The Moment of Tenderness

by Madeleine L'engle

  “All right.”

  Binny dressed her quickly and put on her coat and hat and they walked up Park Avenue to St. Ignatius. Cecily watched Binny and saw her change as they went in the church door. She became a part of something strange and beautiful, like a bead on her rosary, as she genuflected, then pulled out her beads and began to tell them. Cecily knelt beside her and the smell of incense seeped through her like something magic. She felt that there must have been the smell of incense when Mother bought her from the balloon man. The light from the stained-glass windows fell across the nave and the motes of dust were colored. Cecily clasped her hands together and tried to count the lighted candles burning everywhere, round red ones, and blue ones, and little white ones, and tall white ones, one two three four, un deux trois quatre, eins zwei drei vier—

  “Are you praying to God to make your mother get well quickly?” Binny whispered.

  “Not yet. I’m going to,” Cecily whispered back. “Ought I to pray to God when I’m in here?”

  “Of course you should. And who else would you be praying to?”

  “The balloon man.”

  “You pray to God. A balloon man can’t hear prayers.”

  “Mine can.”

  “I never heard such nonsense. You pray to God and be quiet.”

  Cecily moved her lips slowly, “Now I lay me,” and “Our Father,” and “God bless.” And then, defiantly, “Dear balloon man, please dear balloon man, Father says you know God personally, and maybe he wouldn’t hear me because I’m not very big or important, so would you please make Mother get well and come home and sing me the song about the king of the cannibal islands?”

  And as she prayed and smelled the incense and watched the colored light filtering across the nave, she felt long shivers go up her back like cracks up a pane of glass. And then she was sleepy and all she remembered was the jerky feeling when Binny buttoned her coat, and walking home very quickly, and eating supper, and being in bed. She woke up for a minute when Father came in to kiss her good night and told her that Mother was better. He was smiling and he kissed her good night three times and tucked all the covers in twice, but she was so sleepy she hardly knew he was there.

  And then, suddenly, the middle of the night was surrounding her, black and strange and cold. She had kicked her covers off and she was shivering and her throat was scratchy dry. She pulled the covers about her quickly and they came untucked at the bottom and her bare feet stuck out, so she rolled herself up into a little ball and wrapped the blankets about her as closely as possible.

  “Mother—” she started to call. And then she remembered that Mother was not here but in a white room where Dr. Wallace could make her well, and Cecily wanted a drink of water—she wanted a drink of water—

  “Father!” Cecily called, and again, “Father!” And then she stopped. For she was Cecily Carey, bought from the balloon man and guaranteed absolutely, and she had just had a birthday, and in the rooms across the court people thought when they went to bed and they didn’t know about her. She was Cecily Carey with half a birthday coming in the summer and she was the little girl in the mirror and God owned the world and she was very thirsty. So she got up and put on her slippers and bathrobe and went into the bathroom and reached for her glass.

  Gilberte Must Play Bach

  Claudine stood at the window with her cheek pressed against the cool window pane and watched a grey cat move fastidiously along the wall at the edge of the garden. He was so thin that his ribs rippled against the side of his body as he slid along, and his whiskers stood out stiffly against the snow like little brittle bones. Claudine watched him and half listened to her mother playing Bach on the piano.

  “He goes so smoothly,” Claudine said aloud without turning, wanting her mother to stop the E Minor Toccata. But Gilberte Valdahon strained towards the music, her forehead puckered, her lips closed so tightly that the tense lines at the corners of her mouth showed white. Claudine moved slowly away from the window, clutching the end of a long braid in each hand, watching her mother out of nervous eyes. “He goes as though he had on skis,” she whispered, “as though he weren’t walking at all. Wouldn’t it be funny if cats could wear skis, Mother?”

  Madame Valdahon shuddered and let her cold fingers fall off the keys. “What, Claudine?”

  “Nothing.” Claudine walked slowly over to the piano and put a timid hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Is the middle G sharp still sticking?”

  “Not so badly,” said Gilberte Valdahon. “Haven’t you anything to read, Claudine?”

