After dinner Edmond took her back to Justin’s apartment, and Charlot was there, and Marcel Desmoulins, a friend of Justin’s and Anne’s, who, Anne told her, was the finest organist in Paris and played at the Church of Ste Anne. They took her to the Moulin Rouge when Edmond left, and Charlot made her drink a little too much and get very gay, and then they took her home and put her to bed, and she fell asleep at once.
The next morning Anne brought Katherine her breakfast in bed and told her that she had talked to Justin on the telephone and told him everything, and that he was longing to see her, and would be back as early as possible on Saturday night.
As early as possible wasn’t until after eleven o’clock. They knew he was coming, because they heard him running up the stairs, two at a time. Anne ran to the door and opened it, and he kissed her and picked her up and swung her around, and then he kissed Katherine, too, and picked her up and held her off at arm’s length.
“That’s what you get for being such a little thing,” he said. “You haven’t changed a bit, except now you look ninety instead of seventy-five.” He put her down. “And your hair looks as though it was used to being up. Do you ever wear it down any more? Just two long dark braids flapping against your shoulders?”
“Only when I get ready for bed. How are you? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right, little one. How are you? Can you still play the piano? Sit down and play for me. At once.”
Katherine sat down and played. She would never forget that night as long as she lived. They didn’t go to bed at all. Anne curled up on the sofa and slept, and Katherine and Justin sat at the piano and worked. Worked until she was completely sure of herself again, and the doubts she had had about her music vanished.
“I wanted so much to be in Paris next winter and study with you,” she said, looking out at the dawn coming over the rooftops.
“You’ll be all right,” Justin said.
“But look at tonight! Look how much I’ve learned tonight! You don’t ever know enough to be able to work just by yourself.”
“There are plenty of people in America who can probably teach you far more than I ever could.”
“I don’t know. You and Mother are the only people I’ve ever learned from. You know, I was failed in music at school last year.”
“I don’t doubt it, with that bastard Devault. Nevertheless, you’ve made great strides by yourself, little one.”
“Have I? Have I really?”
“You know you have. I’ve just been able to tighten a few things for you tonight, to clarify a few points. Have you any idea whom you’ll go to when you get back to America?”
“I don’t know. Albert Peytz was Mother’s teacher. I thought I’d ask him, if he’s still alive.”
“He ought to be able to suggest someone. Look at Anne, she’s sound asleep, poor darling.”
“Oh—it’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault, infant. Don’t worry. It’s not the first time Anne’s dozed away all night in this fashion. She’ll be all right. But how about you? Are you very tired?”
“I’m not a bit tired. I haven’t felt so wonderful in ages.”
“Back ache?”
“Not really.”
Justin got up and stood behind her at the piano and massaged her neck and shoulders. “Now, you write me from America.”
“I will.”
“You write me. Not just one short funny little note. Real letters. Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Do you know how to make coffee?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. And we mustn’t wake Anne. I know a good café that’s open all night, just around the corner. Want to come with me and get some coffee?”
“Yes. I’d love to.”
They went downstairs and out into the street. Day was beginning to come, but the shadows still clung to the buildings. The café around the corner still lay deep in darkness, but you could tell that day was very near because the lamp had lost its brilliance. They sat down and Justin ordered coffee.
“As long as things happen to you, you’ll be all right,” he said. “You’re strong enough to take them, and as long as things happen to you, you’ll learn and be all right. Remember that, no matter how dreadful things may seem sometimes.”
“I’ve got an awful lot to learn,” Katherine said.
“Yes, you have indeed, little one. But the thing that most gives me faith in you is that what does happen to you penetrates. It doesn’t just brush off the surface. It goes into you, and is there for you to make use of when you’re ready for it.”
“Even useless horrible things, like Pen’s dying that way?”
“Even things like that.”
“How do I know I’m going to live long enough to be able to make use of the things that have happened to me?”
“You mustn’t be afraid of death.”
“I am.”
“Fear is a terrible thing.”
“I know.”
“I think fear and covetousness are the most terrible things in the world, the greatest destroyers. They eat the insides out of one and leave only the shell. I don’t want you to be afraid.”
“But I am.”
“I’ve always been proud of you, because I’ve thought of you as one of the brave ones.”
“I’m not. I’m a coward. And I’m all alone with my fear. I’m all alone and I’m afraid of being alone and I’m afraid of dying and I’m afraid of being afraid. Now do you despise me and want to disown me?”
“No. Because I still think you are one of the brave ones. Basically.”
“If you ever stopped believing in me, I shouldn’t be afraid of death any more. I should want it.”
“You mustn’t say that.”
“But it’s true.”
“You shouldn’t let one person’s opinion be so important.”
“But it is.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever stop believing in you. Not as long as you’re you. And if you stop being you, my opinion won’t matter to you any more, so that’s all right. But don’t stop being you. I don’t think you will.”
