'No.'
'But imagine it. A beautiful young thing, all maidenly hesitation, the bashfulness of true love, appears in your bed, ready to flee away at a cross word, but the next thing, she is enquiring efficiently about condoms and one's attitudes towards oral sex. I did allow myself to say, But, Susan, you really don't have to worry about me, and she said, What makes you think you don't have to worry about me? I've been working in and around New York theatres for five years… it does take the romance out of the thing.' She was laughing. He was observing this, she could see, with relief. 'Do you realize how lucky we were, Sarah — us lot?'
'How kind of you to include me in your lot.'
'Pre-AIDS. Post-AIDS. That's the point. We were liberated from the old moralities. Guilt was never more than a mild flick of the whip.'
'We were still romantic. We talked about being in love, not having sex.'
'We didn't worry all that much about pregnancy… and I never knew anyone with VD. Did you?'
'No, I don't think so. I don't remember anyone saying, I think I've got syph.'
'There you are. Paradise. We lived in paradise and didn't know it. But these young things, they have more in common with our grandparents and great-grandparents than with us. Ridden with fear, poor things. Well, for my part, I wonder if it's worth it.'
'You're telling me that when Susan arrives in your bed tonight you're going to say, I don't think it's worth it, run along back to your bed little Susan, there's a good girl?'
'Well — no. But, Sarah, I know absolutely what she meant by There's no conviction in it.'
'But, Stephen, you won't be feeling like this for long. Just as I quite soon will return to being a severe elderly woman, and I'll say about other people's follies, Really, how tiresome.'
'So you keep saying.'
'Yes, I do. I have to.'
'Anyway, I was never much good at pain. I simply cannot put up with it.' As if he were talking about a fractured knee or a headache, and not a brutal fist slamming again and again into one's heart.
'There's only one thing we can all rely on. Thank God. What we feel one year won't be what we feel the next.'
They sat on in silence, knowing their thoughts ran on parallel lines.
At midday they walked to the house, passing a shady glade full of children, fifteen or so, Stephen's among them. Recent fiction has taught that a tribe of children may only be seen as potential savages capable of any barbarism, but it was hard to associate these with anything much more than the friendly waves and smiles they were offering the adults. Stephen sent his offspring and their friends a lofty wave of the arm, as to a distant shore. James's face, as he followed the two with his eyes, was thoughtful, brave, and stubborn too. So he had looked at his mother and, today, at the ash tree. The two were thinking, as adults do, with discomfort, it was just as well that between the mental landscapes those youngsters knew and their own lay such gulfs of experience that the children could have no notion of all the effort that would be demanded of them. Out of sight of the children, out of sight of the house, Stephen unexpectedly stopped and put brotherly arms around her. 'Sarah, I don't think you begin to know what you've meant to me… ' He let her go, without looking at her, as if any emotions he might find on her face were bound to be too much.
In the room where a buffet meal waited for them, Henry was already seated, with Susan. Henry at once got up and leaned over Sarah to demand in a rough voice that this time did not mock itself, 'Sarah, where have you been?'
Sarah was watching how Susan smiled at Stephen, whose returning smile held ingredients that she must find contradictory. For one thing, it was clear that Stephen was more 'in love' — but why the quotes? — than he let on. His whole body was flattered, was pleased, and seemed to be sending messages, of its own accord, to Susan's. But his face was full of ironies and was saying, Don't come too close. What he said aloud was, 'Slept well?' She giggled delightfully, blushed, but looked confused.
'Sarah,' Henry was saying, in the same voice, 'what are you going to do this afternoon?'
'I'm going into the town to the hairdresser.' She smiled, she hoped, nonchalantly at this man whom she loved — oh yes, she did, for the invisible weavers were doing their work well — and her heart was babbling, 'I love you,' as she offered him a plate of healthy country bread.
'The hairdresser!'
'And what are you going to do?' she enquired, though she had been determined not to ask.
'I'm doing a couple of hours with the musicians. They were a bit ragged last night. I'll be there from three till five.' He made it a question.
'If I've finished, I'll come.' She was thinking that nothing would induce her to be there and, with equal force, that nothing could keep her away.
Later, having done with the hairdresser, she took a taxi back and went straight to the theatre area. Henry was leaning moodily against the edge of the musicians' platform. He had his hands pushed deep into his pockets, and he seemed tired and discouraged. He was pale. He was ill. The musicians were coming from the shrubs that screened the new building. Henry had seen her, for now he remarked, 'Be still my heart' — not to her, but to the trees and the sky. He at once parodied himself, going into a pose like Romeo's under Juliet's balcony, on one knee with arms outstretched. On his feet again, he was unable to prevent himself sending her a long and wretched look, but parodied that too, by intensifying it to the point of ludicrousness. She had to laugh, even while dissolving into sweet nostalgia for long-lost shores.
When the music rehearsal was done, he came to her and had just said, 'Let's go and walk,' when she saw Benjamin coming purposefully towards them.
'Here's your admirer,' said Henry, surprising her, for she did not know he had noticed Benjamin's attentions, and plunging her into loss as he ran off, swiping at a shrub as he went, and jumping over another.
Sarah could not help being thrilled by Henry's jealousy, though he was off the mark. You may fall into liking, as you do into love, though it is a less common surrender. It is easy to confuse one with the other. Benjamin had fallen into liking with her, on first sight, just as she and Stephen had done with each other at that first meeting in the restaurant. Could she say she had equally fallen into liking with him? No; she had only to make the comparison. Which is not to say she did not like him well enough.
He advanced towards her, seeming out of place in his formally elegant white. His face had warmed as he looked at her, but almost at once his eyes had moved on behind her to the great trees enclosing the circle of emerald lawn, where the musicians in their pale floaty dresses were drifting towards shrubs that hid the rehearsal rooms. Now his face was that of a young boy listening to a magic tale. Benjamin had fallen in love with the theatre, with the arts. Having determined to take advantage of casual theatre manners and mores, he kissed her heartily on both cheeks, and seemed pleased with himself for achieving this freedom. As for her she was envying him his state of pleasurable intoxication. Yet such were the influences of recent experience, she was examining the handsome face for signs of grief or even of anxiety. There were none. Was she sure about that? No. Should she not at least be wondering why this man ensconced in his so satisfactory and — surely? — satisfying life had succumbed to the theatre and its intoxications? (O, for the life of a Gypsy, O!) What lacks might there be in that life of his? She did not know. How little we do know about what goes on inside our nearest friends, let alone agreeable acquaintances — she was damned if she was going to give the name friend to Benjamin and call Stephen a friend. Roy Strether, her good friend, a friend of fifteen years, was going through hell, and she knew it and he knew that she knew it, but apart from Mary, who else in the company had any idea of what went on inside that so friendly and competent fellow? Who of the people in this house had any idea about Stephen? Certainly not his wife. Sally would probably say later of this time that it had been one of the worst in her life. She had hinted something of the kind, half laughing, to Sarah. But of the people who had worked with her every day for weeks, who gave Sally's loss much thought? Mary looked terrible: much more than was due to worry over her mother.