Light Thickens (7 page)

And now we hear the thud of horses’ hooves. Louder and louder. They stop. A pause. Then the horses go away. Enter Banquo with a lanthorn. I do want a profoundly deep voice for this speech. I’m sorry,” he said to the First Murderer. “I’m going to give it to Gaston. It’s a matter of voice, dear boy, not of talent. Believe me, it’s a matter of voice.”

“Yes. All right,” said the stricken Murderer.

They read the scene.

“That’s exactly what I want. You will see that Seyton is present in both these scenes and indeed is never far from Macbeth’s business from this time on. We are very lucky to have Mr. Sears to take the part. He is the sword-bearer. He looms over the play and so does his tremendous weapon.”

“It is,” Gaston boomingly explained, “the symbol of coming death. Its shadow grows more menacing as the play draws inexorably towards its close. I am reminded —”

“Exactly,” Peregrine interrupted. “The play grows darker. Always darker. The relief is in the English scene. And now…” He hurried on, while Gaston also continued in his pronouncements of doom. For a short time they spoke together and then Gaston, having attained his indistinguishable climax, stopped as suddenly as a turned-off tap, said, “Good morning,” and left the theatre.

Peregrine opened his arms and let them flop. “One puts up with the unbelievable,” he said. “He’s an actor. He’s a paid-up member of Equity. He spoke that little speech in a way that sent quivers up and down my spine and he’s got Sir Dougal Macdougal and Simon Morten banging away at each other with a zeal that makes you sweat. I suppose I’m meant to put up with other bits of eccentricity as they recur.”

“Is he certifiable?” asked Maggie.

“Probably.”

“I wouldn’t put up with it,” said Bruce Barrabell. “Get him back.”

“What do I say when he comes? He’s perfect for the part. Perfect.”

Nina said: “Just a quiet word in private? Ask him not to?”

“Not to what?”

“Go on talking while you are talking?” she said doubtfully.

“He hasn’t done it since the first day until now. I’ll leave it for this time.”

“Of course, if one’s afraid of him —” sneered Barrabell and was heard.

“I
am
afraid. I’m afraid he’ll walk out and I don’t mind admitting it. He’s irreplaceable,” said Peregrine.

“I agree with you, dear boy,” said Sir Dougal.

“So do I,” said Maggie. “He’s too valuable.”

“So be it,” said Peregrine. “Now, William, let’s see how you shape up. Come on, Nina. And Lennox. And the murderers.”

They shaped up well. William was quick and unobjectionable. The boy was cheeky and he showed spirit and breeding. His mama returned, a quietly dressed woman from whom he had inherited his vowels. They completed the financial arrangements and left. Nina, delighted with him, also left. Peregrine said to Dougal and Maggie: “And now, my dears, the rest of the day is ours. Let’s consolidate.”

They did. They, too, went well. Very well. And yet there was something about the rehearsal that made Peregrine almost wish for ructions. For an argument. He had insisted upon the Lady using the sexual attributes she had savagely wrenched away from herself. Maggie agreed. Dougal responded. He actually shivered under her touch. When they broke for discussion, she did so absolutely and was at once the professional actress tackling a professional detail. He was slower, almost resentful. Only for a second or two and then all attention. Too much so. As if he was playing to an audience; in a way, as if he showed himself off to Maggie — “I’m putting on an act for you.”

Peregrine told himself he was being fanciful. It’s this play, he thought. It’s a volcano. Overflowing. Thickening. And then: Perhaps that’s why all these damn superstitions have grown up round it.

“Any questions?” he asked them.

“It’s about her feeling for Macbeth,” said Maggie. “I take it that from the beginning she has none. She simply uses her body as an incentive.”

“Absolutely. She turns him on like a tap and turns him off when she gets her response. From the beginning she sees his weakness. He wants to keep his cake and eat it.”

“Yes. She, on the other hand, dedicates herself to evil. She’s not an insensitive creature but she shuts herself off completely from any thought of remorse. Before the murder she takes enough wine to see her through and notes, with satisfaction, that it has made her bold,” said Maggie.

“She asks too much of herself. And pays the penalty. After the disastrous dinner party, she almost gives up,” Peregrine said. “Macbeth speaks disjointedly of more crimes. She hardly listens. Always the realist, she says they want sleep! When next we see her she is asleep and saying those things that she would not say if she were awake. She’s driven herself too hard. Now, the horror finds its way out in her sleep.”

