she had a muff made, to keep her hands warm when she went ice-skating in the winter. He did not inform his brother of this exchange.
But he was afraid that his brother would notice something missing. Where's Augustus? he might ask, and then Adrien would have to tell him. For this reason he grew anxious in his brother's presence, starting when he entered a room, and jigging around the hutch, to distract him, whenever he drew near. When his brother asked him to display his rabbits at the fair, he refused.
His brother did a simple thing, then: he awoke Adrien in the night, led him to the hutch, and as they stood before it, in the starlight, watching the rabbits sleep, their sides softly heaving, he stamped his foot and clapped his hands. Just once, and sharply. It was an act so simple, so sudden and mysterious, that even after he had knelt down, unfastened the latch, and emerged with a rabbit, limp in his grasp, Adrien still did not understand what had happened.
Don't you see, his brother said, in exasperation: They are timid creatures. I scared this one to death.
Terror
ADRIEN BURSTS FROM behind his camera. With his foot, he stomps. With his hands, he claps.
With sympathy, the patient smiles.
Perhaps, whispers the director, a different method is required.
The photographer is apologetic: If only you knew Félix, he says. If only he were here.
But he is in Paris, on the boulevard des Capucines, where he is draping a length of dark velvet about the divine Sarah Bernhardt, so that her shoulders will not appear too skinny.
Oh Félix, he sighs. Félix.
Disappearing beneath his hood, Adrien continues to mutter the name, and each time he does so, it is with a new expression: meditatively, at first, but then in surprise, as if he has encountered, there in the darkness, the very person he happened to be thinking of. Félix! It is an exclamation of sheer and startled delight, and the reunion a happy one, if somewhat reproachful. The name is spoken in a playful, scolding tone, and then, Félix, he says, more mildly this time, to indicate that all is forgiven. But in the midst of this cheerful exchange, a note of worry is introduced. Félix? he asks. Félix? he says, with increasing agitation. Perhaps the friendly meeting has taken a turn. Perhaps old resentments are awakened, the brother's brow darkening, the brother pulling himself up to his full height. Félix, he squeaks. Félix, no! he says, now fully alarmed. But maybe the brother is not coming closer. Quite possibly, he is walking away. Quite possibly, he has tired of the encounter, has an
appointment to keep, and wishes to continue on. Over and over again the photographer cries, and it is impossible to tell if his despair is that of a person menacingly approached, or that of a person left behind.
Félix! he cries. Félix! Félix! Félix!
The photograph is a success. In it, the patient wears an expression of fear.
Objects Lost on Journeys
MADELEINE'S HANDS make her useless. But she jostles the wagon, stoops over the canisters, and squints at the bulbs, in order to create the appearance of usefulness.
Have you found him? Adrien whispers.
Not yet, Madeleine says. I'm too short.
Adrien balances a glass plate between his hands, its surface etched with a terrified face, and says, I am beginning to worry.
Have you ever, he wonders, begun a journey with a suitcase, and guarded that suitcase closely, keeping it beneath your bed at night, and watching over it at the station like a mother? Then the suitcase is lost, but you are consoled, because a lady passenger has given you a pair of eyeglasses with green-tinted lenses, and you guard them on your journey with all the care that you once bestowed upon your suitcase. Then the eyeglasses are shattered, but you hardly notice, you have become so attached to the first edition you found in a moldering bookshop. Then the first edition tumbles over the railing of the ferry, the ferry carrying you from one
But he was afraid that his brother would notice something missing. Where's Augustus? he might ask, and then Adrien would have to tell him. For this reason he grew anxious in his brother's presence, starting when he entered a room, and jigging around the hutch, to distract him, whenever he drew near. When his brother asked him to display his rabbits at the fair, he refused.
His brother did a simple thing, then: he awoke Adrien in the night, led him to the hutch, and as they stood before it, in the starlight, watching the rabbits sleep, their sides softly heaving, he stamped his foot and clapped his hands. Just once, and sharply. It was an act so simple, so sudden and mysterious, that even after he had knelt down, unfastened the latch, and emerged with a rabbit, limp in his grasp, Adrien still did not understand what had happened.
Don't you see, his brother said, in exasperation: They are timid creatures. I scared this one to death.
Terror
ADRIEN BURSTS FROM behind his camera. With his foot, he stomps. With his hands, he claps.
With sympathy, the patient smiles.
Perhaps, whispers the director, a different method is required.
The photographer is apologetic: If only you knew Félix, he says. If only he were here.
But he is in Paris, on the boulevard des Capucines, where he is draping a length of dark velvet about the divine Sarah Bernhardt, so that her shoulders will not appear too skinny.
Oh Félix, he sighs. Félix.
Disappearing beneath his hood, Adrien continues to mutter the name, and each time he does so, it is with a new expression: meditatively, at first, but then in surprise, as if he has encountered, there in the darkness, the very person he happened to be thinking of. Félix! It is an exclamation of sheer and startled delight, and the reunion a happy one, if somewhat reproachful. The name is spoken in a playful, scolding tone, and then, Félix, he says, more mildly this time, to indicate that all is forgiven. But in the midst of this cheerful exchange, a note of worry is introduced. Félix? he asks. Félix? he says, with increasing agitation. Perhaps the friendly meeting has taken a turn. Perhaps old resentments are awakened, the brother's brow darkening, the brother pulling himself up to his full height. Félix, he squeaks. Félix, no! he says, now fully alarmed. But maybe the brother is not coming closer. Quite possibly, he is walking away. Quite possibly, he has tired of the encounter, has an
appointment to keep, and wishes to continue on. Over and over again the photographer cries, and it is impossible to tell if his despair is that of a person menacingly approached, or that of a person left behind.
Félix! he cries. Félix! Félix! Félix!
The photograph is a success. In it, the patient wears an expression of fear.
Objects Lost on Journeys
MADELEINE'S HANDS make her useless. But she jostles the wagon, stoops over the canisters, and squints at the bulbs, in order to create the appearance of usefulness.
Have you found him? Adrien whispers.
Not yet, Madeleine says. I'm too short.
Adrien balances a glass plate between his hands, its surface etched with a terrified face, and says, I am beginning to worry.
Have you ever, he wonders, begun a journey with a suitcase, and guarded that suitcase closely, keeping it beneath your bed at night, and watching over it at the station like a mother? Then the suitcase is lost, but you are consoled, because a lady passenger has given you a pair of eyeglasses with green-tinted lenses, and you guard them on your journey with all the care that you once bestowed upon your suitcase. Then the eyeglasses are shattered, but you hardly notice, you have become so attached to the first edition you found in a moldering bookshop. Then the first edition tumbles over the railing of the ferry, the ferry carrying you from one
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