the garden of allah-第65节

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the　verandah。　Then；　mechanically；　she　had　undressed　and　got　into　bed；
where　she　was　now　mechanically　counting　the　passing　moments。

Presently　she　became　aware　of　her　own　stillness　and　connected　it　with
the　stillness　of　the　dead　woman；　by　the　tent。　She　lay；　as　it　were；
watching　her　own　corpse　as　a　Catholic　keeps　vigil　beside　a　body　that
has　not　yet　been　put　into　the　grave。　But　in　this　chamber　of　death
there　were　no　flowers；　no　lighted　candles；　no　lips　that　moved　in
prayer。　She　had　gone　to　bed　without　praying。　She　remembered　that　now；
but　with　indifference。　Dead　people　do　not　pray。　The　living　pray　for
them。　But　even　the　watcher　could　not　pray。　Another　hour　struck　in　the
belfry　of　the　church。　She　listened　to　the　chime　and　left　off　counting
the　moments；　and　this　act　of　cessation　made　more　perfect　the　peace　of
the　dead　woman。

When　the　sun　rose　her　sensation　of　death　passed　away；　leaving　behind
it；　however；　a　lethargy　of　mind　and　body　such　as　she　had　never　known
before　the　previous　night。　Suzanne；　coming　in　to　call　her；　exclaimed：

〃Mam'selle　is　ill？〃

〃No。　Why　should　I　be　ill？〃

〃Mam'selle　looks　so　strange；〃　the　maid　said；　regarding　her　with　round
and　curious　eyes。　〃As　if〃

She　hesitated。

〃Give　me　my　tea；〃　Domini　said。

When　she　was　drinking　it　she　asked：

〃Do　you　know　at　what　time　the　train　leaves　Beni…Morathe　passenger
train？〃

〃Yes；　Mam'selle。　There　is　only　one　in　the　day。　It　goes　soon　after
twelve。　Monsieur　Helmuth　told　me。〃

〃Oh！〃

〃What　gown　will？〃

〃Any　gownthe　white　linen　one　I　had　on　yesterday。〃

〃Yes；　Mam'selle。〃

〃No；　not　that。　Any　other　gown。　Is　it　to　be　hot？〃

〃Very　hot；　Mam'selle。　There　is　not　a　cloud　in　the　sky。〃

〃How　strange！〃　Domini　said；　in　a　low　voice　that　Suzanne　did　not　hear。
When　she　was　up　and　dressed　she　said：

〃I　am　going　out　to　Count　Anteoni's　garden。　I　think　I'llyes；　I'll
take　a　book　with　me。〃

She　went　into　her　little　salon　and　looked　at　the　volumes　scattered
about　there；　some　books　of　devotion；　travel；　books　on　sport；
Rossetti's　and　Newman's　poems；　some　French　novels；　and　the　novels　of
Jane　Austen；　of　which；　oddly；　considering　her　nature；　she　was　very
fond。　For　the　first　time　in　her　life　they　struck　her　as　shrivelled；
petty　chronicles　of　shrivelled；　bloodless；　artificial　lives。　She
turned　back　into　her　bedroom；　took　up　the　little　white　volume　of　the
/Imitation/；　which　lay　always　near　her　bed；　and　went　out　into　the
verandah。　She　looked　neither　to　right　nor　left；　but　at　once　descended
the　staircase　and　took　her　way　along　the　arcade。

When　she　reached　the　gate　of　the　garden　she　hesitated　before　knocking
upon　it。　The　sight　of　the　villa；　the　arches；　the　white　walls　and
clustering　trees　she　knew　so　well　hurt　her　so　frightfully；　so
unexpectedly；　that　she　felt　frightened　and　sick；　and　as　if　she　must　go
away　quickly　to　some　place　which　she　had　never　seen；　and　which　could
call　up　no　reminiscences　in　her　mind。

Perhaps　she　would　have　gone　into　the　oasis；　or　along　the　path　that
skirted　the　river　bed；　had　not　Smain　softly　opened　the　gate　and　come
out　to　meet　her；　holding　a　great　velvety　rose　in　his　slim　hand。

He　gave　it　to　her　without　a　word；　smiling　languidly　with　eyes　in　which
the　sun　seemed　caught　and　turned　to　glittering　darkness；　and　as　she
took　it　and　moved　it　in　her　fingers；　looking　at　the　wine…coloured
petals　on　which　lay　tiny　drops　of　water　gleaming　with　thin　and　silvery
lights；　she　remembered　her　first　visit　to　the　garden；　and　the
mysterious　enchantment　that　had　floated　out　to　her　through　the　gate
from　the　golden　vistas　and　the　dusky　shadows　of　the　trees；　the　feeling
of　romantic　expectation　that　had　stirred　within　her　as　she　stepped　on
to　the　sand　and　saw　before　her　the　winding　ways　disappearing　into
dimness　between　the　rills　edged　by　the　pink　geraniums。

How　long　ago　that　seemed；　like　a　remembrance　of　early　childhood　in　the
heart　of　one　who　is　old。

Now　that　the　gate　was　open　she　resolved　to　go　into　the　garden。　She
might　as　well　be　there　as　elsewhere。　She　stepped　in；　holding　the　rose
in　her　hand。　One　of　the　drops　of　water　slipped　from　an　outer　petal　and
fell　upon　the　sand。　She　thought　of　it　as　a　tear。　The　rose　was　weeping；
but　her　eyes　were　dry。　She　touched　the　rose　with　her　lips。

To…day　the　garden　was　like　a　stranger　to　her；　but　a　stranger　with　whom
she　had　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