The Frog and the Princess
Once upon a time, I was introduced to a smile. A smiling princess.
I had been invited to be part of a student study group. The invitation was most welcome.
For the first time in my twenty young years, I was away from home, from mother and father and the neighbouring friends — nearly half a continent away. I had wished to go to university in my own language, French, which was quite impossible in English Manitoba. So, here I was in Quebec City, capital of the land of the French in America. While cloaked in the security of home, my move to university had seemed an exalting experience. But when I arrived a week early to roam the city and the corridors of my new challenge, solitude had smacked into me with all its crushing impact.
The first day of class had been a deliverance. Strangers like me — though nearer to their home — had arrived, seeking, like me, eager faces, extended hands and comradeships to furnish a derelict heart, till friendships grew there. And with the beginning of classes, the idleness of waiting was corrected by the presence of abstract philosophical thought and the practical requirements of studies.
Yet, I must confess that — by reason of heart, hunting instinct or whatever psychological need — I craved for more than comrades and schooling. Companionship, a girl's, was a definite yearning. To which there was a definite obstacle I might term, in scientific jargon, 'socio-phobia'. In fact, it may have stemmed from a 'novelty-phobia'. Whenever events turn around too fast, they tear away my security blanket. This 'novelty-phobia' has generally prevented my playing any sporting game, since it appeared to me that a person is expected there to react first and think second: a logical process contrary to mine. It is my habit to first be struck by the unexpected, then panic, react badly, slowly calm the inner turmoil, restructure myself with the assimilated novelty, and then act accordingly. By which time, the fly-ball will have dropped to the ground at my feet and all my team-mates will be howling their frustrations out at me. Better I be a loner within books and theories which could await my reactions and would never molest me in any way. By them, I achieved scholarly success and became an apt dialectician, robing my social awkwardness with what I considered to be modestly brilliant remarks and rapid quips.
Sports were ever out. But, more damaging for the present quest, boys and girls' nights out were also strictly off limits.
Indeed, the straights of my navigation were (and still are) quite narrow. But they allowed for a study group, where intellectual intercourse is the sole manoeuvre expected of its members. Thus was I eager to be part of it, and avid to meet the four dainty damsels I had been told would also be there.
Pierre was the recruiter, organiser and soul of the group. He was a Frenchman who had crossed the Atlantic to study at Laval University in French-speaking Quebec. He lived in the flat his parents kept as a foothold in the New World while they still toiled in the Old Country. Through a common acquaintance, Pierre had heard of Georges Allaire, a fellow from far away Manitoba, also studying at Laval University, who held views similar to his own. This had made him bolt over to my room and add me to his head count. Thus, that evening, he had picked me up in his over-driven Beetle and we were the first to arrive at his flat. Shortly after, two more university students and four college girls brought us to full count.
The fellows could be valued as sparring partners in serious and pleasurable debate. But the roving eye first gave a ruthless evaluation of the members of the other sex. Alas, as was to be expected, enthusiasts of study groups are generally not Hollywood sex symbols. None was.
Maybe certain comments in my defence should be expressed here. "Alas" does not suggest that a young woman should be a sex symbol. But it does pertain to the fact that a man's appreciative eye is quite sensitive to distinctive feminine outlines. And it recognises that such outlines are to be appreciated even though they are not the sole or most important criterion of her value. A Bible is rich by its content alone: yet Medievalists learned to adorn it in gilded lettering. And God deposited a woman's tender heart in a body that is dynamite. Also, personal taste is only of subjective value. The proof of this is that the four girls who disappointed my instincts at first glance have since all managed to rouse the interest of their own man.
Two of the girls were of a type that would never awaken any interest (of mine) outside the reason for which they were present at Pierre's flat: discussion. A third one, Ruth, was revealed as a fighting personality, eager to debate, a Joan of Arc on her battlements, no doubt made of tempered steel and a credit to feminine "virility". As such, she inspired comradeship rather than love, intellectual vitality rather than lust.
Then there was Danielle. Definitely not Hollywoodian. A five foot six brunette, whose greenish brown eyes did not attract particular attention. The good taste and correctness of her dress maintained in discreet reclusion her indisputable particularities of femininity. She was a nice person. But when she spoke to you, she would smile. A smile lighting up her whole personality. A smile full of happiness, happiness in the pleasure of your company. A smile cheerfully consecrating your importance. A smile recognising the existence of Georges. She was nice on the outside and strikingly beautiful on the inside. At least, I did feel a certain giddiness in the head, a glowing warmth in the chest and found genuine delight in each of her remarks that evening, the content of which I have, however, not retained.
