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blasphemies. It made me ill, and I used to hit myself as a punishment.
    'Another memory comes back. Tantlérie had told me that the sin against the Holy Ghost was the worst of all. So sometimes when I was in bed at night I couldn't resist the temptation of whispering: "I do sin against the Holy Ghost, I do!" Of course, I had no idea what it meant. But immediately afterwards I'd feel really scared and hide under the bedclothes, and tell the Holy Ghost that I'd only said it for ajoke.
    'Poor Tantlérie had no idea of all the anguish she caused Éliane and me. For example, she believed she was acting in our best spiritual interests by talking to us frequently about death, in order to prepare us for the only thing that mattered: life eternal. We couldn't have been more than ten or eleven when she was already reading us stories about model children expiring, their faces alight, with heavenly voices in their ears, going to their death rejoicing. Result: nervous wrecks, both my sister and me. I remember how terrified we were once when we read the text for the following Sunday in a Bible calendar: "Thou shalt die and be hid in the Lord." One of our little Armiot cousins had invited Éliane and me to tea for that Sunday, so I told her we weren't certain we'd be able to come because we might be hid in God instead. Ever since, though I suppose I haven't really lost my faith, I've always hated hymns, especially the one that begins: "In the land of eternal glory". I always feel miserable when I hear the assembled congregation sing it in church with the false joy and sickly exaltation with which they convince themselves they'd be only too glad to die, though in reality they ring up the doctor at the slightest scratch for him to come and make it better.
    'More memories, scribble them down higgledy-piggledy, so I won't forget. I'll pad them out in the novel. Tantlérie, working at her embroidery on her tambour after morning and evening service. At church, we would often finish with the hymn "As pants the hart", which always gave me the giggles which I covered up. But Tantlérie did a lot of praying in her boudoir by herself, thrice daily and always at the same times, and we had to be ever so careful not to disturb her. Once I spied on her through the keyhole. She was on her knees with her head bowed and her eyes shut. Suddenly she smiled: it was a strange, wonderful smile, and it made a great impression on me. Also say somewhere that she wouldn't have anything to do with doctors, not even Uncle Gri. She believed in the healing power of prayer. When talking about her fear of the carnal, which I referred to earlier, mention the towels in her bathroom. She had different ones for different parts of her body. The one she used for her middle could never be used for her face. The unconscious fear of sin, the separation of sacred and profane. But no, I shan't say anything about the towel business in the novel; I wouldn't want to run the risk that people might laugh at her. I forgot to say she never read a novel in her life, for the same reason: she detested lies.
    'Here I'll make a start on the telegrammese. After death of Jacques and Éliane, just Tantlérie and me at the villa, with Uncle Gri gone off to Africa as a medical missionary. My religious neurasthenia. I didn't believe any more or at least thought I didn't. That was called "the spirit drying up" in our circles. I decided to do an arts degree. At University, I met Varvara Ivanovna, a young Russian emigree, shrewd and very bright. We soon became friends. I thought she was very beautiful. I loved kissing her hands, her pink palms, her thick hair. I thought about her all the time. In short, it was love.
    'Tantlérie unhappy about our friendship. "A Russian! Tsk! I ask you!" (The "ask" very long and drawn out, like steam escaping.) She wouldn't let me introduce Varvara to her but didn't forbid me to go on seeing her, which was a lot. But one day the police came round asking questions about a