the garden of allah-第74章

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last　she　loved。　The　dark　and　silent　flood　of　passion　that　lay　within
her　had　been　released　from　its　boundaries；　the　old　landmarks　were
swept　away　for　ever；　the　face　of　the　world　was　changed。

She　loved　Androvsky。　Everything　in　her　loved　him；　all　that　she　had
been；　all　that　she　was；　all　that　she　could　ever　be　loved　him；　that
which　was　physical　in　her；　that　which　was　spiritual；　the　brain；　the
heart；　the　soul；　body　and　flame　burning　within　itall　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
itAndrovsky。　She　was　unconscious　of　herself　except　as　love　for　him。
She　was　unconscious　of　any　Creative　Power　to　whom　she　owed　the　fact
that　he　was　there　to　be　loved　by　her。　She　was　passion；　and　he　was　that
to　which　passion　flowed。

The　world　was　the　stream　and　the　sea。

As　she　sat　there　with　her　hands　folded　on　her　knees；　her　eyes　bent
down；　and　the　purple　flowers　all　about　her；　she　felt　simplified　and
cleansed；　as　if　a　mass　of　little　things　had　been　swept　from　her；
leaving　space　for　the　great　thing　that　henceforth　must　for　ever　dwell
within　her　and　dominate　her　life。　The　burning　shame　of　which　she　had
been　conscious　on　the　previous　night；　when　Androvsky　told　her　of　his
approaching　departure　and　she　was　stricken　as　by　a　lightning　flash；
had　died　away　from　her　utterly。　She　remembered　it　with　wonder。　How
should　she　be　ashamed　of　love？　She　thought　that　it　would　be　impossible
to　her　to　be　ashamed；　even　if　Androvsky　knew　all　that　she　knew。　Just
then　the　immense　truth　of　her　feeling　conquered　everything　else；　made
every　other　thing　seem　false；　and　she　said　to　herself　that　of　truth
she　did　not　know　how　to　be　ashamed。　But　with　the　knowledge　of　the
immense　truth　of　her　love　came　the　knowledge　of　the　immense　sorrow
that　might；　that　must；　dwell　side　by　side　with　it。

Suddenly　she　moved。　She　lifted　her　eyes　from　the　sand　and　looked　out
into　the　garden。　Besides　this　truth　within　her　there　was　one　other
thing　in　the　world　that　was　true。　Androvsky　was　going　away。　While　she
sat　there　the　moments　were　passing。　They　were　making　the　hours　that
were　bent　upon　destruction。　She　was　sitting　in　the　garden　now　and
Androvsky　was　close　by。　A　little　time　would　pass　noiselessly。　She
would　be　sitting　there　and　Androvsky　would　be　far　away；　gone　from　the
desert；　gone　out　of　her　life　no　doubt　for　ever。　And　the　garden　would
not　have　changed。　Each　tree　would　stand　in　its　place；　each　flower
would　still　give　forth　its　scent。　The　breeze　would　go　on　travelling
through　the　lacework　of　the　branches；　the　streams　slipping　between　the
sandy　walls　of　the　rills。　The　inexorable　sun　would　shine；　and　the
desert　would　whisper　in　its　blue　distances　of　the　unseen　things　that
always　dwell　beyond。　And　Androvsky　would　be　gone。　Their　short
intercourse；　so　full　of　pain；　uneasiness；　reserve；　so　fragmentary；　so
troubled　by　abrupt　violences；　by　ignorance；　by　a　sense　of　horror　even
on　the　one　side；　and　by　an　almost　constant　suspicion　on　the　other；
would　have　come　to　an　end。

She　was　stunned　by　the　thought；　and　looked　round　her　as　if　she
expected　inanimate　Nature　to　take　up　arms　for　her　against　this　fate。
Yet　she　did　not　for　a　moment　think　of　taking　up　arms　herself。　She　had
left　the　hotel　without　trying　to　see　Androvsky。　She　did　not　intend　to
return　to　it　till　he　was　gone。　The　idea　of　seeking　him　never　came　into
her　mind。　There　is　an　intensity　of　feeling　that　generates　action；　but
there　is　a　greater　intensity　of　feeling　that　renders　action
impossible；　the　feeling　that　seems　to　turn　a　human　being　into　a　shell
of　stone　within　which　burn　all　the　fires　of　creation。　Domini　knew　that
she　would　not　move　out　of　the　/fumoir/　till　the　train　was　creeping
along　the　river…bed　on　its　way　from　Beni…Mora。

