“As for the girls,” he said, “that’s simple. Wendy and Ruth. There is nobody else, now that Jill has gone.”
Some risks had to be taken, and Lucy thought it better to let him know that she did not want Wendy, who was growing much too big for her boots and had run out of Twelfth Night in hysterics because of a bad notice. It would be very good for Wendy, she suggested, to be left out of one production.
Thornley was inclined to agree, but reminded her that Ruth could not play Gertrude and Ophelia.
“Kitty wouldn’t be bad as Gertrude,” said Lucy. “She has so much …”
Voluptuousness was the word which occurred to her, but she feared that it might shock him.
“Warmth …” she continued. “And she can make up to look middle-aged better than any of them. She really is a good actress.”
“I know. I’m fond of Kitty, and she has worked so hard. She deserves a leading part. But that accent!”
“She’s been working at it all the summer; she went to a phonetics specialist, and she’s greatly improved. She’ll still say, ‘The Queen caraouses …’ but I’ve heard as bad on the West End stage. She’s back in Ravonsbridge; if you could just find time to …”
This was an astute suggestion. Mr. Thornley was certain that he could not find the time, and that he would be content with Lucy’s decision. But could Ruth manage Ophelia?
“Ianthe …” murmured Lucy.
“Ianthe’s in Yorkshire,” he said hastily. “She’s left the School.”
“If she came back …”
“I should be sorry. She’d really very much better stay in Yorkshire. There’s no question … You must see what Ruth can do. You must decide as you think best.”
Lucy deftly changed the subject and launched such a battery of questions upon minor points that he thought he should never catch his train. All the positions and movements, he assured her, had been worked out by him years ago. She would find them in his interleaved copy of the play and on diagrams in the Hamlet file. Every step, every gesture was marked and she need alter nothing. (Oh, needn’t I? thought Lucy.) If she had the players coached according to his notes by the time that he got back in November, he could supervise the final rehearsals.
“But if I should want to alter anything?”
“Oh, alter anything you like, my dear. But I don’t think you’ll want to. I think you’ll find my notes can’t be bettered.”
They lunched on sandwiches as they went through the reports she was to prepare for the Council, and in the middle of the afternoon he rushed off to pack and catch his train. His parting remark reflected his frenzied state of mind:
“I’ll send you a wire from Geneva to tell me how it’s getting on.”
Lucy collected her armful of files and, before returning to Sheep Lane, slipped for a moment into the dark, silent theatre. Fumbling with the switchboard, she turned on all the available lights — battens, floats and spots. Then, looking out into the dim auditorium, she announced:
“You’re going to see something!”
On her way home she called first at the Rectory, for Ianthe’s address, and then at the Post Office. A telegram had to be composed which should not reveal too much to the post-mistress. After some cogitation she wrote and despatched the following message:
His eminence gone away and I am the local Basil Dean stop Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark query In the bag come right home Lucy
Not for an instant did she hesitate to bring Ianthe back to Ravonsbridge. She knew nothing of Thornley’s reasons for wishing the girl away and thought him prejudiced. She believed that she could get Miss Frogmore’s support and she was sure that such a performance as Ianthe would give, as Ophelia, must convince him, on his return, of her right to the part. All that she had against Ianthe was forgotten or set aside. The Ravonsbridge Hamlet was now all-important and must not be allowed to suffer because she had quarrelled with her former friend.
Caution had never come naturally to Lucy and she flung herself into this task with all that vehemence which had been but temporarily suspended. She was determined to get a production which had room in it for Ianthe’s talent. None of Thornley’s old stuff would do. The rest of the cast must be galvanised; they must be made to feel that this was not merely another student production, but a unique and important event. They must all do better than they had ever done before. Everything must be new and fresh and vigorous. Technical shortcomings might look after themselves if only the atmosphere of poetry could be created.
