A Severed Wasp

by Madeleine L'engle

  “Dorcas, are you going to have anybody to help out with things when you get home?”

  “No, but I have nothing else to do. I can manage.”

  “You’ll be more tired than you realize. I’m going to see if Raissa can give you half a day.”

  Dorcas pondered for a moment, then smiled. “There’s no reason why Terry can’t pay for it.”

  “None whatsoever. Now, my child, I’m on my way up to the Cathedral. I’ll call you tomorrow and Sunday, but I won’t be able to come by till Monday.”

  Now the smile was real. “Just knowing that you came with me last night, that you’re here today, that you care, that’s enough to keep me from being lonely.”

  Llew said, “You met Yorke and Lib when we brought you the crib. They’ll drop by to see you. It’s just around the corner for them.”

  “Oh, I don’t want anybody to go to any trouble.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble, and they liked you.”

  “I liked them a lot. But I don’t want—”

  “I’m on my way to see them,” Llew said. “I’m sure they’ll want to come. Take care.”

  “I will. And thanks.”

  “It’s done.” Llew sighed as they walked back to Tenth Street. “And I didn’t break into a thousand pieces. Not visibly, at any rate.”

  “You did very well indeed.”

  “Dorcas didn’t notice anything?”

  “I doubt it. She’s normally a sensitive person, I think, but right now she’s preoccupied with her own problems, and concentrating on the birth of her baby to—as it were—keep the wolves at bay.”

  “I know those wolves only too well,” Llew said. “Cathedrals, it seems, tend to be surrounded by them.”

  “Not only cathedrals. And, actually, wolves are given a bad name which isn’t at all fair.”

  “I know. It’s just part of the—of the mythic vocabulary. Anybody can be dangerous when hungry.”

  The clarity was gone from the air, replaced by heaviness and a whiff of sulfur.

  “I’m glad you’re going to be with the Davidsons tonight,” Llew said.

  Katherine looked at the rapidly clouding sky, and did not reply.

  He left her at the apartment. It was five minutes before three, and she wandered about, rather aimlessly checking things, until Mother Catherine of Siena rang the bell promptly on the hour.

  “My guardian angel was with me this time and I’m parked just across the street.” The nun carried an unwieldy parcel wrapped in brown paper. “I’m glad to see the new locks.”

  “Yes. Mimi took care of that immediately.”

  Mother Cat put her parcel down on the coffee table in front of the long sofa and began untying the string.

  “I have scissors,” Katherine suggested.

  “Not necessary. I’m almost done, and I have a habit of saving string.” She untied the last knot and rolled the string into a small ball, then began removing the heavy layers of brown paper. “There. Isn’t that a beautiful job of restoration?”

  To Katherine’s untrained eye the painting looked as it always had, a strange and striking study in lights and shadows, the baby Michou’s face illuminated. Mother Cat took the seascape from above the mantelpiece and hung it back in its place on the wall near the kitchen. Katherine was silent until the nun had stepped back from the fireplace and begun to fold the wrapping paper.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” Katherine said at last. “Not having the portrait there has had a strange psychological effect on me. How much do I owe you?”

  Mother Cat put the brown paper and the heavy string into a capacious black carryall. “Not a thing. Mr. Robinton refused to take a penny. He said it’s the best Hunter he’s seen and it was a privilege to work on it. They plan a Philippa Hunter exhibit at the museum in a couple of years, and he hopes you’ll lend them the portrait then.”

  “I’m glad it’s not for a couple of years.” Katherine looked at the luminous face of the baby, her own face almost hidden by the soft, dark hair. “I don’t think I could part with it right now. Would we have time to stay for a cup of tea?” A sudden clap of thunder cut off her last words, and the room was immediately and noticeably darker.

  “Did you say tea? I think I’d better stay till the storm is over.”

  —So Mimi was right, and not just doom-mongering. Katherine sighed as the room was lit by a brilliant flash of lightning followed almost immediately by an ear-splitting crash of thunder, and then a great rush of rain.

