Love Letters

by Madeleine L'engle

  Her throat was tight and it was difficult to say, “But there is.”

  He clasped her tightly in his arms. “Why do I do this to you, Cotty? Why do I try to drag you into the pit with me?”

  “You don’t,” she said. “You don’t, Father. And there isn’t anybody for you to talk with, and I’m glad I’m the one, truly I am.”

  “Cotty, sweet, sweet, go on up to bed and don’t worry.”

  “I don’t want to leave you when you’re feeling this way.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’re not feeling all right about your writing.”

  “That will pass, too. Do you know how applejack is made?”

  For a moment she thought that he must have made himself another drink. “No.”

  “You put apple juice in a keg and leave it outdoors all winter and let it freeze. Almost all of it will turn to ice, but there’s a tiny core of liquid inside, of pure flame. I have that core of faith in myself. There’s always that small searing drop that doesn’t freeze. Don’t worry about me, my darling. I’m all right. And you must get some sleep.”

  “And you, too, Father. I won’t wake you when I come down for breakfast. I’ll try to miss the squeaky stairs.” She kissed him and hurried back upstairs, quickly, because she knew that she was going to cry.

  The salt of tears.

  The cleansing, the purifying.

  The reducing to the core.

  Why are tears salty?

  When the oceans weren’t?

  “Did you know, Cotty, that in the beginning there was no salt in the oceans? They were pure, crystalline water from those first torrential, primordial rains. It took billions of years of sedimentation, of mineral deposits being washed down from the rocks, from the hills, before the seas became salt …”

  “If there is too much salt in the sea, Cotty, it becomes dead. Its life is killed …”

  Were tears once clear and crystal and without the taste of salt?

  There is too much salt, now. My tears are dead.

  … But because she was afraid Antonio would think she had been crying she pulled up out of her slumped posture as she heard his footsteps; she managed a courteous smile.

  “I had to make the coffee,” Antonio said. “Sorry to have been so long.”

  Charlotte sipped it gratefully. It was steaming hot, and he had been generous with the brandy.

  “Mrs. Napier, forgive me. But it isn’t just that you are ill. You are troubled.”

  She looked at him over the cup. “Isn’t everybody, one way or another?”

  “I know I have no right to ask.” He held out his hands, the long fingers curving in a supplicating gesture. “But I feel a concern for you. I would like to help.”

  “Thank you. It’s very kind of you.”

  “That you are unhappy distresses me.”

  She put the coffee cup down on the bedstand. “My unhappiness is unimportant.”

  “No unhappiness is unimportant.”

  “Mine is,” she said. “I love my husband and I don’t think he loves me. It’s as simple as that. And as common.”

  Antonio immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion. “But with you—he could not love somebody else.”

  “He could, very easily. But it’s not that. It’s not that simple. Or that common. I suppose everybody’s unhappiness is particular in some way. Let’s talk about yours.”

  She had hurt him; he flinched. But he said, “I would love you.”

  She reached for her coffee cup. “That’s nonsense. And furthermore, quite beside the point.” Her voice was as chilly as the room. “We met only yesterday.”

  “It took Mariana and Noël only the meeting of their eyes.”

  “But I am not a dead nun and I take my marriage vows seriously.”

  “So, I think, did she,” he said. “There would have been no problem otherwise.”

  She took a long drink of the rapidly cooling coffee. At least the brandy held its own heat. “Oh, Tonio—”

  “Yes?” He pulled the chintz chair away from the window, dragged it close to the bed, and put his hand on her cold and trembling fingers.

  She said, “Don’t—please don’t ask me things or I might talk about myself and we’d both regret it.”

  “I cannot imagine myself regretting anything you could tell me. Haven’t you heard all the things I’ve been trying to tell you today? I have talked about battles and a long-dead nun but I have been trying to tell you something else. Haven’t you heard?”

