And Both Were Young

by Madeleine L'engle

  “Yes,” Madame Perceval said, as if in answer to her thoughts. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? In the spring the fields are as white as they are now, with narcissi, not snow. . . . Shall we go?”

  They started off down the mountainside, Madame calling Flip from time to time to check her speed or give her instructions. Now at last Flip had the feeling of being a bird, of having wings. And as she pushed through the cold night air she felt that it was as solid and entire an element as water. A bird must know this solidity; but as she felt the air against her body the only thing within her own knowledge with which she could compare it was water, and she felt as she broke through it that she must be leaving a wake of air behind her, as a boat does, cutting through water.

  Madame let her go faster and faster, and, exhilarated by the speed and the beauty, she would have gone flying past the school gates if Madame had not checked her. They turned through the gates together and moved slowly down the white driveway.

  “That was good skiing, Flip,” Madame said. “I’m really very proud of you.”

  Flip dropped her head in quick confusion, then looked up with eyes that shone in the starlight. “I love it, Madame, I just love it!”

  “You know,” Madame told her, “we’re not going to be able to enter you in the beginners’ class at the ski meet. You’ll have to go in the intermediate. If you go on improving at this rate, you’d be disqualified from the beginners’ class. And with all the skiing you’ll be able to do during the holidays I don’t think there’s any question but you’ll go on improving. I want to work with you on your left stem turn. Your right is fine, but the left is the only place where your weak knee seems to bother you. Don’t worry, though. I think a little extra practice and the left stem will be as good as the right.”

  They went indoors and Flip put her skis on the rack, stroking them lovingly. The smell of the ski room, of hot wax and melted snow and damp wool from the ski clothes, was almost as pleasant to her now as the smell of the art studio.

  “Madame,” she said softly, “thank you so much for the skis.”

  “The girl who left them was rolling in money,” Madame spoke shortly, “and I suspect it was black market money. They’re in far better hands now—or rather on far better feet.” She laughed. “Run along upstairs to the common room. There’s about half an hour before dinner. We made better time than I expected.”

  _______

  Flip ran up the stairs and across the hall, almost bumping into Miss Tulip.

  “Really, Philippa Hunter!” Miss Tulip exclaimed in annoyance. “Will you kindly remember that you are supposed to walk, not run. You used to be such a nice, quiet girl and you’re turning into a regular little hoyden.” And Miss Tulip shut herself up in the cage of the faculty elevator and pressed the button.

  Instead of being crushed by Miss Tulip’s irritation Flip had to suppress a laugh as she watched the elevator rise and saw the matron’s feet in their long, narrow white shoes slowly disappearing up the elevator shaft. Then, completely forgetting her admonition, she ran on down the corridor and into the common room.

  She had just started a letter to her father when the big glass door was opened and Martha Downs and Kaatje van Leyden came in. A sudden hush came over the common room because the senior girls had studies and a special living room of their own on the second floor, and seldom came downstairs unless it was to lecture one of the girls for some misdeed that affected the two school teams, the Odds and the Evens, or that came under the jurisdiction of the student government. Martha and Kaatje walked toward Flip now and she knew that everybody was wondering, Now what has Pill done?

  But Martha smiled in a friendly way and said, “Hi, Philippa.”

  “Hi,” Flip said, standing up awkwardly.

  “I hear you’re good at drawing people.”

  “Oh, just sort of caricatures,” Flip mumbled.

  Erna, who had been listening curiously, broke in. “She’s wonderful, Martha! I’ll show you the ones she did of Jackie and Gloria and me in the dormitory last night.”

  Erna had forgotten that they weren’t supposed to have books or drawing materials in the dormitory at night, but Martha and Kaatje kindly ignored this and looked at the slips of paper Erna held out. They both laughed.

  “Why, you’re a genius, Philippa,” Kaatje cried.

  And Martha said, “We came down to see if you’d do us.”

  “Oh, I’d love to,” Flip said. “Right now?”

