Half Moon Street

by Anne Perry

  “Watch the play?” Caroline suggested. She smiled. “And watch the audience. Sometimes that can be more fun. The drama on the stage is seldom the only one.”

  Mariah hesitated for just an instant. “I don’t go to the theatre,” she said sullenly. “It’s usually nonsense they are performing anyway: cheap, modern rubbish!”

  “It’s Hamlet.”

  “Oh.”

  Caroline tried to remember Vespasia’s words.

  “Anyway,” she said honestly, “the actress who plays the queen is very beautiful, talented and frightfully outspoken. I am terrified of her. I always feel as if I shall say something foolish, or naive, when I see her afterwards, which we will because Joshua is bound to go and congratulate her. They are great friends.”

  The old lady looked interested. “Are they? I thought the queen in Hamlet was his mother. She’s hardly the heroine, is she!”

  “Joshua likes older women. I thought you had appreciated that,” Caroline said dryly.

  Mrs. Ellison smiled in spite of herself. “And you are jealous of her.” It was a statement, but for once there was no edge of unkindness to it, rather something that could even have been sympathy.

  Caroline decided to tell the truth. “Yes—a little. She seems to be so certain of herself . . . of everything she believes in.”

  “Believes in? I thought she was an actress!” Mariah hitched herself a little higher in the bed. “What can she believe in?”

  “All sorts of things!” Caroline pictured in her mind Cecily’s passionate face, her vivid eyes and the fire in her voice. “The absolute evil of censorship, the freedom of the mind and will, the values of art. . . . She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned . . . and . . . dull.”

  “Poppycock!” Mrs. Ellison said vehemently. “Stand up for yourself. Don’t you know what you believe in anymore?”

  “Yes, I think so—”

  “Don’t be such a milksop! There must be something you are sure of. You can’t live to your age without having at least one certainty. What is it?”

  Caroline smiled. “That I don’t know as much as I thought I did. I gather facts and make judgments about people and things, and so often there is one thing more that I didn’t know, and if I had it I would have changed everything.” She was thinking of the old lady and Edmund Ellison . . . but there were other things too, stretching back over the years: issues, decisions, stories only half known.

  Mrs. Ellison grunted, but some of the anger had drained out of her.

  “Then you are wiser than this woman, who imagines she knows so much,” she said grudgingly. “Go and tell her so.”

  Caroline did not ask again if the old lady would come. They both knew she would not, and to have made the offer again would have broken the fragile thread of honesty between them.

  She stood up and went to the door. Her hand was on it when the old lady spoke again.

  “Caroline!”

  “Yes.”

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Thank you.” She turned away.

  “Caroline!”

  “Yes?”

  “Wear the red dress. It becomes you.”

  She did not look back and spoil the moment by making too much of it. “Thank you,” she accepted. “Good night.”

  Caroline dressed very carefully for the first night of Hamlet. She hesitated some time before having her maid put out the red dress the old lady had mentioned. It was actually a rich wine color, very warm, but definitely dramatic. She was uncertain about being so conspicuous. She sat in the chair in front of her looking glass and stared at her own face while her maid dressed her hair. She was still slender—she had not lost her shape at all—but she knew all the signs of aging that were there, the differences between her skin now and how it had been a few years ago, the slight blurring of the smooth line of her jaw, the fine lines on her neck, not to mention her face.

  She had not Cecily Antrim’s glowing vitality, the confidence inside which gave her such grace. That was not only youth, it was part of her character. She would always command attention, admiration, a kind of awe, because she carried part of the magic of life in her mind.

  Caroline still felt dull compared with her, sort of brown . . . compared with gold.

  She thought of what Vespasia had said, and Mariah Ellison. But it was the thought of Mariah’s despair which finally made her sit up with a straight back, almost jerking the pins out of the maid’s hands.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, wincing.

  “Did I hurt you, ma’am?”

  “My own fault. I shall sit still.”

