Ilsa

by L'Engle, Madeleine;

  After a few minutes of proprietary grinning, Monty put the three full-grown dogs back in the enclosure, but left the puppies out.

  “I want to know what that was about,” he said to Ilsa.

  “What what was about?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You saw it.” For a brief second I thought that it must have been a letter from Werner. Wild conjectures as to what it might have said raced through my mind. But she went on, “It was just a bill.”

  “What do you mean by going to the doctor?” His voice was angry and suspicious.

  “For heaven’s sake, Monty, don’t sound so ferocious. My eyes have been bothering me. I don’t seem to see so well. I went to him last month and he gave me a pair of glasses. That’s what the bill’s for.”

  “Then why didn’t you wear the glasses?”

  “They didn’t do me an atom of good. I could see better without them.”

  “You’d better go back and tell him so, then.”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “Last Monday.”

  “Couldn’t have gone last Monday. Home all day because of my snake bite.”

  “I went while you were asleep. Henny stayed in the house with Brand, and so he could go to you if you needed anything.”

  “Why’d you pick that time to go?”

  “I had an appointment,” she said wearily.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Not a damn thing. He doesn’t know what’s the matter. He tried some more glasses on me, but none of them did any good. He says I’m probably just tired and it’ll get better. I don’t think he knew what he was talking about. To tell you the truth, I’m worried. I don’t like not being able to see. I’d like to go up to Baltimore and talk to the doctor up there who used to write to Father—an eye specialist.”

  “Do you think he’ll see you for free?” Monty asked.

  “I certainly wouldn’t ask him to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Monty.” She turned to me. “I’m rather relieved this has come out. Do you think Silver would keep Brand for me while I’m gone? It wouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”

  “She’d be glad to.”

  “She can stay right here with her father, where she belongs,” Monty said angrily. “Can take care of her myself. Anyway, how can you go if he won’t see you for free? Train takes money; haven’t any extra this month.”

  “I have the money from my piano lessons.”

  “Need that.” Monty took his rifle, which was leaning against the fence and examined it closely, avoiding Ilsa’s eyes.

  “What for?”

  “Said I needed it, Ilsa. Wife supposed to honor and obey without asking questions.”

  “You took some vows, too, Monty,” she said.

  The little bitch, the smallest of the puppies, stopped chasing butterflies and began to batter joyfully against Monty. He pushed it away savagely.

  “I’ll lend you the money, Ilsa,” I said. “You can pay me back from your piano lessons any time you like.” Then I realized I had done a very stupid thing, interfering like that. But Ilsa simply nodded, running her hand along the white, freshly painted rail to the dog’s pen. The puppy rushed at her and she caressed it absently. I had no idea what she was thinking.

  Monty glared at me. “When are you planning to go to Baltimore?” he asked her.

  “I thought I’d leave Sunday. The early morning train. Then I could go see the doctor late Monday after I got there,” she answered; she seemed to be concentrating on the three dogs in the pen.

  “Sunday, hey?”

  “Yes.”

  Monty turned to me. “That’s the day the actors leave town isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  The puppy flung itself at Monty again. He struck at it wildly with the butt of his gun. It fell to the ground and lay there whimpering. Ilsa snatched it up and held it in her arms, cradling it, soothing it with little tender noises. I have never seen such anger on any human being’s face as on hers when she turned on her husband.

  He looked sheepishly down at the ground, his long lashes shading his eyes.

  “Put that gun down before you do any more damage,” she said in a low voice.

  He leaned the gun against the fence again and approached her slowly. “I hurt it?” he asked.

  “Naturally.”

  “Bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you going to do?”

  “Take her to the vet’s. Henry, will you drive me, please?”

  “Of course,” I said, surprised, knowing how she loved to drive.

  “I’ll drive you,” Monty said.

  “Henry will drive me.”

  “Didn’t mean to hurt it,” he said, still looking down at the ground, his ashamed eyes hidden by the curtains of lashes. She didn’t answer, but stood there silently, stroking and comforting the whimpering dog.