  “How long does it take you?”

  “About a second,” Erna told them. “Here’s a chair, Martha, and one for you, Kaatje. Run get your sketch book, Flip.”

  Flip got her pad and a couple of sharp pencils out of her locker. “Just stay the way you are, please,” she said to Martha. “That’s fine.”

  It wasn’t quite as easy to draw Martha as it had been the girls she saw constantly in the common room and the classroom, or as easy as the faculty, whose caricatures, sketched hurriedly at the end of study halls, had thrown the girls into fits of laughter, but she managed to get a passable exaggeration of Martha’s almost Hollywood beauty onto the paper, and the head girl was very pleased.

  While Flip was drawing Kaatje, Martha said, “My mother writes me you’re going to be spending the holidays in Nice with Mrs. Jackman, Philippa. We’re going to be there for a week, so maybe we’ll see you.”

  Flip shook her head, glancing up briefly from her sketch of Kaatje. “I’m not going to be with Mrs. Jackman. I’m staying up the mountain with Paul Laurens.”

  “Percy’s nephew?” Martha asked in surprise. “How did you get to know him?”

  “She has tea with him every Sunday afternoon.” Erna, who had evidently appointed herself as Flip’s spokesman, told the seniors. “She’s just come back from there now, haven’t you, Flip?”

  Flip nodded, tore off her page, and gave it to Kaatje.

  “Thanks simply ages, Philippa,” Kaatje said. “You’ll probably be besieged by every girl in school.”

  “I don’t mind,” Flip said. “It’s what I love to do. If those aren’t right or if you want any more, I’d love to try again.”

  “We may take you up on that.” Martha smiled at her. “Sorry you aren’t going to be in Nice for the holidays.”

  “Flip, you’re made,” Erna said when the older girls had left. “If Martha and Kaatje like your pictures, there won’t be a girl in school who won’t want one. I bet you’ll get artist’s cramp or something.”

  “It’s all right with me.” Flip grinned happily. “And it’s wonderful about the holidays. When did that happen?”

  “This afternoon. And Madame’s going to be there too.”

  “Percy?” Erna looked dubious. “I’m not sure I’d like that. She’s so strict.”

  “She’s not a bit strict when you’re not at school. She’s—oh, she’s so much fun and she doesn’t act a bit like a teacher. And Paul says she’ll take us on all kinds of trips on the holidays, to Gstaad, and we’ll come down from Caux on a bob-sled, and we’ll go to Montreux and places to the movies and all sorts of things.”

  “It’s too bad you can’t ski,” Erna said. And Flip turned away to hide a grin.

  FIVE: THE STRANGER

  FLIP WAS OUT PRACTICING BY HERSELF before breakfast several mornings later when she saw the strange man again. At first she did not notice him, and then she became vaguely aware through her concentration on her skiing that someone was watching her, and she swung around and there he was leaning against a tree. This time he did not smile and wave and move away up the mountain. He just stood there watching her and she stared nervously back. He was very thin and his cheeks were sunken and his jaw dark, as though he needed to shave. He wore shabby ski clothes and a small beret and his eyes were very dark and brilliant. She stood, leaning lightly on her ski poles, looking back at him and wishing he would go away, when suddenly he came stumbling across the snow toward her. She started to push away on her skis, but he made a sudden leap at her and she fell headlong.
She started to scream, but he clapped his hand across her mouth.

  “Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” he kept saying, and he righted her and stood her up again, keeping a firm grip on her arm. She could feel each of his fingers pressing through her sweater and ski jacket and they hurt as they dug into her arm.

  “Let go!” she gasped. “Let me go!”

  “It’s all right,” he repeated. “I won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”

  “But you are hurting me! Let go!”

  Slowly his fingers relaxed, though he did not release her. “I didn’t mean to knock you down like that. I lost my balance and fell against you. I’m very tired and hungry. Have you any food?”

  She shook her head.

  “Just a cracker or a piece of chocolate? Schoolgirls always have something to eat in their pockets.”

