Anna Kavan - Asylum Piece

Scarcely realizing what she does, she loosens the clenched, cold fingers, chilled by their prolonged contact with the metal lattice, and leads the other away from the window. The fair-haired woman submits passively, like a child, without words: too violent or too painful emotion, too long endured, seems to have deprived her of all vitality. She might be a mechanical figure but for the tears which continue their soundless rain, leaving dark spots where they fall on the purplish silk. Suddenly she stumbles over the hem of the long gown and would fall were it not for the strong young arms which support her on to the edge of the bed. This pathetic loss of dignity in one so remote, so perfect, is altogether too much for the peasant girl, already emotionalized by the sight of those incongruous tears.

Forgetting their different social status, forgetting the possibility of observation, forgetting even her work, she embraces this unhappy being as she would embrace a hurt child in her native village, murmuring inarticulate sounds of comfort. The other, who for so long has remained obdurate, confronting her equals with a disdainful, unchanging face, can allow herself to relax a little in such an uncouth clasp. It is as though she found solace in the subhuman sympathy, the mute caresses of an affectionate dog.

‘Why are you being kind to me…? What are you saying? What language is that?’ she asks at length, vague, out of her unreal world.

‘It is Romansh, madame; I come from the Grisons,’ the girl answers in French. The moment is slipping away, she already begins to feel a trifle awkward, incipiently aware of herself. Yet she still encircles the thin shoulders with both arms. reluctant to withdraw her support. ‘Don’t cry,’ she says once again. ‘Don’t be so unhappy. It’s not really bad here… And you’ll go away soon — back to your home. Can’t you think of it as a little holiday?’

‘I’m frightened… quite alone… and so far from everything,’ the other replies in a whisper, tasting the tears on her mouth. She is still as if in a dream, unconscious of the inappropriate situation.

The maid, who understands nostalgia only too well, searches her brain for some consolation.

‘But it’s so comfortable here, madame!’ she exclaims; ‘and the food…! Yesterday I brought you asparagus for lunch, and to-day there will be strawberries — I know because I saw the men picking them. And look — the mist is breaking! The sun will shine soon.’

Just at this moment she hears someone calling her name in the passage; it is one of the other work girls who has been sent to find out why she is being so slow over the rooms this morning.

‘Yes, yes — at once — I am coming!’ she cries out. She stands upright immediately; but then she bends down and impulsively plants a warm peasant’s kiss on the wet cheek before she crosses the room in a clumsy rush and vanishes into the corridor.

The other woman sits on in the same position, alone. Her tears have almost ceased falling: and now, for the first time in many days, there appears on her face the difficult inception of a smile.

A charming eighteenth-century house stands just at the edge of the lake. It is really a small château with turrets which give it a sophisticated, frivolous, dashing air, well suited to the residence of the mistress of some distinguished personage, as which it was originally designed. The building is in an excellent state of repair, the flowering magnolia on its façade has been skilfully trained and pruned, everything indicates an appreciative and careful proprietor. Only a very sensitive observer might notice about the place an almost indescribable air, not exactly forlorn, but deprived of something, lacking the touch of individual affection, like a child brought up in an efficient institution instead of a home. There is an indefinably impersonal look about the rooms visible through the windows which are all wide open to the hot summer afternoon.

A number of people are having tea on the lawn between the house and the lake. They sit in groups round tables set in the shade of lime trees and tall acacias. Two or three women among them seem to be acting as hostesses, encouraging conversation which tends to flag and, even under their stimulus, has an oddly spasmodic character.

Marcel is the centre of his particular group. For several minutes he has been talkative, amusing, gay, with a smile that comes and goes easily on his wide, flexible mouth. The vigilant hostess looks with approval upon this young man opposite her, dressed in white flannels, who is entertaining the table so well. Suddenly he observes her appreciative glance, his smile changes, loses its rather winning spontaneity, and becomes cynical, sardonic.

‘Well, I’ve been a good boy long enough,’ he thinks to himself: ‘it’s someone else’s turn now.’

He looks at his watch, rises with a polite excuse, and picks up a racquet that has been lying on the grass near his chair. It is time for him to go to his game of tennis.

The court where he is supposed to be playing is higher up the hill, near the main building of the clinic to which all this property belongs. Swinging his racquet, Marcel saunters round the elegant little chateau that now houses guests so different from its original occupant. With the animation gone from his face one sees that he is not so young as he seemed at the tea table; he is at least thirty — perhaps a few years older. A trace of grey has already appeared at the sides of his dark hair, there are lines on his expressive face, his eyes have a slightly strained look, a slightly over-emotional brightness.

Alone on the far side of the château his steps become slower and slower until he finally stops altogether. The strokes of the stable clock sound like five languid birds floating on the warm air. He must hurry if he is not to be late for his game. He knows he ought to walk quickly up the hill, but instead he stands motionless, with drooping shoulders, the racquet dangling limp from his hand. He is suffering the reaction from his recent display of sociability and vivaciousness. An expression that is at the same time bitter and mournful overshadows his face, he feels lonely, resentful, depressed. The remainder of the day stretches before him in a dreary vista of boredom, like a dull newspaper that he has already read through many times. He thinks with distaste, with irritation, of the tennis and of his partner, the red-haired American girl who sulks whenever they lose a game. She will be waiting for him now up there on the court, beginning to get bad tempered because he is five minutes late.

‘Confound them all! Why should I play when I don’t feel like it?’ he mutters under his breath. And suddenly he turns his back on the path leading up the hill and walks down towards the lake again, passing this time round the opposite side of the château, so that he emerges on a part of the lawn some distance away from the groups at the tea-tables. Although he walks quickly he has no object in view, but is merely expressing an instinctive rebellion against the boring tennis, the detestable American girl.

The low wall bordering the lake pulls him up short. He pauses irresolute, with a sense of frustration, not knowing what to do next. Finally he sits down on the warm stone wall, letting his legs hang over the water. A clump of bushes conceals him from the distant people, not one of whom seems to have noticed his presence. This makes him feel isolated, a sensation not at all pleasing to his nature, but one from which he nevertheless derives a certain masochistic satisfaction just now. For some seconds he gazes idly into the shallow, transparent, almost stagnant water through which shoals of tiny fish are busily moving. Although the water is clear it has a tepid, stale look; all sorts of unappetizing scraps of refuse have collected on the stony bed of the lake. A black, thin shape like a minature eel comes wriggling through the shallows towards the stones at the edge; it is a leech. With a suppressed exclamation of disgust Marcel looks in another direction.