  She withdrew her hand. “Tonio, go away. I came to Portugal to talk to Violet.” She finished the coffee and automatically handed him the empty cup. She moved deliberately in her imagination from the dank room in the pensão to Violet, Violet seen in her feverish mind sitting in the blue-tiled room in the convent in Beja, the room that had known not Violet but the long-dead abbess: what was her name? Brites. Yes. Two syllables, Bree-tesh, with the s slurred the Portuguese way.

  Why did the quondam abbess, like all the reverend mothers of Charlotte’s past, wear Violet’s face? How would Violet like that, Violet who was so passionately Violet and who spent so much time fending off any relationship that might become clinging or demanding? How would Violet like it that Charlotte could see no longer the faces of the nuns who had ruled the schools of her childhood, but only Violet wearing their habits?

  Violet would not like it at all.

  So Charlotte must not seem to cling or depend on her now.

  To depend. To hang from.

  No.

  Violet, always troubled with hangers-on, detested them.

  “Mrs. Napier—”

  She looked at Antonio. He was too beautiful. The dark hair was too thick, too soft, the eyes too burning, the features too finely chiseled

  it is not his fault

  any more than it is Patrick’s

  the two so dark

  so different

  “Mrs. Napier, he’ll be right here, Dr. Ferreira. He’s probably been held up by a patient. They lie in wait for him. Why don’t you lie down until he gets here?”

  “I’m all right,” Charlotte said. “I’m all right just sitting here

  … at the abbess’s feet on a low stool, bending slightly forward, her veil falling so that it half hid her face, her hands loosely clasped at her knees. She spoke softly, earnestly, “… most of the Rule is so easy for me that I hardly notice it. I think the part that troubles me most is the Examination of the Conscience.”

  The abbess regarded her calmly through serene, light eyes. “How so, my child? Are your sins, then, so grave?”

  Mariana raised her face to the older woman. In the young nun’s features the strength of the bone structure was not so pronounced, though the close blood relationship was revealed in the delicate line of the cheekbone, the curve of lips, the wide spacing of the eyes. Mariana’s eyes were more variable; they were the same extraordinarily light blue, but flecked with gold. She said, softly, “I think my gravest sin is that I do not feel sinful.”

  The abbess regarded the trusting face, utterly devoid of guile. The girl was more innocent than most of the children; she would have to grow up, face evil, to recognize the sinfulness of man. An abbess must know and not be shocked by the ways of the world, so Mariana must now learn more than charming French, more than the delicate copying of old manuscripts, the illuminating in red and blue and gold. “Continue, Sister Mariana,” the abbess said.

  “It’s so easy, living here, in this beautiful place, surrounded only by the gentleness of your Rule—”

  “Gentle?”

  There was a certain irony to the question, but Mariana answered, “For me it is, so that as I follow it through day and night I feel in—in a state of grace. Forgive me, but that’s the way I feel, you see. It’s not something I’m looking for, it’s what happens. When I teach the little ones, when we walk through the gardens together, I don’t feel grown up and beyond them; I forget my veil. I talk to them only of the joy of life instead of prepar
ing them for the harshness they’ll find when they leave here and return to the world. How can I prepare them for it when I have no experience of it?” She paused, but the older nun gave no sign of either approbation or disapproval, simply indicating that the girl should continue.

  The young voice became hesitant. “It’s so difficult … how can I say it … well, perhaps this is a sin, your Reverence, I don’t know … I sometimes confuse God with his creation …”

  The abbess looked at her sharply. “Explain yourself.”

  “God speaks to me not only through his son, but through the children I teach, through the moon sparkling against the fountain at night, a child’s soft skin against my fingers, the sweet odor of growing things.… Mother, I lose myself in delight, and whether or not in this way I am worshipping God I do not know. But when I try to find him in dogmas and sermons, as Sister Joaquina does, I confess that these seem to me dead things, and I feel impatience and irritation.”

  “But that is Sister Joaquina’s way, not yours, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, your Reverence.”