  “I’ve read all morning, and my eyes hurt.” Claudine rubbed her hand across her forehead and felt her eyes throbbing from strain. “Mother, you said once…” she started, and bit her lip.

  “What did I say once, Claudine?” Gilberte put an arm about the thin little body.

  “Nothing. I mean, I don’t remember. Mother, when I’m undressed my ribs show almost as much as the cat’s,” said Claudine unsteadily. (But she did remember. She could see their drawing room at home in Paris and Aunt Cecile sitting on the sofa with her furs carelessly and beautifully flung across one shoulder, Aunt Cecile sipping tea and listening to Gilberte with a slightly amused smile that Claudine resented. “I know it’s sacrilege for a musician to feel the way I do,” Gilberte Valdahon said to Aunt Cecile while she drummed out the theme of the Beethoven fugue with one finger. “To feel how, my angel?” Aunt Cecile asked. “I never, never, never,” said Gilberte vehemently, swinging around and still drumming the theme of the fugue with her back to the piano, “I never play Bach unless I’m upset and unhappy. So you don’t mind, do you, Cecile, if I refuse?” “That’s perfectly all right, my dear. I don’t mind at all. I quite understand,” said Aunt Cecile, and Claudine knew she did mind, and wanted to run over and hit her with all the force of which she was capable. “And really, why Bach?” Aunt Cecile asked, putting down her tea cup and stretching. “Because,” Gilberte Valdahon said, “because you can’t think of anything else but Bach while you’re working at him. You can’t think of anything else at all.”)

  “Your ribs show almost as much as that cat’s, Claudine,” Gilberte said. But Claudine stood silent, rubbing her finger against the threadbare wool of Gilberte’s dress, staring at the piano, through the wall, into a drawing room in Paris. “Claudine!” Gilberte shook her gently and laughed a little.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” said Claudine breathlessly. “I was just—just thinking.”

  “You think too much, darling,” said Gilberte, hitting the G sharp in a puzzled manner, automatically trying to loosen it, hopelessly trying to see beyond the pale controlled mask of the child’s face.

  “There’s nothing to do if you don’t think,” Claudine said.

  “I know, dearest, but you don’t go outside enough. Run and ask your father to go for a walk with you before lunch.”

  For a moment Claudine’s face lit up. “Do you think he will? Won’t you come, Mother, please won’t you?”

  “No, Claudine. I want to work at the piano. Run and ask your father quickly and don’t forget your muffler and your rubber boots.”

  “All right.” Claudine squirmed out from Gilberte’s arm and ran to the door; but when she had opened it she stood very still, watching the tense lines about her mother’s mouth become white and hard again. Then she hit her clenched fists hopelessly and noiselessly together and started down the passage. As she passed the kitchen, warm golden light and the hot smell of soup rushed out at her, and old Thomasine was singing as she stood at the stove:

  J’ai perdu ma maîtresse

  Sans l’avoir mérité

  Pour un bouquet de roses

  Que je lui refusai…

  Claudine hugged the warmth and comfort to herself for a moment, and then walked on into the cold shadows of the passage outside her father’s study. She tapped on the door timidly, and he shouted angrily, “Who is it?”

  But it wasn’t his anger that frightened her. She opened the door and slipped into th
e room. He was sitting at the unpainted table in front of the window, but she knew he hadn’t been typing even though the typewriter was in front of him with a half-covered sheet of paper in it. Sometimes he would sit at the typewriter all day, until late at night even, before he could bring himself to write for a paper controlled by the Germans.

  “It’s me, Father,” said Claudine.

  “Hello.” Michel Valdahon turned around, all the irritation gone from his voice. “Does Gilberte want me?”

  “No. I do. Can we go for a walk, please?”

  “Isn’t it late?” Michel gathered up a sheaf of papers and clicked them against the table like a pack of cards.

  “There’s half an hour before lunch.”

  “All right. Run and put your things on.”

  “Can we go right away, Father? You’ll hurry? ’Cause I’ll be ready in a minute.”

