Sylva

Part Two

But this man is an anachronism, for he dates from before the Iron Age, and even the Stone Age. Think of it, he stands at the begi

Rudyard Kipling, “In the Rukh”

Chapter 21

THE days that followed that surprising night seemed to me disappointing. Though I lay in bed open-eyed till the morning, it was now with impatience. In fact I was expecting miracles. Sylva had passed a borderline, I was certain of it. She had stepped into the true land of Man; I would now witness vast and rapid changes.

The first to throw cold water on my enthusiasm was Na

“You were able to sleep? I spent a sleepless night.”

“On account of the broken mirrors? Is it such a big sum?”

“Who’s talking of mirrors? I don’t care a rap. But the fact that Sylva… Goodness!” I cried. “That seems to leave you quite cold! The fact that she recognized herself and got scared-don’t you understand what all this means?”

“Nothing proves yet that she did recognize herself,” Na

“Well, what else can have scared her so?”

“I don’t know, it’s a bit early to say.”

“But it’s as plain as a pikestaff!” I said, trying as well as I could to restrain a mounting exasperation. “She has at last grasped that she exists, and that is a hell of a discovery for a fox, don’t you think? So she’s frightened by it, she has the wind up-what could be more natural?- and this anguish of hers is the first evidence she gives us of a reflective intelligence, the first trace of a cogito. It’s a sensational departure!”

“She may have been scared by anything,” said Na

“That’s just it!” I retorted. “That’s what I’m saying. Wasn’t that what we expected to happen when Sylva recognized herself? And isn’t it very singular that she didn’t act like that but rather took fright?”

“That’s why I keep thinking that she did not recognize herself,” Na

“We’ll probably find out some day or other what frightened her, and we’ll be amazed what a commonplace thing it was.”

In spite of my excitement I could not help thinking that the cautious Na

“What did I tell you? What did I tell you?” he said over and over again, leaning against the oaken mantelpiece in the familiar prophetic attitude.

“So you think that she has taken a decisive step?”

“Without a shadow of doubt. Your Na

“What’s going to happen now,” I asked, “according to you? What’ll be the next stage?”

He raised his long arms as if taking heaven for witness.

“Can’t say, old man, I’m not a diviner! On the contrary, I’m waiting to learn from her how things happened in the dim brains of the first men.”

“Unfortunately, those things took a few thousand years to happen… If we have to wait all that long…”

“Naturally, nothing proves that Sylva will pass the various stages at breakneck speed and nonstop. Still, she’s just done it, and what with her environment and the aid you give her, we may hope that she’ll continue.”

“Yes, but how can we be of assistance if we don’t know a word of the syllabus?”

“Oh,” said the doctor, “you’ll see all right how things will shape. I suppose that now that she has discovered herself she’ll start putting questions. You’ve got your work cut out.”

“Dorothy isn’t in?” I blurted out, for her continued absence was begi

The doctor’s face literally changed, as if this sudden question had taken him by surprise. His cheeks had turned crimson on either side of the big, fat nose which, having blushed more faintly, bore an irresistible resemblance to the beak of a frightened toucan.

“I believe she’s got a headache,” he said.

I didn’t believe a word of it.

“May I at least say hello to her?”

“Do excuse her,” he said quickly. “I think she’s gone to lie down.”

“Doctor,” I said reproachfully, “you aren’t forthright with me. Have I made a faux pas somewhere? Why does Dorothy refuse to see me? It seemed to me a few days ago…”

He interrupted me in a most comical way: by blowing his nose. He shook his curly wreath of foam while producing from his nose a thunderous snort.

“No, no,” he answered into his handkerchief. “She doesn’t refuse. It has nothing to do with you, I assure you. Don’t question me,” he went on, folding the handkerchief. “We’re going through a trying time. It’s a consequence of her life in London… She’ll talk to you about it herself later. Later,” he repeated, holding out the palms of his hands as if begging for alms. “Right?” he said insistently with an engaging and rather pathetic smile, so that there was nothing to do but smile back and put my palms into his.

“You know my friendship for you. I don’t need to tell you…”

“I know, I know I can count on you. Just now you could be of no help. Oh!” he corrected himself precipitately. “Don’t make me say more than I’ve said! It’s nothing serious. It’ll pass. It’s a trying time. Everything will be all right later on.”

I was not, however, more than half reassured when I left him. What had he meant by twice repeating “a trying time”? I was not at all certain that Dorothy’s attitude had really nothing to do with me.

During the following days I dared not be too insistent in getting Sylva in front of a looking glass again. I had immediately replaced all the mirrors, including the cheval glass, but Sylva at first pretended not even to notice their presence-though she could not prevent herself, when passing through the gallery where two tall pier glasses faced each other, from quickening her pace and even ru

Nevertheless, we saw her gradually losing her fear. She could no longer avoid seeing her face from time to time in a windowpane, reflected in a glass case or the high polish of a piece of furniture. There came a day when, instead of ru

She would leave the mirror and curl up at the foot of the bed, her face in her cupped hands, her eye’s staring straight ahead without seeing anything, never batting an eyelid, like a motionless cat. At those moments, I would have gladly given months of my life to be able to penetrate that little brain and witness what was going on in it. Perhaps nothing much was, at least after the fashion that our too highly developed brains are able to imagine.

When at last she emerged from this unseeing contemplation she would huddle up even more tightly and go to sleep, or else skip around and start to play as she used to. I have told how she enjoyed pouncing on objects, on all sorts of “quarry,” showing a marked preference for those that could be knocked over or sent rolling: a stool, a chair, Na

One day, in the course of playing she flung herself on a small basket filled with apples which Na

I cast a triumphant glance at Na

“And this?” she asked.

“Grapes.”

“And this?”

She was pointing at a corner of the painting, to a small silver statue representing a standing, young Bacchus, with his face raised and a bunch of grapes held against his lips. But Sylva did not say anything. She looked at it for a long time but did not speak. Na

“That was too difficult,” I told Na