CHAPTER XXVI
They remained standing at the tent door, with the growing moonlightabout them. The camp was hushed in sleep, but sounds of music still cameto them from the city below them, and fainter music from the tents ofthe Ouled Nails on the sandhill to the south. After Domini had spokenAndrovsky moved a step towards her, looked at her, then moved back anddropped his eyes. If he had gone on looking at her he knew he could nothave begun to speak.
"Domini," he said, "I'm not going to try and excuse myself for whatI have done. I'm not going to say to you what I daren't say toGod--'Forgive me.' How can such a thing be forgiven? That's part of thetorture I've been enduring, the knowledge of the unforgivable nature ofmy act. It can never be wiped out. It's black on my judgment book forever. But I wonder if you can understand--oh, I want you to understand,Domini, what has made the thing I am, a renegade, a breaker of oaths,a liar to God and you. It was the passion of life that burst up in meafter years of tranquillity. It was the waking of my nature after yearsof sleep. And you--you do understand the passion of life that's in someof us like a monster that must rule, must have its way. Even you in yourpurity and goodness--you have it, that desperate wish to live really andfully, as we have lived, Domini, together. For we have lived out in thedesert. We lived that night at Arba when we sat and watched the fireand I held your hand against the earth. We lived then. Even now, when Ithink of that night, I can hardly be sorry for what I've done, for whatI am."
He looked up at her now and saw that her eyes were fixed on him. Shestood motionless, with her hands joined in front of her. Her attitudewas calm and her face was untortured. He could not read any thought ofhers, any feeling that was in her heart.
"You must understand," he said almost violently. "You must understandor I--. My father, I told you, was a Russian. He was brought up in theGreek Church, but became a Freethinker when he was still a young man.My mother was an Englishwoman and an ardent Catholic. She and my fatherwere devoted to each other in spite of the difference in their views.Perhaps the chief effect my father's lack of belief had upon mymother was to make her own belief more steadfast, more ardent. I thinkdisbelief acts often as a fan to the faith of women, makes the flameburn more brightly than it did before. My mother tried to believefor herself and for my father too, and I could almost think that shesucceeded. He died long before she did, and he died without changing hisviews. On his death-bed he told my mother that he was sure there was noother life, that he was going to the dust. That made the agony of hisfarewell. The certainty on his part that he and my mother were partingfor ever. I was a little boy at the time, but I remember that, when hewas dead, my mother said to me, 'Boris, pray for your father every day.He is still alive.' She said nothing more, but I ran upstairs crying,fell upon my knees and prayed--trying to think where my father was andwhat he could be looking like. And in that prayer for my father, whichwas also an act of obedience to my mother, I think I took the first steptowards the monastic life. For I remember that then, for the first time,I was conscious of a great sense of responsibility. My mother's commandmade me say to myself, 'Then perhaps my prayer can do something inheaven. Perhaps a prayer from me can make God wish to do something Hehad not wished to do before.' That was a tremendous thought! It excitedme terribly. I remember my cheeks burned as I prayed, and that I was hotall over as if I had been running in the sun. From that day my motherand I seemed to be much nearer together than we had ever been before. Ihad a twin brother to whom I was devoted, and who was devoted to me.But he took after my father. Religious things, ceremonies, church music,processions--even the outside attractions of the Catholic Church, whichplease and stimulate emotional people who have little faith--never meantmuch to him. All his attention was firmly fixed upon the life of thepresent. He was good to my mother and loved her devotedly, as he lovedme, but he never pretended to be what he was not. And he was never aCatholic. He was never anything.
"My father had originally come to Africa for his health, which needed awarm climate. He had some money and bought large tracts of land suitablefor vineyards. Indeed, he sunk nearly his whole fortune in land. I toldyou, Domini, that the vines were devoured by the phylloxera. Most ofthe money was lost. When my father died we were left very poor. We livedquietly in a little village--I told you its name, I told you that partof my life, all I dared tell, Domini--but now--why did I enter themonastery? I was very young when I became a novice, just seventeen. Youare thinking, Domini, I know, that I was too young to know what I wasdoing, that I had no vocation, that I was unfitted for the monasticlife. It seems so. The whole world would think so. And yet--how am Ito tell you? Even now I feel that then I had the vocation, that I wasfitted to enter the monastery, that I ought to have made a faithfuland devoted monk. My mother wished the life for me, but it was not onlythat. I wished it for myself then. With my whole heart I wished it. Iknew nothing of the world. My youth had been one of absolute purity. AndI did not feel longings after the unknown. My mother's influence upon mewas strong; but she did not force me into anything. Perhaps my lovefor her led me more than I knew, brought me to the monastery door. Thepassion of her life, the human passion, had been my father. After he wasdead the passion of her life was prayer for him. My love for her made meshare that passion, and the sharing of that passion eventually led meto become a monk. I became as a child, a devotee of prayer. Oh!Domini--think--I loved prayer--I loved it----"
His voice broke. When he stopped speaking Domini was again conscious ofthe music in the city. She remembered that earlier in the night she hadthought of it as the music of a great festival.
"I resolved to enter the life of prayer, the most perfect life ofprayer. I resolved to become a 'religious.' It seemed to me that by sodoing I should be proving in the finest way my love for my mother. Ishould be, in the strongest way, helping her. Her life was prayer for mydead father and love for her children. By devoting myself to the life ofprayer I should show to her that I was as she was, as she had made me,true son of her womb. Can you understand? I had a passion for my mother,Domini--I had a passion. My brother tried to dissuade me from themonastic life. He himself was going into business in Tunis. He wanted meto join him. But I was firm. I felt driven towards the cloister then asother men often feel driven towards the vicious life. The inclinationwas irresistible. I yielded to it. I had to bid good-bye to my mother.I told you--she was the passion of my life. And yet I hardly felt sad atparting from her. Perhaps that will show you how I was then. It seemedto me that we should be even closer together when I wore the monk'shabit. I was in haste to put it on. I went to the monastery ofEl-Largani and entered it as a novice of the Trappistine order. Ithought in the great silence of the Trappists there would be more roomfor prayer. When I left my home and went to El-Largani I took with meone treasure only. Domini, it was the little wooden crucifix you pinnedupon the tent at Arba. My mother gave it to me, and I was allowed tokeep it. Everything else in the way of earthly possessions I, of course,had to give up.
"You have never seen El-Largani, my home for nineteen years, my prisonfor one. It is lonely, but not in the least desolate. It stands on ahigh upland, and, from a distance, looks upon the sea. Far off there aremountains. The land was a desert. The monks have turned it, if not intoan Eden, at least into a rich garden. There are vineyards, cornfields,orchards, almost every fruit-tree flourishes there. The springs ofsweet waters are abundant. At a short way from the monastery is a largevillage for the Spanish workmen whom the monks supervise in the laboursof the fields. For the Trappist life is not only a life of prayer, but alife of diligent labour. When I became a novice I had not realised that.I had imagined myself continually upon my knees. I found instead that Iwas perpetually in the fields, in sun, and wind, and rain--that was inthe winter time--working like the labourers, and that often when wewent into the long, plain chapel to pray I was so tired--being only aboy--that my eyes closed as I stood in my stall, and I could scarcelyhear the words of Mass or Benediction. But I had expected to be happy atEl-Largani, and I was happy. Labour is goo
d for the body and better forthe soul. And the silence was not hard to bear. The Trappists have abook of gestures, and are often allowed to converse by signs. We noviceswere generally in little bands, and often, as we walked in the garden ofthe monastery, we talked together gaily with our hands. Then the silenceis not perpetual. In the fields we often had to give directions to thelabourers. In the school, where we studied Theology, Latin, Greek, therewas heard the voice of the teacher. It is true that I have seen menin the monastery day by day for twenty years with whom I have neverexchanged a word, but I have had permission to speak with monks. Thehead of the monastery, the Reverend Pere, has the power to loose thebonds of silence when he chooses, and to allow monks to walk and speakwith each other beyond the white walls that hem in the garden of themonastery. Now and then we spoke, but I think most of us were notunhappy in our silence. It became a habit. And then we were alwaysoccupied. We had no time allowed us for sitting and being sad. Domini,I don't want to tell you about the Trappists, their life--only aboutmyself, why I was as I was, how I came to change. For years I was notunhappy at El-Largani. When my time of novitiate was over I took theeternal vows without hesitation. Many novices go out again into theworld. It never occurred to me to do so. I scarcely ever felt a stirringof worldly desire. I scarcely ever had one of those agonising struggleswhich many people probably attribute to monks. I was contented nearlyalways. Now and then the flesh spoke, but not strongly. Remember, ourlife was a life of hard and exhausting labour in the fields. The labourkept the flesh in subjection, as the prayer lifted up the spirit. Andthen, during all my earlier years at the monastery, we had an Abbe whowas quick to understand the characters and dispositions of men--DomAndre Herceline. He knew me far better than I knew myself. He knew,what I did not suspect, that I was full of sleeping violence, that in mypurity and devotion--or beneath it rather--there was a strong strain ofbarbarism. The Russian was sleeping in the monk, but sleeping soundly.That can be. Half a man's nature, if all that would call to it iscarefully kept from it, may sleep, I believe, through all his life. Hemight die and never have known, or been, what all the time he was.For years it was so with me. I knew only part of myself, a real vividpart--but only a part. I thought it was the whole. And while I thoughtit was the whole I was happy. If Dom Andre Herceline had not died, todayI should be a monk at El-Largani, ignorant of what I know, contented.