Yet the meeting with the princess was marred by a distasteful character blot, for she spoke with the sort of snobbish accent (or so it seemed to me) which generally sends chills up my spine. The experience of mixed warmth and chills was confusing to say the least.
Nevertheless, I was happy to discover the Danielle was the chauffeur for part of the study group. Since she had always taken part in numerous youth activities, from the time she became of age, sixteen, her father found it made life simpler to pass the car over to her rather than to drive her about. It so happened that the campus residences were in the general direction of Danielle's route, which made me one of her regular dependants.
On the road home Danielle sensibly asked my reactions to the study group.
Affected and afflicted by her, I could not hide yet reveal a growing dependency far beyond words of wisdom and need for transportation. I half-jokingly quipped: "The discussions were enthralling and the girls interesting," adding "meaning of course no one in particular."
I was pleased with my answer and exited at my door-step.
I did not know what would come out of this evening. I felt safe because of my efficiency in group discussion, secure behind my joking remarks when matters became more personal, and wondering what avenues I should follow towards the person who had awakened my feelings and yearnings.
In fact, I had unknowingly made a shatteringly bad entry into Danielle's life and an unfortunate sortie out of her evening, though I correctly evaluated the efficiency of my discussion: I had managed to be so unobtrusive as not to be singled out.
When Pierre had said: "This is Georges, a student in Philosophy, at Laval", and "This is Danielle, a student at the girls' college Jesus-Marie", I had naturally spoken of what was the only common private subject between us: "You must then know Sheila, who also studies at Jesus-Marie." Danielle had acquiesced with her charming smile. How was I to know that she had inwardly shuddered and wondered what kind of a guy I must be? I had only briefly met Sheila and another girl when another philosophy student and I happened upon them at a movie house. Sheila came from my friend's home town. And so: chit-chat, a pepsi at the restaurant. All I knew was that Sheila attended Jesus-Marie college. I did not know her to be the school vamp, which made her a very improper introduction into a study group given to deepen the insights of Pope Paul VI "On his Church". Danielle concluded that either I did not really know Sheila or I should not return to the study group. And she was proven right. I stayed in the study group and did not follow up the Sheila connection.
As for my parting quip, Danielle had sat back, surprised, saying to herself: "Well, here is a fellow who wants me to be sure that I have no illusions about his feelings towards me. As if..." And in fact Danielle had not the slightest feeling or yearning for anything other than the comradeship of discussion, so she was not in the least distressed by this expression of my nervousness. Yet she mused to herself: "Wouldn't it be funny if some day he should change his mind."
Having shut the world out by closing my door, I was now with a practical problem: "What next?" This queer fascinating snob (or was she, since all but her 'affected' speech contradicted the suggestion?) had raised my temperature. I must now discover her address and determine whether any serious follow-up would be physically possible. Being a pedestrian in a large city, I had to ascertain if there was a relative proximity between the victim and the suitor. I picked up the telephone book and ran my eyes in the K section to find "Kello", which had been mentioned to be Danielle's family name. No "Kello" appeared.
Self-respect prevented me from telephoning Pierre to say: "Look here, there is this young lass in our study group I might go out with. Could you fill me in on her and her whereabouts?" But then, I recalled Ruth inviting us all to a youth meeting of some kind in the near future. She had given us her phone number should we be interested; which I now machiavelically dialled. I queried her on the meeting — which I did not, in fact, go to. Then we talked of our study group. Somehow the conversation touched upon Danielle... was it Kello?
"Oh no," answered Ruth, laughingly. "It is Q-U-E-L-O-Z. It is as in Quebec and not as in Kellogg's."
Danielle came from Switzerland. No snobbery in the accent. It was authentic import.
"Oh?", said I, uninterested...
Then, back to the phone book: yes, there was a Quéloz in Quebec City. Only one. On La Falaise avenue. Now to the city map. There it was: La Falaise avenue. Far away. Out of reach by foot and with terribly bad bus links. So ended what might have been a sweet dream come true.
On the other hand, Ruth's home was a fifteen minutes walking distance from campus. So the following week-end, Ruth and I went to the theatre.
Ruth was a great fellow. We could talk on any matter. She would easily be teased into a furious discussion. She was fun. And I was far way from home. I would regularly telephone her, even daily. We would go to the movies most weekends. I bought her a charming pendant. Nothing serious. Ruth was not a sentimentalist. The nearest we ever came to intimacy was on our first date. I gave a try at taking her hand in mine. She reacted with a challenging: "You have twenty minutes to let go."
