Love, Again

by Doris May Lessing Little Dorrit

  On darkening grass slopes overwatched by ancient trees, they sat about drinking, while Jean-Pierre exclaimed about the gentle beauties of England. For he was from the south, had never lived further north than Lyons, and this was the first time he had been introduced to the subtle charms of a northern summer. At last Joseph fell asleep, and was wrapped in his father's jacket, safe in his father's arms. Sarah had put herself a long way from Henry, near to Stephen, who had Susan next to him. Susan had just heard that Stephen was leaving tomorrow, did not know when he would return. 'Probably not till the end of the run,' he remarked. Her eyes were red. Tears were filling them as often as tears filled Sarah's and Henry's and, so it had become evident, Mary's and Jean-Pierre's. But Henry had his face turned away and was staring over the riverside lawns through the thickening dusk. And then the night came down and they were enclosed in its mercies.

  Back at the house, Sarah confirmed with Jean-Pierre that an early start would suit her. She said goodbye to everyone she would not be seeing in London. There were many hopeful cries of 'See you next year in Belles Rivieres' — which pleased Jean-Pierre. 'Because the real Julie Vairon has to be in France. I must say it — it is not the same thing here.'

  And he was absolutely right: everyone agreed.

  Henry went upstairs with the child in his arms, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

  Sarah hurried to her room to put an end to the goodbyes. She did not sleep. In the early morning she crept down the stairs, and there was Jean-Pierre waiting on the steps, watching thrushes and blackbirds busy on the lawns. They walked to the car park, while the leaden hand tightened around her heart. As they drove off she looked back and saw Henry on the steps, looking after her. He was alone. The last sight she would have of him was his white face, his bitter, burning black eyes.

  They drove fast, but not so fast that, approaching a lay-by, Sarah did not see a group of youngsters standing around a shabby van that had on its side an amateur scrawl in red paint, Tea and Snacks. She asked Jean-Pierre to stop. She said, 'I won't be a minute,' and got out, slamming the car door to attract attention. Joyce, Betty, the unknown youth, who seemed even more pale and ill in this strong sunlight, and half a dozen others all turned to watch her approach. Sarah could not have felt more absurd, arriving in that sleek car from the world of interesting work, success, money. Joyce greeted her with her predictable hilarious smile, as if good news was her portion in life and her Auntie Sarah its reliable purveyor. Betty smelled sour even at several paces away and seemed hung over, with red eyes and a sick brave look. Sarah felt two strong conflicting impulses: one to take her in her arms, like a child; the other to shake her hard. The wretched youth stood blinking, his eyes too weak for this sunlight.

  'Well, Joyce,' enquired Sarah briskly, 'are you all right?'

  'Oh, lovely, thank you, how lovely to see you,' enthused Joyce.

  'Do you want a lift back to town?'

  'But there are lots of us.'

  A bitter wouldn't-you-know-it smile appeared on Betty's face and on other faces too, as Sarah said, 'We weren't offering a lift to everyone; there wouldn't be room.'

  'Oh no, Sarah, we'll stay together.'

  'Then give me a ring,' said Sarah, but after she had gone a few paces, she returned to give Joyce money, thinking, What use is twenty pounds to a girl who tried to steal three thousand? Joyce stood there with the notes in her hand, until Betty took them from her, with a housewifely air.

  'That one there with the pretty hair is my niece,' said Sarah as they roared off, thinking it was as well he did not know she had been offering lifts on his behalf.

  'Sarah, I must say it is surprising to see you with such people.'

  'I take it you have no disreputable relations?'

  His half-shrug insisted that in France things were better ordered, but after a moment he said with a sigh that his younger brother, aged sixteen, was giving their poor mother problems.

  'Drugs?'

  'I think so. But so far not the very bad ones.'

  'Well, good luck, then.'

  'Good luck is what we all need,' said Jean-Pierre, acknowledging the times we live in.

