Bastian said, Nonsense. We had not long left the castle. But I dismounted and tied my horse to a tree and he did the same. I lay down on the grass and looked at him standing above me. Then suddenly he was lying beside me and I took his hand and held it against my breast. I remember how his body shook with his heartbeats and how excited I was. And then he was beside me, saying: ‘We must go, Bersaba. Dear little Bersaba, we must go back.’
But I had no intention of going back, and I put my arms about him and told him I loved him because he loved me more than he loved Angelet. And all he could say was: ‘No, Bersaba, we must go. You don’t understand.’
I understood perfectly but he would not know that. He was the one who did not understand. I knew then that there are people who are born with knowledge and I was one of them. There was one of the servants—we called her Ginny—who was the same. I had heard the servants say that she had had lovers since she was eleven years old. But perhaps I was not the same, for I did not want lovers: I wanted my cousin Bastian.
Afterwards Bastian was frightened. When we stood up beside our horses he took my face in his hands and kissed me.
He said: ‘We must never do that again, Bersaba. It was wrong, and when you are old enough I’m going to marry you, and if necessary before.’
I was happy then but Bastian wasn’t. I thought he would betray what had happened by his mournful looks. For some time he would take great pains not to be with me. I would look at him with hurt and yearning eyes, and then one day it happened again, and again he said: ‘It must never happen like that until we are married.’
But it did. It became a ritual, and afterwards he would always say that we were going to be married.
I thought of Bastian all day. My sketchbook was full of sketches of him. I could not wait until the day I would be old enough to marry him.
He said: ‘We shall be married on your birthday and announce our intentions six months before.’
I used to think: I shall be married before Angelet is. Another of my characteristics which is almost as strong as my sensuality is the need to better Angelet. She is my sister, my twin, so like me that many cannot tell one from the other, and she is important to me. Sometimes I feel that she is part of me. I love her, I suppose, for she is necessary to me. I should hate it if she went away, and yet there is an insane desire within me always to better her. I must do everything better than she can or I suffer. People must prefer me or I am consumed with jealousy—and as she has this open, sunny, frank manner and mine is dark and devious, it is often that they turn to her.
Once when we were very young my mother bought us sashes for our dresses—mine was red and Angelet’s blue. ‘We shall now be able to tell you apart,’ she had said jokingly. And when I saw Angelet in the blue and how people turned to her first and talked to her more than they did to me, I became obsessed by the blue sash and it seemed to me that there was some magic in it. I took her blue sash and told her she could have my red one. She refused this, saying that the blue was hers. And one day I went to the drawer in which the sashes were kept and I cut the blue one into shreds.
Our mother was bewildered. She talked to me a great deal, asking me why I had done this, but I did not know how to put my thoughts into words.
Then she said to me, ‘You thought the blue one was better because it was Angelet’s. You were envious of her blue sash, and you see what you have done. There is now no blue sash for either of you. There are seven deadly sins, Bersaba.’ She told me what they were. ‘And the greatest of these is envy. Curb it, my dear child, for envy hurts those who bear it far more than those against whom it is directed. You see, you are more unhappy about the blue sash than your sister is.’
I pondered that. It was true, because Angelet had forgotten the sash in a day, though it lived on in my memory. But the incident did nothing to curb my envy. It grew from that to what it is today. It’s like a parasite growing round an oak tree and the oak tree is my love and need of my sister—for I do love her; she is a part of me. Nature, I think, divided certain qualities and gave her some and me the others. In so many ways we are so distinctly different, and it is only my secretive nature that prevents this being obvious, for I am certain that no one has any idea of the dark thoughts which go on in my mind.
After Carlotta and her mother had arrived Angelet came up to our room. She was very uneasy, because although she had no idea of the nature of my relationship with Bastian, she knew that I admired him and sought his company and he mine.
She looked at me anxiously. How relieved I am that I am not one of those girls who shed tears at the slightest provocation. I cry with rage sometimes; never the soft sentimental tears which Angelet gives way to. A sad story will bring the tears to her eyes, but they are easy tears, for she will have forgotten what made her cry a very short time afterwards.
‘What do you think of it?’ she cried. ‘Carlotta and Bastian!’
I shrugged my shoulders, but that couldn’t deceive even Angelet.
‘Of course,’ she went on, making an effort not to look at me, ‘he is getting old and I suppose it’s time he married. He was bound to marry sooner or later. But Carlotta! Why, she has only been there a week or so. What do you think of her, Bersaba?’
‘I suppose she is very attractive,’ I said calmly.
‘It’s a strange sort of attraction,’ said Angelet. ‘There’s something odd about her … and about her mother. I wonder if it’s true that her grandmother was a witch.’
Horrible pictures came into my mind, but I did nothing to suppress them because they soothed me.
Once, when I was about twelve years old, we had been riding with our mother and some of the grooms and we had come upon a shouting mob. There had been a woman in their midst and she was not such an old woman either. Her clothes were torn from her body and she was half naked, but it was the look of abject terror in her face which I had never forgotten. The crowd was chanting, ‘Hang the witch. Hang the witch.’ I don’t think I ever saw such fear in any face, before or after.
My mother had said: ‘We will go now.’ She turned her horse, and we rode off at speed in the opposite direction from that in which we had been going. ‘These things happen,’ she told us, ‘but it will not always be so. People will become more enlightened.’
I wanted to ask questions but my mother said: ‘We won’t speak of it any more, Bersaba. We’ll forget it. It’s unpleasant; it exists; but in time people will be wiser. We can do no good by talking of it, thinking of it …’
That was the attitude in our home. If there was anything unpleasant one did not think of it. If my mother had a fault it was pretending that things were so much better than they were. She told herself every time my father went away that he would come safely back. She was wise in a way; but it had never been mine to pretend, even to myself. I look straight into my heart, soul and mind and ask myself why I did such a thing. I think I know myself better than my mother or Angelet will ever know themselves because of this side of my nature which demands the truth however unpleasant or detrimental to myself.
Afterwards I went back to that lane and I saw the woman hanging there. It was a gruesome sight, for the crows were attacking her. Her hair was long and I could see even then that she had been a beautiful woman. It was beastly; it was vile; it haunted me for a long time; but at least it was reality.
And now I was thinking of Carlotta in the hands of that mob, Carlotta being dragged to that tree. Her grandmother was a witch … Perhaps she was. Perhaps that accounted for the manner in which she had taken Bastian from me. She had cast some spell upon him. An odd excitement possessed me and I felt better than I had since I had heard.