The Garden of Allah

by Robert Hichens

  CHAPTER XXIV

  True to his promise, on the following day the priest called to inquireafter Androvsky's health. He happened to come just before _dejeuner_ wasready, and met Androvsky on the sand before the tent door.

  "It's not fever then, Monsieur," he said, after they had shaken hands.

  "No, no," Androvsky replied. "I am quite well this morning."

  The priest looked at him closely with an unembarrassed scrutiny.

  "Have you been long in the desert, Monsieur?" he asked.

  "Some weeks."

  "The heat has tired you. I know the look--"

  "I assure you, Monsieur, that I am accustomed to heat. I have lived inNorth Africa all my life."

  "Indeed. And yet by your appearance I should certainly suppose that youneeded a change from the desert. The air of the Sahara is magnificent,but there are people--"

  "I am not one of them," Androvsky said abruptly. "I have never felt sostrong physically as since I have lived in the sand."

  The priest still looked at him closely, but said nothing further onthe subject of health. Indeed, almost immediately his attention wasdistracted by the apparition of Ouardi bearing dishes from the cook'stent.

  "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--"

  "I hope you will stay to _dejeuner_," Androvsky said.

  "It is very good of you. If you are certain that I shall not put youout."

  "Please stay."

  "I will, then, with pleasure."

  He moved his lips expectantly, as if only a sense of politenessprevented him from smacking them. Androvsky went towards thesleeping-tent, where Domini, who had been into the city, was washing herhands.

  "The priest has called," he said. "I have asked him to _dejeuner_."

  She looked at him with frank astonishment in her dark eyes.

  "You--Boris!"

  "Yes, I. Why not?"

  "I don't know. But generally you hate people."

  "He seems a good sort of man."

  She still looked at him with some surprise, even with curiosity.

  "Have you taken a fancy to a priest?" she asked, smiling.

  "Why not? This man is very different from Father Roubier, more human."

  "Father Beret is very human, I think," she answered.

  She was still smiling. It had just occurred to her that the priest hadtimed his visit with some forethought.

  "I am coming," she added.

  A sudden cheerfulness had taken possession of her. All the morning shehad been feeling grave, even almost apprehensive, after a bad night.When her husband had abruptly left her and gone away into the darknessshe had been overtaken by a sudden wave of acute depression. She hadfelt, more painfully than ever before, the mental separation whichexisted between them despite their deep love, and a passionate butalmost hopeless longing had filled her heart that in all things theymight be one, not only in love of each other, but in love of God. WhenAndrovsky had taken his arms from her she had seemed to feel herselfreleased by a great despair, and this certainty--for as he vanished intothe darkness she was no more in doubt that his love for her left roomwithin his heart for such an agony--had for a moment brought her soul tothe dust. She had been overwhelmed by a sensation that instead ofbeing close together they were far apart, almost strangers, and a greatbitterness had entered into her. It was accompanied by a desire foraction. She longed to follow Androvsky, to lay her hand on his arm, tostop him in the sand and force him to confide in her. For the firsttime the idea that he was keeping something from her, a sorrow, almostmaddened her, even made her feel jealous. The fact that she divined whatthat 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 sheprayed and went to bed. But her prayers were feeble, disjointed, andsleep did not come to her, for her mind was travelling with this manwho loved her and who yet was out there alone in the night, who wasdeliberately separating himself from her. Towards dawn, when he stoleinto the tent, she was still awake, but she did not speak or give anysign of consciousness, although she was hot with the fierce desire tospring up, to throw her arms round him, to draw his head down upon herheart, and say, "I have given myself, body, heart and soul, to you. Giveyourself 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 amin hell."

  It was a mad impulse. She resisted it and lay quite still. And when helay down and was quiet she slept at length.

  Now, as she heard him speak in the sunshine and knew that he had offeredhospitality to the comfortable priest her heart suddenly felt lighter,she scarcely knew why. It seemed to her that she had been a littlemorbid, and that the cloud which had settled about her was lifted,revealing the blue.

