The Complete Mapp & Lucia

by E. F. Benson

“Charming letters from them all, Georgie,” said Lucia, tearing them up, “and their evident disappointment at not being able to come really touches me. And I don’t regret, far from it, that apparently we shall not have very large audiences. A small audience is more intime; the personal touch is more quickly established. And now for my sleepwalking scene in the first lecture. I should like to discuss that with you. I shall give that with Elizabethan realism.”

  “Not pyjamas?” asked Georgie, in an awestruck voice.

  “Certainly not: it would be a gross anachronism. But I shall have all the lights in the room extinguished. Night.”

  “Then they won’t see you,” said Georgie. “You would lose the personal touch.”

  Lucia puzzled over this problem.

  “Ah! I have it!” she said. “An electric torch.”

  “Wouldn’t that be an anachronism, too?” interrupted Georgie.

  “Rather a pedantic criticism, Georgie,” said Lucia.

  “An electric torch: and as soon as the room is plunged in darkness, I shall turn it on to my face. I shall advance slowly, only my face visible suspended in the air, to the edge of the platform. Eyes open I think: I believe sleep-walkers often have their eyes open. Very wide, something like this, and unseeing. Filled with an expression of internal soul-horror. Have you half an hour to spare? Put the lights out, dear: I have my electric torch. Now.”

  As the day for the inaugural lecture drew near and the bookings continued unsatisfactory except from the intime point of view, Lucia showered complimentary tickets right and left. Grosvenor and Foljambe received them and Diva’s Janet. In fact, those who had purchased tickets felt defrauded, since so many were to be had without even asking for them. This discontent reached Lucia’s ears, and in an ecstasy of fair-mindedness she paid Mrs. Simpson the sum of one shilling for each complimentary ticket she had sent out. But even that did not silence the carpings of Elizabeth.

  “What it really comes to, Diva,” she said, “is that Worship is paying everybody to attend her lecture.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said Diva. “She is taking seats for her lecture, and giving them to her friends.”

  “Much the same thing,” said Elizabeth, “but we won’t argue. Of course she’ll take the same number for Benjy’s lecture and yours and all the others.”

  “Don’t see why, if, as you say, she’s only paying people to go to hers. Major Benjy can pay people to go to his.”

  Elizabeth softened at the thought of the puzzle that would rack the brains of Tilling when Benjy lectured.

  “The dear boy is quite excited about it,” she said. “He’s going to have his tiger skins hung up behind the platform to give local jungle-colour. He’s copied out his lecture twice already and is thinking of having it typed. I daresay Worship would allow Mrs. Simpson to do it for nothing to fill up her time a little. He read it to me: most dramatic. How I shuddered when he told how he had hit the man-slayer across the nose while he seized his rifle. Such a pity he can’t whack that very tiger-skin with the riding-whip he used then. He’s never quite got over its loss.”

  Elizabeth eyed Diva narrowly and thought she looked very uncomfortable, as if she knew something about that loss. But she replied in the most spirited manner.

  “Wouldn’t be very wise of him,” she said. “Might take a lot more of the fur off. Might hurt the dead tiger more than he hurt the live one.”

  “Very droll,” said Elizabeth. “But as the riding-whip vanished so mysteriously in your house, there’s the end of it.”

  Thanks to Lucia’s prudent distribution of complimentary tickets, the room was very well filled at the inaugural lecture. Georgie for a week past had been threatened with a nervous collapse at the thought of taking the chair, but he had staved this off by patent medicines, physical exercises and breakfast in bed. Wearing his ruby-coloured dinner suit, he told the audience in a firm and audible voice that any introductory words from him were quite unnecessary, as they all knew the lecturer so well. He then revealed the astonishing fact that she was their beloved Mayor of Tilling, the woman whom he had the honour to call wife. She would now address them on the Technique of the Shakespearian Stage.

