Ilsa

by L'Engle, Madeleine;

  I had an idea that he refrained from punishing me, not because of the fire, or because I was usually obedient, but because he wanted to find out something, though I couldn’t think what.

  “Oh, yes, Papa,” I answered.

  “Did they say anything to you about the family? About your mother or any of us?”

  “No, Papa.” I knew I must not tell him that Ilsa had called us biggety, or that Dr. Brandes had used a rather angrily bitter tone whenever he mentioned our name.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Dr, Brandes said nothing about anyone in the family?” he insisted.

  “No, Papa. Why?”

  “No reason. We knew him slightly at one time. Never socially.”

  “Why not?”

  Papa pretended not to hear me. With the silver tip of his cane he pointed to an imposing Civil War monument. I sighed with fatigue.

  “Are you tired?” Papa asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “We are all tired and overwrought,” Papa said. “Let us turn back.”

  We returned to the hotel. I stood in the center of the lobby while Papa went over to the desk to get the key.

  The lobby was tiled with black and white in octagonal patterns; the only color was from somber pots of palms. It seemed immensely high because it was built like a court, with balconies on four sides, going up for five stories. At the very top was a kind of skylight of stained glass, but it was so far away that the colored design gave no warmth.

  Papa came back with the key and we went over to the stairway. As we started up I finally blurted out:

  “Papa, is Ilsa a bastard?”

  His face turned white with anger. “Henry!” he said. I knew I was in for a whipping anyhow now, so I pressed on.

  “Is she?”

  “Never let me hear you use that word again.”

  “But is she, Papa?”

  “Henry, you are not to say another word until morning. If I should tell your mother what you have just said, she would Wash your mouth out with soap, but I would not use such a word in the presence of a lady. Where did you pick it up?”

  I shut my mouth tightly and looked down at my feet. My cousin Monty often used that word, along with similar words he had picked up from my uncle.

  Papa took my hand and pulled me roughly up the stairs, jerking me down the long cream-colored corridor, past innumerable dark brown doors, into his room, where he ordered me to pull down my trousers.

  As I fastened my belt again, standing first on one leg, then on the other until the stinging pain subsided, Papa said, “Dr. Brandes and his wife were married by the church, as are any man and wife. Ilsa was born eleven months afterward. She was both conceived and born in wedlock. Her mother died a few hours after she was born.”

  Papa had given me a talking to about the facts of life the winter before. Monty had told me a good deal more. So that guess about Ilsa had been wrong.

  7

  I climbed into bed. We were on the second floor, and light from a street lamp outside came in the window and poured over my bed. There were noises. Many more noises than I heard from my bedroom overlooking the river at home. A clock striking the half-hour. People passing on the street below, laughing. Somewhere in the distance a woman singing. The clang of a fire engine.

  As I heard its nervous bell I was overwhelmed with fear that perhaps Savannah, too, would be burned; but the fire engine passed into the dark distance, there was no glare in the sky, no horrible smell of burning homes. I lay down again—on my stomach because of the tingling on my bottom. When Papa spanked, he spanked.

  And then, suddenly, I was flooded with the most overwhelming waves of homesickness I had ever known. Not homesickness for the destroyed town, or our lost, white-pillared house, or my small mahogany spool bed that was no more; but waves of homesickness for a coquina and cypress house set far back on the dunes, for a bare room furnished in unpainted pine, for Ilsa’s authoritative voice, and Dr. Brandes’ quiet one, and Ira’s cross one. I wanted to weep with an agony of longing for a place and for people I had never seen or known a few short days ago.

  I pulled the covers over my head to try and hide even from myself the hot tears that coursed down my cheeks.

  8

  It was late Saturday afternoon when we got to Charleston. We were to stay in a brick house a block away from the Battery, the home of an ancient cousin of Papa’s, a Miss Eustacia Porcher. She was bedridden, and after we had gone up to her room and paid our respects to her as she lay in her huge canopied bed, we were warned that we must always be very quiet so as not to disturb our Cousin Eustacia who had so kindly opened her home to us.