  She was as good as her word, but her thoughts still raced, wondering how she should conduct herself, what she should say to be honest, generous and yet not gushing. She cringed inwardly at the picture of appearing to seek favor, push herself forward with too much wordiness in praise she could not mean because she did not really know what she was talking about. They would listen from good manners, wishing she would stop before she embarrassed everyone further. Her face was hot merely imagining it.

  Every instinct was to retreat into quiet dignity, say very little. Then she would appear to be sulking, and make herself even more excluded.

  Either way Joshua would be ashamed for her. And suddenly it was not about how she felt at all, but how miserable he would be that mattered, and how the change would spill over into all their lives afterwards.

  The maid was finished. It was beautiful; Caroline had always had lovely hair.

  “Thank you,” she said appreciatively. Now she was ready for the dress. She hated having to go alone, but Joshua’s own performance would not be over until shortly before the end. Thank goodness Hamlet was such a long play. He would be there in time for the last act.

  The theatre was so crowded she had to push her way forward, nodding one way and another to people she knew or thought she recognized. She was quite aware, several times, of smiling graciously at complete strangers whose looks wavered in confusion for a moment, then dutifully smiled back.

  She made the deliberate decision to treat that as a joke. She refused to be self-conscious.

  She found her way to the box Joshua had reserved for her. It was far easier not to come too late and thus disturb no one else, even if she might feel rather more lonely sitting there so obviously by herself. She spent the time watching others arrive. It was such a parade of character. At a glance she could see status, income, social aspiration, confidence or lack of it, taste, and so often what a woman thought of herself. There were those who were diffident, dressed in somber colors, dark blues and greens, modest and well cut. She wondered if they would rather have been more daring, had they had the nerve. Was the sobriety their own choice, or due to fear of displeasing their husbands—or even their mothers-in-law? How much did anyone dress to conform with what others expected?

  And there were those in vivid colors, aching to be noticed. Was her own red dress like that, a dramatic gown to disguise an undramatic woman?

  No. As Vespasia had said, she was free to choose to be whatever she wished. If she were undramatic, overshadowed by Cecily Antrim, then that was her own decision to retreat, to conceal her beliefs in order to please others and conform to what they expected of her. There was no need to be offensive, too forceful; there was never excuse to be intentionally or carelessly unkind. But she could be true to her own values.

  And she liked the red dress. It became her coloring and lent a certain glow.

  And of course there were those young girls in pale colors, looking innocent and virginal, self-conscious, but fully intending to be looked at.

  Almost everyone she saw was acting, in their own way, as much as most of the players would be. It was only that the story line was obscure. The onlooker saw only one scene.

  The lights dimmed at last and there was a breathless expectation. The curtain rose on the battlements at Elsinore. Caroline found she was nervous for Orlando Antrim. This was by far the largest role he had ever played. But then Hamlet was sur
ely the largest role anyone would play. Was it not every actor’s dream?

  From the moment he entered in the second scene, she sat forward a little, willing him to succeed, to remember all his lines, to pour into them the passion and the grief and the confusion the role demanded.

  At the very first he seemed hesitant. Her heart sank. Would he, as always, be overshadowed by his mother, who seemed to dominate every stage on which she stepped?

  Then the others left, except Orlando. He stepped forward into the light. His face was pale, even haggard, although presumably it was from paint. But the gestures of his body no one else could have imposed upon him, nor the agony in his voice.

  “ ‘O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,

  Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! . . .

  Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d

  His canon ’gainst self-slaughter!’ ”

  He gave the whole speech without hesitation. It poured from him so naturally it sounded as if he must have been the first to say it, not as learned and rehearsed, not brilliant acting, but torn from a young man’s soul.

  “ ‘But break, my heart—for I must hold my tongue!’ ”

  For a moment after the curtain descended there was silence. The stalls forgot they were an audience; they had seemed more like unseen, individual intruders in someone else’s tragedy.

  Then suddenly they remembered and the applause boomed like thunder roaring around the vast space, filling the high ceiling.