“As soon as I possibly can I am coming back to Paris and study with you. Would that be all right?”
“Of course.”
“It’s all Father’s fault, my having to go back to America. I love Father, you understand, he’s a darling, but he’s such a fool, and he knows it, he knows he’s absent-minded and crazy, but I do think he puts it on a bit because he knows people think it’s charming, but he really is crazy to think he ought to counterbalance it by being frightfully conventional about me and my bringing up, and it’s all wrong, I know Mother would say it was wrong. And Aunt Manya will think I’m right about wanting to come back to Paris to study with you, too. Aunt Manya’s been on my side all along, and I know she’s argued with Father, but Father’s so stubborn that once he gets his mind made up about something, even Aunt Manya can’t make him change it.”
“It’s going to be very hard,” Justin said, “for people to realize you’re grown up, Katherine. You’re such a tiny thing. And I think you’re a very great mixture of grown-up-ness and complete babyishness, in spite of your ancient little face. You know, the reason I know you’re a nice girl is because Anne isn’t jealous of you. Anne’s a very jealous person, would you believe that? It’s her worst fault, and it’s only because she’s a very strong person that she’s been able to conquer it. If ever I should fall in love and want to marry, she’ll make a wonderful sister-in-law and friend, but I must say she’s been very disagreeable sometimes when I’ve been attracted to the wrong people. Have you seen Marcel Desmoulins the organist while you’ve been here?”
“Yes, several times.”
“I think Anne’s a little bit in love with him, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And I know he’s head over heels in love with her. It would be a very good thing for them both … I’m a terrible letter writer,
but I’ll try to drop you a line around Christmas time.”
“Oh, would you?”
“I’ll try. But don’t hate me forever if I don’t.”
“I won’t.”
“When do you have to leave, little one?”
“Charlot is coming for me at twelve. I have to have lunch with him and his fiancée and then they’re going to put me on the boat train.”
“Who is this Charlot?”
“He’s a very old friend of mine. Charles Bejart.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“Oh, no. He’s like a brother.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. I don’t want you to go around being in love with someone who’s engaged to someone else. Let’s go, my dear. It seems like a huge amount of stairs up to my garret, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t mind them.”
At the foot of the stairs Justin stopped and turned toward her. For a moment Katherine thought he was going to kiss her, but he just smiled and started up. On the landing he paused. It was very dark. She stood still and waited. Although they were not touching, it seemed that she could feel him.
“There is something,” he said, “that I should have apologized to you about a long time ago.”
“Never mind,” Katherine whispered. “You’ve never hurt me. I understand.”
“You do, don’t you?”
The landing seemed full of their presence and of something growing, burning with a clear flame between them that lit up the dark and made it alive. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.
After a long time Justin sighed softly, blowing the flame out, unwillingly, regretfully.
Anne was still asleep on the sofa.
“Do you want to try to take a nap until your friend comes?” Justin asked, his voice very casual.
“No. I’m not a bit sleepy. But you do if you want to.” Katherine’s voice was equally casual.
“I’m not sleepy either, little one. Shall we play some records?”
“Wouldn’t we wake Anne?”
“If we wake her, she’ll cook us some breakfast. There’s method in my madness.”
“Oh, that would be mean!”
“Anne doesn’t mind. Besides, if she’s going to marry Marcel Desmoulins, she’ll be cooking breakfast for him instead of me before long. Shall we have the Brandenburg Concertos? All six of them?”
“That would be lovely.”
Justin put on the first Brandenburg Concerto, and Anne rolled over on the sofa and stretched and yawned. “Want your breakfast, do you?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Justin said, and grinned at Katherine.
Anne got up, ran her fingers through her short curly hair, and smoothed down her skirt. “My clothes look as though I’d slept in them. Strange, isn’t it?” she said and went into the kitchen. Justin put more logs on the fire, and they listened to records and sat over breakfast until Charlot came at twelve with his fiancée.
With one look at Pauline Marat, Katherine knew she should feel happy about Charlot. Pauline Marat was a slender young Parisienne, on the tall side, beautifully dressed, with softly waved fair hair under a small black hat. Her eyes were dark-gray and very far apart and had the deep black line under the lashes that looks like heavy mascara but is natural, and that is almost unique with French women. Her nose was delicate and hooked, a little too long, her mouth firm and sweet, the upper lip narrow, the lower lip quite full. She couldn’t keep her eyes off Charlot, and it was evident that she adored him. When she shook hands with Katherine, her grip was steady and strong.
“Come along, little one,” Charlot said. “I’m going to take you to the most marvelous place for lunch. I couldn’t take you before, because it’s a place I never go to without Pauline.”
Katherine turned to Anne. “I can’t thank you for this week—I—it’s meant so much to me—I—I do thank you ever and ever so much.”
Anne kissed her. “I loved having you, dear. You know that.”
Then Katherine turned to Justin. “I guess it’s really good-bye this time.”
