The Small Rain

by Madeleine L'engle

  But Katherine could not laugh with the others. She stood up. “I’m awfully sorry, but I have a headache and I don’t feel very well. I think I’d better go home.”

  Pete stood up, too. “Of course, darling. I’ll take you.” He helped her into her coat, left some money with Felix, and took her out.

  The air in Washington Square was so fresh and clear that it seemed as though she had forgotten what cold clean air could smell like. The stars were crisp and bright, they almost seemed to crackle in the iciness of the night, and they were so thick that, looking up through the bare branches of the trees, it seemed like an unobstructed country sky. Katherine clutched Pete’s arm and breathed deeply.

  “Let’s sit down for a minute,” she begged.

  “You won’t catch cold?”

  “No. I—I want to get myself cleaned out of that air. Then I want to go home and take a bath.”

  “I shouldn’t have let you go there.”

  “Did you know what it was going to be like?”

  “I had a pretty good idea. There are a lot of dumps like that in that neighborhood. I used to go to them quite a lot a few years ago.”

  “You did, Pete!”

  “Yes, kitten. I went through the same stage Sarah’s going through. Thank God, I got out of it. Some people don’t. Just see that you don’t get into it. I don’t think you will. Sarah’ll snap out of it. She’s a nice kid. Probably talented. Lots of ambition and drive, at any rate, which sometimes gets you further than talent. Beautiful blue eyes. But heaven preserve me from these Academy friends of hers. Just warn me whenever they’re going to be around. And I’m not sure what I think of that Felix creature. Seems sort of swish.”

  “What’s swish?”

  “Oh … never mind, kitten. You’ve had enough unpleasantness for one night. Did you know your Aunt Manya and I had quite a talk about your sharing this apartment with Sarah?”

  “No! She didn’t tell me!”

  “We both agreed that it would be good for you. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “But you like Sarah, don’t you, Pete?”

  “Yes. I like Sarah very much, sweetheart.”

  “I met Sarah first when I was seven. In Central Park. So I can hardly remember a time when I haven’t wanted her as a friend. But mostly I haven’t had her.”

  “I’d better take you home now, darling. Your little nose is like ice.”

  “Then I’m a healthy puppy.”

  “Come along, sweetheart.”

  “All right.”

  When they got back to the apartment on Eleventh Street, Pete kissed her at the door. “I’m not coming up with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I think you ought to take your bath and get right to bed. You look tired.”

  “Sarah’ll probably wake me when she comes in.”

  “Don’t let her.”

  “But I’m sleeping in the living room, so she can’t help it.”

  “That Sarah knows a good thing when she sees it.”

  “What, Pete?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But what do you mean, Pete?”

  “Sarah’s a clever girl, and she’ll use any means to obtain her end. I think she’ll go far … Good night, kitten.”

  “Good night, Pete.”

  “Try to forget about that place.”

  “Is it good to forget about anything there is? I mean, even if I forget about it, it’ll be there anyhow. That’s what’s so awful—that things—people—like that—should be.”

  “Try to forget it for tonight anyhow, and sleep. I don’t like those circles spreading out like fans under your eyes. If you don’t watch out, you’ll have gray hair.”

  “I think gray hair’s pretty.”

  “Go to bed, creature!”

  “All right … kiss me good night, Pete … good night, my dearest darlingest … good night …”

  She watched him walk away from her, down the quiet street, past the ginko and ailanthus trees, their bones stripped bare to the winter night. She felt a desperate need to get away from the city and see the country earth lying naked under the star-clustered sky, cadaverous, its bones dark with ice and dark with stones, while water ran wild and clean under the ice in streams and rivers. And suddenly she was homesick for the plane trees lining the walk to Justin’s music studio, homesick for the lights of Montreux and the funicular and little train twinkling up the mountainside, the clear black mirror of the lake, and the shadows of the mountains hunched like great shoulders across the way.

  But she clumped up to the apartment slowly, panting a little, and lit the fire of cannel coal that one of the Academy students had brought them as a housewarming present. After a long hot bath and an ice-cold glass of milk she felt better, made up her couch, and climbed in between the cold clean sheets. She was just about to reach up to turn off the light, when she heard a key in the lock and Sarah came in, followed by Felix.

  “Feeling better, Kat?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m all right now, thanks.”

  “I’m going to bathe. Do you mind if Felix stays and talks to you? Or does your head still ache too much?”

  “No. It’s all right.”

  Sarah went into the bedroom and Felix squatted in front of the fireplace.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have taken you there,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t like it, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Does it make you think less of me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sarah thinks it’ll help her acting—to see all kinds of people. And they make very good liverwurst sandwiches there.”

  “Oh.”

  “You love Pete very much, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sarah tried very hard to love me.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes. And I tried very hard to love her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need someone so desperately, I guess.”

  “But it isn’t Sarah you need?”

  “No. Is there ever anyone who doesn’t need someone?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe I know why everyone’s so rotten.”

  “Do you?”