  “Right away,” Michel Valdahon promised, and got his big black galoshes out of the corner where they were lying in a puddle of melted snow. The polish on the floor looked white and strange from the wet, and Michel Valdahon was ashamed of the way he had flung them angrily into the corner as though he were Claudine’s age. He looked to see if she had noticed the puddle and the stained floor, but she was running down the passage. He stood still for a moment listening to the barely perceptible irregularity in the pat-pat her feet made. Her limp had almost disappeared; no one else but Gilberte noticed it except when Claudine was tired or had been walking a great deal. By now she had almost forgotten being pushed down the stairs by a tall uniformed beast when the Germans first came to Paris. Here in the country she could almost forget that they were still a conquered nation, except that Michel’s own limp from a German bullet would never disappear, would always be there to remind them.

  Her footsteps stopped and he could hear her talking to Thomasine in the kitchen. He pulled his worn great-coat off the peg on the wall and slipped into it, bracing himself a little against its weight, for his left arm was very stiff; his shoulder rebelled against pressure.

  Claudine came rushing out of the kitchen and almost ran into him before she saw him. He caught her up with his good right arm and swung her around. She was too thin, too light, but even so he felt an effort and his breath was short as he put her down.

  “I’m almost ready, Father,” she said, “truly I am.” Breaking away, she pelted down the passage to the dark boot cupboard under the stairs. In a moment she had on her old rubber boots and was sliding into her heavy navy coat. “I’m ready now.” She pulled a white knitted cap off the shelf, jamming it onto her head. “I’m ready, Father.”

  As they passed the living room Michel Valdahon shouted, “Goodbye, Gilberte,” and the E Minor Toccata stopped for a moment.

  “Goodbye,” Gilberte called. “Have you your muffler, Claudine?”

  “Oh, I forgot,” cried Claudine, and flew to get it.

  While she was rummaging in the cupboard, Michel Valdahon opened the door to the living room and watched his wife begin working on the E Minor Toccata again. He wanted to cry out, “For Christ’s sake, stop playing Bach!” but instead he asked quite quietly, “Can we get you anything from the village, dear?”

  Once more Gilberte let her fingers droop hopelessly against the keys; but when she spoke her voice was light; she used almost the same tone she kept for Claudine. “Nothing—unless you could get a substitute for these dreadful red plush chairs. And this horrible piano. It looks like the rock of Gibraltar, and the G sharp is so tiresome.”

  Looking at Gilberte’s fingers drooping against the discolored piano keys, Michel Valdahon likened them to flowers suffering from lack of water and sunshine, flowers dying in the evil-breathed neurotic room France had become. “Just the same,” he said, “it’s better than Paris. It’s better for Claudine. She’s beginning to forget. And as long as the mail takes my stuff to the paper…”

  “Do you want Claudine to forget?” she asked. “I don’t know whether she is forgetting or not. I never know what Claudine is thinking.” Then, sharply, “Do go on, Michel. She’s waiting and if you don’t hurry you won’t have time for a proper walk.”

  He turned and Claudine was beside him with a strange expression in her carefully guarded eyes. “Right. Come on, Claudine,” he said.

  They plowed through the garden, Claudine holding his arm and stumbling. Walking in the snow was difficult for both of them and they limped along together.

  “Where shall we go?” Michel Valdahon asked as they came to the gate.

  “I don’t care.” Claudine watched the empty sky above the wall where the cat had walked. “You can almost push it apart,” she said.

  “Push what apart, Claudine?”

  “Today. It’s so grey and heavy I think if I knew how I could just push it apart and find what was really underneath. There was a cat on the wall this morning, Father.”

  “Was there?” (He hardly listened. The heavy greyness of the day was pushing against him, pushing him down so that he could hardly stand up.) He shivered a little and a few stray snowflakes fell from his coat. “Let’s go to the village and maybe we might get something to bring back to Mother.”

  “All right.” She clung on to his arm tightly, more tightly than was necessary to help her through the snow. “Mother’s been playing the E Minor Toccata. Bach,” she said.

  “Oh,” Michel Valdahon answered.

  “The G sharp isn’t as badly stuck as it was,” Claudine said.

