And Both Were Young

by Madeleine L'engle

  “Mademoiselle Dragonet,” Flip told him. “We call her the Dragon,” she said, then added, remembering the visit in the infirmary, “but she’s really quite human.”

  Georges Laurens laughed. “Well, I shall be St. George, then, and conquer the dragon. I will brave her in her den this very afternoon.

  “And now I suggest that you get back to your school and tomorrow we will have a proper visit, and I will come for you and bring you over.” He held out his hand. “I promise.”

  It never occurred to Flip that on this last forbidden trip to the château she might be caught. Luck had been her friendly companion in the venture and now that the visits to Paul were about to be approved by authority, surely fortune would not forsake her. But, just as she came to the clearing where the railroad tracks ran through the woods, she saw two figures in warm coats and snow boots and recognized Madame Perceval and Signorina del Rossi. She darted behind a tree, but they had evidently caught a glimpse of her blue uniform coat, for Signorina put a gloved hand on Madame Perceval’s arm and said something in a low voice, and Madame Perceval called out sharply, “Who is it?”

  Flip thought of making a wild dash for safety, but she knew it would be useless. They were between her and the school and they would be bound to recognize her if she tried to run past them. So she stepped out from behind the tree and confronted them just as a train came around the bend. In a moment the train was between them; she was not sure whether or not they had had an opportunity to recognize her in the misty dark—the school uniforms were all identical and there were dozens of girls with short fair hair. Now was her chance to run and hide. They would never find her in the dark of the woods and the train would give her a good chance to get a head start. But somehow, even if this meant that she would never be given permission to see Paul, she could not run like a coward from Madame Perceval, so she stood very quietly, cold with fear, until the train had passed. Then she crossed the tracks to them.

  “Thank you for waiting, Philippa,” Madame Perceval said.

  She stood, numbly staring at the art teacher, her fingers twisting unhappily inside her mittens.

  “Did you know you were out of bounds, Philippa?” Madame Perceval asked her.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t remember where the bounds were.” Then she added, “But I was pretty sure I was out of them.”

  Signorina stood looking at her with the serene half smile that seldom left her face even when she had to cope with the dullest and most annoying girls in her Italian classes. “Where were you going, little one?”

  “Back to school.”

  “Where from?”

  “I was—walking.”

  “Was it necessary to go out of bounds on your walk?” Madame Perceval asked coldly. “Mademoiselle Dragonet is very severe with girls who cross the railroad tracks.”

  Flip remembered the walk on which she had first met Ariel, and how, somehow, it had been necessary to go up, up the mountain. “I wanted to climb.”

  “Were you alone?” Madame Perceval looked at her piercingly, but the dark hid the girl’s expression. When she hesitated, Madame pursued, “Did you meet anyone?”

  “Yes,” Flip answered so low that she could scarcely be heard.

  “You’d better come back to the school with me,” Madame Perceval said. She turned to Signorina. “Go along, Signorina. Tell them I’ll come when I can.”

  In silence Flip followed Madame down the mountain. When she slipped on a piece of ice and her long legs went flying over her head, Madame helped her to pick herself up and brush off the snow, but she said nothing. They left the trees and crossed the lawn, covered with patches of snow, and went into the big hall. Madame Perceval led the way upstairs, and Flip followed her, on up the five flights and down the hall to Madame’s own rooms. Madame switched on the lights and when she spoke her voice was suddenly easy and pleasant.

  “Sit down, Philippa.” Flip’s spindly legs seemed to collapse under her like a puppy’s as she sat on the stool in front of the fire. “Now,” Madame went on. “Can you tell me about it?”

  Flip shook her head and stared miserably up at Madame. “No, Madame.”

  “Who did you go to meet?”

  “I’d rather not say. Please.”

  “Was it anybody from school?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “Did anybody at school have anything to do with it?”

  “No, Madame. There wasn’t anybody else but me.”

