Memory and Desire

by Lisa Appignanesi

  It was like this that Jacob Jardine found his daughter. His heart went out to his child. What could he do to stop his wife’s frenzied rages? He stroked the small dark head and waited for the sobs to stop, for Katherine to turn to him when she was ready. The child had not had an easy life. For the first two years, Sylvie had pretended she didn’t exist. Everything had been done by the nannie he had hired. It was pitiful to see Katherine seeking her mother’s approval, her caresses and finding nothing.

  Then around the time of Katherine’s third birthday, the sudden rages, the slaps, had begun, as if Katherine were responsible for everything that was wrong with Sylvie’s life. The rages had grown less frequent of late, or so he had thought, though he was so little at home in the daytime, that he had no way of knowing for certain. He had hoped. Hoped that with Leo away at Maison Lafitte and their plans for the long-awaited move to America almost finalised, Sylvie would grow less tense. The rages might disappear altogether. Then today… His fingers tightened into a fist.

  ‘I didn’t do it, pappy. I didn’t take her ring’, Katherine turned her tear-stained face to him and looked up with earnest eyes.

  ‘I know you didn’t, ma petite Kat,’ Jacob consoled her.

  Katherine liked being called Kat. She knew it meant cat in English and she liked cats. She threw her arms around her father and nestled against him.

  ‘But why did maman hit me then? I told her I hadn’t taken it.’

  Jacob shrugged, at a loss for an answer which would satisfy the child without damning the mother. ‘She’s just in a bad mood,’ he offered lamely. ‘But now, why don’t you wash your face and you and I will go down to the cafe for a bite. And when we get back, everything will be ready for your party, and your mother won’t be in a temper anymore,’ Jacob said with more optimism than he felt.

  ‘Oh can we?’ Katherine beamed.

  Jacob nodded.

  The Paris streets reflected something of Jacob’s grimness as he strolled towards the local café with his small daughter. The immediate post-war years had not been kind to the city. Despite the handsome buildings of the sixième arrondissement, everything had an air of tarnished poverty: the shops with their meagre display of goods, the cafés with their pealing paint and shabby surfaces. Worst of all, were the disgruntled faces of the passers-by. A kind of sourness seemed to have descended over people. The euphoria of liberation, when German troops had finally left the occupied city, had been all-too-quickly replaced by the reality of recrimination. Who had been a collaborator? who an honest member of the resistance? People eyed each other with hostility or simply refused to meet each other’s eyes. Suspicion, despite the passage of years, had become a habit it seemed impossible to shake. And amidst the material difficulty of everyday life, envy was rife.

  True in this last year or so, things had begun to improve, although Jacob still sensed the long fingers of suspicion everywhere. It was simply that the content of that suspicion had changed. Now the emphasis was on hunting would-be communists, rather than simply collaborators. The sour taste on one’s tongue was much the same.

  It was all a far cry from the pre-war city Jacob remembered so vividly and with such affection. Many of his friends were gone now: some dead in the camps or in the resistance; others settled in distant climes. Soon, he, too, would be leaving this blighted Europe. Even his own profession had become increasingly infected with savage quarrels and petty rivalries. The current battle raged between analysts who had medical training and so-called lay analysts who were now prevented from practicing. Like Freud, Jacob, despite his own medical training, placed himself firmly on the side of the lay analysts. Bitter arguments were part and parcel of every professional meeting. That irascibility, too, was part of the war’s legacy. It wasn’t easy to live with the guilt. The guilt of being alive. The professional guilt which accompanied the knowledge that a third of all asylum inmates in France had died under the Occupation. The Nazis and their French collaborators had hardly been tolerant of deviance however defined - racial, religious, or any of those countless conditions which were trapped under the catch-all of madness.

  America promised a cleaner, more innocent terrain. Even Sylvie there might find life a little happier.

  The war had taken it out of her. The war, the trip to Poland she refused to talk about, Caroline’s death - they seemed to have changed her ineradicably. During the war, she had been remarkable, a woman of extraordinary daring and courage. And then, it was as if she had gone into a state of limbo. Nothing held her attention for more than ten minutes. The cruelty was the worst of it. It left him helpless, despite his professional skills.

