Tempest-Tost

by Robertson Davies

  “Thank you,” said Valentine, who possessed the rarest of female graces, in that she knew how to receive a compliment. She blushed delightfully.

  “Don’t thank me; thank God,” said Humphrey. “I said that you spoke like a professional. You and I are two of the three professionals involved with this show. We must stand together.”

  “Who is the other?” asked Larry Pye, hoping for a compliment.

  “That gardener,” said Humphrey. “I don’t think any of you realize what a wonderful job he has done for you in making his garden look like an enchanted island.”

  “Oh, yes; Gawky,” said Larry. “That reminds me, I want a word with him. Hey, Gawky!” He shouted at Tom, who was walking around the lawn with a pointed stick and a bag, picking up bits of paper.

  “Not Gawky. The man’s name is Golky,” said Professor Vambrace, who stood nearby, eating a third dish of chow mein in an abstracted manner. He despised food, but he always ate a great deal at affairs of this kind where it was good and plentiful.

  Tom, however, was ready to answer to almost any Saxon assault upon his name, and he came near.

  “We’ve worn away some grass on the stage already,” said Larry. “Can you do anything about that?”

  “I’ll cut the lower lawn tomorrow, sir,” said Tom, “and sprinkle the cuttings about seven o’clock. I’ll do that every night, just to keep the place looking fresh.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Gwalchmai,” said Valentine.

  “Not at all miss. It’s my show, too, in a way. And the cuttings will do no harm. I believe in returning everything to nature that comes from nature. But,” he said, angrily spearing the glass-paper casing of a cigarette box which Larry had just thrown down, “nobody’ll ever convince me that this-here cellophane ever came from nature, and nature’ll never absorb it again. So I’ll thank you, sir, not to throw it on my grass, unless you want your enchanted island to look like a rubbish-tip.” He moved away.

  “Let me get you another plate of that stuff,” said Solly to Valentine.

  “I’ll come with you,” said she, and they broke away from their group.

  “I wanted to get away,” said she; “everybody wants to plague and worry me about nothing. They’ll all be all right tomorrow. What’s worrying them?”

  “They are sacrificing to our Canadian God,” said Solly. “We all believe that if we fret and abuse ourselves sufficiently, Providence will take pity and smile upon anything we attempt. A light heart, or a consciousness of desert, attracts ill luck. You have been away from your native land too long. You have forgotten our folkways. Listen to that gang over there; they are scanning the heavens and hoping aloud that it won’t rain tomorrow. That is to placate the Mean Old Man in the Sky, and persuade him to be kind to us. We are devil-worshippers, we Canadians, half in love with easeful Death. We flog ourselves endlessly, as a kind of spiritual purification. Now, what about some chow mein?”

  They replenished their plates, and withdrew to a quiet spot where bushes half-screened them from the others.

  “There’s one man I must speak to before tomorrow,” said Valentine. “And that’s Mackilwraith. I didn’t want to shame him before the others, but he was quite dreadful. He was never very good, but during this past week he’s been impossible. He comes as near to fading completely into the background, leaving a gaping hole where Gonzalo should be, as any actor I’ve ever seen. His lines mean nothing; if I didn’t know them I doubt if I’d ever distinguish them.”

  “Shocking,” agreed Solly. “I wondered what you would do.”

  “I suppose I’d better get it over. Will you hunt him up and tell him I’d like to see him here? This is private enough; I’ll just keep out of the way of the others.”

  SATED WITH FOOD, the actors showed no signs of going home. Cobbler and his wife and children were sitting on the lawn, singing for a large audience. The treble voices and the one bass were sweet upon the moonlit air.

  Come again,

  Sweet love doth now invite—

  they sang, and other voices were stilled to hear them.

  Not all voices, however. Mr. Webster, who had been somewhat shyly circulating among his guests, most of whom were strangers to him, found that he was being shadowed by a small, monkey-like man, whose face bore traces still of the elaborate makeup of Caliban. What the devil does he want, thought Mr. Webster. Perhaps he is worshipping me because I am rich; there are such people. Maybe he hates me because I am rich; that’s far more likely. I wish he wouldn’t dart behind trees like that. But now he was confronted by the creature, and it was necessary to speak.

