I asked no further questions. However, I could not put it from my mind, and some months later he and I came close to another discussion on the same matter. This was after the War had begun. He was greatly disheartened by the War; he felt it was as if Time had gone into reverse and sent the world back to the Dark Ages, and he did not agree with the prevailing opinion that we should win easily; when people told him that he was being unduly pessimistic, he replied that he was being realistic, for the Germans had always been very good fighters. One night at bedtime I was reading to him when we heard a distant, heavy tremor that we knew to be the sounds of guns from across the Channel. We used to hear the guns often when the wind was blowing from the south, but I think this was the first time that we had heard them, and I stopped reading at once and we listened as the rumbling went on and on, a little like thunder, the sound rolling towards us in waves. It was so like thunder it was hard to believe that we were hearing the firing of guns, and I remember he said how terrible it was to know that only one or two hundred miles away young men from Wessex were losing their lives in a war against Germany, of all countries: Germany, the land of such geniuses as Bach and Beethoven, of Goethe and Schiller and Schopenhauer. Then he heaved a sigh, and said – I remember this distinctly – that it would be a sin to bring a child into such a world as this. I can hear him now. ‘To be born,’ he said, ‘is the primal misfortune …’ What a thing to say! I had to protest. ‘But, Thomas,’ I said, ‘there must always be hope, must there not? If everyone felt the same, the human race would be extinct in a century. Imagine!’ After a long pause, during which the guns fell silent, he answered that he had often imagined it, a world free of the curse of humanity. I said: ‘But your life has not been one of misfortune, has it?’ He did not answer. Although I felt as if I was speaking to a wall, I took his hand and persisted: ‘Your life has been a blessed one, has it not? When you think back … surely … do you not feel that? Your life has been blessed!’ We had been married such a short time; how desperate I was for him to make an affirmative reply! There was an even longer silence, and then the guns began again, with renewed force, and he said: ‘If only it were thunder!’
As Mr. Voss drives us home I find myself thinking about that night and my nerves start to jangle. Other thoughts intervene: that while it is perfectly true that he may not be alive this time next year, it is equally true that I may not be alive. Then he will have two wives to mourn. I slip a finger under my stole and touch the scar. I ought not to touch but sometimes I catch myself touching without knowing it.
The matinée. I finger the scar under my stole. In front of me the play grinds on, even slower and more ponderous than it was last night. I am not a highly paid reviewer on a national newspaper, but the creakiness of its construction is obvious: what is it but a few scenes from the novel, strung loosely together with no consideration of the dramatic, without even a shred of artistic cohesion? If I were a highly paid reviewer, a highly paid reviewer with an eye to the truth, I would list numerous faults – that the dialogue is stilted, the atmosphere non-existent, that Alec is wooden and the sight of him trying to smoke a cigar, dear me! And that Angel Clare’s wig is the colour of flax, and all the time it looks as if it is in danger of slipping off his head. That is what I would report, what the reviewers should have reported if they had been truthful. As for Gertrude I would have to say that she over-acts, of that there can be no doubt. In the fourth act her performance is frankly comical.
As the orchestra strikes up before the final act I turn to Cockerell. ‘Are you enjoying it?’
‘I am; very much. This music is very jolly.’
‘Have you seen the reviews?’
‘I read “The Times”. Very good. Perfect.’
‘Too good, Sydney, I am afraid.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘O, I’m never sure if it is always a good idea, turning a novel into a play. Barrie was saying that last night. One misses so much of the novel.’
‘Did Barrie come down? Good! What? Didn’t he like it?’
‘He was very charming and polite, but reading between the lines I think he felt that the play falls rather between two stools. Neither one thing nor the other. Half a play and half a novel.’
‘Well, is that not inevitable, to an extent? Thomas seems happy enough to me.’
I consider this. Thomas is sitting back-stage again; he is perched back-stage. I wish he would sit with me; he is my husband, after all.
‘Sydney, I have no idea what Thomas feels about anything! I never do!’
The orchestra plays on. There are four of them: two violinists, a horn player and a ’cellist. If I were a highly paid reviewer (but of course I am not, I am a mere woman), I might well mention the length of time these scene changes takes, and how much bumping and crashing there is from the other side of the curtains!
