Sylva

“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 beginning to surprise me.

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 running.

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 running away or pretending not to have seen it, she looked at it and stopped. Thereafter she would approach her reflection. Timidly at first, then with curiosity, then with absorbed attention. The cheval glass became a center of interest for her, one of which she did not seem to tire. She would now look at herself at all hours of the day. But not as a woman does, admiringly or disconsolately, nor even simply to study herself. Rather as a sort of constant checkup, as if she were never sure of finding opposite her, returning stare for stare, this creature whose reality seemed to plunge her into endless perplexity.

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.