  “I suppose you’ve had something to eat?”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Webster; as a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Enough?”

  “Oh yes, indeed. An ample sufficiency, as the fellow says. Ha ha.”

  “What fellow?”

  “Eh? Oh, I guess it was some fellow in a story. Or maybe a movie.”

  “I see. I’m very interested in history. I like to find out what fellow said everything, whenever I can.”

  “Ha ha. Yes, I guess that’s right.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Uh? No, no, I’ve had lots of coffee, thank you very much.”

  “Cigarette?”

  “Oh, thanks very much. But here, you have one of mine.”

  “No, thank you. I always smoke cigars.”

  “Very wise. A more wholesome smoke, as you might say.”

  “I’ve never heard anybody say that.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a well-known thing. Unless somebody happens to give you an exploding cigar. Ha ha.”

  “Why would anybody give me an exploding cigar?”

  “Oh, just as a joke.”

  “I don’t think I’ve even seen an exploding cigar.”

  “Oh, haven’t you? Well I’ve got one in my pocket. Here.”

  “But I don’t want an exploding cigar.”

  “Oh not for yourself, of course. Give it to somebody for a joke.”

  “No, no, you keep it.”

  “All right. And I certainly wouldn’t offer one to you, Mr. Webster. Not after what’s passed between us, I mean.”

  “What’s that? Has anything passed between us?”

  “Well, there was that matter of the horse.”

  “What horse?”

  “Well, of course a horse wouldn’t mean much to a man in your position, but a horse could be a very serious item to me. I mean, with my sixty per cent disability because of my kidneys, you see. Frankly, Mr. Webster, I wanted to say it to your face; you were white about the horse.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t got a horse.”

  “I know. And I take the full blame. You were a prince about it. I hope my letter cleared it all up?”

  “Oh! You’re the fellow who killed Old Bill?”

  “I did, and I tell you frankly, it shook me up as nothing has shaken me up since the Battle of the Bulge.”

  “You’re the fellow who wrote that extraordinary letter?”

  “I’m not much of a man with the pen, but I put everything I had into that letter.”

  “Oh. Well—you won’t have any more coffee?”

  “No sir. Permit me to shake you by the hand.”

  “Oh—ah.”

  “You’re a white man, G.A.”

  “Uh.”

  “Maybe some day I’ll be able to do as much for you.”

  “Ah.”

  “The lion and the mouse, you know.”

  “Mf.”

  His conscience freed of its burden, Geordie walked away toward the group who were listening to the music, and his host scuttled inside to the privacy of his library. To be perfectly sure that no one else could find him and tell him that he was white, he locked the door.

  “WELL, HAVE YOU MADE a new man of him?” Solly had been watching from a distance, and when Hector came from behind the shrubbery where Valentine was, he joined her.

  “I doubt it very much,” sai
d she. “He was sorry, and all that, but he didn’t really seem to be listening to me. He said something about private trouble, and a weight on his mind, but all actors do that when they’ve been making a mess of a part.”

  “You do him too much honour when you describe him as an actor.”

  “No, poor sweet, he’ll never be an actor if he lives to be a thousand. I’ve done my best for him, but only a new heart and a new soul could make an actor of him.”

  “You might as well add a new body to the list of requirements. Did you ever see such legs?”

  “I know. Beef to the heels. I wanted the costume people to give him a long gown, but they insisted on tights. Long experience has taught me to judge pretty accurately what men are hiding under their trousers.”

  “You fill me with apprehension. But I know what you mean. The male leg is rarely a thing of beauty.”

  “Yes. I wonder why.”

  “It’s very simple. Just an example of evolution, or natural selection, or something. In the periods when women wore long skirts they had awful legs; look at the nudes painted during those periods if you don’t believe me. But when they had to show their legs, they willed fine legs into existence. And when men wore tights they had fine legs too, because they needed them. But modern man conceals his legs, and what have they become? Stovepipes.”

