And Both Were Young: Chapter 1

“Where are you going, Philippa?” Mrs. Jackman asked sharply as Flip turned away from the group of tourists standing about in the cold hall of the château of Chillon.

The boy smiled; Flip had not realized how somber his face was until he smiled.

Mrs. Jackman had suggested that she have a permanent, but for once Flip’s father had not agreed. “She has enough wave of her own and it suits her face this way,” he said, and Mrs. Jackman relented.

She hated herself for sounding so surly, but when she was with Mrs. Jackman she always seemed to say the wrong things.

How on earth did you get so dirty, Philippa? You’re all covered with mud. For heaven’s sake, brush her coat off, Phil. We don’t want her arriving at the school looking like a ragamuffin.

They passed new and ugly stucco villas occasionally, but mostly old brown chalets with flowers in the windows.

That thought was so preposterously horrible that Flip could not face it.

Eunice stood up and brushed imaginary specks off her immaculate white skirt.

The school had once been a big resort hotel and it was an imposing building with innumerable red-roofed turrets flying small flags, and iron balconies were under every window.

The school had once been a big resort hotel and it was an imposing building with innumerable red-roofed turrets flying small flags, and iron balconies were under every window.

At the other side of the staircase was what had once been the concierge's desk with innumerable cubbyholes for mail behind it.

Four white bureaus beside the beds and four white chairs at the feet completed the furnishings.

She pointed a solemn finger at the first door on the right.

Old Dragonet? Oh, she’s all right. Kind of standoffish. Doesn’t fraternize much, if you know what I mean.

Old Dragonet? Oh, she’s all right. Kind of standoffish. Doesn’t fraternize much, if you know what I mean.

Mother always laughed at me and scolded me because I was such a coward. Please give me some gumption, quick, God, please.

The rest of the day had the strange, turbulent, uncontrolled quality of a dream.

Flip looked at her enviously, thinking disparagingly of her own sand-colored hair and her eyes that were neither blue nor gray and her body as long and skinny as a string bean.

“I just dote on skiing. We spent last Christmas hols at St. Moritz.”

Flip liked the gong; it had a beautiful resonant tone, and long after the maid had stopped beating it and left the elevator you could hear the waves of rich sound still throbbing through the building, and with closed eyes you could almost pretend it was a jungle instead of a school.

She began to feel the sense of wonderful elation that always came to her when beauty took hold of her and made her forget her fears.

Flip stared at her surreptitiously, hoping that she wouldn’t be as dull and unsympathetic as the art teacher in her school in New York.

Her skin was burnished, as though she spent a great deal of time out of doors, and her eyes were gray with golden specks.

Although the girls were supposed to speak French at all times, this final period of freedom was not supervised, and Flip heard snatches of various languages, and of the truly international language the girls had developed, a potpourri of all their tongues.

And Miss Tulip glossed over Jackie’s untidy drawers and chided Flip because her comb and brush were out of line.

And when she fell and skinned her knees Miss Tulip was angry with her for tearing her stockings and even seemed to begrudge the iodine that she put on Flip’s gory wounds.

Usually Flip simply sat with the others, not listening, not hearing anything but the subdued rustlings and whisperings about her.

Here in the nondenominational chapel at school she felt no sense of joy; there was no overwhelming beauty here between these stark walls, but gradually she began to relax.

Here in the nondenominational chapel at school she felt no sense of joy; there was no overwhelming beauty here between these stark walls, but gradually she began to relax.

At last she rose and started out of the chapel, bumping into a row of chairs with a tremendous clatter. The noise shattered her peace and she stopped stock still, her heart beating violently, but when nothing else happened, when no one came running to see who had desecrated the chapel, she walked swiftly out on tiptoe.

Flip could not raise her voice from a stifled whisper.

Kaatje van Leyden, one of the senior prefects responsible for keeping order, called out, “Quiet!” and the chattering subsided.

“You know, Pill,” Gloria said, cocking her head and looking at Flip curiously, “somehow I never thought of you as being particularly pious.”

When she read his letters, those wonderful, wonderful letters, full of little anecdotes and sketches, she would look at the drawings of forlorn waifs, ragged and starving, and feel ashamed of her own misery which for the moment at any rate seemed completely unjustified.

When she read his letters, those wonderful, wonderful letters, full of little anecdotes and sketches, she would look at the drawings of forlorn waifs, ragged and starving, and feel ashamed of her own misery which for the moment at any rate seemed completely unjustified.

She took deep breaths of it and walked swiftly, exulting in the unaccustomed freedom.

“Oh, Ariel!” she cried, half exasperated, half pleased because she knew the dog was going to win.

Soon she saw gray slate rooftops through the trees, and as Ariel led her closer she saw that the rooftops belonged to a château.

Grass and weeds grew wild and high and late autumn flowers bloomed in undisciplined profusion.

Flip peered in but could see nothing through the obscurity inside.