  “And you can’t tell me who it was you went to meet?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Philippa,” Madame said slowly. “I know you’ve been trying hard and that the going has been rough for you. I understand your need for interests outside the school. But the rules we have here are all for a definite purpose and they were not made to be lightly broken.”

  “I wasn’t breaking them lightly, Madame.”

  “Once a girl ran away and was killed crossing the railroad tracks. They are dangerous, especially after dark. You see they are placed out of bounds for a very good reason. And if there’s anybody you want to see outside school, it’s not difficult to get permission. If you were one of the senior girls, I might think you were slipping away to meet one of the boys from the school up the mountain. But I know that’s not the case. I don’t like having to give penalties, and if you’ll tell me about it, I promise you I’ll be as lenient as I can.”

  But Flip’s thoughts were rushing around in confusion, and she thought, If I tell now, they’ll never give me permission to see Paul.

  So she just shook her head while she continued to stare helplessly at the art teacher.

  Madame started to speak again, but just then the telephone rang and she went over to it. “Yes? . . . Yes, Signorina!” She listened for a moment, then burst out laughing and continued the conversation in Italian. Flip could tell that she was pleased and rather excited about something. They talked for a long time and Flip could tell that Madame was asking Signorina a great many questions. When she hung up she turned to Flip, and her face was half smiling, half serious. “Philippa,” she said, “I know I can trust you.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “And I want you to prove yourself worthy of my trust. Will you?”

  “I’ll try, Madame.”

  “So it’s Paul you’ve been running off to meet,” Madame Perceval said with a smile.

  Flip jerked erect on her stool. “How did you know!”

  Now Madame laughed, a wonderful, friendly laugh that took Flip and made her part of a secret they were to share together. “Paul’s father, Georges Laurens, is my brother-inlaw.”

  Flip’s jaw dropped open. “But Madame!” she sputtered. “But Madame!”

  Madame laughed and laughed. Finally she said, “I think you and I had better have another little tea party,” and she reached for the telephone. “Fräulein Hauser,” she said, “I am excusing Philippa Hunter from tea.” Then she went into her little kitchen and put the kettle on. When she came back she said, “Signorina and I were on our way over to borrow a book from Georges and have a visit with him and Paul when we bumped into you. Now tell me how you found Paul.”

  Flip told her about the way Ariel had come jumping out of the undergrowth at her and how he led her to the château and to Paul.

  “I see.” Madame nodded. “Now tell me what Paul has told you about himself.”

  “Why—nothing much,” Flip said. “I mean, I know his mother’s singing in Italy and Monsieur Laurens is writing a book and Paul is going to be a doctor . . .”

  Madame Perceval nodded again. “I see,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Now, Philippa, I suppose you realize that you should be penalized. You’ve been breaking rules right and left. It’s a pretty serious situation.”

  “I know, Madame. Please punish me. I can stand anything as long as I can see Paul again. If I can’t see him again I shall die.”

  “I don’t think you’d die, Philippa. And since you’re not a senior, you’re not allowed to hav
e dates. Not seeing Paul would be automatic before your penalties were even considered.”

  The color drained from Flip’s face and she stared up at Madame Perceval, but she did not move or say anything.

  Madame spread cheese on a cracker, handed it absently to Flip, and leaned back in her chair. She held the cheese knife in her hand and suddenly she slapped it against her palm with a decisive motion. “I’m not going to forbid you to see Paul, Philippa,” she said, “but you will have to have a penalty and a stiff one, because the fact that it was Paul you were seeing does not lessen the seriousness of your offense, but I’ll decide on that tomorrow. In the meantime I want to talk to you about Paul.” For a moment Madame Perceval looked probingly at Flip. Then, as though satisfied with what she saw, she continued. “We’ve been worried about Paul, and I think you can help us.”

  “Me, Madame?” Flip asked.

  “Yes, you. Yes, I think you of all people, Philippa.”

  “But how, Madame?”