  “My father used to say that Adam and Eve were a case of primordial incest. And ever since then the human race has been degenerating through intermarriage.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you very happy, Katherine Forrester?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re unhappy, too, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think happiness is real unless there’s some pain in it.”

  “Don’t you, window cleaner?” Katherine sat up in bed, pulling the eiderdown around her, and stared at the shaggy blond youth crouched in front of the fire.

  “For the last week,” he said, “while you and Sarah were finding this place and fixing it, I used to walk over to the East River every night and stand in front of your house.”

  “Why?”

  “I felt so lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “I was unhappy, and I wanted to come to you … I walked all the way across town and everybody was so ugly and I felt as though I were in some horrible nightmare forest … only I was walking on a tiny path, and at the end of that path there’d be a cottage with a light in the window and smoke coming out of the chimney. The way it is in fairy tales. Only for me—when I’d get to the end of the path, the cottage was dark, and the fire had gone out, and the door was bolted.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went home and felt terribly sorry for myself. And I got very drunk. That night, and the next night, and the next.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I didn’t have any more money.”

  “So?”

  “So I went and borrowed some from someone. And I hated myself worse than ever.”

  “Oh.”

  �
��The awful thing is that when I’m drunk I glory in the filth and misery. No matter what goes wrong, my great cure-all is to make up for myself some other much worse situation, in which I can go through more than human man can endure, and come out somehow pure and whole. Or with at least a chance of getting myself back.”

  Sarah came out of the bedroom in her pajamas and bathrobe. “What are you two talking about so solemnly? Your tie’s crooked again, Felix.”

  Automatically Felix straightened the little bow tie with his soft white hands. “We were talking about life in general.”

  “As usual. I’m all ready for bed now, so you’d better get on home. We have to set the alarm again for tomorrow morning, and we’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “O.K. Good night, Sal. Good night, Katherine Forrester.”

  “Good night, Felix Bodeway.”

  When the door had slammed behind him, Sarah perched again on the arm of the couch. “I wanted to come home and go to bed without waking you, Kat, but Felix insisted he had to talk to you.”

  “Oh, it didn’t matter.”

  “Headache really better?”

  “Um-hum.”

  “Felix didn’t think you liked our place.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought it was filthy.”

  “Well, we won’t go there again if you don’t like it. I’m getting sort of sick of it, anyhow. But it was just around the corner from my old apartment. We’ll go to your Purple Pigeon. Although that’s not too clean either, Miss Forrester. Golly, I’ve got to do some more work on Masha before I go to sleep. Kat, isn’t it wonderful about your Aunt Manya’s coming to see The Three Sisters? Please pray for me. It’s so desperately important. Will she really come and have tea with us? You know how busy she is. Will she mind my having her picture up? It’s all so frightfully thrilling! Good night, Kat darling!”

  “Good night, Sarah.”

  Katherine and Pete went with Manya to see The Three Sisters. Katherine had not been allowed to go to any rehearsals, and she had not seen Sarah since the last school play.

  Manya was in one of her gloomy silent moods and didn’t talk much. She scowled down at her program until the curtain went up; then she stared fixedly at the stage. Katherine slipped one of her hands into Pete’s and sat watching The Three Sisters; she felt completely protected and safe because Pete’s hand was entirely covering hers; her hand was lost in his and no one else could touch her.

  Watching Sarah, Katherine felt that she was very good. She knew how to take the stage and hold it. She was born with the authority that it takes many people years of struggle to acquire. And in her make-up and costume she looked arrestingly beautiful, her huge eyes shining like pale blue stars. Katherine felt that Sarah was the only one of the students on the stage of the Empire that afternoon who had a gift of any importance.

  Manya went backstage after the performance, taking Pete and Katherine with her, and was immediately surrounded by a horde of babbling, excited students. When the asbestos curtain was lowered, she sat down on a straight chair and analyzed for them the production as a whole, carefully and critically, and then each one of the individual performances. She left Sarah till the last, and Katherine, watching the other girl, could not tell what she was thinking or feeling, could only see the huge light-blue eyes fixed on Manya.

  At last Manya turned to her. “And you, Miss Courtmont. There is no question that the only real performance this afternoon was yours. Nevertheless, you were appallingly bad. I didn’t think you were going to be quite so bad. And you committed several sins that I find it difficult to forgive. In the first place, you insisted on making Masha consistently charming. In the first act Masha is disagreeable. She is cross and unpleasant. Have you ever read Tchekov’s letters?”

  “No.”

  Manya went on firmly. “If you disagree with me about my criticism of your Masha, go to the Public Library and read the letters Tchekov wrote to his wife during the period in which The Three Sisters was being produced. His Masha is not a charming-tragic person. She is tragic, yes, but not wistfully, tearfully tragic, as you make her. Tchekov says she is ‘given to laughing and being cross.’ You only laughed twice during the entire play, I noticed. And you were never cross. Tell me. Was it because you didn’t understand the role, or because you were afraid of making Masha unsympathetic?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said, looking at her feet in their red-leather espadrilles.