"He never allowed me to come into any sort of contact with the manystrangers who visited the monastery. Different monks have differentduties. Certain duties bring monks into connection with the travellerswhom curiosity sends to El-Largani. The monk whose business it is tolook after the cemetery on the hill, where the dead Trappists are laidto rest, shows visitors round the little chapel, and may talk with themfreely so long as they remain in the cemetery. The monk in charge of thedistillery also receives visitors and converses with them. So does themonk in charge of the parlour at the great door of the monastery. Hesells the souvenirs of the Trappists, photographs of the church andbuildings, statues of saints, bottles of perfumes made by the monks.He takes the orders for the wines made at the monastery, and for--forthe--what I made, Domini, when I was there."
She thought of De Trevignac and the fragments of glass lying upon theground in the tent at Mogar.
"Had De Trevignac----" she said in a low, inward voice.
"He had seen me, spoken with me at the monastery. When Ouardi brought inthe liqueur he remembered who I was."
She understood De Trevignac's glance towards the tent where Androvskylay sleeping, and a slight shiver ran through her. Androvsky saw it andlooked down.
"But the--the--"
He cleared his throat, turned, looked out across the white sand as ifhe longed to travel away into it and be lost for ever, then went on,speaking quickly:
"But the monk who has most to do with travellers is the monk who isin charge of the _hotellerie_ of the monastery. He is the host to allvisitors, to those who come over for the day and have _dejeuner_, andto any who remain for the night, or for a longer time. For when I was atEl-Largani it was permitted for people to stay in the _hotellerie_, onpayment of a small weekly sum, for as long as they pleased. The monk ofthe _hotellerie_ is perpetually brought into contact with the outsideworld. He talks with all sorts and conditions of men--women, of course,are not admitted. The other monks, many of them, probably envy him. Inever did. I had no wish to see strangers. When, by chance, I met themin the yard, the outbuildings, or the grounds of the monastery, I seldomeven raised my eyes to look at them. They were not, would never be, inmy life. Why should I look at them? What were they to me? Years wenton--quickly they passed--not slowly. I did not feel their monotony. Inever shrank from anything in the life. My health was splendid. I neverknew what it was to be ill for a day. My muscles were hard as iron.The pallet on which I lay in my cubicle, the heavy robe I wore day andnight, the scanty vegetables I ate, the bell that called me from mysleep in the darkness to go to the chapel, the fastings, the watchings,the perpetual sameness of all I saw, all I did, neither saddened norfatigued me. I never sighed for change. Can you believe that, Domini?It is true. So long as Dom Andre Herceline lived and ruled my life I wascalm, happy, as few people in the world, or none, can ever be. But DomAndre died, and then--"
His face was contorted by a spasm.
"My mother was dead. My brother lived on in Tunis, and was successful inbusiness. He remained unmarried. So far as I was concerned, although themonastery was but two hours' drive from the town, he might almost havebeen dead too. I scarcely ever saw him, and then only by a specialpermission from the Reverend Pere, and for a few moments. Once I visitedhim at Tunis, when he was ill. When my mother died I seemed to sink downa little deeper into the monastic life. That was all. It was as if Idrew my robe more closely round me and pulled my hood further forwardover my face. There was more reason for my prayers, and I prayed morepassionately. I lived in prayer like a sea-plant in the depths of theocean. Prayer was about me like a fluid. But Dom Andre Hercelinedied, and a new Abbe was appointed, he who, I suppose, rules now atEl-Largani. He was a good man, but, I think, apt to misunderstand men.The Abbe of a Trappist monastery has complete power over his community.He can order what he will. Soon after he came to El-Largani--for somereason that I cannot divine--he--removed the Pere Michel, who had beenfor years in charge of the cemetery, from his duties there, and informedme that I was to undertake them. I obeyed, of course, without a word.
"The cemetery of El-Largani is on a low hill, the highest part of themonastery grounds. It is surrounded by a white wall and by a hedge ofcypress trees. The road to it is an avenue of cypresses, among which areinterspersed niches containing carvings of the Fourteen Stations ofthe Cross. At the entrance to this avenue, on the left, there is a highyellow pedestal, surmounted by a black cross, on which hangs a silverChrist. Underneath is written:
"FACTUS OBEDIENS
"USQUE
"AD MORTEM
"CRUCIS.
"I remember, on the first day when I became the guardian of thecemetery, stopping on my way to it before the Christ and praying. Myprayer--my prayer was, Domini, that I might die, as I had lived, ininnocence. I prayed for that, but with a sort of--yes, now I thinkso--insolent certainty that my prayer would of course be granted. Then Iwent on to the cemetery.
"My work there was easy. I had only to tend the land about the graves,and sweep out the little chapel where was buried the founder of LaTrappe of El-Largani. This done I could wander about the cemetery, orsit on a bench in the sun. The Pere Michel, who was my predecessor, hadsome doves, and had left them behind in a little house by my bench. Itook care of and fed them. They were tame, and used to flutter to myshoulders and perch on my hands. To birds and animals I was always afriend. At El-Largani there are all sorts of beasts, and, at one timeor another, it had been my duty to look after most of them. I loved allliving things. Sitting in the cemetery I could see a great stretch ofcountry, the blue of the lakes of Tunis with the white villages at theiredge, the boats gliding upon them
towards the white city, thedistant mountains. Having little to do, I sat day after day forhours meditating, and looking out upon this distant world. I rememberspecially one evening, at sunset, just before I had to go to the chapel,that a sort of awe came upon me as I looked across the lakes. The skywas golden, the waters were dyed with gold, out of which rose the whitesails of boats. The mountains were shadowy purple. The little minaretsof the mosques rose into the gold like sticks of ivory. As I watched myeyes filled with tears, and I felt a sort of aching in my heart, and asif--Domini, it was as if at that moment a hand was laid, on mine, butvery gently, and pulled at my hand. It was as if at that moment someonewas beside me in the cemetery wishing to lead me out to those far-offwaters, those mosque towers, those purple mountains. Never before had Ihad such a sensation. It frightened me. I felt as if the devil had comeinto the cemetery, as if his hand was laid on mine, as if his voice werewhispering in my ear, 'Come out with me into that world, that beautifulworld, which God made for men. Why do you reject it?'
