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Updated: May 21, 2025
Androvsky's face lost its emotional expression as he gazed almost vacantly at the brown water shifting slowly by between the brown banks and the brown walls above which the palm trees peered. His aching limbs relaxed. His hands hung loose between his knees. And Domini half closed her eyes. A curious peace descended upon her. Lapped in the heat and silence for the moment she wanted nothing.
But she had wished she still wished with ardour that Androvsky's first visit to the garden should be a happy one, should pass off delightfully. She had a dawning instinct to make things smooth for him. Surely they had been rough in the past, rougher even than for herself.
Is it yours, Monsieur Androvsky?" "Fear could never drive me to leave Beni-Moni," he answered. "Sometimes I think that the only virtue in us is courage," she said, "that it includes all the others. I believe I could forgive everything where I found absolute courage." Androvsky's eyes were lit up as if by a flicker of inward fire. "You might create the virtue you love," he said hoarsely.
V. I Have Insulted God From that day Androvsky's strange misery of the soul, strange horror of the world, increased. Domini felt that he was secretly tormented. She tried to make him happier; she even told him that she believed he often felt far away from God, and that she prayed each day for him. "Boris," she said, "if it's that, don't be too sad. It may all come right in the desert.
She could not conceive of its being severed, and as she realised this, she realised also something that turned her whole nature into flame. She could not conceive of Androvsky's not loving her, of his not having loved her from the moment when he saw her in the sun. To him, too, the desert had made a revelation the revelation of her face, and of the soul behind it looking through it.
What she was listening for was a rising of the wind, a crescendo of its voice. She was anticipating a triumphant cry from the Sahara, unlimited power made audible in a sound like the blowing of the clarion of the sands. Androvsky's hand was still on hers, but now it did not move as if obeying the pulsations of his heart.
It seemed to me that there was another's fate in it as well as my own, and that to hear would be to intrude, perhaps, upon another's secrets." "That was your reason?" "My only reason." And then she added, repeating consciously Androvsky's words: "I think there are things that should be let alone." "Perhaps you are right."
And with Count Anteoni and the priest she set another figure, that of the sand-diviner, whose tortured face had suggested a man looking on a fate that was terrible. Had not he, too, warned her? Had not the warning been threefold, been given to her by the world, the Church, and the under-world the world beneath the veil? She met Androvsky's eyes. He was getting up to leave the room.
True to his promise, on the following day the priest called to inquire after Androvsky's health. He happened to come just before dejeuner was ready, 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.
She drew her horse to one side, a little nearer to Androvsky's. "Does the Russian in you greet this land?" she asked him. He did not reply. He seemed to be held in thrall by the sad immensity before them.
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