After a hasty tea she sat down to study Thornley’s script. It was, as she expected, like a plan for a walking tour. He always kept his players travelling — partly because he seldom directed people experienced enough to stand still. They were never allowed to say more than three lines upon the same spot. There were not many chairs at Elsinore, but Hamlet was kept busy, during most of his soliloquies, sitting on them, one after the other, in relentless rotation. And Rosencrantz, inevitably, sat astride a chair, facing the back — no Thornley production ever omitted this most unnatural proceeding, except the Nativity Play, which had no chairs. But nobody was going to do it in a Carmichael production.
At six o’clock a reply from Ianthe arrived:
The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge arriving Ravonsbridge tomorrow you are a pet Ianthe
It was a relief to Lucy, whose only fear had been lest Ianthe should refuse her olive branch. She decided to meet Ianthe’s train, if she could, and enjoin discretion; they had better keep their plans secret until Miss Frogmore returned. A very little persuasion would secure her approval, for she had a high opinion of Ianthe’s work and had wanted to cast her as Viola. With Miss Frogmore behind them they could let pink pig Wendy know that she was not indispensable.
Having studied Thornley’s notes, Lucy began to work out her own ideas. Immediately she perceived that he really did know what he was doing, that her own inclinations were too static, and that she had a tendency to leave people in the same place for ever. The longer she worked, the more her respect for him revived. The magnitude of the task began to be apparent to her. There were even moments when she wondered if she ought not to follow his directions. But there was no room for anything like Ianthe in his Hamlet, and Ianthe she must have. The world must see what she had seen that afternoon upon the terrace of Slane St. Mary’s.
She was quite sure that she could get what she wanted, if she had time enough — if she could proceed on a system of trial and error. But this might impair her authority with the students. Not all of them would obey her as they obeyed Thornley; here, too, she perceived that she had under-rated him. He was mild and equable, but his authority was unquestioned. He could always make them do what he wanted. Could she?
She hoped that she could. Robin, who could, if he liked, give a lot of trouble, would be on her side. He would be so glad to play Polonius that he would do his very best for her. She knew that he had been dreading this production. He disliked tragedy. He could not speak verse. His gifts were for comedy, though he was not a Shakespearean actor at all. As Polonius he might hope to give a creditable performance, but his Hamlet would be dire and no one knew it better than he did. She decided to be very artful. She would not tell him immediately of her plans; she would give him Polonius as a reward for co-operative behaviour.
Towards midnight she discovered that she was hungry; she had forgotten to get herself any supper. She paused to brew some coffee and remembered that at this moment last year she had been sitting with her mother and Stephen in the Gorling kitchen, drinking champagne and laughing like an idiot. Ever since Mr. Thornley’s appearance at breakfast she had been too busy to tell herself what day this was. She was too busy, now, to do so for long. She swallowed her coffee and went back to her notes.
2
MARION’S baby kept Lady Frances in Scotland throughout October. She chafed at so long an absence, unable to believe that the Institute could get on without her. She had proof that it could not. Had she been in Ravonsbridge, M
r. Thornley would never have been permitted to abandon his post in so flagrant a manner. The Council should have recalled him, would have recalled him, if she had been at the meeting. But in her absence they had tamely assented to his unauthorised jaunt and there was nothing to be done save pickle a rod for him when he came home. Meanwhile the Hamlet rehearsals must be going on with nobody to direct them except poor Miss Carmichael. She wrote urgently to Charles and Penelope, commanding them to go and find out what was happening in the theatre.
Charles declared that he was too busy, but Penelope looked in on a rehearsal one evening and came back to Cyre Abbey with a very long face.
“It’s awful,” she told Charles, during dinner. “I don’t know what Mr. Thornley will say when he comes back.”
“He won’t have a chance to say anything much,” said Charles. “Mamma will do all the talking.”
“Yes, but I really don’t think I’ll tell her how awful it is. It’ll only worry her and she’s worried enough about Marion. She can’t do anything.”
“What is so bad about it? It can’t be worse than it was five years ago.”
