The Small Rain

by Madeleine L'engle

  Exultantly she thought—I’m alone, I’m alone, and I don’t care, because everything’s so terribly thrilling and beautiful.—

  “What are you thinking of, Katherine?” Miss Halsey leaned toward her from the head of the table.

  “I was thinking,” she said slowly, feeling that now they could not get at her, that now she would not give them power, “of how in counterpoint—”

  But before she could go any further Ginny broke in scornfully. “Oh, Katherine’s showing off again.”

  “Virginia!” Miss Halsey said sharply, looking at Katherine, and Katherine felt the hot blood surging to her face.

  “I was not!” she burst out hotly.

  “Never mind, Katherine,” said Miss Halsey, and Katherine knew that they had triumphed again. She stared fixedly at the school shield above the side door to keep the tears from her eyes, and it dilated and contracted, blurred and sharpened, dilated and contracted, blurred and sharpened. She heard the roar of chairs being pushed back and stood up hastily, hearing Miss Valentine’s grace only as a cruel murmur against her ears. She stood still as the staff and the upper tables marched out, then followed Penelope Deerenforth, forgetting to put her napkin in the rack, followed Pen through the passage, down the stairs and into the Anglican chapel.

  When she told Monsieur Vigneras that she had to use the bad piano on the fourth floor he gave her special permission to use the piano in his studio in the evenings, and the world changed for her. For his studio had nothing to do with the school, with rules and regulations. It was part of her mother’s world, the world to which someday she would belong. Every day led up to the moment after dinner when she could walk down the path to the Music and Art building and walk into Justin’s studio. Justin’s studio. Her home, her heart, her life.

  And then she found another home that was really part of the studio. One afternoon after her lesson she climbed up into an old elm tree that was near the building. Half its branches hung over the gray stone wall that marked the school boundaries. The first Saturday afternoon she climbed up in it to read, she discovered that from its branches she could see through the trees to the gray slate roof of a deserted old château. Although she was afraid of hurting her hip, she swung herself out onto the lowest branch, which hung over the stone wall, and dropped down onto a soft deep pile of leaves. The grass and weeds had grown up so that she could not see where there had been paths, and she pushed her way through. Every once in a while she would come upon a little marble statue half hidden by the long grasses, a small Pan blowing on his pipes, a sad-faced Grecian lady with no arms, a little naked boy with pigeons on his shoulders. At the château the grass had grown high through the cracks in the terrace. One of the heavy, dark shutters was open and swung back and forth crookedly on a single rusty hinge. The glass of the long window was gone, so she could walk right in to what had once been a huge and magnificent salon. There was still quite a lot of furniture covered with sheets, and in one corner, by the fireplace, the biggest fireplace she had ever seen, she discovered an old organ with a good many stops. She pulled the sheet back and sat down, pumped air into it, and began to play. At first the organ wheezed and choked and gasped, but then the tone came clear and sweet, and she played the Bach C minor Toccata, and then everything she knew by Bach. When she had finished, it was long past time for tea, almost time for dinner, and she knew she must get back to school. If she were found out, she would never have a chance to go there again, even if she weren’t expelled. She covered the organ carefully and slipped out. When she got back to the stone wall, she saw that she was going to have a difficult time getting over it from this side, for there was no tree to help her; but she managed to clamber up with the aid of some niches where stones had fallen out, and lay panting on the top, her hip aching. She climbed down as soon as she had caught her breath and went back to school. But the château was there for her to go back to every Saturday afternoon.

  In her mind she always went there with Justin, as she called Monsieur Vigneras to herself. Not Justin, the way Sheila or the others called him, but in a special way all her own; and the château she went to with Justin was the château of a hundred years ago, with the portraits and tapestries on the walls, and all the furniture intact; and the spinet she had found in one of the small upstairs sitting rooms restrung; and beautiful copper pots and pans shining in the kitchen.

  Katherine spent the Christmas holidays with her father and Aunt Manya in London. Charlot stayed in Paris, so she didn’t see him, and Nanny was in Scotland, so she couldn’t see her; and her father and Aunt Manya were loving and gay and busy all the time. But when she got back to school, something wonderful and astounding happened.

  She was assigned to the same room, with Pen, and this time Ginny Merritt, and she was given the bed by the window, so she could lie in bed at night and look down the mountainside at the lake and across to the mountains of France. There was a new girl in the form. Katherine saw her when she got into line for dinner. She had on the navy-blue school uniform and she was standing casually in line, perfectly at ease, talking in an animated voice to Ginny Merritt. There was something familiar about her, but Katherine was not sure what it was. It was more the way she was standing than her crisp English speech. Her voice was deep, rich, a little monotonous. When they sat down at the table Katherine could see her face better. She must have been about Katherine’s age, but she looked older, and she had the biggest blue eyes Katherine had ever seen.

  “I say,” Ginny said. “This is Sarah Courtmont, everybody. She’s going to be in our form. Please introduce yourselves.”