  Silver and I were so tired that we were given milk toast and put to bed at once. Papa announced that we were to be allowed to sleep late the next morning and would be excused from church. He clasped his hands behind him as he said this, and stared up at the ceiling in the way he always did when he knew that what he was going to say would get an unpleasant reaction from Mamma, and a reaction that he intended to ignore. Mamma looked odd, but she didn’t say anything, and Papa took her out to inspect the garden. I was certain that it wasn’t only because he knew Silver and I were tired, and he wanted us to sleep, that he was excusing us from church in the morning.

  Whatever the reason was, I was delighted. I hated church. Silver was not so pleased. All her dolls had been burned and she would have nothing to do. And she rather enjoyed being dressed in her best clothes, which had also been burned (perhaps that was why Papa didn’t want us to go to church), and sitting beside Mamma in the pew, wearing her own small white kid gloves and holding her own prayer book bound in pale blue leather. Mamma would sing the hymns in her high, thin voice which managed, somehow, to be very piercing and loud, and was the most uninhibited thing about her, and which Silver did her best to imitate:

  Art thou weary, art thou languid,

  Art thou sore distress’d?

  Papa and I would mumble inaudibly while Mamma’s and Silver’s voices rose in thin high curls of sound up to the cold arches of stone above our heads.

  I woke up before Silver the next morning. Mamma and Papa had already left for church when I went downstairs, and a very ancient colored butler, in a white coat so starched that it stood out around him and made him seem twice as large as he was, gave me breakfast. He was so solemn as he hovered over me and served me with waffles and cane syrup that I didn’t dare speak to him or eat as much as I would have liked. I left the dining room as quickly as possible, feeling lost at the huge oval table; the room was so dark that the only things visible seemed to be the white coat of the butler and the eyes of the portraits staring down at me from the walls. Their eyes followed me as I slid down from my chair, and it made me uneasy; I felt that I was being pursued, spied on, and the fact that all the eyes belonged to people who were, or had been, my kin, didn’t make me feel any better.

  I wandered upstairs. It was almost as dark on the stairway as it had been in the dining room, and I kept stumbling as I reached sudden wide stairs and false landings.

  From Cousin Eustacia’s room came the sound of singing. I edged along the dark, paneled corridor and peered in through the door, which was ajar. Cousin Eustacia was sitting up in bed, propped by dozens of pillows, and she was singing Ira’s Napoleon song.

  “‘For like thine own eagle that soared to the sun,’” she sang, and her voice soared with the eagle and cracked in its flight. I edged into the room, gaining courage from the song.

  Although she was turned away from the door, and I had made no noise, she broke off suddenly. “Well, who have we here?”

  “It’s me,” I whispered.

  “Who is me? Speak up, child. Don’t be a lally gag.”

  “Henry.”

  “Henry what?”

  “Henry Randolph Porcher. Papa said we were going to be with you till our new house is built and we weren’t to disturb you.”

  “So the first thing you do is disturb me
.”

  “No, I—I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just liked the song you were singing. The Napoleon song.”

  This seemed to please her. “Well, come in, come in,” she said. “Have you no backbone? Either come in and disturb me properly, as I can see you want to do, or stay out and leave me in peace.”

  I took a few steps into the room.

  “Now close the door so that we shan’t be bothered.”

  I shut the door and looked around me. It had been too dark the night before to see anything but a huge canopied bed and a thin figure erect against a white mountain of pillows. Now, in the sunlight that filtered through the rattan blinds, I realized that it was the strangest room I had ever seen. The walls were painted with cypress trees growing out of black water. Flamingos gleamed scarlet through the trees; alligators raised their heads and showed half-opened, jeweled eyes; a panther poised, ready to spring. On one wall there was even a sea cow painted with her baby. The ceiling was a continuation of the scene—a dark, star-cluttered sky showing purple between the branches of trees. The floor was covered with a heavy brown-black carpet, the color of water where cypress grows. The curtains of the bed were the dark purple of the sky.

