Sylva

Was I myself very set on the success of these “experiments”? To see Sylva actually pass these “stages”? On the one hand, of course, I ardently wished it; on the other I was dimly afraid of it. However, when Herbert Sullivan talked to me of mirrors, I did not dream of opposing his projects. Actually, I was a little mortified to see Sylva still behaving, in front of mirrors, just as a fox would have done: she never looked at herself in them.

“Fine! Fine!” said Dr. Sullivan. “So we’re really starting from scratch. The thing to do is to produce a shock,” he explained, and we set out on a search for a large-sized looking glass.

We wandered together through the i

After an hour’s vain waiting during which Sylva passed to and fro before the glass some twenty times without even noticing it, the doctor asked Na

It was a rather smarting defeat for the doctor, but as a scientist he did not take it overmuch to heart. “Too soon,” he said. “Leave the mirror where it is. There’ll come a day, no doubt, when by dint of meeting her likeness, she’ll end up by recognizing herself. I only regret one thing, and that is that I won’t be present… You’ll tell me.”

But poor Na

I remembered that Dorothy had smiled mysteriously at this failure. But she had not given her own opinion. As for myself, I was more inclined to share Na

As for the mirror, we did indeed leave it where it was. I do not know if the doctor really clung to the hope that it might produce a revelation some day, or if he simply persisted in order not to cry off at once. He questioned me about it from time to time. Then, after always getting the same reply, he too seemed to lose hope. And with his hopes fading, he showed himself less often, letting his daughter drive over on her own. She often did. I was delighted with these newly found bonds of friendship and grateful to my little vixen who had so charmingly forged them without knowing it.

Chapter 13

THIS close companionship, those evenings spent by the fireside with Dorothy, sometimes with her father, leave me with memories full of charm, but also of monotony. What I mean is that nothing noteworthy ever happened, they were all very much alike and they have all merged in my mind. Several times, carried away by the warmth of the moment, I tried to lead the conversation toward veiled hints at a life together. Every time Dorothy contrived to divert its course before it risked involving a frank avowal of her feelings or mine. They were, quite visibly, of the same kind: enough tenderness and understanding to make for a successful marriage but not enough love to rush into it. I would admire her prudence after she had gone; and though I sometimes resented it a little, I nonetheless applauded this circumspection which prevented me, against my own will, from plunging headlong into too-hasty decisions.

When did I notice a change? Did I even notice it or was it much later only that I became aware of it in retrospect? Still, I may have been alive to odd quirks in Dorothy’s behavior, to some often rather queer changes of mood. There were days when she was, if not exactly morose, at least absent-minded, a little unresponsive; then gradually she would be gripped by a sort of excitement, a volubility that drowned me in meaningless chatter. On other occasions, on the contrary, she arrived in high spirits which would slowly subside into an indifference that was almost melancholy. It was quite unpredictable. I also had the impression that she was spacing out her visits, but I did not keep count of them; I only remember several times preparing everything as if I were expecting her and then being slightly disappointed to find my expectations dashed.

All these oddities ought to have disquieted me but, as I say, these recollections strike me only today; at the time I hardly paid heed to them, if I noticed them at all. The reason was that around that time there occurred some dramatic events at Sylva’s end, and they were sufficiently startling to mobilize all my attention.

Already the gold of the winter jasmine was fading, giving way to that of the forsythias, brightly blazing all alone among the bare, black branches of the hawthorn bushes only just bursting into bud. Snowdrops and crocuses were springing up on the lawn; the Virginia creeper was licking the walls with its thousand pointed little crimson tongues. The sun was now rising to the east of the forest which all through the winter had hidden its birth. Life was quivering everywhere.

It is in spring and autumn that the forest calls me- when it is dying and when it returns to life. The birches are the first to turn green, tinting the nakedness of the oaks and elms with a fine spray no denser than a mist. The carpet of dead leaves has taken on a moist tinge of mahogany, of maroon. You no longer crush it underfoot with a dry, metallic crunch; it rather yields resiliently with the muffled sound of seaweed at low tide. The deep, stagnant, brooding stillness of October-a cathedral stillness-has been succeeded all of a sudden by the fervent chirping of birds calling to each other. One can see them darting in a muted flutter through the fine lacework of the boughs; the leaves have not yet put up a screen of thick embroidery that masks this winged coming and going in summer. A thousand other sounds burst gently, the creaking of a breaking twig above our heads, the patter of a soft-footed scurry on the dead leaves, a growl, a distant call, a sigh. You advance in the midst of this murmuring which crackles softly, rustles, whispers, whistles, drones, fragmenting the heavy, motionless silence of the trees, though powerless to destroy it. Sometimes, just for a moment, all this noise stops as if to listen, and you almost feel you can hear the rising of the sap…

Should I take Sylva into the heart of this seething life of which, so recently, she had still formed an intimate part, like a fish in water, flesh of its flesh? I did not make up my mind to it without some fear. But I now had too much affection for her, unselfish affection; yes, I loved her too much for what she was-a vixen-to want to deprive her of the forest and the ecstasy of spring which I myself felt so strongly. What risk was I ru

Six days a week Na

This time I called out to her: “Sylva!” She stopped still, turned around, the pointed little face gazing at me with a questioning look. I thought I even saw her ears prick up.

I motioned to her and turned toward the path leading to the forest. With a bird’s cry she came scampering back, overtook me and ran on for some twenty yards, still uttering those larklike cries. Then she fell silent, hesitated as if to listen, set off again. Was she ru

I could well understand that the forest, if not exactly frightening her, had at least assumed for my vixen since her last flight an unfriendly, hostile, perhaps even a cruel, face. So that, to check it, I turned around and walked toward the house. But when I looked back Sylva was gazing at me fixedly, with that particular look in her eyes that dogs have when they are on a track and see their master does not follow them. I naturally gave in to this mute appeal and we set out again toward the woods. Sylva was calming herself, anyway, and by the time we had reached the edge of the wood she was no longer trembling.