"That evening, Domini, was the beginning of this--this end. Day afterday I sat in the cemetery and looked out over the world, and wonderedwhat it was like: what were the lives of the men who sailed in thewhite-winged boats, who crowded on the steamers whose smoke I could seesometimes faintly trailing away into the track of the sun; who kept thesheep upon the mountains; who--who--Domini, can you imagine--no, youcannot--what, in a man of my age, of my blood, were these first, veryfirst, stirrings of the longing for life? Sometimes I think they werelike the first birth-pangs of a woman who is going to be a mother."
Domini's hands moved apart, then joined themselves again.
"There was something physical in them. I felt as if my limbs had minds,and that their minds, which had been asleep, were waking. My armstwitched with a desire to stretch themselves towards the distant blueof the lakes on which I should never sail. My--I was physically stirred.And again and again I felt that hand laid closely upon mine, as if todraw me away into something I had never known, could never know. Do notthink that I did not strive against these first stirrings of the naturethat had slept so long! For days I refused to let myself look out fromthe cemetery. I kept my eyes upon the ground, upon the plain crossesthat marked the graves. I played with the red-eyed doves. I worked.But my eyes at last rebelled. I said to myself, 'It is not forbidden tolook.' And again the sails, the seas, the towers, the mountains, were asvoices whispering to me, 'Why will you never know us, draw near to us?Why will you never understand our meaning? Why will you be ignorant forever of all that has been created for man to know?' Then the pain withinme became almost unbearable. At night I could not sleep. In the chapelit was difficult to pray. I looked at the monks around me, to most ofwhom I had never addressed a word, and I thought, 'Do they, too, holdsuch longings within them? Are they, too, shaken with a desire ofknowledge?' It seemed to me that, instead of a place of peace, themonastery was, must be, a place of tumult, of the silent tumult that hasits home in the souls of men. But then I remembered for how long I hadbeen at peace. Perhaps all the silent men by whom I was surrounded werestill at peace, as I had been, as I might be again.
"A young monk died in the monastery and was buried in the cemetery. Imade his grave against the outer wall, beneath a cypress tree. Some daysafterwards, when I was sitting on the bench by the house of the doves,I heard a sound, which came from beyond the wall. It was like sobbing.I listened, and heard it more distinctly, and knew that it was someonecrying and sobbing desperately, and near at hand. But now it seemedto me to come from the wall itself. I got up and listened. Someone wascrying bitterly behind, or above, the wall, just where the youngmonk had been buried. Who could it be? I stood listening, wondering,hesitating what to do. There was something in this sound of lamentationthat moved one to the depths. For years I had not looked on a woman, orheard a woman's voice--but I knew that this was a woman mourning.Why was she there? What could she want? I glanced up. All round thecemetery, as I have said, grew cypress trees. As I glanced up I saw oneshake just above where the new grave was, and a woman's voice said, 'Icannot see it, I cannot see it!'
"I do not know why, but I felt that someone was there who wished to seethe young monk's grave. For a moment I stood there. Then I went tothe house where I kept my tools for my work in the cemetery, and gota shears which I used for lopping the cypress trees. I took a ladderquickly, set it against the wall, mounted it, and from the cypress Ihad seen moving I lopped some of the boughs. The sobbing ceased. Asthe boughs fell down from the tree I saw a woman's face, tear-stained,staring at me. It seemed to me a lovely face.
"'Which is his grave?' she said. I pointed to the grave of the youngmonk, which could now be seen through the gap I had made, descended theladder, and went away to the farthest corner of the cemetery. And I didnot look again in the direction of the woman's face.
"Who she was I do not know. When she went away I did not see. She lovedthe monk who had died, and knowing that women cannot enter the precinctsof the monastery, she had come to the outside wall to cast, if shemight, a despairing glance at his grave.
"Domini, I wonder--I wonder if you can understand how that incidentaffected me. To an ordinary man it would seem nothing, I suppose. Butto a Trappist monk it seemed tremendous. I had seen a woman. I had donesomething for a woman. I thought of her, of what I had done for her,perpetually. The gap in the cypress tree reminded me of her every timeI looked towards it. When I was in the cemetery I could hardly turnmy eyes from it. But the woman never came again. I said nothing to theReverend Pere of what I had done. I ought to have spoken, but I did not.I kept it back when I confessed. From that moment I had a secret, and itwas a secret connected with a woman.
"Does it seem strange to you that this secret seemed to me to set meapart from all the other monks--nearer the world? It was so. I feltsometimes as if I had been out into the world for a moment, had knownthe meaning that women have for men. I wondered who the woman was. Iwondered how she had loved the young monk who was dead. He used to sitbeside me in the chapel. He had a pure and beautiful face, such a face,I supposed, as a woman might well love. Had this woman loved him, andhad he rejected her love for the life of the monastery? I remember oneday thinking of this and wondering how it had been possible for him todo so, and then suddenly realising the meaning of my thought and turninghot with shame. I had put the love of woman above the love of God,woman's service above God's service. That day I was terrified of myself.I went back to the monastery from the cemetery, quickly, asked to seethe Reverend Pere, and begged him to remove me from the cemetery, togive me some other work. He did not ask my reason for wishing to change,but three days afterwards he sent for me, and told me that I was tobe placed in charge of the _hotellerie_ of the monastery, and that myduties there were to begin upon the morrow.
"Domini, I wonder if I can make you realise what that change meant toa man who had lived as I had for so many years. The _hotellerie_ ofEl-Largani is a long, low, one-storied building standing in a gardenfull of palms and geraniums. It contains a kitchen, a number of littlerooms like cells for visitors, and two large parlours in which guestsare entertained at meals. In one they sit to eat the fruit, eggs, andvegetables provided by the monastery, with wine. If after the meal theywish to take coffee they pass into the second parlour. Visitors whostay in the monastery are free to do much as they please, but they mustconform to certain rules. They rise at a certain hour, feed at fixedtimes, and are obliged to go to their bedrooms at half-past seven inthe evening in winter, and at eight in summer. The monk in charge of the_hotellerie_ has to see to their comfort. He looks after the kitchen, isalways in the parlour at some moment or another during meals. He visitsthe bedrooms and takes care that the one servant keeps everythingspotlessly clean. He shows people round the garden. His duties, you see,are light and social. He cannot go into the world, but he can mix withthe world that comes to him. It is his task, if not his pleasure, to becheerful, talkative, sympathetic, a good host, with a genial welcome forall who come to La Trappe. After my
years of labour, solitude, silence,and prayer, I was abruptly put into this new life.
"Domini, to me it was like rushing out into the world. I was almostdazed by the change. At first I was nervous, timid, awkward, and,especially, tongue-tied. The habit of silence had taken such a hold uponme that I could not throw it off. I dreaded the coming of visitors. Idid not know how to receive them, what to say to them. Fortunately, asI thought, the tourist season was over, the summer was approaching. Veryfew people came, and those only to eat a meal. I tried to be polite andpleasant to them, and gradually I began to fall into the way of talkingwithout the difficulty I had experienced at first. In the beginning Icould not open my lips without feeling as if I were almost committing acrime. But presently I was more natural, less taciturn. I even, now andthen, took some pleasure in speaking to a pleasant visitor. I grewto love the garden with its flowers, its orange trees, its groves ofeucalyptus, its vineyard which sloped towards the cemetery. Often Iwandered in it alone, or sat under the arcade that divided it from thelarge entrance court of the monastery, meditating, listening to the beeshumming, and watching the cats basking in the sunshine.
"Sometimes, when I was there, I thought of the woman's face above thecemetery wall. Sometimes I seemed to feel the hand tugging at mine. ButI was more at peace than I had been in the cemetery. For from the gardenI could not see the distant world, and of the chance visitors none hadas yet set a match to the torch that, unknown to me, was ready--at thecoming of the smallest spark--to burst into a flame.
