They began by talking practicalities. There was the difficulty that began Julie Vairon's career. The play was to have gone on in London at The Green Bird, one of three planned for the summer season. By chance, Jean-Pierre le Brun, an official from Belles Rivieres, heard from the Rostand family, which had been very co-operative, that a play was imminent, and he flew to London to protest. How was it that Belles Rivieres had not been consulted? The truth was, the Founding Four had not thought of it, but that was because they had not seen the piece as ambitious enough to involve the French. Besides, Belles Rivieres did not have a theatre. And, as well, Julie Vairon was in English. Jean-Pierre had accepted that the English had been quicker to see the possibilities of Julie, and no one wanted to deny them that honour. There was no question of taking Julie Vairon away from The Green Bird. That was hardly possible, at this stage. But he was genuinely and bitterly hurt that Belles Rivieres had been excluded. What was to be done? Very well, the English version could be used for a run in France. Yes, unfortunately it had to be admitted that if tourists were attracted, then they would be more likely to speak English than French. And besides, so many of the English themselves were settled in the area… he shrugged, leaving them to decide what he thought of this state of affairs.
So it was decided. And what about the money? For The Green Bird could not finance the French run. No problem, cried Jean-Pierre; the town would provide the site, using Julie's own little house in the woods — or what was left of it. But Belles Rivieres did not have the resources to pay for the whole company for a run of two weeks. It was at this point that an American patron came in, to add his support. How had he heard of this, after all, pretty dicey proposition? Someone in the Arts Council had recommended it and this was because of Stephen's reputation.
At this point, mutual support and helpfulness was being expressed mostly in photographs back and forth, London to Belles Rivieres, London to California, Belles Rivieres to California. It turned out that there was already a Musée Julie Vairon in Belles Rivieres. Her house was visited by pilgrims.
Stephen was disturbed. 'I wonder what she'd think of so many people in her forest. Her house.'
'Didn't we tell you we were going to use her house for the French run? Didn't you see the promotional material?'
'I suppose I hadn't really taken it in.' He seemed to be debating whether to trust her. 'I even felt bad about writing that play — invading her privacy, you know.' Then, as she found herself unable to reply to this, for it was a new note, and unexpected, he added abruptly, thrusting out his chin small-boy style, 'You have understood, I am sure, that I am hopelessly in love with Julie?' Then gave a helpless, painful grimace, flung himself back in his chair, pushed away his plate, and looked at her, awaiting a verdict.
She attempted a quizzical look, but his gesture was impatient. 'Yes, I am besotted with her. I have been since I first heard her music at that festival. In Belles Rivieres, you know. She's the woman for me. I knew that at once.'
He was trying to sound whimsical but was failing.
'I see,' she said.
'I hope you do. Because that's the whole point.'
'You aren't expecting me to say anything boring, like, She's been dead for over eighty years?'
'You can say it if you like.'
The silence that followed had to accommodate a good deal. It was not that his passion was 'crazy' — that portmanteau word, but that he was sitting there four-square and formidable, determined that she should not find it so. He waited, apparently at his ease because he had made his ultimatum, and he even glanced about at this familiar scene of other eaters, waiters, and so on, but she knew that here, at this very point, was what he was demanding in return for his very sizeable investment. She had to accept him, his need.
After a time she heard herself remark, 'You don't like her journals very much, do you?'
At this he let out a breath. It would have been a sigh if he had not been measuring it, checking it, even, for too much self-revelation. He shifted his legs abruptly. He looked away, as if he might very well get up and escape and then made himself face her again. She liked him very much then. She liked him more and more. It was because she felt at ease with him, absolutely able to say anything.
'You've put your finger on… no, I don't. No, when I read her journals I feel — shut out. She slams a door in my face. It's not what I… '
'What you are in love with?'
'I don't think I'd like that cold intelligence of hers directed at me.'
'But when one is in love one's intelligence does go on, doesn't it? Commenting on — '
'On what? he cut in. 'No, if she'd been happy she'd never have written all that. All that was just… self-defence.'
At this she had to laugh, because of the enormity of his dismissal of- as far as she was concerned — the most interesting aspect of Julie.
'Oh all right, laugh,' he said grumpily, but with a smile. She could see he did not mind her laughing. Perhaps he even liked it. There was something about him of a spreading, a relaxation, as if he had held a breath for too long and was at last able to let it go. 'But you don't understand, Sarah — I may call you Sarah? Those journals are such an accusation.'
'But not of you.'
'I wonder. Yes, I do, often. What would I have done? Perhaps she would have written of me as she did about Rémy. / represented to him everything he had ever dreamed about when he hoped to be larger than his family, but in the end he was not more than the sum of his family.'
'And is that what she represents to you? An escape from your background?'
'Oh no,' he said at once. 'To me she represents — well, everything.'
She could feel her whole self rejecting this mad exaggeration. Her body, even her face, was composing itself into critical lines, without any directing intention from her intelligence. She lowered her eyes. But he was watching her — yes, she already knew that close, intelligent look — and he knew what she was feeling, for he said, 'Please don't tell me you don't know what I mean.'
'Perhaps,' she said cautiously, 'I have decided to forget it.'
'Why?' he enquired, not intending flattery. 'You are a good-looking woman.'
'I am a good-looking woman still,' said she. 'I am still a good-looking woman. Quite so. That's it. I haven't been in love for twenty years. Recently I've been thinking about that — twenty years.' As she spoke she was amazed that she was saying to this stranger (but she knew he was not that) things she had never said to dear and good friends, her family — that is what they were — at the theatre. She put on the humour and maternal style that seemed more and more her style: 'And what was it all about, I wonder now, all that… absurdity?'
'Absurdity?' And he let out that grunt of laughter that means isolation in the face of wilful misunderstanding.