For the first time in her life, Ursula failed to close her eyes all
night long.
She listened to the regular breathing of the three sisters and heard
them sigh in their sleep. She saw the stars fade little by little and
the dawn inundate the sky.
Well, then, she wasn’t normal. For how could Ursula know, all by
herself, that she was behaving exactly as any pure young girl behaves
the first time a man tries to make love to her? She told herself that
she would never get out of her difficulty, that she would never have a
home or children, that she would remain doomed to solitude all her life,
like Ann, like Petit. She couldn’t rid herself of Philippe’s words: “Why
are you afraid to make the jump?”
But she _wanted_ to make the jump, she wanted to love a man, to know
what a man’s love was like, to be linked with that endless chain of
human beings who joined with each other in the same way, and told each
other the same words, always entirely new since the first man and the
first woman.
Why was it, while she found Philippe so good, so handsome, and so nice,
that his hand frightened her so, that she contracted so at his touch?
Could it be because of an idea she had from Mickey’s and Claude’s
descriptions, that there would be pain in losing her virginity? Perhaps
it was only that—a simple fear of pain.
And then, if she should prove to Philippe that what she had said was
true? For she sensed that at bottom Philippe continued to disbelieve
her. He would then really know that she was a virgin. He would be
ashamed of having doubted her word.
To vanquish her deep fear, to prove to herself that she was normal—that
was it. It was the only way to save herself. Otherwise it would be too
late. This was her last chance. If she didn’t take it now, she would
never be able to accept intimacy with a man.
Ursula struggled all by herself, groping for an answer, searching in her
immature and uninstructed mind, encumbered as it was with all the false
ideas that she had gleaned haphazardly during all her life, searching
with her primitive consciousness, and calling upon the most profound
instinct of creation.
That night, without knowing it, Ursula told herself the things that
Catholics tell their priests during confession, and that Americans tell
their psychoanalysts. But she had no one to counsel her and to clarify
her idea of herself.
The day pierced through the net curtains. The three girls stretched like
cats.
Ursula had made up her mind.
She didn’t eat anything all day long. She couldn’t. Her throat was so
contracted that it was impossible for her to swallow.
She went to the beach, crouched against a rock, and tried to think of
nothing at all. The dog laid his head on her bronzed knees, waiting for
her to play with him.
A little green hill rose just behind her. Ursula climbed it with the
dog. Once on top, she beheld the immense sea, open in all the directions
that Philippe had shown her. Newfoundland, New York, Rio de Janeiro.
On the hill there were queer little stakes projecting from the ground
all about. Ursula tried to pull one out, but it wouldn’t give way. She
finally abandoned it and went down the other side of the hill, with
loose stones rolling under her feet. Some fishermen in a little boat
made signals to her, shouting. Ursula couldn’t understand their cries,
but she waved her hand in greeting to them.
It was only when she reached the bottom that she saw a large sign
barring the way up the hill: “Do Not Climb. Mortal Danger. Mined Hill.”
It was at least something to tell the family. They all gasped. They
didn’t cry out, for they were after all British, but the mother and
father grew pale, and the three little girls sighed, “Oh, dear.” But
Ursula, after her original fright, had from the incident a strange sense
of being protected, a mystical sense of sureness, as though this were a
sign that her prayer had been heard.
That evening before dinner, Ursula said good-by to the family. She had
already informed them earlier in the day that her leave was ending and
that she had to return to London. Her brother would take her to the
station. They didn’t have to worry about her.
She packed her little valise, shook hands all around, promised to write,
and thanked them. They told her they would come to see her in France
after the war; they would bring Vicky.
Ursula left, clutching her valise. She checked it at the station and
then went back into town. Philippe was already waiting in front of the
church. He was the same: polite, well mannered, nice, although perhaps a
little constrained.
They went to dinner in a different restaurant, just the two of them, and
Philippe danced with her during dinner, and taught her some new steps.
Ursula forced herself to eat in order not to offend him, but each
mouthful was a torture. The food simply stuck in her throat. Happily,
there was a dessert of strawberries and cream, and that went better.
Philippe seemed not to know what to do with her. He prolonged their stay
at the table after dinner, ordering liqueurs, and finally he asked her
if she would like to go to the movies.
Taking her courage in both hands, Ursula said clearly, “No, I’d rather
go to your place.”
Philippe seemed astonished. He looked at her hesitatingly, and then he
took her hand without saying anything.
They rose and went out.