Lysander cleared his throat, blew his nose, apologized to the rest of the cast and picked up his playscript once more. The doors and windows were wide open so the room, Lysander reasoned, would have almost as much summer pollen blowing around it as the garden outside – hence his sneezing fit. He could see Gilda Butterfield at the far end of the long table fanning her moist neck with her fingertips. Flaming June, all right, he thought and his mind turned immediately to Blanche. Her prediction had been absolutely right – the play was an enduring and superlative success and she was off on an endless tour of it. Where now? Dublin, he thought, or was it Edinburgh? Yes, he really ought to try and –
‘Ready when you are, Lysander,’ Rutherford Davison said. Lysander noticed he still had his jacket on while all the other men had shed theirs because of the heat. He picked up the text.
‘You must lay down the treasures of your body
To this supposed, or else to let him suffer –
What would you do?’
Davison held up his hand.
‘Why do you imagine he says that?’
‘Because he’s frustrated. Consumed with lust. And he’s bitter,’ Lysander said, without really thinking.
‘Bitter?’
‘He’s a disappointed man.’
‘He’s an aristocrat, he’s running the whole of Vienna.’
‘Vienna’s no protection against bitterness.’
Everyone laughed, Lysander was pleased to note, even though he hadn’t intended to be humorous at all and had spoken with unconscious feeling. He had completely forgotten that Measure for Measure was set in Vienna – this strange play about lechery and purity, moral corruption and virtue – that made him think uncomfortably about the place and his recent history there. Too late to back out now, and he could hardly explain why. Davison hadn’t even smiled at his inadvertent sally, however. He was determined to be combative and provocative, Lysander could tell, following the new lead among theatre managers. He and Greville had discussed how tiresome and unnecessary this trend was just last night.
‘We’ll call it a day,’ Davison said, as if he sensed how stifling and uncomfortable it was to be sitting here late on a Friday afternoon. ‘Have a restful weekend. We’ll make a start on Miss Julie on Monday.’
The rehearsal broke up in a chatter of exultant conversation and the sound of chairs scraping back. They were in a church hall in St John’s Wood – a good rehearsal space with a small garden at the rear when some fresh air was required. The ‘International Players’ Company’, as they were known, had been formed by Rutherford Davison himself in an attempt – as he put it – to present the best in foreign drama to the sated and complacent London audiences. It was quite a clever plan, Lysander had to admit, taking his jacket off the back of the chair. The idea was to run an established, well-respected play in a repertory double bill with a new, more challenging foreign one. Last season’s offering had been a Galsworthy, The Silver Box, alongside Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. This season they were presenting Measure for Measure with Strindberg’s Miss Julie. Or rather, Fröken Julie as Davison insisted, thinking the foreign title would hoodwink the censor. Apparently the play had been banned in 1911. Davison had acquired a new translation from an American company and thought that the Swedish title might divert attention from its salacious reputation. Lysander hadn’t read Miss Julie yet but was planning to do so this weekend, if time permitted. His role was Jean, the valet, something of a challenge because he was also Angelo in Measure. He and Gilda Butterfield were the most experienced actors in the International Players so he should be flattered, he supposed, and if the plays were well received it would advance his career and reputation significantly. All very well, he thought, but if Davison kept goading him it might not be as stimulating a job as he had imagined.
‘Any plans this weekend?’
Lysander turned to see Gilda Butterfield, Miss Julie herself – and Isabella in Measure. They were destined to spend a lot of time in each other’s company over the coming weeks. She was very fair with a mass of curly blonde hair tied back in a velvet bow – very Scandinavian, he supposed. A few freckles were visible across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, unmasked by her powder – a busty, hippy young woman. Strapping, outdoors-y. She was interested in him, he could tell, wondering if the job might deliver up a little romance as a bonus.
‘Going down to Sussex,’ he said, fishing out his cigarette case and opening it. She took a cigarette and he lit it for her. ‘My uncle’s back from two years exploring Africa. We’re welcoming him home.’ He took one himself, lit it and they wandered towards the front door.
‘Whereabouts in Sussex?’ she said, adjusting her bow at the nape of her neck with both hands, leaving the cigarette in her mouth – both hands moving behind her head caused her breasts to rise and flatten against the pleated front of her blouse. For a second, Lysander acknowledged the careless carnality of the pose then reminded himself that he wasn’t ready for another dalliance. Not after Hettie.
‘Claverleigh,’ he said. ‘Do you know it? A little way beyond Lewes. Not far from Ripe.’
‘My brother lives in Hove,’ she said, happy now with the tightness of her bow. She exhaled, pluming the smoke away from him. ‘Perhaps we might find ourselves down there at the same time, one weekend.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Really, this was almost brazen, Lysander thought, she was giving actresses a bad name. Wait until he’d told Greville. He held the door open for her and Rutherford Davison came through.
‘Ah, Lysander, can I have a quick word?’
Lysander felt sweat trickling down his spine – he should have taken a bus home, not the Tube. It was hot, of course, but he knew he was sweating more than usually because he’d allowed himself to become irritated. Davison had kept him back twenty minutes after the others had left asking a lot of damnfool questions about his character, Angelo. Was he an only child or did he have siblings? If so, how many and of what sex? What did Lysander think he’d been doing before his big speech in Act II? Was he well travelled? Did he have any health problems he might be concealing? Lysander had done his best to answer the questions seriously because he knew that Davison had gone to Russia a year before, had met Stanislavsky and had fallen under the sway of his new theories about acting and drama, and was convinced that all this extraneous material and information that one invented fleshed out the character and bolstered the text. Lysander felt like saying that if Shakespeare had wanted us to know that Angelo was well travelled or suffered from piles he would have dropped in a line or two in the play to that effect. But in the interest of good relations and a peaceful time he had nodded and said ‘good point’ or ‘intriguing idea’ and ‘let me think a bit more about that’. It was a big role, Angelo, and it would be better and easier all round to have the director on his side.
At one stage, Davison had said, ‘There’s a book you might like to read, that you might find useful for Angelo – Die Traumdeutung by Sigmund Freud. Heard of it?’
‘I’ve met the author,’ Lysander had said. That shut him up.
He smiled at the memory of that afternoon in the Café Landtmann. Davison had looked at him with new respect. Perhaps they would rub along after all.
The Tube train pulled in to Leicester Square and Lysander stepped out, jamming his boater on to his head. He thought he might drop into a pub for a cooling pint of shandy and quench his thirst – try to reduce the sweatiness and discomfort he was experiencing. He came up from the station and sniffed the air – London in June, a hot June, the smell of horseshit stewing.