Love, Again

by Doris May Lessing Little Dorrit

  A week later he was in town again. He rang from the hotel. She thought the line was bad, then understood he was fumbling with words. 'I'd like to see you,' he got out at last, making it sound as if there was something particular he wanted to say.

  'All right — where?'

  A long silence.

  'Stephen?'

  'Yes?'

  'Shall I come to the hotel?'

  'Oh no, no. There are so many people here.'

  'Shall we meet in the park again?'

  'Yes, yes, the park… '

  She walked, through a brilliant afternoon, from the great formal gilded gates towards a hunched man sitting motionless on a bench. She sat beside him. He nodded, without looking at her. Then he roused himself — she watched him doing it — to make conversation. Things were going along nicely with plans for Julie at Queen's Gift, he said. Sarah contributed by chatting about The Green Bird. Sonia was taking the new girl, Virginia, in hand. There had been a picture of Virginia Woolf by Virginia's bed, but Sonia had made her replace it with a photograph of Rebecca West. There had been a great improvement: Virginia no longer had a wispy chignon and droopy clothes but had cut her hair and was as bright and as pretty as a parakeet, like Sonia.

  After a bit Stephen smiled, so she went on. Everyone was working hard on the new play, Sweet Freedom's Children. She expected him to react to the title, but he did not. She suggested they walk around a bit, and he nodded. He got up to walk as if only an act of will made him, walked as if an act of will kept him in motion.

  'I want to ask you something,' she said.

  Because of her tone, he came out of his preoccupation enough to give her a nervous look: 'I've been waiting for you to honour me with your confidence.' Meaning, for God's sake, don't.

  'No, no,' she reassured him. 'No, it's something about you, not me… it's important to me. You know how we go along on the surface of everything — '

  'The surface! I wouldn't exactly use that word. That's why I'm so grateful to you. Don't imagine I'm not grateful.'

  'No, wait… I've been having a dream… something like that anyway. Suddenly you open a door you didn't know was there, and you see something that sums it all up.'

  'All?' he challenged.

  They stood by the edge of the fountain, looking through rods and sprays of water to a display of massed fuchsias. Fishes and mermaids and water. And fuchsias.

  'Nice fuchsias,' he remarked. 'They've never done well with us. Though we are pretty successful with azaleas.'

  'All of a situation. The hidden truth of something. If you unexpectedly opened a door, what would you see there that…?'

  At once he said, 'I would see Elizabeth and Norah naked in each other's arms, and they are laughing at me.' She had not expected anything like this. It was too much of a daylight truth. 'And what is behind your closed door?'

  She said gratefully, knowing from a surge of emotion how much she would have liked to talk about her situation, 'There's a small girl stabbing a doll with scissors. The doll is bleeding.'

  He went pale. Then, slowly, he nodded. 'And who is the doll?'

  'Well… it could be my baby brother. But I don't really know.'

  'Probably just as well.'

  She did not speak again. Once he was actually brought to a standstill, as he walked, by some thought or memory. His whole body seemed to wince away from whatever it was. She set him in motion with a hand at his elbow.

  They reached the gates, he to walk one way, she another. Unexpectedly he put his arms round her and kissed her. This was a chilled and chilling embrace. As he turned away she saw the mask take possession of his face, as if a hand — with the same action used for closing the eyes of a just-dead person, a downwards stroking movement that shuts out the light forever — had put weights on his lids and pulled down the corners of his mouth.

  Sarah was in the office every day from nine in the morning till eight at night. She was doing not only her work but Mary's, Patrick's, and Sonia's. Patrick kept ringing to say he was ill — no, no, they mustn't think bad thoughts, he needed a rest. They knew he was lying. Sonia valiantly did not say what she knew, but they guessed. He felt guilty because of some plan or other for Julie they did not approve of. Well, they would deal with it. Mary was with Sonia at various provincial theatres to see if there was anything suitable for The Green Bird. In Birmingham they had run into Roger Stent. 'Ah, Barbarossa,' Sonia had said. 'Slumming?' It was Oedipus Rex. 'Bitch,' he had said. 'Quite so,' she had said.

  'Presumably this is a courtship,' Mary had remarked on the telephone.

