Love, Again

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

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 The pillar of light they had joked about had withdrawn itself to a blurred rectangle of dirty yellow near a high window, reminding them how the earth had sped in its ellipse towards the equinox.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 Richard Service had been replaced by another master printer.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 subsided. 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