  At _dejeuner_ she was even more reassured. Her husband seemed to get onwith 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 genialityand lack of self-consciousness in Father Beret evidently set him athis ease. Once or twice she saw him look at his guest with an earnestscrutiny that puzzled her, but he talked far more than usual and withgreater animation, discussing the Arabs and listening to the priest'saccount of the curiosities of life in Amara. When at length Father Beretrose to go Androvsky said he would accompany him a little way, and theywent off together, evidently on the best of terms.

  She was delighted and surprised. She had been right, then. It was timethat Androvsky was subjected to another influence than that of theunpeopled wastes. It was time that he came into contact with men whoseminds were more akin to his than the minds of the Arabs who had beentheir only companions. She began to imagine him with her in civilisedplaces, to be able to imagine him. And she was glad they had come toAmara and confirmed in her resolve to stay on there. She even began towish that the French officers quartered there--few in number, some fiveor six--would find them in the sand, and that Androvsky would offer themhospitality. It occurred to her that it was not quite wholesome for aman to live in isolation from his fellow-men, even with the woman heloved, and she determined that she would not be selfish in her love,that she would think for Androvsky, act for him, even against her owninclination. Perhaps his idea of life in an oasis apart from Europeanswas one she ought to combat, though it fascinated her. Perhaps it wouldbe stronger, more sane, to face a more ordinary, less dreamy, life, inwhich they would meet with people, in which they would inevitably findthemselves confronted with duties. She felt powerful enough in thatmoment 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 thepriest in friendly conversation. How splendid it would be if she couldfeel some day that the health of his soul accorded completely with thatof his body!

  "Batouch!" she called almost gaily.

  Batouch appeared, languidly smoking a cigarette, and with a large flowertied to a twig protending from behind his ear.

  "Saddle the horses. Monsieur has gone with the Pere Beret. I shall takea ride, just a short ride round the camp over there--in at the citygate, through the market-place, and home. You will come with me."

  Batouch threw away his cigarette with energy. Poet though he was, allthe Arab blood in him responded to the thought of a gallop over thesands. Within a few minutes they were off. When she was in the saddle itwas at all times difficult for Domini to be sad or even pensive. She hada 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 hada spirited, fiery animal under her, and the wide spaces of the desertsummoned speed as they summoned dreams. She and Batouch went away at arapid pace, circled round the Arab cemetery, made a detour towards thesouth, 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, comingand going over the dunes to and from the
city on languid errands for thewomen of the tents, who reclined in the shade of their brushwoodarbours upon filthy cushions and heaps of multi-coloured rags, smokingcigarettes, playing cards with Arab and negro admirers, or staring intovacancy beneath their heavy eyebrows as they listened to the sound ofmusic played upon long pipes of reed. No dogs barked in their camp.The only guardians were old women, whose sandy faces were scored withinnumerable wrinkles, and whose withered hands drooped under their loadsof barbaric rings and bracelets. Batouch would evidently have liked todismount here. Like all Arabs he was fascinated by the sight of theseidols of the waste, whose painted faces called to the surface the fluidpoetry within him, but Domini rode on, descending towards the city gateby which she had first entered Amara. The priest's house was thereand Androvsky was with the priest. She hoped he had perhaps gone in toreturn the visit paid to them. As she rode into the city she glancedat the house. The door was open and she saw the gay rugs in the littlehall. She had a strong inclination to stop and ask if her husband werethere. He might mount Batouch's horse and accompany her home.

  "Batouch," she said, "will you ask if Monsieur Androvsky is with PereBeret. I think--"

  She stopped speaking. She had just seen her husband's face pass acrossthe 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 housecast a deep shade within, and in this shade the face had flitted like ashadow. Batouch had sprung from his horse. But the sight of the shadowyface 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. Sheremembered the sequel to that visit. This time Androvsky had gone of hisown will. If he liked this priest, if they became friends, perhaps--sheremembered her vision in the dancing-house, her feeling that when shedrew near Amara she was drawing near to the heart of the desert. If sheshould see Androvsky praying here! Yet Father Beret hardly seemed a manlikely to influence her husband, or anyone with a strong and seriouspersonality. He was surely too fond of the things of this world, tooobviously a lover and cherisher of the body. Nevertheless, there wassomething attractive in him, a kindness, a geniality. In trouble hewould be sympathetic. Certainly her husband must have taken a liking tohim, and the chances of life and the influences of destiny were strangeand not to be foreseen.