  From then on there was an electricity in the air, a charge of emotion so high the entire performance was lifted. The tragedy unfolded relentlessly; the doomed relationships progressed from one step to the next as if no one had the power to prevent them. Hamlet’s pain seemed a palpable thing in the air; the king’s duplicity, Polonius’s wise counsel fell on deaf ears, but its words had become familiar down the ages, and Bellmaine’s marvelous voice filled the heart and the mind. For those moments he dominated the stage. Even Hamlet was forgotten.

  “ ‘This above all: to thine own self be true,

  And it must follow, as the night the day,

  Thou canst not then be false to any man.’ ”

  Ophelia drifted helplessly into madness and death, an innocent sacrifice to others’ ambition, greed or obsession. Joshua tiptoed in and sat down silently, merely touching Caroline’s shoulder. Queen Gertrude wrought her own fate, still blind to it to the very last sip of the poisoned cup.

  In spite of the skill and the personality of every actor on the stage, Hamlet towered above them all. It was his pain, and in the end his light extinguished, which left them in darkness when the last curtain came down.

  As Caroline rose to her feet to applaud, Joshua beside her, there were tears running down her cheeks and she was too full of emotion even to think of speaking.

  When at last the applause had faded, the house lights were blazing again, and people began to gather themselves to leave, Caroline turned to Joshua.

  There was a mixture of joy and sorrow in his face. The joy was by far the greater, the excitement and the admiration, but she saw the faint shadow also, and knew in her heart how he would love to have played Hamlet himself, to have had a gift that far transcended mere talent and soared to genius. He knew that he had not. His art lay in wit and compassion, in making people laugh, often at themselves, and feel a new gentleness toward one another. In years to come he might play Polonius, but he would never be Hamlet.

  She tried to think what to say that was honest and held no trace of condescension. That would be unbearable for him, just as it was for her.

  The silence needed words, and she could not find them.

  “I feel as if I’ve never really seen Hamlet before,” she admitted. “I would never have thought anyone so young could have such a comprehension of—of betrayal. His rage with the queen was so raw . . . and so close to love as well. Disillusion can destroy you.” She thought of Mariah and Edmund Ellison. How does one go on when dreams are shattered so totally there is nothing left to rebuild? How does one continue living with things soiled beyond retrieval?

  She longed to share that with Joshua. She knew, looking at his face now, that he would feel only tenderness for Mrs. Ellison—no judgment, no revulsion.

  But was it a breaking of trust to speak of it? The old lady would certainly know, because she would see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. And she would be looking for it. She would be waiting for Caroline to betray her.

  Then Caroline must keep silent. Maybe one day she would allow it, and then it would be all right.

  “Are you going to speak to Cecily?” she said aloud.

  His face broke into a smile. “Oh yes! I wouldn’t miss it. She was good—but he was better! This is the first time she has been eclipsed by anyone, except perhaps Bellmaine—long ago, when she was just beginning. She will be feeling . . .” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “A great mixture of pride in Orlando . . . surely one has to be proud of one’s children. . . .”

  She remembered with a stab that he had no children, and he was far too young to regard either of her daughters in that light. He might have had children, if he had married someone younger. She forced that thought away. This was no time for pity of any sort, least of all self-pity, or for doubt where he had given her cause for none.

  “It’s not always easy,” she replied frankly. “You can envy them their youth, and be exasperated by it. And you agonize for their mistakes, especially when you can see them even at the time. And of course you never cease to feel guilt for everything they do that turns out badly. Every flaw of character is directly attributable to something you did . . . or failed to do, or did the wrong way, or at the wrong time.”

  He put his arm around her. “Come! We’ll go and congratulate Cecily . . . and commiserate with her—or whatever seems best.” But he was smiling as he said it, and the faint lines had eased out from around his mouth.

  The dressing room was already crowded when they arrived, but this time Orlando was not there. He was the center now, not peripheral to his mother’s star.

