the garden of allah-第77章
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That is golden
The love of women is like a gazelle that comes to drink
To drink at the water springs
The love of women is like the nargileh； and like the dust of the keef
That is mingled with tobacco and with honey。
Put the reed between thy lips； O loving man！
And draw dreams from the haschish that is the love of women！
Janat！ Janat！ Janat！〃
The wind grew louder and sand was blown along the cafe floor and about
the coffee…cups。
〃The love of women is like the rose of the Caid's garden
That is full of silver tears
The love of women is like the first day of the spring
When the children play at Cora
The love of women is like the Derbouka that has been warmed at the fire
And gives out a sweet sound。
Take it in thy hands； O loving man！
And sing to the Derbouka that is the love of women。
Janat！ Janat！ Janat！〃
In the doorway； where the lamp swung from the beam； a man in European
dress stood still to listen。 The wind wailed behind him and stirred
his clothes。 His eyes shone in the faint light with a fierceness of
emotion in which there was a joy that was almost terrible； but in
which there seemed also to be something that was troubled。 When the
song died away； and only the voices of the wind and the drum spoke to
the darkness； he disappeared into the night。 The Arabs did not see
him。
〃Janat！ Janat！ Janat！〃
The night drew on and the storm increased。 All the doors of the houses
were closely shut。 Upon the roofs the guard dogs crouched； shivering
and whining； against the earthen parapets。 The camels groaned in the
fondouks； and the tufted heads of the palms swayed like the waves of
the sea。 And the Sahara seemed to be lifting up its voice in a summons
that was tremendous as a summons to Judgment。
Domini had always known that the desert would summon her。 She heard
its summons now in the night without fear。 The roaring of the tempest
was sweet in her ears as the sound of the Derbouka to the loving man
of the sands。 It accorded with the fire that lit up the cloud of
passion in her heart。 Its wildness marched in step with a marching
wildness in her veins and pulses。 For her gipsy blood was astir
to…night； and the recklessness of the boy in her seemed to clamour
with the storm。 The sound of the wind was as the sound of the clashing
cymbals of Liberty； calling her to the adventure that love would
glorify； to the far…away life that love would make perfect； to the
untrodden paths of the sun of which she had dreamed in the shadows；
and on which she would set her feet at last with the comrade of her
soul。
To…morrow her life would begin； her real life； the life of which men
and women dream as the prisoner dreams of freedom。 And she was glad；
she thanked God； that her past years had been empty of joy； that in
her youth she had been robbed of youth's pleasures。 She thanked God
that she had come to maturity without knowing love。 It seemed to her
that to love in early life was almost pitiful； was a catastrophe； an
experience for which the soul was not ready； and so could not
appreciate at its full and wonderful value。 She thought of it as of a
child being taken away from the world to Paradise without having known
the pain of existence in the world； and at that moment she worshipped
suffering。 Every tear that she had ever shed she loved； every weary
hour； every despondent thought； every cruel disappointment。 She called
around her the congregation of her past sorrows； and she blessed them
and bade them depart from her for ever。
As she heard the roaring of the wind she smiled。 The Sahara was
fulfilling the words of the Diviner。 To…morrow she and Androvsky would
go out into the storm and the darkness together。 The train of camels
would be lost in the desolation of the desert。 And the people of Beni…
Mora would see it vanish； and； perhaps； would pity those who were
hidden by the curtains of the palanquin。 They would pity her as
Suzanne pitied her； openly； with eyes that were tragic。 She laughed
aloud。
It was late in the night。 Midnight had sounded yet she did not go to
bed。 She feared to sleep； to lose the consciousness of her joy of the
glory which had come into her life。 She was a miser of the golden
hours of this black and howling night。 To sleep would be to be robbed。
A splendid avarice in her rebelled against the thought of sleep。
Was Androvsky sleeping？ She wondered and longed to know。
To…night she was fully aware for the first time of the inherent
fearlessness of her character； which was made perfect at last by her
perfect love。 Alone； she had always had courage。 Even in her most
listless hours she had never been a craven。 But now she felt the
completeness of a nature clothed in armour that rendered it
impregnable。 It was a strange thing that man should have the power to
put the finishing touch to God's work； that religion should stoop to
be a handmaid to faith in a human being； but she did not think it
strange。 Everything in life seemed to her to be in perfect accord
because her heart was in perfect accord with another heart。
And she welcomed the storm。 She even welcomed something else that came
to her now in the storm： the memory of the sand…diviner's tortured
face as he gazed down； reading her fate in the sand。 For what was an
untroubled fate？ Surely a life that crept along the hollows and had no
impulse to call it to the heights。 Knowing the flawless perfection of
her armour she had a wild longing to prove it。 She wished that there
should be assaults upon her love； because she knew she could resist
them one and all； and she wished to have the keen joy of resisting
them。 There is a health of body so keen and vital that it desires
combat。 The soul sometimes knows a precisely similar health and is
filled with a similar desire。
〃Put my love to the proof； O God！〃 was Domini's last prayer that night
when the storm was at its wildest。 〃Put my love to the uttermost proof
that he may know it； as he can never know it otherwise。〃
And she fell asleep at length； peacefully； in the tumult of the night；
feeling that God had heard her prayer。
The dawn came struggling like an exhausted pilgrim through the windy
dark； pale and faint； with no courage； it seemed； to grow bravely into
day。 As if with the sedulous effort of something weary but of
unconquered will； it slowly lit up Beni…Mora with a feeble light that
flickered in a cloud of whirling sand； revealing the desolation of an
almost featureless void。 The village； the whole oasis； was penetrated
by a passionate fog that instead of brooding heavily； phlegmatically；
over the face of life and nature travelled like a demented thing bent
upon instant destruction； and coming thus cloudily to be more free for
crime。 It was an emissary of the desert； propelled with irresistible
force from the farthest recess of the dunes； and the desert itself
seemed to be hurrying behind it as if to spy upon the doing of its
deeds。
As the sea in a great storm rages against the land； ferocious that
land should be； so the desert now raged against the oasis that
ventured to exist in its bosom。 Every palm tree was the victim of its
wrath； every running rill； every habitation of man。 Along the tunnels
of mimosa it went like a foaming tide through a cavern； roaring
towards the mountains。 It returned and swept about the narrow streets；
eddying at the corners； beating upon the palmwood doors； behind which
the painted dancing…girls were cowering； cold under their pigments and
their heavy jewels； their red hands trembling and clasping one
another； clamouring about the minarets of the mosques on which the
frightened doves were sheltering； shaking the fences that shut in the
gazelles in their pleasaunce； tearing at the great statue of the
Cardinal that faced it resolutely； holding up the double cross as if
to exorcise it； battering upon the tall； white tower on whose summit
Domini had first spoken with Androvsky； raging through the alleys of
Count Anteoni's garden； the arcades of his villa； the window…spaces of
the /fumoir/； from whose walls it tore down frantically the purple
petals of the bougainvillea and dashed them； like enemie