  "No, Batouch," she said. "We won't stop."

  "But, Madame," he cried, "Monsieur is in there. I saw his face at thewindow."

  "Never mind. We won't disturb them. I daresay they have something totalk about."

  They cantered on towards the market-place. It was not market-day, andthe town, like the camp of the Ouled Nails, was almost deserted. As sherode up the hill towards the place of the fountain, however, she sawtwo handsomely-dressed Arabs, followed by a servant, slowly strollingtowards her from the doorway of the Bureau Arabe. One, who was verytall, was dressed in green, and carried a long staff, from which hunggreen ribbons. The other wore a more ordinary costume of white, with awhite burnous and a turban spangled with gold.

  "Madame!" said Batouch.

  "Yes."

  "Do you see the Arab dressed in green?"

  He spoke in an almost awestruck voice.

  "Yes. Who is he?"

  "The great marabout who lives at Beni-Hassan."

  The name struck upon Domini's ear with a strange familiarity.

  "But that's where Count Anteoni went when he rode away from Beni-Morathat morning."

  "Yes, Madame."

  "Is it far from Amara?"

  "Two hours' ride across the desert."

  "But then Count Anteoni may be near us. After he left he wrote to me andgave me his address at the marabout's house."

  "If he is still with the marabout, Madame."

  They were close to the fountain now, and the marabout and his companionwere coming straight towards them.

  "If Madame will allow me I will salute the marabout," said Batouch.

  "Certainly."

  He sprang off his horse immediately, tied it up to the railing of thefountain, and went respectfully towards the approaching potentate tokiss his hand. Domini saw the marabout stop and Batouch bend down, thenlift himself up and suddenly move back as if in surprise. The Arab whowas with the marabout seemed also surprised. He held out his hand toBatouch, who took it, kissed it, then kissed his own hand, and turning,pointed towards Domini. The Arab spoke a word to the marabout, then lefthim, and came rapidly forward to the fountain. As he drew close to hershe saw a face browned by the sun, a very small, pointed beard, a pairof intensely bright eyes surrounded by wrinkles. These eyes held her.It seemed to her that she knew them, that she had often looked into themand seen their changing expressions. Suddenly she exclaimed:

  "Count Anteoni!"

  "Yes, it is I!"

  He held out his hand and clasped hers.

  "So you have started upon your desert journey," he added, lookingclosely at her, as he had often looked in the garden.

  "Yes."

  "And as I ventured to advise--that last time, do you remember?"

  She recollected his words.

  "No," she replied, and there was a warmth of joy, almost of pride, inher voice. "I am not alone."

  Count Anteoni was standing with one hand on her horse's neck. As shespoke, his hand dropped down.

  "I have been away from Beni-Hassan," he said slowly. "The marabout andI have been travelling in the south and only returned yesterday. I haveheard no news for a long time from Beni-Mora, but I know. You are MadameAndrovsky."

  "Yes," she answered; "I am Madame Androvsky."

  There was a silence between them. In it she heard the dripping water inthe fountain. At last Count Anteoni spoke again.

  "It was written," he said quietly. "It was written in the sand."

  She thought of the sand-diviner and was silent. An oppression of spirithad suddenly come upon her. It seemed to her connected with somethingphysical, something obscure, unusual, such as she had never felt before.It was, she thought, as if her body at that moment became more alivethan it had ever been, and as if that increase of life within her gaveto her a peculiar uneasiness. She was startled. She even felt alarmed,as at the faint approach of something strange, of something that wasgoing to alter her life. She did not know at all what it was. For themoment a sense of confusion and of pain beset her, and she was scarcelyaware with whom she was, or where. The sensation passed and sherecovered herself and met Count Anteoni's eyes quietly.

  "Yes," she answered; "all that has happened to me here in Africa waswritten in the sand and in fire."

  "You are thinking of the sun."

  "Yes."

  "I--where are you living?"

  "Close by on the sand-hill beyond the city wall."

  "Where you can see the fires lit at night and hear the sound of themusic of Africa?"

  "Yes."

