Ivy Compton-Burnett - Dolores

He sat in a low chair, with the manuscript set on his knees, and his eyes nearly touching its pages. The friend sat opposite, his fine frame in repose, the grey waves of his hair glossy in the firelight, his large, shapely hands twining and untwining at his breast.

Claverhouse plunged at once into the play. The harshness of his voice and his eruptive utterance at first gave colour to what he read: but as the drama unfolded, Soulsby leant forward in his seat, ceasing his nervous movements, and rivetting his eyes on his face; and Janet almost crouched in her chair, her strange eyes gazing before her, and gathering tears or fire as the deep tones fell. The reader’s voice, under the veil of its own qualities, became the voice of each character. At one time he sprang to his feet, and read for minutes standing. His tones swelled, sank, and carried trembling or tears. At the end he neither raised his eyes nor moved his limbs. He sat unseeing and silent, living yet in his self-created world. Neither Soulsby nor Janet broke the silence. The hours had passed; but neither had heeded them. The silence lingered, and seemed to be deepening, when suddenly Claverhouse turned, and looked at Janet.

The aged woman was exhausted. She was lying back in her chair, with features and limbs relaxed. Crouching thus, with her eyes closed, and energy and motion gone, she looked what she was — a fragile, aged creature. The playwright rose; and stooping over her, raised her to her feet with an easiness which showed the service familiar; his face betraying some depth of feeling, but his voice abrupt and harshly toned.

“Let me have that lamp, Soulsby. Push that chair aside, and open the door. My mother is worn out. I will be down in a moment.”

The strange-looking couple passed from the room, and mounted the staircase; the son walking close to the mother, slackening his pace to hers, and keeping the hand not hampered with the lamp on her arm, in readiness to tighten its grasp. The scene was a daily one on the steep little staircase. He was as mindful of Janet’s years in the matter of bodily danger, as forgetful of them in the dealings of their daily life. He feared to trust her on the stairs of the narrow old dwelling; and never forgot to help her to her door at night, or to wait in the morning to support or carry her down. He knew nothing of her many unattended journeys to the door of his working-chamber; for Janet loved the tender service, and shrank from robbing of their value the many times of its fulfilment. She had spoken no word on the matter to Julia; but the faithful old servant watched and was wise, rejoicing in the trust she had earned; and when her master’s eyes were safe, paid no heed to the disobedience, but otherwise guarded the forbidden ground from unaided steps.

This evening Julia’s doings told much of herself and her place in the household. Through the reading of the play she knelt with her ear at the keyhole; though her face betrayed that her pleasure was rather in her master’s voice than in what he read. When the silence came, she rose to her feet, but remained in a posture of listening; and when Claverhouse and Janet appeared, neither started nor stepped aside, but stood in quiet waiting. When the former returned, she watched him out of sight with venerating eyes, and then made haste to the tending of her mistress.

Claverhouse made his appeal to his friend almost before the door was open.

“Well?” he said; “well?”

Soulsby was sitting in the firelight, his hands passing up and down before each other, and his eyes fixed on the glowing coals. He had been moved to strong emotion, and his nervousness had left him.

“It is wonderful,” he said in grave, musical tones, turning his large grey eyes to Claverhouse. “It is wonderful. It is great — there is no doubt it is great.”

“It is true, is it not?” said Claverhouse. “It is that, that I strove for. Have I got it, Soulsby? Ah, but I have.”

“The play is wonderful,” repeated Soulsby. “It is marvellously deep.”

“Deep?” said Claverhouse. “Yes, it is deep. There is no great play that is not deep. But there are great plays that are not true. Mine is true, if you could but know it.”

“If I could but know it?” said the other with a return of his nervous manner. “Yes, yes — you are right. I hardly follow you.”

“You do not follow me?” said Claverhouse, leaning forwards, and speaking low. “Listen! When Althea hears that her father is dead, she utters no sound, no word — that is true. The madman in his lucid days thinks more of the life he shares for the time with his kind, than of the certain madness before him — that is true. When the teacher is enfeebled beyond the toil of his years, his thoughts are of the pupils whom he taught in his prime, rather than of those he is yielding up with their present gratitude. When old Jannetta is failing, she is cold to the friends who tend her age, and yearns towards her kin of blood.”

“Yes, yes, I follow,” said Soulsby. “I see that it is true — that all — that all your plays are true.”

“No, no, that is not what I said,” said Claverhouse, rising to his feet. “In all of them there is truth; but the two last are all true; this one, and the one that lies unread in the closet.” Then with a change of tone, “Ah, well! Well, Soulsby, what is there in this, that offends your scholar’s judgment?”

“There — there was — there seemed to me — amongst other things,” said Soulsby, “a slight — a slight discrepancy between the opening speech, and the reference to it later in the play. I–I think, if you consider it, you will agree with me.”

“Soulsby, you are a pedant — a quibbling schoolman,” said Claverhouse, moving his limbs impatiently. “You love the letter; and the spirit escapes you.”

“No, no, believe me, it does — it does not,” said Soulsby. “I was only — only answering the question you put. And I think you will see — will see I am right. A superficial inelegance remains — remains an inelegance.”

“Inelegance!” said Claverhouse, fuming in contempt for the expression, and then changing his tone. “Soulsby, you are a friend and helper I value greatly. You understand it, is it not so? I knew it; and too well to be showing it so overmuch. So there are other ‘inelegances’? Well, let us see to them. Tell me them. I will be grateful.”

The friends talked earnestly over the manuscript; Soulsby showing his points with nervous insistence; and Claverhouse alternately fuming and complying. He chafed less as the talk proceeded, and he felt the spirit of the drama tighten its hold. He read on rapidly, often losing sight of the task of revision; and at last became utterly lost in it. He rose to his feet, holding it closely to his eyes, and read on aloud, in forgetfulness of Soulsby’s presence. It was one o’clock in the morning. Soulsby noiselessly rose to his feet, crept to the door, stood for a moment watching the stooping form, and then slipped from the house. Julia came from the kitchen, fastened the outer door, and went up to bed. An hour later her master followed her, walking wearily, and carrying the manuscript under his arm.

Day began late in the playwright’s strange little household. The many clocks of the university were striking the hour of nine, when Julia entered the living-room to clear the day’s disorder; and the sun was strong, when Claverhouse and Janet sat at their silent morning meal. Janet had recovered from the previous night’s exhaustion. She was one of those aged people who sleep readily and long; and thus put on their waning energy the minimum daily drain. The daylight had neither injustice nor mercy for the seamed, dark-coloured skin, the strong, sunken jaw, and the hair’s dead whiteness. When the meal was over she rose; and seating herself on a covered stool by an ottoman that was wont to serve her as a table, spoke her first words of the day to her son.