  I got the car out of the garage and she climbed in beside me, still holding the puppy against her breast.

  “I don’t dare drive alone in town any more,” she said, as we turned into the street. “I can’t see the traffic lights. I was almost given a ticket the other day, driving Franz to the theater.”

  She was in the veterinary’s office quite a long time. When she came out the puppy was still in her arms, a little groggy, but apparently all right otherwise. “Is she O.K.?” I asked.

  “She’ll live. The vet says she’ll probably be deficient mentally, but she’ll be perfectly healthy. I’m going to keep her for mine. Monty can have the others for hunting.… Look here, Hen, don’t say anything to anyone about this business about my eyes, will you?”

  “No, but what about when you go to Baltimore on Sunday? You’ll have to say why then, won’t you?”

  “No. Why should I?” She climbed into the car and sat down beside me. The puppy leaned against her like a sick child, but it was quiet now, the thin shrill whimpering had stopped.

  “Well, if you don’t, people might think—might think—”

  “People might think what?”

  “Well, you know how people are—”

  She was mercilessly determined to make me say what people might think, and what even I could not quite dismiss from my mind.

  “No, I don’t know how people are. How are they?”

  “Well, they might think you weren’t going to a doctor; they might think you were going off to pleasure yourself.”

  “With whom?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean exactly that, but they just mightn’t be—be charitable about it. People hardly ever are.”

  “No. God knows I know that,” she said. “All right. If it will make you feel better I’ll announce the fact that I’m going to the doctor, but if people take it into their heads to gossip about me, my giving a reason for my departure won’t stop them. Heaven knows why they bother. I’m not worth it.”

  “People resent anyone who doesn’t conform to their ways,” I said.

  “You mean me, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God, Henry, it seems to me I’ve conformed for nine years now, and I’ll probably go on conforming for another nine, if not longer. Let’s drop it. They bore me, those people. Why talk about them?… I don’t feel like going home,” she said, as we turned down her street. “Let’s drive on out a bit, toward the Fort. Do you mind? Have you anything else to do?”

  “No, of course not. I came over to see you all this afternoon. Shall we stop for Brand?”

  “No. She’s down the street, playing with Beulah Jackson.”

  I drove on out of town, past the cemetery. Old Cousin Belle, in her flowered muslin dress, was puttering about her lot as usual with her watering pot and shears. It would certainly be familiar ground when she came there for her final rest. She was kneeling by her sister’s grave, our Cousin Josie, whom everybody except Mamma and Aunt Violetta had hated for her biggetiness. Cousin Josie had had a drawer in her bureau in which she
had kept all her mourning clothes, including a long elegant black veil. By the side of these had been her shroud. She had slept in clean sheets and a clean nightdress every night in case she should die in her sleep. When she did die it was in a dingy hotel room on her way to her summer home in North Carolina. All her props were far away. “Man proposes, God disposes,” Mamma used to say with a contented sigh when telling this tale. Cousin Belle had a very thorny rose bush growing at either end of Cousin Josie’s grave, and a prickly pear at one side, which always made us laugh.

  “I suppose your mother’s in there?” Ilsa asked, peering at the cemetery.

  “Yes. Silver goes out every first Sunday. I’ve never been. Papa thinks I’m awful because I won’t go with him.”

  “You are. That’s why I love you,” she said.

  —Don’t say it like that, not meaning it—I begged her silently.

  Almost seeming to understand, she went on, “I do love you very much, you know, Henny. You seem to be part of me, to belong to me. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Brand’s very fond of you, too. She’s always asking when Uncle Henry’s coming over.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “She’s a sweet little thing.”

  We were silent again until we got to the heavy gray walls of the Fort, leaning out toward the river. I turned off the road and stopped the car under a tree by the river bank.

  “All right?” I asked.

  “Yes. Let’s just sit awhile before we go back. Not long, because I’ve got to help Mattie Belle with dinner and it’s warm in the car, but just a few minutes.”

