “Even the past at Beni-Mora?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sternness in his voice now, a fiery intention. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” she said. “I have forgotten them too, but not some + things.” + </p> + <p> + “Which?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Feel it,” he said. “It’s our home, it’s our liberty. Does it feel alive + to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “As if it had pulses, like the pulses in our hearts, and knew what we + know?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Mother Earth—I never understood what that meant till + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “We are beginning to understand together. Who can understand anything + alone?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Love burns up evil, then love can never be evil.” + </p> + <p> + “Not the act of loving.” + </p> + <p> + “Or what it leads to,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I know that you are right,” he added. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have doubted many things,” he said. “I’ve been afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You know it.” + </p> + <p> + “How can I? Haven’t I forgotten everything—since that day in the + garden?” + </p> + <p> + He drew up her hand and put it against his heart. + </p> + <p> + “I’m jealous of the desert even,” he whispered. “I won’t let you touch it + any more tonight.” + </p> + <p> + He looked into her eyes and saw that she was looking at the distant fire, + steadily, with an intense eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you do that?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “To-night I like to look at fire,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me why.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” he said, “that fire is——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is not like me,” he said. “Men made it, and—it’s a fire that can + sink into ashes.” + </p> + <p> + An expression of sudden exaltation shone in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And God made you,” she said. “And put into you the spark that is + eternal.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And God made you love me,” she said. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky had moved suddenly, as if he were going to get up from the warm + ground. + </p> + <p> + “Did you—?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said in a low voice. “Go on, Domini. Speak to me.” + </p> + <p> + He sat still. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky moved again. The clasp of his hand on hers loosened, but he did + not take his hand away. + </p> + <p> + “Why should—what should make you think that?” he asked slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know what the Arabs call the desert?” + </p> + <p> + “No. What do they call it?” + </p> + <p> + “The Garden of Allah.” + </p> + <p> + “The Garden of Allah!” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it beautiful?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Androvsky put his arm round her and strained her to him. + </p> + <p> + “By me! By me!” he said. “Think of me to-night, only of me, as I think + only of you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The Arabs’ fire was rapidly dying down. + </p> + <p> + “When it goes out, when it goes out!” Androvsky whispered it her ear. + </p> + <p> + His breath stirred the thick tresses of her hair. + </p> + <p> + “Let us watch it!” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She pressed his hand again. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That is like us,” he said. “Like us together in the darkness.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hark!” Androvsky whispered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Again she was conscious that his intensity surpassed hers, and the + consciousness, instead of saddening or vexing, made her thrill with joy. + </p> + <p> + “I am maddened by this freedom,” he said; “maddened by it, Domini. I can’t + help—I can’t—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Domini,” he spoke, whispering while he kissed her, “Domini, the fire’s + gone out. It’s dark.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted her a little in his arms, still kissing her. + </p> + <p> + “Domini, it’s dark, it’s dark.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” he said. “Do you love the darkness? Tell me—tell me that you + love it.” + </p> + <p> + She let her hand glide over his cheek in answer. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He took her hand and pressed it again and again over his cheek + lingeringly. Then, abruptly, he dropped it. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” he said. “Domini.” + </p> + <p> + And he drew her in through the tent door almost violently. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She did not resist him. Still holding her in his arms he blew out the + lamp. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"></a> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <p> + The Arabs have a saying, “In the desert one forgets everything, one + remembers nothing any more.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” Domini said, breaking a long silence. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini?” + </p> + <p> + He turned towards her on the rug, stretching his long, thin body lazily as + if in supreme physical contentment. + </p> + <p> + “You know that saying of the Arabs about forgetting everything in the + desert?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini, I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “How long shall we stay in this world of forgetfulness?” + </p> + <p> + He lifted himself up on his elbow quickly, and fixed his eyes on hers. + </p> + <p> + “How long!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But—do you wish to leave it? Are you tired of it?” + </p> + <p> + There was a note of sharp anxiety in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t answer such a question,” she said, smiling at him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, then, why do you try to frighten me?” + </p> + <p> + She put her hand in his. + </p> + <p> + “How burnt you are!” she said. “You are like an Arab of the South.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me become more like one. There’s health here.” + </p> + <p> + “And peace, perfect peace.” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing. He was looking down now at the sand. + </p> + <p> + She laid her lips on his warm brown hand. + </p> + <p> + “There’s all I want here,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “Let us stay here.” + </p> + <p> + “But some day we must go back, mustn’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Can anything be lifelong—even our honeymoon?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we choose that it shall be?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He began to sift the sand through his fingers swiftly. + </p> + <p> + “Duties?” he said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Oughtn’t we to do something presently, something besides being + happy?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Domini?” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know, I don’t know. You tell me.” + </p> + <p> + There was an urging in her voice, as if she wanted, almost demanded, + something of him. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + He spoke reluctantly but firmly. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” he added, “that I have worked hard all my life, hard like a + labourer.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She stroked his hand, that was worn and rough, and spoke eloquently of + manual toil it had accomplished in the past. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He lit a cigar and watched the smoke curling up into the gold of the + sunlit atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “El Magin.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether Pere Andre is dead. I have lost sight of him,” + Androvsky said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And she was able to hope in silence, as women do for the men they love. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You are right. Well, let us take an oasis; let us become palm gardeners + like that Frenchman at Meskoutine.” + </p> + <p> + “And build ourselves an African house, white, with a terrace roof.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be an ideal life,” she said with her eyes shining on his. + </p> + <p> + “And a possible life. Let us live it. I could not bear to leave the + desert. Where should we go?” + </p> + <p> + “Where should we go!” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you look at me like that, Domini?” he asked with a sudden stirring + of something that was like uneasiness. + </p> + <p> + “I! I was wondering what you would like, what other life would suit you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he said quickly. “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, however it was, you were always at work; you were responsible, + weren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see you even in the vineyards or the wheat-fields. Isn’t it + strange?” + </p> + <p> + She was always looking at him with the same deep and wholly + unselfconscious inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “And as to London, Paris—” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she burst into a little laugh and her gravity vanished. + </p> + <p> + “I think you would hate them,” she said. “And they—they wouldn’t + like you because they wouldn’t understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Batouch came from the courtyard of the house wiping the remains of a + cous-cous from his languid lips. + </p> + <p> + “Untie the horses,” said Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + “But, Monsieur, it is still too hot to travel. Look! No one is stirring. + All the village is asleep.” + </p> + <p> + He waved his enormous hand, with henna-tinted nails, towards the distant + town, carved surely out of one huge piece of bronze. + </p> + <p> + “Untie the horses. There are gazelle in the plain near Mogar. Didn’t you + tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur, but—” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll get there early and go out after them at sunset. Now, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Batouch-ben-Brahim?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I know not, but he goes like a hare before the sloughi, Batouch-ben + Brahim,” answered Ali, gravely. + </p> + <p> + Then they sent their horses on in chase of the cloud of sand towards the + southwest. + </p> + <p> + About four in the afternoon they reached the camp at Mogar. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is like a watch-tower,” Domini said, pointing with her whip. “But who + could live in such a place, far from any oasis?” + </p> + <p> + “And what can it overlook?” said Androvsky. “This is the nearest horizon + line we have seen since we came into the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but——” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him as they put their horses into a gentle canter. Then she + added: + </p> + <p> + “You, too, feel that we are coming to something tremendous, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Her horse whinnied shrilly. Domini stroked his foam-flecked neck with her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Abou is as full of anticipation as we are,” she said. Androvsky was + looking towards the tower. + </p> + <p> + “That was built for French soldiers,” he said. A moment afterwards he + added: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why Batouch chose this place for us to camp in?” + </p> + <p> + There was a faint sound as of irritation in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we shall know in a minute,” Domini answered. They cantered on. + Their horses’ hoofs rang with a hard sound on the stony ground. + </p> + <p> + “It’s inhospitable here,” Androvsky said. She looked at him in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I never knew you to take a dislike to any halting-place before,” she + said. “What’s the matter, Boris?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I like a far horizon,” he answered. “And there’s no sun to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “I feel exactly as if I were on a hill top and were coming to a view of + the sea.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We have come into winter,” Domini murmured. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How wonderful! How terrible!” she said. + </p> + <p> + She drew her horse to one side, a little nearer to Androvsky’s. + </p> + <p> + “Does the Russian in you greet this land?” she asked him. + </p> + <p> + He did not reply. He seemed to be held in thrall by the sad immensity + before them. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + An hour later Domini said to Androvsky: + </p> + <p> + “You won’t go after gazelle this evening surely?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind if I go?” he said, turning towards her after a glance to the + desert. + </p> + <p> + “No, but aren’t you tired?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t ride, and now I can ride. I couldn’t shoot, and I’m just + beginning—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “If I were alone here, Boris,” she said, leaning against his shoulder, “I + believe I should feel horribly sad to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I stay?” + </p> + <p> + He pressed her against him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated before he replied. + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes thought I was.” + </p> + <p> + “But do you think now you ever really were?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—perhaps in a lonely sort of way.” + </p> + <p> + “You can never be happy in that way now?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” he said, releasing her. “I shall be back directly after + sundown.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Don’t wait for the dark down there. If you were lost in the dunes!” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the distant sand hills rising and falling monotonously to + the horizon. + </p> + <p> + “If you are not back in good time,” she said, “I shall stand by the tower + and wave a brand from the fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Why by the tower?” + </p> + <p> + “The ground is highest by the tower.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + If the immeasurable sands took Androvsky and never gave him back to her! + What would she do? + </p> + <p> + She gazed at the mirage sea with its dim red islands, and at the sad white + plains along its edge. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She got up, came out upon the edge of the hill, and walked along it slowly + towards the tower. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>Ma foi</i>! there have been several moments in the last days + when I never thought to see Mogar.” + </p> + <p> + Slowly he swung himself off his mule and stood up, catching on to the + saddle with one hand. + </p> + <p> + “F-f-f-f!” he said, pursing his lips. “I can hardly stand. Excuse me, + Madame.” + </p> + <p> + Domini had got up. + </p> + <p> + “You are tired out,” she said, looking at him and his men, who had now + come up, with interest. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A great event?” said Domini. + </p> + <p> + “The last in a man’s life, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Those terrible dunes!” she said. + </p> + <p> + And, turning, she looked out over them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My husband is out in them,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “Your husband, Madame!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her rather narrowly, shifted from one leg to the other as if + trying his strength, then added: + </p> + <p> + “Not far, though, I suppose. For I see you have a camp here.” + </p> + <p> + “He has only gone after gazelle.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think me impertinent, Monsieur, but—what about provisions in + your tower?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as to that, Madame, we shall do well enough. Here, open the door, + Marelle!” + </p> + <p> + And he gave the key to a soldier, who wearily dismounted and thrust it + into the door of the tower. + </p> + <p> + “But after three days in the dunes! Your provisions must be exhausted + unless you’ve been able to replenish them.” + </p> + <p> + “You are too good, Madame. We shall manage a cous-cous.” + </p> + <p> + “And wine? Have you any wine?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You must let me send you some,” she said. “We have plenty.” + </p> + <p> + She thought of some bottles of champagne they had brought with them and + never opened. + </p> + <p> + “In the desert we are all comrades,” she added, as if speaking to the + soldiers. + </p> + <p> + They looked at her with an open adoration which lit up their tired faces. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The soldiers looked as if they were going to cheer. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go to the camp—” + </p> + <p> + “Cannot one of the men go for you, Madame? You were sitting here. Pray, do + not let us disturb you.” + </p> + <p> + “But night is falling and I shall have to go back in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She saw wonder dawning in the eyes fixed upon her, and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I want to signal to my husband,” she said, “and this is the highest + point. He will see it best if I stand here.” + </p> + <p> + “Go, Marelle, ask for Batouch, and be sure you bring the brand from the + fire.” + </p> + <p> + The man saluted and rode off with alacrity. The thought of wine had + infused a gaiety into him and his companions. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Monsieur, don’t stand on ceremony,” Domini said to the officer. “Go + in and make your toilet. You are longing to, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you permit me—my name is De Trevignac.” + </p> + <p> + “And mine is Madame Androvsky.” + </p> + <p> + “Russian!” the officer said. “The alliance in the desert! Vive la Russie!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. + </p> + <p> + “That is for my husband, for I am English.” + </p> + <p> + “Vive l’Angleterre!” he said. + </p> + <p> + The two soldier echoed his words impulsively, lifting up in the gathering + darkness hoarse voices. + </p> + <p> + “Vive l’Angleterre!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, thank you,” she said. “Now, Monsieur, please don’t let me keep + you.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be back directly,” the officer replied. + </p> + <p> + And he turned and went into the tower, while the soldiers rode round to + the court, tugging at the cords of the led mules. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Batouch, I want you to order dinner in camp for the soldiers.” + </p> + <p> + A broad and radiant smile irradiated the blunt Breton features of Marelle. + </p> + <p> + “And Monsieur the officer will dine with me and Monsieur. Give us all you + can. Perhaps there will be some gazelle.” + </p> + <p> + She saw him opening his lips to say that the dinner would be poor and + stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She had spoken gaily, cordially. She added more gravely: + </p> + <p> + “One doesn’t escape from death among the dunes every day. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s settled then.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are going to signal to your husband, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me do it for you. See, I have the other brand!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you—but I will do it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She smiled at him in the flames. + </p> + <p> + “He must see them surely,” she said. + </p> + <p> + From below, in the distance of the desert, there rose a loud cry in a + strong man’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “Aha!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + She called out in return in a warm, powerful voice. The man’s voice + answered, nearer. She dropped her brand to the earth. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, you will come then—in half an hour?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, with the most heartfelt pleasure. But let me accompany—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Then she went away quickly, eagerly, into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Lucky—lucky fellow!” he said again aloud. “I wonder what he’s + like.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"></a> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When Androvsky rode in with the Arabs Domini met him at the edge of the + hill. + </p> + <p> + “You saw my signal, Boris?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—” + </p> + <p> + He was going to say more, when she interrupted him eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any gazelle? Ah——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We shall want it to-night. Take it quickly to the cook’s tent, Ahmed.” + Androvsky got off his mule. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a light in the tower!” he said, looking at her and then dropping + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And I saw two signals. There were two brands being waved together.” + </p> + <p> + “To-night, we have comrades in the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “Comrades!” he said. + </p> + <p> + His voice sounded startled. + </p> + <p> + “Men who have escaped from a horrible death in the dunes.” + </p> + <p> + “Arabs?” + </p> + <p> + “French.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris, you don’t mind!” she said in surprise. “Surely you would not + refuse hospitality to these poor fellows!” + </p> + <p> + She put her hand through his arm and pressed it. + </p> + <p> + “Have I done wrong? But I know I haven’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Wrong! How could you do that?” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to make an effort, to conquer something within him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s that! How glad I am!” + </p> + <p> + She laid her cheek against his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” he said, “that other signal?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur de Trevignac gave it.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky took his arm from hers abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur de Trevignac!” he said. “Monsieur de Trevignac?” + </p> + <p> + He stood as if in deep and anxious thought. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the officer. That’s his name. What is it, Boris?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of voices approaching the camp in the darkness. They + were speaking French. + </p> + <p> + “I must,” said Androvsky, “I must——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My husband is coming directly,” she said. “He was late in returning, but + he brought gazelle. Now you must sit down at once.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” he said, “if I disgrace myself to-night, if I eat like an ogre + in a fairy tale, will you forgive me?” + </p> + <p> + “I will not forgive you if you don’t.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “The husband—perhaps he’s not so pleased at my appearance. I wonder + how long they’ve been married?” + </p> + <p> + And he felt his curiosity to see “Monsieur Androvsky” deepen. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “You thought death was certain then?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite certain, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “To have faced a death like that in utter desolation, utter loneliness, + must make life seem very different afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame. But I did not feel utterly alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Your men!” + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause he added, simply: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I am glad, Monsieur. We found gazelle, and so I hope—I hope you + will have a fairly good dinner.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” Domini said. “Let us begin. Monsieur de Trevignac, will you sit + here on my right?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid my men are lifting up their voices rather loudly,” said De + Trevignac. + </p> + <p> + “We like it,” said Domini. “Don’t we, Boris?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You are making a long stay in the desert, Monsieur?” asked De Trevignac. + </p> + <p> + “I hope so, Monsieur. It depends on my—it depends on Madame + Androvsky.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to stay in the desert for ever,” Domini said quickly, with + a long look at her husband. + </p> + <p> + “I should not, Madame,” De Trevignac said. + </p> + <p> + “I understand. The desert has shown you its terrors.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it has.” + </p> + <p> + “But to us it has only shown its enchantment. Hasn’t it?” She spoke to + Androvsky. After a pause he replied: + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The word, when it came, sounded like a lie. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Forebodings?” Androvsky said quickly. “Why should you—?” He broke + off. + </p> + <p> + “Not of coming misfortune, I hope, Madame?” said De Trevignac in a voice + that was now irresistibly cheerful. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know, but everything looked sad and strange; I began to think + about the uncertainties of life.” + </p> + <p> + Domini and De Trevignac were sipping their champagne. Ouardi came behind + Androvsky to fill his glass. + </p> + <p> + “Non! non!” he said, putting his hand over it and shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + De Trevignac started. + </p> + <p> + Ouardi looked at Domini and made a distressed grimace, pointing with a + brown finger at the glass. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Boris! you must drink champagne to-night!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “I would rather not,” he answered. “I am not accustomed to it.” + </p> + <p> + “But to drink our guest’s health after his escape from death!” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky took his hand from the glass and Ouardi filled it with wine. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + After thanking them cordially for drinking his health, De Trevignac said: + </p> + <p> + “I was nearly experiencing the certainty of death. But was it Mogar that + turned you to such thoughts, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. There is something sad, even portentous about it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not places that make tragedies,” he said, “or at least they make + tragedies far more seldom than the people in them.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He said the last words with a sort of strong contempt—then, more + quietly, he added: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “But you,” she answered—“did you not feel a tragic influence when we + arrived here? Do you remember how you looked at the tower?” + </p> + <p> + “The tower!” he said, with a quick glance at De Trevignac. “I—why + should I look at the tower?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, but you did, almost as if you were afraid of it.” + </p> + <p> + “My tower!” said De Trevignac. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “For something that never comes, or something terrible that comes,” De + Trevignac said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Trevignac turned to Domini. + </p> + <p> + “In this case, Madame, you were the lonely watcher, and I was the + something terrible that came.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But how could it be? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When she had laughed Domini said: + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, Monsieur, you have turned my thoughts into a happier + current by your coming.” + </p> + <p> + “How so?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the dinner Domini got up. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that, Ouardi?” she asked, touching it with her finger. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Another surprise of Batouch’s!” she interrupted gaily. “Take it in! + Monsieur the officer will think we have quite a cellar in the desert.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” she said. “Where is Monsieur de Trevignac?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone,” replied Androvsky in a loud, firm voice. + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him. His face was grim and powerful, hard like the face + of a fighting man. + </p> + <p> + “Gone already? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s tired out. He told me to make his excuses to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But——” + </p> + <p> + She saw in the table the coffee cups. Two of them were full of coffee. The + third, hers, was clean. + </p> + <p> + “But he hasn’t drunk his coffee!” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No—he did not want coffee.” + </p> + <p> + “But was anything the matter?” + </p> + <p> + She looked down at the broken glass, and saw stains upon the ground among + the fragments. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this?” she said. “Oh, the African liqueur!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come in, Domini,” he said, taking her by the hand, and speaking gently, + but still with a firmness that hinted at command. + </p> + <p> + She obeyed, and he quickly let down the flap of canvas, and shut out the + night. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Boris?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + She was standing by one of the beds. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—happened?