His exit led to a tumult of applause and comment that held up the action for several moments. Harriet remained tense, watching Fitzsimon, who accepted the delay good-humouredly. When at last he held up a hand and, smiling, said: ‘Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds!’ the laugh accorded him left no doubt but that the audience was on the side of the players. Harriet felt about her the willingness to be pleased. Unless something went badly wrong there was nothing to fear.
She relaxed gradually as the scenes passed, not only without mishap, but with gathering pace. The show was succeeding with its own success and she was warmed to all those who were doing so welclass="underline" Dubedat, Inchcape, David – and the men from the Legation whom she had supposed would treat the whole thing as a joke.
As for Sophie! Sophie’s performance was beyond expectations. As she sauntered and swayed with little meaningful looks and gestures, letting her pink chiffon drift, like a symbol of her own sexual fragrance, about Troilus or her manservant or, indeed, any male who happened to be near, Harriet realised the girl was a born Cressida, a ‘daughter of the game’. Even in her scenes with Pandarus she was not overshadowed. The two enhanced and complemented each other, a scheming partnership of niece and uncle set to devour the guileless and romantic Troilus.
Nikko turned excitedly in his seat, trying to read her name on the programme. ‘Who is she?’ he asked. ‘Is it Sophie Oresanu?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she is charming!’
The interval came after Pandarus had conducted the lovers to ‘a chamber with a bed’.
In the bar, where Nikko had to struggle for drinks, Harriet, wedged into the crowd, listened to the comment about her. She heard mention of Clarence (‘You would not think, to see him in the street, that Mr. Lawson could be so comic’) and Dubedat, who, with his snivel schooled to virulence, was declared to be ‘très fort’.
‘And that young Dimancescu!’ exclaimed a woman. ‘Such a beautiful English! And in manner the English aristocrat, no?’ recalling Dimancescu’s throw-away indifference and the wearily drooping eyelids that had been lifted once, in rapid rage, when Patroclus had missed his cue.
‘And Menelaus!’
‘Ah ha, Menelaus!’ A titter passed among the men, for Dobson, unable in his Greek dress of skirted corselet to emulate the effect created by Foxy Leverett and Fitzsimon, had managed to suggest that, even had his dress permitted, his part called for no such display. He conveyed, with rueful and apologetic smiles that appealed to the Rumanian sense of humour, his unenviable position.
When Nikko returned to Harriet with two glasses of whisky, he was congratulated on Bella’s performance. Her appearance had caused no small sensation.
One of the men said: ‘She looked like Venus herself.’ She had indeed, Harriet thought, looked like a Venus of a debased period; a great showy flower without scent.
The student who had played Paris, not very well, had been completely dwarfed by his impressive paramour as she swept to the centre of the stage, keeping her profile well in view. Yakimov, who had excelled in this scene, had carried the weight of Bella’s playfulness, glossing the exchange with the ebullience of wit.
Someone in the audience, having consulted his programme, had whispered in amazement: ‘Is it possible this lady is a Rumanian?’
‘Yes, yes,’ another whisper answered him and Nikko had been scarcely able to contain his pride.
Now, as he received congratulations, his face was so contracted with bliss that he seemed about to weep.
The congratulations were carried over to Harriet as those in their circle reflected on Guy’s playing of the not very rewarding part of Nestor. Someone praised him with the words: ‘You would have thought him truly ancient,’ while Nikko said in wonder: ‘But, Harry-ott, your husband knows how to act!’
Pressed for expert opinions on this performance and that, Harriet found she could not sort out her impressions. She had been too fearful of failure and now, grateful for success, she said only: ‘They were all good.’
There was general agreement.
‘A production of genius,’ Nikko concluded. ‘We are having, I may say, our money’s worth.’
In the second half, as Inchcape gave himself with the full force of his histrionic irony to his exchange with Achilles, the vice-consul sniggered in the row behind Harriet and said: ‘By Jove, Ulysses is just old Inchcape to the life.’
And there, Harriet thought, lay the strength of the production. Except for Yakimov and Guy, no one was called upon to act very much. Each player was playing himself. She had, she remembered, criticised this method of casting, yet, with the material in hand, what else would have been possible? And the audience accepted it: indeed seemed to find this heightened behaviour more impressive than acting. When the final curtain fell, the actors who received most applause were those who had been most themselves. For Yakimov there was an almost hysterical acclaim. The curtain rose and fell a dozen times, and there could be no end until Guy came forward and thanked everyone – the audience, the actors and, above all, the theatre staff, that had ‘co-operated so magnificently’. When he retired, the audience began to file out.
‘By Jove,’ said the vice-consul again, ‘never knew Shakespeare wrote such jolly stuff. That play had quite a story to it.’
On the wave of great good humour, laughing, calling to one another, the members of the audience made their way to the street. They must have looked to the passers-by like maniacs.
Abject faces stared into the lighted foyer. Someone spoke into the happy crowd that was emerging: ‘Paris has fallen.’
Those in front fell silent. As the news was passed back, the silence followed it. Before most people had reached the pavement, despondency had hold of them.
The vice-consul was now ahead of Harriet. His companion, a Jewess, turned to him and, making boxing movements with her little fist, she sadly asked: ‘Why is it you Allies cannot fight more good?’
Harriet said: ‘I’d forgotten Paris.’
‘I, too,’ said Nikko.
They had all forgotten Paris. Chastened, they emerged into the summer night and met reality, avoiding each others’ eyes, guilty because they had escaped the last calamitous hours.
28
Inchcape was giving a party in his flat for the English players and those of the students who had speaking parts. Harriet and Nikko, the first to arrive at his flat, were welcomed by Pauli, who, if he had heard the news, appeared unaffected by it.
The room, with its many gold-shaded lamps and displays of tuberoses, was hot and pungent. There was nothing to drink but ţuicǎ and Rumanian vermouth. The food comprised some triangles of toast spread with caviare. Harriet asked Pauli to make her an Amalfi. As he was shaking up the mixture, he told the visitors that Domnul Professor Inchcape had given him a ticket for the matinée. Although he had not understood much of the play, he had thought it all wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. He began strutting around, taking off one actor after another – the professor, and Domnul Boyd, and Domnul Pringle. He gave the impression of being a big man like Guy or David, a general in a general’s cloak. He went on for a long time, entertaining Inchcape’s guests in Inchcape’s absence.
Harriet laughed and applauded, but her mind was on the fall of Paris. She had a sense of remoteness from the members of the cast when they arrived in jubilant mood, still caught up in the excitement that had carried them through the evening.