  The abbess was not angry, nevertheless she looked formidable. “It is arrogance in you to feel that you must praise him in Sister Joaquina’s way, in Sister Beatriz’s way, that no way should be closed to you. Do you understand that, child?”

  “Yes, your Reverence. I never realized—but—yes, I think I see.”

  The abbess surprised her by laughing. “You want to try all ways, Sister Joaquina only one. I wonder what would turn out if I could shake the two of you together in a sack so that you’d be all mixed up?”

  Mariana laughed. The abbess put her hand gently on the young nun’s shoulder in a tangible gesture of affection she seldom allowed herself. “At least you bring laughter to this place, child. A strict rule should not discourage merry faces. But speak to Father Duarte about this in your next confession. He will help you to straighten it out. It does need straightening. You may go now. You have duties to attend to. And so do I.”

  The duties were part of the structure of the rule, the framework that held her joy. She left the abbess and almost ran along the cloister to the chapel to steal a few moments in its golden peace. She dropped to her knees, her head bowed submissively, but slowly her face raised itself, for it was always easiest for her to pray outwards, upwards, towards the heavens.

  “Oh, my dearest Lord, is it all right? Is it all right? to be this happy? to love the children? is there no grace in loving them because they are so beautiful and simple to love? And the soldiers riding by this morning, how beautiful they were! It was very easy for me, as I watched them, to understand that man is made in your image.”

  An unexpected shudder rippled over her body, like a cold wind moving across water.

  … At the shudder that shook her, Antonio said, “You’re still cold. Perhaps some more brandy?”

  “No—” Charlotte started, but there was a knock at the door and it was Dr. Ferreira, battered black bag in hand, apologizing for the delay. He took a thermometer and put it under Charlotte’s arm, European fashion, then looked around the room.

  “This will never do,” he said, beard and mustache quivering with the ferocity of his frown. “It is much too cold. You should have asked for a heater last night. No wonder you are ill. Of course we are unprepared here for this kind of weather. It gets cold in Beja, but not like this. A cold wave like this is almost unprecedented. Tonio, can you get a heater?”

  “Of course, I’ll go out and buy one—”

  “But that’s nonsense, for a few hours.” He took the thermometer from Charlotte and looked at it. “Influenza You will have to go to bed.”

  Charlotte said, in blind panic, “I can’t—”

  “At your mother-in-law’s, where you will be taken care of. Not here.”

  Charlotte stood up. “I can’t. I can’t go to Violet.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s not expecting me—she doesn’t even know I’m here—nobody knows I’m here—”

  “Your husband—”

  “Patrick doesn’t know. I left him. I came to tell Violet. So I can’t go to her. Don’t you see? I just came to—”

  Dr. Ferreira put his hand against her hot forehead. “Mrs. Napier. Be quiet.”

  Antonio started to the door. “I’ll buy a heater and we can put her to bed here and I’ll take care of her.”

  The doctor brushed this aside with one of his big, clumsy gestures. “We will take her to my house and put her on the sofa in the library until we can get in touch with Dame Violet. At least I have a fire going in the grate, the room is moderately warm. I cannot even think of examining her here in this icebox. It was raining so abominably when I left that I took the car, so there is no problem in transportation …”

  She was perfectly contented, now, to let them go on talking, pack her up, tuck her under a moth-eaten fur rug in the back of the car for the short drive. She moved through a haze of fever and discomfort until she was lying on a long and rather lumpy divan covered with a threadbare oriental rug. The doctor’s library was warm and smelled of his fire and tobacco and undusted books: there was a feeling of comfort in the dark volumes filling the shelves, in the papers cluttering his desk. She submitted passively to his slow and thorough examination. As she felt the stethoscope cold against her skin she turned her head, half expecting to see Antonio looking at her, and almost screamed as she saw, instead, a skeleton standing in the corner. The flickering of the fire made the shadows move against the bare bones so that for a mad, feverish moment she thought it was Antonio, divested of flesh, three hundred years old, moving towards her. Then her brain cleared: there was nothing macabre about a skeleton in a doctor’s study.