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand. Why did Monsieur de Trevignac go away so suddenly?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want anyone to be with us, to break in upon our lives? Aren’t we + happier alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” she said, “you—did you let him see that you wanted him to + go?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t let him see that, Boris!” she exclaimed. “After his escape + from death! It would have been inhuman.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Could you—could you hate me for anything, Domini?” he said. “Tell + me—could you?” + </p> + <p> + His face was close to hers. She looked at him with her long, steady eyes, + that had truth written in their dark fire. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered. “I could never hate you—now.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if—not if I had done you harm? Not if I had done you a wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Could you ever do me a wrong?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + She sat, looking at him as if in deep thought, for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I could almost as easily believe that God could,” she said at last + simply. + </p> + <p> + “Then you—you have perfect trust in me?” + </p> + <p> + “But—have you ever thought I had not?” she asked. There was wonder + in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He put his arms about her and drew her head down on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you say that? I couldn’t have loved you if it were so.” She spoke + with complete conviction. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” he said, in a low voice, “perhaps women never realise what + their love can do. It might—it might—” + </p> + <p> + “What, Boris?” + </p> + <p> + “It might do what Christ did—go down into hell to preach to the—to + the spirits in prison.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It might do that, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No other human being could ever give me the happiness you give me.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + He interrupted her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you are happy?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t I seem so?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. His hand seemed to her to lie more heavily on her + cheek. + </p> + <p> + “I—I am not sure that you are quite happy with me,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She spoke like one who reverenced truth, even though it slew her. There + was a note of agony in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” he said. “Hush, Domini!” + </p> + <p> + 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”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + </pre> + <p> + At that moment Domini felt that the words were true—horribly true. + </p> + <p> + “Boris,” she said. “Do you hear?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris, you are with me, you are close to me, but do you sometimes feel + far away from God?” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He extinguished the candle with his hand. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I!” he whispered. “You saw me praying in the desert!” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to her that he was afraid. She pressed him more closely with her + arms. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She heard his hard breathing, felt it against her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + They sat for a long while in the dark, but they did not speak again that + night. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, don’t, Monsieur,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” she added. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A long moment passed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"></a> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. “But”—and he turned in his saddle and looked back—“I + feel as if the solitudes were safer.” + </p> + <p> + “We can return to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “We are splendidly free. There’s nothing to prevent us leaving Amara + tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there?” he answered, fixing his eyes upon the minarets. + </p> + <p> + “What can there be?” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Boris? Are you superstitious? But you reject the + influence of place. Don’t you remember—at Mogar?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I love the solitudes,” he said. “I love to have you to myself.” + </p> + <p> + “If we lived always in the greatest city of the world it would make no + difference,” she said quietly. “You know that, Boris.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris,” she said, “I feel as if your thoughts were being conveyed to me + by your touch. Perhaps the solitudes are best.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” said Domini. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, but I hear something. It travels to us from the minarets.” + </p> + <p> + They both leaned forward on their horses’ necks, holding each other’s + hand. + </p> + <p> + “I feel the tumult of men,” Androvsky said presently. + </p> + <p> + “And I. But it seems as if no men could have elected to build a city + here.” + </p> + <p> + “Here in the ‘Belly of the desert,’” he said, quoting the Arabs’ name for + Amara. + </p> + <p> + “Boris”—she spoke in a more eager voice, clasping his hand strongly—“you + remember the <i>fumoir</i> in Count Anteoni’s garden. The place where it + stood was the very heart of the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “We understood each other there.” + </p> + <p> + He pressed her hand without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Amara seems to me the heart of the Garden of Allah. Perhaps—perhaps + we shall——” + </p> + <p> + She paused. Her eyes were fixed upon his face. + </p> + <p> + “What, Domini?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + He looked expectant, but anxious, and watched her, but with eyes that + seemed ready to look away from her at a word. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we shall understand each other even better there.” + </p> + <p> + He looked down at the white sand. + </p> + <p> + “Better!” he repeated. “Could we do that?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!’” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And I too, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Imagination!” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Their hands fell apart and they rode slowly on, up the long slope of the + sands. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We are on a highway,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I feel already as if we were in the midst of a crowd,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Our love for peace oughtn’t to make us hate our fellowmen!” she said. + “Come, Boris, let us chase away our selfish mood!” + </p> + <p> + She spoke in a more cheerful voice and drew her rein a little tighter. Her + horse quickened its pace. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You speak as if you didn’t believe what you are saying.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. + </p> + <p> + “If I were ever inclined to tell you a lie,” she said, “I should not dare + to. Your mind penetrates mine too deeply.” + </p> + <p> + “You could not tell me a lie.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + His horse plunged. He had touched it sharply with his heel. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you hate the thought of civilisation,” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “I never think of it. I feel almost as if I had never known it, and could + never know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you? You love the wilds.” + </p> + <p> + “They make my whole nature leap. Even when I was a child it was so. I + remember once reading <i>Maud</i>. In it I came upon a passage—I + can’t remember it well, but it was about the red man—” + </p> + <p> + She thought for a moment, looking towards the city. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The very sky is barbarous to-night!” Domini exclaimed. “Did you ever see + such colour, Boris?” + </p> + <p> + “Over the minarets it is like a great wound,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Look at those cupolas!” he said. “Are there really Oriental palaces here? + Has Batouch told us the truth for once?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “How long ago that seems!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand years ago.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Silence joined us, Domini,” Androvsky said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Perhaps silence is the most beautiful voice in the world.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who can they be?” said Domini, as they drew near. “They look like two + princes of the Sahara.” + </p> + <p> + Then she broke into a merry laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch! and Ali!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Bravo!” Domini cried, delighted at this feat of horsemanship. “But what + have you been doing? You are transformed!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly right,” she answered with a careful seriousness. “I am proud of + you both.” + </p> + <p> + “And Monsieur?” asked Ali, speaking in his turn. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky withdrew his eyes from the city, which was now near at hand. + </p> + <p> + “Splendid!” he said, but as if attending to the Arabs with difficulty. + “You are splendid.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Boris—-look! That is the most extraordinary thing I have ever + seen!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why, these are like our palanquin!” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Aumonier,” said Androvsky, sharply. “Here!” + </p> + <p> + He paused, then added more quietly: + </p> + <p> + “What should he do here?” + </p> + <p> + “But, Monsieur, he is for the French officers.” + </p> + <p> + “There are French officers?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur, four or five, and the commandant. They live in the palace + with the cupolas.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “We need not see the French,” she said. “We shall be encamped outside in + the sand.” + </p> + <p> + “And we need not stay here long,” he said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Boris,” she asked him, half in jest, half in earnest, “shall we buy a + desert island to live in?” + </p> + <p> + “Let us buy an oasis,” he said. “That would be the perf—the safest + life for us.” + </p> + <p> + “The safest?” + </p> + <p> + “The safest for our happiness. Domini, I have a horror of the world!” He + said the last words with a strong, almost fierce, emphasis. + </p> + <p> + “Had you it always, or only since we have been married?” + </p> + <p> + “I—perhaps it was born in me, perhaps it is part of me. Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I want the desert and you in it,” he said. “The lonely desert, with you.” + </p> + <p> + “And nothing else?” + </p> + <p> + “I want that. I cannot have that taken from me.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch,” she said, “you have been talking about us.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame, I merely said that Madame is a great lady in her own land, + and that Monsieur—” + </p> + <p> + “I forbid you ever to speak about me, Batouch,” said Androvsky, brusquely. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>leit-motif</i> of the desert, the + multitudinous complaining of camels dominating all other sounds. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What an uproar!” Domini exclaimed, half laughing, half confused. “Who on + earth is Shabah?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said. + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders like a man who thinks strife useless and the + moment come for giving in to Fate. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “We shall know it again. This is only for the moment. We shall have all + its joy again.” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” he said, as he had said when they were riding up the sand + slope. “Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + Then they got off their horses and were taken by the crowd. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"></a> + CHAPTER XXII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As the <i>cortege</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Society in the sands!” she exclaimed gaily. “Boris, this is a new + experience. Look at our guests making their way to their palaces!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Towards the city!” he answered. “Why not—?” He glanced behind him + to the vacant, noiseless sands. + </p> + <p> + She set her impulse against his for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “No, this is our town life, our Sahara season. Let us give ourselves to + it. The loneliness will be its antidote some day.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Domini,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + They went a little way towards the city, and stood still in the sand at + the edge of their height. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Boris! Isn’t it strange in the night all this barbaric music? It + excites me.” + </p> + <p> + “You are glad to be here.” + </p> + <p> + She heard the note of disappointment in his voice, but did not respond to + it. + </p> + <p> + “And look at all those fires, hundreds of them in the sand!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Yet, as we rode in, I had a feeling that the heart of the desert was + here,” she said. “You know I said so.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you say so still?” + </p> + <p> + “The heart, Boris, is the centre of life, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. She felt his inner feeling fighting hers. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She lowered her voice at the last words. After a moment she added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You wish to remain here, Domini?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, for a time.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us remain here, Domini,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Boris,” she answered very quietly. “You are good to me.” + </p> + <p> + “You are good to me,” he said, remembering the last words of Father + Roubier. “How can I be anything else?” + </p> + <p> + Directly he had spoken the words his body trembled violently. + </p> + <p> + “Boris, what is it?” she exclaimed, startled. + </p> + <p> + He took his arm away from hers. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned away, and went with Batouch across the sand-hills, walking + heavily. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It had been a strange episode. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “That African liqueur, Ouardi—you remember that you brought to the + tent at Mogar—have we any more of it?” + </p> + <p> + “The monk’s liqueur, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean—monk’s liqueur?” + </p> + <p> + “It was invented by a monk, Madame, and is sold by the monks of + El-Largani.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Have we any more of it?” + </p> + <p> + “There is another bottle, Madame, but I should not dare to bring it if——” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “If what, Ouardi?” + </p> + <p> + “If Monsieur were there.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To-night her mind—her whole nature—felt terribly alive. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Why did he come to her? + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"></a> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He came at once, like a shadow gliding over the waste. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “We only arrived this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He broke into a hearty laugh. + </p> + <p> + “We know what you’ve just had for dinner!” + </p> + <p> + Domini laughed too. + </p> + <p> + “Not really!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + His laugh was infectious. He leaned back in his chair and shook with the + mirth his own remarks had roused. + </p> + <p> + “We are ruffians of the sun!” he repeated with gusto. “And we must be + forgiven everything.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “It is easy to forgive in the sun,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + The priest laid his hands on his knees, setting his feet well apart. She + noticed that his hands were not scrupulously clean. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>le bon Dieu</i>, and <i>le bon Dieu</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are fond of the Arabs then?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you staying here long, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + He sat down again in his chair, making it creak with his substantial + weight. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. If my husband is happy here. But he prefers the solitudes, + I think.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You fare generously in the desert I see, Madame,” he exclaimed. “And so + much the better. What’s your servant’s name?” + </p> + <p> + Domini told him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Domini put two lumps into his cup. + </p> + <p> + “If you allow me!” + </p> + <p> + He added two more. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “The desert has made me an <i>enfant terrible</i>, I fear. What have you + there?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned forward to read the name on the flask. + </p> + <p> + “L o u a r i n e,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Pst!” exclaimed the priest, with a start. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “After all—why not?” he ejaculated. “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + She was holding the flask over the glass. He saw that his remark surprised + her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame, thanks.” + </p> + <p> + She poured out the liqueur and handed it to him. He set it down by his + coffee-cup. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is, Madame—but you know nothing about this liqueur?” + </p> + <p> + “No, nothing. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Her curiosity was roused by his hesitation, his words, but still more by a + certain gravity which had come into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this liqueur comes from the Trappist monastery of El-Largani.” + </p> + <p> + “The monks’ liqueur!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + And instantly she thought of Mogar. + </p> + <p> + “You do know then?” + </p> + <p> + “Ouardi told me we had with us a liqueur made by some monks.” + </p> + <p> + “This is it, and very excellent it is. I have tasted it in Tunis.” + </p> + <p> + “But then why did you hesitate to take it here?” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his glass up to the lamp. The light shone on its contents, + showing that the liquid was pale green. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But why not?” + </p> + <p> + “The secret of its manufacture belonged to one monk only. At his death he + was to confide it to another whom he had chosen.” + </p> + <p> + “And he died suddenly without—” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, he didn’t die.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Then—I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “He disappeared from the monastery.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean he left it—a Trappist?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “After taking the final vows?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he had been a monk at El-Largani for over twenty years.” + </p> + <p> + “How horrible!” Domini said. She looked at the pale-green liquid. “How + horrible!” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The monks would have kept the matter a secret, but a servant of the + <i>hotellerie</i>—who had taken no vow of eternal silence—spoke, + and—well, I know it here in the ‘belly of the desert.’” + </p> + <p> + “Horrible!” + </p> + <p> + She said the word again, and as if she felt its meaning more acutely each + time she spoke it. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it long ago?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But after twenty years!” said Domini. + </p> + <p> + The thing seemed to her almost incredible. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Monsieur,” he said, not waiting for any introduction. “I am + the Aumonier of Amara, and——” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Boris, Monsieur l’Aumonier!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris, are you ill?” Domini exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have a headache,” Androvsky said. “I—that is why I returned.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped the priest’s hand. He was again looking towards the table. + </p> + <p> + “The sun was unusually fierce to-day,” Domini said. “Do you think—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “That’s it. I must have had a touch of the + sun.” + </p> + <p> + He put his hand to his head. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Monsieur,” he said, speaking to the priest but not looking at + him. “I am really feeling unwell. Another day—” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I must be off. I’ve a good way to go, and it’s getting late. If + you will allow me—” + </p> + <p> + He went to the tent door and called, in a powerful voice: + </p> + <p> + “Belgassem! Belgassem!” + </p> + <p> + He paused, then called again: + </p> + <p> + “Belgassem!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sorry,” she said, not trying to detain him. “You must come + again. My husband is evidently ill, and—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You must have a cigar to smoke on the way.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Madame, you are too good, but—well, I rarely refuse a fine + cigar, and these—upon my word—are—” + </p> + <p> + He struck a match on his broad-toed boot. His demeanour was becoming + cheerful again. Domini gave the other cigar to the soldier. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Madame. A demain then, a demain! I trust your husband may be + able to rest. A demain! A demain!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” + </p> + <p> + She was at the door of the sleeping-tent. He did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You felt ill in the city? Did Batouch let you come back alone?” + </p> + <p> + “I preferred to be alone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You have fever!” she said. + </p> + <p> + She let one of his hands go and put one of hers to his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Your forehead is burning, and your pulses—how they are beating! + Like hammers! I must—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t give me anything, Domini! It would be useless.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why did that priest come here to-night?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + They were both standing up, but now he sat down in a chair heavily, taking + his hand from hers. + </p> + <p> + “Merely to pay a visit of courtesy.” + </p> + <p> + “At night?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Boris,” she exclaimed bluntly, “why should he not come at night?” + </p> + <p> + “Is such a thing usual?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And—and did he ask for anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw—on the table-coffee and—and there was liqueur.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally I offered him something.” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t ask?” + </p> + <p> + “But, Boris, how could he?” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of silence he said: + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not.” + </p> + <p> + He shifted in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, put his hands on + the arms of it, and continued: + </p> + <p> + “What did he talk about?” + </p> + <p> + “A little about Amara.” + </p> + <p> + “That was all?” + </p> + <p> + “He hadn’t been here long when you came—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Horrible!” Androvsky said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward in his + chair. + </p> + <p> + She sat down by him. They both had their backs to the light and were in + shadow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it about—some crime here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! It was about that liqueur you saw on the table.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky was sitting upon a basket chair. As she spoke it creaked under a + violent movement that he made. + </p> + <p> + “How could—what could there be that was horrible connected with + that?” he asked, speaking slowly. + </p> + <p> + “It was made by a monk, a Trappist—” + </p> + <p> + He got up from his chair and went to the opening of the tent. + </p> + <p> + “What—” she began, thinking he was perhaps feeling the pain in his + head more severely. + </p> + <p> + “I only want to be in the air. It’s rather hot there. Stay where, you are, + Domini, and—well, what else?” + </p> + <p> + He stepped out into the sand, and stood just outside the tent in its + shadow. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He—he disappeared—did the priest say?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment, during which neither of them spoke and Androvsky stood + quite still in the sand, she added: + </p> + <p> + “Poor man!” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky came a step towards her, then paused. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say that, Domini?” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of the agony he must be enduring if he is still alive.” + </p> + <p> + “Agony?” + </p> + <p> + “Of mind, of heart. You—I know, Boris, you can’t feel with me on + certain subjects—yet—” + </p> + <p> + “Yet!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Boris”—she got up and came to the tent door, but not out upon the + sand—“I dare to hope that some day perhaps——” + </p> + <p> + She was silent, looking towards him with her brave, steady eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Agony of heart?” Androvsky said, recurring to her words. “You think—what—you + pity that man then?” + </p> + <p> + “And don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I—what has he to do with—us? Why should we—?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + She broke off. After a minute, during which he said nothing, she + continued: + </p> + <p> + “I believe the priest felt something of the same sort. He could not drink + the liqueur that man had made, although he intended to.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Those are sometimes the most cruel. They do not understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. It may be so. But this priest—he’s not like that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “His fault might be the other way.” + </p> + <p> + “Which way?” + </p> + <p> + “Too great a tolerance.” + </p> + <p> + “Can a man be too tolerant towards his fellow-man?” said Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The greatest of all tolerance is God’s,” she said. “I’m sure—quite + sure—of that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky released her as abruptly as he had taken her in his arms, + turned, and went out into the desert. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"></a> + CHAPTER XXIV + </h2> + <p> + True to his promise, on the following day the priest called to inquire + after Androvsky’s health. He happened to come just before <i>dejeuner</i> + was ready, and met Androvsky on the sand before the tent door. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not fever then, Monsieur,” he said, after they had shaken hands. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” Androvsky replied. “I am quite well this morning.” + </p> + <p> + The priest looked at him closely with an unembarrassed scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been long in the desert, Monsieur?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Some weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “The heat has tired you. I know the look—” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, Monsieur, that I am accustomed to heat. I have lived in + North Africa all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I am not one of them,” Androvsky said abruptly. “I have never felt so + strong physically as since I have lived in the sand.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you will stay to <i>dejeuner</i>,” Androvsky said. + </p> + <p> + “It is very good of you. If you are certain that I shall not put you out.” + </p> + <p> + “Please stay.” + </p> + <p> + “I will, then, with pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The priest has called,” he said. “I have asked him to <i>dejeuner</i>.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with frank astonishment in her dark eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You—Boris!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. But generally you hate people.” + </p> + <p> + “He seems a good sort of man.” + </p> + <p> + She still looked at him with some surprise, even with curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Have you taken a fancy to a priest?” she asked, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Why not? This man is very different from Father Roubier, more human.” + </p> + <p> + “Father Beret is very human, I think,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + She was still smiling. It had just occurred to her that the priest had + timed his visit with some forethought. + </p> + <p> + “I am coming,” she added. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + It was a mad impulse. She resisted it and lay quite still. And when he lay + down and was quiet she slept at length. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At <i>dejeuner</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “Batouch!” she called almost gaily. + </p> + <p> + Batouch appeared, languidly smoking a cigarette, and with a large flower + tied to a twig protending from behind his ear. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch,” she said, “will you ask if Monsieur Androvsky is with Pere + Beret. I think—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, Batouch,” she said. “We won’t stop.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Madame,” he cried, “Monsieur is in there. I saw his face at the + window.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. We won’t disturb them. I daresay they have something to talk + about.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame!” said Batouch. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you see the Arab dressed in green?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke in an almost awestruck voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “The great marabout who lives at Beni-Hassan.” + </p> + <p> + The name struck upon Domini’s ear with a strange familiarity. + </p> + <p> + “But that’s where Count Anteoni went when he rode away from Beni-Mora that + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it far from Amara?” + </p> + <p> + “Two hours’ ride across the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If he is still with the marabout, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + They were close to the fountain now, and the marabout and his companion + were coming straight towards them. + </p> + <p> + “If Madame will allow me I will salute the marabout,” said Batouch. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Count Anteoni!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is I!” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand and clasped hers. + </p> + <p> + “So you have started upon your desert journey,” he added, looking closely + at her, as he had often looked in the garden. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And as I ventured to advise—that last time, do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + She recollected his words. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she replied, and there was a warmth of joy, almost of pride, in her + voice. “I am not alone.” + </p> + <p> + Count Anteoni was standing with one hand on her horse’s neck. As she + spoke, his hand dropped down. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered; “I am Madame Androvsky.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence between them. In it she heard the dripping water in + the fountain. At last Count Anteoni spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “It was written,” he said quietly. “It was written in the sand.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered; “all that has happened to me here in Africa was + written in the sand and in fire.” + </p> + <p> + “You are thinking of the sun.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I—where are you living?” + </p> + <p> + “Close by on the sand-hill beyond the city wall.” + </p> + <p> + “Where you can see the fires lit at night and hear the sound of the music + of Africa?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “As he said.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, as he said.” + </p> + <p> + Again the overwhelming sense of some strange and formidable approach came + over her, but this time she fought it resolutely. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come and see me?” she said. + </p> + <p> + She had meant to say “us,” but did not say it. + </p> + <p> + “If you will allow me.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Please do.” + </p> + <p> + “I will explain to the marabout and follow you.” + </p> + <p> + “But the way? Shall Batouch—?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it is not necessary.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My husband is in the city,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “With the priest.” + </p> + <p> + She saw an expression of surprise flit over Count Anteoni’s face. It went + away instantly. + </p> + <p> + “Pere Beret,” he said. “He is a cheerful creature and very good to the + Arabs.” + </p> + <p> + They sat down just inside the shadow of the tent before the door, and he + looked out quietly towards the city. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, this is the place,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She knew that he was alluding to the vision of the sand-diviner, and said + so. + </p> + <p> + “Did you believe at the time that what he said would come true?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + “How could I? Am I a child?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with gentle irony, but she felt he was playing with her. + </p> + <p> + “Cannot a man believe such things?” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer her, but said: + </p> + <p> + “My fate has come to pass. Do you not care to know what it is?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do tell me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have become a Mohammedan,” he said simply. + </p> + <p> + “A Mohammedan!” + </p> + <p> + She repeated the words as a person repeats words in surprise, but her + voice did not sound surprised. + </p> + <p> + “You wonder?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + After a moment she answered: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him steadily, but without curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “I feel that you are happy now.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke very quietly, but she heard the joy in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I remember you saying, ‘I like to see men praying in the desert.’” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That was why you left Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have none?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at his bright eyes and sighed, thinking of her husband. + </p> + <p> + “You will go back to Beni-Mora?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “You look at me very gravely, even sadly.” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of the men who cannot pray,” she said, “even in the + desert.” + </p> + <p> + “They should not come into the Garden of Allah. Don’t you remember that + day by the garden wall, when—” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly checked himself. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” he said simply. “And now tell me about yourself. You never + wrote that you were going to be married.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew you would know it in time—when we met again.” + </p> + <p> + “And you knew we should meet again?” + </p> + <p> + “Did not you?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “In the heart of the desert. And you—where are you going? You are + not returning to civilisation?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I have no plans. I want to do what my husband wishes.” + </p> + <p> + “And he?” + </p> + <p> + “He loves the desert. He has suggested our buying an oasis and setting up + as date merchants. What do you think of the idea?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a smile, but her eyes were serious, even sad. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot judge for others,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + When he got up to go he held her hand fast for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “May I speak what is in my heart?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—do.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered frankly. + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me why?” + </p> + <p> + “It has made me realise more sharply than perhaps I did before what must + be the misery of those who are still homeless.” + </p> + <p> + There was in her voice a sound as if she suppressed a sob. + </p> + <p> + “Hope for them, remembering my many years of wandering.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come again?” + </p> + <p> + “You are here for long?” + </p> + <p> + “Some days, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Whenever you ask me I will come.” + </p> + <p> + “I want you and my husband to meet again. I want that very much.” She + spoke with a pressure of eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “Send for me and I will come at any hour.” + </p> + <p> + “I will send—soon.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The voice of the old Arab died away in the distance, but before it died + away Domini had ceased from hearing it. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"></a> + CHAPTER XXV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As Androvsky approached Domini saw that he had lost the energy which had + delighted her at <i>dejeuner</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “You have been all this time with the priest?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Nearly all. I walked for a little while in the city. And you?” + </p> + <p> + “I rode out and met a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “A friend?” he said, as if startled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, from Beni-Mora—Count Anteoni. He has been here to pay me a + visit.” + </p> + <p> + She pulled forward a basket-chair for him. He sank into it heavily. + </p> + <p> + “Count Anteoni here!” he said slowly. “What is he doing here?” + </p> + <p> + “He is with the marabout at Beni-Hassan. And, Boris, he has become a + Mohammedan.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his head with a jerk and stared at her in silence. + </p> + <p> + “You are surprised?” + </p> + <p> + “A Mohammedan—Count Anteoni?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Do you know, when he told me I felt almost as if I had been + expecting it.” + </p> + <p> + “But—is he changed then? Is he—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. His voice had sounded to her bitter, almost fierce. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + They said no more for some minutes. Androvsky was the first to speak + again. + </p> + <p> + “You told him?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “About ourselves?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I told him.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He had expected it. When we ask him he is coming here again to see us + both together.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky got up from his chair. His face was troubled. Standing before + Domini, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Count Anteoni is happy then, now that he—now that he has joined + this religion?” + </p> + <p> + “Very happy.” + </p> + <p> + “And you—a Catholic—what do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “I think that, since that is his honest belief, it is a blessed thing for + him.” + </p> + <p> + He said no more, but went towards the sleeping-tent. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, when they were dining, he said to her: + </p> + <p> + “Domini, to-night I am going to leave you again for a short time.” + </p> + <p> + He saw a look of keen regret come into her face, and added quickly: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. I am glad—very glad. Have you finished?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go on,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ICI REPOSE JEAN BAPTISTE FABRIANI + </p> + <p> + <i>Priez pour lui</i>. + </p> + <p> + When they lay down they both looked at this grave, as if moved by a + simultaneous impulse, and read the words. + </p> + <p> + “Priez pour lui!” Domini said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + She put out her hand and took hold of her husband’s, and pressed it down + on the sand. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini, I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “That night we were one, weren’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + “Were we”—she was almost whispering in the night—“were we + truly one?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you—truly one, you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—one in soul? That is the great union, greater than the union of + our bodies. Were we one in soul? Are we now?” + </p> + <p> + “Domini, why do you ask me such questions? Do you doubt my love?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But I do ask you. Won’t you answer me?” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. His hand lay in hers, but did not press it. + </p> + <p> + “Boris”—she spoke the cruel words very quietly,—“we are not + truly one in soul. We have never been. I know that.” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Domini—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you speak like this? We are one. You have all my love. You are + everything to me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I never have loved another,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I was the very first.” + </p> + <p> + “The very first. When we married, although I was a man I was as you were.” + </p> + <p> + She bent down her head and laid her lips on his hand that was in hers. + </p> + <p> + “Then make our union perfect, as no other union on earth has ever been. + Give me your sorrow, Boris. I know what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “How can—you cannot know,” he said in a broken voice. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Domini, do not speak like this. Our love is happy. Leave it as it is.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky shivered. He took his hand forcibly from Domini’s. + </p> + <p> + “I have almost hated it, too,” he said passionately. “I have hated it. I’m + a—I’m—” + </p> + <p> + His voice failed. He bent forward and took Domini’s face between his + hands. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You must share it. I will make you share it.” + </p> + <p> + “You cannot.” + </p> + <p> + “I can. I shall. I feel that we shall be together in soul, and perhaps + to-night, perhaps even to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky looked profoundly agitated. His hands dropped down. + </p> + <p> + “I must go,” he said. “I must go to the priest.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from the sand. + </p> + <p> + “Come to the tent, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + She rose to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “When you come back,” she said, “I shall be waiting for you, Boris.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” he said. “I’ll keep your love—I’ll keep it.” + </p> + <p> + “You could never lose it.” + </p> + <p> + “I might.” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “If I believed that.” + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly burning tears rushed from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ever say a thing like that to me again!” she said with passion. + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the grave close to them. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She looked through her tears at the words: “Priez pour lui.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She waited in the tent door. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Domini!” + </p> + <p> + “Come here, close to me. I have something to tell you—something + wonderful.” + </p> + <p> + He came quite up to her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “To confess!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Boris?” she whispered. “Tell me. Perhaps I can understand + best because I love best.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + The hardness went out of his voice. He broke down for a moment and was + silent. + </p> + <p> + “You gave yourself to God,” she said. “How?” + </p> + <p> + He tried to meet her questioning eyes, but could not. + </p> + <p> + “I—I gave myself to God as a monk,” he answered after a pause. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Domini!” + </p> + <p> + “Domini, did you hear me? Domini! Domini!” + </p> + <p> + She felt his hands on her wrists. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “I am he.” + </p> + <p> + “What made you tell me? What made you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + There was agony now in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me your truth,” she said. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"></a> + BOOK V. THE REVELATION + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"></a> + CHAPTER XXVI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She thought of De Trevignac and the fragments of glass lying upon the + ground in the tent at Mogar. + </p> + <p> + “Had De Trevignac——” she said in a low, inward voice. + </p> + <p> + “He had seen me, spoken with me at the monastery. When Ouardi brought in + the liqueur he remembered who I was.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But the—the—” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “But the monk who has most to do with travellers is the monk who is in + charge of the <i>hotellerie</i> of the monastery. He is the host to all + visitors, to those who come over for the day and have <i>dejeuner</i>, 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 <i>hotellerie</i>, + on payment of a small weekly sum, for as long as they pleased. The monk of + the <i>hotellerie</i> 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—” + </p> + <p> + His face was contorted by a spasm. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “FACTUS OBEDIENS “USQUE “AD MORTEM “CRUCIS. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?’ + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Domini’s hands moved apart, then joined themselves again. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hotellerie</i> of + the monastery, and that my duties there were to begin upon the morrow. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hotellerie</i> 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 <i>hotellerie</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hotellerie</i>, + 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 <i>dejeuner</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He moved away a step or two in the sand, came back, and went on with an + effort: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘What’s that for, Father?’ the stranger said, with a start, which showed + that his nerves were shattered. + </p> + <p> + “‘It is time for your meal,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + “‘One must eat!’ he said. Then, as if conscious that he was behaving + oddly, he added politely: + </p> + <p> + “‘I know you entertain us too well here, and have sometimes been rewarded + with coarse ingratitude. Where do I go?’ + </p> + <p> + “I showed him into the parlour. There was no one there that day. He sat at + the long table. + </p> + <p> + “‘I am to eat alone?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes; I will serve you.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “The stranger looked at the shady room, the open windows. He sighed. + </p> + <p> + “‘How quiet it is here!’ he said, almost as if to himself. ‘How quiet it + is!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Summer is beginning. For months now scarcely anyone + will come to us here.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Us?’ he said, glancing at me with a sudden smile. + </p> + <p> + “‘I meant to us who are monks, who live always here.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘May I—is it indiscreet to ask if you have been here long?’ + </p> + <p> + “I told him. + </p> + <p> + “‘More than nineteen years!’ he said. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘And always in this silence?’ + </p> + <p> + “He sat as if listening, resting his head on his hand. + </p> + <p> + “‘How extraordinary!’ he said at last. ‘How wonderful! Is it happiness?’ + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>salle</i>. 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 <i>hotellerie</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Here I must leave you,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “‘Why?’ he asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + “‘There is another Father who will show you the chapel. I shall wait for + you here.’ + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hotellerie</i> I said: + </p> + <p> + “‘You have seen all my small domain now.’ + </p> + <p> + “He glanced at the house. + </p> + <p> + “‘But there seems to be a number of rooms,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + “‘Only the bedrooms.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Bedrooms? Do people stay the night here?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Sometimes. If they please they can stay for longer than a night.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘How much longer?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘For any time they please, if they conform to one or two simple rules and + pay a small fixed sum to the monastery.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Do you mean that you could take anyone in for the summer?’ he said + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “‘Why not? The consent of the Reverend Pere has to be obtained. That is + all.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I should like to see the bedrooms.’ + </p> + <p> + “I took him in and showed him one. + </p> + <p> + “‘All the others are the same,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Well,’ he said, drawing back into the room, ‘I will go now to see the + Pere Abbe, if it is permitted.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + “His intensely observant eyes were fixed upon me while he spoke. I + answered: + </p> + <p> + “‘I do not think you will trouble my peace.’ + </p> + <p> + “And my thought was: + </p> + <p> + “‘I will help you to find the peace which you have lost.’ + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hotellerie</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘You thought to find happiness in such an existence?’ I exclaimed, almost + with incredulity I believe. + </p> + <p> + “He looked at me with his shining eyes. + </p> + <p> + “‘Why not, Father? Do you think I was a madman to do so?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Surely.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Why? Is there not happiness in knowledge?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Knowledge of evil?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘But human life,’ I said more quietly, ‘passes away from this world. It + is a shadow in a world of shadows.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘You say that,’ he answered abruptly. ‘I wonder if you feel it—feel + it as you feel my hand on yours.’ + </p> + <p> + “He laid his hand on mine. It was hot and dry as if with fever. Its touch + affected me painfully. + </p> + <p> + “‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Within a week it might be less than a shadow.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “The sky above the cypresses was red with sunset. The trees looked black + beneath it. Fireflies were flitting near the arbour where we sat. + </p> + <p> + “‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes, thank God, I am a monk,’ I answered quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Something in my tone, I think, made him feel that he had been brutal. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “Again I was conscious of the bitterness. I tried to put it from me. + </p> + <p> + “‘Prayer is life,’ I answered, ‘to me, to us who are here.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + “‘It is time for me to go,’ I said. ‘Are you coming to the chapel?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘May it be so,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hotellerie</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “When I came out of the chapel into the <i>hotellerie</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Shall we go on to the path and have a last breath of air?’ the stranger + said. + </p> + <p> + “We stepped out and walked slowly up and down. + </p> + <p> + “‘Do you not feel the beauty of peace?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “We did not speak again before we parted for the night. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘And that moment plunges me into hell!’ he said. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>amours</i>, 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?’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘You are coming?’ the stranger said. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘You are ready?’ he said. ‘Let us go.’ + </p> + <p> + “We set off, walking quickly. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “I said nothing. I could say nothing. For my fever was surely as his + fever. + </p> + <p> + “‘Where are we going?’ he asked when we reached the little house of the + keeper of the gate by the cemetery. + </p> + <p> + “‘We cannot walk in the sun,’ I answered. ‘Let us go into the eucalyptus + woods.’ + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “He spoke abruptly, in a hard voice. + </p> + <p> + “‘You must try to gain courage,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “‘From where?’ he exclaimed. ‘No, no, don’t say from God. If there is a + God He hates me.’ + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “‘God hates no being whom He has created.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘How can you know? Almost every man, perhaps every living man hates + someone. Why not—?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘To compare God with a man is blasphemous,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + “‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + “He stood still and beat with his stick on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + “He forced his stick deep into the ground. + </p> + <p> + “‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Hush!’ I said sternly. ‘You deliberately torture yourself and me.’ He + glanced up sharply. + </p> + <p> + “‘You! What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I must not listen to such things,’ I said. ‘They are bad for you and for + me.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘How can they be bad for you—a monk?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Such talk is evil—evil for everyone.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I’ll be silent then. I’ll go into the silence. I’ll go soon.’ + </p> + <p> + “I understood that he thought of putting an end to himself. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Have you ever felt like that? You speak of it calmly, but have you ever + experienced it?’ + </p> + <p> + “I hesitated. Then I said: + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘You, who have been a monk for so many years!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Since you have been here?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes, since then.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘And you would tell me that the feeling passed, that hope came again, and + the dream as you call it?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I would say that what has lived in a heart can die, as we who live in + this world shall die.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Don’t you wish it to die?’ I asked. ‘You say it tortures you.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes. But no—no—I don’t wish it to die. I could never wish + that.’ + </p> + <p> + “I looked at him, I believe, with a deep astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘It is for Monsieur!’ he said. ‘It was left at the gate.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘A letter for me!’ the stranger said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Father!’ he muttered, ‘it’s not been through the post—it’s not + been through the post!’ + </p> + <p> + “I did not understand. + </p> + <p> + “‘What do you mean?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “‘What——’ + </p> + <p> + “The flush left his face. He turned deadly white again. He held out the + letter. + </p> + <p> + “‘Read it for me!’ he said. ‘I can’t see—I can’t see anything.’ + </p> + <p> + “I took the letter. He covered his eyes with his hands. I opened it and + read: + </p> + <p> + “‘GRAND HOTEL, TUNIS. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Which is the way to the road?’ he said. ‘Do you know?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Take me there. Give me your arm, Father.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Is there—is there a carriage?’ he whispered in my ear. + </p> + <p> + “I looked across the field and saw on the road a carriage waiting. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “I stopped, and tried to take his arm from mine. + </p> + <p> + “‘Go,’ I said. ‘Go on!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I can’t. Come with me, Father.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Father,’ he said. ‘Good-bye—God bless you!’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hotellerie</i>, + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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——” + </p> + <p> + His voice broke. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go—I’ll go!” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + And he stepped forward. Then Domini spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” she said. + </p> + <p> + He stopped. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he murmured hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “Boris, now at last you—you can pray.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her as if awe-stricken. + </p> + <p> + “Pray!” he whispered. “You tell me I can pray—now!” + </p> + <p> + “Now at last.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The music had ceased in the city. There was a great silence. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"></a> + BOOK VI. THE JOURNEY BACK + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"></a> + CHAPTER XXVII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He was moved by envy. But then he remembered his intercourse with + Androvsky on the previous day. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “AMARA. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + In a postscript was an address which would always find her. + </p> + <p> + Count Anteoni read this letter two or three times carefully, with a grave + face. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Love watcheth—I am watching.” Then a moment—then—“God + is watching me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Give me strength for one more thing—give me strength to be silent!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris!” she said. + </p> + <p> + He rose from his knees and looked at her, holding the little wooden + crucifix in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Domini?” he said in an uncertain voice. + </p> + <p> + “Put it back into your breast. Keep it for ever, Boris.” + </p> + <p> + As if mechanically, and not removing his eyes from her, he put the + crucifix into his breast. After a moment she spoke again, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Us!” he said. + </p> + <p> + There was a profound amazement in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Away from Amara—you and I—together?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Boris, together.” + </p> + <p> + “Where—where can we go?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + In her heart she said “as God chooses.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini,” he answered. “I am in your hands, utterly in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Neither of them spoke after that till the sunlight lay above the towers + and minarets of Amara. Then Domini said: + </p> + <p> + “We will go to-day—now.” + </p> + <p> + And that morning the camp was struck, and the new journey began—the + journey back. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"></a> + CHAPTER XXVIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This evening he had no time to think of death. Life was enough, life with + this terror which he had deliberately placed in it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + How she had loved him! + </p> + <p> + He walked faster before the tents, to and fro. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This music maddened him. + </p> + <p> + “Batouch!” he called out sharply. “Batouch!” + </p> + <p> + Batouch stopped laughing, glanced round, then came towards him with a + large pace, swinging from his hips. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Batouch!” Androvsky said. + </p> + <p> + But he could not go on. He could not say anything about the two tents to a + servant. + </p> + <p> + “Where—where is Madame?” he said almost stammering. + </p> + <p> + “Out there, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + 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—— + </p> + <p> + “You can go, Batouch,” he said. “Go away.” + </p> + <p> + The poet stared at him with a superb surprise, then moved slowly towards + Ouardi, holding his burnous with his large hands. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me?” she said, coming up to him. + </p> + <p> + His lips trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “I want you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Send them away,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Domini—Domini,” he said. “You can—you can play with children—to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to feel I could give a little happiness to-day,” she answered—“even + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “To-day when—when to me—to me—you are giving——” + </p> + <p> + But before her steady gaze all the words he had meant to say, all the + words of furious protest, died on his lips. + </p> + <p> + “To me—to me—” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + Then he was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Boris,” she said, “I want to give you one thing, the thing that you have + lost. I want to give you back peace.” + </p> + <p> + “You never can.” + </p> + <p> + “I must try. Even if I cannot I shall know that I have tried.” + </p> + <p> + “You are giving me—you are giving me not peace, but a sword,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + She understood that he had seen the two tents. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes a sword can give peace.” + </p> + <p> + “The peace of death.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He did not say another word. + </p> + <p> + That night they slept apart for the first time since their marriage. + </p> + <p> + “Domini, where are you taking me? Where are we going?” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + He paused. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + But she hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Not now,” she answered. “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Boris, I shall tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you trust me, Boris, completely? Can you?” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Humble—you, Domini! You can feel humble when you think of me, when + you are with me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He let me go when I left the monastery.” + </p> + <p> + “Does one never return?” + </p> + <p> + Again a sensation almost of terror assailed him. He felt as if he were + fighting in darkness something that he could not see. + </p> + <p> + “Return!” he said. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If you trusted me in such a thing, can you not trust me now?” + </p> + <p> + “But”—he said uneasily—“but this is different, a worldly + matter, a matter of daily life. I shall have to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why should I not know now? At any moment I could ask Batouch.” + </p> + <p> + “Batouch only knows from day to day. I have a map of the desert. I got it + before we left Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Domini,” he said, “are we—we are not going back to Beni-Mora?” + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you to-night,” she replied in a low voice. “Let me tell you + tonight.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Domini!” he said, “Domini!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + And this time she withdrew her eyes from the blue distance and looked at + him. + </p> + <p> + “Domini, you must trust me.” + </p> + <p> + He was thinking of the two tents set the one apart from the other. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She heard a sound of despair in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know it,” she replied quietly. + </p> + <p> + Something told him to be silent then. Something told him to wait till the + night came and the camp was pitched once more. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Does Madame know the meaning of Ain-la-Hammam?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Domini. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Source des tourterelles,” replied Batouch. “I was there once with an + English traveller.” + </p> + <p> + “Source des tourterelles,” repeated Domini. “Is it beautiful, Batouch? It + sounds as if it ought to be beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame will see,” he answered. “Madame will see. But the Englishman——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Paradise!” exclaimed Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What does Madame think?” asked Batouch. “Does Madame agree with the + Englishman?” + </p> + <p> + “It is a strange little place,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + She listened to the voices of the doves. A dog barked by the bordj. + </p> + <p> + “It is almost like a hiding-place,” she added. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Domini,” he whispered. “Here—won’t you—won’t you let me touch + your hand again here?” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Boris,” she answered. “It is late.” + </p> + <p> + They rode down into Ain-la-Hammam. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I told Batouch to put our tents on the other side of the bordj,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But why?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Together,” he said. + </p> + <p> + An eager light had come into his eyes. He leaned forward towards her over + the little table and stretched out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, together,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But she did not take his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Domini!” he said, still keeping his hand on the table, “Domini!” + </p> + <p> + An expression, that was like an expression of agony, flitted over her face + and died away, leaving it calm. + </p> + <p> + “Let us finish,” she said quietly. “Look, they have taken the tents! In a + moment we can go.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We shall want nothing more to-night, Batouch,” Domini said. “Don’t + disturb us.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “To-night, Madame,” Batouch said proudly, “I am going to tell stories from + the <i>Thousand and One Nights</i>. 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—” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed. Go to them, Batouch. They must be impatient for you.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch smiled broadly. + </p> + <p> + “Madame begins to understand the Arabs,” he rejoined. “Madame will soon be + as the Arabs.” + </p> + <p> + “Go, Batouch. Look—they are longing for you.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the desert men, who were gesticulating and gazing towards + the tents. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go now, Boris,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + He got up at once from the table, and they walked together round the + bordj. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + He was gazing at the pool, with his face partly averted from her, one hand + on the wall, the other resting on his knee. + </p> + <p> + “You were brave that night, Boris,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I—I wished to be—I tried to be. And if I had been—” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Boris, let us—you and I—be worthy of living to-night—and + in the future.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me your hand then,” he answered. “Give it me, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + But she did not give it to him. Instead she went on, speaking a little + more rapidly: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I said I would tell you to-night where we are going.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me now.” + </p> + <p> + “We are going back to Beni-Mora. We are not very far off from Beni-Mora + to-night—not very far.” + </p> + <p> + “We are going to Beni-Mora!” he repeated in a dull voice. “We are——” + </p> + <p> + He sat up on the wall, looking straight into her face. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he said. His voice was sharp now, sharp with fear. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I?” he said hopelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t expiation the only way? I think it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Expiation! How—how can—I can never expiate my sin.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “To the priest who—to Father Roubier!” + </p> + <p> + There was fierce protest in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I feel that God is asking that of you. Don’t refuse Him.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot go—at Beni-Mora where we—where everything will + remind us—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don’t you think I shall feel it too? Don’t you think I shall suffer?” + </p> + <p> + He felt horribly ashamed when she said that, bowed down with an + overwhelming weight of shame. + </p> + <p> + “But our lives”—he stammered—“but—if I go—afterwards—if + I make my confession—afterwards—afterwards?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up into the clear sky. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure I have been told,” she added. “I know I have.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think of me any more,” she said. “Think—think as I do—of—of—— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “To-night,” he said, “I feel that I know nothing—nothing except that + I am suffering.” + </p> + <p> + His voice broke on the last words. Tears were shining in his eyes. After a + long silence he said: + </p> + <p> + “Domini, take me where you will. If it is to Beni-Mora I will go. But—but—afterwards?” + </p> + <p> + “Afterwards——” she said. + </p> + <p> + Then she stopped. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Has He—has He put it—that knowledge—into yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” she said. + </p> + <p> + They spoke no more that night. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"></a> + CHAPTER XXIX + </h2> + <p> + The caravan of Domini and Androvsky was leaving Arba. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Let it be night,” he said. “Dark night!” + </p> + <p> + The horses moved slowly on, descending the hill on which stood the bordj. + </p> + <p> + “Dark—dark night!” he said again. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. They rode into the plain. When they were there he said: + </p> + <p> + “Domini, do you understand—do you realise?” + </p> + <p> + “What, Boris?” she asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “All that we are leaving to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Are we—are we leaving it for ever?” + </p> + <p> + “We must not think of that.” + </p> + <p> + “How can we help it? What else can we think of? Can one govern the mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely, if we can govern the heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes,” he said, “sometimes I wonder——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If you can wonder, Boris,” she said, “you don’t know me, you don’t know + me at all!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her whip and pointed to the dark shadow far away. + </p> + <p> + “I can just see the tower,” she said. “Can’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But the voice—what a different voice! Can you listen to it?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “If I do it is because you tell me to feel it; you tell me that I must + feel it.” + </p> + <p> + His words seemed to hurt her. An expression of pain came into her face. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A dream, you call it—the life we have lived together, our desert + life?