Sylva

She opened her gray eyes saucer-wide, and they filled with alarm, with anguish. I smiled.

“Don’t be upset, I have all my faculties. My mind isn’t wandering. Sit down and listen to me quietly.”

I made the inviting gesture of pushing an armchair forward. She sat down in it slowly, without taking her eyes off me.

“All I have told you is a pack of lies. This isn’t a backward child. And I haven’t any sister in Scotland.”

She had placed a big, gnarled hand on her bosom. Doubtless her heart was beating fast. I smiled as best I could to calm her, afraid of one thing only: that she might become frightened and call for help. It was essential that I reassure her.

“You’re the first person to whom I’ve dared talk about it. I would have to, sooner or later, anyhow. So far I have never ventured to confide this to anyone for fear they might take me for a madman. As they well might.”

I then told her everything, in detail. The hunt, the hounds in full cry ready for the kill, the sudden transformation. She could question the people in the neighborhood: the strange disappearance of the fox when the hunters and their horses were already almost on top of it had provided food for discussion for many an evening at the village pub. I related the vicissitudes of the training, the progress made and the gaps that persisted, the enormous trouble to get her dressed. The good woman listened to me in silence; her fat cheeks quivered a little, her eyes wrenched themselves from mine to stare at Sylva gnawing at her kipper, then wrenched themselves away again to meet mine. While I was telling my story, the ghost of a smile began to hover on her rotund face, a kind of wondrous amusement. I had won: she believed me.

“Not half an hour ago,” I confessed in conclusion, “I never guessed I would tell you all this. I was prepared to let you find out for yourself a sufficient number of oddities to come pressing me with questions. But you’ve made me feel I can trust you,” I added, putting my hand on hers. “I am sure you won’t give me away.”

She understood this familiar gesture which the strange circumstances warranted, and for a long while she left her hand beneath mine, giving me a hesitant smile, a moist, anxious look. Then she got up, in a flutter of excitement.

“This is even… even more thrilling!” she cried in a stifled voice. She was devouring Sylva with her eyes, with far more avidity than Sylva displayed in eating her kipper. “I said right away that… that she seemed different from all the girls I’d known!”

“But you’ll keep all this to yourself, won’t you?” I said imperatively.

“Of course!”

“They’d shut us both up!”

She gave a little giggle.

“Most likely, indeed! In fact, it did cross my mind, a moment ago, to have you put in a strait jacket.”

“Or else we might be accused of goodness knows what -abduction, illegal restraint, all the rest of it.”

“She is your niece,” said Mrs. Bumley firmly. “Your sister is getting married again, she lives in Scotland and has entrusted you with her daughter. I know nothing else.”

To familiarize Sylva with her nurse, I asked Mrs. Bumley a little later to give Sylva her lunch (a pair of pigeons bought in Soho) and they became friends. The kind-hearted nurse tried hard to start a conversation with her new pupil, but failed at once. Sylva was still incapable of understanding any abstract question, however simple, if it was not intimately linked to her most immediate material needs.

Mrs. Bumley heaved a sigh. “Maybe she knows a lot already for a fox, but it is awfully little for a woman-even a very backward one.”

We traveled back to Wardley in an ordinary compartment; that is to say, I had not booked it entirely for ourselves this time. The presence of a nurse would render any possible incidents less significant in the eyes of fellow passengers, and it seemed to us that this was a useful time for experiment. Sylva proved docile between Mrs. Bumley and myself. We had come early to take our seats in order to be the first. Every time a passenger came in, Sylva gave a start and we had some trouble calming her fears. During the whole beginning of the journey she remained nervous and watchful, her eyes glued on the people opposite her, scared by their slightest movement, their every word.

Our attitude toward her had at once enlightened our fellow passengers and they showed no surprise at the unwonted behavior of “the poor child.” Embarrassed and constrained at first, as one usually is in such a case, they averted their eyes. But our placid serenity put them at ease, they relaxed and even displayed much kindliness, smiling frequently at the young girl, asking us if they could offer her a piece of chocolate.

Mrs. Bumley shook her head. “She does not care for sweets. Now if you had a sausage about you,” she said humorously, “a piece of meat…”

“Does she understand what one says?” asked an elderly lady, with eager solicitude.

“You can talk freely in front of her,” I assured her. “She understands only the simplest words.”