  She went straight to the theatre. In the office, she found the reviews from the dailies. Too soon for the weeklies. 'She Was Poor but She Was Honest' — as a heading — twice. 'An exotic setting does not conceal… ' 'Martinique is obviously just the place for a package holiday.' 'As a feminist I must protest… '

  In the afternoon there was the meeting to decide the future. They were all there. Mary Ford had come from Oxfordshire by train. Roy had interrupted his leave to come. He remarked that his wife said she had had enough of men to last her a lifetime, but on the whole he felt confident she would take him back, for the sake of the child. Patrick was there, and Sonia, and Jean-Pierre and, at the last minute, Stephen.

  In the few weeks since the end of the run in France, Jean- Pierre had done a lot of work. He was presenting them with plans, not possibilities. Julie Vairon would be put on next year for the two main months of the tourist season, July and August, but there was talk of beginning earlier, in June. He had checked the availability of Henry, Bill, Molly, Susan, Andrew. Henry was the most important and would be free. Bill would not, a pity, since he was more right for the part than the new Paul. Both Molly and Susan would be available, and that left them with a difficult choice. If they wanted the same musicians, they must be engaged now. The singers must be approached at once: they were perhaps the most important element. Andrew was engaged for a film. A pity. It would be hard to find such a good Rémy.

  And now he had to tell them something he was afraid they wouldn't like. The town authorities had already agreed that a large stadium, to hold two thousand people, would be built in the woods around Julie's old house. If that shell could be called a house. No, he must insist they listen to him: he knew it didn't sound well, but that was only because the idea was new to them. He himself had had difficulties to start with.

  'You are going to cut down trees?' asked Mary.

  'Only nine or ten trees need to be cut. They are not very beautiful trees.'

  And now there was a silence, while Jean-Pierre, sure of himself and his plans, went to stand tactfully at the window, his back to them, while they looked at each other: that is, the Founding Four did. Patrick had an air of holding a good deal back. Sonia had not been to Belles Rivieres. Stephen seemed to be reserving judgement.

  In that silence a good many things were acknowledged. Jean-Pierre and the town authorities had every right to decide what to do with the town's chief asset. The English really had no right to say a word. Yes, they had had the original idea, but that was not something they could stake a claim on for long. Anyway, it was no one's fault — as usual. The gods of tourism were to blame.

  Jean-Pierre turned around and said, 'We know it is a shock. It is not the most attractive thing that could happen — I am speaking for myself now. But put yourselves in our place. Julie will bring prosperity to the whole region.'

  'It is surely not a region of France that lacks visitors,' said Sarah.

  'No, that is true. But Belles Rivieres is just a little town. It has nothing else, only Julie. There will be new hotels and restaurants — they are being planned already. And this will affect all the towns of the area.'

  'You haven't said anything about the language,' said Stephen. Of all of them, he must be the most affected by the news of the destruction of the original Julie Vairon — but only Sarah could know that.

  'Of course that was discussed. For a while we decided to go back to the French, but we changed our minds. This will sound absurd, but we thought it might even bring bad luck. Julie has been so lucky. To change her completely… but there was the other reason, and that is more important. Most of the tourists in our part of France in summer are English- speaking. And that decided it.'

  He waited, but no one said anything.

  'And now I must leave you all. I must catch my plane.'

  'Next year in B
elles Rivieres,' said Roy, for this joke seemed likely to stay, and Mary and Jean-Pierre looked at each other, and Sarah was reminded of Henry's wretched face that morning as she left.

  'Oh no, we must discuss it all before that. I hope to see you all… Sarah… Stephen… and you, Mary… ' He nodded at Patrick, and it occurred to them that since Patrick had scarcely been in Belles Rivieres, that nod, with a special smile, was carrying more meaning than they knew the reason for. And Patrick was in fact looking guilty. 'All of you, we will fix a meeting and we will go through everything. I shall telephone Benjamin when I get to my office. Stephen — it would be a sadness for us if you decided to withdraw.' That meant that if Stephen did, there would be other willing angels.

  Jean-Pierre left an atmosphere of mourning. The audiences filling the new stadium next year and — presumably — succeeding years would be enjoying successful, fashionable theatre, but only those people who had been there the first year — still this year — would know how rare a bird Julie had been, a magically perfect event that had seemed at its beginnings no more promising than a hundred others, had gathered substance and shape in what it was easy to believe was a series of mere lucky chances, one after the other, blown together by the winds of heaven, and then… but there is only one thing to do at the vanishing away of a wonder: put a clamp on your heart.

