the garden of allah-第59部分

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in　her　hand。　One　of　the　drops　of　water　slipped　from　an　outer　petal　and
fell　upon　the　sand。　She　thought　of　it　as　a　tear。　The　rose　was　weeping；
but　her　eyes　were　dry。　She　touched　the　rose　with　her　lips。

To…day　the　garden　was　like　a　stranger　to　her；　but　a　stranger　with　whom
she　had　oncelong；　long　agobeen　intimate；　whom　she　had　trusted；　and
by　whom　she　had　been　betrayed。　She　looked　at　it　and　knew　that　she　had
thought　it　beautiful　and　loved　it。　From　its　recesses　had　come　to　her
troops　of　dreams。　The　leaves　of　its　trees　had　touched　her　as　with
tender　hands。　The　waters　of　its　rills　had　whispered　to　her　of　the
hidden　things　that　lie　in　the　breast　of　joy。　The　golden　rays　that
played　through　its　scented　alleys　had　played；　too；　through　the　shadows
of　her　heart；　making　a　warmth　and　light　there　that　seemed　to　come　from
heaven。　She　knew　this　as　one　knows　of　the　apparent　humanity　that
greeted　one's　own　humanity　in　the　friend　who　is　a　friend　no　longer；
and　she　sickened　at　it　as　at　the　thought　of　remembered　intimacy　with
one　proved　treacherous。　There　seemed　to　her　nothing　ridiculous　in　this
personification　of　the　garden；　as　there　had　formerly　seemed　to　her
nothing　ridiculous　in　her　thought　of　the　desert　as　a　being；　but　the
fact　that　she　did　thus　instinctively　personify　the　nature　that
surrounded　her　gave　to　the　garden　in　her　eyes　an　aspect　that　was
hostile　and　even　threatening；　as　if　she　faced　a　love　now　changed　to
hate；　a　cold　and　inimical　watchfulness　that　knew　too　much　about　her；
to　which　she　had　once　told　all　her　happy　secrets　and　murmured　all　her
hopes。　She　did　not　hate　the　garden；　but　she　felt　as　if　she　feared　it。
The　movements　of　its　leaves　conveyed　to　her　uneasiness。　The　hidden
places；　which　once　had　been　to　her　retreats　peopled　with　tranquil
blessings；　were　now　become　ambushes　in　which　lay　lurking　enemies。

Yet　she　did　not　leave　it；　for　to…day　something　seemed　to　tell　her　that
it　was　meant　that　she　should　suffer；　and　she　bowed　in　spirit　to　the
decree。

She　went　on　slowly　till　she　reached　the　/fumoir/。　She　entered　it　and
sat　down。

She　had　not　seen　any　of　the　gardeners　or　heard　the　note　of　a　flute。
The　day　was　very　still。　She　looked　at　the　narrow　doorway　and
remembered　exactly　the　attitude　in　which　Count　Anteoni　had　stood
during　their　first　interview；　holding　a　trailing　branch　of　the
bougainvillea　in　his　hand。　She　saw　him　as　a　shadow　that　the　desert　had
taken。　Glancing　down　at　the　carpet　sand　she　imagined　the　figure　of　the
sand…diviner　crouching　there　and　recalled　his　prophecy；　and　directly
she　did　this　she　knew　that　she　had　believed　in　it。　She　had　believed
that　one　day　she　would　ride；　out　into　the　desert　in　a　storm；　and　that
with　her；　enclosed　in　the　curtains　of　a　palanquin；　there　would　be　a
companion。　The　Diviner　had　not　told　her　who　would　be　this　companion。
Darkness　was　about　him　rendering　him　invisible　to　the　eyes　of　the
seer。　But　her　heart　had　told　her。　She　had　seen　the　other　figure　in　the
palanquin。　It　was　a　man。　It　was　Androvsky。

She　had　believed　that　she　would　go　out　into　the　desert　with　Androvsky；
with　this　traveller　of　whose　history；　of　whose　soul；　she　knew　nothing。
Some　inherent　fatalism　within　her　had　told　her　so。　And　now？

The　darkness　of　the　shade　beneath　the　trees　in　this　inmost　recess　of
the　garden　fell　upon　her　like　the　darkness　of　that　storm　in　which　the
desert　was　blotted　out；　and　it　was　fearful　to　her　because　she　felt
that　she　must　travel　in　the　storm　alone。　Till　now　she　had　been　very
much　alone　in　life　and　had　realised　that　such　solitude　was　dreary；
that　in　it　development　was　difficult；　and　that　it　checked　the　steps　of
the　pilgrim　who　should　go　upward　to　the　heights　of　life。　But　never
till　now　had　she　felt　the　fierce　tragedy　of　solitude；　the　utter　terror
of　it。　As　she　sat　in　the　/fumoir/；　looking　down　on　the　smoothly…raked
sand；　she　said　to　herself　that　till　this　moment　she　had　never　had　any
idea　of　the　meaning　of　solitude。　It　was　the　desert　within　a　human
soul；　but　the　desert　without　the　sun。　And　she　knew　this　because　at
last　she　loved。　The　dark　and　silent　flood　of　passion　that　lay　within
her　had　been　released　from　its　boundaries；　the　old　landmarks　were
swept　away　for　ever；　the　face　of　the　world　was　changed。

She　loved　Androvsky。　Everything　in　her　loved　him；　all　that　she　had
been；　all　that　she　was；　all　that　she　could　ever　be　loved　him；　that
which　was　physical　in　her；　that　which　was　spiritual；　the　brain；　the
heart；　the　soul；　body　and　flame　burning　within　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。〃

S