Ilsa

by L'Engle, Madeleine;

  “Most suitable, most happy marriage,” Uncle Montgomery said. “She and Randolph will expect you to call on them as soon as your father gets his motorcar. Built their house across the river, you know. Some of our water-front property. And how do you like your new home?”

  “Oh, it’s—it’s real nice,” Silver said. “How—how’s Monty doing?”

  “Montgomery is splendid,” our uncle said. “Been working with me all summer. Hope to hand the practice over to him whenever he decides to marry and settle down. Delighted to see you and Henry. Always had great family feeling. Can’t overestimate the importance of the family. Thankful to say all three of my children have it.”

  Papa nodded.

  “Most sorry,” Uncle Montgomery said, “uh, most sorry the boys couldn’t get up to the funeral. Sorry none of the children could come. Sent Monty and Ed over to stay with Violetta and Rand. Anna offered to take them, but I didn’t want them around that girl.”

  Papa looked at Uncle Montgomery; then he turned to me. “Why don’t you and Edwin take your sister over to your cousin’s now, Henry? You can send the carriage back for me in an hour. Your uncle and I have some, ah, business to talk over.”

  Silver and I were glad enough to escape.

  My head began to thump with excitement as we climbed Cousin Anna’s low white steps. The palms of my hands were wet with cold sweat. Silver was so preoccupied with wondering where Monty was that she didn’t notice my nervousness. She wouldn’t have, anyway.

  Barbara, the girl Cousin Anna had saved from the fire, led us in. Cousin Anna’s new house, like ours, looked much the same as the old. Barbara took us through the living room and opened the French windows wide.

  “Miss Anna sitting down by the magnolia tree. I think she expecting you if you care to go out and join her. I don’t likes to ask her to come back in.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We’ll go out to her. Is—is Miss Ilsa with her?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Henry. Miss Ilsa, I think she gone out awhile back with Mr. Montgomery.” She sounded troubled.

  “Oh,” I said. “All right. Thank you, Barbara.”

  “I could have told you that,” Edwin said. “I thought you knew. They drove over to Violetta’s with some things. Pa’s mad as hops.”

  We went out the French windows and walked toward the magnolia tree at the foot of the garden. There was a wide wooden bench around it, and Cousin Anna was seated on this, leaning back against the tree, her hands lying loosely in her lap.

  “Hello, Cousin Anna,” I said. She didn’t move.

  Panic rose momentarily in my throat. When once you have discovered how indiscriminately and lightly death can strike, you expect to find it everywhere. To a boy of fifteen the knowledge that someone who has been an alive part of his life can disappear and leave no noticeable vacancy in the universe is frightening; and the unimportance of death becomes the most important thing in the world.

  “Cousin Anna!” I said again sharply, and her eyes stopped staring into spaces far beyond her garden and focused on us. “Well, Henry and Silver,” she said. “So you’ve come home. ’Evening, Edwin.”

  This was evidently one of her times when the lightest movement was too much effort. She continued to lean her head back against the tree, her hands in her lap as though they had been dropped and discarded there. “Why don’t you sit down?” she said after a while. “Ilsa’ll be back soon. I made her promise that, at least, and I’ve never known her to break a promise.”

  We sat down, silent; night was suddenly on top of us, but still no one moved and no one spoke. I stared up through the shiny dark leaves of the tree at the stars, blossoming so close it seemed as though they were clinging to the branches. Several times Silver sighed heavily and moved restlessly in her black dress; except for her small pale face and hands she was almost blotted out by the night. Cousin Anna wore a shawl with metallic threads that caught the light and shone faintly. Edwin, in his white linen suit, was the most visible of us all.

  After a long time Cousin Anna remarked dispassionately, “Well, I guess I got my come-uppance when I thought I could make things better by taking Ilsa Brandes to live with me.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer my question, but said instead, “I was Elizabeth’s best friend, you know.”

  “No. We didn’t know.”

  She seemed to remember Silver suddenly. “Well, namesake. Are you glad to be home?”