  At the age of 45 Jacob Jardine was a handsome prepossessing man in the prime of life. Widely acknowledged by his colleagues, considered by some as the only genius France possessed in the developing field of psychoanalysis, and by others who knew little of this, as an unsung hero of the resistance, Jacob Jardine was nonetheless a troubled being. His intimate friends, and they were few, might be aware of his deep professional concerns, but they were only partially privy to the problems which ate at him daily. Amongst these, his wife Sylvie and his daughter Katherine were principal.

  He glanced at Katherine’s small perfect face now in one of the cafes many mirrors. How much her own person she already was, her expression wiser than her years, a trace of wariness around the wide-grey eyes. She smiled at him and he saw the redness of her cheek where her mother’s hand had left its trace. He vowed to make more time for this child whose loneliness must be acute now that the brother she adored was away at school.

  Eating her ice, Katherine was wholly happy. She loved being with Pappy, loved having him altogether to herself. It was too bad he had to be at work so much. That left her only Suzanne and her mother. Katherine’s little hand shook. And Kazou, she mustn’t forget Kazou. Kazou was her best friend and he was always there when she needed him, since he lived at the bottom of her cupboard. No one else could see him so he was there especially for her. He had come from a far away place in the Arctic just when Leo had left for school. And he had come just for her, even though now his Mamma missed him terribly. She was a nice Mamma Kazou always said in his quiet sort of voice.

  But Pappy, Katherine focussed her grey eyes on him, Pappy was the best. He always took time to explain things carefully to her so that she understood. Like now, when he was talking about America. A vast country he said, and drew its size compared to that of France in his small notebook. She liked maps. Those wavy lines which meant water. They were going to cross that water on a big boat. She had never been on a boat before. Would the nuns come, she asked him. She would miss them. But there would be Pappy, her handsome Pappy, and Leo.

  ‘Bonjour’ Katherine’s clear voice peeled out well in advance of her arrival in the sitting room. Suzanne, the maid, had told her that Princess Mat and Leo had already arrived and she raced to greet them. She was met by an enthusiastic hug as Princesse Mathilde lifted her up to her own impressive height and smothered her against her generous form.

  ‘Et comment va ma belle Katherine? How big and serious you’re getting now that you’re four.’

  Katherine kissed the Princesse on both cheeks and breathed in her rich perfume. ‘Très bien,’ she answered and then instantly made a dash for Leo, who despite an initial gesture of boyish embarrassment, let Katherine throw her arms around him. It was an endearment he would only accept from his sister and Katherine clung to him for a moment. She had missed her brother terribly and constantly. There was no one now to deflect her mother’s moods when her father was out at work, no one to share the vast dinner table with as she swallowed the food under vigilant eyes. Except sometimes Kazou, when he was very hungry.

  Katherine looked at her mother’s stiff form, nodded a polite but almost inaudible, ‘Bonjour maman’ before turning to greet Princesse Mat’s daughter, Violette, who was even taller than Leo. Then Katherine returned to her brother’s side, echoing his movements and gestures like a diminutive shadow.

&nbs
p; Anyone who had entered the Jardine sitting room at that moment would have been easily forgiven for mistaking the scene in front of him for one which epitomised gracious post-war family life. The large room with its high moulded ceiling contained some flawless pieces of art nouveau furniture: a chaise longue whose curves invited and imitated the female body, a pair of elegant high-backed chairs of the same period, two comfortable sofas covered in a cubist pattern which drew the eye and pleasured it with its intricate brightness. Walnut tables of a prior age were placed here and there with an eye for proportion and usefulness. On them stood lamps whose human or organic forms gave way to delicately tinted petals of glass. A baby grand graced a corner of the room. Jacob’s art collection,too, was more than enviable. A rakish Dali dreamscape hung next to one of Picabia’s mechanical fantasies. Both bore Jacob’s name and they were only two amongst many. A closer look revealed that the Picasso on the far wall did indeed bear a remarkable resemblance to the woman who now lounged in the chaise longue.

