Unable to bear it, Henry sprang up and off through the crowd and into the trees. He could be observed — Sarah observed him — striding up and down, and then he whirled about to return to his seat, but he was too late, for it was occupied by Benjamin, who had come back from a quick tour of the region accompanied by Bill's friend Jack Greene.
The sentimental ballad ended, and now the music that accompanied the love scenes between Paul and Julie was without words. Haunting… yes, you could call this music haunting, a word as trite as the love scenes that were being enacted, where not one movement, one phrase, one glance, was new or could be new. Everyone here — there were a good thousand people now, and more were pressing in to watch — had seen similar scenes or taken part in them. It was the music that struck straight to the heart, or the senses. The crowd was silent. They watched Julie as intently as the citizens of Belles Rivieres had watched her a hundred years ago. As for the townspeople rehearsed that morning by Roy, they were unnecessary, for nothing could be more powerful than this silent staring crowd. Then, as the light slowly went, a twenty-foot high projection of Julie the young woman appeared on a screen behind and above her house. It was at first a faint image, for the light had not gone, but it gathered substance, and changed: Julie aged on that screen, until she was the comfortable lady Philippe had wooed, and then she was a small child, her own daughter, or herself. Stephen said into Sarah's ear, 'I'm off. I'll walk. Do me good. I'm going to telephone Elizabeth and tell her what is happening here and ask her what chance there is of a decent run. We have been thinking of three or four days — but just look.' For people still approached through the trees, coming to a dead stop when the music enveloped them. As Stephen left his chair (Sarah thought that he showed all the signs of a man escaping), Henry took it. He put his lips to her ear and said, 'Sarah, Sarah, life's a bitch, Sarah… it's a bitch, I love you.' He said this in time with the music, so he was theatrical and absurd, they both had to laugh. But his lips were tremulous. All the appropriate thoughts clicked through her mind: But this is obviously nonsense, it's all the fault of the theatre, of show business, so don't take any notice. But at the same time she thought, This is Julie's country: anything can happen. Old women can seem like young ones, and a blue-eyed Irish girl with plump freckled shoulders can become a girl as slender and bright and tigerish as a bee, just like the fairy tales. She was shaken, oh yes, but managed to offer Henry, who was leaning as close as he could, a gently amused smile. What a hypocrite.
The scenes in Martinique were coming to an end. The sun had gone, but reflected rays arbitrarily picked out a buckle on Paul's belt, or the handkerchief Madame Vairon was sobbing into, while the golden hair of one of the singers seemed to be on fire. Julie and Paul walked away from weeping Maman into patterns of dusky forest light and shade, appropriately, since the next scene was in the forest, was in fact here. A large window frame stood up behind the actors, to show that the scene was inside the house and not — as it must appear to the literal eye — outside it. And now here was a tiny living room, where there was not only the harp but a lute, a recorder, a viola, while flutes and a clarinet lay on a rack. An easel, on which was a large self-portrait in pastels, and a table where Julie wrote her journals were carried on by the four youths who a moment ago had been officers.
The end with Paul, inevitable and perhaps not the most interesting part of the tale, came quickly, while the singers sang, most hauntingly, words that were all Julie's, if from different years and about two different men, but arranged by Sarah, who, just like Julie, half believed she heard the music of those musicians of nearly a thousand years ago and knew the words they might have sung.
Why did you not tell me what love means to you
Before begging me to love you, for so I lost
Whatever I could have had, poor girl, of hope
For a life girls of the usual sort
— Your sisters? — know they will live.
No, not for me the kindness of a simple love.
Doubly my blood denies me that. Never for me kind love,
You think it too, I can see it in your eyes,
So now I may not say, 'Tell me what love means to you.'
Never for me the kindness of a simple love,
Never for me kind love.
There was an interval, a long one, while Henry talked to the players and the singers. Words and song had been pitched for a crowd of three hundred, not for many hundreds. It must be discussed tomorrow morning whether amplifiers must be used, at the meeting which they knew must take this modest production a step up into something more ambitious. And the first night was tomorrow, with so much to be done.