  Lucia first gave them a brief and lucid definition of Drama as the audible and visible presentation of situations of human woe or weal, based on and developing from those dynamic individual forces which evoke the psychological clashes of temperament that give rise to action. This action (drama) being strictly dependent on the underlying motives which prompt it and on emotional stresses might be roughly summed up as Plot. It was important that her audience should grasp that quite clearly. She went on to say that anything that distracts attention from Plot or from the psychology of which it is the logical outcome, hinders rather than helps Drama, and therefore the modern craze for elaborate decorations and embellishments must be ruthlessly condemned. It was otherwise in Shakespeare’s day. There was hardly any scenery for the setting of his masterpieces, and she ventured to put forward a theory which had hitherto escaped the acumen of more erudite Shakespearian scholars than she. Shakespeare was a staunch upholder of this simplicity and had unmistakably shewn that in Midsummer Night’s Dream. In that glorious masterpiece a play was chosen for the marriage festival at Athens, and the setting of it clearly proved Shakespeare’s conviction that the less distraction of scenery there was on the stage, the better for Drama. The moon appeared in this play within a play. Modern decor would have provided a luminous disk moving slowly across the sky by some mechanical device. Not so Shakespeare. A man came on with a lantern, and told them that his lantern was the moon and he the man in the moon. There he was static and undistracting. Again the lovers Pyramus and Thisbe were separated by a wall. Modern decor would have furnished a convincing edifice covered with climbing roses. Not so Shakespeare. A man came out of the wings and said “I am the wall.” The lovers required a chink to talk through. The wall held up his hand and parted his fingers. Thus, in the guise of a jest the Master poured scorn on elaborate scenery.

  “I will now,” said Lucia, “without dress or scenery of any sort, give you an illustration of the technique of the Shakespearian Stage. Lady Macbeth in the sleepwalking scene.”

  Foljambe, previously instructed, was sitting by the switch-board, and on a sign from Georgie, plunged the hall in darkness. Everybody thought that a fuse had gone. That fear was dispelled because Lucia, fumbling in the dark, could not find her electric torch, and Georgie called out “Turn them on again, Foljambe.” Lucia found her torch and once more the lights went out. Then the face of the Mayor sprang into vivid illumination, suspended against the blackness, and her open, sleepwalking eyes gleamed with soul-horror in the focused light. A difficult moment came when she made the pantomimic washing of her hands for the beam went wobbling about all over the place and once fell full on Georgie’s face, which much embarrassed him. He deftly took the torch from her and duly controlled its direction. At the end of the speech Foljambe restored the lights, and Lucia went on with her lecture.

  Owing to the absence of distinguished strangers she did not give a supper-party afterwards, at which her subject could be further discussed and illuminated, but she was in a state of high elation herself as she and Georgie partook of a plain supper alone.

  “From the first moment,” she said, waving a sandwich, “I knew that I was in touch with my audience and held them in my hand. A delicious sensation of power and expansion, Georgie; it is no use my trying to describe it to you, for you have to experience it to understand it. I regret that the Hampshire Argus cannot have a verbatim report in its issue this week. Mr. McConnell—how he enjoyed it—told me that it went to press to-night. I said I quite understood, and should not think of asking him to hold it up. I gave him the full typescript for next week, and promised to let him have a close-up photograph of Lady Macbeth; just my face with the background blacked out. He thanked me most warmly. And I thought, didn’t you, that I did the sleepwalking scene at the right moment, just after I had been speaking
of Shakespearian simplicity. A little earlier than I had meant, but I suddenly felt that it came there. I knew it came there.”

  “The very place for it,” said Georgie, vividly recalling her catechism after the Mayoral banquet.

  “And that little contretemps about the light going out before I had found my torch—”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” said he. “You told me to signal to Foljambe, when you said ‘sleep walking scene.’ That was my cue.”

  “My dear, of course it wasn’t your fault,” said Lucia warmly. “You were punctuality itself. I was only thinking how fortunate that was. The audience knew what was coming, and that made the suspense greater. The rows of upturned faces, Georgie; the suspense; I could see the strain in their eyes. And in the speech, I think I got, didn’t I, that veiled timbre in my voice suggestive of the unconscious physical mechanism, sinking to a strangled whisper at ‘Out, damned spot!’ That, I expect, was not quite original, for I now remember when I was quite a child being taken to see Ellen Terry in the part and she veiled her voice like that. A sub-conscious impression coming to the surface.”

