“If you say so.”
He held her by her arms. She gave him a quick kiss and withdrew.
“Good-night, Simon.”
“Good-night.”
When she had shut the door and he was alone outside, he said: “All the same, to hell with Sir Dougal Macdougal.”
On Thursday morning there was a further and a marked change in the atmosphere. It wasn’t gloomy. It was oppressive and nervous. Rather like the thunderstorm, Peregrine thought. Claustrophobic. Expectant. Stifling.
Peregrine finished blocking. By Friday they had covered the whole play and took it through in continuity.
There were noticeable changes in the behavior of the company. As a rule, the actor would finish a scene and come off with a sense of anxiety or release. He or she would think back through the dialogue, note the points of difficulty, and re-rehearse them in the mind or, as it were, put a tick against them as having come off successfully. The actors would disappear into the shadows, or watch for a time with professional interest or read a newspaper or book — each according to temperament and inclination.
This morning it was different. Without exception they sat together and watched and listened with a new intensity. It was as though each actor continued in an assumed character, and no other reality existed. Even in the scenes that had been blocked but not yet developed there was a nervous tension that knew the truth would emerge and the characters march to their appointed end.
The company were to see the fight for the first time. Macduff now had something of a black angel’s air about him, striding through the battle on the hunt for Macbeth. He encounters men in the Macbeth tartan and mistakes them for him, but it must be Macbeth or nobody. Then Macduff sees him, armored, helmeted, masked, and cries out: “Turn, hell-hound, turn!”
Macbeth turns.
Peregrine’s palms were wet. The thanes, waiting offstage now, stood aghast. Steel clashed on steel or shrieked as one blade slid down another. There was no sound other than the men’s hard breathing.
Macduff swung his claymore up and then swiftly down — Macbeth caught it on his shield and lurched forward.
Nina, in the audience, screamed.
The boast while they both fight for breath that no man of woman born will kill Macbeth; Macduff’s reply that he was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped; the final exit, Macduff driving him backward and out. Macbeth’s scream, cut short, offstage. An empty stage for seconds, then trumpets and drums and reenter Malcolm, Old Siward, and the thanes in triumph. Big scene. Old Siward on his son’s death. Reenter Macduff and Seyton with Macbeth’s head on the point of his claymore. “Behold, where stands the usurper’s cursed head, ” shouts Macduff.
Malcolm is hailed King of Scotland and the play is over.
“Thank you, everybody,” said Peregrine. “Thank you very much.”
And in the sounds of relief that answered him the clearly articulated treble of William Smith spoke the final word.
“He got his comeuppance, didn’t he, Miss Gaythorne?”
After Peregrine had taken his notes and the mistakes had been corrected, the cast stayed for a little while as if reluctant to break the bond that united them. Dougal said: “Pleased, Perry?”
“Yes. Very pleased. So pleased, I’m frightened.”
“Not melodramatic?”
“There were perhaps three moments when it slid over. None of them involved you, Dougal. I’m not even sure about them.”
“Good. Maggie darling,” Dougal cried as she joined them. “You are wonderful. Satanic and lovely and baleful. I can’t begin to tell you. Thank you, thank you.” He kissed her hands and her face and seemed unable to stop.
“If I can get a word in,” said Simon. He was beside them, his hair damp with sweat stuck to his forehead and a line of it glinting on his upper lip. Maggie pushed herself free of Dougal and held Simon by his woolen jacket. “Si!” she said and kissed him. “You’re fantastic.”
They’ll run out of adjectives, Peregrine thought, and then we’ll all go to lunch.
Simon looked over the top of Maggie’s head at Dougal. “I seem to have won,” he said. “Or do I?”
“We’ve all won or hope we all have in three weeks. It’s too early for these raptures,” said Peregrine.
Maggie said: “I’ve got someone in a car waiting for me and I’m late.” She patted Simon’s face and freed herself. “I’m not wanted this afternoon, Perry?”
“No. Thank you, lovey.”
“ ’Bye, everyone,” she cried and made for the stage door. William Smith ran ahead of her and opened it.
“Ten marks for manners, William,” she said.
There was nobody waiting for her. She hailed a taxi. That’s settled their hashes, she thought as she gave her address. And the metallic voice will work wonders if I get it right. She made an arrangement in her vocal cords and spoke.
“Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
“What’s that, lady?” asked the startled driver.
“Nothing, nothing. I’m an actress. It’s my part.”
“Oh. One of them. Takes all sorts, don’ it?” he replied.
“It certainly does.”
Ross, Lennox, Menteith, Caithness, and Angus were called for three o’clock and had time to get a good tuck-in at the Swan. They walked along the Embankment and the sun shone upon them: four young men with a fifth, the Ross, who was older. They had a certain air about them. They walked well. They spoke freely and clearly and they laughed loudly. Their faces had a pale smoothness as if seldom exposed to the sun. When they were separated by other pedestrians they raised their voices and continued their conversation without self-consciousness. Lennox, when not involved, sang tunefully: “Not a flower, not a flower sweet on my black coffin let there be strown.”
“Wrong play, dear boy,” said Ross. “That’s from Twelfth Night.”
“Bloody funny choice for a comedy.”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
Lennox said: “Do any of you find this play… I don’t know… oppressive? Almost too much. I mean, we can’t escape it. Do you?”
“I do,” Ross confessed. “I’ve been in it before. Same part. It does rather stick with one, doesn’t it?”
“Well,” Menteith said reasonably, “what’s it about? Four murders. Three witches. A fiendish lady. A homicidal husband. A ghost. And the death of the name-part with his severed head on the end of a claymore. Rather a bellyful to shake off, isn’t it?”
“It’s melodrama pure and simple,” said Angus. “It just happens to be written by a man with a knack for words.”
Lennox said: “What a knack! No. That doesn’t really account for the thing I mean. We don’t get it in the other tragedies, do we? Not in Hamlet or Lear. Or even in Othello, grim as it is.”
“Perhaps it’s the reason for all the superstitions.”
“I wonder,” Ross said. “It may be. They all say the same thing, don’t they? Don’t speak his name. Don’t quote from it. Don’t call it by its title. Keep off.”
They turned into a narrow side street.
“I tell you what,” Caithness said. “I don’t mind betting anyone who’s prepared to take me up that Perry’s the only one of the whole company who really doesn’t believe a word of it. I mean that — really. He doesn’t do anything, but that’s so that our apple-carts won’t be upset.”