  “If I may use your phone,” Mother Cat said, “I’d better reassure them at the convent that I’m under cover.” Katherine indicated the phone and the nun picked up the receiver, holding it to her ear and listening intently. “No dial tone. I’m afraid the storm has knocked it out.”

  “Let me try the phone in the bedroom,” Katherine suggested.

  It, too, was dead. There was the prickling smell of ozone in the air. The rain was coming in the windows, so she closed them. Normally, electrical storms exhilarated her. This did not. Mimi’s forebodings must have affected her.

  Mother Catherine had closed the windows in the living room. The tea kettle was hissing. Katherine made tea, put cookies on a plate. Mother Cat wheeled the tea cart into the living room. “I hope the power stays on.” She turned on the lamp by the piano, and the light was reassuring in the storm-darkened room. After the next flash the bulb flickered, but did not go out, and there were several seconds before the thunder clapped. “It’s moving north.” The nun leaned back comfortably and sipped at her tea. “Ah, this is good. How are Emily Davidson’s piano lessons going?”

  “Beautifully.”

  “Sister Isobel says she has talent for composition.”

  “Real talent. She’s delightfully free when she plays her own work. And beginning to loosen up with other composers. Emily says her old teacher did not like her compositions. Could he be jealous?”

  The nun thought for a moment. “It’s possible. He’s supposed to be an excellent teacher, but he’s never made it as a soloist himself. Sad to think he might feel lessened by Emily’s gift, rather than excited by it. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that she has you. Not everyone has to have a sense of vocation to be complete, but Emily’s one of the people who can’t survive without it. John, too, but John has gone serenely on with his violin, with no brutal interruption.”

  Katherine kept glancing back at the portrait, deeply relieved to see it in its place over the mantelpiece. She refilled their cups. A thin splash of lightning filled the room, and the thunder was slow in following.

  “All the Davidson children except Tory have recognized their particular talents, and know where they are going. Tory doesn’t realize that her siblings are unusual, and she’s the more average child in not yet having discovered her focus, and so she’s jealous. Very jealous.”

  Katherine asked, “Is the fact that I’m giving piano lessons to Emily going to add fuel to Tory’s fire?”

  “Very likely. But her jealousy must not be pandered to, and Emily needs you right now.” She opened the windows and a wave of heavy air came in. “Storm’s over. For now. There’s evidently a chain of them coming in from the Great Lakes. I’ll try the phone once more … Still dead. This makes me grateful that you’re not going to be alone here with a dead phone.”

  “The way it’s been screeching at me today has been worse than the peacocks. I’m delighted it can’t keep on at me.”

  “True. On the other hand, it can be a most unpleasant feeling not to be able to call out. We’ll report it when we get uptown. Ready?”

  Katherine nodded, indicating her case, then glanced again at the portrait. “Thank you, more than words can ever convey, for having the portrait repaired. I wouldn’t have known such a thing was possible.”

  “A good thing Rose Robinton’s in our school, or I might not have known, either. Thank you for the tea.” Mother Cat gathered up the tea things and wheeled them into the kitchen.

  Katherine followed,
standing in the doorway and allowing the younger woman to do the brief washing up. “I was an only child. Michou died at seven, with Julie not four, so I have no experience … Are Emily’s and Tory’s squabbles normal?”

  The nun laughed. “Heavens, yes. They’ll outgrow them and become friends, I hope. It’s Tory’s jealousy of Emily that disturbs me, not their sibling spats.”

  “Jealousy is an ugly thing.” Manya’s warning seemed to echo in Katherine’s ear. But Tory was Suzy and Dave’s problem, not hers. Emily she understood in her bones. She loved Emily as she loved the grands. And to love is to be vulnerable.

  Music in the Cathedral

  1

  It had not rained uptown. “Summer storms can be very local.” Mother Cat sniffed. “But it smells like thunder. We’ll get it up here sooner or later.”

  As the nun helped Katherine out of the car, they saw Yolande Undercroft hurrying toward them.

  “Madame Vigneras! I’ve been hoping to catch you. Allie told me you’re coming for the weekend. So much better for you than being all alone.”

  Katherine stifled a sharp reply, said only, “Yes.”