"One day, it was in the morning towards half-past ten, when I wassitting reading my Greek Testament on a bench just inside the doorway ofthe _hotellerie_, I heard the great door of the monastery being opened,and then the rolling of carriage wheels in the courtyard. Some visitorhad arrived from Tunis, perhaps some visitors--three or four. It wasa radiant morning of late May. The garden was brilliant with flowers,golden with sunshine, tender with shade, and quiet--quiet and peaceful,Domini! There was a wonderful peace in the garden that day, a peace thatseemed full of safety, of enduring cheerfulness. The flowers looked asif they had hearts to understand it, and love it, the roses along theyellow wall of the house that clambered to the brown red tiles, thegeraniums that grew in masses under the shining leaves of the orangetrees, the--I felt as if that day I were in the Garden of Eden, and Iremember that when I heard the carriage wheels I had a moment of selfishsadness. I thought: 'Why does anyone come to disturb my blessed peace,my blessed solitude?' Then I realised the egoism of my thought and thatI was there with my duty. I got up, went into the kitchen and said toFrancois, the servant, that someone had come and no doubt would stay to_dejeuner_. And, as I spoke, already I was thinking of the moment whenI should hear the roll of wheels once more, the clang of the shuttinggate, and know that the intruders upon the peace of the Trappists hadgone back to the world, and that I could once more be alone in thelittle Eden I loved.
"Strangely, Domini, strangely, that day, of all the days of my life, Iwas most in love--it was like that, like being in love--with mymonk's existence. The terrible feeling that had begun to ravage me hadcompletely died away. I adored the peace in which my days were passed.I looked at the flowers and compared my happiness with theirs. Theyblossomed, bloomed, faded, died in the garden. So would I wish toblossom, bloom, fade--when my time came--die in the garden--alwaysin peace, always in safety, always isolated from the terrors of life,always under the tender watchful eye of--of--Domini, that day I washappy, as perhaps they are--perhaps--the saints in Paradise. I was happybecause I felt no inclination to evil. I felt as if my joy lay entirelyin being innocent. Oh, what an ecstasy such a feeling is! 'My willaccord with Thy design--I love to live as Thou intendest me to live! Anyother way of life would be to me a terror, would bring to me despair.'
"And I felt that--intensely I felt it at that moment in heart andsoul. It was as if I had God's arms round me, caressing me as a fathercaresses his child."
He moved away a step or two in the sand, came back, and went on with aneffort:
"Within a few minutes the porter of the monastery came through thearchway of the arcade followed by a young man. As I looked up at himI was uncertain of his nationality. But I scarcely thought aboutit--except in the first moment. For something else seized myattention--the intense, active misery in the stranger's face. He lookedravaged, eaten by grief. I said he was young--perhaps twenty-six ortwenty-seven. His face was rather dark-complexioned, with small, goodfeatures. He had thick brown hair, and his eyes shone with intelligence,with an intelligence that was almost painful--somehow. His eyes alwayslooked to me as if they were seeing too much, had always seen too much.There was a restlessness in the swiftness of their observation. Onecould not conceive of them closed in sleep. An activity that must surelybe eternal blazed in them.
"The porter left the stranger in the archway. It was now my duty toattend to him. I welcomed him in French. He took off his hat. Whenhe did that I felt sure he was an Englishman--by the look of himbareheaded--and I told him that I spoke English as well as French. Heanswered that he was at home in French, but that he was English. Wetalked English. His entrance into the garden had entirely destroyedmy sense of its peace--even my own peace was disturbed at once by hisappearance.
"I felt that I was in the presence of a misery that was like a devouringelement. Before we had time for more than a very few halting words thebell was rung by Francois.
"'What's that for, Father?' the stranger said, with a start, whichshowed that his nerves were shattered.
"'It is time for your meal,' I answered.
"'One must eat!' he said. Then, as if conscious that he was behavingoddly, he added politely:
"'I know you entertain us too well here, and have sometimes beenrewarded with coarse ingratitude. Where do I go?'
"I showed him into the parlour. There was no one there that day. He satat the long table.
"'I am to eat alone?' he asked.
"'Yes; I will serve you.'
"Francois, always waited on the guests, but that day--mindful of theselfishness of my thoughts in the garden--I resolved to add to myduties. I therefore brought the soup, the lentils, the omelette, theoranges, poured out the wine, and urged the young man cordially toeat. When I did so he looked up at me. His eyes were extraordinarilyexpressive. It was as if I heard them say to me, 'Why, I like you!' andas if, just for a moment, his grief were lessened.
"In the empty parlour, long, clean, bare, with a crucifix on the walland the name 'Saint Bernard' above the door, it was very quiet, veryshady. The outer blinds of green wood were drawn over the window-spaces,shutting out the gold of the garden. But its murmuring tranquillityseemed to filter in, as if the flowers, the insects, the birds wereaware of our presence and were trying to say to us, 'Are you happy as weare? Be happy as we are.'
"The stranger looked at the shady room, the open windows. He sighed.
"'How quiet it is here!' he said, almost as if to himself. 'How quiet itis!'
"'Yes,' I answered. 'Summer is beginning. For months now scarcely anyonewill come to us here.'
"'Us?' he said, glancing at me with a sudden smile.
"'I meant to us who are monks, who live always here.'
"'May I--is it indiscreet to ask if you have been here long?'
"I told him.
"'More than nineteen years!' he said.
"'Yes.'
"'And always in this silence?'
"He sat as if listening, resting his head on his hand.
"'How extraordinary!' he said at last. 'How wonderful! Is it happiness?'
"I did not answer. The question seemed to me to be addressed to himself,not to me. I could leave him to seek for the answer. After a moment hewent on eating and drinking in silence. When he had finished I asked himwhether he would take coffee. He said he would, and I made him passinto the St. Joseph _salle_. There I brought him coffee and--andthat liqueur. I told him that it was my invention. He seemed to beinterested. At any rate, he took a glass and praised it strongly. Iwas pleased
. I think I showed it. From that moment I felt as if we werealmost friends. Never before had I experienced such a feeling foranyone who had come to the monastery, or for any monk or novice in themonastery. Although I had been vexed, irritated, at the approach of astranger I now felt regret at the idea of his going away. Presentlythe time came to show him round the garden. We went out of the shadowyparlour into the sunshine. No one was in the garden. Only the bees werehumming, the birds were passing, the cats were basking on the broad paththat stretched from the arcade along the front of the _hotellerie_.As we came out a bell chimed, breaking for an instant the silence, andmaking it seem the sweeter when it returned. We strolled for a littlewhile. We did not talk much. The stranger's eyes, I noticed, wereeverywhere, taking in every detail of the scene around us. Presently wecame to the vineyard, to the left of which was the road that led to thecemetery, passed up the road and arrived at the cemetery gate.
"'Here I must leave you,' I said.
"'Why?' he asked quickly.
"'There is another Father who will show you the chapel. I shall wait foryou here.'
"I sat down and waited. When the stranger returned it seemed to me thathis face was calmer, that there was a quieter expression in his eyes.When we were once more before the _hotellerie_ I said:
"'You have seen all my small domain now.'
"He glanced at the house.
"'But there seems to be a number of rooms,' he said.
"'Only the bedrooms.'
"'Bedrooms? Do people stay the night here?'
"'Sometimes. If they please they can stay for longer than a night.'
"'How much longer?'
"'For any time they please, if they conform to one or two simple rulesand pay a small fixed sum to the monastery.'
"'Do you mean that you could take anyone in for the summer?' he saidabruptly.
"'Why not? The consent of the Reverend Pere has to be obtained. That isall.'
"'I should like to see the bedrooms.'
"I took him in and showed him one.
"'All the others are the same,' I said.
"He glanced round at the white walls, the rough bed, the crucifix aboveit, the iron basin, the paved floor, then went to the window and lookedout.
"'Well,' he said, drawing back into the room, 'I will go now to see thePere Abbe, if it is permitted.'
"On the garden path I bade him good-bye. He shook my hand. There was anodd smile in his face. Half-an-hour later I saw him coming again throughthe arcade.
