delicate fabrics and the heavy ones is a slow process, but enjoyable. At last a shimmering froth of sheer garments is piled on the chair along with all sorts of stockings and underthings, all so light they can be picked up with one hand; she takes them to Christine’s room. To her surprise the door swings open when she pushes on it. At first she thinks the room is empty. The window is wide open, looking straight out onto the countryside; there’s no one in the chairs, no one at the desk. She goes to put the clothes down on one of the chairs and finds Christine asleep on the sofa. The unaccustomed glasses of wine have gone to her head; her uncle had poured her one after another—all in good fun—as she drained them quickly, not knowing what else to do. She’d intended just to sit down and think things over, get everything straight in her mind, but then drowsiness had gently laid her head on the cushions.
The helplessness of a sleeper is always either moving or slightly ridiculous to other people. As Christine’s aunt tiptoes closer, she is moved. In her sleep the frightened girl has drawn her arms over her chest, as though to protect herself. This simple gesture is touching, childish, as is the half-open, almost frightened mouth; the eyebrows too are somewhat raised, as though she’s in the grip of a dream. Even in her sleep, her aunt thinks with sudden clear-sightedness, even in her sleep she’s afraid. And how pale her lips are, how colorless her gums, how pasty her complexion, although the sleeping face is still young and childish. Probably poorly nourished, overtaxed fromhaving to go to work at an early age, tired out, worn down, and not even twenty-eight. Poor girl! Christine’s unconscious self-revelation in her sleep suddenly makes Mrs. van Boolen feel almost ashamed. Disgraceful of us, really. So tired, so poor, so worried to death—they needed help and we should have given it to them a long time ago. Back there you’re wrapped up in a dozen charitable causes, you’re giving charity teas, making Christmas donations, you don’t even know who they go to, and your own sister, your closest relative, for all these years you’ve forgotten her, yet you could have worked wonders with a few hundred dollars. Yes, she might have written, reminded me—always that foolish pride of the poor, that unwillingness to ask! Fortunately now at least we can help out and give this pale quiet girl a little happiness. Moved once more, she doesn’t know why, she goes back to the strangely dreamy profile. Is it her own image as seen in a mirror long ago? Is she remembering an early photo of her mother in a narrow gold frame that hung over her bed as a child, or her own loneliness in the boardinghouse? In any event she’s unexpectedly overcome with tenderness. And tenderly, gently, she strokes the sleeper’s blond hair.
Christine is instantly awake. Taking care of her mother has accustomed her to being alert at the slightest touch. “Am I late already?” she stammers guiltily. All office workers are afraid of being late for work. For years she’s gone to sleep afraid and awakened afraid at the first blast from the alarm clock. The first thing she does is check the time: “I’m not too late, am I?” The day always begins with fear of having neglected some responsibility.
“But child, why panic?” her aunt says soothingly. “We have time coming out our ears here, we don’t know what to do with it all. Take it easy if you’re still tired. Of course I don’t want to disturb you, I was just bringing some clothes for you to look at, maybe it would be fun for you to wear some of these things while you’re here. I brought so much from Paris, it’s just fillingup my trunk, so I thought it would be better if you wore a few things for me.”
Christine feels herself flushing, down to her chest. So she’d been disgracing them from the moment they saw her—no doubt her aunt and uncle were both ashamed on her account. But
The helplessness of a sleeper is always either moving or slightly ridiculous to other people. As Christine’s aunt tiptoes closer, she is moved. In her sleep the frightened girl has drawn her arms over her chest, as though to protect herself. This simple gesture is touching, childish, as is the half-open, almost frightened mouth; the eyebrows too are somewhat raised, as though she’s in the grip of a dream. Even in her sleep, her aunt thinks with sudden clear-sightedness, even in her sleep she’s afraid. And how pale her lips are, how colorless her gums, how pasty her complexion, although the sleeping face is still young and childish. Probably poorly nourished, overtaxed fromhaving to go to work at an early age, tired out, worn down, and not even twenty-eight. Poor girl! Christine’s unconscious self-revelation in her sleep suddenly makes Mrs. van Boolen feel almost ashamed. Disgraceful of us, really. So tired, so poor, so worried to death—they needed help and we should have given it to them a long time ago. Back there you’re wrapped up in a dozen charitable causes, you’re giving charity teas, making Christmas donations, you don’t even know who they go to, and your own sister, your closest relative, for all these years you’ve forgotten her, yet you could have worked wonders with a few hundred dollars. Yes, she might have written, reminded me—always that foolish pride of the poor, that unwillingness to ask! Fortunately now at least we can help out and give this pale quiet girl a little happiness. Moved once more, she doesn’t know why, she goes back to the strangely dreamy profile. Is it her own image as seen in a mirror long ago? Is she remembering an early photo of her mother in a narrow gold frame that hung over her bed as a child, or her own loneliness in the boardinghouse? In any event she’s unexpectedly overcome with tenderness. And tenderly, gently, she strokes the sleeper’s blond hair.
Christine is instantly awake. Taking care of her mother has accustomed her to being alert at the slightest touch. “Am I late already?” she stammers guiltily. All office workers are afraid of being late for work. For years she’s gone to sleep afraid and awakened afraid at the first blast from the alarm clock. The first thing she does is check the time: “I’m not too late, am I?” The day always begins with fear of having neglected some responsibility.
“But child, why panic?” her aunt says soothingly. “We have time coming out our ears here, we don’t know what to do with it all. Take it easy if you’re still tired. Of course I don’t want to disturb you, I was just bringing some clothes for you to look at, maybe it would be fun for you to wear some of these things while you’re here. I brought so much from Paris, it’s just fillingup my trunk, so I thought it would be better if you wore a few things for me.”
Christine feels herself flushing, down to her chest. So she’d been disgracing them from the moment they saw her—no doubt her aunt and uncle were both ashamed on her account. But
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