Sylva

I did succeed, in a way, but there was scant comfort in my conclusion. For I saw myself at last as I was: spread-eagled and torn between Sylva and Dorothy, between an animal whom I wanted to change into a woman and a woman who wanted to change back into a beast. You’ve run away like a coward, I told myself. Tomorrow you’ll go back. You won’t give up under any pretext. You’ll fight as long as necessary, until you’ve saved her from herself. Perhaps you’ve seen the worst, and in any event you know now what to expect. A modicum of courage should be enough to help you overcome your revulsion. I avoided saying: a modicum of love.

Those were fine resolutions. Perhaps I would have kept them, too. But the next day a short and distressed note from Dr. Sullivan informed me that Dorothy had returned to London.

I reproached myself bitterly. Wasn’t I to blame once again for this departure? What an idiot I had been to throw all her supplies of the drug out of the window. A handsome, gallant, virtuous and romantic gesture! As if the only possible result wasn’t to oblige Dorothy to procure more at all cost, without delay… Perhaps she had also run away from the awful self-portrait she had shown me.

For the time being there was no question of my going after her to London. Summer was approaching, although somewhat timidly as yet, haymaking was already in full swing, wheat and barley would soon require my full time, the harvester had to be overhauled, arrangements made with the neighbors for the threshing machine, not to mention the normal day-to-day problems.

To be frank, this flight also brought me a grim deliverance. I was prevented, at least for the one season, from having to fulfill a painful, heavy duty. What better excuse than one’s helplessness? And by the same stroke I could devote myself once more to my little vixen, without feeling guilty, without accusing myself of neglect or ulterior motives…

Actually, I had not for a single day dropped my concern for her. We hoped, Nanny and I, that we were well rid of the gorilla. I had ordered the farmer to loose the dogs as soon as he showed up. They were not vicious but their physiognomy inspired respect. Jeremy Hull was seen prowling about two or three times more, but each time he must have fled instantly.

During those few weeks I had kept Sylva, I must confess, more or less locked up in the house. The forest stroll had turned out too badly to encourage me to try new experiments. Moreover, Sylva at home no longer showed the animal boredom that had once made her yawn to distraction. Her games were more varied. The objects no longer represented mere quarry, Sylva began to have some intelligent relationships with them. It amused her less to scatter the contents of the needlework box; instead she tried to add to it things that did not belong there-my tooth paste or my cigars, for instance-which incidentally did not improve Nanny’s mood. Sylva also began to rummage in the cupboards or the sideboard, not without causing many a catastrophe. Occasionally some utensil would intrigue her for a long while and she would seek to use it for all sorts of purposes. Nevertheless, we did not restrain her, for this increase in her curiosity for “things” which her mind was obviously beginning to grasp as “objects” (and such a sudden and swift increase, at that) seemed to us extremely promising.

And, indeed, she greatly surprised us one day in this connection: the fancy took her to fashion an object herself! Nanny and I had to admit it, Sylva had discovered the notion of the tool. Oh, I don’t want to exaggerate. It was still a very rudimentary, very imperfect tool, and put to a rather comical use. But the idea of a tool was there all right.

We had noticed for some time that she was collecting a kind of hoard, as is common with many children and a few animals-magpies, squirrels, polecats. A hoard made up of various rubbish such as corks, bits of bark, old nails, scraps of silver paper. One fine morning we caught her before the cheval glass combing her hair with a very peculiar-looking instrument. At a closer glance, it turned out to be the backbone of a lemon sole, probably pinched from the garbage can, and she had covered the half of it which she was holding in her fingers with a folded piece of cardboard. However silly and imperfect this implement was, it nevertheless testified to a convergence of observation and reflection that was very much above the mind of a fox or even an ape. The mere idea of converting a fishbone for use as a comb was an “invention” that required certain mental qualities, whose emergence in Sylva, as can be imagined, excited us to a high degree.