Apparently, this caused boys instantly to recoil. I looked at my watch, held on, and, twenty minutes later, let her be. And never tried again.
The evening study group continued every week. And non-snobbish, delightful yet unattainable Danielle was there.
The school-term came to an end. My parents generously offered me the flight to Winnipeg so that I could be home for Christmas. Back in the security of mother, father and friends, during those ten days, I could clearly realise that if Ruth might be a good friend, she was not my love. With logical thoughtlessness, I decided the time had come to part from her. In intent, there seemed to be no real parting. Never had I realised that a woman was hiding behind the dialectical armour she wore. It was only years later that I was told how Ruth had once cherishingly shown some girl friends the pendent she had received from her Georges. And there was only one time in the early weeks following the parting that I was shocked to see a wavering in Ruth's eyes as she evoked, in a state of near-panic, the possibility that I come over to her house for lunch. But a year later, Ruth was on the way towards happy matrimony with a young man who had seen the woman I had overlooked.
* * *
When the New Year rolled in, Danielle was certainly a happy girl. She was a lone child because sickness — rather than planning — had kept her parents' generosity towards life from expressing itself in a larger family. She had arrived in Quebec City at the age of five. She benefited from a stern and loving education in keeping with the Swiss work and family ethic. Thus, she knew neither laxity nor repression. She was actively put before living challenges and supported all the way by personal attention.
Her school work was a success won by constant yet not intensive labour, with slight difficulties in composition and history, largely compensated for by her fascination with and mastery of mathematics. Her social life was full of gaiety and action in various organisations. Her emotional life was without a ripple. She had previously kept in touch with a useful boy-attendant for the rare mixed events at school, to whom she was otherwise totally unattached. And, if traditional authors are correct in defining peace as "the tranquillity of order", Danielle had complete peace of mind, body and soul. "Order" meaning direction in life, her direction was planned with Swiss precision. She was to finish her college degree, then — in a year and a half's time — her parents and herself were going back to Switzerland where she would take a Master's degree in mathematics at Neuchatel University. Her parents had come over to Quebec because of a special job and had never contemplated making a permanent living there. Emotional involvement was Danielle's least preoccupation and a matter inconceivable in a family where both parents had neared thirty before marrying.
Then Danielle made a slight mistake. When driving back from the first study group meeting after Christmas holidays, there being only Georges and a girl from the group left to drop off, Danielle had a memory lapse. She wondered aloud: "Whom do I bring home next?"
The efficient answer was evident. Campus was just a block away whereas Lucie lived some ten minutes drive further off. Of course, Georges took the question to mean: "Who wants to be dropped off last?" He did. And he said so. Needless to add that Georges misunderstood the intention that lay behind the question: he saw it as an invitation to be in pleasurable company longer than usual.
Danielle was also polite and gentle. When she realised that Georges lived nearest, she said nothing of it and accepted his company for twenty more minutes, ten of which would be spent alone together on the return trip. After all, his conversation was agreeable. What began as a mistake thus became a weekly habit.
Danielle's equanimity was certainly not matched by Georges' state of mind. His fear of novelty and strangers on a personal level, his fear of being inadequate or hurt, especially vivid because of the ebullient turmoil of affection he felt deep inside, added to the difficulty of distance between her home and campus, might have well delayed or prevented any direct manoeuvring towards Danielle. But now, she had taken the first step. No computation could any longer prevent the clicking of the mind and the throbbing of the heart in view of the forthcoming assault, whatever would come out of it.
That Saturday, I dared invite Danielle to movies. As it was, Pierre had already organised a group outing to the movies. Danielle was part of the group. I tried to persuade her that we should make it a twosome somewhere else. But she was staunchly loyal to the gang. My only chance was to get myself invited along. Danielle had no objection, and Pierre could evidently not reject the presence of one of his good debaters.
The movie was the most thoroughly boring movie I ever saw in my whole life. It was a brightly entertaining comedy showing for the third month in Quebec City. Three months previously, I had seen it as a novelty and had enjoyed it so much that I had convinced a friend to come with me the next day so that I could see it again. Now, a comedy carries the day by its unexpected absurdities which make us laugh. A second viewing leaves little unexpected. Laughter, the second time around, is more a libation poured in honour of our first laugh. Then I had gone out with Ruth. And there was no other decent show in town. So I gallantly accompanied her to see The Gendarme of St. Tropez. I was now trudging through its fourth showing. In fact, I hardly looked at the screen where the automatons were going through their motions. Seated beside Danielle, I watched her. I enjoyed her laughter, her mirth, her presence.