  I must have looked very foolish as I stared around me, my mouth hanging open and my eyes protruding; because Cousin Eustacia burst into a discordant squawk of laughter.

  “Do you like it, or do you agree with William in thinking it’s horrible? Come now, be honest. Tell me the truth. Yes or no?”

  “Oh, I think it’s wonderful!” I gasped with complete truthfulness.

  “Painted it all myself,” Cousin Eustacia said.

  “You did, Cousin Eustacia?” I was completely lost in admiration.

  “Every last stroke. Took me ten years. Finished two years, seven months, eleven days ago. Can you imagine? Got into bed the day I finished and haven’t been out of it since. Now that you’ve looked around, come over here and let me look at you.”

  Although Cousin Eustacia had comoletely won my respect with her painting, I was afraid of her. I went up to the bed very slowly, trying to down a sudden fantastic idea that she was going to grab me and smother me in those dusty purple hangings.

  “Come, come, come,” she said. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I peered around the purple hangings and she reached out and clutched my arm. “Hey! Listen! Do you hear footsteps?”

  I strained my ears to hear over the heavy beating of my heart, and it seemed to me that there was a sound of footsteps coming toward us down the long corridor.

  “Yes, ma’am, I think so.”

  “Get up onto the bed,” she ordered.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Get up onto the bed, quick!”

  I didn’t dare disobey. My heart almost bursting out of me with terror, I clambered up onto the high bed and sank deep and helpless into the feather mattress as Cousin Eustacia pulled a long gold cord and the purple velvet hangings closed noisily about us. We were in unrelieved blackness. Not a speck of light could come through those smothering folds of velvet. I could scarcely hear over the frantic beating of my heart.

  “It’s my nurse,” Cousin Eustacia whispered. “I don’t want her to disturb us. She’s a dreadful creature. Always wears a white dress and cap and white shoes and stockings. Can you imagine? Born in Ireland, too. Impossible. Can’t understand a word she says.”

  We heard the door being pushed open. “Go away!” Cousin Eustacia shrieked. “It’s Sunday, and I’m praying! Leave me alone!”

  A soft, not unpleasant voice, called back, “You’ll ring, then, if you’re wanting me?”

  “Yes. Now go away! Go to church and beg God to forgive you your sins.”

  After a moment we heard the door close and footsteps retreating down the long corridor. Cousin Eustacia leaned over me, pressing her sharp elbow into my stomach, and stuck her head out of the curtains. Then she fell back against the pillows again, reached out and pulled the cord, and the curtains rolled back. I took a great breath.

  “There!” Cousin Eustacia said. She reached among the smothering purple folds and brought up a bottle. Pulling out the cork, she put the bottle to her mouth, threw back her head, took a long swallow, and let out a sigh of satisfaction. As she replaced the bottle, she said, “I am very angry at your father. He sent me a telegram, and I dislike telegrams. Wanted me to take a house near here for him. Can you imagine? Naturally, I did no such thing; I told him to come here. Though why I say naturally I’m sure I don’t know, because it’s most unnatural. But kin is kin, and as I never leave my bed, I don’t have to see you if I don’t want to. And I like hearing people in a house. Houses resent not being lived in. I hear your mother’s gone to church. Can you imagine?”

  “Yes,” I answered stupidly.

  “She’s a bigger fool than I thought she was.”

  “But we always go to church on Sunday,” I said, surprised.

  “Not to this church. But your mother always liked wearing the hair shirt. No doubt she thinks she’s being very noble and forgiving, though I imagine William will see it in a different light. I’m very fond of little old William.”

  “Who is William?”

  “Oh, more kin,” Cousin Eustacia said. “So they’ve never mentioned him to you? Well, you’ll probably hear of him soon enough, if I know William. Now tell me all about the family. I’ll get more truth from a child than I would from either of your egregious parents. I can’t bear your mother. Never could. Your father’s a weak fool, but he’s all right. I shall leave him my money. Can you imagine? How is your mother’s brother? Always detested him.”

