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Updated: June 21, 2025
In the oasis of Beni-Mora men, who had slowly roused themselves to pray, sank down to sleep again in the warm twilight of shrouded gardens or the warm night of windowless rooms. In the garden of Count Anteoni Larbi's flute was silent. "It is like noon in a mirage," Domini said softly. Count Anteoni nodded. "I feel as if I were looking at myself a long way off," she added.
In obedience to his last words she walked on, and he kept heavily beside her, till they were in the deep shadows of the closely-growing trees and the spell of the garden began to return upon her, banishing the thought of self. "Listen!" she said presently. Larbi's flute was very near. "He is always playing," she whispered. "Who is he?" "One of the gardeners. But he scarcely ever works.
There was nothing in it to resent, and she had not resented it, but it had recalled her to the consciousness that they were utter strangers to each other. As they came out on the pale riband of sand which circled the little room Domini said: "How wild and extraordinary that tune is!" "Larbi's. I suppose it is, but no African music seems strange to me. I was born on my father's estate, near Tunis.
He let the flowers go, and they sprang softly back, and hung quivering in the space beyond his thin figure. Then he added: "Perhaps one should not say more than that." "No." Domini sat down for a moment. She looked up at him with her direct eyes and at the shaking flowers. The sound of Larbi's flute was always in her ears. "But may not one think, feel a little more?" she asked. "Oh, why not?
Butterflies were flitting here and there through the riot of gold, and she heard faint bird-notes from the shadows of the trees, echoed by the more distant twitter of Larbi's flute.
What has that to do with it?" He did not reply. Odd and disconnected as Larbi's melodies were, they created an atmosphere of wild tenderness. Spontaneously they bubbled up out of the heart of the Eastern world and, when the player was invisible as now, suggested an ebon faun couched in hot sand at the foot of a palm tree and making music to listening sunbeams and amorous spirits of the waste.
All their passionate love of the body, all their lawlessness, all the joy of liberty and of life, of the barbaric life that is liberty, all their wandering in the great spaces of the sun, were set before them in Larbi's fluttering tune, that was like the call of a siren, the call of danger, the call of earth and of earthly things, summoning them to abandon the summons of the spirit.
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