This was wisdom itself speaking, yet such a project went deeply against my grain. And I was annoyed with Dorothy for forcing me to oppose it when I was unable to advance any reasons that I could believe in myself.
I had asked Fanny to cook dinner for us. During the meal and after it both Dorothy and I avoided continuing this argument. We talked of one thing and another, of the lives we led, of our childhood memories. She remained oddly elusive on the subject of her stay in London. Being naturally reserved, I did not press her for confidences. Moreover, I feared that my insistence, apart from being rude, might only make her withdraw into her shell. Whereas her trustfulness filled my heart with gentle warmth. And hers too, it seemed. We remained chatting by the fireside till deep into the night.
At last I led her to her room and went into mine. Sylva was sleeping, rolled up in a ball, under the counterpane below the bed, as usual. She moaned a little when I put on the light, but without waking up. It seemed to me that, with Dorothy under my roof, it would have been bad form to share a room with Sylva, even in all propriety. I went to lie down in the room next door.
I found it hard to get to sleep. My feelings were mixed up and contradictory. Why shouldn’t we have more delightful evenings like this one? Why didn’t I marry Dorothy? Love? We were both past thirty; love is not indispensable for a happy union. And there would be two of us instead of one to bring up Sylva. She would be our foster child. But this idea struck against some obstacle that I could not manage to locate. As if I had sensed that the two women could never bear each other, get on with each other. That, sooner or later, I would certainly be forced to sacrifice one to the other. And that it would necessarily be Sylva. That was something I could not make up my mind to. Was I, then, going to sacrifice the prospect of a future filled with mellow, quiet happiness for the sake of this silly vixen? I had to admit that I would be acting like a fool. Come on, I told myself, stop driveling! Don’t think about it any more and go to sleep. But my thoughts continued their endless merry-go-round. I only dozed off at the first light of dawn.
I don’t know what Dorothy had thought about during the night, but in the morning she was more charming than ever, and in the kindliest disposition toward Sylva.
“Let me take her up her breakfast,” she begged me. “We have got to make friends.”
Together we fried some eggs and bacon and I walked upstairs behind her, at a distance but not too far away. I was not very sure of Sylva’s mood when, despite the appetizing smell of breakfast, she would see a woman instead of me.
I did not have to step in, but it was not a success. When Sylva saw Dorothy with the tray, she began to growl, and shouted: “No!” She wrenched the tray out of Dorothy’s hands and sent it flying, whereupon she picked up from the floor whatever she could of the eggs and bacon and went off to devour them under the bed, like a messy little animal.
‘I am so sorry!“ said Dorothy, contritely.
She helped me scrub the dirty floor. I was very annoyed, but with whom? Sylva or Dorothy? I watched the latter cleaning up; she really had a natural, simple grace. Would Sylva whenever crossed always fall back into her primitive savagery? Wasn’t I inviting an endless series of troubles if I persisted in keeping her?
Dorothy was mopping and I was looking at her profile, slightly banal but full of gentle sweetness under the very fair hair coiled in intertwining plaits. And I thought of my nocturnal reveries and told myself again that I would be a fool if I didn’t marry her.
When everything was clean she stood up and said, “You won’t punish her, will you?”
I protested, “If she were a child she’d be punished. You can’t overlook such bad behavior. She’d only start again.”
Dorothy was insistent. “If she gets punished on account of me she’ll bear a grudge against me for ages.”
I finally had to promise. Sylva stayed on under her bed although she must certainly have finished the crumbs of her meal. It was obvious that she was sulking.
“Let’s leave her,” said Dorothy.
We went down to the study and sat at the fireside. After a while I said, “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I should hand her over to an institution.”
“There’s no hurry,” said Dorothy (which surprised me a little).
She was smiling at me with trustful affection.
“I’m wondering whether the passage of time…” I began.
She interrupted me. “Wait and see. Mind you, in any case…”
She seemed uncertain whether to go on. I said, “Well?” and she continued:
“In any case-whatever progress she makes-to whom could you show her afterwards? You’ll have taken a lot of trouble for nothing.”
“What do you mean: to whom?”
“Well, I mean, she’s not one of our sort.”
I suppose my eyes must have expressed my blank incomprehension.
“I mean you’ll only be able to present her as a freak,” she went on, a little crossly. “Not as a relative, or even a friend.”