  Cecily stood with her back to the dressing table and the looking glass. She was still wearing the gorgeous gown from the last act. Her face was radiant, her fair hair spreading a halo around her. At first glance Caroline thought she was miscast as Hamlet’s mother; she looked too young, too vibrant. Then she remembered with a jolt that Cecily was in life Orlando’s mother, so she could not be wrong, except to the imagination.

  Lord Warriner was not there this time. It was as if he had chosen deliberately to distance himself from the theatre for a while, or at least from Cecily. Two other minor players stood at the edge of the center looking tired and happy. A woman in a black gown and a magnificent diamond necklace was enthusiastic, and a middle-aged man with ribbons on his chest was agreeing with her.

  Cecily saw Joshua almost immediately.

  “Darling!” She came forward, arms wide to embrace him. “I’m so glad you could be here. Did you catch the end?” She allowed him to kiss her on both cheeks before she stepped back and acknowledged Caroline. “And Mrs. Fielding . . . Caroline, isn’t it? How generous of you to come as well.”

  “Generosity had nothing to do with it,” Caroline replied with a smile she hoped was warmer than she felt. “I came because I wished to . . . for myself . . . from the beginning. And I am delighted I did. It is by far the best Hamlet I have ever seen.”

  Cecily’s eyes widened. She hesitated only a moment. “Really? And have you seen so many?”

  Caroline kept her smile sparklingly in place. “Certainly. From the schoolroom onward. Almost every actor who is remotely suitable has played him at one time or another, and some who are not. I daresay I have seen twenty or more. Your son brought a new life and truth to it. You must be very proud of him.”

  “Of course. How kind of you to say so.” Cecily turned back to Joshua. “He was rather marvelous, wasn’t he? It is the strangest sensation to see your own child begin his first stumbling perfor
mance, then progress to minor parts on stage, and ultimately have the whole theatre at his feet.” She gave a slight laugh. “Can you imagine how I feel?”

  Caroline saw the shadow in Joshua’s face only for an instant. A week ago she might have felt crushed by it for her own inability to give Joshua children. Tonight she felt only anger that Cecily should have chosen to defend herself by hurting him this way.

  Before Joshua could reply she stepped in.

  “It is always surprising to find one’s children have grown up,” she said sweetly. “And that quite suddenly they can outshine you in the very area in which you thought yourself always superior . . .”

  Cecily’s face froze.

  “But of course you are thrilled for them,” Caroline continued blithely. “How could one not be? Apart from Lady Macbeth, all Shakespeare’s tragedies seem to be based around men as the protagonists. But I am sure you could be unsurpassable by anyone in some of the great roles in classical Greek drama. I for one would queue all night for a ticket to see you play Clytemnestra or Medea.”

  There was total silence in the room. Everyone was staring at Caroline.

  No one had heard the door open and Orlando come in.

  “Clytemnestra!” he said distinctly. “What a brilliant idea! How extraordinarily clever of you, Mrs. Fielding. Mama has never done the Greeks. That would be a whole new career, and superb! And there is also Phaedra!” He turned to Cecily. “You are too old for Antigone, but you could always do Jocasta . . . but Mrs. Fielding is right, Clytemnestra would be the sublime vehicle for you. Who would want Gertrude after that?”

  Cecily looked at Caroline, her head high, her eyes bright.

  “Perhaps I should be obliged to you, Mrs. Fielding. I admit, I am surprised. I should never have thought of you as being so . . . liberal in your views of art. You must tell me, why do you think I might do Clytemnestra well?” She laughed. “I hope it is not merely because she has adult children?”

  Caroline looked back at her with just as much bright candor.

  “Of course not, although that does make a difference to one’s life. But I was thinking of the fact that she is central to the play, not secondary. She is the character whose passions drive the plot. And she has been profoundly wronged in the sacrifice of her daughter. Her murder of her husband is not a sympathetic action, yet it is one most mothers would identify with. It needs an actress of extraordinary power to carry the audience with her and neither play to their pity and lose her own dignity, nor yet become unattractive because of her power and her willingness to take the ultimate step.” She took a deep breath. No one had interrupted her by so much as a movement.