Every morning he went off hunting; and every morning, from the drawing-room window, she watched him disappear into the fields along with the little Scottie dog. Occasionally, she would open the window to call him back and remind him of something. On other occasions, when he had forgotten something, for instance, his knife – which happened not infrequently – she would hold up the missing object, waving her arms, and the dog would run up and carry it off in its mouth. Anyway, nothing more exciting than that happened; for such appearances, and no more, were what the servants and the gardeners could observe on any day of the week.

Later, I also found out that the pair of them never made plans of any sort for the future, and often asked themselves what the next day would bring. In the autumn, the mist rose early on the river. Along the country roads, already hard with frost, there was no one to be seen. Sometimes the only sign of life was the flight of a wild duck; or else, at dusk, a child lazily wending his way home with a goat. It was therefore natural that in the late afternoon or evening their conversations were prolonged and frequent. But all those conversations bore upon the past. She could only feel truly sure of him when she had succeeded in conquering the entirety of his past.

Once, when suddenly they had almost been without light due to a violent storm that broke over their fields, she asked him, among other things, about his old love affairs. The request was so natural that he didn’t even realize how very natural it was. That evening they talked to each other at great length; and when the maid knocked to bring them light, she was told to return later.

For all that, however, she never became a personage; nor a legend, which is so easy to do in the country. She was ever lively, understanding and spirited. So sharp, in fact, that she understood perfectly well that in their behaviour there was a touch of selfishness, and that the hostility and antipathy of the people around them was therefore reasonable.

But two days came whose effect, for a time at least, brought her back into touch with the world – despite the fact that she managed, in short order, to make those days ‘hers’: the day on which the general, together with his Scottie, left for a colonial war; and the day, seven months later, when she was apprised of his death.

It was, I recall, in September, and the newspapers announced the event in two lines.

But we learned of it only much later, accidentally, and via a misplaced vowel.

It was (sometimes banality is inevitable) a terrible blow: the more so because she found it unjust, monstrous and alien to her natural order. ‘Oh my God,’ she would say, twisting handkerchief or glove, ‘why did this have to happen to me, to me? It’s different for other people … Yes it is, different, very different.’ ‘There’s no comparison,’ she added impatiently, as though overcoming some inner objection. ‘Don’t people forget? Don’t they forget a little more every day?’ And she named names; and thought that in this, above all else, people were all alike. Nor were moments lacking in which she was convinced that she was being persecuted by something more intelligent and personal than fate itself. She tried doing ill, then doing good, but both brought her poor returns, and if finally she settled on doing only good it was because, after all, that was a lot easier.