  She shook her head again. “I haven’t anything. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m the—uh—I’m the new janitor. I’m going to keep the furnace going so you’ll be warm enough all winter. I live—uh—I live up the mountain and I didn’t have a chance to eat breakfast this morning because I overslept. Are you sure you haven’t even a crust of bread?”

  “I haven’t anything. Won’t the cook give you something in the kitchen?”

  “She’s in a bad mood this morning. What are you doing out here all alone? Shouldn’t you be in the school?”

  “Not till call over at a quarter to nine.”

  “But why are you here all alone?” the man asked her, and she was afraid of the hungry look in his dark eyes.

  “I’m skiing.”

  “But why do you ski here all alone every morning?” he persisted.

  “I like it.”

  Now at last he let go of her arm. “Well, I’m off up the mountain,” he said, and without another word or a backward glance he struck off across the snow.

  The thought of him troubled her until she went in to get the mail before call over. Then she had a letter that made her so angry that she forgot all about him. The letter was from Eunice, and it said:

  My dear Philippa,

  I am glad to hear from your father that at last you are getting along better at school. But I must admit that I am rather hurt that you choose to spend the holidays with some strange boy you have just met rather than with me. However, you have always been an odd child, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I do want to say, though, Philippa, dear, that I know your poor father would be happier if you came to Nice, and I assure you that I would see that you had a pleasant vacation. As I said in my letter to you last week, there will be a number of charming young people nearby, and I am sure it would do you good to know them. Just remember that all you have to do if you change your mind is to let me know, and don’t forget that you have your father’s peace of mind to think of as well as your own choice. It is very hard on him to be laid up in the hospital, poor darling, and I shouldn’t think you’d want in any way to add to his worries. I’m afraid this will make you angry, Philippa, dear, but do remember that I’m just thinking of your best interests and that I’m very fond of you and devoted to your father.

  Affectionately, Eunice

  Quivering with rage, she tore the letter into as small pieces as possible. Madame Perceval, on duty behind the desk, finished distributing the mail and asked with a smile, “What’s the cause of your fury, Flip?”

  “It’s that Eunice again,” Flip said. “A woman who’s always after my father. She thinks I ought to spend the holidays with her and I’m afraid she’ll try to convince Father that I ought to too. There isn’t time for that, is there?”

  “No, Flip, there isn’t. Anyhow, Mademoiselle Dragonet had a cable from your father this morning giving his permission for you to stay with Paul. She supplanted Georges’s cable with one of her own, saying that she thought it far better for you to stay with her nephew than for you to make the difficult trip to Nice. So I don’t think you need worry.”

  “Thank goodness,” Flip said. “I think I’d die if I couldn’t spend the holidays with Paul. I just wish Eunice hadn’t written the letter and tried to spoil things for me.”

  “Just forget it and enjoy yourself,” Madame Perceval advised.

  “I will,” Flip said, and she ran upstairs to throw the scraps of Eunice’s letter in the classroom wastepaper basket; Eunice had used such heavy paper she was afraid it would clog the toilet. Erna was in the classroom before her, sitting glumly at her desk.

  “What’s the matter, Erna?” Flip asked shyly.

  “I can’t spend the holidays with Jackie,” Erna answered and put her head down on her arms.

  Flip perched awkwardly on her desk and put her feet on the chair. “Oh, Erna, why not?”

  “My mother wrote Mademoiselle Dragonet and said she wanted me home for Christmas. She doesn’t want me home at all. She sent me away to school because she didn’t want me home.”

  “Oh, Erna,” Flip said, her voice warm with sympathy.

  “Both my brothers were killed in the war,” Erna said in a muffled voice. “And I know Mutti wishes it had been me. She always liked my brothers better. I was the baby and so much younger and I always got in the way.”

  “Oh, no, Erna,” Flip protested. “Your mother wouldn’t feel like that.”

