Jacqueline came to Down Street to take Ursula and me out to dinner on an
evening when John was away giving a concert. She emerged from a taxi,
carrying a little white dog in her arms. Jacqueline gazed upon the house
where she had scrubbed floors, peeled vegetables, and accepted the
scoldings of her superiors. At last she was free of it! If she wished,
she could stick out her tongue to the Captain. She was free, she was
wealthy, she was almost married to John.
In the cab, she told us that John was being asked by the government to
undertake a month’s propaganda tour in Canada. He would leave soon to
conduct a series of concerts for hospitalized veterans. Jacqueline was
proud of his mission, of his talent, of his glory, but at the same time
she was afraid for him. Perhaps at bottom her fear was not for him but
for herself. Her happiness was so new that she still could not believe
in it; it seemed to her that it was too wonderful to last. A month was
so long a time, and John would be far away from her, among other women
just as beautiful, even more beautiful than she. Jacqueline smiled in
joy over John’s glory, but also trembled in fear. Since she could not
prevent his leaving, she was busy weaving bonds to assure his return,
attaching him to her by a thousand threads. Jacqueline showed us a
sketch for a tombstone that she was designing to be placed over the
grave of the little French girl whom John had loved before he knew her.
During his month of absence, she intended to have this monument built
and the grave arranged. It would all be finished just in time for John’s
return; the dead one would help the living one to draw him back to
England.
Was this, at last, love? I wondered. Would I ever love anyone the way
Jacqueline loved John Wright?
Did love have to contain this exigence, this ferocity? Would I someday
be like Jacqueline, in terror of losing a man? Could you have such
ruthlessness toward another person, if you really loved him? Could you
accept any means at all, so long as they held him bound to you? Perhaps
it had to be so. Perhaps that was what one didn’t understand above love,
until the experience came.
I tried to compare Jacqueline’s feeling to other loves I had witnessed.
Ursula had loved. What she had felt for Claude was love. But it had not
been so possessive. And I wondered whether what was slowly happening
between Ursula and Michel was love. I hoped it was; I wished it for my
sake as well as theirs, for I would feel so much safer if I knew that
love didn’t have to be like it was with Jacqueline.
* * * * *
Jacqueline ordered a meal for her dog, and the waiter solemnly served it
alongside our table. She talked about her infant daughter, who now
called her “Mamma,” and called John “Papa,” and could stand erect, and
was already trying to take her first steps. Jacqueline still talked as
though hers were the only beautiful and intelligent child in the world,
and this irritated me, though it was touching at the same time.
Ursula said to Jacqueline, “You remember Michel, the young Polish
soldier I used to see, about three years ago? He’s back in London again.
I had dinner with him.”
“Oh, yes?” said Jacqueline politely, obviously not remembering him at
all.
“He told me the most amazing things about Palestine. He’s going there
after the war.”
“Oh, yes?” said Jacqueline again. “He’s a Jew?”
It was obvious to both of us that she had no further interest in
Ursula’s friend Michel; her thoughts went no further than John, his
fame, his connections. And somehow, when she said, “He’s a Jew?” it had
been just like slapping Michel.
I thought, for a moment, of saying something. But Ursula was sitting
quite erect, looking at Jacqueline with a maturity and self-sufficiency
that I had never before seen in her. I thought of Michel’s calm round
face, and realized what Ursula must have been feeling—that Michel didn’t
need to be defended before anyone.
After dinner we went to a movie in Leicester Square. Jacqueline insisted
on paying for everything, playing the bountiful lady. This was her
latest role, and there was something truly touching in her need for
people’s admiring surprise.
As we entered the theatre we heard someone call Ursula’s name. We all
turned, and there was Michel. We stood in the lobby talking a few
minutes, and Ursula prodded him with leading questions, drawing him out,
showing him off. Michel still spoke with diffidence, but nevertheless it
could be seen that Jacqueline was impressed by his intelligence.
Two Polish soldiers entered the lobby and recognized Michel. Their faces
brightened, and they hailed him joyfully. They seemed delighted at
having run into him. It was somehow surprising; one would not have
thought that Michel would be popular among the ranks.
When the two soldiers moved off, Jacqueline leaned toward Michel and
said with her seductive air, “Ursula says you’re planning to go to
Palestine?”
There was obviously no subject she could have mentioned that would have
pleased Michel more. His eyes grew animated as he described the
collective villages of Palestine.
Jacqueline said, “But I never heard of anything like that. It sounds
wonderful. And you’ll live like that?”
Michel said, “Yes.” Then he blushed and added, “If I’m still alive at
the end of the war.”
We went on into the darkened theatre then, Michel still with us. We were
seeing _For Whom the Bell Tolls_.
At one moment I looked at the rows of people with their eyes fixed on
the screen, their faces lighted by the projection, and somehow the whole
scene seemed unreal, as though all of us sitting there were part of some
film. It was an odd sensation, and I mentioned it to Ursula later that
night as we were getting ready for bed.
“I know,” Ursula said. “I’ve sometimes felt that way too. Sometimes it
seems as if every last one of us were playing a part.” She sighed. “I
wonder if I’ll ever learn how to play mine.”