  This cemented my feeling of affection for my cousin. “He’s just like he always is,” I said. “I don’t like Uncle Montgomery, either. But I hate Monty.”

  “Who’s Monty?”

  “My cousin.”

  “Oh, yes. One of Montgomery’s twins. You’d think one would be more than enough of him to send into the world at a time. But no. It would have to be twins. Can you imagine? No doubt if his wife had lived he’d have sent nineteen children into the world instead of three. How is the girl? Violetta, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. She’s very pretty, but I don’t like her.”

  “Why?”

  “She—she sort of smothers people,” I said, thinking more of Cousin Eustacia than of my answer. She seemed very unlike the prim old lady I had bowed to the evening before. It never occurred to me to connect the bottle she kept hidden in the draperies, or her heavy exciting breath, with this new personality.

  “So Violetta is smothering, hey?” Cousin Eustacia said. “She would be, if she’s anything like her mother. Not like your father’s sister Violetta, then?”

  “I never knew Aunt Violetta,” I said.

  “Then get down on your knees and thank God,” Cousin Eustacia exclaimed. “Violetta was a horror. Always wore violet. Can you imagine? With a name like that. She and your mother were a pair. Your Aunt Violetta was like your mother, only more so. Can you imagine? You’d have thought they were sisters. How’s Montgomery’s other boy? Edwin.”

  “Oh, Eddie’s all right. He’s smaller than I am, even if he is older than Silver, but he’s nice. He never bends your arm back or anything.”

  She peered forward at me. “Hah. Yes. Can see you’re the kind who’d have his arm twisted, rather than do the twisting. But you’re a handsome child. Though I never much cottoned to brown eyes and fair hair. See much of your Cousin Anna?”

  “Oh, we always see a lot of everybody. I mean, us, and Uncle Montgomery’s family, and Cousin Anna and Cousin Randolph, and Dolph. Cousin Anna’s my favorite kin.”

  “You have very good taste for such a pretty little face and such vague big eyes. Does Anna still play her harp?”

  “Not often.”

  “That’s a crime,” Cousin Eustacia said. “Your sister—what is that heathenish name you call her—Silver?—has more spine than you have. I’m right, aren’t I, hey? Though she’s not as much like Elizabeth as
she looks. Can you imagine your mother and Montgomery Woolf having a sister like Elizabeth?”

  “I never knew Aunt Elizabeth, either,” I said. I was beginning to be heavy with sleep. The windows were all tight shut and the curtains were stifling. Perspiration trickled down my back. Cousin Eustacia kept leaning forward and breathing her dark restless breath into my face to emphasize her words. I stood by the bed, not daring to take a step away, staring at Cousin Eustacia lying like an animated stick of wood against the pillows, the purple curtains pressing close about us, the cypress trees and the dark water seeming to bear in on us from the walls, the dark branches and the night sky sagging down on us from the ceiling.

  “Your Aunt Elizabeth and your Cousin Anna were the only ones I could ever endure, but kin is kin, and that is why you’re here,” she said. “I’m tired of you now. Go away. Don’t come back again unless I send for you.”

  Without waiting for me to step back from the bed, she pulled the cord and purple velvet swept about her, leaving me to choke in dust. I hurried out of the room.

  Silver was looking for me. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “Oh, nowhere,” I said.

  We sat on the stairs to wait until Mamma and Papa got back from church.

  “Cousin Eustacia reminds me of Miss Turnbull,” I said.

  “Of whom?”

  “My teacher.” I began to hum my song, the one Miss Turnbull had sung. “O, where have you been wandering, King Henry, my son?”

  Although Silver was much more reserved about her own affairs than I, she was very curious about other people, especially her own family, so I wasn’t surprised when she began talking, about Ilsa, first of all asking me if I liked her.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Mamma doesn’t.”

  “Mama never saw her before she came to our house last night.”

  “Mamma doesn’t like her father.”

  “What about her father?”

  “That’s what I wondered. I thought maybe she’d told you something.”

  “Who, Mamma?”

  “No, goosey. That Ilsa. Mamma wouldn’t tell you anything.”