  “First of all, simply by seeing him. Signorina told me that Georges was planning to get permission for you to come to the gate house to see Paul once a week. I shall see that you get the permission. And remember, Philippa, that I am doing this for Paul’s sake, not yours.”

  “Yes, Madame. But Madame—”

  “But what, Philippa?”

  “Monsieur Laurens asked what Mademoiselle Dragonet’s name was. Wouldn’t he know?”

  Madame Perceval laughed. “He was just playing along with Paul. Paul didn’t want you to know he had any connection with the school.”

  “Oh. But—”

  “But what, Philippa?”

  “Why are you worried about Paul, Madame?”

  “I can’t tell you that now, Flip. Paul will let you know himself sooner or later. In the meantime, the best way that you can help him is to continue trying to get on with the girls here at school, and to become really happy here. That sounds like rather a tall order to you, doesn’t it? But I think you can do it. You’d like to, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, Madame, you know I would. But please—I don’t see—how would that help Paul?”

  “Perhaps you’ve discovered already,” Madame said, “that Paul has a horror of anything he can label an institution. He knows that you hate this institution. Because he respects you, if he could watch you grow to like it here he might be willing to go back to school himself. Georges is tutoring him, but he needs regular schooling. If he really wants to be a doctor he cannot dispense with formal education, and I believe that one day Paul will make a very brilliant doctor. I know this is all very confusing to you, Philippa, but you must trust me as I am trusting you. All I can tell you is that I think you can help Paul and because of this I am willing to disregard the manner in which you have been seeing him up to now and to see that you have official permission to see him in the future.” Madame Perceval stood up. “You’d better report to me tomorrow and I’ll tell you what your penalties are. I’m afraid this has been a very slim tea for you, Philippa. If you hurry down to the dining room there may be a few scraps left.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Flip said. “Thank you for—for everything, Madame.”

  Madame put her hand on Flip’s shoulder. “I’m very glad this happened to you, Philippa, instead of—say, one of your roommates. Very glad.” She was smiling warmly and Flip’s heart leaped with joy at this great praise. Madame gave her a little shove. “Run along now,” she said.

  Flip was ready and waiting in the big hall when Monsieur Laurens came for her the next afternoon. The girls were all curious and rather envious when, in answer to their questions, they learned that Flip had been given special permission to have tea with Madame’s nephew, and she felt that her stock had gone up with them.

  “My aunt, Pill, it’s really a date!” Gloria whistled.

  “I bet Pill’s never been out with a boy before,” Esmée said. “Have you, Pill? Usually the Americans have more dates than the rest of us, but I bet this is Pill’s first date. Are you going to let him kiss you, Pill?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Flip said.

  “Anyhow, Black and Midnight said it wasn’t a date,” Sally added. “I bet this nephew’s just a child.”

  Erna whispered to Flip, “Esmée and Sally’re just boy crazy. Don’t mind them. Personally I think boys are dopes.”

  At the gate house an hour later, Flip and Paul lay on the great rug in front of the fire and roasted chestnuts while Georges Laurens watched from his chair and Ariel rested his head on his master’s knee.

  “So you don’t like school?” Georges Laurens asked Flip.

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t seem to fit in. I’m different.”

  “And I suppose you despise the other girls?” Georges Laurens asked.

  Flip looked surprised for a moment, then hesitated, thinking his question over as she opened and ate a chestnut. “No. I don’t despise them. I’m just uncomfortable with them,” she answered finally, chewing the delicate tender meat and staring at the delicate unicorn in the tapestry on the wall above her. “But you want to be like them anyhow?” Georges Laurens pursued.

  She nodded, then added, “I want to be like them and like myself too.”

  “You think quite a lot of yourself?”

  “Oh, no!” She shook her head vehemently. “It isn’t that at all. I think I’m—I’m not anything I want to be. It’s just that there are certain things outside me and the way I feel about them that I wouldn’t want changed. The way I feel about the mountains and the lake. And stars. I love them so very much. And I don’t think the others really care about them. I don’t think they really see them. And it’s the way I feel about things like the mountains and the lake and stars that I wouldn’t want changed.”