He came up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Not at all. You mustn’t forget that you’ve promised to come back to Paris and study with me as soon as you possibly can.”
“I won’t forget. I won’t forget. But America seems such a long way off.”
“Not really. It’s only as far as you make it in your mind.”
“Then it’s right here.”
He kissed her on both cheeks. “Good-bye, little one.”
“Good-bye—and thank you.”
She went downstairs with Charlot and Pauline.
TWELVE
When she went back to the apartment where she and Julie had lived on Tenth Street (How long ago was it? Nearly eight years), the street, and its ailanthus trees, and the house itself, seemed to have shrunk. Katherine walked up and down before it until she felt that she must look like a suspicious character, trying to pretend that she was ten once more, trying to pretend that Julie was up in the top floor of the apartment—and somehow trying to pretend that Justin was there, too. But Julie wasn’t there. Justin wasn’t there. Katherine wandered up and down Tenth Street until long after dark, then went back to the apartment Manya had taken overlooking the East River.
Tom had gone out of town to give a series of lectures. She found Manya back from her rehearsal, sitting in front of the fireplace, gazing into the flames. Katherine stood in the doorway of the shadowy room and watched Manya, getting pleasure and satisfaction from the weary grace of her aunt’s pose, from the firelight flickering over the beautiful face. After a while she said, “Aunt Manya.”
Manya turned around and held her arms out. “Katyusha, I’m so glad you’re home. I’m in the depths of gloom.”
Katherine sat on the hearth bench and put her head on Manya’s knee. “What are you gloomy about?”
Manya sighed. “We had an abominable first reading. Everyone is terrible. After all the trouble Oliver Henley and I had recasting the thing over here, nobody is right. I read badly. Sometimes I can’t help thinking: Now I’m successful, now I’m at the top, my name in lights, my picture in the papers; but in a few years, when I shall be a far better actress than I am now, perhaps my beauty will be gone, perhaps I’ll be forgotten, unable to get a job. Now I’m at the top, but if the play flops here, maybe that’ll start me on the downgrade. I don’t mean in the quality of my acting. That I control. But in my name, in my popularity. It’s bound to happen sooner or later. It always does. I know I’m a fool to let it matter. I know it doesn’t, really. But it seems very bleak. Very dreary.” She laughed and held her fingers with all their rings out to the blaze. “Maybe you’ll have to take to writing me fake fan letters in my old age, Katya. But if you dare!”
Katherine rubbed her head drowsily against Manya’s knee. “I’m gloomy, too,” she said.
“Why, baby?”
“I’ll be eighteen next month. And what have I to show for it?”
“Well, what?” Manya asked.
“Not much, it doesn’t seem to me. I ought to be more in control of my playing than I am. Technically I’m all right, but I haven’t any emotional control—no ability to sustain. And after all, any fool can acquire technique. And I haven’t done much living. You and Mother’d both done much more living than I have when you were my age.”
“Had we?”
“Of course!” Impatiently. “I’ve gone on letting you and Father take care of me. But when I’m eighteen, I’ll be of age.”
“You’re not of age till you’re twenty-one.”
“You’re of age enough to marry.”
“Thinking of marriage?”
“No! But I ought to support myself.”
Manya shook her gently. “If you’re still not supporting yourself by the time you’re twenty-one, I won’t hold you back. But until then you owe it to your mother, and to your father and to me, to study, to work like the devil at your piano
.”
“That’s what I wanted. To study with Justin in Paris.”
“There are other teachers besides Justin, Katherine.”
Katherine. So Manya was beginning to get annoyed. She tried to explain. “But it was so easy for me to learn from Justin, Aunt Manya.”
“Perhaps it would be better for you if it weren’t so easy.”
“I had all last year with that horrible creature.”
“Are you sure he was as bad as all that?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, my child, perhaps it’s just a different point of view. I don’t suppose age ever has or ever will understand youth.”
“That’s rubbish.”
“It’s all right, darling. I know you’re upset and I’m not being any help. You feel older now than you ever will in your life. I know the summer was dull for you. And I know you want an apartment of your own. But just thank your old Manya that your father isn’t sending you to college. I finally argued him out of it, but it was quite a job.”
“Oh, my golly,” said Katherine, “I didn’t know he wanted that.”
“He did. And even if we’d stayed abroad, I don’t think he’d have considered allowing you to stay in Paris alone, and I doubt if Charlot and that very nice Pauline of his would have liked having you on their hands for their honeymoon; so I’m afraid studying with Justin would have been impossible in any case. I’ve made an appointment for you tomorrow at twelve with your mother’s old teacher. He’s about ninety now, and impossible to get on with, I hear. Julie was practically his last pupil; but he may be able to give you some advice … I think we’d better have a drink. A fine way you picked to cheer me up. Your career! Good Lord! What about mine!”
The Small Rain Page 23