‘I am afraid they are putting up Stonehenge,’ I inform Cockerell.
‘Ah? Good! I understand there is some talk about it going to London. Something about the Haymarket?’
‘So we hope.’
‘From the Corn Exchange to the Haymarket. From corn to hay!’
In the final act Angel Clare bumps into one of the pillars of Stonehenge and it rocks to and fro. Unable to contain myself I say to Cockerell, sotto voce: ‘This is what one gets in an amateur production, I am afraid!’
Between the end of the matinée and the start of the evening performance there is a period of some two hours. With the audience having left, three trestle tables are set up on the stage, with light refreshments for the cast. Someone kindly brings Cockerell and me cups of tea – very strong tea, almost orange in colour – and a plate of fish-paste sandwiches. I have no appetite, but Cockerell tucks in as if he is starving. He missed lunch, it seems.
He is wearing a red rose in his button-hole.
‘What a lovely rose,’ I say. ‘It is impossible to grow roses in the garden at Max Gate any longer. They wilt, they become covered in disease.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Sydney, it is the trees! There are one hundred and eighty pines planted round the house, and goodness knows how many beeches. But can I get him to have them cut back? He won’t even listen to me. When it comes to the trees he doesn’t think in a rational way. He seems to believe that it would hurt the trees to be cut back. He thinks it would wound them, the trees. I am not exaggerating! His views are quite outlandish! Every twig is sacred! Trees have no nervous system. Human beings have a nervous system, but not trees!’
Cockerell is involved with his sandwich. ‘My dear Florence, you know it goes back with him a long way, his reverence for trees. Is it not possible he sees them, in some sort, as feminine creatures, in the same way that flowers are commonly regarded as feminine? Trees are essentially large flowers. And they are quiet, peaceable, rather benevolent, passive things, are they not? Might that not explain his reluctance to have them cut down?’
‘Trees are not peaceable at all. Their whole purpose is to spread themselves and so to prevent other plants from growing by denying them light. They are aggressive, greedy, selfish, hostile. It is a great mistake to see them as harmless, they are greedy and aggressive!’
‘I didn’t know you believed so strongly in Evolution.’
‘O, the truth is that it is not good for human beings to live too close to trees, medically speaking. Their spores contribute to the spread of illness. I was talking to my surgeon about it.’
‘How extraordinary.’ He munches away. ‘How alarming.’
‘I wish you would say something to Thomas. He pays attention to you. He listens to you. You were so successful with the telephone.’
‘About the trees? If you like. Though I fancy Tess would have more success.’
I follow his eyes. My husband is chaperoning Gertrude to a chair near one of the tables. She sits down, pats the seat of the chair beside her in a playful way, a flirtatious way. Obediently he sits down, like a dog. She smiles a flirtatious smile, or so it appears to m
e. Cockerell may or may not see it as flirtatious but to me, as a woman, there can be no doubt; as a woman one is able to detect signs of flirtatious behaviour, one is attuned to such matters. My husband begins to whisper in her ear.
‘Mrs. Bugler will play the part of Tess in London, I understand.’
Cockerell’s remark surprises me. ‘O no! Heavens no. Sybil Thorndike will be playing Tess. At least, we hope she will play it. It is partly a question of how long she can do it for. She seems very busy, but we hear she is very keen. Why do you ask?’
‘Merely that … Thomas gave me the impression that Mrs. Bugler would be playing it.’
‘No. Gertrude? Not at all.’
‘I must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I thought he said Gertrude would be Tess. But I see I’ve got it wrong. So it is to be Sybil Thorndike, is it?’
‘Of course! There has never been any serious possibility of Gertrude playing the part! It has never even been discussed! What on earth did Thomas say?’
‘O, nothing much. Well, Sybil Thorndike is a big name. That would be quite something, though would she not be a trifle old? Tess is meant to be, what? Eighteen or nineteen? Sybil Thorndike must be twice that. More. Would she not be better cast as Tess’s mother?’
‘That doesn’t matter in the least. The point is that Sybil Thorndike is a professional actress, that is the point. Gertrude is an amateur. The very idea of her playing the part in London … is that what Thomas said? How can he have? It has never been discussed, it is quite out of the question. You’ve seen what she is like on stage, Sydney; she wouldn’t be capable of it. She is too mannered, too melodramatic. There is some raw talent there, but the hysterics!’