“Oh, it is! Miss Carmichael doesn’t seem to know in the least what it ought to be like. She can’t ever have seen a production of Hamlet. And who do you think Ophelia is? Ianthe!”
“No. Not really?”
“She is. That shows you. And you know that bit where she’s supposed to be mad and hands all the flowers round? Well, she doesn’t. She buries a bird instead. At least … I gather it’s a bird. She says: Farewell, my dove! Is that in the book?”
“Yes. I think it is.”
“I never heard anyone say it before. Well, you can’t see this bird or the flowers, they’re all imaginary. Mr. Thornley always had real flowers, so you knew what they were. And she never takes the least notice of anybody. She comes on looking completely mad.”
“Oughtn’t she?” asked Charles.
“Not so mad. She’s got this bird and these flowers in her apron, supposed to, and she says it’s a bier, and goes to a sort of altar where the King says his prayers in another scene, with steps up to it, and she puts the bird down and arranges the flowers round it and sings over it. I mean she’s talking to the bird when she says: Here’s fennel for you, and here’s rue for you, and all that. I should have thought everybody knew she had to hand the flowers round to the King and the Queen and Laertes. You really don’t know if she thinks it’s the bird or her father!”
“Who is Hamlet? That boy with the eyelashes?”
“Robin? Oh, no. He’s only Polonius. That’s another thing. She’s got in a Hamlet from outside.”
“Outside Ravonsbridge?”
“Outside the Institute. He’s a Welsh boy from the new town and he’s in the Works. That’s why they have to have the rehearsals so late; he can’t come till after six.”
“Is he any good?”
“I only saw him in part of the graveyard scene. He’s all right, but he’s got a Welsh accent. But he does it quite properly; he picks up the skull and says: Poor Yorick and everything. It’s rather ghastly, though. He does it too much as if it was really a skull. I mean it’s not a nice idea to think you’ve picked up a real person’s skull, especially somebody you knew. It seemed worse, because he had a yellow pullover.”
“My dear Penelope! What do you mean?”
“I mean when they’re all dressed up perhaps it won’t seem so real. The horrified sort of way he held it made you wonder if it smelt or something.”
“He sounds as if he might be rather good,” mused Charles. “What’s his name? Do you know?”
“I’ve forgotten. Miss Frogmore told me he’d won a prize for declamation at an Eisteddfod. But that’s Welsh. And he runs an amateur dramatic company down in the new town or something like that. And Miss Carmichael went to see one of their shows and admired him so much she got him to play this. But I’m sure Mamma won’t approve. I mean, it’s rather a cheek of him to run this dramatic company when there is the Institute.”
Charles advised her not to disturb their mother by reports of this kind. He pointed out that such innovations could not have been attempted without Hayter’s approval. His curiosity was roused. He did not often go to the Institute but he was obliged, a few days later, to look in at Hayter’s office in order to sign some Presidential letters. He took the opportunity to ask a few questions.
Hayter explained. Owen Rees was the son of a coal miner, over in the valleys beyond the Welsh border. He had been in the M.M. works for some years and was a personality in the lower town. There was no question but that he was a gifted actor and his little company, largely drawn from the M.M. workers, had staged some striking productions. Miss Carmichael had escorted old Mr. Meeker to see one of them and had been greatly impressed. She had thought, and Hayter agreed with her, that efforts might be made to bring all this talent and enthusiasm into the orbit of the Institute. If Rees could be induced to take the part, many M.M. workers would come up the hill to see him, for he was very popular.
She had asked Hayter if it would be possible, since Rees was obviously far superior to any of the students, to include him in the cast without enrolling him in the school. Hayter had obligingly looked up the provisions of the Constitution and discovered that guest actors could be invited at any time. Rees had jumped at the chance; he had always yearned to play Hamlet and he was not, so Hayter declared, afraid of all that poetry. Also, the invitation had gratified public opinion in the lower town. The production was causing more stir than anything done by the Institute for a number of years. There were even enquiries from the mining valleys whence Rees came; parties were coming in motor coaches for the first night.