  “Or, as in your own case, toothpicks.”

  “That X-ray eye of yours makes me uncomfortable. As a matter of fact I possess what I like to define as the Scholarly, or Intellectual Leg. Vambrace has toothpicks, if you talk of toothpicks. I popped into the men’s dressing-room just now to call Mackilwraith, and Vambrace was changing. Do you know that he wears a species of bone-coloured long underwear, even in weather like this? A shocking sight. I felt like the sons of Noah when they had uncovered their father’s nakedness.”

  “It’s a mistake to see people dressing. One should see them either dressed or naked; those are the only two decent states. All else is shame and disillusion.”

  “Just for curiosity’s sake, why did you refer to Mackilwraith as ‘poor sweet’, just now?”

  “He is rather sweet, don’t you think? So serious, and at heart such a really decent, nice man.”

  “His pupils don’t think so. He’s a classroom tyrant.”

  “Yes, that seems very probable.”

  “Then why sweet?”

  “Well, he just seems that way to me. I hated to speak hardly to him. What do you care about whether he’s sweet or not?”

  “Jealousy, really. I bet you don’t think I’m sweet. Not, upon reflection, that I would care to be so described.”

  “Oh, Solly, you’ve far too much intelligence for anything like that, but you’re a darling, all the same, and I do thank you for the help you’ve given me with this show.”

  “Val, I love you.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, don’t be alarmed. I don’t want to marry you, or tag around after you, or monopolize you. I just mean that I love you. You’re a wonderful person and so much like a woman. That sounds silly, of course, but you know what I mean. So many women, even the young and pretty ones, aren’t like women at all. They haven’t got that wonderful, magical quality that real women have—like you. What you are explains what all the really first-rate poets are talking about. You’re the first one I’ve known well who has it, and I love you, and I’ll go on loving you. But it’s nothing for you to worry about—just something for me to enjoy. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, Solly dear, I do. And I’m very grateful. At my age, you see, it’s very flattering to hear that sort of talk from somebody as young as you. But you mustn’t be foolish about me; you should look for someone younger than yourself.”

  “Oh, I certainly will. But I’ll try to find somebody as much as possible like you. And that won’t be easy. Shall we join the others?”

  “Yes. And don’t think I shall forget what you have said.”

  Solly took Valentine in his arms and kissed her. Then they joined the company on the lawn.

  EVER SINCE SHE HAD PARTED with Roger at the Ball, Griselda had been ill at ease. She had wanted to be rid of him. Of that she was perfectly sure. But she had not wanted to lecture him on morality. She had not wanted to pop out that pious little saw about the body being in the soul’s keeping. That was what she meant, of course, but she wished that she had expressed it differently. Still, if she had not done so, what would have happened? Roger had made it plain enough that he wanted her to be his mistress. What a silly expression that was! She didn’t want to be a mistress, and especially not the mistress of somebody like Roger. He hinted too much about his prowess with women. What was it he had said? That a woman’s body should be played upon and made to sing like a musical instrument. He had got that out of Balzac. She had read Balzac on that subject herself, and thought it nonsense. If anybody was going to make her sing like a musical instrument it would have to be somebody who had first of all made her happy as a human being, and Roger had never done that. He was flattering, and amusing, but somehow not very likeable.

  Still, she wished that she had not spoken to him like that. He would think she was just a Pill. He would probably tell other people that she was a Pill. Not that she cared what other people thought. Daddy always said that you could never be happy so long as you gave a damn what other people thought. But of course Daddy wasn’t a girl, and besides, he was always worrying about what somebody thought himself, so it didn’t count.

  She was, she decided with some shame, much simpler than she had imagined. She was like the girls in Trollope; she wanted to be loved, and to love, and when these conditions were met, there was nothing she would not do. But she did not want to mess around with Roger, even though it might be fun while it was going on. She was, she decided after a depressing session with herself, inclined to be Pure. But she wanted it to be quite clear that she was Pure without being a Pill.