  She rose.

  “You must tell me more of what you thought to-morrow, dear,” she said, “for I must go to bed. The emotional strain has quite worn me out, though it was well worth while. Mere mental or physical exertion—”

  “I feel very tired too,” said Georgie.

  He followed Lucia upstairs, waiting while she practised the Lady Macbeth face in front of the mirror on the landing.

  Benjy’s lecture took place a week later. There was a palm tree beside his reading desk and his three tiger-skins hung on the wall behind. “Very effective, Georgie,” said Lucia, as they took their seats in the middle of the front row. “Quite the Shakespearian tradition. It brings the jungle to us, the heat of the Indian noon-day, the buzz of insects. I feel quite stifled.”… He marched on to the platform, carrying a rifle, and wearing a pith helmet and saluted the audience. He described himself as a plain old campaigner, who had seen a good deal of shikarri in his time, and read them a series of exciting adventures. Then (what a climax!) he took up from his desk a cane riding-whip with a silver top and pointed to the third of the skins.

  “And that old villain,” he said, “nearly prevented my having the honour to speak to you to-night. I had just sat down to a bit of tiffin, putting my rifle aside, when he was on me.”

  He whisked round and gave the head of the tiger-skin a terrific whack.

  “I slashed at him, just like that, with my riding-whip which I had in my hand, and that gave me the half-second I needed to snatch up my rifle. I fired point-blank at his heart, and he rolled over dead. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what saved my life. It may interest you to see it, though it is familiar to some of you. I will pass it round.”

  He bowed to the applause and drank some whisky and a little soda. Lucia took the riding-whip from him, and passed it to Georgie, Georgie passed it to Diva. They all carefully examined the silver-top, and the initials B. F. were engraved on it. There could be no doubt of its genuineness and they all became very still and thoughtful, forbearing to look at each other.

  There was loud applause at the end of the lecture, and after making rather a long speech, thanking the lecturer, Lucia turned to Diva.

  “Come to lunch to-morrow,” she whispered. “Just us three. I am utterly puzzled… Ah, Major Benjy, marvellous! What a treat! I have never been so thrilled. Dear Elizabeth, how proud you must be of him. He ought to have that lecture printed, not a word, not a syllable altered, and read it to the Royal Zoological Society. They would make him an honorary member at once.”

  Next day at a secret session in the garden-room Georgie and Diva contributed their personal share in the strange history of the relic (Paddy’s being taken for granted, as no other supposition would fit the facts of the case) and thus the movements of the silver cap were accounted for up to the moment of its disappearance from Georgie’s possession.

  “I always kept it in my waistcoat pocket,” he concluded, “and one morning it couldn’t be found anywhere. You remember that, don’t you, Lucia?”

  A look of intense concentration dwelt in Lucia’s eyes: Georgie did not expect much from that, because it so often led to nothing at all. Then she spoke in that veiled voice which had become rather common with her since the sleepwalking scene.

  “Yes, yes,” she murmured. “It comes back to me. And the evening before Elizabeth and Benjy had dined with us. Did it drop out of your pocket, do you think, Georgie?… She and I came into the garden-room after dinner, and… and she asked me to play to her, which is unusual. I am always unconscious of all else when I am playing…”

  Lucia dropped the veiled voice which was hard to keep up and became very distinct.

  “She sat all by herself at my table here,” she continued. “What if she found it on the floor or somewhere? I seem to sense her doing that. And she had something on her mind when we played Bridge. She couldn’t attend at all, and she suggested stopping before eleven, because she said I looked so tired, though I was never fresher. Certainly we never saw the silver cap again till last night.”

  “Well that is ingenious,” said Diva, “and then I suppose they had another cane fitted to it, and Benjy said it was the real one. I do call that deceitful. How can we serve them out? Let’s all think.”

  They all thought. Lucia sat with her head on one side contemplating the ceiling, as was her wont when listening to music. Then she supplied the music, too, and laughed in the silvery ascending scale of an octave and a half.