  “Open your mouth and breathe, please,” he said.

  She did as he bade her, closing her eyes and relaxing under the absolute authority of his hands.

  “You are not allergic to penicillin?”

  “No.”

  She felt a swift, sure prick of a hypodermic needle. Everything, at last, was under control, she was as much under his jurisdiction as though she were again a child

  as though she were back in school

  as though she were in a dormitory and the safety of rules was so absolute that they could be broken without fear because the rules were so firm that breaking them could not really touch them.

  … The ground near the frog pond at the foot of the convent grounds was hard and damp and Charlotte lay flat on it, pressing her nose against it until the patterns of grass and twigs were printed across her face and her tears were mixed with the wetness left from the morning’s rain. Hard bits of stubble pricked through her uniform and jabbed into her, but she pressed against the ground even more closely, welcoming the pain, digging her toes into little tufts of grass and pushing, trying to concentrate her misery into simple physical discomfort.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God.” And then quickly she sat up, staring furiously at the sky, and said, “Damn you.” And then, “Damn you to hell.” She held her face up and waited, looking at one small white cloud (but surely any cloud was large enough for a thunderbolt). It floated past her and nothing happened. She had known that nothing would happen but it was worth a try.

  If he struck her down at least he would be there.

  She became conscious of someone near her, and she stiffened, holding her breath, checking her sobs by pressing her face even harder into the ground. Someone was standing beside her, committing the unpardonable breach of privacy in watching her misery. She lay perfectly still, desperately trying to become invisible in the short stubbly grass. But the dark shadow remained beside her. Damn nuns. “Go away,” she whispered. “Go away.”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Go away,” she said savagely into the ground. “Go away, damn you.”

  The voice, when it spoke again, held just a tinge of bitter amusement. “I’m not one of the nuns. Nor likely to become one now. Go on and swear if it will make you feel better.”

 
Charlotte wriggled a few inches nearer the pond and stretched her arm out so that she could dabble her fingertips carelessly in the water. “I’m watching a tadpole turn into a frog,” she said.

  “That’s very interesting, isn’t it?” The voice was light. “I’d rather they stayed tadpoles, though.”

  “Would you? I like frogs.” As conversation seemed inevitable she rolled over and sat up and saw that the voice belonged to one of the secular teachers, a teacher nobody liked.

  “Hello, Miss Benson,” she said courteously, trying to pretend that her face was not covered with tears, covered with bits of grass, marked with lines where the twigs had pressed into it. She pulled her lips into a smile. ‘A long face is a breach of manners,’ her father had told her.

  “You may call me Sunset if you like,” the teacher said. “I’m not ashamed of having red hair.” She was a young woman in an ill-fitting tweed skirt and a baggy hand-knitted sweater and her face was hard and unhappy.

  “I don’t call you Sunset,” Charlotte said.

  “I wouldn’t mind if you did. Except for the incongruity of it. A sunset is one of the loveliest things in the world. It’s an oddly flattering nickname for me. Do you know that I came down to the frog pond just now for the same reason you did? Because I wanted to cry?”

  Charlotte looked at her, at the red hair and the too-white skin covered with freckles. Then she remembered her manners. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Sunset said. “It’s good to have something to cry about sometimes. That’s how you grow.” She dropped beside Charlotte at the edge of the pond and put her hand in the water, swishing it back and forth. Charlotte watched the long, knobby white hand, the back covered with fine red hairs, the nails cut off short and a little dirty. Sunset followed Charlotte’s glance. “I know my nails are dirty.” (But a teacher, even a secular teacher, shouldn’t apologize to a student. Should she?) “I’ve been digging. Up on the hill above the Roman ruins. I’ve been digging gentians and planting them in a shoebox. I suppose they’ll die, though.”