The following week, I began regular, soon daily, phone calls. Did we not have to talk over our enchanting movie? And there were our common experiences as members of the study group, as students, as citizens of the universe, and whatever. But first, we had to meet again, hadn't we? Danielle did not show any particular eagerness, but neither did she dismiss the idea. She had no special taste for movies. She would rather take a walk. A sporting walk in the cold January nights. I was to discover that she has a particular thermal build. I thought it normal, on a cold day, to be first warm from indoors, then, by gradual degrees, to loose this warmth till one became quite cold and desirous to enter any heated place to recuperate. Danielle first feels the cold out of doors. Then, gradually, she warms up and has the capacity to enjoy the brisk frisky air till her companion is an icicle, without herself feeling any discomfort.
Our first date was thus a walk, a chatting, cool walk which left me all warm inside. But before it began, I had serious apprehensions towards it. I would have to manage the to and from her home in addition to the time together and wondered how much more freezing enjoyment I should take. Suddenly the major difficulty of distance disappeared. With phone in hand, I followed Danielle's instructions upon my city map. La Falaise Avenue is a very long street. My previous query in the matter had made me discover its western end, on the other side of town, whilst Danielle lived at its eastern tip, only twenty walking minutes away from campus. To think that I had lost a whole term because of my incapacity to read correctly a city map.
Warming up in my room after our t te- -t te, I recognised that I was now unreservedly in love.
On Monday, January 25, I wrote home:
"Dear Mom and Dad,
I have found you the perfect daughter-in-law. There only remains for me to win and wed her. This may not succeed. ... Am I infatuated? At the least, I am interested.
Your son,
Georges."
My parents sighed, thinking: "Poor boy. He is probably in for a heart-break." For they knew me well. Only, they did not know Danielle, nor the mixed-up ways of Providence.
* * *
In their pessimistic view of life, the Ancients coined the phrase: "The gods blind those they would destroy". Many were now blinded. For, had they seen, and acted accordingly, never would my venture have come to its fulfilment.
The very first opponent of any serious emotional involvement had been and still was Danielle. Here, my Ruthcapade, come out of a misreading of the city map, paid off. Danielle was quick to notice the similarity between the symptoms of Georges' attention to her and those of his previous attention to her friend Ruth. The phone calls were regularly made. The dates were ceaselessly asked for. Logically, the same parting would follow. Danielle diagnosed a lonesome soul seeking diversion through light companionship. And why not be friends? Georges was original, had a serious mind on serious questions and, on the whole, a wholesome sense of humour. So, while I was falling in love, Danielle was entering into an interesting companionship. She answered the phone calls, accepted long walks, and dropped Georges off last on meeting evenings, accepting also a bit more talk before he left the car and she drove back home. There was nothing serious there.
Of course, Danielle's parents, intensely preoccupied by their daughter's success in life, could not fail to notice the daily intrusion of a certain university student. This was especially evident since their family life was closely knit. Danielle regularly went skiing on weekends with her father. She always asked for permission when she went out in the evenings. She reassured them that nothing whatsoever was developing. Since she is a truthful person, she was convincing. But to be on the safe side, Mrs Quéloz insisted that I be told that the family would be going back to Switzerland in a year and a half. Danielle dutifully slipped this piece of information in one of our conversations, though she did not see any reason for it. I reflected that I had a year and a half to change her mind.
Mr. Quéloz was the stauncher supporter of my enterprise by his utter disbelief in it. No fellow so totally and ridiculously persistent could be taken seriously. A king's buffoon is at best entertaining. Though he was not himself entertained, he had no objection if his daughter was. He did agree, though, on one limitation some time latter: a measure of restraint should be put on the number of phone calls and dates. But that policy would be enacted only upon the belief that people should be reasonable and that study periods should not be regularly interrupted by recreation.
And so Danielle's tranquil companionship and my uneasy love affair went on side by side for a terribly long time, it seemed to me. I dared not let my true repressed feelings be expressed for fear of being rebuffed. But I seized every opportunity to hear the magical voice, to contemplate heaven's most marvellous creation, to be in her divine company. And at that time my friends must have found me an insufferable bore with my perpetual hymns to my princess.
