by Ngaio Marsh
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.
Malcolm is hailed King of Scotland and the play is over.
“Thank you, everybody,” said Peregrine. “Thank you very much.”
And in the sounds of relief that answered him the clearly articulated treble of William Smith spoke the final word.
“He got his comeuppance, didn’t he, Miss Gaythorne?”
After Peregrine had taken his notes and the mistakes had been corrected, the cast stayed for a little while as if reluctant to break the bond that united them. Dougal said: “Pleased, Perry?”
“Yes. Very pleased. So pleased, I’m frightened.”
“Not melodramatic?”
“There were perhaps three moments when it slid over. None of them involved you, Dougal. I’m not even sure about them.”
“Good. Maggie darling,” Dougal cried as she joined them. “You are wonderful. Satanic and lovely and baleful. I can’t begin to tell you. Thank you, thank you.” He kissed her hands and her face and seemed unable to stop.
“If I can get a word in,” said Simon. He was beside them, his hair damp with sweat stuck to his forehead and a line of it glinting on his upper lip. Maggie pushed herself free of Dougal and held Simon by his woolen jacket. “Si!” she said and kissed him. “You’re fantastic.”
They’ll run out of adjectives, Peregrine thought, and then we’ll all go to lunch.
Simon looked over the top of Maggie’s head at Dougal. “I seem to have won,” he said. “Or do I?”
“We’ve all won or hope we all have in three weeks. It’s too early for these raptures,” said Peregrine.
Maggie said: “I’ve got someone in a car waiting for me and I’m late.” She patted Simon’s face and freed herself. “I’m not wanted this afternoon, Perry?”
“No. Thank you, lovey.”
“ ’Bye, everyone,” she cried and made for the stage door. William Smith ran ahead of her and opened it.
“Ten marks for manners, William,” she said.
There was nobody waiting for her. She hailed a taxi. That’s settled their hashes, she thought as she gave her address. And the metallic voice will work wonders if I get it right. She made an arrangement in her vocal cords and spoke.
“Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
“What’s that, lady?” asked the startled driver.
“Nothing, nothing. I’m an actress. It’s my part.”
“Oh. One of them. Takes all sorts, don’ it?” he replied.
“It certainly does.”
Ross, Lennox, Menteith, Caithness, and Angus were called for three o’clock and had time to get a good tuck-in at the Swan. They walked along the Embankment and the sun shone upon them: four young men with a fifth, the Ross, who was older. They had a certain air about them. They walked well. They spoke freely and clearly and they laughed loudly. Their faces had a pale smoothness as if seldom exposed to the sun. When they were separated by other pedestrians they raised their voices and continued their conversation without self-consciousness. Lennox, when not involved, sang tunefully: “Not a flower, not a flower sweet on my black coffin let there be strown.”
“Wrong play, dear boy,” said Ross. “That’s from Twelfth Night.”
“Bloody funny choice for a comedy.”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
Lennox said: “Do any of you find this play… I don’t know… oppressive? Almost too much. I mean, we can’t escape it. Do you?”
“I do,” Ross confessed. “I’ve been in it before. Same part. It does rather stick with one, doesn’t it?”
“Well,” Menteith said reasonably, “what’s it about? Four murders. Three witches. A fiendish lady. A homicidal husband. A ghost. And the death of the name-part with his severed head on the end of a claymore. Rather a bellyful to shake off, isn’t it?”
“It’s melodrama pure and simple,” said Angus. “It just happens to be written by a man with a knack for words.”
Lennox said: “What a knack! No. That doesn’t really account for the thing I mean. We don’t get it in the other tragedies, do we? Not in
Hamlet or Lear. Or even in Othello, grim as it is.”
“Perhaps it’s the reason for all the superstitions.”
“I wonder,” Ross said. “It may be. They all say the same thing, don’t they? Don’t speak his name. Don’t quote from it. Don’t call it by its title. Keep off.”
They turned into a narrow side street.
“I tell you what,” Caithness said. “I don’t mind betting anyone who’s prepared to take me up that Perry’s the only one of the whole company who really doesn’t believe a word of it. I mean that — really. He doesn’t do anything, but that’s so that our apple-carts won’t be upset.”
“You sound bloody sure of yourself, little man, but how do you know?” asked Menteith.
“You can tell,” said Caithness loftily.
“No, you can’t. You just kid yourself you can.”
“Oh, do shut up.”
“Okay, okay. Look, there’s Rangi. What’s he think of it all?”
“Ask him.”
“Hullo! Rangi!”
He turned, waved at the Swan, and pointed to himself
“So are we,” Angus shouted. “Join us.”
They caught up with him and all entered the barroom together.
“Look, there’s a table for six. Come on.”
They slipped into the seats. “I’ll get the beer,” Ross offered. Everybody want one?”
“Not for me,” said Rangi.
“Oh! Why not?”
“Because I do better without. Tomato juice. A double and nothing stronger with it.”
Menteith said: “I’ll have that too.”
“Two double tomatoes. Four beers,” Ross stated and went to the bar.
“Rangi,” Lennox said, “we’ve been arguing.”
“Oh? What about?”
Lennox looked at his mates. “I don’t know exactly. About the play.”
“Yes?”
Menteith said: “We were trying to get to the bottom of its power. On the face of it, it’s simply what a magical hand can do with a dose of blood-and-thunder. But that doesn’t explain the atmosphere it churns up. Or does it?”
“Suppose…” Caithness began. “You won’t mind, Rangi, will you?”
“I’ve not the faintest idea what you’re going to ask but I don’t suppose I will.”