  At first glance, she had a singular beauty. Pale blond hair pulled back from a delicate flower-like face framed in its straying wisps; eyes of an exceptional blue which looked at you confidingly; slenderness of a touching fragility. She formed a picturesque contrast to the woman who sat opposite her, though sitting was hardly the word. With her bold, fluid gestures, her strong, energetic face across which expressions raced with lightning vivacity, this woman seemed to be moving even when she was sitting still. Her dark eyes shone with intelligence and wit, and if her clothes had something of the outré in their cut and colour, she wore them with a daring which was completely in character.

  The man who reached now to light the cigarette she had placed in a long holder, was equally striking. The dark, leonine head was held at a commanding angle. His bearing spoke of cultivation, though beneath the loose line of his suit, there seemed to be rather more muscle than urbanity demanded. A touch of whimsy in the mouth betrayed the strict correctness of his manner and made one want to hear his words. The deep laugh which boomed out of him as the dark woman paused in her tale had an engaging warmth.

  It made the children who had been sitting in another corner of the room look up expectantly. Their shining faces completed the family idyll. The boy, it was immediately evident was the son of the reclining woman. His blond fragility as yet bore no trace of the manhood to come, except perhaps in the length of his hands and feet and in the seriousness of his expression. The older girl was his mirror opposite in every way. There was mischief in her dark eyes, a robustness in her demeanour. Only in the care which she lavished on the smaller child was she kin to the boy.

  The maid’s entry into the room, her plump form preceded by a trolley loaded with enticing edibles, brought the children rapidly toward the adults.

  ‘Chocolate cake,’ Katherine and Leo exclaimed in unison.

  ‘Especially baked for your birthday, my sweet’ Suzanne’s smile spread. ‘And fruit and…’

  ‘Oodles of presents,’ the Princesse announced suddenly bringing boxes of varying shapes and sizes out from nowhere.

  As cakes, tea and cocoa were passed round in elegant China and presents opened with increasing hilarity amidst the children, Jacob Jardine looked round the small gathering. He was acutely aware of the tensions beneath the gaiety. His wife’s fixed expression was only momentarily broken by a tightening of the lips and an all-but imperceptible flinch every time Katherine laughed in abandon. The small girl’s eyes, if she accidentally met her mother’s, widened in fear. Leo, always sensitive to atmosphere, beneath his boyish nonchalance was overly protective of his sister. Thank heaven for the Princesse, who kept up a voluble patter, bringing them animated gossip from Switzerland, from Britain, and endless tales about the origins of Katherine’s presents.

  Jacob Jardine had good reason to feel grateful to Princesse Mathilde. She had acted as benevolent guardian of his family fortunes for years now and he was deeply aware of the debt he owed her. It was the Princesse who through one of her innumerable contacts had, after the war when they had nowhere to go, found them this spacious apartment. During the war, it had served as home to a German officer and its original owners had never returned. It was the Princesse, too, who had somehow managed to salvage his possessions and his treasured pictures, when Sylvie had fled South during the occupation. She, who had kept his mother’s fortune miraculously intact, invested it in America, so that the family now had a substantial income. And there was more, much more.

  He felt her eyes on him now, read the veiled concern they registered. Jacob stirred himself into action. It was a family custom that any children present received gifts after the birthday child. With a great deal of ceremony, Jacob hushed the assembled group and brought out two large packages. Leo opened his first. He gasped in delight at what he found: an intricately inlaid box which unfolded into a chess board. He fingered the carved pieces appreciatively.

  ‘After dinner, tonight, we’ll play,’ Jacob challenged him.

  ‘And I’ll beat you again,’ Leo beamed.

  ‘And he will, too, Pappy,’ Katherine echoed her brother happily.

  It was Violette’s turn. The girl untied the ribbon with nervous anticipation. She loved receiving presents from Jacob, not because she was a child in whose life gifts were rare. Rather the contrary. But Jacob’s presents were always special. They made her feel inordinately grown up. And they always seemed to answer a secret hankering. This time was no exception. Her package contained three beautifully bound volumes: Dickens’ Great Expectations and A Tale of Two Cities with the original illustrations; and Thackeray’s Vanity Fair.