  “You want a great deal, my little Flip,” Georges Laurens said, gently stroking Ariel’s head, “when you want to be exactly like everybody else and yet be different at the same time.”

  Paul reached for another chestnut and rolled lazily onto his back. “I sympathize with you, Flip. It’s horrible to be in an institution. Couldn’t you have stayed at home with your parents?”

  “I wanted to,” Flip said, “but my grandmother’s in Connecticut and right now my father’s in China, and my mother’s dead. I wanted to travel around with Father, but he said he was going to go to all sorts of places I couldn’t go, and I couldn’t miss school anyhow.” Remembering her promise to Madame Perceval she added, “And I don’t hate school nearly as much as I used to, Paul. Truly I don’t.”

  “What do you like about it?” Paul asked bluntly.

  “Oh, lots of things,” Flip said vaguely. “Well—look at all the things you can learn at school you couldn’t learn by yourself. I mean not only dull things. Art, for instance. Madame Perceval’s taught me all kinds of things in a few months.”

  “Go on,” Paul said.

  “And skiing—Fräulein Hauser’s going to teach me to ski.”

  “I know how to ski,” Paul said.

  Flip tried again. “Well, there’s music. They teach us lots about music and that’s fun.”

  “This is the best way to learn about music,” Paul said, going to the phonograph and turning it on. “You don’t have to be in school to listen to good music.”

  Flip gave up.

  The record on the Victrola was Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. It was music that Flip knew and she sat quietly staring into the fire and listening. It was the first time that she had been able to listen to that music in a long while. At home in New York in the Christmases of her childhood her mother had played it and played it. The Christmas after her mother’s death Flip had found the record broken and was glad. But now she was listening to it with a kind of peace. She looked over at Paul and said softly, “My mother used to love that . . .”

  But Paul did not hear. He jumped up and turned off the record before it had played to the end and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Flip foll
owed him outside. The evening was still and cold and there was a hint of blue-green left in the sky. The stars were beginning to come out. Flip looked up at the first one she saw and made a wish. I wish Paul may always like me. Please, God. Amen. She wished on the star and there was a sudden panic in her mind because the Paul walking beside her was not the Paul with whom she had spent the afternoon. His face in the last light as she glanced at it out of the corner of her eye seemed stern, even angry, and he seemed to be miles and miles away from her. He had withdrawn his companionship and she searched desperately for a way to bring him back to her.

  “Paul,” she hesitated, then gathered her courage and went on, “do you remember Christmas when you were very little?”

  “No,” he answered harshly, “I don’t remember.”

  She felt as though he had slapped her. Why wouldn’t he remember? She remembered those first Christmases so vividly. Was he just trying to keep her from talking? Had she unwittingly done something to make him angry?

  She glanced at him again but his face was unrelenting and she clenched her mittened hands tightly inside her pockets and said over and over to herself, Please, God, please, God, please, God . . .

  “I don’t remember!” Paul suddenly cried out and abruptly stopped his rapid walking and wheeled about to face her. “I don’t remember.” His voice was no longer harsh, but he spoke with an intensity that frightened Flip.

  She could only ask, “But why, Paul? Why?”

  He reached out for her hands and held them so tightly that it hurt. “I don’t know why . . . that’s the hardest part. I don’t remember anything at all beyond the last few years.”

  Flip tried to make it seem unimportant—to say something, anything, that would make Paul relax. None of this was as serious as he thought—lots of people had poor memories. Anyway it had nothing to do with their friendship. “Paul,” she began—but he was not listening. He was not even conscious that she had spoken.

  Flip was silent. Paul’s tenseness was so tight that even a word might shatter it into something uncontrollable. Whatever was keeping Paul from remembering was something so terrible that it was completely outside her experience.