I am beginning to gabble, I know, and I should have said ‘histrionics’, but Cockerell speaks before I can correct myself.
‘True – though “The Times” was very polite about her.’
‘O, all the newspapers were the same. One of them even said she was the most beautiful woman in Dorset. Can you believe it? She may be striking, but beautiful, she is not beautiful. Look at her teeth. She is simply not, not beautiful. Sometimes one feels the whole world has gone mad! I can’t see how anyone could say she was beautiful, let alone the most beautiful woman in Dorset! Do you think she is beautiful, Sydney? It baffles me. I am baffled by it.’
‘Well – you know what they say about beauty,’ he says.
‘But I simply can’t understand it. Her teeth – and that simpering manner! The very thought of her playing the part of Tess on the London stage! The thing is, Sydney’ – I lower my voice – ‘you know what he’s like. His ability to idealise’ (do I mean idolise?) ‘certain individuals is astonishing. He thinks she is a great actress, would you believe? And when there is the chance of Sybil Thorndike playing the part!’
‘Florence, I didn’t mean to upset you. I see what you mean … she does lay it on a bit thick, and if Sybil Thorndike will do it … well, you couldn’t have anyone better. Sybil Thorndike is top-notch. I saw her in “Saint Joan”, back in the spring.’
He bites into a Scotch egg.
A small, measured voice in my head tells me to calm down. Calm yourself, Florence, you have known her for four years, she has been to the house several times for tea, and we have had any number of pleasant conversations. To all intents and purposes she is a perfectly amiable young woman. This idea of her playing the part of Tess at the Haymarket must be a simple misunderstanding on Cockerell’s part. But there is another voice, not in the least measured, saying why is she flirting with your husband, why is he flirting with her, what schemes are they hatching behind your back, what has he said to her about the Haymarket, look at them leaning towards each other, leaning together, heads together, touching, he breathing something in her ear, whispering in her ear, his lips touching her ear! She nods and smiles flirtatiously! All this is so transparent, so unfeigned and open, like a pair of love-birds!
‘This is an excellent Scotch egg,’ Cockerell says blandly. ‘I haven’t had a good Scotch egg for ages. But I agree with you entirely, Sybil Thorndike would be a much safer bet. She was magnificent as Saint Joan.’
I remember the time when Thomas and I first met, when the first wife was still very much alive; in those days I was living in London, and I used to carry out occasional research on his behalf in the British Museum. More than once or twice we met in a little eating house near the Museum, and he leant and whispered into my ear. How happy I felt then! I am not merely saying that: to feel that I was helping him, serving him, it made me so happy!
Is history repeating itself? Am I merely the dull echo of the first wife? Why did I say ‘hysterics’ when I meant ‘histrionics’? Why do the wrong words sometimes tumble out of my mouth? What is happening to me?
But I am nothing if not determined. I interrupt them. I smile and interrupt their conversation.
‘Gertrude, well done. You were very good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It must be so exhausting. How is your little baby?’
‘My husband is looking after her. She is very well, thank you.’
‘She must miss you so much, night after night, when she is so tiny. And you must miss being with her.’
How thoughtful and friendly this is of me. How devious you are, Florence.
She gazes at me with those big artless eyes that she uses to such effect. I have eyes too, I want to say to her; I am not blind.
My husband as I can tell is mildly irritated, frowning.
The evening performance is interminable. Afterwards my husband and I are driven home in a sepulchral silence, two old mutes, but it is impossible to talk with Mr. Voss listening to every word. As soon as we get out of the car we hear Wessie barking urgently. The front door opens and he races towards us. I scoop him into my arms and let him kiss my ears with his rough tongue. ‘O, my little lamb, have you been all right with those nasty maids? Have you been very lonely? I am so sorry to have left you for so long.’ I let him go and he tears into the shrubbery.
My husband disappears upstairs. When I join him, several minutes later, he is already half undressed.
‘Thomas, what were you saying to Gertrude?’
‘When?’
‘You did seem to be talking a lot. You must have been talking about something. During the tea.’
Silence.