  Sarah sat at one desk and Roy at another. They worked agreeably, as they had for years. They spent whole days together, bringing each other coffee, sharing quick meals at the caf£ across the road. This undemanding friendship kept Sarah safe, and, she believed, it was doing the same for him. He was probably going to be divorced, but did not want a divorce. His wife had a lover. The child was unhappy.

  She knew that this was what he often thought about while he worked there with her, just as her world of fevers and fantasy threatened to fill her head. It seemed to her she had become someone else. Not long ago she would have been ashamed to give room to such idiot dreams. The scenes she was being compelled to imagine were feeble, contemptible. Her lovers of long ago — or perhaps not really so long ago, but anything in the past was in another dimension — returned to say she had been the only woman in their life, the most remarkable, satisfying, and so on. These scenes always took place in the presence of others. Interesting that it was usually Bill: she would have been ashamed to inflict them on Henry. It was Bill who in these fantasies was struck into envy and desire by past charms that he could never enjoy. Or love scenes — memories she had not bothered to dust off for years. They presented themselves endowed with emotions of a trance-like intensity — emotions appropriate to the out-of-reach. These had not accompanied the actual event, and as each enhanced memory — where she was as romantic as in a very young man's fantasy, or in a sentimental novel — took possession of her, she forced herself to remember, in slow detail, what had really happened in this or that love, so that her memoirs en rose had to accept the stamp of truth. These exercises in correctives to false or flattering memory were exhausting and hard to achieve, because her present weakened state of mind kept returning her to adolescence, which cannot admit ordinariness.

  And, too, she continued to marvel, with the histrionic part of her mind, that for years and years she had refused so much; yet in sane moments knew that it had been for the same reason she was refusing even to think of… Guess who? Single, extravagantly wrapped flowers kept arriving, roses, orchids, lilies, but having looked to see who they were not from (Henry), she forgot about them. Yet the state she was now in made past refusals seem like a wilful rejection of all-happiness. She had walked, a sexually desirable woman, through years of being courted and nearly always saying no. Because there would have been no conviction in it. One or two she had enjoyed. A good word, that, like love, meaning what you will or as you like it. But enjoyment does not carry with it that other dimension of… what? The word enchantment would have to do. A dimension where she had now become lost. Well, almost lost. Not entirely. Was she getting better? She noted that as the day approached when rehearsals would begin again — when Henry would arrive — the weight of grief lessened. Not much, though.

  There is absolutely nothing like love For showing how many different people can live inside one skin. The woman (the girl, rather) who dreamed of past loves thought adult Sarah a fool for being content with so little. The ordinary and quotidian Sarah, with whom after all she would be living (she did so hope) for the rest of her life, would not have spent half an hour with that daydreaming girl. But the Sarah she was most often, sodden with grief, was not one who had much energy to care about the others, all subsidiary players. She simply felt, suffered, endured, in a hell of pain.

  She wrote:

  A season in hell. I don't think I can Hue through this.

&
nbsp; She wrote:

  A depth charge. What depths?

  On the night before rehearsals began again, at the end of the first week in August, Henry walked into the office, and her misery went away, and she was at once in an atmosphere of charm, ease, comradeship. She was now entirely in love with Henry. She was in love with him because he was in love with her, and this enabled her to like herself.

  When she entered the old church hall next morning and saw all the faces from Belles Rivieres among the new ones, it was as if she had taken a turn on a familiar road and found herself in a landscape where light fell like a blessing. The dark of her grief had quite gone. Yet they were again in the ugly hall, which seemed even worse after Belles Rivieres. The pillar of light they had joked about had withdrawn itself to a blurred rectangle of dirty yellow near a high window, reminding them how the earth had sped in its ellipse towards the equinox. By which time Julie would have been blown away, gone, and everyone here scattered across the world.

  Outside, sunlight filled all London, all England, slowing people's movements and making them smile, and the company escaped at every possible moment to walk along the near canal, or sit by it eating sandwiches and drinking juices. Besides, these new rehearsals were a bit of a slog, because most of them knew the play by heart, and it was not only because of the heat that they all walked through their parts while Susan Craig and David Boles became Julie and Paul. The new Paul was nothing like as seductive a young lieutenant as Bill. He was a pleasant-looking, efficient actor, who, when he put on the uniform, would be convincing enough. Sally remarked, 'This one isn't going to keep us poor women awake at nights,' as she walked forward to speak her line as Julie's mother: 'Well, my girl, you must watch yourself if you do not mean to be a fool.'