  And it was only the theatre, after all.

  'It's only the theatre,' said Mary, ending their silence and sounding miserable.

  Now, finally, they had to decide whether to put Julie Vairon on in London. But it seemed this decision had already been made, for they hardly discussed it.

  'Now,' said Sarah to Patrick, 'let's have it.'

  Patrick stood before them, grinning. Full of affection, yes, but fuller of a cheeky guiltiness.

  'Sarah… guess what… you'll never guess… you'll have to shoot yourself… well, shoot me, then… We can't have victim heroines any more — remember? Do you remember? Well… ' And here he hesitated on the brink, gave Sonia a look of comic despair, plunged on, 'How do you like the idea of a musical?'

  'A musical!' protested Stephen.

  'Oh, don't tell me,' said Roy, in a fury. 'There's this pathetic little half-caste from Martinique who falls in love with the handsome lieutenant. He ditches her. She earns her living doing the can-can in Cannes. There she is seen by the patrician Rémy — '

  'Too complicated,' said Patrick airily.

  'No Rémy?' said Stephen.

  'No Rémy. She has a child by Paul. She puts her in a convent with the nuns. Julie earns her living as a singer. The master printer wants to make an honest woman of her — '

  'But she commits suicide because of…?' enquired Sarah.

  'Because she knows the townspeople will never forgive her, or forgive him for marrying her. If he marries her she will ruin his life. There's a great scene where the citizens sing they will boycott his business and bring him to bankruptcy. They won't have that whore Julie. She leaves a suicide note: Remember my Minou! She flings herself under a train. Just like you know who. Last scene: the master printer and Minou, already a nubile nymph sought in marriage by a handsome young lieutenant.'

  'You're joking,' said Stephen.

  'He's not joking,' said Sonia, sounding huffy. From this it could be seen she was involved with this musical.

  'I'm not joking,' said Patrick. 'The libretto is written.'

  'You've written it?'

  'I've written it.'

  'Is she allowed any intelligence?' asked Roy.

  'Of course not,' said Sarah.

  'I expected you and Stephen to be much more cross than you are,' said Patrick, obviously disappointed.

  'Well,' said Stephen, 'I'm off.'

  'Well,' said Sarah, also getting up, 'when is this masterpiece going to be put on?'

  'We have to get the music written,' said Sonia.

  'Not Julie's?' asked Mary.

  'We are thinking of using one of the troubadour songs as a theme song. Not the words, of course. You know. "If this song of mine is a sad one…" It's a torch song, really.'

  'So what words?' enquired Sarah.

  Mary said, 'I love you, I love you.'

  'Very good,' said Patrick. 'Brilliant. All right. Sneer if you like. It's possible they'll premiere it in Belles Rivieres the year after next.'

  'The bad will drive out the good,' remarked Stephen. 'It always does.'

  'Oh thanks, thanks a lot,' said Patrick.

  'Let's wait and see,' said Mary. 'They aren't going to let our Julie go if it's successful next year.'

  'Honestly,' said Sonia, 'I don't think you people should start panicking. It hasn't happened yet.'

  'No, but it's going to,' said Patrick. 'And there's something else. My Julie's going to be called The Lucky Piece… no, wait — I found it by chance. The lucky piece is early-nineteenth-century slang. It means the child of a mistress who has been left well set up by her boyfriends. Well, no one could say that Julie's mother wasn't living in clover.'

  The meeting ended early, and a long sunlit evening lay ahead. Stephen and Sarah walked for a while in Regent's Park. Stephen said he was going to visit his brother in Shropshire. After that he might visit friends in Wales. She recognized his need to move. If it were not that she had so much to do in the theatre, she would be buying an aeroplane ticket to almost anywhere.

