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PARTISAN REVIEW
III somewhere, Mademoiselle festered.
They were all sober people-(the grandmother, aunt, uncle,
the boy's mother, the girl's parents) people who had lived through a
lot-some in Soviet Russia , some in the White Army, all in emigra–
tion, and most important of all-they were people with that
wounded pride by which exiles can be recognized, people who had
devoted their lives to their children, substituting their children's
future (and what a future it would be!) for their own failed,
overstrained present, people of time (the eternal lack of it) and for
this reason-in
every way-merciless
with children's time, people
who monitored children's time . And this time-thicker than water,
a child's time-was passing, and the children, not without a bit of
confusion-for they were good children-idled about, relatively
speaking, of course-especially in the case of the girl who looked
after her little brother and for whom lessons were a rest. Lessons
were repeated and forgotten once again, books were laid out and
again fitted onto shelves . Mademoiselle wasn't coming.
The house relaxed somehow, softened, no one-within the
limits of the house-hurried to do anything. Put the milk out,
because Mademoiselle will come . . .. Clear the table, because
Mademoiselle will come.... You ought to wash your hair, but
Mademoiselle will be here any minute.... Bring some coal up
from the cellar, or else Mademoiselle will come and.. ..
The house was cold, only two rooms were heated-and
Mademoiselle rearranged everything with her comings . If this is the
classroom, then that is the dining room, and the sewing room is
somewhere else and so on. But even this nomadic existence passed .
It gradually became clear that tiny unheard and unseen
Mademoiselle (she used to come up the back stairs quietly
and-often, "Has Mademoiselle been?" "Yes, she's already left.")
was the backbone and mover of this big, complex coexistence of two
families, of this willful-for it was, after all, Russian-household.
What did these people who had placed all their hopes in their
children do? Six adults in all. Nothing at all. "We have to write to
Mademoiselle . " -At first assertively, then more and more ques–
tioningly, more knowing that it would never be done. More futilely .
Hopelessly. Mademoiselle hadn't gone away, she'd gone astray. She
hadn't gone astray , but vanished.
The first to say it, it seems, was the girl's mother-but as a rid–
dle . It happened this way . The girl's mother was taking a knife out
of the cabinet (one of two knives) and was standing with her back to