She　had　laid　down　the　/Imitation/　upon　the　seat　by　her　side；　and　now
she　took　it　up。　The　sight　of　its　familiar　pages　made　her　think　for　the
first　time；　〃Do　I　love　God　any　more？〃　And　immediately　afterwards　came
the　thought：　〃Have　I　ever　loved　him？〃　The　knowledge　of　her　love　for
Androvsky；　for　this　body　that　she　had　seen；　for　this　soul　that　she　had
seen　through　the　body　like　a　flame　through　glass；　made　her　believe
just　then　that　if　she　had　ever　thoughtand　certainly　she　had　thought
that　she　loved　a　being　whom　she　had　never　seen；　never　even
imaginatively　projected；　she　had　deceived　herself。　The　act　of　faith
was　not　impossible；　but　the　act　of　love　for　the　object　on　which　that
faith　was　concentrated　now　seemed　to　her　impossible。　For　her　body；
that　remained　passive；　was　full　of　a　riot；　a　fury　of　life。　The　flesh
that　had　slept　was　awakened　and　knew　itself。　And　she　could　no　longer
feel　that　she　could　love　that　which　her　flesh　could　not　touch；　that
which　could　not　touch　her　flesh。　And　she　said　to　herself；　without
terror；　even　without　regret；　〃I　do　not　love；　I　never　have　loved；　God。〃

She　looked　into　the　book：

　〃Unspeakable；　indeed；　is　the　sweetness　of　thy　contemplation；　which
　　thou　bestowest　on　them　that　love　thee。〃

The　sweetness　of　thy　contemplation！　She　remembered　Androvsky's　face
looking　at　her　out　of　the　heart　of　the　sun　as　they　met　for　the　first
time　in　the　blue　country。　In　that　moment　she　put　him　consciously　in
the　place　of　God；　and　there　was　nothing　within　her　to　say；　〃You　are
committing　mortal　sin。〃

She　looked　into　the　book　once　more　and　her　eyes　fell　upon　the　words
which　she　had　read　on　her　first　morning　in　Beni…Mora：

　〃Love　watcheth；　and　sleeping；　slumbereth　not。　When　weary　it　is　not
　　tired；　when　straitened　it　is　not　constrained；　when　frightened　it
　　is　not　disturbed；　but　like　a　vivid　flame　and　a　burning　torch　it
　　mounteth　upwards　and　securely　passeth　through　all。　Whosoever
　　loveth　knoweth　the　cry　of　this　voice。〃

She　had　always　loved　these　words　and　thought　them　the　most　beautiful
in　the　book；　but　now　they　came　to　her　with　the　newness　of　the　first
spring　morning　that　ever　dawned　upon　the　world。　The　depth　of　them　was
laid　bare　to　her；　and；　with　that　depth；　the　depth　of　her　own　heart。
The　paralysis　of　anguish　passed　from　her。　She　no　longer　looked　to
Nature　as　one　dumbly　seeking　help。　For　they　led　her　to　herself；　and
made　her　look　into　herself　and　her　own　love　and　know　it。　〃When
frightened　it　is　not　disturbedit　securely　passeth　through　all。〃　That
was　absolutely　truetrue　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　himmy　love；　all
that　I　amthat　is　going　with　him；　will　always　be　with　him。〃

Just　then　it　seemed　to　her　that　if　she　had　seen　Androvsky　lying　dead
before　her　on　the　sand　she　could　not　have　felt　unhappy。　Nothing　could
do　harm　to　a　great　love。　It　was　the　one　permanent；　eternally　vital
thing；　clad　in　an　armour　of　fire　that　no　weapon　could　pierce；　free　of
all　terror　from　outside　things　because　it　held　its　safety　within　its
own　heart；　everlastingly　enough；　perfectly；　flawlessly　complete　for
and　in　itself。　For　that　moment　fear　left　her；　restlessness　left　her。
Anyone　looking　in　upon　her　from　the　garden　would　have　looked　in　upon　a
great；　calm　happiness。

Presently　there　came　a　step　upon　the　sand　of　the　garden　walks。　A　man；
going　slowly；　with　a　sort　of　passionate　reluctance；　as　if　something
immensely　strong　was　trying　to　hold　him　back；　but　was　conquered　with
difficulty　by　something　still　stronger　that　drove　him　on；　came　out　of
the　fierce　sunshine　into　the　shadow　of　the　garden；　and　began　to　search
its　silent　recesses。　It　was　Androvsky。　He　looked　bowed　and　old　a