  "As he said."

  "Yes, as he said."

  Again the overwhelming sense of some strange and formidable approachcame over her, but this time she fought it resolutely.

  "Will you come and see me?" she said.

  She had meant to say "us," but did not say it.

  "If you will allow me."

  "When?"

  "I--" she heard the odd, upward grating in his voice which sheremembered so well. "May I come now if you are riding to the tents?"

  "Please do."

  "I will explain to the marabout and follow you."

  "But the way? Shall Batouch--?"

  "No, it is not necessary."

  She rode away. When she reached the camp she found that Androvsky hadnot yet returned, and she was glad. She wanted to talk to Count Anteonialone. Within a few minutes she saw him coming towards the tent. Hisbeard and his Arab dress so altered him that at a short distance shecould not recognise him, could only guess that it was he. But directlyhe was near, and she saw his eyes, she forgot that he was altered, andfelt that she was with her kind and whimsical host of the garden.

  "My husband is in
the city," she said.

  "Yes."

  "With the priest."

  She saw an expression of surprise flit over Count Anteoni's face. Itwent away instantly.

  "Pere Beret," he said. "He is a cheerful creature and very good to theArabs."

  They sat down just inside the shadow of the tent before the door, and helooked out quietly towards the city.

  "Yes, this is the place," he said.

  She knew that he was alluding to the vision of the sand-diviner, andsaid so.

  "Did you believe at the time that what he said would come true?" sheasked.

  "How could I? Am I a child?"

  He spoke with gentle irony, but she felt he was playing with her.

  "Cannot a man believe such things?"

  He did not answer her, but said:

  "My fate has come to pass. Do you not care to know what it is?"

  "Yes, do tell me."

  She spoke earnestly. She felt a change in him, a great change whichas yet she did not understand fully. It was as if he had been a man indoubt and was now a man no longer in doubt, as if he had arrived at somegoal and was more at peace with himself than he had been.

  "I have become a Mohammedan," he said simply.

  "A Mohammedan!"

  She repeated the words as a person repeats words in surprise, but hervoice did not sound surprised.

  "You wonder?" he asked.

  After a moment she answered:

  "No. I never thought of such a thing, but I am not surprised. Nowyou have told me it seems to explain you, much that I noticed in you,wondered about in you."

  She looked at him steadily, but without curiosity.

  "I feel that you are happy now."

  "Yes, I am happy. The world I used to know, my world and yours, wouldlaugh at me, would say that I was crazy, that it was a whim, that Iwished for a new sensation. Simply it had to be. For years I have beentending towards it--who knows why? Who knows what obscure influenceshave been at work in me, whether there is not perhaps far back, somefaint 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 havefulfilled my destiny! After years of unrest I am suddenly and completelyat peace. It is a magical sensation. I have been wandering all my lifeand have come upon the open door of my home."

  He spoke very quietly, but she heard the joy in his voice.

  "I remember you saying, 'I like to see men praying in the desert.'"

  "Yes. When I looked at them I was longing to be one of them. Foryears from my garden wall I watched them with a passion of envy, withbitterness, almost with hatred sometimes. They had something I had not,something that set them above me, something that made their lives plainthrough any complication, and that gave to death a meaning like themeaning 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 oneof them. I can pray in the desert."

  "That was why you left Beni-Mora."

  "Yes. I had long been wishing to become a Mohammedan. I came here to bewith the marabout, to enter more fully into certain questions, to see ifI had any lingering doubts."

  "And you have none?"

  "None."

  She looked at his bright eyes and sighed, thinking of her husband.

  "You will go back to Beni-Mora?" she asked.

  "I don't think so. I am inclined to go farther into the desert, fartheramong the people of my own faith. I don't want to be surrounded byFrench. Some day perhaps I may return. But at present everything drawsme onward. Tell me"--he dropped the earnest tone in which he had beenspeaking, and she heard once more the easy, half-ironical man of theworld--"do you think me a half-crazy eccentric?"

  "No!"

  "You look at me very gravely, even sadly."

  "I was thinking of the men who cannot pray," she said, "even in thedesert."

  "They should not come into the Garden of Allah. Don't you remember thatday by the garden wall, when--"

  He suddenly checked himself.