  In a flash Katherine remembered. Of course she remembered. Sarah Courtmont. The little girl in the gray pleated skirt and silk blouse she had played with in Central Park, who had been going to save her from the lions. It might be impossible, but it couldn’t be anyone else.

  She said nothing. She sat quietly at the table, not talking, listening to the muffled clink of spoons against soup plates, and the roar of talk that came and went like waves. When she pressed her fingers rapidly against her ears, the sound of voices really did sound like waves, like the ocean sound you hear when you listen to a sea shell.

  After dinner was over she wanted to speak to Sarah, but if Sarah didn’t recognize her, she wouldn’t say anything. She went into the common room, climbed up onto one of the lockers and lay there with Dombey and Son. Sarah came in with the others and joined the group at the gramophone. She seemed perfectly at home; she knew what to say to other people; she had been the leader of her gang in Central Park.

  But this night Katherine couldn’t concentrate the way she usually could. Good Night, Sweetheart kept intruding into Dombey and Son, so she climbed down from the locker and went off toward one of the practice rooms, although she would have to answer roll call in just a few minutes. As she went upstairs she almost bumped into Miss Halsey.

  “Where are you off to, Katherine?” Miss Halsey asked, as Katherine stood aside to let her pass.

  “I thought I’d practice for a little while, Miss Halsey.”

  “It’s almost time for call-over.”

  “I won’t be late, Miss Halsey.”

  “I’d like to speak to you for just a minute, Katherine.” Miss Halsey led the way into one of the deserted form rooms and turned on the light. As the light went on, everything outside except the street lamps on the terrace disappeared. The plane trees disappeared, the gym building, the conservatory, the Music and Art building; everything was suddenly gone, and instead the windows mirrored, distorted, the empty desks and chairs of the form room.

  Miss Halsey sat down at her desk, and Katherine stood impatiently in front of it. “Did you have a pleasant holiday?” Miss Halsey asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Did you?”

  “Splendid, thanks. Now, Katherine, aside from your exuberance—your work in English is not bad, and I hear from Miss Wheeler that your History is excellent, but the other mistresses without exception tell me that your work is not acceptable.”


  “Oh.”

  “Why is this? I don’t think you’re stupid.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Then why is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you find the classes interesting?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t find the other girls interesting either, do you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Don’t you think that’s rather unhealthy?”

  “Well, I’m afraid they don’t find me particularly interesting, either.”

  “Perhaps if you put your mind to turning over a new leaf this term, you might be happier.”

  “I’m not unhappy.”

  “Do you think it’s good for you to spend so much time alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you have ambitions with your music, but surely if you were with the other girls during your free time instead of practicing or going off by yourself, it would be better. Don’t you want your form to accept you and like you?”

  “Naturally.”

  Miss Halsey got up from her desk, came over to Katherine and again put an arm around her. “I’m sure you’d do well if you’d only try harder,” she said, drawing Katherine to her. “You’re really a sweet little thing, Katherine. Why are you always so cold and distant?”

  Again Katherine stood rigid in Miss Halsey’s embrace, not speaking, until the mistress dropped her arm. “You may go now, Katherine; but I warn you, you’d better pay more attention to your studies,” she said coldly, and, turning, walked stiffly out of the form room.

  Katherine turned out the light and watched the plane trees and the buildings and the night outside become visible again. She went over to the window and stood looking out for a moment; then she turned abruptly and went off to her practice room.

  The next Saturday afternoon she was climbing up in the elm tree by the wall on her way to the old château, when Sarah hailed her. “Hello, Katherine. What are you doing?”

  “I like to sit up here. What are you doing?”

  “Just wandering about. I got bored with the mess in the common room and that eternal record of Good Night, Sweetheart. I say, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  “Have you?”

  “Well, there’s something familiar about you. I can’t quite place it. Maybe it’s just that you remind me strongly of somebody. But I can’t think who. May I climb up, too?”

  “If you like.”

  Sarah pulled herself lightly into the tree and perched on a branch near Katherine. “If you don’t want me, for heaven’s sake say so and I’ll find me another tree.”

  “No, don’t go.”

  “Sure you don’t mind?”

  “No. Why? Do I look as though I minded?”

  “Yes. A bit. You’re rather antisocial anyhow, aren’t you?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Not really.”

  “I hear you play the piano well.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you play for me?”

  “If you really want me to.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t. I say, where have I met you before? I’m quite sure I have. I always remember people. I’m sure I’ve met you.”

  “Do you remember—” Katherine blurted, and then stopped.

  “Do I remember what?”

  “Do you remember once in Central Park in New York I was in one of the underpasses and you came along and you were going to save me from the lions. I remember because it was my birthday and except for that it was such a horrible day.”

  Sarah looked puzzled. “I don’t really remember, but I guess that must have been it. Why didn’t you tell me before if you remembered?”

  “I don’t know exactly—”

  “We came to England when I was eight, and I haven’t been back since. I remember Central Park and New York very well, though. We lived on West Seventy-seventh Street. I say, this is funny, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Katherine answered. She looked at Sarah sitting on the next branch swinging her legs, looked at Sarah with the huge, blue eyes and short, light-brown hair, and suddenly she felt very happy.