  “She does,” Erna said. “If my father would be home and be all funny and nice the way he used to be before the war when I was tiny, it would be all right. But he’s always at the hospital. He says the only thing he can do to help people’s souls is to try to give them strong, well bodies for the souls to grow in, and most of the time he sleeps in the hospital. I think he likes me and I think he’s glad because I want to be a doctor, too, but Mutti doesn’t like me to be around because I laugh or sing or make noise and that disturbs her unhappiness.”

  “Oh, Erna,” Flip whispered again.

  “I don’t want to go home,” Erna said. “I thought it was going to be so wonderful to be with Jackie. Her mother tells wonderful stories and she wrote me the most wonderful letter, saying how much she would love to have me for the holidays and she wrote my mother and the Dragon saying she’d take good care of me and everything and we were going to go to the theatre to see a play and to the opera, but my mother wrote the Dragon and said I couldn’t and the Dragon called me to her living room after breakfast and told me. I don’t want to go home.”

  The night before, Flip had heard Maggie Campbell talking to Solvei Krogstad in the common room and almost crying because she was going to have to stay at the school during the holidays, but Erna was continuing. “If I could stay at school it wouldn’t be so bad, it would be all right. Lots of girls stay at school. Gloria’s going to stay, and Sally, because her parents have gone back to the United States, and lots of them are going to stay. The Dragon takes a chalet at Gstaad for the holidays and Sally stayed last year and said it was wonderful. I love school. I just love it. I wish I could stay here always.”

  Flip sat quietly on her desk and let Erna talk. This miserable girl was very unlike the brash gamine she was used to, and she ached with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Erna, I’m awful sorry,” she said softly.

  Erna took a tight ball of a handkerchief out of her blazer pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Don’t tell Jackie I almost cried.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Sometimes I dream my mother is like Jackie’s mother,” Erna said, “and comes in and looks at me after I’m in bed to see that I’m covered, and comes in and kisses me in the morning to wake me up. Was your mother like that, Flip?”

  Flip nodded.

  “It must have been awful when she died.”

  Flip nodded again.

  “I don’t think Gloria’s mother loves her too much, but Glo doesn’t seem to care. Well, it must be almost time for call over. Come on. We’d better go down and get in line. The holidays won’t last too long and then I can come back to school.” Erna gave her desk lid a slam and walked briskly to the door.

  While sh
e was brushing her teeth that night Flip thought more about Erna. It somehow had never occurred to her that anyone could really love the school. She herself was learning not to hate it, and was beginning to have fun, and to lose some of the dreadful shyness that had tormented her, but she hadn’t even thought of really loving school so that she would be miserable whenever she had to leave. She felt a sense of warm companionship with Erna, now that each had witnessed and tried to comfort the other’s unhappiness.

  When she got back to the room Erna was already in bed, rubbing mentholatum on her chapped hands, Gloria was combing the snarls out of her hair, and Jackie was wrapping a towel around her hot water bottle.

  “Hi, Pill,” Jackie greeted her. “We’ve been wondering something.”

  Flip hardly noticed anymore whether they called her Flip or Pill. When Jackie said “Pill,” it sounded like an affectionate nickname, not a term of contempt, and only Esmée continued to use it in a derogatory manner. “What have you been wondering?” she asked.

  “Well, you’ve been seeing Percy every Sunday for a while now. Have you learned anything about her private life?”

  “Jackie has a crush on Percy, Jackie has a crush on Percy,” Gloria droned.

  “If you want to call it that,” Jackie said. “I admire her more than anybody in the world except my mother and I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “Needn’t get huffy, ducky.” Gloria threw her comb down in disgust and tried to get her snarls out with her fingers. “I must need a new perm. My hair’s just awful. It’s the way Black and Midnight washes it with that beastly old soap. I’m just as curious about Percy as you are. Where do you suppose Mr. Percy is? Come on, Pill. You must have found out something.”

  “I haven’t,” Flip said. “Not a thing. Nobody’s ever said anything about her husband.” She thought of Denise, but said nothing.