Sylva

Ears. Necks. Fuzzy hair. Chests straining under jerseys, others heavy and limp, wobbling like jelly. Brick-colored faces, faces the color of turnips or potatoes, two cheeks stretched tight like red marble, a chin burgeoning as if in spring, a nose like a knife stuck into a pear. Breath, shouts, laughter, groans of strain, sighs of weariness, a vast smell of meat warmed by the sun that floated above this shambling jostle, big sudden eddies begi

I felt so depressed, so disheartened, that I walked into the first public house I came to, sat myself down in the barroom in a deep leather armchair shiny with wear, and ordered a whisky, then another. I dimly felt that I was making a mistake somewhere, since in spite of everything the idea of leaving Sylva to her pithecanthrope left me with that feeling of betrayal which I could neither banish nor admit. How many whiskies did I drink? I do not know. Nor how much time I spent, sprawling in the armchair with closed eyelids, in the fumes of alcohol, subjected to an endless procession of lewd pictures which I did not even have the strength to dismiss.

How I came to be outside I have forgotten, except that it was dark. How I hired a cart (or how it was hired for me, and by whom), how it got me back to Richwick Manor, I have forgotten too. The first picture I can see, shaky and blurred, is the bulldog face of Mrs. Bumley. Or rather pieces of her face which I ca

I recollect an endless flight of stairs which rises and rolls with me, and starts over and over again. I must have fallen down several times, for next morning my knees were very sore. A door in a dark corridor resists malignantly. Even more malignantly it suddenly opens; I am sent sprawling and crawl across the carpet on all fours, I pull the bed sheets toward me, the blanket comes with them, what I now see sobers me suddenly—or rather, ah! my drunke

Faced with this sleeping body in the reclining grace of a Correggio, it seems to me that everything has at last become marvelously clear. No more mystery. A dazzling brightness floods me, I send up to heaven a Te Deum which, though somewhat profane, is nonetheless a thanksgiving—Halleluja! Halleluja! But what happened afterward I ca

Chapter 17

NEXT morning when I woke, sobered, I was holding between my chest and my knees, as if in a pair of nutcrackers, a very small, frail Sylva, curled up, foxlike, in a ball, her hair caressing my chin. And I was amazed that, with my drunke

“No more mystery.” But I vainly tried to recapture that sense of sudden perspicacity and, with it, what it was that I had perceived so irrefutably in my drunke

I first tried to assume with Christian humility that since I had not raised Sylva to a human level I myself might consequently have sunk to the level of a fox. Was that not highly probable, alas? Had I not experienced a bestial carnal obsession among the crowd in the market? Was this not the ominous portent of a degradation? But I was clasping my sleeping vixen in my arms, I felt her breathing gently swell and relax the young body coiled against mine, and I felt no shame, not even a stirring of the senses. I merely smiled with great tenderness, convinced there was nothing brutish in this gentleness, in the quiet calm that pervaded me.

For better proof of the peace in my soul and to make quite sure of these new thoughts, I woke Sylva and softly caressed her spine, as one does to a cat to make it purr. And as this murmur of pleasure rose in her throat I realized with a sort of exaltation that I was sure, profoundly sure, that some day, under my guidance, the purring would cease to be the solitary noise of unconscious flesh; that some day it would become the love song of a being who no longer submits but gives herself, who dedicates herself body and soul to the ineffable communion of human love. I realized that if I had wrested my vixen from her ape man, from the i

While this mental avalanche swept all before it, I did not once think, I confess it with shame, of Dorothy.

But when, early in the morning, Mrs. Bumley discovered me in Sylva’s bed (wasn’t that the shortest way of introducing her to my new disposition?) it would be putting it mildly to say that she was indignant. She gasped for breath and almost fainted. I made her drink a glass of rum, put on my dressing gown and pulled her into the living room.

She was too agitated to be capable of listening to me. Words poured from her quite incoherently, as if the shock had released a talking machine of which she had lost control. Like a tune ground out by a barrel organ, certain words recurred over and over again to express her disapproval: “Taking advantage of the poor creature!” It was hard to make out from her vehemence whether she felt more ashamed for me or more fearful for “the poor child.” I eventually grasped that while her imagination was outraged by what seemed to her (as it had to me only the day before) an abominable depravity, she feared above all that it might jeopardize the evolution of the retarded child entrusted to her care.