“Why ever not?” I was amazed.
“Well, it would shock people.”
“For heaven’s sake, do explain!” I cried impatiently.
“She has a pretty skin, but it’s amber-colored. Her eyes are fine, but black as jet. Her eyelids are almond-shaped, and her cheeks like apricots…”
“Are you composing a poem or a still life?”
“In a word, she is an Asiatic, my boy. I suppose foxes must have come originally from Asia. She looks as if she were born in India or Annam.”
“With red hair?”
She pursed her lips ironically, and said, “Some misalliance, perhaps…”
I was rather taken aback. I had thought myself that Sylva had a vaguely exotic look, but not to that extent… If this were so, there would indeed be some rebuffs coming to me on the day I tried to introduce a “native” among the gentry. I wanted to get this straight at once. “Let’s go and see her,” I said.
We went upstairs again. We found Sylva asleep, snuggled up in an armchair, her face still smeared with egg. We could thus scrutinize her for a long moment; then we withdrew as quietly as we had come and I closed the door.
“You must admit you’ve exaggerated,” I said at once.
“You don’t agree with me?”
“I won’t say there isn’t a little something. But from there to…”
“Little or not, isn’t it too much already?”
“I didn’t know you were so particular,” I said with astonishment.
“Me? I adore Indians-Gandhi, Krishnamurti, Tagore… But everyone in his place, don’t you think?”
“I think she looks a bit like the Duchess of Melcombe,” I persisted.
“Everyone knows that the duchess’s mother was on the best of terms with I don’t know what Maharajah.”
“Well then, as you said yourself: some misalliance- like the Duchess of Melcombe. Not worth talking about.”
“As you like, dear boy. But I’ve warned you.”
The tone adopted by each of us was courteous but a trifle sharp. I had not liked those remarks. To be sure, everyone in his place or society will go to pot, but all the same, I don’t support the theories of that little Frenchman-what’s his name?-Gobineau or Gobinot. We mustn’t exaggerate. [2]
To make a diversion, I suggested going for a walk. As soon as Sylva was not involved, we rediscovered our mutual sympathy, a warm affection and a tenderness of long standing which went straight to my heart. We spent an exquisite hour wandering through the woods. On our way back, tired with walking, she let herself lean lightly on my arm. Was I so sure, after all, that I was no longer in love with her?
Chapter 12
DOROTHY prolonged her stay till the end of the week. She had made it a point of honor to become friends with Sylva before she left. She only half succeeded, but still enough to save her face. The next time Sylva saw us both together, she growled once more. But Dorothy was the one who brought her the food-a chicken, some ham. When my vixen understood that she would have to fast or show friendliness she became less hostile and gradually almost cordial. But she never displayed toward the young woman the flattering eagerness she showed toward me or even toward Nanny.
When Dorothy had gone, it seemed to me, curiously enough, that Sylva was missing her. But it is often like that with domestic animals: in many cases attachment is just a form of habit and they are distressed by a change. When she next saw me alone, Sylva went behind me to see where the second person might be. She inspected the corridor and the stairs. Not finding anyone, she returned, vaguely worried, and ate a little absent-mindedly. She went to make sure, two or three times, of an absence that was upsetting her. And then progressively she accepted the fact, did not seem to think of it any more. But when, some eight or ten days later, Dorothy paid us another visit, Sylva gave her an almost festive welcome. I say almost, because her attitude retained an ambiguity that was not without its comical side, for it expressed in a naïve way the complication of her soul-if I may use this word for a young vixen. She let Dorothy caress her head, at first purring, then suddenly, as if angry with herself for this abandon, she dug her sharp little teeth into the hand that was stroking her; it is true she did not press very hard, not enough to lacerate but just enough to hurt. Whereupon she quickly moved away with a frightened look. Then seeing that Dorothy was laughing, and I too, she sidled up to her again.
I have always felt a greater liking and respect for wild beasts than for domestic animals (apart from horses) and I could not conceal from myself that Sylva was becoming domesticated. She was becoming so all the faster ever since being reconciled, once for all, to living between the four walls of Richwick Manor. Now that she had become home-loving and obedient she consented to have baths and even enjoyed them, and she no longer showed the same obstinate distaste for putting on a dress. She could even pronounce a hundred words or so, always the most prosaic ones but happily with the same comically sharp and sunny accent which delighted me.