Sylva

And we found we had to be willing, if only to keep her awake. For whenever we did not busy ourselves with her, the time that was not occupied by eating or trying to get out of the room-trotting, sniffing, whining, despite our efforts to make her drop this habit-was spent by her almost entirely in sleeping. The most painful ordeal that besets an animal in idleness is boredom. As if, as soon as it is unoccupied, the living being becomes aware of its condition as an inexplicable, unexplained creature whose existence seems void of all usefulness as well as of any reasonable motive. The animal’s boredom, even more than ours, takes on a meaning of utter futility, and against so vast a tedium the animal has but one remedy: sleep.

Twenty times a day Sylva would yawn her head off, like a dog who has been shut up, and with the same long, plaintive whine. Like a dog, she would curl up and fall asleep for ten minutes, a quarter of an hour. No sooner did she wake than she would start to prowl about, seeking to play. If Nanny and I were engaged elsewhere, she would hunt: her favorite plaything was an upholstered stool. Small and round, it rolled between her hands like a ball of wool worried by a cat. She would amuse herself chasing it, then tire of it, have a go at a chair for a change, and had thus broken two or three. I marveled that she never hurt herself in the course of these games, however much she fell with her prey. She would break the chair but never incur so much as a bruise herself.

When I was about and in a mood to join in, she preferred to play with me. I was more amusing than a chair although the game did not vary: a sham fight. I was much stronger than she, but she was much nimbler, and it was not always deliberately that I let her get the better of me. She would then playfully snap at my ear, my throat. I could not let the game go on for too long: to grapple with a pretty girl in light attire is not the best way to keep one’s self-control, even if one knows she is only a fox. I would push her back a little roughly; she did not take it amiss but simply remained motionless, gazing at me out of her cold and fixed onyx eyes, then she would yawn, whine, and go to sleep.

It was during one of those sessions that I grasped the opportunity to slip my belt around her waist. It is not easy to close a buckle singlehanded, but I was just about to manage it all the same when she realized what was happening. She tried to escape but the buckle held fast. I thought she would kill herself, so much did she struggle, but the chain was solid, the bed heavy and, though at the end of this hurricane, frantic capers, somersaults and jerks fit to strangle her waist, the bed had landed all askew at the other end of the room, Sylva, for her part, found herself lying on the ground, exhausted and breathless as on the day of the hunt after the hounds had pursued her.

I turned this momentary calm to account by opening wide the door and windows, carrying the mattress and bedding out into the sunshine, spreading the carpet and counterpane on the lawn. Several times during this house-cleaning, Sylva renewed her struggle, but in vain. To undo the buckle was too difficult for her. When the odor was dispelled I closed the door and windows and released her: that is, I unbuckled the chain but left her with the belt, well aware that I would never be able to slip it on her a second time. Whereas to snap the hook on the buckle would only require speed and stealth.

Meanwhile, I had quite a fight merely to unfasten the chain, for she was still mad with fright and fury and completely beside herself. I was fiercely bitten. When at last I had managed it, she jerked away to escape and huddled in her favorite corner, as in the early days, between the wall and the small bow-fronted chest, where she stayed on the alert, watching me with the tense expression she used to have. I locked the chain away in a drawer, pulled the bed back into place, put everything in order and left the room to give my vixen time to calm down.

During the rest of the day she refused all nourishment. The next day she accepted it, but from afar, and went off to eat it under the bed. She seemed to have lost the few words she knew, and they came back to her only very slowly with her returning calm.