The terribly long time lasted one whole fortnight, bringing us to February 14, St. Valentine's day. But half-way through that time, Pierre had intervened. My infatuation being a secret only to Danielle and family, Pierre decided to put an end to my manoeuvres. He told me that our study group was not a private harem for Georges Allaire. He reproached me for having first toyed with Ruth and for now attempting the same with Danielle. I righteously answered that he was mixing apples and oranges on two counts: first, the study group was a study group in which we all participated by proper discussions, whereas our private affairs outside hours did not concern him but rather myself and other individuals. Next, Ruth had been a fine friend, never more; whereas I was truly fond of Danielle and wished to pursue this involvement freely.
Despairing of getting anything out of my unreasonable head, Pierre called on the reasonable partner in this affair, Danielle. And was he ever answered! Danielle exploded at the suggestion of any involvement between her and Georges. She was totally incredulous when Pierre, now cut down to size, meekly insisted that Georges was really in love. Finally, he accepted Danielle's true and adamant assertions that there was nothing whatever to fear because there was nothing to it, at least on her part, no matter what he might think. Pierre was reassured. — His intervention was timely. He had defused a bomb which would otherwise have blown up in my own face.
On Sunday the 14th of February, I was keen on going out again with Danielle. Once again Pierre had organised a group's outing to the movies. Once again Danielle was loyal to the group. Once again I followed. This time the movie was boring at first viewing. But I must admit that both Danielle and I saw very little of it; and we probably exasperated the spectators round us, for we talked — albeit in a low voice — all through it. The subject of our conversation was serious.
It all started when I tried, for the first time since we had known each other, to hold Danielle's hand. To which she pulled back, retorting, "Naughty hand, naughty man."
Though disappointed by my failure, I was especially frustrated by this kind of rebuke. I felt like a reprimanded child. So, to recover some security and perhaps a little dignity, I talked. I asked Danielle what her feelings were towards me.
A week had gone by since Pierre's intervention. Danielle had never believed him that Georges could really be in love with her. It was all too outlandish. Of course, the idea itself was amusing, even flattering. Its lack of seriousness allowed Danielle to play around with it. Just a little bit. Not really.
And now, she was being asked to express her feelings. Of course, Georges was a likeable man.
Yes, she did like him quite a bit.
I finally told her I loved her. And added, "Well?"
"Well what?", she said.
"How about you?"
"What do you mean by 'love'?", Danielle asked in a desperate attempt to make sense of this strange conversation, and to sort out her own feelings.
I lied instantly. I counterattacked with full might: "I do not mean we are going to be married", said I in the tone of obvious statement.
"Of course not!", she agreed.
"Well?", I said.
"Well, what do you mean by 'love'?"
"I mean that I am very fond of you."
"Oh but," said she quoting the well-known author, Antoine de St-Exupéry, "'Love is not staring at each other but looking together in the same direction'."
I assented. I would have assented to any definition that would save the word.
Having limited the meaning of the word as best she could, Danielle fatally admitted to both of us, "Well, yes, I love you also."
She had given an inch; I took a mile. My heart leaped, though I outwardly remained still. It was not yet time to steal back her hand. But I was happy. Danielle was rather confused.
Danielle was neither introvert nor secretive. She was thus bound to tell her mother what had happened. Her mother would then immediately order a stop to these things. Danielle would obey. That would be the end of it. But Danielle felt she must first regain control and inner balance before putting the facts before her mother.
Unexpectedly, on the 17th of February, news came from Switzerland that grand-father Charles Boillat had died of a heart attack. He had spoken in a normal manner to his boarder who was going out. A few minutes later, his wife had come back to their apartment from the grocery-store and found him peacefully sitting in his chair, quite dead. Mrs Quéloz immediately left for Switzerland for a few weeks, to attend to her father's burial and to give a helping hand to her widowed mother. This tragic event prevented all contacts between Danielle and her mother at the crucial moment of our venture. When her mother returned, the damage was done. Danielle's involvement was deepening, and she felt too unbalanced by each further step to have sufficient security for an ever-more serious admission to her mother.
By the time her mother returned from Switzerland, I had taken Danielle's hand during a long walk. Danielle had let me do it. I held on. And that would be standard procedure from then on.
Then came March 8. My twenty-first birthday. We were allowed the evening together even though it was a Monday, a school day. After all, a birthday comes only once a year. I figured that a first kiss was in line as a birthday present. She had expected the asking and decided that the giving was proper. At a time in history when kisses had hardly any value or meaning, I was allowed a first kiss by an eighteen year old girl (soon to be nineteen) who had never before bestowed the honour upon any other boy.
Needless to add: I took a second one. I was begged to be reasonable, but I insisted, at her doorstep, on a third one. And, after that, I never was reasonable. Danielle, simply, gradually entered into another world, where every act is measured by reason of the given heart.