  "Forgive me," he said simply. "And now tell me about yourself. You neverwrote that you were going to be married."

  "I knew you would know it in time--when we met again."

  "And you knew we should meet again?"

  "Did not you?"

  He nodded.

  "In the heart of the desert. And you--where are you going? You are notreturning to civilisation?"

  "I don't know. I have no plans. I want to do what my husband wishes."

  "And he?"

  "He loves the desert. He has suggested our buying an oasis and settingup as date merchants. What do you think of the idea?"

  She spoke with a smile, but her eyes were serious, even sad.

  "I cannot judge for others," he answered.

  When he got up to go he held her hand fast for a moment.

  "May I speak what is in my heart?" he asked.

  "Yes--do."

  "I feel as if what I have told you to-day about myself, about my havingcome to the open door of a home I had long been wearily seeking, hadmade you sad. Is it so?"

  "Yes," she answered frankly.

  "Can you tell me why?"

  "It has made me realise more sharply than perhaps I did before what mustbe the misery of those who are still homeless."

  There was in her voice a sound as if she suppressed a sob.

  "Hope for them, remembering my many years of wandering."

  "Yes, yes."

  "Good-bye."

  "Will you come again?"

  "You are here for long?"

  "Some days, I think."

  "Whenever you ask me I will come."

  "I want you and my husband to meet again. I want that very much." Shespoke with a pressure of eagerness.

  "Send for me and I will come at any hour."

  "I will send--soon."

  When he was gone, Domini sat in the shadow of the tent. From where shewas she could see the Arab cemetery at a little distance, a quantity ofstones half drowned in the sand. An old Arab was wandering there alone,praying for the dead in a loud, persistent voice. Sometimes he pausedby a grave, bowed himself in prayer, then rose and walked on again. Hisvoice was never silent. The sound of it was plaintive and monotonous.Domini listened to it, and thought of homeless men, of those who hadlived and died without ever coming to that open door through which CountAnteoni had entered. His words and the changed look in his face had madea deep impression upon her. She realised that in the garden, when theywere together, his eyes, even when they twinkled with the slightlyironical humour peculiar to him, had always held a shadow. Now thatshadow was lifted out of them. How deep was the shadow in her husband'seyes. How deep had it been in the eyes of her father. He had died withthat terrible darkness in his eyes and in his soul. If her husband wereto die thus! A terror came upon her. She looked out at the stones inthe sand and imagined herself there--as the old Arab was--praying forAndrovsky buried there, hidden from her on earth for ever. And suddenlyshe felt, "I cannot wait, I must act."

  Her faith was deep and strong. Nothing could shake it. But might it notshake the doubt from another's soul, as a great, pure wind shakes leavesthat are dead from a tree that will blossom with the spring? Hithertoa sense of intense delicacy had prevented her from ever trying to drawnear definitely to her husband's sadness. But her interview with CountAnteoni, and the sound of this voice praying, praying for the dead menin the sand, stirred her to an almost fierce resolution. She had givenherself to Androvsky. He had given himself to her. They were one. Shehad a right to draw near to his pain, if by so doing there was a chancethat she might bring balm to it. She had a right to look closer into hiseyes if hers, full of faith, could lift the shadow from them.

  She leaned back in the darkness of the tent. The old Arab had wanderedfurther on among the graves. His voice was faint in the sand, faint andsurely piteous, as if, even while he prayed, he felt that his prayerswere useless, that the fate of the dead was pronounced beyond recall.Domini listened t
o him no more. She was praying for the living as shehad never prayed before, and her prayer was the prelude not to patiencebut to action. It was as if her conversation with Count Anteoni had seta 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 secrettorture in her husband's soul. All the strength of her character hadbeen 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.

  The voice of the old Arab died away in the distance, but before it diedaway Domini had ceased from hearing it.

  She heard only a voice within her, which said to her, "If you reallylove be fearless. Attack this sorrow which stands like a figure of deathbetween you and your husband. Drive it away. You have a weapon--faith.Use it."

  It seemed to her then that through all their intercourse she had beena coward in her love, and she resolved that she would be a coward nolonger.