This is what happens. Has he heard me or not? Am I his wife or am I not?
I persist. ‘I thought she acted very well, but she is only an amateur. I very much hope you did not say anything to her about the Haymarket.’
‘My dear, in the light of the reviews, it is only fair that she should have first refusal.’
‘And? Is that what you told her? What did she say?’
‘She is interested.’
‘But, Thomas, she has a husband and a baby to look after! How can she possibly go up to London?’
Silence once more.
‘And what of Sybil Thorndike?’
‘It will probably be a short run at first. If the run is extended, Sybil Thorndike can stand in for her.’
So Sybil Thorndike is to be a second string, a stand-in for the wife of a country butcher. How happy will Sybil Thorndike be about that, I wonder?
‘Would it not make better sense if Sybil Thorndike were to play it from the beginning? She is a much more accomplished actress. Gertrude does so over-act. Do you not think so? She over-acts dreadfully. I know Barrie feels that. So does Cockerell.’
‘Cockerell told me he thought she was splendid.’
‘Really? He said that! Cockerell?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was being polite. You know Cockerell, he was simply being polite. I know he feels Sybil Thorndike would be very much better as Tess. He saw her in “Saint Joan”. He agrees with me, she would be much better than Gertrude.’
‘No one could play the part of Tess as well as Gertrude. I do not think it possible for any London actress to understand the part fully, or to hit the right accent. I am
very much looking forward to it.’
‘You are not intending to go up to London to see it? You can’t possibly. You’re eighty-four!’
‘I am perfectly well enough to visit London for a night,’ he answers in a stiff voice, and pulls on his night-shirt.
I am incapable of speech. That he intends to run after her, up to London, at his age, astonishes me. I say it astonishes me but it also wounds me.
‘I cannot see how Gertrude can possibly go to London. She is a mother, her responsibility is to her baby. It would be too selfish of her, it would be unforgivable – taking a little baby up to London. If I were in her situation I would not even contemplate it. Mothers should not abandon their babies, whatever the circumstances.’
‘My dear, she is going to discuss arrangements with Captain Bugler.’
‘Captain Bugler? Who is Captain Bugler?’
‘Captain Bugler is her husband.’
‘I thought her husband was a butcher.’
‘He may be a butcher now, but he was a Captain in the War. He won the Military Cross, out in India, according to Tilley. I thought you knew that. He is a war hero. No doubt he is capable of looking after a baby for a few days.’
I am now utterly disconcerted; why, I cannot say, but my image of a fat, sanguinary butcher has been ousted by that of a handsome dark-haired man in army uniform, a medal pinned to his breast. He and Gertrude stand side by side, she holding her baby, as in some photograph. I am not inclined to be jealous, I do not want to be jealous, but it is impossible for me not to feel a certain pang of something or other.
My nerves are trembling like leaves and I have no expectation of sleep. Everything is falling on top of me. I am forty-five years old and my life is in tatters. This is where I am now, this is what my life is like.
CHAPTER V
‘Tess’ was an episode in my life from so long ago. Years on end slip by without my giving it a thought, and then I read something in the newspapers, or I happen to be cleaning the little silver vase, and the memories come back in a rush. It often happens on those still, foggy mornings, but there are other times too. A few months ago a woman came to our local W.I. to speak about Mr. Hardy. The title of her talk was ‘The Pessimism of Thomas Hardy’ and I sat there in the drill hall and listened. I was told that she had been to W.I.s all around the country, delivering the same talk on Thomas Hardy and his pessimism, and, my, did she make him out to be pessimistic! And cold, and unfeeling, and heartless, too. One thing she said really annoyed me. She said: ‘He was a great writer, but no one could really describe him as a great man.’ I meant to keep quiet, but when I heard that I decided I had to say something. So, at the end of her talk, when she was taking questions, I stood up and said that whenever I had met him he had been warm and amusing and full of life. ‘The Thomas Hardy I remember,’ I said, ‘was a very great man.’ She seemed a little taken aback, and afterwards over coffee she came and asked me how well I had known him. I said that he was my friend, as he was, but I did feel downcast. Once I was home I went straight up to the spare bedroom, and spent the whole afternoon losing myself in the past, nostalgically leafing through my old scrapbooks.
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