  After Sarah came, things were different. Suddenly she was no longer on the outside. She didn’t quite know how it happened, but it did, and that was the important thing. Sarah knew how to walk out of the common room on Saturday afternoon because she was tired of the crowd, and nobody minded or thought it was strange. Usually on Saturday afternoons they went up to the best practice room, which was on the fourth floor. Katherine was signed up for it from four to six, and persuaded Sheila to sign from two to four, knowing that she would never come.

  It was a narrow rectangle of a room with a good upright piano for Katherine and a window seat for Sarah to read in or to study parts in her battered volume of Shakespeare. Those were lovely Saturday afternoons.

  “Katherine,” said Sarah.

  “What?”

  “Listen.” Sarah read aloud in her low, rich voice:

  “This ae night, this ae night,

  Every night and alle,

  Fire and sleet and candle-lighte

  And Christe receive thy soule.”

  “Doesn’t that make shivers go up and down your spine in a nice sort of way?”

  “Yes. You remind me of Aunt Manya when you read aloud.”

  Sarah beamed. “You couldn’t say anything nicer, ducks.”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “It’s begun to snow.” Sarah twisted around and pressed her nose against the windowpane.

  “Has it?”

  “It’s so nice and warm and comfortable in here. I love Saturday afternoons.”

  “Um.”

  “Let’s slip over to the château tomorrow afternoon, shall we?”

  “Yes, let’s!”

  “I wish you’d put some music to that thing I just read.”

  “I will if you’ll copy it out for me. Maybe a sort of theme and variations, or maybe a fugue.”

  “Will you show it to Justin?”

  “If it’s good enough.”

  “Miss Halsey would probably think it stinks.” Sarah grinned.

  “Miss Halsey stinks. You know what she says?”

  “What now?”

  Katherine wriggled her shoulders and twisted around, trying to rub the back of her neck. “Gosh! I’ve been playing almost four hours. Would you believe we’d been here that long?”

  “No,” Sarah said.

  “Rub my shoulders, Sarah.”

  Sarah stretched and came over to Katherine, beginning to knead the muscles of her shoulders and neck. “What were you going to say about Halsey?”

  “Halsey says Don Quixote is a riotous comedy.”

  “Isn’t it?” Sarah asked.

  “Don Quixote is one of the greatest tragedies ever written.”

  Sarah laughed. “Did you tell Halsey that?”

  “Yes. And I’ll get a rotten mark for my pains. And Father and Aunt Manya’ll think I haven’t an ounce of brains. I told Justin what I thought and he said I was right … Oh, that feels so lovely. Tickle behind my ears … Now, look, what I said to Halsey is that Don Quixote is a great man beaten by life; the world has brought him down. His tragedy is not his death. That was a kindness on Cervantes’ part. It would have been too cruel to let him live. His tragedy is his realization that he’s a fool—” She stopped abruptly and glared at Sarah.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “I’m not laughing really,” Sarah said. “You just sound so sweet and pompous when you get that professorial air.”

  “I’m not pompous.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “‘You will read fifty more pages for tomorrow and we will have a factual quiz the next day’ … I’m so stupid, I’ve never passed one of Halsey’s factual quizzes yet. She probably thinks it’s because I’m reading the original instead of the condensed version. Oh, Lord, you know what?”

  “What?” Sarah asked obligingly.


  “She thinks we’re reading the original because we’re afraid the condensed version cuts out the dirty parts. She can’t possibly imagine our doing it simply because we want to read it the way it was written. Golly, what’s the point of coming to school? The only person I’ve learned anything from is Justin, and music’s supposed to be extra-curricular. Mother said that as long as she was alive I’d never have to submit to the idiocies of a conventional education. You know, I don’t think Smith was much better, either. Only there you could learn if you wanted to; only not many people wanted to, and lots of the ones who did were sort of dreeps. It’s crazy. It’s all crazy. You know why I get so—het up—about Don Quixote being a tragedy, not a comedy?”

  “Why? You get het up so easily, Kat.”

  “Because,” Katherine said. “Because—sometimes—I get afraid maybe I’m sort of like Don Quixote. Maybe some day I’ll wake up and find out the world I’ve made up for myself isn’t anything like the real one. I mean, here at school we don’t get a chance to do anything but make it up. And maybe when I get out in the world I’ll wake up in it and see: Katherine, a little fool … You know, when you rub my head like that I can just talk and talk and talk and most of the time I haven’t any idea what I’m saying.”

  “Most of the time I haven’t, either,” Sarah said.

  “It’s because I haven’t had anybody to talk to since Mother died, I guess. Mother was so wonderful to talk to, I got sort of spoiled. I’ve always wanted to talk to Justin—I’ve talked and talked to him in my own mind—but when I’m with him I get all tongue-tied and I can’t say anything except silly unimportant things, and I want to kick myself for being a fool—and I’m sure he’ll think I’m a moron and not worth teaching—”