  “Good. Then maybe Mother can play us the Brassin ‘Fire Music’ tonight.” She didn’t answer, and they walked silently through the snow. Michel Valdahon felt her weight pulling on his arm. She seemed even heavier than when he had lifted her, and the feel of her leaning against him almost frightened him. It was as though she were trying to ask a question and was afraid of the answer, as though she were seeking reassurance in the heavy roughness of his coat and the slight swing of his arm as they moved along.

  They walked through the almost deserted streets. There were very few Germans here. Very few Frenchmen, too. In the few shops that were not shut up, the proprietors drowsed over the counters, and in the corner of the church a beggar shivered against the steps. Michel Valdahon flung him a coin and limped on savagely until Claudine stumbled and almost fell. As they crossed the bridge and came up to the little cafe, Michel Valdahon stopped and would not look at Claudine’s eyes staring up at him. He turned towards the door and said as lightly as he could (but he could not speak lightly with Claudine dragging on his arm and the weight of the day pushing him down), “Come on in, Claudie. We’ll go in for a few minutes and you can have a lemonade before lunch.”

  “I don’t want a lemonade.” Claudine’s voice was hard and she looked down at the ground, twisting one toe so that she scraped a little hole in the hard-packed snow.

  “Come in and sit with me for a few minutes, then,” said Michel Valdahon, walking towards the door.

  Claudine pulled on his arm. “Please, Father—couldn’t we go on walking? You know it isn’t good for you to…You said we might get something to take back to Mother.” Her toe was working at the hole in the snow and she tried to move him away from the bistro.

  “We can do that later.” Michel put his hand on the door handle.

  “But please, Father, please—couldn’t we go on walking? Mother—”

  He answered sharply, angrily. “Don’t be silly, Claudine. Are you coming in with me or not?”

  “I’ll wait outside.” Her voice was so small that it was almost lost in the day that was close-pressed by the vast snow-covered mountains leaning about it. Michel Valdahon flung into the cafe for his cognac and Claudine watched him while the door slowly closed upon him and the heavy odor that had rushed out at her as he opened it vanished with him. She walked slowly away, back to the bridge, and stood leaning against it, watching the water swirl underneath—water so swift that it never became entirely ice; even when it seemed completely frozen over there was always the wild sound of water rushing along under th
e ice, blind, mysterious. She felt almost sick as she watched it, trying to make her mind move quickly, as quickly as the water under the bridge, trying to think of a hundred unimportant things. But always in the back of her mind like water running under the ice was the sound of the E Minor Toccata.

  Beating her mittened hands together in the same gesture she had used in the passage, she walked back to the cafe. The heavy smell hit against her face as she opened the door, but she walked on quietly until she came to the table where Michel Valdahon was sitting. He smiled at her and stood up as she came near, and she reached out and caught hold of his arm. Already he had had a good deal to drink.

  “All right, Claudine, we’ll go now,” he said, and they walked out into the cold air which pressed upon him, which made him hurt until he wanted to cry out. “Shall we try to find something for Mother?” he asked.

  “No. Let’s go home.” She was afraid he might go back to the cafe again and started to pull him along. They walked as quickly as they could up the hill. Claudine panted and her breath came out in round curly puffs of vapor. “Do I look as though I was smoking when I breathe steam?” she asked, trying to hold her mittened hand as though she had a cigarette.

  “Yes, darling,” said Michel Valdahon. “Almost.” One of the clasps to his galoshes had come undone and flapped against his leg, stinging it. He leaned down to fasten it, and took Claudine’s hand in his when he stood up. There was something about the way she clutched his arm even when she talked nonsense that made him afraid.

  “Let’s hurry. It’s late.” Claudine tried to stumble along more quickly. “There’s soup for lunch, Father.” They turned in at the gate and an emaciated cat slid along the wall and looked at them with secretive eyes as he moved. “That’s the cat I saw this morning,” said Claudine, and started to pull back. She slipped her hand out of his and bent down to pick up a hard black twig that had snapped off one of the trees.

  “What’s the matter, Claudine?” Michel Valdahon stopped and watched her.