  There was no way of putting off what faced her. She sat and thought how already the family would be speeding along French roads that were dusty and burned by this summer's sun. As soon as the car stopped, the little boy would be in his father's arms. In fact one could be sure that during the three weeks they were in France, whenever the car was not actually in motion, Joseph would be held by Henry. Meanwhile her body sent inconsistent messages. For instance, that sensation of need in the hollow of her left shoulder demanded that a head should lie there… was it Henry's head? Often it seemed to her it was an infant newly born, and naked, a soft hot nakedness, and her hand pressing it close protected a helplessness much greater than could be encompassed by this one small creature. An infinite vulnerability lay there: Sarah herself, who was both infant and what sheltered the infant. When a hot wanting woke Sarah from a dream she knew had been about Henry, the face that dazzled behind her lids was Joseph's, a bright cheeky greedy smile announc- ing that it would grab everything it could. And then, an intimate and loving smile — Henry's, and both of these wraiths disappeared as her hand went to the soft hollow, and she was filled with a wild and cherishing love.

  In her diary, page after page was filled with entries like 'Emptiness.' 'Pain.' 'It is such a weight — I can't carry it.' 'Wild grief.' 'Storms of longing.' 'When will it end?' 'I can't stand this pain.' 'My heart hurts so much.' 'It hurts.'

  To whom was she writing these messages like letters in bottles entrusted to the sea? No one would read them. And if someone did, the words would make sense only if this someone had experienced this pain, this grief. For as she herself looked at the words pain, grief, anguish, and so forth, they were words on a page and she had to fill them with the emotions they represented. Why then put them on a page at all? It occurred to her she was engaged in that occupation common to (even diagnostic of?) our times: she was bearing witness.

  She stopped writing 'I did not know this degree of misery could exist,' and her diary reverted to: 'Worked with Sonia and Patrick all day on the costumes.' 'Worked with Mary.' 'Mary says she saw Sonia and Roger Stent having dinner together in The Pelican. Sonia doesn't know we know.' 'Patrick has gone to visit Jean-Pierre about The Lucky Piece.' 'Sonia and I worked all day on… '

  In fact she was doing half the work she usually did. She woke in the morning with a groan and often sank back into… if it was a landscape of grief, then at least it was not the same as the one she inhabited awake. If at home, she might sleep all afternoon, work a little, be asleep by ten. Sometimes she dragged herself out of bed in the morning and got back into it by mid-morning. Normally she slept lightly, with pleasure, her dreams an e
ntertainment and often a source of information. Now she crawled into sleep which was both a refuge and a threat, to get rid of the pain — a physical anguish — in her heart.

  She was also observing her symptoms with curiosity, none of them — surely? — necessarily a symptom of love.

  Worst of all, she was bad-tempered, might snap and snarl suddenly, without warning, as if she only just managed an even keel, but the slightest demand, or even a too-loud voice, was enough to tip her over. She wanted to make unkind and sarcastic remarks. Normally not particularly critical, she was critical of everything.

  Unpleasant characteristics she believed long outgrown came back. She spoke loudly in public places in a boastful way, for the benefit of strangers whose opinions did not matter to her.

  She actually had to stop herself boasting of past loves to Mary, but had said enough to embarrass both: Mary, whose acute, quick look told Sarah that her condition was being understood. One day Mary remarked, apparently about Roy, who was having a difficult time with his wife and was bad- tempered and morose, 'What we forget is, people know much more about us than we like, and forgive us much more.' Was this a plea for herself?

  Music still affected Sarah too strongly. She found herself switching off music on the radio, going out of the theatre when they were doing rehearsals and there was music, closing a window if music floated towards her down the street, because even a banal and silly tune could make her cry, or double up in pain. A workman reslating the roof of the house next to hers burst into the torch song from Julie, or, rather, The Lucky Piece — the song had taken wings because of a radio programme. He was sending it up, straddling the house ridge, arms extended, like an opera singer accepting applause, while his mate, leaning against a chimney, clapped — and Sarah's hands flew of their own accord to cover her ears. She felt the sounds were poisoning her.

  From the moment she woke, daydreams had to be pushed away, dreams like drugs. Then, at last succumbing, she could spend hours in day-dreams, like an adolescent.