“And what about her old man all this time?” asked Dougal loudly. “Is she thinking about him, for God’s sake?”

“We’re not told but — no. I imagine she still goes on for a time, stopping up the awful holes he makes in the facade but with no pretense of affection or even much interest. He’s behaving as she feared he might. She has no sympathy or fondness for him. When next we see him, Dougal, he’s half-mad.”

“Thank you very much!”

“Well, distracted. But what words! They pour out of him. Despair itself.
To the last syllable of recorded time
. You know,” Peregrine said, “it always amazes me that the play never becomes a bore. The leading man is a hopeless character in terms of heroic images. It’s the soliloquies that work the magic, Dougal.”

“I suppose so.”

“You know so,” said Maggie, cheerfully. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Doesn’t he, Perry?”

“Of course he does,” Peregrine said heartily.

They were standing onstage. There were no lights on in the auditorium, but a voice out there said: “Oh, don’t make any mistake about it, Maggie, he knows what he’s doing.” And laughed.

It was Morten, the Macduff.

“Simon!” Maggie said. “What are you doing down there? Have you been watching?”

“I’ve only just come in. Sorry I interrupted, Perry. I wanted to see the office about something.”

The door at the back of the stalls let in an oblong of daylight and shut it out again.

“What’s the matter with
him
?” Dougal asked at large.

“Lord knows,” said Peregrine. “Pay no attention.”

“It’s nothing,” Maggie said. “He’s being silly.”

“It’s not exactly silly, seeing that baleful face scowling at one and him whirling his claymore within inches of one’s own face,” Dougal pointed out. “And, if I catch your meaning, Maggie love, all for nothing. I’m as blameless as the Bloody Child. Though not, I may add, from choice.”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“Choose your words, darling. You may inflame him.”

“Maggie dear,” Peregrine begged her, “calm him down if you can. We’re doing the English scene this week and I
would
like him to be normal.”

“I’ll do my best. He’s so
silly
,” Maggie crossly reiterated. “And I’m so busy.”

Her opportunity occurred the next afternoon. She had stayed in the theatre after working at the sleepwalking scene, while Peregrine worked with Simon on the English scene.

When they had finished and Morten was about to leave, she crossed her fingers and stopped him.

“Simon, that’s a
wonderful
beginning. Come home with me, will you, and talk about it? We’ll have a drink and a modest dinner. Don’t say no. Please.”

He was taken aback. He looked hard at her, muttered sulkily, and then said, “Thank you, I’d like that.”

“Good. Put on your overcoat. It’s cold outside. Have you got your part? Come on, then. Good-night, Perry dear.”

“Good-night, lovely lady.”

They went out by the stage door. When he heard it bang, Peregrine crossed himself and said, “God bless her.” He turned off the working lights, locked the doors, and used his torch to find his way out by the front-of-house.

They took a taxi to Maggie’s flat. She rang the bell and an elderly woman opened the door. “Nanny,” said Maggie, “can you give the two of us dinner? No hurry. Two hours.”

“Soup. Grilled chops.”

“Splendid.”

“Good evening, Mr. Morten.”

“Good evening, Nanny.”

They came in, to a bright fire and comfortable chairs. Maggie took his coat and hat and hung them in the hall. She gave him a pretty robust drink and sat him down. “I’m breaking my own rule,” she said, pouring a small one for herself. “During rehearsal period, no alcohol, no parties, and no nice gentlemen’s nonsense. But you’ve seen that for yourself, of course.”

“Have I?”

“Of course. Even supposing Dougal was a world-beater sex-wise, which I ain’t supposing, it’d be a disaster to fall for him when we’re playing The Tartans. Some people could do it. Most, I daresay, but not this lady. Luckily, I’m not tempted.”

“Maggie?”

“No.”

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

“
He
doesn’t share your views?”

“I don’t know how he feels about it. Nothing serious,” said Maggie, lightly. She added, “My dear Si, you can see what he’s like. Easy come, easy go.”

“Have you —” He took a pull at his drink. “Have you discussed it?”

“Certainly not. It hasn’t been necessary.”