  “All right.”

  “What have you been doing with yourself this week?” she asked. “We haven’t seen you since the fatal night when Monty got his snake bite.”

  “Oh, I haven’t been doing much. Just working at the mill during the day and going to bed early and reading at night.” I didn’t want to talk about myself. “What about you?”

  “I’ve had a good week.… Oh, Henny!” she said excitedly, “Franz and I went out to the lightship yesterday afternoon.”

  “How was it?”

  “Thrilling. You know, it was the first time I’d been! Father and I kept talking about going, but we never did. There always seemed to be so much time ahead of us. Sometimes I think it’s good to know there isn’t much time, because then you don’t miss out on the chance to crowd a lot into a short space.… Yes, the lightship was lovely. The men were beautiful, and they liked Franz and me and wanted us to stay and have supper with them. It would have been fun if we could have, but of course Franz had to get back to the theater.”

  “Were there sharks swimming around the lightship, and a buzzard on the topmost tip?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t that spoil it a little?”

  “No. It just made it more exciting.” She was stroking the puppy with her strong gentle touch as it lay contentedly on her lap. “I wish you could have come. You’d have loved it.”

  “I wish I could have come, too,” I said. “Have you been going to the theater a lot this week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still love it as much as ever?”

  “Yes.… We’d better go on back now,” she said. “Thank you for being so patient and bringing me out here.”

  “Oh—I enjoyed it,” I said awkwardly. I turned the car around and started back for town.

  41

  When we got back to the house Monty was gone. He had left a note with Mattie Belle saying that he wouldn’t be back for dinner. Ilsa set her lips and fed the dogs. As they flung themselves at the pans of food, she started to laugh, and said, “I bet when Monty was little and had pets he made Violetta and Eddie do all the dirty work. I can just see him being given rabbits and standing over the others with a stick while they cleaned out the hutch for him.”

  By the big iron stove in the kitchen, which was never used in summer, she placed a pan for her puppy. The poor little creature ate as though famished, then rubbed affectionately against Ilsa’s ankles as she sat stringing the French beans. It seemed quite recovered.

  “What are you going to call it?” I asked.

  “Would you like to name her?” She smiled at me with sudden affection. “I’d like it if you would.”

  I grew warm with pleasure. “Would you call her Médor?” I aid suddenly. “Telcide had a dog called Médor, a little old mongrel she picked up off the street. It’s a very common name for dogs in France.” I didn’t know why all at once I wanted to be reminded of that time when I lived with Telcide in Paris, a time that had become more like a dream than a remembrance of actuality.

  “Médor would be lovely,” she said. “A lovely name for a beautiful pup. Come here, Médor.”

  The puppy stopped chasing itself around the kitchen table and ran over to her posthaste, but because it didn’t want to be clumsy and stumble over the bar of sunlight on the linoleum it made a ludicrous miniature hurdle, landed in a heap on the other side, and looked tremendously pleased with itself because it had outwitted the silly sunbeam.

  Ilsa laughed. “You see, you couldn’t have thought of a better name for her, Hen! She answers to it already.… Will you stay to supper? There’s plenty of food, since Monty isn’t here.”

  “I’d like to. I’ll go phone Papa. He’s beginning to think I live at your house.”

  Dinner was early because Ilsa wanted time to help Mattie Belle clean up, and time to bathe before she left for the theater. As we were finishing our coffee the doorbell rang, and Mattie Belle let Franz Werner in. He shook hands with me with as much enthusiasm as though I had been his long-lost brother. Then he chucked Mattie Belle under the chin and asked for some coffee. She beamed all over and brought him a cup.

  “Don’t you worry about the dishes, Miz Woolf, honey,” she said. “Won’t take me a minute to do ’em.” She turned back to the actor. “You like some ice cream, Mr. Werner? I got some awful good peach ice cream for dessert. Homemade. With a freezer.”

  He bowed deeply. “But of course some peach ice cream for my parched and dried palate. My performance will be immeasurably better this evening because of you, Mattie Belle.”