  Had Sally been ill? She was so much thinner and could be observed smiling much more than was natural. Richard Service had been replaced by another master printer. Why had Richard left? they were asking. Sarah had got this letter from him. 'I'm sorry, you must replace me. I am sure I don't have to spell out why. If it weren't for my three boys this would be a very different letter, I assure you. Best wishes for the success of Julie in England.'

  Mature ladies are expected to put their troubles under their belts and get on with it.

  As for the new Julie, she was a lithe, tawny-skinned girl with black eyes. She had not been at the first audition, otherwise she must surely have been chosen.

  'This one's a bonus,' said Henry. 'She's a gift. And any minute now we're going to forget that Molly was pretty good.'

  Stephen did not come until the end of the first week, with ten days to go before opening, and he sat beside Sarah, who asked, 'Well?' and he replied, 'Not very.'

  The cast, knowing that here was their rich English patron, their host for the English run, put everything into the rehearsal. Susan and David, then Susan and Roy Strether (reading Andrew's lines because he hadn't yet arrived), then Susan and the new master printer, John Bridgman, a likeable middle-aged man who, when not acting, was a bomb disposal expert, all broke each other's hearts, according to script.

  Sarah sat by Stephen and wondered how he would seem to Susan. A large, serious, self-contained man, he sat calmly in his chair, wearing a greenish linen suit which said discreetly that once, probably some time ago, it had been shockingly expensive, and shoes not made for hot pavements. The trouble was, Sarah had 'internalized' him. It was hard to see him as others must. When she did, she was impressed. He was a handsome fellow, this Stephen, sitting there with his arms folded, intelligently watching those fevered scenes.

  She asked, 'And what do you think of Susan?'

  He said, grimly, but with every consciousness of the absurdity, 'I think I lost my heart to Molly.'

  She exclaimed, 'You're cured.'

  '"If you are mad, then be mad all the way…" What song is that? It keeps ringing in my head. This psychological stuff I'm reading, I'm sure it isn't their intention, but it licenses you for folly. What I believe in — well, I certainly used to — is to keep a stiff upper lip, but after reading a few pages I begin to feel I'd be lacking in respect for the medical profession if I got over it without their help. If to understand it better is getting over it… I'm told that what I am experiencing is buried griefs surfacing, but, Sarah, I don't have any shut door and behind it a bleeding doll. What I have in my house — well, in my home, then — is visible all the time. What's buried about that?' His face was a few inches from hers, but he wasn't seeing her. 'I keep looking at the words — you know, they are pretty glib with words: grief, sorrow, pain, heartache — but I know one thing: they don't know what they are talking about. Anyone can write grief, pain, sorrow, et cetera, and so on. But the real thing is another matter. I never imagined anything like this existed… do you suppose it will come to an end some time? Every morning I wake — in hell.' At these melodramatic words he looked hastily around, but no one was noticing them. 'I found myself thinking this morning, What is to stop this going on for the rest of my life? You keep assuring me it won't. But what about all the old people? There's an old man on the estate. Elizabeth visits him — she's very good about that kind of thing. I went in her place once when she was off with Norah. He is depressed, she says. What a word! They are just bloody miserable, more like it. As far as I can make out, a lot of them just die of grief.'

  The rehearsal was over. In front of them were Susan and Henry, facing each other. He was explaining something. They were alike, slim, lithe, beautiful creatures, with glossy black locks, dark expressive eyes, standing like dancers in a moment of rest. They will very likely fall in love: he's in the mood for love. (With an effort, she stopped the tune taking over her thoughts.) Just as I am. Chemical.

  Henry went off and Susan stood prettily there, hands linked in front of her, apparently oblivious to the rest of the world. Slowly she relaxed out of her dancer's pose and began to stroll away. Sarah played her part. She called to her, introduced her to Stephen. Stephen looked down at the girl from his height. Every inch of him said, On guard! She gazed devotedly up at him.

