Danielle

Daniel's life and fortune took a wild turn. The husband's business had a traumatic set-back, and the shock led to a heart seizure and death. Although she and the daughter were quite well provided for, she was no longer able to make a meaningful connection to the past, and looked for a way out of life's consolations. Her internal fragmentation made her more and more convinced of the necessity for change. France had become oppressive, and Daniel bought a little cottage at Oxford, on Beaumont Street, where she planted a whole bed of roses known by her name, and kept herself busy at the bookshops, Ashmolean, or attending shows at the Playhouse. She even published a slim volume of poems which Edmond had written for her. It was a cold land that her decision for solitude led her to, a land diversified by rain and frost and loneliness stretched out in the bleakness of the landscape.

The other day she beckoned me from my walk and invited me again to tea. Pouring out the second cup, she said, "I can't imagine where India is, and you could well be extraterrestrial. That explains some affinities I am beginning to have with you, and this encourages me to think of Alissa in Andre Gide's La Porte etroite, and to tell you that I feel my past comes to an end here; I see nothing beyond; my life stops...."

The next Sunday's Oxford Times had a little obituary note.