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Strength!” he said bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment he answered: + </p> + <p> + “I will try to give you nothing more to bear for me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She saw him do this. + </p> + <p> + “Let us ride quicker,” she said. “To-night we must be in Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris,” she whispered, “there is the Christ. Let us think only of that + tonight.” + </p> + <p> + She saw him look at it steadily. + </p> + <p> + “You remember,” she said, at the bottom of the avenue of cypresses—“at + El-Largani—<i>Factus obediens usque ad mortem Crucis</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + “We can be obedient too. Let us be obedient too.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + When it ceased she whispered to herself, “<i>Factus obediens usque ad + mortem Crucis</i>.” 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: + </p> + <p> + “Domini, I will go. I will go now.” + </p> + <p> + He got up and stood by her, looking down at her. In his face there was a + sort of sternness, a set expression. + </p> + <p> + “To Father Roubier, Boris?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Before I go won’t you—won’t you give me your hand?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris,” she said, “go. God will be with you.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment she added: + </p> + <p> + “And all my heart.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris,” she whispered, “good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Come to me—afterwards. Come to me in the garden. I shall be there + where we—I shall be there waiting for you.” + </p> + <p> + He went out without another word. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame has returned?” + </p> + <p> + Domini smiled at him, but her lips were trembling, and she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Smain observed her with a dawning of curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + With an effort she controlled herself. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Smain,” she answered, “it is better here. But I can not stay here + long.” + </p> + <p> + “You are going away?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am going away.” + </p> + <p> + She saw more quiet questions fluttering on his lips, and added: + </p> + <p> + “And now I want to walk in the garden alone.” + </p> + <p> + He waved his hand towards the trees. + </p> + <p> + “It is all for Madame. Monsieur the Count has always said so. But + Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “He is in Beni-Mora. He is coming presently to fetch me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But the silence lasted and she went on and came to the <i>fumoir</i>. She + went into it at once and sat down. She was going to wait for Androvsky + here. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Androvsky came to the doorway of the <i>fumoir</i> without looking up, + stood still there—just where Count Anteoni had stood during his + first interview with Domini—and said: + </p> + <p> + “Domini, I have been to the priest. I have made my confession.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Boris!” + </p> + <p> + He came into the <i>fumoir</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Domini,” he said, looking up at her, “you know the rest. You meant it to + be as it will be when we left Amara.” + </p> + <p> + “Was there any other way? Was there any other possible life for us—for + you—for me?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do not think of me, Boris.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, and they looked at each other for a moment in silence. Then + she continued: + </p> + <p> + “Surely it will be easier for you, happier for you.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky clenched his right hand on the divan and turned round till he + was facing her full. His eyes blazed. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he got up from the divan and stood before her, looking down at + her steadily. + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Boris,” Domini said quietly, “we must go to-day. We must leave Beni-Mora. + You know that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “I know.” + </p> + <p> + He looked out into the garden. The almost fierce resolution, that had + something in it of triumph, faded from him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “this is the end, the real end, for—there, it will + all be different—it will be terrible.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us sit here for a little while together,” Domini said, “and be quiet. + Is it like the garden of El-Largani, Boris?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I understand, Boris, I understand everything now.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Boris,” she said, without looking at him. + </p> + <p> + He obeyed her and rose to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “O thou that art covered, arise, and magnify thy Lord, and purify thy + clothes, and depart from uncleanness.” + </p> + <p> + Then, standing side by side, they prayed, looking at the desert. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"></a> + CHAPTER XXX + </h2> + <p> + In the evening of that day they left Beni-Mora. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “We’ll say adieu here, Batouch.” + </p> + <p> + The poet displayed a large surprise. + </p> + <p> + “But I will accompany Madame to the station. I will—” + </p> + <p> + “It is not necessary.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch looked offended but obstinate. His ample person became almost + rigid. + </p> + <p> + “If I am not at the station, Madame, what will Hadj think, and Ali, and + Ouardi, and—” + </p> + <p> + “They will be there?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, Madame. Where else should they be? Does Madame wish to leave + us like a thief in the night, or like—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Batouch. I am very grateful to you all, but especially to you.” + </p> + <p> + Batouch began to smile. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>au + revoir</i> and to wish Madame and Monsieur a happy journey.” + </p> + <p> + For the moment the irony of her situation struck Domini so forcibly that + she could say nothing. She only looked at Batouch in silence. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? But I know. Madame is sad at leaving the desert, at leaving + Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Batouch. I am sad at leaving Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + “But Madame will return?” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “I shall see you at the station, Batouch,” Domini said quickly. “Good-bye + till then.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>via</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Time to go already?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame. I have told Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Androvsky came into the room. + </p> + <p> + “The carriage is waiting,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She felt almost as if a stranger was speaking to her. + </p> + <p> + “I am ready,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And without looking round the room she went downstairs and got into the + carriage. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Hadj, and are you happy now? How is Irena?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I am always happy, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + Domini saw that she had made a mistake. She took out her purse and gave + him five francs. + </p> + <p> + “A parting present,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Batouch?” + </p> + <p> + “To-day you have put Hadj to shame.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled broadly. + </p> + <p> + “I? How? What have I done?” + </p> + <p> + “Irena is dancing at Onargla, far away in the desert beyond Amara.” + </p> + <p> + “Irena! But—” + </p> + <p> + “She could not live shut up in a room. She could not wear the veil for + Hadj.” + </p> + <p> + “But then—?” + </p> + <p> + “She has divorced him, Madame. It is easy here. For a few francs one can—” + </p> + <p> + The whistle sounded. The train jerked. Batouch seized her hand, seized + Androvsky’s, sprang back to the platform. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Batouch! Good-bye, Ouardi! Good-bye, Smain!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And Irena was dancing at Onargla, far away in the desert. + </p> + <p> + She remembered the night in the dancing-house, Irena’s attack upon Hadj. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>leit motif</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We met here, Boris,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, “at the gate of the desert. I shall never be here + again.” + </p> + <p> + Soon the night fell around them. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Domini glanced at Androvsky, who stood with his head bent down, looking on + the ground. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we try another hotel?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “If you wish,” he answered in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “It would be useless, Madame,” said the proprietor. “All the hotels are + full. In the others you will not find even a bedroom.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we had better stay here,” she said to Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner is ready, Madame,” said a voice in English with a strong foreign + accent. + </p> + <p> + Domini went to the door and opened it. + </p> + <p> + “Does Monsieur know?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur is already in the hall waiting for Madame.” + </p> + <p> + She went down and found Androvsky. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The desert!” Androvsky whispered. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Will you get in, Domini?” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed. Androvsky said to the mettse driver: + </p> + <p> + “Drive to the Belvedere. Drive round the park till I tell you to return.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” said Androvsky to the driver. + </p> + <p> + He drew up his horses. + </p> + <p> + “Wait for us here.” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky got out. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we walk a little way?” he said to Domini. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + From the sea over the flats came to them a breeze that had a savour of + freshness, of cool and delicate life. + </p> + <p> + They walked for some time without speaking, then Domini said: + </p> + <p> + “From the cemetery of El-Largani you looked out over this, didn’t you, + Boris?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Domini,” he answered. “It was then that the voice spoke to me.” + </p> + <p> + “It will never speak again. God will not let it speak again.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “We are tried in the fire, Boris, but we are not burnt to death.” + </p> + <p> + She said it for herself, to reassure herself, to give a little comfort to + her own soul. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And now?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Best without me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How, Boris?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps He will let me die.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see them,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us sit here for a moment, Boris,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You will see me in your prayers every day, and I shall see you in mine.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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——” + </p> + <p> + “Where will you be?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, I don’t know. I won’t think of the afterwards now, in these + last few hours—in these last——” + </p> + <p> + Her voice faltered and broke. Then the tears came to her also, and for a + while she could not see the distant lights. + </p> + <p> + Then she spoke again; she said: + </p> + <p> + “Boris, let us go now.” + </p> + <p> + He got up without a word. They found the carriage and drove back to Tunis. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Early next morning a carriage was at the door. When they had got into it + the coachman looked round. + </p> + <p> + “Where shall I drive to, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + Androvsky looked at him and made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “To El-Largani,” Domini said. + </p> + <p> + “To the monastery, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Imitation</i>: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The carriage turned to the right, went on a little way, then stopped. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + JANUA COELI. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Les dames n’entrent pas ici.</i>” + </p> + <p> + As she looked the figure of a very old monk with a long white beard + shuffled slowly across the patch of sunlight and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + The coachman turned round. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hotellerie</i>. It’s over there.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed with his whip and turned his back to them again. + </p> + <p> + Domini sat quite still. Her lips moved, once more repeating the words of + <i>The Imitation</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “Domini,” at last he whispered. “Domini!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At last she leaned down and touched his forehead with her lips. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. Her hands dropped from his shoulders, she turned away + and her lips moved once more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Drive back to Tunis, please.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame!” said the coachman. + </p> + <p> + “Drive back to Tunis.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame is not going to enter! But Monsieur—” + </p> + <p> + “Drive back to Tunis!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is not tired. + When weary—it—is not—tired.” + </p> + <p> + Domini’s lips ceased to move. She could not speak any more. She could not + even pray without words. + </p> + <p> + Yet, in that moment, she did not feel alone. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"></a> + CHAPTER XXXI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Only one other song he loves more than the twittering tune of Larbi. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Boris!” she whispers. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But the mother stays alone by the wall till the night falls and the desert + is hidden. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No one but God and I + Knows what is in my heart.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But she does not rebel. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN OF ALLAH ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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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