Doris Lessing - Love, Again

But the music was not here, and its lack was being felt more every hour. Sarah observed how Andrew, in the middle of a scene with Molly, suddenly broke off, asking Henry if he could do the scene again, then doing it again, and finally coming to a stop with a shrug and a shake of the head. Henry and Andrew went to one side to confer. While they talked, the scene was arrested, like a film still, emphasizing the animation of these two men. Henry came to Sarah and explained that Andrew could not get the 'feel' of the piece, could not find his pace. And he was not the only one who complained. 'But no one's going to get it until we have the music.' 'I know, but never mind, just do it, Sarah. Come out and demonstrate.'

Sarah complied. After all, she had been rehearsing plays and 'entertainments' for years. As she walked forward to take her place, she caught herself thinking she was pleased she had taken trouble with her appearance that morning. She was wearing a dark blue working outfit, but in a silky- looking material, and had for some reason put on big silver earrings and elegant shoes.

In this scene, words and phrases spoken by the two lovers were taken up by the musicians and sung, almost like a part- song, words said and words sung in counterpoint.

The words had come from Julie's journals. This man loves me and so it is in order for him to stab me to the heart, and if he actually did stab or shoot me, French law could easily acquit him; it would be a crime passionnel. But he is my friend. My only friend. I have no other friend. Friends are not applauded when they betray each other.

The song would be sung by the three girls, with the counter-tenor holding the words lover and friend in long notes not unlike the groaning shawm, underlining the young high fresh voices in their conventional reproach.

What Julie was saying to Rémy was, 'You love me, you are my lover, but not a soul in the world will condemn you for obeying your father and abandoning me. But if I were your friend and you betrayed me, you would be condemned by everyone.'

Rémy was saying, 'But I am your friend. You'll see that I am your friend. I'll prove it. You think that I am abandoning you, but I never will.'

Julie says, 'Ah, but you're my lover, and that cancels the friend.'

Sarah's voice was a small one, but it was sweet and true. Long ago when she was a student in Montpellier, there had been talk of training it, but instead she studied music for a year. She was confident she would not disgrace herself When she began, 'As my lover you must leave me… ' she felt as if she had stepped out from a shadow into the light, and from her passive role, sitting there, always observing, into performer. Hardly new for her, taking command, showing how parts should be played or songs sung, but she had not done anything of the kind here, with this company. She was conscious of the silence in the hall, and how they all watched her and were surprised at this revelation, Sarah so assured and so accomplished. She felt herself full of strength and of pleasure. Oh yes, she did like it, she was liking it too much, being admired by this particular assembly of people.

When she had finished there was light applause, and Bill called out 'Bravo' and stood up to clap, so that he would be noticed. She made a mock curtsey to him, and a general one to everybody. Then she called them to order by lightly clapping her hands.

Henry came forward, because he had understood there was a need.

Now, when she sang the verses again, Henry supplied the counter-tenor's friend and lover. He could not resist slightly exaggerating, so that his voice was a low yell, like an unknown instrument from an exotic shore, and it was very funny. They had to laugh. The four, Sarah, Henry, Andrew, and Molly laughed staggering into each other's arms, where they embraced. They sobered as Henry clapped his hands.

This time it 'worked'. The counterpoint of friend and lover was not funny but added a depth and darkness to the verses.

And now Molly began her speech. 'You love me, you're my lover, but not a soul in the world… ' and Henry came in with lover. Sarah followed, singing, 'As my lover you must leave me,' and when Molly reached, 'But if I were your friend… ' Henry sang, or perhaps groaned, friend, and Sarah sang the last couplet against Molly's, 'Giving pain is for the lover… ' and repeated it while Andrew began, 'But I am your friend… ' and so on.

Timing. It all fitted. Now Andrew was convinced, but what they all saw coming out in him was a stubbornness they had not seen before, a quite deadly persistence. He needed not only to be convinced but to be sure it could be done again. And again. The four of them took the scene through several times, until Andrew said, 'Right. And thanks. I'm sorry, but I had to have that.'

And Henry said, 'Right. Break for lunch.'

On the Friday of Rémy's week, Stephen came to sit in his chair by Sarah, to watch a run-through of Act Two. Molly had put on a long skirt to help her, and she seemed as if by magic to have become thinner, lithe, wild, vulnerable. It broke the heart to watch her, the brave one, battling with such a destiny. The young aristocrat, son of the Rostand chateau, was touching in his love for the girl he would never be allowed to marry.

Meanwhile there was still no music, and Molly was speaking the words of her song, which would be sung later by the counter-tenor.

Stephen said, 'I don't remember that. I suppose you made it up?'

'I thought it was in the style of a troubadour song.' She put in front of him what Julie had actually written, in her translation.

It's all very well! Love, love, love, we say, weeping for joy all night. Next summer we'll be singing a different tune. I saw how your father looked at me today. Time's up, that look said.

'Fair enough,' he said. He was sitting with his head bowed, not looking at the players. Far from laughing, or even smiling — for she did believe the transmutation of one mode into another merited at least a mild smile — he seemed like a miserable old man. Yet once (once! it was a few weeks ago) the humour they shared had been the best part of their friendship. She was telling herself that she must accept it — must — that a phase of their friendship was over. This was not the man with whom she had those weeks of companionship. And as she thought this, the leaden glove she associated with Joyce threatened to enclose her heart, and she snapped at herself, No, stop it, stop it at once. And she went off and away from the chair by Stephen, to stand with her back to the players, pretending to examine some props, as it happened, brilliant flowers and fruit from Martinique, there to give the 'feel' of the place. She was muttering, ' "No, I'll not, carrion comfort Despair, not feast on thee; not untwist, slack they may be… "' And was furious with herself. Melodramatic bloody rubbish! she shouted silently to that part of her memory that had so patly come up with these words, feeding them to her tongue, while her mind refused them. Feeling someone behind her, she composed her face to turn, smiling, at Henry, but she had not composed it sufficiently, for he was thrown back at the sight of her. 'What's wrong, Sarah, don't you like it?' he half stammered, and she had to remind herself that the most confident of directors needed reassurance, and this was a far from confident one. Over his shoulder she saw Sonia (her successor at The Green Bird — she could not remember seeing this so clearly before) go up to Bill with some letter, or telegram that had come for him. He took it, making a joke, and they stood laughing, the attractive redhead, the handsome boy — no, no, not a boy, he was a man… She said to Henry, 'Yes, I do like it, very much,' and saw how his body relaxed out of the tension of anxiety. The traitor memory was offering to her tongue, as she watched Sonia and Bill stroll down the hall, in perfect step, '"… keep back beauty, beauty, beauty, from vanishing away… O no, there's none, there's none, O no, there's none… "' and she put her hand in Henry's elbow and turned him about with a laugh, out of his posture as a suppliant, for she did not want to feel maternal, and together they stood to watch as Rémy and Julie held each other in an embrace that had in it all the sorrows and disciplines of valediction.