  Silver nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A little let down?” Cousin Anna asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “It must be startling to come back to the world at your age. If you can call this town the world. Are you aware that there’s a war in Europe?”

  Again Silver nodded.

  “And one we ought to be in,” Cousin Anna said; “but that’s aside from the point. Do you like your new house?”

  “It’s not as nice as the old one.”

  “Of course not. You didn’t expect it to be, did you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “How about you, Henry? Do you feel a little lost, too?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ve both grown up since I saw you last, haven’t you?”

  We nodded, staring back at the house, searching the French windows for a sign of Ilsa or Monty.

  “How are Dolph and Violetta?” Silver asked, hoping to lead the conversation around to Monty, completely unaware and careless of Eddie’s glance resting lingeringly on her.

  “They’re both still alive and comparatively healthy,” Cousin Anna said. “Violetta had a miscarriage a year after they were married and won’t be able to have any children.”

  “Oh,” Silver said, in a small shocked voice. We were not accustomed to conversation like this.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well,” Cousin Anna continued. “She’ll be perfectly happy and contented with life as it presents itself to her, at any rate.”

  Silver and I stiffened suddenly, and I turned away from Cousin Anna and back toward the house again. Someone in a light dress was coming out and walking with firm quick steps toward us.

  Cousin Anna realized that we weren’t listening, and her eyes followed ours. “Ah, here’s Ilsa,” she said.

  While Ilsa approached I felt suffocated with heat and excitement. Looking up at the night through the tree I realized that the stars were obscured, and the sky seemed to be bearing closer and more heavily upon us.

  Ilsa came up and kissed Cousin Anna, looking for a moment sharply into her eyes; then stood back and smiled easily at us. I knew that I would have recognized her anywhere at any time, if only by her erect, confident bearing and the ease and conciseness with which she moved. Her hair was long now, like anybody else’s, but her head had the old arrogant tilt, her eyes the same frightening clarity. She wore her blue-and-white dotted-swiss dress like a queen’s robe. She was the wind and the ocean, the sand and the stars. And for some reason she reminded me of the Swiss flower I had read about, the edelweiss, blooming clear and strong where no other flower dares to grow.

  “Henry and Silver,” she said, and I had forgotten what a deep voice hers was, what a strange quality it had, reminding me of the smoky fogs that covered the sharp gray of ocean. “There’s been great excitement in the family about your return. Hello.” She held out both hands. I took one eagerly. After a moment’s hesitation Silver took the other. Ilsa looked at us. “Yes, I’d have known you both. Henry, you were a funny baby and now you’re grown up; but you, Silver, look much the same. Are you?”

  “I don’t know,” Silver said, resentment coming quickly to her voice.

  Ilsa turned to Edwin. “Hello. It’s nice to see you.”

  “Hello,” Eddie said shyly. He seemed to respect her and at the same time to be a little afraid of her.

  Behind the house sheet lightning was flickering and the air pressed closer and closer about us.

  Ilsa drew her hands out of Silver’s and mine and bent down to Cousin Anna aga
in. “We’d better go in now, darling,” she said gently. “It’s going to storm.”

  I had almost forgotten that almost every afternoon or evening during the summer at home there was a thunderstorm. These storms were extremely localized; you could hear the thunder and see the lightning, but the rain would fall only in certain places. Sometimes we could see the rain pelting in huge, almost hail-like drops on the river, while the house would remain dusty and dry. Often, when the house was actually in the center of a storm, we would be nearly deafened by the shock of the thunder when the lightning was caught by the rod.

  “Come now, darling,” Ilsa said cajolingly to Cousin Anna, speaking as she might to a child or a lost puppy. “Barbara’s making some cold tea for us. Monty went home in Henry’s carriage to pick up Mr. Porcher. They’ll be back soon.” Although she bent so close to Cousin Anna and spoke so persuasively, she never insulted her by touching her or trying in any physical way to get her to throw off her apathy and rise. Thunder began to roll in the distance, sounding almost like the breakers at the beach.