  “I know you’re staying with the Davidsons, but would you come have a drink with Allie and me before dinner?”

  Katherine looked briefly at Mother Catherine of Siena, who was standing by the car, her face calm and unreadable. “I’m sorry,” Katherine said firmly. “I’m going to spend as much time with the Bösendorfer as possible. I’ve had to replace several selections because of the change in location.”

  “Ticket requests are still pouring in. You’re very popular,” Yolande said. “Are you sure you won’t have time for a small glass of wine?”

  “I’m sorry,” Katherine said again, still firmly. “Once I’ve finished practicing, I’m going to the Davidsons’, and early to bed. This is not a social visit.” She sounded far more disagreeable than she intended. And she had hurt the bishop’s wife. Katherine sighed inwardly. There was too much intentional hurting in the world for her to add to it unintentionally. “What I would really appreciate is a cup of tea, right now.”

  “Of course!” Yolande’s relieved pleasure was as open as a child’s. “Mother Catherine, will you join us?”

  —But she doesn’t want her.

  “No, thanks, Mrs. Undercroft. I’m due back at the convent.”

  “Oh, well, then. I’ll walk dear Katherine back to the Cathedral and see to it that she’s all right.”

  Katherine refrained from saying, “I can take care of myself,” and followed Yolande to Ogilvie House.

  “Something told me,” Yolande said, “to tell the children not to come over for tea this afternoon. I always obey these impulses, and now I know why I had this one.”

  Mrs. Gomez brought them tea and thinly sliced pound cake. There was a small silver bell on the tea tray, and the cook said, “Ring if you want anything,” and left them. Her voice was dour.

  But Yolande did not seem to notice. “You’re really looking forward to spending the entire afternoon at that piano?”

  “Most of the afternoon’s already gone. And I still have a lot of work to do.”

  Yolande handed her tea in a translucent china cup. “What I envy most about you is that you love your work. You’ve always loved your work, haven’t you?”

  Katherine took a slice of lemon and squeezed it with her spoon. “Not always. I don’t think anyone does, twenty-four hours a day, fifty-two weeks a year. There were times when I was working up a program and Justin was standing by me, making me repeat a phrase over and over, when I was so tired and discouraged that all I wanted to do was put my head down on the piano keys and sob.”

  “So your Justin did abuse you?”

  “No, no,” Katherine protested. “He just wouldn’t let me stop working until he had got out of me the best he possibly could.”

  Yolande crushed a piece of pound cake to small crumbs. “Jesus, you’re lucky. I envy you, envy you. The only time I loved singing was when I was a child in Buenaven—in Peru, before I was, you know, discovered and taken—taken high up in the Andes to the temple and my life was no longer my own. But when I was little, I could do whatever I wanted, and could sing as I wandered through the fields. That was my real singing. I heard the songs I made up, and I loved them, and what my voice could do with them. This is the kind of singing I am trying to teach Fatima.”

  “I’m so glad,” Katherine said.

  “Perhaps she’s lucky in being unattractive. I attracted men like bees to honey, and once I was discovered, once I was brought to New York and made to sing, not for myself, but for the brutes who exploited me, the audiences who, you know, adored me—then I hated the music. It wasn’t mine, any more. And I didn’t belong to myself any more, either. I belonged to my managers, as I had—belonged to the priests.” She slipped off her white jacket. Under it she wore a lacy shirt through which her scars were visible; or perhaps they were visible only if one knew they were there. She said, “It’s hot today. I usually keep my scars covered. I don’t suppose anything like beatings ever happened to you in your privileged world.”

  Katherine felt acutely the bitterness behind the words. She spoke in a low voice. “I was beaten by the Nazis, when I was in prison early in the war. But it was nothing like what you must have gone through. I’m sorry. I wish I could do something to help.”

  Yolande’s voice was even lower than Katherine’s. “You can let me hate you.”

  Katherine looked up, astonished. Yolande was saying in a normal voice, “You are helping me, by letting me talk to you, share myself with you.” Had she really said those first few words? Or was Katherine picking up something felt but unsaid?