"'Father,' he said, 'I am not going away. I have asked the Pere Abbe'spermission to stay here. He has given it to me. To-morrow such luggageas I need will be sent over from Tunis. Are you--are you very vexed tohave a stranger to trouble your peace?'
"His intensely observant eyes were fixed upon me while he spoke. Ianswered:
"'I do not think you will trouble my peace.'
"And my thought was:
"'I will help you to find the peace which you have lost.'
"Was it a presumptuous thought, Domini? Was it insolent? At the timeit seemed to me absolutely sincere, one of the best thoughts I had everhad--a thought put into my heart by God. I didn't know then--I didn'tknow."
He stopped speaking, and stood for a time quite still, looking down atthe sand, which was silver white under the moon. At last he lifted hishead and said, speaking slowly:
"It was the coming of this man that put the spark to that torch. It washe who woke up in me the half of myself which, unsuspected by me, hadbeen slumbering through all my life, slumbering and gathering strengthin slumber--as the body does--gathering a strength that was tremendous,that was to overmaster the whole of me, that was to make of me one madimpulse. He woke up in me the body and the body was to take possessionof the soul. I wonder--can I make you feel why this man was able toaffect me thus? Can I make you know this man?
"He was a man full of secret violence, violence of the mind and violenceof the body, a volcanic man. He was English--he said so--but there musthave been blood that was not English in his veins. When I was with himI felt as if I was with fire. There was the restlessness of fire in him.There was the intensity of fire. He could be reserved. He could appearto be cold. But always I was conscious that if there was stone withoutthere was scorching heat within. He was watchful of himself and ofeveryone with whom he came into the slightest contact. He was veryclever. He had an immense amount of personal charm, I think, at anyrate for me. He was very human, passionately interested in humanity.He was--and this was specially part of him, a dominant trait--he wassavagely, yes, savagely, eager to be happy, and when he came to live inthe _hotellerie_ he was savagely unhappy. An egoist he was, a thinker,a man who longed to lay hold of something beyond this world, but whohad not been able to do so. Even his desire to find rest in a religionseemed to me to have greed in it, to have something in it that wasakin to avarice. He was a human storm, Domini, as well as a human fire.Think! what a man to be cast by the world--which he knew as they know itonly who are voracious for life and free--into my quiet existence.
"Very soon he began to show himself to me as he was, with a sort offearlessness that was almost impudent. The conditions of our two livesin the monastery threw us perpetually together in a curious isolation.And the Reverend Pere, Domini, the Reverend Pere, set my feet in thepath of my own destruction. On the day after the stranger had arrivedthe Reverend Pere sent for me to his private room, and said to me,'Our new guest is in a very unhappy state. He has been attracted by ourpeace. If we can bring peace to him it will be an action acceptableto God. You will be much with him. Try to do him good. He is not aCatholic, but no matter. He wishes to attend the services in the chapel.He may be influenced. God may have guided his feet to us, we cannottell. But we can act--we can pray for him. I do not know how long hewill stay. It may be for only a few days or for the whole summer. Itdoes not matter. Use each day well for him. Each day may be his lastwith us.' I went out from the Reverend Pere full of enthusiasm, feelingthat a great, a splendid interest had come into my life, an interestsuch as it had never held before.
"Day by day I was with this man. Of course there were many hours whenwe were apart, the hours when I was at prayer in the chapel or occupiedwith study. But each day we passed much time together, generally in thegarden. Scarcely any visitors came, and none to stay, except, from timeto time, a passing priest, and once two young men from Tunis, one ofwhom had an inclination to become a novice. And this man, as I havesaid, began to show himself to me with a tremendous frankness.
"Domini, he was suffering under what I suppose would be called anobsession, an immense domination such as one human being sometimesobtains over another. At that time I had never realised that there weresuch dominations. Now I know that there are, and, Domini, that they canbe both terrible and splendid. He was dominated by a woman, by a womanwho had come into his life, seized it, made it a thing of glory, brokenit. He described to me the dominion of this woman. He told me how shehad transformed him. Till he met her he had been passionate but free,his own master through many experiences, many intrigues. He was veryfrank, Domini. He did not attempt to hide from me that his life had beenevil. It had been a life devoted to the acquiring of experience, of allpossible experience, mental and bodily. I gathered that he had shrunkfrom nothing, avoided nothing. His nature had prompted him to rush uponeverything, to grasp at everything. At first I was horrified at what hetold me. I showed it. I remember the second evening after his arrivalwe were sitting together in a little arbour at the foot of the vineyardthat sloped up to the cemetery. It was half an hour before the lastservice in the chapel. The air was cool with breath from the distantsea. An intense calm, a heavenly calm, I think, filled the garden,floated away to the cypresses beside the graves, along the avenue wherestood the Fourteen Stations of the Cross. And he told me, began to tellme something of his life.
"'You thought to find happiness in such an existence?' I exclaimed,almost with incredulity I believe.
"He looked at me with his shining eyes.
"'Why not, Father? Do you think I was a madman to do so?'
"'Surely.'
"'Why? Is there not happiness in knowledge?'
"'Knowledge of evil?'
"'Knowledge of all things that exist in life. I have never soughtfor evil specially; I have sought for everything. I wished to bringeverything under my observation, everything connected with human life.'
"'But human life,' I said more quietly, 'passes away from this world. Itis a shadow in a world of shadows.'
"'You say that,' he answered abruptly. 'I wonder if you feel it--feel itas you feel my hand on yours.'
"He laid his hand on mine. It was hot and dry as if with fever. Itstouch affected me painfully.
"'Is that hand the hand of a shadow?' he said. 'Is this body thatcan enjoy and suffer, that can be in heaven or in hell--here--here--ashadow?'
"'Within a week it might be less than a shadow.'
"'And what of that? This is now, this is now. Do you mean what you say?Do you truly feel that you are a shadow--that this garden is but a worldof shadows? I feel that I, that you, are terrific realities, that thisgarden is of immense significance. Look at that sky.'
"The sky above the cypresses was red with sunset. The trees looked blackbeneath it. Fireflies were flitting near the arbour where we sat.
"'That is the sky that roofs what you would have me believe a world ofshadows. It is like the blood, the hot blood that flows and surges inthe veins of men--in our veins. Ah, but you are a monk!'
"The way he said the last words made me feel suddenly a sense of shame,Domini. It was as if a man said to another man, 'You are not a man.' Canyou--can you understand the feeling I had just then? Something hot andbitter was in me. A sort of desperate sense of nothingness came over me,as if I were a skeleton sitting there with flesh and blood and trying tobelieve, and to make it believe, that I, too, was and had been flesh andblood.
"'Yes, thank God, I am a monk,' I answered quietly.
"Something in my tone, I think, made him feel that he had been brutal.
"'I am a brute and a fool,' he said vehemently. 'But it is always sowith me. I always feel as if what I want others must want. I always feeluniversal. It's folly. You have your vocation, I mine. Yours is to pray,mine is to live.'
"Again I was conscious of the bitterness. I tried to put it from me.
"'Prayer is life,' I answered, 'to me, to us who are here.'
"'Prayer! Can it be? Can it be vivid as the life of experience, asthe life that teaches one the truth of men and women, the truth ofcreation--joy, sorrow, aspiration, lust, ambition of the intellect andthe limbs? Prayer--'
"'It is time for me to go,' I said. 'Are you coming to the chapel?'
"'Yes,' he answered almost eagerly. 'I shall look down on you from mylonely gallery. Perhaps I shall be able to feel the life of prayer.'
"'May it be so,' I said.
"But I think I spoke without confidence, and I know that that evening Iprayed without impulse, coldly, mechanically. The long, dim chapel, withits lines of monks facing each other in their stalls, seemed to me asad place, like a valley of dry bones--for the first time, for the firsttime.
"I ought to have gone on the morrow to the Reverend Pere. I ought tohave asked him, begged him to remove me from the _hotellerie_. I oughtto have foreseen what was coming--that this man had a strength to livegreater than my strength to pray; that his strength might overcome mine.I began to sin that night. Curiosity was alive in me, curiosity aboutthe life that I had never known, was--so I believed, so I thought Iknew--never to know.
