blanket. Forgotten sayings of disapproving adults returned to me.
‘You’re being neither clever nor funny,’ I said. ‘If you don’t answer me at once I shan’t say good night.’ A louder rat squeak and more violent scratching on the wall was the reply. ‘Very well then,’ I said firmly, and opened the door. What I intended by this gesture heaven knew, for she held all the cards; she had only to go to the window again to prove it.
The threat, to my relief, succeeded. She threw down the sheet, sat up in bed and held out her arms. Reluctantly I went to her.
‘I will promise, if you will too,’ she said.
Her reasoning was sound, but I sensed a trap. This was something for Jean de Gué to handle, not for me. I did not understand children.
‘What must I promise?’ I asked.
‘Never to go away and leave me,’ she said, ‘or, if you must go, to take me with you.’
Once again I avoided the direct question in her eyes. The situation was impossible. I had already placated the mother, pandered to the wife. Must I surrender to the daughter too?
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘adults can’t commit themselves to promises of that kind. No one can foretell the future. There might be another war.’
‘I’m not talking about war,’ she said.
There was a strange, age-old wisdom in her voice. I wished she were older, or much younger, or somehow different. She was the wrong sort of age. I might have dared to tell the truth to someone growing up, but not to a child of ten, still fast in her secret world.
‘Well?’ she said.
No adult awaiting a decision about the future could have been more calm or grave. I wondered why Jean de Gué had ever suggested to her that he might leave home and disappear. Had it been a threat to win obedience, like my trick of a moment ago? Or was the threat deliberate, so that when it did happen she would be prepared?
‘It’s no use,’ I said, ‘I can’t make that promise.’
‘I didn’t think you could,’ she said. ‘Life is hard, isn’t it? We must both just hope for the best – that you will stay at home, and that I shan’t have to die young.’
The casual, somehow fateful tone of voice was worse than if she had shown emotion. She kissed my hand again. I took a chance.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I promise you that if I do go away, I’ll tell you first. I may tell nobody else, but I will tell you.’
‘That’s fair,’ she nodded.
‘And now will you go to sleep?’
‘Yes, Papa. My blankets have come unstuck. Settle me, please.’
The clothes were loose at the bottom. I thrust them in tight, so that she could not move. She watched me from the pillow. I supposed I was meant to kiss her.
‘Good night,’ I said, ‘sleep well.’ And I kissed her on the cheek.
She was thin and bony, her face and neck small and the eyes much too big.
‘You’re not fat enough,’ I said, ‘you ought to eat more.’
‘Why do you look so awkward?’ she asked.
‘I’m not awkward.’
‘You’ve got the face on of someone who tells a lie.’
‘I continually lie.’
‘I know you do. But not as a rule to me.’
‘Well, that’s enough for now. Good night.’
I went out and shut the door. I listened a moment outside, but there was no sound of movement, so I went down the turret stair, through the baize door, and back along the corridor to the dressing-room.
I felt suddenly very tired. The house was quite still. No one had been awakened by my rush upstairs, or by the barking of the dog outside. I crept into the bathroom and stood by the open bedroom door, listening. Françoise did not stir. I went close to the bed, and from the sound of breathing knew her to be fast asleep. I went back into the dressing-room, took off my things, and got into the bath. It had grown cold, but I didn’t want to disturb her by running hot water. I dried, and put on the pyjamas I had worn at the hotel and the dressing-gown that was lying across the chair. I brushed my hair with his brushes, as I had
‘You’re being neither clever nor funny,’ I said. ‘If you don’t answer me at once I shan’t say good night.’ A louder rat squeak and more violent scratching on the wall was the reply. ‘Very well then,’ I said firmly, and opened the door. What I intended by this gesture heaven knew, for she held all the cards; she had only to go to the window again to prove it.
The threat, to my relief, succeeded. She threw down the sheet, sat up in bed and held out her arms. Reluctantly I went to her.
‘I will promise, if you will too,’ she said.
Her reasoning was sound, but I sensed a trap. This was something for Jean de Gué to handle, not for me. I did not understand children.
‘What must I promise?’ I asked.
‘Never to go away and leave me,’ she said, ‘or, if you must go, to take me with you.’
Once again I avoided the direct question in her eyes. The situation was impossible. I had already placated the mother, pandered to the wife. Must I surrender to the daughter too?
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘adults can’t commit themselves to promises of that kind. No one can foretell the future. There might be another war.’
‘I’m not talking about war,’ she said.
There was a strange, age-old wisdom in her voice. I wished she were older, or much younger, or somehow different. She was the wrong sort of age. I might have dared to tell the truth to someone growing up, but not to a child of ten, still fast in her secret world.
‘Well?’ she said.
No adult awaiting a decision about the future could have been more calm or grave. I wondered why Jean de Gué had ever suggested to her that he might leave home and disappear. Had it been a threat to win obedience, like my trick of a moment ago? Or was the threat deliberate, so that when it did happen she would be prepared?
‘It’s no use,’ I said, ‘I can’t make that promise.’
‘I didn’t think you could,’ she said. ‘Life is hard, isn’t it? We must both just hope for the best – that you will stay at home, and that I shan’t have to die young.’
The casual, somehow fateful tone of voice was worse than if she had shown emotion. She kissed my hand again. I took a chance.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I promise you that if I do go away, I’ll tell you first. I may tell nobody else, but I will tell you.’
‘That’s fair,’ she nodded.
‘And now will you go to sleep?’
‘Yes, Papa. My blankets have come unstuck. Settle me, please.’
The clothes were loose at the bottom. I thrust them in tight, so that she could not move. She watched me from the pillow. I supposed I was meant to kiss her.
‘Good night,’ I said, ‘sleep well.’ And I kissed her on the cheek.
She was thin and bony, her face and neck small and the eyes much too big.
‘You’re not fat enough,’ I said, ‘you ought to eat more.’
‘Why do you look so awkward?’ she asked.
‘I’m not awkward.’
‘You’ve got the face on of someone who tells a lie.’
‘I continually lie.’
‘I know you do. But not as a rule to me.’
‘Well, that’s enough for now. Good night.’
I went out and shut the door. I listened a moment outside, but there was no sound of movement, so I went down the turret stair, through the baize door, and back along the corridor to the dressing-room.
I felt suddenly very tired. The house was quite still. No one had been awakened by my rush upstairs, or by the barking of the dog outside. I crept into the bathroom and stood by the open bedroom door, listening. Françoise did not stir. I went close to the bed, and from the sound of breathing knew her to be fast asleep. I went back into the dressing-room, took off my things, and got into the bath. It had grown cold, but I didn’t want to disturb her by running hot water. I dried, and put on the pyjamas I had worn at the hotel and the dressing-gown that was lying across the chair. I brushed my hair with his brushes, as I had
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