Love, Again

him Julie Vairon, and he had turned down a film to do it. No, it was very far from his usual line, and perhaps he wasn't up to it… but there was a side benefit — could he call it a benefit, though? He was being thoroughly unsettled. He was wondering now how much he had become 'typecast' in his life as well. Hard to remember now much about what he had been like before the age of nineteen and his first film: he had positively fallen into it, only chance he had become an actor. Yes, he was a Texan, but that didn't mean he necessarily had to spend his life as a cowboy. '' 'Orses and dogs is not vittles and drink to me',' he quoted, and was pleased that though she guessed Dickens, she did not know it was David Copperfield and he had to tell her. 'Despite appearances, it ain't necessarily so.'

He was not a man one could easily imagine needing reassurance, and when he did arrive in the chair beside Sarah, she did not offer it. How differently people did sit in that chair. Bill sat back, balanced, alert, hands palm down on his thighs, chatting to her while that handsome face of his was always ready to offer to anyone looking his way the smiles he was so good at.

Henry could hardly be said ever to sit, if by that word is meant a submission to relaxation.

Sally sat with her large body filling the space allotted to it, calm as a monument.

Molly was not much there, because she was seldom offstage. If she did arrive beside Sarah for a moment, it was to express vigorous disapprobation of Julie, who needed her head examined. 'She screwed up her whole life for love' — and the violence here made Sarah follow Molly's gaze to Bill, a usually limpid, candid, and even innocent gaze, now clouded by self-doubt. Thank God, said Molly McGuire, that she was living now and not then.

As for Andrew, he sat loosely, his muscular hands relaxed on the chair's arms, exactly as that lean hard body of his was relaxed, on principle and by training. He watched her calmly, with those pale blue eyes of his that were no longer inflamed by the altitudes of north-west Argentina. He seemed to be waiting for something from her. What? He made her uncomfortable, forced her to examine her role here, in her chair, always ready to provision anyone who needed it with praise and reassurance. Was she being insincere? She believed not. She did think the company very good, and Henry admirable. Her own work was not bad at all. But sometimes Andrew reminded her of Stephen, who had the same way of sitting in judgement. It was a masculine judgement: they were both men who would never dispense themselves in charm or an appeal to be liked. She was also remembering that both of these, by chance, had been at a ten-years-ago festival in the south of France, and both had 'fallen for' Julie's music.

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.

As my lover you must leave me,
All the world applauds your choice.

But you're my friend and you should stay.
A friend does not his friend betray.

Giving pain is for the lover,
A friend does not a friend betray.

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 Remy 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.'

Remy 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 Remy'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.