"When I came out of the chapel into the _hotellerie_ I met our guest--Ido not say his name. What would be the use?--in the corridor. It wasalmost dark. There were ten minutes before the time for locking upthe door and going to bed. Francois, the servant, was asleep under thearcade.
"'Shall we go on to the path and have a last breath of air?' thestranger said.
"We stepped out and walked slowly up and down.
"'Do you not feel the beauty of peace?' I asked.
"I wanted him to say yes. I wanted him to tell me that peace,tranquillity, were beautiful. He did not reply for a moment. I heard himsigh heavily.
"'If there is peace in the world at all,' he said at length, 'it is onlyto be found with the human being one loves. With the human being oneloves one might find peace in hell.'
"We did not speak again before we parted for the night.
"Domini, I did not sleep at all that night. It was the first of manysleepless nights, nights in which my thoughts travelled like wingedFuries--horrible, horrible nights. In them I strove to imagine all thestranger knew by experience. It was like a ghastly, physical effort. Istrove to conceive of all that he had done--with the view, I told myselfat first, of bringing myself to a greater contentment, of realising howworthless was all that I had rejected and that he had grasped at. Inthe dark I, as it were, spread out his map of life and mine andexamined them. When, still in the dark, I rose to go to the chapel I wasexhausted. I felt unutterably melancholy. That was at first. PresentlyI felt an active, gnawing hunger. But--but--I have not come to that yet.This strange, new melancholy was the forerunner. It was a melancholythat seemed to be caused by a sense of frightful loneliness such as Ihad never previously experienced. Till now I had almost always felt Godwith me, and that He was enough. Now, suddenly, I began to feel that Iwas alone. I kept thinking of the stranger's words: 'If there is peacein the world at all it is only to be found with the human being oneloves.'
"'That is false,' I said to myself again and again. 'Peace is only to befound by close union with God. In that I have found peace for many, manyyears.'
"I knew that I had been at peace. I knew that I had been happy. And yet,when I looked back upon my life as a novice and a monk, I now felt as ifI had been happy vaguely, foolishly, bloodlessly, happy only becauseI had been ignorant of what real happiness was--not really happy. Ithought of a bird born in a cage and singing there. I had been as thatbird. And then, when I was in the garden, I looked at the swallowswinging their way high in the sunshine, between the garden trees and theradiant blue, winging their way towards sea and mountains and plains,and that bitterness, like an acid that burns and eats away fine metal,was once more at my heart.
"But the sensation of loneliness was the most terrible of all. Icompared union with God, such as I thought I had known, with that otherunion spoken of by my guest--union with the human being one loves. I setthe two unions as it were in comparison. Night after night I did this.Night after night I told over the joys of union with God--joys whichI dared to think I had known--and the joys of union with a loved humanbeing. On the one side I thought of the drawing near to God in prayer,of the sensation of approach that comes with earnest prayer, of thefeeling that ears are listening to you, that the great heart is lovingyou, the great heart that loves all living things, that you are beingabsolutely understood, that all you cannot say is comprehended, andall you say is received as something precious. I recalled the joy, theexaltation, that I had known when I prayed. That was union with God.In such union I had sometimes felt that the world, with all that itcontained of wickedness, suffering and death, was utterly devoid ofpower to sadden or alarm the humblest human being who was able to drawnear to God.
"I had had a conquering feeling--not proud--as of one upborne, protectedfor ever, lifted to a region in which no enemy could ever be, nosadness, no faint anxiety even.
"Then I strove to imagine--and this, Domini, was surely a deliberatesin--exactly what it must be to be united with a beloved human being. Istrove and I was able. For not only did instinct help me, instinctthat had been long asleep, but--I have told you that the stranger wassuffering under an obsession, a terrible dominion. This dominion hedescribed to me with an openness that perhaps--that indeed I believe--hewould not have shown had I not been a monk. He looked upon me as a beingapart, neither man nor woman, a being without sex. I am sure he did.And yet he was immensely intelligent. But he knew that I had entered themonastery as a no
vice, that I had been there through all my adult life.And then my manner probably assisted him in his illusion. For I gave--Ibelieve--no sign of the change that was taking place within me under hisinfluence. I seemed to be calm, detached, even in my sympathy forhis suffering. For he suffered frightfully. This woman he loved was aParisian, he told me. He described her beauty to me, as if in order toexcuse himself for having become the slave to her he was. I suppose shewas very beautiful. He said that she had a physical charm so intensethat few men could resist it, that she was famous throughout Europe forit. He told me that she was not a good woman. I gathered that she livedfor pleasure, admiration, that she had allowed many men to love herbefore he knew her. But she had loved him genuinely. She was not a veryyoung woman, and she was not a married woman. He said that she was awoman men loved but did not marry, a woman who was loved by the husbandsof married women, a woman to marry whom would exclude a man from thesociety of good women. She had never lived, or thought of living, forone man till he came into her life. Nor had he ever dreamed of livingfor one woman. He had lived to gain experience; she too. But when he mether--knowing thoroughly all she was--all other women ceased to exist forhim. He became her slave. Then jealousy awoke in him, jealousy of allthe men who had been in her life, who might be in her life again. He wastortured by loving such a woman--a woman who had belonged to many, whowould no doubt in the future belong to others. For despite the fact thatshe loved him he told me that at first he had no illusions about her. Heknew the world too well for that, and he cursed the fate that had boundhim body and soul to what he called a courtesan. Even the fact that sheloved him at first did not blind him to the effect upon character thather life must inevitably have had. She had dwelt in an atmosphere oflies, he said, and to lie was nothing to her. Any original refinementof feeling as regards human relations that she might have had had becomedulled, if it had not been destroyed. At first he blindly, miserably,resigned himself to this. He said to himself, 'Fate has led me to lovethis sort of woman. I must accept her as she is, with all her defects,with her instinct for treachery, with her passion for the admirationof the world, with her incapability for being true to an ideal, or forisolating herself in the adoration of one man. I cannot get away fromher. She has me fast. I cannot live without her. Then I must bear thetorture that jealousy of her will certainly bring me in silence. I mustconceal it. I must try to kill it. I must make the best of whatevershe will give me, knowing that she can never, with her nature and hertraining, be exclusively mine as a good woman might be.' This he said tohimself. This plan of conduct he traced for himself. But he soonfound that he was not strong enough to keep to it. His jealousy was adevouring fire, and he could not conceal it. Domini, he described to meminutely the effect of jealousy in a human heart. I had never imaginedwhat it was, and, when he described it, I felt as if I looked down intoa bottomless pit lined with the flames of hell. By the depth of that pitI measured the depth of his passion for this woman, and I gained an ideaof what human love--not the best sort of human love, but still genuine,intense love of some kind--could be. Of this human love I thought atnight, putting it in comparison with the love God's creature can havefor God. And my sense of loneliness increased, and I felt as if I hadalways been lonely. Does this seem strange to you? In the love of Godwas calm, peace, rest, a lying down of the soul in the Almighty arms. Inthe other love described to me was restlessness, agitation, torture, thesoul spinning like an atom driven by winds, the heart devoured as by adisease, a cancer. On the one hand was a beautiful trust, on the othera ceaseless agony of doubt and terror. And yet I came to feel as if theone were unreal in comparison with the other, as if in the one were aloneliness, in the other fierce companionship. I thought of the Almightyarms, Domini, and of the arms of a woman, and--Domini, I longed to haveknown, if only once, the pressure of a woman's arms about my neck, aboutmy breast, the touch of a woman's hand upon my heart.
"And of all this I never spoke at confession. I committed the deadly sinof keeping back at confession all that." He stopped. Then he said, "Tillthe end my confessions were incomplete, were false.