  And imagine saying that she had looked up his income! Of course she had done so. He talked so much about money that she wanted to know how much he really had. It was the kind of thing girls did that girls should never admit to. But he had talked about marriage, and who wants to marry a girl of eighteen, unless she has money? Griselda was as sensitive on the subject of money as her father.

  She was glad to be rid of Roger, but sorry that she had been nasty to him. Well, if that was the case, she would find an opportunity to show him that she was ready to be friendly, but not too friendly. Definitely not a mistress. On the contrary, a Trollope. Not a bad joke that. She would tell it to Freddy if the kid were not so utterly idiotic and likely to blab everything she knew out of sheer childish irresponsibility.

  THE OPPORTUNITY CAME AT THE PARTY after the dress rehearsal. Griselda was standing by the serving-table on the lawn, eating a plate of chow mein, while most of the company were at some distance, listening to the Cobbler family sing. Roger approached.

  “Hello, Roger,” said she. “Have some of this. It’s good.”

  “Thanks, I’ve eaten,” said he, in a tone which he believed to be one of distant politeness, but which was really rather surly. “I want a cup of coffee for The Torso. You’re still stuffing, I see.”

  “Not still. Just. I’ve been hostessing. Roger?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be cross about the Ball. I didn’t mean to be horrid.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Oh yes you do! I was a pig, and I’m sorry.”

  “You mean you’ve changed your mind?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. But I was a pious pig. Will you let me explain?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Let’s walk.”

  “All right.”

  “What about The Torso’s coffee?”

  “Oh she’s probably forgotten she wanted it by now. Anyway, too much coffee isn’t good for her. I’ll drink it.”

  They set off toward the lower lawn. Hector, watching from a distance, saw them pass into shadow, then into a patch
of moonlight, and then into shadow again. How should he know that Griselda was industriously eating chow mein as she explained herself, somewhat incoherently, to Roger? He saw only that Roger had put his arm around her shoulders, and then they disappeared into shadow again, and he turned away, heartsick, toward the shrubbery. It was there that he narrowly escaped walking into Solly and Valentine, who at that moment were in each other’s arms. It was a bad night for Hector.

  A BAD NIGHT, and the latest of many such nights. Since the Ball he could think of nothing but Griselda, and of what he supposed to be her intrigue with Roger. He could not sleep. During the daytime he was supposed to be watching over pupils who were writing summer examinations, but he brought no vigilance to this task, in which he had once delighted. In former years he had kept up an incessant prowling in the examination room. Soft-footed, he had paced slowly up and down between the rows of desks, his eyes alert for talkers, peepers, cheats. But this year he had sat slumped at his desk, his eyes fixed on space, and examinees who wanted extra paper or ink were sometimes forced to snap their fingers three times before he took it to them.

  His appetite had deserted him. Only habit took him to the Snak Shak at regular intervals; once there he ordered food, but he ate little of it. His skin sagged, and it seemed to him that his hair was turning white. In strict fact, grey hairs had been appearing at his temples for five years, but he had not noticed them or paid heed to them before. In these terrible days they appeared to him to be symbols of the conflict which was going on in his heart.

  He loved Griselda, and it seemed to him that in that love there was no room for thought of himself. His longing for her was a pain which filled his whole body. And she was, he felt certain, the creature of that vile thing Tasset; he had persuaded her, by his villainous arts, to give her body to him. She was ruined. A soul so delicate as hers, once in contact with sin, would most certainly be shattered beyond any recovery.

  At night he lay in his bed, his body rigid under the stress of the painful thoughts which would not be banished from his mind. She was a harlot. No, no! Not a harlot; not that lovely child, so new to the world and so fresh in her womanhood! She might still be reclaimed, and oh! how grateful she would be to the one who drew her back from the abyss of shame and threw the mantle of a great, understanding, world-defying love around her! After one of these bouts of self-torture, Hector would weep, and his Y.M.C.A. bed creaked under the violence of his sobs. His mother’s early attempts to purge him had given him a horror of drugs, but under this stress he began to take aspirin tablets, sometimes two at a time, so reckless was he, and they helped him to get a little sleep.