  “And that mournful face you went around with! Masha should never be mournful. When I played Masha I laughed so much and was so cross that I nearly drove my director crazy. But I was trying to get as close as I could to what Tchekov wanted. He says, ‘Don’t make a mournful face in a single act. Angry, yes, but not mournful. People who have borne a grief in their hearts for a long time get used to it and only whistle and often sink into thought.’ But you wouldn’t know that yet, would you? Only once, Miss Courtmont, did I see you thinking this afternoon, and that was the best moment you had. That was the moment that gives me hope for your future. But your confession scene in the third act, Miss Courtmont! Aren’t you ashamed of it? Don’t you know how wrong it was? All that storming about. Tchekov says Masha should never leave her couch. You ran about as though someone was chasing you, and you screamed and wailed until I was ready to scream and wail myself. And you seemed ashamed of yourself. The last thing in the world Masha feels is shame. Tchekov says, ‘Masha’s repentance in Act III isn’t repentance at all, but only frank conversation. Take it nervously, but not desperately; don’t scream, smile just occasionally, and the great thing is to do it so that the exhaustion of the night may be felt.’ You were fresh as a feather, Miss Courtmont. Your third act couldn’t have been worse.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said.

  “Why are you sorry? There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’d rather have you be terrible than mediocre. And in the moments when you were good you were excellent. But you’re simply not ready to play a part like Masha. You aren’t anything as a human being yet. You’re still wishy-washy. Your most definite quality at the moment is your self-centeredness. You have the welfare of Miss Sarah Courtmont, and Miss Sarah Courtmont alone, in mind, and if other people have to be sacrificed, you’ll sacrifice them. That’s all right in moderation. But watch out for it. It may make for quick success, but it’ll be bad for you as an actress in the long run, if you don’t check it. You have great potentialities of power and strength, but as yet they are only potentialities that come out in spite of yourself. Guard them. Use them. Don’t kill them. Because you can kill them, you know. There are some things that can’t die, but there is nothing that can’t be murdered …

  “At any rate, whenever I am casting, or whenever Oliver Henley is doing a play, I’ll see that you get a reading. In the meantime, work hard, and go to the Public Library and read Tchekov’s letters. I’ve got to go home now and have some food and rest before I go to the theater. Good-bye, and thank you all very much for a most interesting afternoon.”

  The students and the directress all thanked Manya effusively. Katherine watched Sarah’s face and saw the tears in her eyes. “I hope you know,” she said, putting her arm about Sarah’s shoulder, “that Aunt Manya thinks you’re marvelous.”

  “Marvelous!”

  “Yes. Marvelous. That’s just her way of telling you.”

  “What Sarah needs,” Pete said, “is a drink. Come along.”

  They went over to the Purple Pigeon. Pete ordered Sarah a Scotch and soda, and Dubonnet for himself and Katherine.

  “Look, sweetie,” he said to Sarah. “You aren’t letting what Madame Sergeievna said get you down, are you? Because you’re a fool if you do. If she hadn’t thought your work was worth while and you were worth bothering about, she’d never have given you a criticism like that, or offered to get you readings. And she meant it when she said she’d rather have you definitely bad than indefinitely middling. Drink down that Scotch, and when you’ve thought it over a
while longer, you’ll be happy. As for me, I’ve never read Mr. Tchekov’s letters—though now I’m going to—and I didn’t see Madame Sergeievna’s production of the play, and you certainly impressed me. I thought you were swell.”

  Sarah drank the Scotch. “You’re an angel, Pete. I do feel less as though I’d been tied to the clapper of a bell striking twelve. I’ve got to go now. I promised the gang I’d meet them at Walgreen’s so I won’t be home for dinner, Kat. You’re going out with Pete anyhow, aren’t you?”

  “She’s going to cook for me,” Pete said. “I’ve bought a huge bag of groceries. Wine, too. You’re going to miss a swell dinner, Sal.”

  “Oh, well—I’m not very hungry, anyhow. I just want a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Kat, Felix says he wants to come down this evening—later, after Pete’s show breaks. You’ll be through practicing by then, won’t you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So I thought we could all have some Rhine wine and seltzer together or something. O.K.?”

  “Um-hum.”

  “So good-bye till later.”

  “Good-bye, Sarah.”

  When she had gone, Pete turned to Katherine. “I thought she was damn good, didn’t you, kitten?”

  “Yes. I did. So did Aunt Manya.”

  “Yup. That talk was good for Miss Courtmont. She needed it. Maybe she’ll be a good leading lady for me someday. We’re good foils for each other. Shall we splurge and take a taxi home, kitten?”

  After Pete had left for the theater, Katherine settled down to the piano. She had a feeling that Albert Peytz was going to give her one of his famous explosions; for during her last few lessons he had been unnaturally, ominously quiet, listening to her, criticizing her much too gently, giving her very little work.—But she practiced until Felix rang her bell a little before eleven.