"The stranger told me that as his love for this woman grew he found itimpossible to follow the plan he had traced for himself of shutting hiseyes to the sight of other eyes admiring, desiring her, of shutting hisears to the voices that whispered, 'This it will always be, for othersas well as for you.' He found it impossible. His jealousy was tooimportunate, and he resolved to make any effort to keep her for himselfalone. He knew she had love for him, but he knew that love would notnecessarily, or even probably, keep her entirely faithful to him. Shethought too little of passing intrigues. To her they seemed trifles,meaningless, unimportant. She told him so, when he spoke his jealousy.She said, 'I love you. I do not love these other men. They are in mylife for a moment only.'
"'And that moment plunges me into hell!' he said.
"He told her he could not bear it, that it was impossible, that she mustbelong to him entirely and solely. He asked her to marry him. She wassurprised, touched. She understood what a sacrifice such a marriagewould be to a man in his position. He was a man of good birth. Hisrequest, his vehement insistence on it, made her understand his love asshe had not understood it before. Yet she hesitated. For so long hadshe been accustomed to a life of freedom, of changing _amours_, that shehesitated to put her neck under the yoke of matrimony. She understoodthoroughly his character and his aim in marrying her. She knew that ashis wife she must bid an eternal farewell to the life she had known. Andit was a life that had become a habit to her, a life that she was fondof. For she was enormously vain, and she was a--she was a very physicalwoman, subject to physical caprices. There are things that I pass over,Domini, which would explain still more her hesitation. He knew whatcaused it, and again he was tortured. But he persisted. And at last heovercame. She consented to marry him. They were engaged. Domini, Ineed not tell you much more, only this fact--which had driven him fromFrance, destroyed his happiness, brought him to the monastery. Shortlybefore the marriage was to take place he discovered that, while theywere engaged, she had yielded to the desires of an old admirer who hadcome to bid her farewell and to wish her joy in her new life. He wastempted, he said, to kill her. But he governed himself and left her.He travelled. He came to Tunis. He came to La Trappe. He saw the peacethere. He thought, 'Can I seize it? Can it do something for me?' He sawme. He thought, 'I shall not be quite alone. This monk--he has livedalways in peace, he has never known the torture of women. Might notintercourse with him help me?'
"Such was his history, such was the history poured, with infinite detailthat I have not told you, day by day, into my ears. It was the history,you see, of a passion that was mainly physical. I will not say entirely.I do not know whether any great passion can be entirely physical. But itwas the history of the passion of one body for another body, and hedid not attempt to present it to me as anything else. This man made meunderstand the meaning of the body. I had never understood it before.I had never suspected the immensity of the meaning there is in physicalthings. I had never comprehended the flesh. Now I comprehended it.Loneliness rushed upon me, devoured me--loneliness of the body. 'God isa spirit and those that worship him must worship him in spirit.' Now Ifelt that to worship in spirit was not enough. I even felt that it wasscarcely anything. Again I thought of my life as the life of a skeletonin a world of skeletons. Again the chapel was as a valley of dry bones.It was a ghastly sensation. I was plunged in the void. I--I--I can'ttell you my exact sensation, but it was as if I was the loneliestcreature in the whole of the universe, and as if I need not have beenlonely, as if I, in my ignorance and fatuity, had selected lonelinessthinking it was the happiest fate.
"And yet you will say I was face to face with this man's almost franticmisery. I was, and it made no difference. I envied him, even in hispresent state. He wanted to gain consolation from me if that werepossible. Oh, the irony of my consoling him! In secret I laughed at itbitterly. When I strove to console him I knew that I was an incarnatelie. He had t
old me the meaning of the body and, by so doing, hadsnatched from me the meaning of the spirit. And then he said to me,'Make me feel the meaning of the spirit. If I can grasp that I may findcomfort.' He called upon me to give him what I no longer had--the peaceof God that passeth understanding. Domini, can you feel at all what thatwas to me? Can you realise? Can you--is it any wonder that I could donothing for him, for him who had done such a frightful thing for me? Isit any wonder? Soon he realised that he would not find peace with me inthe garden. Yet he stayed on. Why? He did not know where to go, whatto do. Life offered him nothing but horror. His love of experiences wasdead. His love of life had completely vanished. He saw the worldly lifeas a nightmare, yet he had nothing to put in the place of it. And in themonastery he was ceaselessly tormented by jealousy. Ceaselessly his mindwas at work about this woman, picturing her in her life of change, ofintrigue, of new lovers, of new hopes and aims in which he had no part,in which his image was being blotted out, doubtless from her memoryeven. He suffered, he suffered as few suffer. But I think I sufferedmore. The melancholy was driven on into a gnawing hunger, the gnawinghunger of the flesh wishing to have lived, wishing to live, wishingto--to know.
"Domini, to you I can't say more of that--to you whom I--whom I lovewith spirit and flesh. I will come to the end, to the incident whichmade the body rise up, strike down the soul, trample out over it intothe world like a wolf that was starving.
"One day the Reverend Pere gave me a special permission to walk with ourvisitor beyond the monastery walls towards the sea. Such permission wasan event in my life. It excited me more than you can imagine. I foundthat the stranger had begged him to let me come.
"'Our guest is very fond of you,' the Reverend Pere said to me. 'I thinkif any human being can bring him to a calmer, happier state of mind andspirit, you can. You have obtained a good influence over him.'
"Domini, when the Reverend Pere spoke to me thus my mouth was suddenlycontracted in a smile. Devil's smile, I think. I put up my hand tomy face. I saw the Reverend Pere looking at me with a dawning ofastonishment in his kind, grave eyes, and I controlled myself at once.But I said nothing. I could not say anything, and I went out from theparlour quickly, hot with a sensation of shame.
"'You are coming?' the stranger said.
"'Yes,' I answered.
"It was a fiery day of late June. Africa was bathed in a glare oflight that hurt the eyes. I went into my cell and put on a pair of blueglasses and my wide straw hat, the hat in which I formerly used to workin the fields. When I came out my guest was standing on the garden path.He was swinging a stick in one hand. The other hand, which hung down byhis side, was twitching nervously. In the glitter of the sun his facelooked ghastly. In his eyes there seemed to be terrors watching withouthope.
"'You are ready?' he said. 'Let us go.'
"We set off, walking quickly.
"'Movement--pace--sometimes that does a little good,' he said. 'If onecan exhaust the body the mind sometimes lies almost still for a moment.If it would only lie still for ever.'
"I said nothing. I could say nothing. For my fever was surely as hisfever.
"'Where are we going?' he asked when we reached the little house of thekeeper of the gate by the cemetery.
"'We cannot walk in the sun,' I answered. 'Let us go into the eucalyptuswoods.'
"The first Trappists had planted forests of eucalyptus to keep off thefever that sometimes comes in the African summer. We made our way alonga tract of open land and came into a deep wood. Here we began to walkmore slowly. The wood was empty of men. The hot silence was profound.He took off his white helmet and walked on, carrying it in his hand. Nottill we were far in the forest did he speak. Then he said, 'Father, Icannot struggle on much longer.'
"He spoke abruptly, in a hard voice.
"'You must try to gain courage,' I said.
"'From where?' he exclaimed. 'No, no, don't say from God. If there is aGod He hates me.'
"When he said that I felt as if my soul shuddered, hearing a frightfultruth spoken about itself. My lips were dry. My heart seemed to shrivelup, but I made an effort and answered:
"'God hates no being whom He has created.'
"'How can you know? Almost every man, perhaps every living man hatessomeone. Why not--?'
"'To compare God with a man is blasphemous,' I answered.
"'Aren't we made in His image? Father, it's as I said--I can't struggleon much longer. I shall have to end it. I wish now--I often wish that Ihad yielded to my first impulse and killed her. What is she doing now?What is she doing now--at this moment?'
"He stood still and beat with his stick on the ground.
"'You don't know the infinite torture there is in knowing that, faraway, she is still living that cursed life, that she is free to continuethe acts of which her existence has been full. Every moment I amimagining--I am seeing--'
"He forced his stick deep into the ground.
