Sophie and the Sibyl by Patricia Duncker

illness and cloves. The Sibyl gazed at Max, the marvellous grey-blue eyes filled with beseeching tenderness and anxiety.
    ‘George wondered if you would be so kind as to escort me round the park. He is sure to be better tomorrow and is convinced that my headache will reappear if we sit here with the windows closed.’
    ‘Give Polly a run in the sunshine, won’t you, Max, there’s a splendid chap,’ croaked the scientist, suspended over the fumes. ‘And fight off the English. We’ve already turned away Lady Castletown this morning, and her daughter Mrs. Wingfield, who pours forth confidences to Polly. The English are kind and convivial, but also very wearing. Polly needs a brisk canter à pied and a dose of fresh air, or she’ll buckle under the strain.’ Lewes vanished again beneath the towel and the steam mounted around him as if he were sniffing hell-fire, well in advance of his appointed time. Max assented politely to every suggestion.
    Here she was, the Sibyl, in bonnet and cape, neatly packaged with gloves and shawl, ready to step out through the wilder reaches of the park, beyond the prying eyes of the English guests at the Hessischer Hof, with Max as her guardian knight. The lady set a cracking pace. Max realised, in some alarm, that his charming promenades as a flâneur , through Berlin’s welter of amusements, did not equip him to pound down damp paths beside the Sibyl, who leaped bare roots like a champion racehorse, engaged on winning a steeplechase. They strode purposefully away towards the pine forests, carried on a light wind, beneath the reddening leaves. At first their speed permitted no more than sparse conversation and the occasional observation, but once they reached a safe distance well beyond the morning crowds circling the bandstand and the pavilion, the Sibyl slackened to a steady little trot and accepted his arm with a grateful inclination of her huge white forehead. The disordered bonnet slipped back a little, revealing a thick mane of chestnut streaked with grey. Max immediately felt embarrassed and intimidated by this unlooked-for tête-à-tête. The great trees around them blew leaves of many colours, as varied as Joseph’s coat, across their path. He kept an eye out for brambles snatching at her shawl, and lurking murky puddles, for the path, less frequented here in the outer reaches of the park, roughened and dipped. But the Sibyl knew where she was going. Her gentle pressure on his arm guided him on to woodland trails, unvisited. They startled a hare on the edge of a meadow, which leaped away into the undergrowth, ears flattened. The path now rose upwards and they began to climb. The trees thickened and darkened, the way before them flecked with sunlight.
    ‘I feel so peaceful here,’ remarked the Sibyl, scraping mud from her boot on a dead branch. The earth peeled off in one piece like the shavings from an orange. ‘We never meet anyone.’
    Max bowed, terrified of small talk. He felt sure she had already notched him off as insincere and stupid.
    ‘I came out here to meditate the Finale to Middlemarch .’
    Now he had to say something.
    ‘Your readers will be both grateful and distraught, Madame. For every ending is both a resolution and a parting. Especially for those who have followed you through this long and enthralling year. Your characters have become living people to so many of your readers, who fear for their final destinies.’
    He thought of Sophie’s putative endings, and remembered that she found none satisfactory. Suddenly the end of the story mattered more than anything else. He longed to hand his bride both the pawned necklace and a happy ending. But the Sibyl stepped ahead of him.
    ‘Conclusions are the weak point of most authors, but some of the fault lies in the very nature of a conclusion, which is at best a negation.’
    Max did not understand her. He adopted an exceedingly grave expression, and navigated a wrinkle in the mud with exaggerated care for his