Ngaio Marsh - Light Thickens

They did so, marking what they did in their scripts, gradually working through the whole scene, taking notes, walking the moves, fitting the pieces together. Peregrine said: “If ever there was a scene that could be ruined by a bit-part actor, this is it. It’s all very well to say you must completely ignore the ghost, that for you it’s not there; it’s hellishly difficult to do it. If you can actually look at it without focusing your eyes, that’s fine, but again it calls for a damn good actor to achieve it. We’ve got to make the audience accept the reality of the ghost and be frightened by it. The most intelligent of you all, Lennox, has the line: Good-night; and better health attend his majesty . When next we see Lennox he’s speaking of his suspicions to Ross. The actor will, ever so slightly, not a fraction too much, make us aware of this. A hair’s-breadth pause after he says Good-night , perhaps. You’ve got your moves. Take them once more to make sure and go away and think through the whole scene, step by step, and then decide absolutely what you are feeling and doing at every moment.”

When they had gone Peregrine took Macbeth’s scene with the murderers. Then the actual murder of Banquo.

“Listen!” Peregrine said. “Just listen to the gift this golden hand offers you. It’s got everything. The last glint of sunset, the beat of hooves, the near approach of disaster:

The West yet glimmers with some streaks of day.

Now spurs the lated traveller apace

To gain the timely inn.

And now we hear the thud of horses’ hooves. Louder and louder. They stop. A pause. Then the horses go away. Enter Banquo with a lanthorn. I do want a profoundly deep voice for this speech. I’m sorry,” he said to the First Murderer. “I’m going to give it to Gaston. It’s a matter of voice, dear boy, not of talent. Believe me, it’s a matter of voice.”

“Yes. All right,” said the stricken Murderer.

They read the scene.

“That’s exactly what I want. You will see that Seyton is present in both these scenes and indeed is never far from Macbeth’s business from this time on. We are very lucky to have Mr. Sears to take the part. He is the sword-bearer. He looms over the play and so does his tremendous weapon.”

“It is,” Gaston boomingly explained, “the symbol of coming death. Its shadow grows more menacing as the play draws inexorably towards its close. I am reminded —”

“Exactly,” Peregrine interrupted. “The play grows darker. Always darker. The relief is in the English scene. And now…” He hurried on, while Gaston also continued in his pronouncements of doom. For a short time they spoke together and then Gaston, having attained his indistinguishable climax, stopped as suddenly as a turned-off tap, said, “Good morning,” and left the theatre.

Peregrine opened his arms and let them flop. “One puts up with the unbelievable,” he said. “He’s an actor. He’s a paid-up member of Equity. He spoke that little speech in a way that sent quivers up and down my spine and he’s got Sir Dougal Macdougal and Simon Morten banging away at each other with a zeal that makes you sweat. I suppose I’m meant to put up with other bits of eccentricity as they recur.”

“Is he certifiable?” asked Maggie.

“Probably.”

“I wouldn’t put up with it,” said Bruce Barrabell. “Get him back.”

“What do I say when he comes? He’s perfect for the part. Perfect.”

Nina said: “Just a quiet word in private? Ask him not to?”

“Not to what?”

“Go on talking while you are talking?” she said doubtfully.

“He hasn’t done it since the first day until now. I’ll leave it for this time.”

“Of course, if one’s afraid of him —” sneered Barrabell and was heard.

“I am afraid. I’m afraid he’ll walk out and I don’t mind admitting it. He’s irreplaceable,” said Peregrine.

“I agree with you, dear boy,” said Sir Dougal.

“So do I,” said Maggie. “He’s too valuable.”

“So be it,” said Peregrine. “Now, William, let’s see how you shape up. Come on, Nina. And Lennox. And the murderers.”

They shaped up well. William was quick and unobjectionable. The boy was cheeky and he showed spirit and breeding. His mama returned, a quietly dressed woman from whom he had inherited his vowels. They completed the financial arrangements and left. Nina, delighted with him, also left. Peregrine said to Dougal and Maggie: “And now, my dears, the rest of the day is ours. Let’s consolidate.”

They did. They, too, went well. Very well. And yet there was something about the rehearsal that made Peregrine almost wish for ructions. For an argument. He had insisted upon the Lady using the sexual attributes she had savagely wrenched away from herself. Maggie agreed. Dougal responded. He actually shivered under her touch. When they broke for discussion, she did so absolutely and was at once the professional actress tackling a professional detail. He was slower, almost resentful. Only for a second or two and then all attention. Too much so. As if he was playing to an audience; in a way, as if he showed himself off to Maggie — “I’m putting on an act for you.”

Peregrine told himself he was being fanciful. It’s this play, he thought. It’s a volcano. Overflowing. Thickening. And then: Perhaps that’s why all these damn superstitions have grown up round it.

“Any questions?” he asked them.

“It’s about her feeling for Macbeth,” said Maggie. “I take it that from the beginning she has none. She simply uses her body as an incentive.”

“Absolutely. She turns him on like a tap and turns him off when she gets her response. From the beginning she sees his weakness. He wants to keep his cake and eat it.”

“Yes. She, on the other hand, dedicates herself to evil. She’s not an insensitive creature but she shuts herself off completely from any thought of remorse. Before the murder she takes enough wine to see her through and notes, with satisfaction, that it has made her bold,” said Maggie.

“She asks too much of herself. And pays the penalty. After the disastrous dinner party, she almost gives up,” Peregrine said. “Macbeth speaks disjointedly of more crimes. She hardly listens. Always the realist, she says they want sleep! When next we see her she is asleep and saying those things that she would not say if she were awake. She’s driven herself too hard. Now, the horror finds its way out in her sleep.”

“And what about her old man all this time?” asked Dougal loudly. “Is she thinking about him, for God’s sake?”

“We’re not told but — no. I imagine she still goes on for a time, stopping up the awful holes he makes in the facade but with no pretense of affection or even much interest. He’s behaving as she feared he might. She has no sympathy or fondness for him. When next we see him, Dougal, he’s half-mad.”

“Thank you very much!”

“Well, distracted. But what words! They pour out of him. Despair itself. To the last syllable of recorded time . You know,” Peregrine said, “it always amazes me that the play never becomes a bore. The leading man is a hopeless character in terms of heroic images. It’s the soliloquies that work the magic, Dougal.”

“I suppose so.”

“You know so,” said Maggie, cheerfully. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Doesn’t he, Perry?”

“Of course he does,” Peregrine said heartily.

They were standing onstage. There were no lights on in the auditorium, but a voice out there said: “Oh, don’t make any mistake about it, Maggie, he knows what he’s doing.” And laughed.

It was Morten, the Macduff.

“Simon!” Maggie said. “What are you doing down there? Have you been watching?”