She did not ask him to. She did not see him in the
moonlight beyond the tent, or when the moonlight waned before the coming
of the dawn. She was upon her knees, her face hidden in her hands,
striving as surely few human beings have ever had to strive in the
difficult paths of life. At first she had felt almost calm. When she had
spoken to Androvsky there had even been a strange sensation that was not
unlike triumph in her heart. In this triumph she had felt disembodied,
as if she were a spirit standing there, removed from earthly suffering,
but able to contemplate, to understand, to pity it, removed from earthly
sin, but able to commit an action that might help to purge it.
When she said to Androvsky, "Now you can pray," she had passed into a
region where self had no existence. Her whole soul was intent upon this
man to whom she had given all the treasures of her heart and whom she
knew to be writhing as souls writhe in Purgatory. He had spoken at last,
he had laid bare his misery, his crime, he had laid bare the agony of
one who had insulted God, but who repented his insult, who had wandered
far away from God, but who could never be happy in his wandering, who
could never be at peace even in a mighty human love unless that love was
consecrated by God's contentment with it.
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