“You had dinner with him. The night there was a rehearsal.”

“I can have dinner with someone without falling like an overripe apple for him.”

“What about
him
, though?”

“Simon! You’re being childish. He did not make a pass at me and if he had I’d have been perfectly well able to cope. I told you. During rehearsals I don’t have affairs. You’re pathologically jealous about nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Maggie, I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry. Truly. Forgive me, Maggie darling.”

“All right. But no bedroom scenes. I told you, I’m as pure as untrodden snow while I’m rehearsing. Honestly.”

“I believe you. Of course.”

“Well, then, do stop prowling and prowling around like the hosts of whoever-they-were in the hymn book. ‘Lor’,’ as Mrs. Boffin said, ‘let’s be comfortable.’ ”

“All right,” he said and a beguiling grin transformed his face. “Let’s.”

“And clean as a whistle?”

“So be it.”

“Give yourself another drink and tell me what you think about the young Malcolm.”

“The young Malcolm? It’s a difficult one, isn’t it? I think he’ll get there but it’ll take a lot of work.”

And they discussed the English scene happily and excitedly until dinner was ready.

Maggie produced a bottle of wine, the soup was real, and the chops were excellent.

“How nice this is,” said Maggie when they had finished.

“It’s perfect.”

“So what a Silly Simon you were to cut off your nose to spite your face, weren’t you? We’ll sit by the fire for half an hour and then you must go.”

“If you say so.”

“I do, most emphatically. I’m going to work on the sleepwalking scene. I want to get a sleepwalking voice. Dead. No inflections. Metallic. Will it work?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him and thought how pleasant and romantic he seemed with his rich black curls and fair skin and what a pity it was that he was so stupidly jealous. It showed in his mouth. Nothing could cure it.

When he got up to go she said, “Good-night, my dear. You won’t take it out on Dougal, will you? It would be so silly. There’s nothing to take.”

“If you say so.”

He held her by her arms. She gave him a quick kiss and withdrew.

“Good-night, Simon.”

“Good-night.”

When she had shut the door and he was alone outside, he said: “All the same, to hell with Sir Dougal Macdougal.”

On Thursday morning there was a further and a marked change in the atmosphere. It wasn’t gloomy. It was oppressive and nervous. Rather like the thunderstorm, Peregrine thought. Claustrophobic. Expectant. Stifling.

Peregrine finished blocking. By Friday they had covered the whole play and took it through in continuity.

There were noticeable changes in the behavior of the company. As a rule, the actor would finish a scene and come off with a sense of anxiety or release. He or she would think back through the dialogue, note the points of difficulty, and re-rehearse them in the mind or, as it were, put a tick against them as having come off successfully. The actors would disappear into the shadows, or watch for a time with professional interest or read a newspaper or book — each according to temperament and inclination.

This morning it was different. Without exception they sat together and watched and listened with a new intensity. It was as though each actor continued in an assumed character, and no other reality existed. Even in the scenes that had been blocked but not yet developed there was a nervous tension that knew the truth would emerge and the characters march to their appointed end.

The company were to see the fight for the first time. Macduff now had something of a black angel’s air about him, striding through the battle on the hunt for Macbeth. He encounters men in the Macbeth tartan and mistakes them for him, but it must be Macbeth or nobody. Then Macduff sees him, armored, helmeted, masked, and cries out: “
Turn, hell-hound, turn
!”

Macbeth turns.

Peregrine’s palms were wet. The thanes, waiting offstage now, stood aghast. Steel clashed on steel or shrieked as one blade slid down another. There was no sound other than the men’s hard breathing.

Macduff swung his claymore up and then swiftly down — Macbeth caught it on his shield and lurched forward.

Nina, in the audience, screamed.

The boast while they both fight for breath that no man of woman born will kill Macbeth; Macduff’s reply that he was
from his mother’s womb untimely ripped;
the final exit, Macduff driving him backward and out. Macbeth’s scream, cut short, offstage. An empty stage for seconds, then trumpets and drums and reenter Malcolm, Old Siward, and the thanes in triumph. Big scene. Old Siward on his son’s death. Reenter Macduff and Seyton with Macbeth’s head on the point of his claymore. “
Behold, where stands the usurper’s cursed head,
” shouts Macduff.