During this first interval people were humming Julie's songs, and Henry made a foray into the crowd to report success, and again during Act Two, when he could return to say, with satisfaction, that there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Meanwhile on her other side Benjamin sometimes engaged her attention with this or that comment, made in the hope they would not be found inappropriate from this theatre innocent. They weren't. All were to the point, and Henry took note of them. Benjamin was pleased, and, too, that he had a golden finger in this pie.
The second interval was brief, but long enough for the company to work up a fine head of anxiety.
What were they, the audience, going to make of Julie's 'second-period' music, the impersonal music so much a contrast to the sorrowful songs that had gone before? Yet, if unemotional, why did it bring tears to the eyes? Did that mean it acted on some unnamed part of the organism, such as a disembodied heart or liver? And the third act asked so much of an audience: Julie alone, mourning for her child. Julie ostracized. The programme did say this was for the sake of dramatic simplicity, and in fact the little girl had been two years old when she died of 'brain fever' — whatever that was. And then there was the so satisfactory suitor, and the prospect of happiness — rejected, and many sound and sensible citizens must always find this a confirmation that there was something really wrong with the woman.
As the curve of a low hill finally absorbed the last rays, so they were all steeped in a hot twilight, the music ended with the chilly octaves of Julie's death, the chanting of a flute, and the long groaning under-note of the shawm. At once the evening was noisy with cicadas, their din signalling applause, at first sporadic, and then prolonged. The seated people stood up to clap wildly, and while the crowd dispersed they clapped and cheered and shouted.
Some enterprising firm, hearing of the big audience up in the hills that would need transportation, had caused three coaches to stand waiting, which was all that would fit into the space.
There were limousines for the company: Bill got in by Sarah, Benjamin on her other side.
'What a wonderful success,' said Benjamin.
'You must be so pleased,' said Bill, and kissed her cheek with suggestive lips. Furious, she turned and kissed him on the lips, a real kiss, which he took with a smile half shocked, half delighted, while he glanced, embarrassed, at Benjamin, who was staring straight ahead, apparently to listen while the engaging young driver assured them that tout le monde adored Julie, she must be a veritable pin-up, and he couldn't wait to see the show. The habitual bestowers of compliments and flattery slowly acquire a sated, complacent look, as if fed on honeyed larks' tongues.
When the car reached the hotel it was still not eleven. Stephen had left a note for Sarah to say he had spoken to Elizabeth. The news was good. There could be at least two weeks' run at Queen's Gift.
The company settled around the pavement tables, absorbing into itself tourists and townspeople who had been at the theatre and who were demanding autographs with that calm determination to get their rights, that is to say, a piece of the action, or the pie, or the property, which characterizes autograph hunters from one end of the world to the other. The players were restless, full of suspense. For even a successful dress rehearsal is still not a first night, when all the strings go snap, snap.
Molly came from the hotel, later than the
others, and found an empty chair near Bill. He at once bent down to kiss her. She did not respond. The moment the kiss was over, Bill lifted his chair over to a place near Sarah's and murmured, 'You look beautiful tonight.'
Sally appeared, looking for a chair. Bill pulled one forward and Sally slid into it, while her eyes searched for Richard Service. Sally still vibrated with all the emotions of having been Julie's mother, and her black skin glistened with heat against the red of her dress. Bill smiled warmly at her and kissed her, but she turned her head so her lips were out of reach. She laughed, an all-tolerant laugh, and directed to Sarah something not far off a wink. Her smile was satirical, regretful. Then she shrewdly examined Molly, who sat suffering, but then she turned away, out of delicacy.
Then she drank off Sarah's glass of citron pressé, said, 'Sorry, my darling, but I had to have that,' and announced, 'And now I must ring my children and get my beauty sleep.' Up she got again. The flood of vitality subsided in her because she was becoming the mother of her real children. As she left, Richard Service arrived, and the two eye-lines made shallow arcs that intersected on an agreement. She departed like a sailing ship in full moonlight.