  Cousin Anna looked into Ilsa’s eyes for a long moment, as though in this way she would be able to get enough spiritual energy to make the trip back to the house. Then she stood up; Ilsa walked beside her, still not touching her; Silver and Edwin and I trailed behind.

  Cousin Anna’s rooms always had a life and charm that none of the other rooms I knew could approach. As we stepped over the threshold, the air suddenly lightened and the rain began to fall in great heavy drops. Ilsa stood in the window frame for a moment after we had entered the room, the wind blowing the skirts of her light dress about her and spattering her with rain; after a moment she came into the room and pushed the doors of the windows to. Cousin Anna sat in a chair upholstered in silver-gray velvet. I noticed, as she leaned back against it, again tossing her hands uselessly in her lap, that her ash-blonde hair was the color of Silver’s, and must have been the color of Aunt Elizabeth’s Ilsa’s hair had much more violence to it; it was the tawny color of the sea oats, which waved their wild tassels on the highest dunes above the ocean.

  Silver and Eddie sat on a low bench near Cousin Anna. After a moment Ilsa and I seated ourselves on the sofa that faced the fireplace in which stood a copper bucket full of Cape jessamine.

  “Well, Henny,” Ilsa said to me. “How are you? Are you all right?”

  “I guess so. Are you?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m always fine.”

  “Do you like it with Cousin Anna?”

  “I like Cousin Anna very much.”

  “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” I said.

  Ilsa nodded.

  “Do you—do you still have the house at the beach?”

  “Yes. Father left it to me. Your Cousin Montgomery has been trying to make me sell it, but your Cousin Anna says it’s mine and I’m to do with it as I please. I’d rather sell myself.”

  “And Calypso?”

  It seemed to me that she went a little pale. “Calypso died about a month before Father. It was my fault.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was galloping her on the beach. She was tired. I’d been galloping her too long. She put her left foreleg in a hole and went down. It broke her leg. Father had to shoot her.” Although as she spoke her voice was quite cool and calm she clenched her hands in her lap so that the bones pressed through at the knuckles and showed white. Then, as her fingers loosened, she said, “I hope your little old Billy is all right.”

  “Yes. Papa sold him when he sold the rest of the horses, but I went to see him this morning. He’s awfully fat and lazy now. And I’m too big to ride him anyhow.”

  She looked at me. “Yes. You’ve grown a lot.”

  Barbara came in then with the tea things. Ilsa got up and served tea quietly. Cousin Anna didn’t move, but her eyes followed Ilsa, and they were troubled.

  “Your Cousin Anna and I drink tea at all hours of the day and night,” Ilsa said, as she handed me mine. “We like tea the way Monty likes gin. Not that I’m averse to gin once in a while. Wouldn’t that shock your sister Silver!” She grinned; then went and opened the windows. The rain was still falling, but gently now, no longer driving into the room. Soon it would be gone and the stars would hang heavy about us again while the lightning flickered fitfully somewhere on the horizon.

  After the windows were open, and she had taken a quick glance at Cousin Anna, Silver, and Edwin, to see that they had everything they needed, she came over and sat down by me again. “I should have written you when your mother died.”

  “Why?”

  “It would have been the courteous thing to do. What with Father, and now your Cousin Anna, getting after me, I ought to have learned some manners.”

  “I didn’t write you about your father.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a boy, and that was two years ago when you were only thirteen. Did you love your mother very much?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think you did. Why?”

  I said, after a moment, “She didn’t like me.”

  “I guess that’s as good a reason as any for not liking a mother. Though it wouldn’t be so good for somebody else. I apologize for asking so many personal questions.”

  “I don’t mind. I was—I was awfully sorry about your father.”

  “Yes. He liked you, you know.”

  “Did he really?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”

  “I’m awfully glad. Was he—was he ill long?”

  “About three weeks. Ira and I nursed him. He told us what to do. But it wasn’t any good.”

  “Didn’t you have a doctor?”