  Yolande hated her. Whether the words had been said aloud or not, they were true. Was this the jealousy Manya had tried to warn Katherine about, speaking as she was dying, when she had, perhaps, already crossed the border between the known and the unknown?

  —Yes, Katherine thought sadly,—I have loved my music, even when I was angry with Justin for pushing me too hard, I have loved it. Even when I was half dead with grief, music has sustained me. No wonder she hates me.

  She felt cold, as though a dark cloud had come across the humid afternoon. She said, “Your singing evidently gave hope to many thousands of people.”

  “Hundreds of thousands,” Yolande corrected. “I pulled them in like those, you know, evangelical TV preachers. Sure, I gave hope to them all. Not to myself.”

  “But now—” Katherine looked around the beautiful room. “You’re married, you love Allie—”

  Yolande shuddered. “If he ever stopped loving me, I’d die. And he would, if he knew … Why should my life have been nothing but burdens, each one heavier than the last? I feel like, you know, Sisyphus, pushing that stone forever up the hill, only each time the stone gets bigger and heavier. I’m not sure how long I can go on.” She reached for her jacket, slipped into it. “You were surprised to have me know about Sisyphus, weren’t you?” Then, “If you’ve finished your tea I’d better walk you over to the Cathedral. I don’t want to go on wasting your time.”

  “It’s not being wasted.” Katherine tried to reassure the younger woman. “I just wish I could do something to help.”

  “So do I,” Yolande said. “Jesus, so do I.”

  2

  Yolande insisted on walking Katherine back to the Cathedral, and saw to it that she was seated at the piano.

  Katherine started to play in order to turn her mind from the bishop’s wife. She did not want to think about their conversation. Not yet. She felt soiled from the jealousy which had washed over her.

  Music cleansed her. When the last notes of the Hammerklavier Sonata had faded into the distance, she became aware that she had an audience. The first rows of chairs were full of a motley assortment of people, all applauding politely, some enthusiastically. Many of them had cameras slung over their shoulders, and she realized that it was a busload of tourists. Their guide was urging them on, gathering them around
him, talking in a dully rhythmic voice; he had said everything thousands of times before.

  She turned away from their gawking, back to the music, concentrating on one of the Poulenc pieces she had chosen as a replacement for the Scarlatti toccata. When she had played through it half a dozen times, she looked up and saw Bishop Chan sitting in the front row. He applauded soundlessly, then rose, his knees as creaky as hers, and came toward her but did not climb the steps to the choir.

  “Madame Vigneras, I want to thank you for what you’ve done for Llew.”

  “I’ve done nothing. He would have come out of it by himself.”

  “Perhaps. I’m not sure. He was close to giving in to despair. He needed a push, not from one of us, but from someone outside, someone he trusted.” Bishop Chan lowered himself carefully onto the steps, pulling down his dark cassock. “It is good to see Llew moving back into full life again. And Bishop Bodeway, too, is being nourished by your friendship.”

  “He’s nourishing me, as well.”

  Bishop Chan nodded. “He has been like a father to us all, a grandfather to the younger ones. Children all love him. And he helps Allie whenever Yolande is suffering from an attack of her demons. I think it was Rainer Maria Rilke who said that he feared that if his demons left him, his angels would leave him, too. Is this true of all artists?”

  “Possibly,” Katherine murmured, thinking of tea with the bishop’s wife. Was this an attack of her demons? Or her ‘dark angel,’ as Allie had put it?

  “Sometimes Allie is afraid that Yolande’s demons are going to overpower her angels. I am not being just a gossipy old Chinaman, Madame. Yolande is more sinned against than sinning. She can’t help her background or the things her career, so very different from your own, did to her. She’s worried about something, now. Deeply worried. And it’s been getting worse for—oh, maybe two years.” He shook his head, and tried to rise from the low, marble step. She felt that she ought to help him, but understood that he needed to struggle on his own for as long as possible. Using his arms, he pushed himself up, scrabbling like a crab. When he was on his feet he looked down at her, his face as inscrutable as Oriental faces are supposed to be, and, she was sure, intentionally so. “I met Yolande as I was walking over here from my office, and she said that you had had tea with her and she was afraid that she might have upset you.”