  Sally came past. So recently a large handsome black woman, she was positively thin, and her skin had lost its shine. Certainly not one of those who never notice what goes on, she took in everything about the man and the girl in one rapid glance, and her brief smile at Sarah paid homage with moderately good grace to human folly. Her face fell back into sadness, but she put on another smile, this time a patient one, because Henry had intercepted her in the act of taking sandwiches out of a bag. 'Sally, you've got to have a proper lunch. We can't have a thin Sylvie. I'm sorry, but go and eat pasta and cream pie.'

  Mary, who had been deputed to do this, led Sally away.

  'Love,' remarked Sally generally, as the two went off, 'is a many-splendoured thing.'

  Stephen went too; he did not feel like lunch.

  Sarah heard 'Sarah' breathed in her ear. Her heart at once melted, and then she and Henry were on the pavement out side. It was too hot to eat, they agreed, and strolled off down the canal path. They made jokes: it was their style. Henry was setting himself to entertain her. 'Very good at this,' he muttered, disparaging his talents, as he always had to do, and she laughed at him. They talked nonsense while the heat soaked London through and through, and people in bright clothes idled about, enjoying themselves. The hour of the lunch break disappeared. And I, too, have been in Arcadia, she said to herself, not caring how ridiculous it was. Perhaps one has to be past it to have earned the entrance ticket to Arcadia.

  Henry was off to Berlin tomorrow morning. He was to do a production there next year, and it had to be discussed. They jested that she would go with him, and then there was a moment when it was not a joke. Why not? They both wanted it. But as it became a possibility, and then a plan, constraint entered, because arrangements had to be made and other people involved. Still, they parted after the rehearsal agreeing they would meet in the hotel in Berlin if it was too late to get onto the same flight. When she rang a travel agency, her elation subsi
ded. For a woman of her age to share a room with a man of his would cause comment. Two rooms would be needed. When the agency rang back, it was to report that the two preferred hotels would not know until tomorrow if there would be rooms. They could always arrive in Berlin unbooked, take a taxi, and drive from hotel to hotel; but if they were not on the same flight, then… By now an irritable gloom had taken possession of her. All this was a million miles from Arcadia. She found it hard to ring Henry with all these problems and, when he was not in his room was both relieved and desolated. Instead of doing all the energetic things necessary to get herself to Berlin tomorrow, she decided to wait for his call from Berlin. She needed to hear his voice, his cry of 'Sarah!' — which, she knew, would make it possible for her to get to Berlin.

  No sooner had she sat down to wait than the telephone rang. It was Anne. 'Sarah, I'm terribly sorry, but you have to come over.' 'I can't come now.' 'You must, Sarah. You have to.' And she rang off before Sarah could protest further.

  It was a large family house in Holland Park. In the garden, still full of a weak sunlight, Joyce's sisters lolled almost naked in deck chairs. They looked like two pretty young greyhounds. Sarah's relations with Briony and Nell could best be described as formal: formalized around discussions about Joyce, rituals of presents, and invitations to the theatre. They had complained that their aunt believed she had only one niece. They were clever girls, who had done well, sometimes brilliantly, at school and then university. They were both in good jobs, one in a bank and the other as a chemist in a laboratory. Neither was ambitious, and they had refused chances of promotion which would have meant hard work. They were now in their mid-twenties and lived at home, saying frankly, and often, why should they leave home, where everything was done for them and where they could save money? They were both ignorant, being products of a particularly bad period in British education. Either girl was capable of saying with a giggle that she didn't know the Russians had been on our side in the last war, or that the Romans had been in Britain. Among things they had never heard of were the American Revolution, the Industrial Revolution, the French Revolution, the Mongols, the Norman Conquest of Britain, the wars with the Saracens, the First World War. This had turned into a game: if Sarah happened to mention, let's say, the Wars of the Roses, they would put on loopy smiles: 'Something else we don't know; oh dear.' They had read nothing and were curious about nothing except the markets in the cities they visited. To please Sarah, Briony had said, she had tried to read Anna Karenina, but it had made her cry. These two amiable barbarians scared Sarah, for she knew they were representative. Worse, an hour in their company had her thinking, Oh well, why should anyone know anything? Obviously they do perfectly well knowing only about clothes and having a good time. Enough money had been spent on their education to keep a village in Africa for several years.