Un soupçon d'amour

For Christiane Vecchiali, known as Sonia Saviange.

A HINT OF LOVE

Dedicated to Douglas Sirk

ANDROMACHE by Racine - Rehearsals

Do you seek me, Madame?

Is so sweet a hope permitted me?

I go where my captive son

waits for me.

Since, once a day, you let me see

All I have left of Hector and of Troy

I go, Sire, to weep awhile with him.

I have not yet been today to visit him.

Ah! Madame, if all proves as it appears

The Greeks will give you fresh cause for tears.

By what fear are their hearts gripped, Sire?

Has some Trojan escaped their funeral pyre?

Their hatred for Hector is not yet dead: they fear his son.

That's perfect, Genevieve.

You overdid it on "Has some Trojan escaped"

but I really enjoy that slight...

...disdain, let's call it that way,

and nuanced with humour.

Let's resume a bit further:

"Sire, what now?"

Sire, what now?

What will Greece make of this?

Shall so great a heart show fatal weakness?

Do you wish words, so fine and generous,

To seem the whim of one grown amorous?

Sad captive,

irksome to myself I prove,

Do you now wish Andromache to love?

No.

No, respect your enemy's pain rather,

Ease my troubles: give my son his mother...

Listen, Genevieve, don't take it badly, but I feel

like you're indifferent

to this woman's fate.

Your holding a form of distance.

I didn't expect such aloofness from you.

Besides, you skipped two verses. But let's go on, please.

What charms for you can doomed eyes show,

That you've condemned to endless tears below?

No, no, respect your enemy's pain rather,

Ease my troubles: give my son his... I can't.

What's wrong with her?

Don't try to understand.

- I've never seen her like that... - Never mind.

She had such ease!

She didn't look this fragile.

It varies.

She is an actress.

- What's she doing there, praying? - No.

She's restoring herself.

Ease my troubles:

give my son his mother,

Fight the wars, a hundred tribes may start,

Without my paying for it with my heart,

Despite me, thus grant refuge to misfortune:

That would be worthy of Achilles' son.

I got this recipe from your mum.

Each time I make, it I think of her.

And when you don't?

Huh?

And when you don't?

Never. Memory is ungrateful.

You know, André...

I'm going to give up Andromache.

She's too dumb.

Or you're too far from the character.

Or too close, at times.

Come and have a seat.

- I don't get why you refuse to... - Get help?

A third person here is out of the question.

Women are too nosy. And a man won't do.

Besides, I like taking care of you.

And of Jerome.

And of Jerome.

I was thinking about Isabelle.

It's funny meeting her again after all these years.

- Was it Pierre's idea or yours? - Pierre's, of course.

I believe you knew her.

I did. I hadn't seen her in a long while.

We did one play together, I can't remember which one.

The Taming of the Shrew.

Nice memory!

You're right.

- And? - Eat. It'll get cold.

And I believe she'd make a decent Andromache.

- Decent is a nasty word. - I meant perfect.

Don't forget that it was your name

that enabled Pierre to produce the play.

It wouldn't have worked with Isabelle.

Okay, then. I'll play the part for a week or two,

then I pretend I'm sick and she gets the part. All right?

I have trouble understanding you. You've always liked...

Yeah, well maybe I played her too much.

You know what? I find that play pompous.

That child everyone talks about and no one ever sees...

- Classical theatre never has children. - Well, excuse me!

You forget Racine's Ataliah, Eliacin.

Joad, that is true.

Joad... Joas is the high priest.

You mean Joas?

I'm losing my mind.

So... Tell me what you'll do if you give up on the play.

I don't know, maybe cinema.

I got a few offers, all of them lame, but others could come up. Or else...

I could do song recitals.

To you, my life I am your wife

Or I have this idea that springs up at times:

starting a children's choir.

Jerome has a wonderful voice.

I don't know if...

See? You don't know!

Do you want some pudding? Yoghurt?

You.

First, you do the dishes.

Jerome will fall asleep soon. I'm sure he's reading, waiting for me.

He's read in bed?

Don't vampirise him, he's so young.

Vaporise? You're so funny.

- Vam-pi-rise. - That's even worse.

You're losing it.

I love you.

Don't ever forget that.

Never.

I could never forget what you mean to me

and what I mean to you.

But please... Don't sleep at Jerome's side.

I'll be waiting for you.

Well then, naughty... I saw you coming.

You look awful sad, sweetheart.

It's because of this book.

I almost cried earlier.

I longed for you. I like it when you're around.

- You keep the ghosts away. - Ghosts? There's no such thing.

Where are they?

In The King of the Golden Mountain.

Listen:

"This night twelve black men will come, dressed in chain armour.

They will ask what you do here, but give no answer.

Let them do what they will: beat, whip, pinch, prick, or torment you.

Bear all; speak not a word, and at twelve o'clock they must go away.

The second night 12 others will come, and the third night 24

who will even cutoff your head."

Stop it! It's horrible.

We'll throw this book away.

No more of that nonsense!

I'll get you

some real books, pretty novels, full of adventure.

- Which ones, Mum? - I don't know...

Oh yes, The Count of Monte Cristo.

It's lovely: justice prevails.

What's justice?

An Utopia.

What's an Utopia?

A marvelous, ideal place,

but hard to get to.

Then it's useless.

No it's not: it's used to dream.

Already?

Yes. Do as I do: sleep and dream, even of impossible things.

Utopia must be a beautiful land.

Mum?

She's gone.

What's wrong, Mum?

You go alone, now.

You're not coming to school again?

I don't want them to call you daddy's, or mummy's boy.

- I don't care. - I do.

If I hugged you in front of them, they'd mock you, call you girly.

I'd beat them up.

I forbid you.

Imagine the fuss with the principal and all.

Trust me.

I always trust you, you know that.

I saw my father die,

my city too,

Witnessed the death

of my whole family,

My husband dragged through the dust, all bloody,

His son, remaining, destined for the knife.

But what can a son not do? I breathe, have life.

More: to it I was sometimes reconciled,

Since here, not elsewhere, I was exiled;

That this son of kings,

happy in servitude,

Since he must serve, was subject now to you.

I thought his prison was our sanctuary.

Once Priam found mercy before Achilles.

I sought, from his son, magnanimity.

Pardon, dear Hector,

for my credulity.

- Isn't she good? - Maybe with time.

Please take up the part.

No, I'm done with tragedy.

- Let's do Keep an Eye on Amelia. - Are you kidding?

Genevieve, I can hear you!

It bothers me.