Saraband for Two Sisters

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 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. Afterward 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 afterward 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 afterward.

“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.