  She hurried out into the kitchen and came back with a heaping dish. He took one good look. “No, no! Take it out and warm it up, Mattie Belle!”

  She bent doable and broke into shrill shrieks of laughter. It was evidently not a new joke with them. As he attacked the ice cream he turned to Ilsa.

  “Liebling, I’ve got to go in three minutes. Come sit in my dressing room with me while I make up. You don’t mind, do you, Porcher? There’s so little time left. This is Friday evening already. Only tonight’s performance and the two tomorrow.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said.

  “Ilsa, I think I should not come here for dinner tomorrow between performances.”

  “No,” she said, watching him eat his ice cream.

  “Mamma.”

  We looked around and Brand was standing in the doorway in her thin summer nightgown.

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “He had to go out, ladybird,” Ilsa answered.

  Now, by my maidenhead, an eight-year-old—

  I bade her come. What, lamb! What, ladybird!

  God forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Brandy!

  Brand stood shyly in the doorway as the actor declaimed.

  “Well, come here, little one,” he said. She didn’t move.

  “Speak to Franz, Brand,” Ilsa said.

  “Good evening,” the child murmured, still standing motionless on the threshold. “Mamma, when will Papa be back? He said he’d come say good night to me tonight and tell me a story about when he was little.”

  “I don’t know when he’ll be back, darling,” Ilsa said. “I’m afraid it may not be till long after you’re asleep. Uncle Henry will tell you a story about when he and your father were little, won’t you, Hen?”

  “Thank you very much, Uncle Henry,” the child
said politely, but with no enthusiasm. “Will you come up when you finish? Mattie Belle wants to wash my ears. She says I never remember I have ears. Will you come up and say good night, Mamma, and prayers and everything?”

  “Of course, ladybird. I’ll be up in just a moment. Run along.”

  Brand watched her mother for a moment, then her eyes flickered toward the actor. Her little shoulders drooped and she went slowly out.

  “Where did you get hold of ‘ladybird,’ Ilsa?” Werner asked “Shakespeare?”

  “It was Father’s name for me. I’ll go up and get Brand to bed while you finish your ice cream. It’s late so we’d better take a taxi. I’ll phone for one.” At the door she paused. “Hen dear, do you think you could possibly let me have that money tomorrow morning? I’ll have to see about my ticket right away if I’m to leave on the early train Sunday.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll send it over tomorrow morning if I don’t come myself.”

  “That would be wonderful. Are you sure it’s convenient? You can spare it?”

  “Yes. I’ll take it out of the money Mamma left me. Papa won’t have to know.”

  “You’re an angel, Hen.”

  I was watching Werner out of the corner of my eye when Ilsa mentioned her ticket and the money. He looked at me just for a moment, then went on eating his ice cream without a change of expression.

  After a moment he said to Ilsa, “You remind me of a fairy story my mother used to tell me. A story of Hans Christian Andersen’s. My mother was a Danish singer, you know.”

  Ilsa leaned against the door frame. “Oh?”

  “It’s about a woman who lost her child. So she went to try and find her. She came to a huge lake and there was no way for her to cross it, so she lay down to drink the lake dry, although it was an impossible task. So the lake said, ‘You can’t drink me dry no matter how hard you try, but I admire your courage, so I am willing to help you. I adore jewels and you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. If you will give me your eyes I will set you down on the other side of me.’ So the woman gave up her eyes, which sank to the bottom of the lake and became two perfect pearls, and she herself was carried across the water and put down in a huge forest. She set out to reach the other side of the forest, but as she could not see where she was going she soon lost her way. Then a thorn bush said, ‘I’ll help you if you’ll do something for me.’ And the woman agreed. ‘I am freezing to death,’ the thorn bush said, ‘and turning to ice. If you will warm me at your heart I will show you the way.’ So the woman held the thorn bush close against her breast in order to warm it, until it was stained crimson with her heart’s blood.” He paused.