"'If I had killed her,' he said in a low voice, 'at least I should knowthat she was sleeping--alone--there--there--under the earth. I shouldknow that her body was dissolved into dust, that her lips could kiss noman, that her arms could never hold another as they have held me!'
"'Hush!' I said sternly. 'You deliberately torture yourself and me.' Heglanced up sharply.
"'You! What do you mean?'
"'I must not listen to such things,' I said. 'They are bad for you andfor me.'
"'How can they be bad for you--a monk?'
"'Such talk is evil--evil for everyone.'
"'I'll be silent then. I'll go into the silence. I'll go soon.'
"I understood that he thought of putting an end to himself.
"'There are few men,' I said, speaking with deliberation, with effort,'who do not feel at some period of life that all is over for them, thatthere is nothing to hope for, that happiness is a dream which will visitthem no more.'
"'Have you ever felt like that? You speak of it calmly, but have youever experienced it?'
"I hesitated. Then I said:
"'Yes.'
"'You, who have been a monk for so many years!'
"'Yes.'
"'Since you have been here?'
"'Yes, since then.'
"'And you would tell me that the feeling passed, that hope came again,and the dream as you call it?'
"'I would say that what has lived in a heart can die, as we who live inthis world shall die.'
"'Ah, that--the sooner the better! But you are wrong. Sometimes a thinglives in the heart that cannot die so long as the heart beats. Such ismy passion, my torture. Don't you, a monk--don't dare to say to me thatthis love of mine could die.'
"'Don't you wish it to die?' I asked. 'You say it tortures you.'
"'Yes. But no--no--I don't wish it to die. I could never wish that.'
"I looked at him, I believe, with a deep astonishment.
"'Ah, you don't understand!' he said. 'You don't understand. At allcosts one must keep it--one's love. With it I am--as you see. Butwithout it--man, without it, I should be nothing--no more than that.'
"He picked up a rotten leaf, held it to me, threw it down on the ground.I hardly looked at it. He had said to me: 'Man!' That word, thus said byhim, seemed to me to mark the enormous change in me, to indicate that itwas visible to the eyes of another, the heart of another. I had passedfrom the monk--the sexless being--to the man. He set me beside himself,spoke of me as if I were as himself. An intense excitement surged upin me. I think--I don't know what I should have said--done--but at thatmoment a boy, who acted as a servant at the monastery, came runningtowards us with a letter in his hand.
"'It is for Monsieur!' he said. 'It was left at the gate.'
"'A letter for me!' the stranger said.
"He held out his hand and took it indifferently. The boy gave it, andturning, went away through the wood. Then the stranger glanced at theenvelope. Domini, I wish I could make you see what I saw then, thechange that came. I can't. There are things the eyes must see. Thetongue can't tell them.
The ghastly whiteness went out of his face. Ahot flood of scarlet rushed over it up to the roots of his hair. Hishands and his whole body began to tremble violently. His eyes, whichwere fixed on the envelope, shone with an expression--it was like allthe excitement in the world condensed into two sparks. He dropped hisstick and sat down on the trunk of a tree, fell down almost.
"'Father!' he muttered, 'it's not been through the post--it's not beenthrough the post!'
"I did not understand.
"'What do you mean?' I asked.
"'What----'
"The flush left his face. He turned deadly white again. He held out theletter.
"'Read it for me!' he said. 'I can't see--I can't see anything.'
"I took the letter. He covered his eyes with his hands. I opened it andread:
"'GRAND HOTEL, TUNIS.
"'I have found out where you are. I have come. Forgive me--if you can.I will marry you--or I will live with you. As you please; but I cannotlive without you. I know women are not admitted to the monastery. Comeout on the road that leads to Tunis. I am there. At least come for amoment and speak to me. VERONIQUE.'
"Domini, I read this slowly; and it was as if I read my own fate. When Ihad finished he got up. He was still pale as ashes and trembling.
"'Which is the way to the road?' he said. 'Do you know?'
"'Yes.'
"'Take me there. Give me your arm, Father.'
"He took it, leaned on it heavily. We walked through the wood towardsthe highroad. I had almost to support him. The way seemed long. I felttired, sick, as if I could scarcely move, as if I were bearing--as if Iwere bearing a cross that was too heavy for me. We came at last out ofthe shadow of the trees into the glare of the sun. A flat field dividedus from the white road.
"'Is there--is there a carriage?' he whispered in my ear.
"I looked across the field and saw on the road a carriage waiting.
"'Yes,' I said.
"I stopped, and tried to take his arm from mine.
"'Go,' I said. 'Go on!'
"'I can't. Come with me, Father.'
"We went on in the blinding sun. I looked down on the dry earth as Iwalked. Presently I saw at my feet the white dust of the road. At thesame time I heard a woman's cry. The stranger took his arm violentlyfrom mine.
"'Father,' he said. 'Good-bye--God bless you!'
"He was gone. I stood there. In a moment I heard a roll of wheels. ThenI looked up. I saw a man and a woman together, Domini. Their faces werelike angels' faces--with happiness. The dust flew up in the sunshine.The wheels died away--I was alone.
"Presently--I think after a very long time--I turned and went back tothe monastery. Domini, that night I left the monastery. I was as onemad. The wish to live had given place to the determination to live. Ithought of nothing else. In the chapel that evening I heard nothing--Idid not see the monks. I did not attempt to pray, for I knew that Iwas going. To go was an easy matter for me. I slept alone in the_hotellerie_, of which I had the key. When it was night I unlockedthe door. I walked to the cemetery--between the Stations of the Cross.Domini, I did not see them. In the cemetery was a ladder, as I told you.
"Just before dawn I reached my brother's house outside of Tunis, not farfrom the Bardo. I knocked. My brother himself came down to know who wasthere. He, as I told you, was without religion, and had always hated mybeing a monk. I told him all, without reserve. I said, 'Help me to goaway. Let me go anywhere--alone.' He gave me clothes, money. I shavedoff my beard and moustache. I shaved my head, so that the tonsure wasno longer visible. In the afternoon of that day I left Tunis. I was letloose into life. Domini--Domini, I won't tell you where I wandered tillI came to the desert, till I met you.
"I was let loose into life, but, with my freedom, the wish to liveseemed to die in me. I was afraid of life. I was haunted by terrors. Ihad been a monk so long that I did not know how to live as other men. Idid not live, I never lived--till I met you. And then--then I realisedwhat life may be. And then, too, I realised fully what I was. Istruggled, I fought myself. You know--now, if you look back, I think youknow that I tried--sometimes, often--I tried to--to--I tried to----"
His voice broke.
"That last day in the garden I thought that I had conquered myself, andit was in that moment that I fell for ever. When I knew you loved me Icould fight no more. Do you understand? You have seen me, you have livedwith me, you have divined my misery. But don't--don't think, Domini,that it ever came from you. It was the consciousness of my lie to you,my lie to God, that--that--I can't go on--I can't tell you--I can't tellyou--you know."
He was silent. Domini said nothing, did not move. He did not look ather, but her silence seemed to terrify him. He drew back from it sharplyand turned to the desert. He stared across the vast spaces lit up by themoon. Still she did not move.
"I'll go--I'll go!" he muttered.
And he stepped forward. Then Domini spoke.
"Boris!" she said.
He stopped.
"What is it?" he murmured hoarsely.
"Boris, now at last you--you can pray."
He looked at her as if awe-stricken.
"Pray!" he whispered. "You tell me I can pray--now!"
"Now at last."
She went into the tent and left him alone. He stood where he was for amoment. He knew that, in the tent, she was praying. He stood, tryingto listen to her prayer. Then, with an uncertain hand, he felt in hisbreast. He drew out the wooden crucifix. He bent down his head, touchedit with his lips, and fell upon his knees in the desert.
The music had ceased in the city. There was a great silence.
BOOK VI. THE JOURNEY BACK
The Garden of Allah Page 26
