She paused, and they looked at each other for a moment in silence.  Then she continued: 

“Surely it will be easier for you, happier for you.”

Androvsky clenched his right hand on the divan and turned round till he was facing her full.  His eyes blazed.

“Domini,” he said, “you are truthful.  I’ll be truthful to you.  Till the end of my life I’ll think of you—­every day, every hour.  If it were mortal sin to think of you I would commit it—­yes, Domini, deliberately, I would commit it.  But—­God doesn’t ask so much of us; no, God doesn’t.  I’ve made my confession.  I know what I must do.  I’ll do it.  You are right—­you are always right—­you are guided, I know that.  But I will think of you.  And I’ll tell you something—­don’t shirk from it, because it’s truth, the truth of my soul, and you love truth.  Domini—­”

Suddenly he got up from the divan and stood before her, looking down at her steadily.

“Domini, I can’t regret that I have seen you, that we have been together, that we have loved each other, that we do love each other for ever.  I can’t regret it; I can’t even try or wish to.  I can’t regret that I have learned from you the meaning of life.  I know that God has punished me for what I have done.  In my love for you—­till I told you the truth, that other truth—­I never had a moment of peace—­of exultation, yes, of passionate exultation; but never, never a moment of peace.  For always, even in the most beautiful moments, there has been agony for me.  For always I have known that I was sinning against God and you, against myself, my eternal vows.  And yet now I tell you, Domini, as I have told God since I have been able to pray again, that I am glad, thankful, that I have loved you, been loved by you.  Is it wicked?  I don’t know.  I can scarcely even care, because it’s true.  And how can I deny the truth, strive against truth?  I am as I am, and I am that.  God has made me that.  God will forgive me for being as I am.  I’m not afraid.  I believe—­I dare to believe—­that He wishes me to think of you always till the end of my life.  I dare to believe that He would almost hate me if I could ever cease from loving you.  That’s my other confession—­my confession to you.  I was born, perhaps, to be a monk.  But I was born, too, that I might love you and know your love, your beauty, your tenderness, your divinity.  If I had not known you, if I had died a monk, a good monk who had never denied his vows, I should have died—­I feel it, Domini—­in a great, a terrible ignorance.  I should have known the goodness of God, but I should never have known part, a beautiful part, of His goodness.  For I should never have known the goodness that He has put into you.  He has taught me through you.  He has tortured me through you; yes, but through you, too, He has made me understand Him.  When I was in the monastery, when I was at peace, when I lost myself in prayer, when I was absolutely pure, absolutely—­so I thought—­the child of God, I never really knew God.  Now, Domini, now I know Him.  In the worst moments of the new agony that I must meet at least I shall always have that help.  I shall always feel that I know what God is.  I shall always, when I think of you, when I remember you, be able to say, ’God is love.’”