Sophie and Satan •
HAVE before me as I write . . .' The old formula is 1 obsolete, Equally serviceable to the narrator of actual or of imagined events. it stood generations of writers in good stead. By the former it was generally deployed in the last chapter; he had before him as he wrote the vicious assegai- head extracted from the vitals of his charger after she had carried him safely through the embattled impis, or the silver- framed photograph of the Archduchess whom he would never—at any rate 'in this imperfect world'—see again. The revelation that this objet had a place upon his desk was often followed by a sentence which began 'And sometimes even now . . .' and which it would be kinder not to attempt to reconstruct.
What the novelist (or rather his first-person-singular narra- tor) had before him as he wrote was normally an agent of suspense. The faded chart, the ace of diamonds with a bullet- hole through the middle, the silver-mounted quirt, the green eye of the little yellow ,god--to what strange events (we were invited to wonder) could this bric-a-brac furnish memorials? We cantered into Chapter 1 with pricked ears, moving nicely.
The miscellany of things which writers had before them as they wrote was immensely varied, and the things had only one characteristic in common. They were all a help to the writer. His purpose in mentioning them was to heighten our interest in his narrative; and in this he generally succeeded. Like mem- bers of a jury who are directed to examine Exhibit A, an old boot, we felt our interest quicken; everything (even if it was a dull case) became more real, more actual. And, finally, none of the things that writers had before them gave them any trouble. Occasionally they pretended that these objects in- duced (`even now') an involuntary shudder or a misting of the eyes; but their more hard-boiled readers put this down to some form of poetic, licence.
* • * * Well, I have before me as I write (or at least I have in the hare-pocket of the once valuable coat I am wearing) two fox cubs; and since I began to write this article there has scarcely been a moment when I would not have seriously considered exchanging them for a photograph of an Archduchess whom I should never see again. Never mind about the silver frame. Fox cubs arc not among the recommended aids to literary composition. I take them out and put them on the floor, Sophie's first instinct is to get behind or underneath something; she likes to size up the situation from a place of concealment before setting out on a tour of inspection. Satan, realising perhaps that there is not much point in his trying to carry out all the tactics laid down in the drill-book, limps straight off to whatever interests him most—my shoe, or the recumbent Labrador, or a turned- up corner of the carpet. Sophie is capable of a sort of darting boldness, but Satan seems to be without fear. The dogs treat them much as they treat kittens (or as schoolboys treat the small sisters of their contemporaries), with vague and rather baffled amiability.
They both, rather to my surprise, wag their tails. They did so like mad when, from behind the wire-netting of their out- door residence, they first saw the Siamese cat approaching across the lawn; and I am rather afraid they must have taken him, momentarily, for their Mum. I soon learnt that it was no good giving them their bread and milk in one saucer. Sophie proceeded to hog the lot, and although Satan got her by the tail and tried to drag her away, he never stood a chance. Except at meal times, they give the impression of being rather fond of one another.
My daughters wprked out yesterday that we had had, in their short lifetime, 104 pets of various kinds. Admittedly this startling total includes various items (such as gold-fish, and carrier pigeons which only dropped in for a few days) which I maintain do not really count; also I suspect that they added it up wrong. I do nevertheless admit that my house is rather more animal-prone than most, and that very few of the wild creatures to whom it has given shelter have lived to a ripe old age. (A particularly sad fate was reserved for the dormouse which escaped, met a watery grave in the downstairs lavatory, and was fed to the then-resident owl.) It would be rash to prophesy what will become of Sophie and Satan. How long will the Welfare State in which they now live endure? How long will they go on finding it to their liking? Only time can answer these questions. Meanwhile, they have taught me several things which,' did not know last Friday, have given several children a wondering sort of pleasure, and arc now, I see, fast asleep. Perhaps the reader is, too.
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