Ngaio Marsh - Light Thickens

“I am not entirely orthodox. And we take the play seriously. My great-grandfather was a cannibal,” said Rangi in his exquisite voice. “He believed he absorbed the attributes of his victims.”

A complete silence fell upon the table. Perhaps because they had been rather a noisy party before, their silence affected other patrons, and Rangi’s declaration, quite loudly made, was generally heard. The silence lasted only for a second or two.

“Four beers and two tomato juices,” said Ross, returning with the drinks. He laid the tray on the table.

In the third week the play began to consolidate. The parts that were clearly spurious had of course been taken out — the structure fully revealed. It was written with economy: the remorseless destiny of the Macbeths, the certainty from the beginning that they were irrevocably cursed, their progress, at first clinging to each other, then separated and swept away downstream to their damnation: these elements declared themselves in every phase of this destructive play.

Why, then, was it not dreary? Why did it excite rather than distress?

“I don’t know why,” Peregrine said to his wife. “Well, I do, really. It’s because it’s wonderfully well written. Simple as that. It’s the atmosphere that it generates.”

“When you directed it before, did you feel the same way about it?”

“I think so. Not so marked, though. It’s a much better company, of course. Really, it’s a perfect company. If you heard Simon Morten in the English scene, Emily, saying, My wife kill’d too ? Then when Malcolm offers his silly conventional bit of advice, Simon looks at Ross and says, He has no children .”

“I know.”

“Come down to rehearsal one of these days and see.”

“Shall I?”

“Yes. Do. At the end of next week.”

“All right. How about the superstitions? Is Nina Gaythorne behaving herself?”

“She’s trying to, at least. I don’t mind betting she’s taking all sorts of precautions on the side but as long as she doesn’t talk about it… Barrabell — he’s the Banquo, you know — feeds her stories, I’m quite sure. I caught him at it last week. The scrap shed down by the river was struck by lightning, you know.”

“No! You never told me.”

“Didn’t I? I suppose I’ve clapped locks on anything that looks like superstition and don’t unfasten them even for you. I caught Barrabell nicely and gave poor old Nina the shock of her life.”

“What were they saying?”

“He was going on about one of the witches — Blondie — making a scene and getting the jimjams during the storm. Some people do get upset, you know — it’s electrical. They always say they’re sorry and they can’t help it.”

“Was Blondie all right?”

“Right as rain when the lightning stopped.”

“How unfortunate.”

“What?”

“That there should be a thunderstorm.”

“You don’t mean —?”

“Oh, you know how I feel about all the nonsense. I just thought how unfortunate from the point of view of the people who do.”

“The silly fatheads have got over it. The theatre wasn’t struck by lightning. Being fixed up with a good conductor, it wouldn’t have felt it anyway.”

“No.” After a short silence, Emily said: “How’s the little boy behaving?”

“William Smith? Very well. He’s a good actor. It’ll be interesting to see what happens to him after adolescence.

He may not go on with the theatre but I hope he does. He’s doubling.”

“The Bloody Child?”

“And the Crowned Child. They’re one and the same. You should hear him wail out his Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hi-i-ill shall come against him .”

“Golly!”

“Yes, my girl. That’s the word for it.”

“How are you working the scene? The apparitions?”

“The usual things. Dry ice. A trapdoor. A lift. Background of many whispering voices: Double, double . Strong rhythm. The show of Kings is all Banquo’s descendants. Each wears a Banquo head — Gaston’s handiwork, of course. The scene ends with And points at them for his . The next bit in the script is somebody’s incredibly silly addition. I should think the stage manager’s for a fourth-rate company in the sticks. It’s a wonder he didn’t give the witches red noses and slapsticks.”

“So you go on with — what?”

“There’s a blackout and great confusion. Crescendo. Noises. Macbeth’s voice. Sounds, possibly drums. I’m not sure. Footfalls, maybe. Lights dim up with Lennox at the door. Macbeth comes out. Rest of scene as written.”

“Smashing.”

“Well, I hope so. It’s going to need handling.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“It’s the only tricky one left from the staging point of view.”

“Could Gaston be a help? About witchcraft?”

“I daren’t risk asking him. He could, of course, but he does so — so go off at the deep end. He is a teeny bit mad, you know. Only on his own lay, but he is. He’s God’s gift when it comes to swords. What will you think of the fight? It terrifies me.”

“Is it really dangerous, Perry?”

He waited for a minute.

“Not according to Gaston, always making sure the stage is right. He’ll keep a nightly watch on it. The two men have reached an absolute perfection of movement. They’re getting on together, man to man, a bit better, too. Maggie had a go at Simon, bless her, and he’s less crissy-crossy when they are not fighting, thank God.”

“Well,” said Emily, “nobody can accuse you of being superstitious, I’ll say that for you.”

“Will you? And you’ll come next week when we’ll take it in continuity with props?”

“You bet I will,” said Emily.

“I don’t know what you’ll think of Gaston. I mean, of what I’m doing with him. He’s the bearer of the great ceremonial sword — the claidheamh-mor. We’re making a harness and heavy belt for him to take the hilt. It’s the real weapon and it weighs a ton. He’s as strong as a bull. He follows Macbeth everywhere like a sort of judgment. And at the end he’ll carry the head on it. He is watching Jeremy’s drawings for his costume with the eye of a hawk.”

“What’s it like?”

“Like all the other Macbeth menage. Embryo tartan, black woolen tights, thonged sheepskin leggings. A mask for the fights. In his final appearance with the head on the sword, he — er — he suggested a scarlet tabard.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Perry!”

“I know. Where would he change and why? With fighting thanes milling all around. I pointed this out and for once he hadn’t an answer. He took refuge in huffy grandeur, said it was merely an idea, and went into a long thing about color and symbolism.”

“I feel I must meet him.”

“Shall I invite him for tea?”

“Do you like him?” she asked incredulously.

“Oh, one couldn’t exactly do that. Or, I don’t think one could. Collect him, perhaps. No, he might just turn into a bore and not go home.”

“In that case we won’t ask him here.”

“Or bring the Macbeth’s head with him to show you. He did that to me. When we’d finished afternoon rehearsal. It was in the shadows of the wardrobe room. I nearly fainted.”

“Frightful?”

“Terrifying. It’s sheet-white and so like Dougal. With a bloody gash, you know. He wondered if I had any suggestions to make.”

“Had you?”

“Just to cover it up quickly. Fortunately, the audience only sees it momentarily. He turns it to face Malcolm, who is up on the steps at the back. It’ll be back to audience.”