Roy Strether, Mary Ford, Henry, and Jean-Pierre were all so buoyant with success they could not bear to sit down but stood hovering near the seated ones, and then, as Benjamin arrived, they suggested a trip to the delights of night-time Marseilles. Benjamin's eyes enquired of Sarah's, but she said she too needed to sleep. She reminded them they were meeting at eight — very well, then, nine. She walked firmly away.
She saw Bill move into the chair near Molly. If I were Molly, she thought, I would simply go across to his hotel, open his door, and get into his bed. He would certainly say, I am expecting my girlfriend, oh dear, I am so sorry. Would I then go quietly away? I'm damned if I would.
She sat by the window. She would have liked to go up and talk with Stephen, gently unwinding, as one does with a friend. Yesterday she would have gone.
She went to look in her glass. The ichors that flooded her body created behind the face of Sarah, the face she and everyone knew, a younger face, that shone out, smiling. Her body was alive and vibrant, but also painful. Her breasts burned, and the lower part of her abdomen ached. Her mouth threatened to seek kisses — like a baby's mouth turning and turning to find the nipple.
I'm sick, she said to herself. 'You're sick.' I'm sick with love, and that is all there is to it. How could such a thing have happened? What does Nature think it is up to? (Eyeball to eyeball with Nature, elderly people often accuse it — her? — of ineptitude, of sheer incompetence.) I simply can't wait to go back to my cool elderly self, all passion spent. I suppose I'm not trapped in this hell for ever? I'm going to be really ill if I can't stop this… and she watched her reflection, which was that of a woman in love, and not a dry old woman.
She said, 'Enough of this,' undressed quickly, and got into bed, where she murmured, as at some point she was bound to do, 'Christ that my love were in my arms… '
She did sleep. She woke to ghostly kisses of such sweetness they were like Julie's music, but surprisingly, the sounds that whispered in her head were not the 'troubadour' music, like blues or like fados, but the late music, cool, transparent, a summons to somewhere else. Perhaps the paradise we dream of when in love is the one we were ejected from, where all embraces are innocent.
Again she was up early. She dressed before it was light outside, thinking, Thank God there's that meeting and I'll be working hard all day. And I won't be with Bill; I'll be with Henry.
On the pavement, Stephen sat outside the still-closed cafe. He looked absently at Sarah, for his eyes were clouded with his preoccupation, looked again and said, 'You have been crying.'
'Yes, I have.'
'What can I say? I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.'
Now this was the moment she could put things right. 'Stephen, you are wrong. It's not like that.'
He wanted so much to believe her, but looked grumpy and cross.
'Stephen, this is an absolutely ridiculous situation. Really, I promise you… '
He looked away, because he was so uncomfortable. His face was red. So was hers.
Communal life was rescuing them. While the players still slept, the managerial side were all up, in spite of their having jaunted around the coast so late. Here came Mary Ford, calm and fresh in white. After her came Henry, who at once took a chair near Sarah. He appeared to have staggered from some battlefront. Then Benjamin, impeccable in pale linen. He sat opposite Sarah, studying her from under serious brows. Here was Roy Strether, yawning, and with him Sandy Grears. The proprietor of Les Collines Rouges was opening his doors, and the aromas of coffee began their insinuations.
A sparky urchin in a striped blue and white apron appeared from the other side of the square, holding aloft balanced on one hand, several tiers of cakes and croissants, the other hand poised on his hip, for style. He too wafted delicious smells everywhere. He passed them gracefully, grinning, knowing they all waited for the moment when what he carried would leave the counters of the cafe for their breakfasts.
'Un moment,' reproved the cafe proprietor, though no one had said a word. 'Un petit moment, mesdames, messieurs.' He disappeared inside, with a stern air. Because of Sartre, they knew that he was playing the role of Monsieur le Patron, just as the urchin was playing his role.
Sarah could not prevent a pretty desperate look at Stephen and caught him examining her. Appalling. How could their friendship survive such a muddle of misunderstanding?