  “Amichi,” she said. “If you will leave it to me, I think I can arrange something that will puzzle Elizabeth. She and her accomplice have thought fit to try to puzzle us. I will contrive to puzzle them.”

  Diva glanced at the clock.

  “How scrumptious!” she said. “Do be quick and tell us, because I must get back to help Janet.”

  “Not quite complete yet,” answered Lucia. “A few finishing touches. But trust me.”

  Diva trundled away down the hill at top-speed. A party of clerical tourists were spending a day of pilgrimage in Tilling, and after being shewn round the church by the Padre were to refresh themselves at ‘ye olde Tea-House.’ The Padre would have his tea provided gratis as was customary with Couriers. She paused for a moment outside her house to admire the sign which quaint Irene had painted for her. There was nothing nude about it. Queen Anne in full regalia was having tea with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and decorum reigned. Diva plunged down the kitchen-stairs, and peeped into the garden where the tulips were now in flower. She wondered which tulip it was.

  As often happened in Tilling, affairs of sensational interest overlapped. Georgie woke next morning to find Foljambe bringing in his early morning tea with the Daily Mirror.

  “A picture this morning, sir, that’ll make you jump,” she said. “Lor’, what’ll happen?”

  Off she went to fill his bath, and Georgie, still rather sleepy, began to look through the paper. On the third page was an article on the Royal Academy Exhibition, of which the Private View was to be held today.

  “The Picture of the Year,” said our Art Editor, “is already determined. For daring realism, for withering satire of the so-called Victorian age, for savage caricature of the simpering, guileless prettiness of such early Italian artists as Botticelli, Miss Irene Coles’s—” Georgie read no more but turned to the centre-page of pictures. There it was. Simultaneously there came a rap on his door, and Grosvenor’s hand, delicately inserted, in case he had got up, held a copy of the Times.

  “Her Worship thought you might like to see the picture-page of the Times,” she said. “And could you spare her the Daily Mirror, if it’s got it in.”

  The transfer was effected. There again was Elizabeth on her oyster-shell being wafted by Benjy up the river to the quay at Tilling, and our Art Editor gave his most serious attention to this arresting piece. He was not sure whether it was justifiable to parody a noble work of art i
n order to ridicule an age, which, in spite of its fantastic prudery, was distinguished for achievement and progress. But no one could question the vigour, the daring, the exuberant vitality of this amazing canvas. Technically—Georgie bounded out of bed. Thoughtful and suggestive though this criticism was, it was also lengthy, and the need for discussion with Lucia as to the reactions of Tilling was more immediate, especially since she had a committee-meeting at ten. He omitted to have his bath at all, and nearly forgot about his toupée. She was already at breakfast when he got down, with the Daily Mirror propped up against the tea-pot in front of her, and seemed to continue aloud what she must have been saying to herself.

  “—and in my position, I must—good morning, Georgie—be extremely careful. She is my Mayoress, and therefore, through me, has an official position, which I am bound to uphold if it is brought into ridicule. I should equally resent any ruthless caricature of the Padre, as he is my chaplain. Of course you’ve seen the picture itself, Georgie, which, alas, I never did, and it’s hard to form a reasoned judgment from a reduced reproduction. Is it really like poor Elizabeth?”

  “The image,” said Georgie. “You could tell it a hundred miles off. It’s the image of Benjy, too, But that thing in his hand, which looks so like the neck of a bottle is really the top of his umbrella.”

  “No! I thought it was a bottle,” said Lucia. “I’m glad of that. The other would have been a sad lack of taste.”

  “Oh, it’s all a lack of taste,” said Georgie, “though I don’t quite feel the sadness. On the other hand it’s being hailed as a masterpiece. That’ll sweeten it for them a bit.”

  Lucia held the paper up to get a longer focus, and Georgie got his tea.

  “A wonderful pose,” she said. “Really, there’s something majestic and dominant about Elizabeth, which distinctly flatters her. And look at Benjy with his cheeks puffed out, as when he’s declared three no trumps, and knows he can’t get them. A boisterous wind evidently, such as often comes roaring up the river. Waves tipped with foam. A slight want of perspective, I should have said, about the houses of Tilling… One can’t tell how Elizabeth will take it—”