  Violette looked first at the books, then at Jacob lovingly. For the last four years, she had had an English governess, whom her mother had imported to their Swiss home so that Violette could learn what the Princesse called ‘the language of the future’.

  ‘How did you know Ton Ton that I was tired to death of reading all that baby rot Miss Beatrix always gives me? Why if she had her way I’d still be going over My Secret Garden.

  Jacob winked mischievously at Violette.

  Thank-you kind uncle, Thank you very-much,’ Violette said in her best English.

  Suddenly, Sylvie who had reclined listlessly throughout these proceedings tensed into action like a cat who had just smelt danger. She strode over to Violette and tore the books out of the child’s hand. ‘I thought so,’ she muttered. ‘I thought so,’ she turned venomously on Jacob. ‘You said you were going to buy those books for Leo.’

  Startled, Katherine dropped the cup and saucer she had been balancing precariously. The china smashed into a hundred pieces and the warm liquid splattered onto Sylvie’s dress.

  ‘You clumsy fool,’ her mother shouted at her. She lifted a hand to strike the girl and then remembering herself stopped it in mid air. ‘Go straight to your room. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day,’ she said in a shrill cracked voice.

  The Princesse and Jacob exchanged a mute look.

  ‘Calm down, Sylvie. The child didn’t mean to drop the cup,’ Jacob soothed.

  Katherine looked down at the mess she had made and then fearfully up at her mother. Her eyes were filled with tears. Without making a sound, she walked stiffly from the room. Leo followed her and Violette was just a few paces behind. She picked up an armful of toys but when she got to the door of the room, she seemed to have second thoughts. She turned, a look of cold contempt on her normally vivacious face, and said, ‘You’re silly, Aunt Sylvie, amazingly silly.’ With that she left them.

  Jacob hid the smile which the girl’s spunk had brought to his face.

  ‘Now you’ve turned them all against me,’ Sylvie’s fury directed itself at her husband. How can I get any respect around here if you always counter what I say.’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ Jacob said, his tone terse. ‘We’re not alone.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sylvie shouted. ‘Of course, the great Princesse is here. We must all bow.’ she performed a mock curtsey in the older woma
n’s direction, and then suddenly went limp. Listlessly, she returned to her chair, her face now as immobile as it had been before her outburst.

  Jacob exchanged another look with the Princesse and then followed the children.

  The Princesse sat quietly for a moment gazing at Sylvie. Though she must now be thirty-five, the woman still looked like a child. Only the slight dryness of skin, a few tense lines around the mouth and eyes, betrayed that she was no longer the girl of eighteen whom Jacob had fallen in love with. Did they still sleep together, she wondered, repressing a tingle of jealousy, surprised that she might still feel it. She knew that things were far from well between them and that Sylvie seemed to be sliding again, moving into a world where her grasp on reality grew more and more tenuous. Sylvie, whose brilliance and beauty and wildness had once compelled fascination. How unpredictable life was.

  It had been too long since Jacob and she had talked. These last three years had been taken up with her husband’s slow death. Poor Frederick, he had dragged his enfeebled, shrinking body round Europe’s remaining noble families, making what he called his official last visits, before settling into the precincts of their Swiss chateau and waiting for that final guest. He had long felt that he had outlived his time. And during his last years, Princesse Mathilde had perhaps been more in his company than ever before. Strangely, she had felt closer to him then than throughout the years of their long married life. During those she had forged other existences for herself, other persona than that of a Royal Princess. After a funeral replete with the pomp and glory befitting a Danish prince had come the official period of mourning, the complicated tying up of affairs, the countless visits to relatives in Copenhagen, Greece, Britain, France.

  On these last, Violette usually accompanied her and they always saw Jacob and the family. She saw him too at professional gatherings at the Institute. But she had rarely seen him alone and she had not realised quite what a strain he was living under. Certainly the numerous letters which passed between them contained nothing of what she had garnered today. Not a word had been said of Sylvie’s state.