510
DORIS LESSING
third person present - a ghost. The ghost, of course, of the stage
woman. And every one had experienced that moment when, betrayed,
wounded, knifed to the heart by reality, their J ohn had shouted–
and with such conviction of betrayal that there was nothing at all to
be said: "Why don't you behave like . . . . . ? You aren't like her at
all
!" -
using the name for whichever incarnation of his she that
she
had in fact played. And this was the moment when, giving her a look
of disgusted dismissal, he had gone off into his study to begin the
new play which would incorporate, in minor or major part, the new
version of this woman who must continually be recreated in art since
she did not exist in life. Which play, when it was put on, would
infallibly lead to her - the present wife's - divorce. Because, al–
though she did not know, was perhaps still a half-tried girl waiting
for her big chance, the new wife was already blue-printed, summoned.
And from that moment about a week after the rehearsals started,
when she approached the great man shyly, her beautiful eyes shining
with the effort it was costing her, she said: "I must say this, I really
must, forgive me, but thank you for letting me play this beautiful
part in your beautiful play" - nothing was more certain than that
he would marry her, and then divorce her the moment he finally
understood that she was after all, only Mary, who might sulk, com–
plain, or cry just like any woman.
Or take the case of Mary X - this time a female writer. It was
when she was well on her career that her husband pointed out, and
with rancour, that in almost everything she wrote occurred the same
figure, male, though that was
not
the point, because he was for all
practical purposes sexless, being a slight wry clown or harlequin
figure, on whose face was printed the same grimace whatever he was
actually doing, whether playing the flute , dancing, or being - ap–
parently - a normal person, a smile that could not be distinguished
from the contractions of the muscles which indicate pain or sorrow.
Once having understood the truth of her husband's accusation, she
searched through every word she had ever written. Sure enough, there
he was, right from the beginning, even in those apprentice pieces
written decades before and now filed away. The point was, who was
he? Where did he come from? Her father? No. Her hrothers? No.
Her husband? Certainly not, nothing of the Petrouchka about him,
and besides, the demon lover (her husband's name for hi m) had