It was occurring to them all that everyone necessary for the meeting which would decide Julie Vairon's fate was here. Except for Jean-Pierre.
With the British production there was really one problem — who would be available? Elizabeth had said the last week of August and the first of September would suit her, suit Queen's Gift, because by then the new building would be finished. She had pointed out that Julie could not be expected to be as popular in England as it was in France, but people were still talking about the evening of Julie's music, and that was a good sign. Stephen said, apologetically, that they mustn't think Elizabeth was a wet blanket. 'She has to be cautious, you see. She thinks I get carried away.'
His eyes met Sarah's — on a smile. Her heart lightened.
Roy said, 'Henry, you're the key to everything. If you're not free, we'll forget the whole thing. That means rehearsals through the first three weeks of August and then setting the production at Queen's Gift.'
'I'm doing Salome in Pittsburgh through July — that is, from ten a.m. three days from now. So I can make it.'
Up he jumped, took a stroll through tables beginning to fill up, kicked a carton into a refuse can — a perfect shot, and came back to fling himself down. They all watched him. 'Perpetuum mobile,' said Roy. 'How does he do it? How do you do it, Henry? I have to tell you all that this man was dancing and singing in the rain in Marseilles three hours ago in the water cart sprays. Right, Henry. You're booked for August.'
'But,' said Mary, 'the players. Bill is off to New York the day after this ends here to start rehearsal. Carmen. He won't be available, nor will Molly. She's working the rest of July and all August in Portland. Pocahontas. She's Pocahontas.'
Mary was carefully not looking at Stephen, whose face had crumpled, if only for a moment. He recovered himself and looked at Sarah. The look was not unmixed with irony, so that was something.
'We need a new Julie and a new Paul,' said Roy. He yawned. It was the loud and unabashed yawn of a man who had been up most of the night.
To the people whose hearts were cracking open like eggs, the yawn sounded derisive. Mary Ford began to laugh and could not stop. She put out her hand in apology. Roy took it in a fist and shook it up and down, oblivious but matey.
Mary stopped herself laughing. 'Sorry. Show business. It's show business… anyway, I asked all the cast last night, and the musicians. They are all free.'
'All free except for the two important ones. Never mind; some of the P
auls and Julies we auditioned were very good.' Henry's eyes closed.
Benjamin seemed asleep. Mary's lids dropped. Roy yawned again. When the waiter finally arrived, Sarah ordered coffee and croissants for everyone but in a low voice, as if in a room full of sleeping children.
At this juncture Jean-Pierre arrived, with the air of a man not prepared to be apologetic, just because he was later than others who had no need to be early.
'Everything's just fine,' said Henry lazily to Jean-Pierre.
'I was also up very late,' said Jean-Pierre.
'Well, it doesn't matter; we've got everything sorted out,' said Mary maternally.
'But the meeting was not arranged until nine, I think?'
The coffee arrived. Smells of sunlight, coffee, hot dust, croissants, petrol, vanilla.
'There really isn't much left to decide,' said Roy.
'And may I enquire what has been decided?' said Jean- Pierre.
At the sound of his voice, full of wounded self-esteem, Mary sat herself up, sent Sarah a glance, sent Roy another, and remarked soothingly, 'What delicious coffee.' She smiled at Jean-Pierre, who was after all in love with her. He positively winced, and then shook off unfair, not to say corrupting, pressures.
Mary outlined what had been decided. 'And there you are,' she concluded.
At this Jean-Pierre presented himself as the traditional Frenchman confronted by the ineffable, however it chooses continually to offer itself, in this case as a barbarous lack of respect for proper form. He slightly lifted his chin, let his lower jaw drop, spread his hands, and quivered with sensibility. 'And so,' he announced, having given them all time to get the benefit of his performance, 'all is decided. But without me. Without Belles Rivieres.'
A crisis.
'But of course we haven't decided anything for you. How could we? But since Henry is leaving almost at once and you are losing the two main actors when your two weeks are up, it is obvious you can't prolong your run.'
Love, Again Page 20