“And does Mr. Thornley know of all this?” asked Charles.
Hayter looked demure and said that it had been difficult to get in touch with Mr. Thornley. But Miss Carmichael had consulted himself and Miss Frogmore at every point. There was no doubt that she was a most enterprising girl. She seemed to have put new life into everybody. Mr. Millwood really ought to look into the theatre and see them at it. Miss Meadows would be rehearsing that evening, and she was worth watching.
Charles would have liked to do so, but he flinched from the commotion which his appearance always caused at any Institute function. He would have smothered his curiosity and gone home if he had not met Angera in the quadrangle.
“You are coming to see the rehearsal?” suggested Emil. “I also. Tonight it is Ianthe.”
“Shouldn’t we disturb them?”
“Ach, no. Everybody is going, the whole Institute. One goes every night.”
“But I’m … I turn up here so seldom, they might be excused for thinking it an intrusion.”
Angera realised that a Millwood in the audience might create self-consciousness.
“We can go to Miss Frogmore’s little box,” he said, taking Charles by the arm. “Nobody can see us there.”
Charles yielded. They went into the theatre and climbed the stairs to Miss Frogmore’s box.
“For myself,” said Angera, as they went, “I am the most enthusiastic for this Owen Rees. He is a true artist. For Ianthe … but you will see. I am curious to know what you will think.”
“And Miss Carmichael’s production?”
Angera paused in the corridor outside the box and burst out laughing.
“Ach, poor Lucy! It is not production. All the time she is saying: Now that’s wrong. I have made a mistake….”
“She’s no good at it?”
“You will see. All the time, nothing but mistakes. Yet, imagine, these children are acting one million times better than they have ever acted before. All these mistakes, but she is not stupid I think.”
He opened the door of the box upon a shrill hullabaloo. Laertes, on the stage below, was battering at the gates of Elsinore, accompanied by a chubby mob. Lucy had been obliged to use all the extra boys as guards and the insurgent Danes were played by the stage-struck girls.
Her voice rose from the auditorium:
“No, no! Stop! That’s all wrong! I’m so sorry!”
Laughter went up, from the stage and from all parts of the house. Charles peered out of the box for a moment and saw her standing in the stalls. Her face was dirty and her hair was wild. The house was full of people who had come in to watch.
“You,” she said, pointing to Claudius, who was downstage, “oughtn’t to be there.”
“It’s where you told me to be.”
“I know. I made a mistake.”
There was more laughter. But it was, Charles realised, affectionate and friendly. It ceased as soon as she spoke again. They might laugh but they were taking her seriously.
“Get up on the throne,” she commanded. “Get up there as soon as you’ve said: The doors are broke! And sit there waiting for anyone to dare touch you. You can say: Divinity doth hedge a king … much better up there.”
“O.K.,” said Claudius.
“And you, Laertes, rush in … Where is this king? … see him waiting for you on his throne and pull up short. Checked by seeing him there. Then turn and tell the mob to get out.”
“O.K.,” said Laertes.
“And you, mob, don’t all shout: No, let’s come in! Only the ones behind, who can’t see, shout that. The front ones start pushing out almost before he tells them to, when they see the King. Kitty … don’t clutch Alec from behind. Throw yourself between him and the King. Now! Again …”
The scene proceeded.
“Every time,” whispered Angera, “poor Lucy must make a mistake before it is right.”
“It’s right now,” replied Charles. “It’s very good now. I like your set, Angera. Who’s that girl?”
“Kitty. She speaks badly, but she acts with the whole body. This I find so rare, in England.”
“She does. One can believe she’s infatuated with Claudius. Laertes is pretty bad …”
“There is nobody good for the part. He can’t speak. At the grave he is good, also I think in the fencing…. Ach, now! Attend!”
Lucy Carmichael Page 19