  “Oh, yes, but he couldn’t tell us anything Father hadn’t told us already. He might have pulled through if he hadn’t been so exhausted. Father had a wonderful constitution. But he’d been away on a long field trip, going after special specimens he needed for some experiment he was working on, and while he was gone he was lost and without food or water for several days. He looked dreadful when he staggered home. And then, less than two weeks after, he woke up with a terrible headache, and that was how it started. Ira cried like a baby. I’d never seen Ira cry before. He’s down there now. He’s promised to keep the place up, even to leaving a lamp burning by the piano whenever he’s in, so the keys won’t stick and get out of tune so quickly.… Here come Monty and your father.” She rose.

  Papa and Monty came in. They both kissed Cousin Anna, who had not moved, and then Monty turned to Silver. She stood waiting for him, her eyes shiny and excited, her mouth a little open. Monty kissed her on the cheek, then held her off to look at her. “Well! Hey! You’ve grown into a regular little beauty. Hasn’t she, Cousin Anna?”

  Cousin Anna made no response. Papa cleared his throat, shook hands with Eddie, and sat down. Ilsa and I relaxed on the sofa again.

  Monty pushed Silver gently back onto the bench and stood looking down at her. His dark red hair was thick and polished-looking; his brown eyes were fringed with heavy lashes that softened the otherwise harsh lines of his face, and made you forget the sudden flare of his nostrils and the hairline rather too low on his forehead, the neck a little too thick and too short, the voice a little too loud and too jovial. I knew you saw none of these things unless you hated Monty. Mamma had called him Adonis, and Mamma wasn’t given to indiscriminate praise.

  He sat down by Silver on the bench for a moment, his arm about her. I felt impotently hot and angry. Cousin Anna looked at them, but she didn’t move. After a moment she said, “Ilsa, will you ring for the port?”

  “Thank you, no, Anna,” Papa said. “I had ample refreshment at Montgomery’s.”

  “Tea?” Cousin Anna asked.

  “Thank you, no, Anna,” Papa said again. “We can only stay a moment. The children are still tired from the journey and I must take them home.”

  Monty moved away from Silver and came over to Ilsa and me on the couch, s
itting down on the other side of Ilsa. “Are you really the reason Pa tried to keep me away from Cousin Anna’s during my vacation?” he asked softly.

  “Probably,” Ilsa answered, wiping the little beads of moisture from her upper lip. Monty’s shirt and mine clung to us wetly. The freshness in the air from the shower had all gone by now.

  “I’ve only seen you three times,” Monty said, “and always against Pa’s wishes, and I feel as though I’d known you always.” He slipped his hand surreptitiously behind her back. She looked down at her small strong hands. I felt miserable and superfluous.

  “Henry and I knew each other when we were little,” she said, as though to draw me into the conversation.

  “Yes, I know,” Monty said. “You’ve told me that before. Henry this, Henry that. He’s getting to be quite a big boy.”

  I hated him; how I hated him.

  “Quite tall for only fifteen, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Almost sixteen,” I said angrily.

  “Tall as your old cousin Monty, aren’t you?” he went on, unperturbed. “You and Silver surely growing up.” He looked over at Ilsa slantwise. I was sure she was desirable to him mainly because she was forbidden. “Think I can get one of the cars tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Want to drive down to the beach with me? Could you slip away?”

  “The beach? Could we go home?” she asked quickly.

  “You mean the place where you used to live? Sure, honey, any place you like. Sorry not to ask you and your sister, Henry. Another time.”

  “We couldn’t have gone anyway,” I said with dignity.

  Across the room Papa gave up trying to make conversation with Cousin Anna, and rose. Ilsa showed us to the door. Monty stood behind her, saying loudly that as it was still so early he would stay for a while and visit with Cousin Anna. As we left I saw his arm go around Silver’s waist and his fingers slip up toward her breast. I felt sick with anger and distaste.

  15

  The carriage took us home, then went on with Eddie. When we got in, Papa locked himself in the library again. I had gone in that morning to borrow one of his books and discovered that most of them were unread. Papa, buried in the morning papers, warned me that if the pages were uncut I must by no means tamper with them as he had the mistaken impression that that would lessen their value. It seemed a very peculiar thing to me to collect books if you had no interest in what was in them.