Theatre

  'D'you think it's suited to a woman?'

  'Mrs. Siddons played it and so did Sarah Bernhardt. It would set a seal on my career, if you know what I mean. Of course there's the difficulty of the blank verse.'

  'I have heard actors speak it so that it was indistinguishable from prose,' he answered.

  'Yes, but that's not quite the same, is it?'

  'Were you nice to Roger?'

  She was surprised at his going back to that subject so suddenly, but she returned to it with a smile.

  'Oh, charming.'

  'It's hard not to be impatient with the absurdity of the young; they tell us that two and two make four as though it had never occurred to us, and they're disappointed if we can't share their surprise when they have just discovered that a hen lays an egg. There's a lot of nonsense in their ranting and raving, but it's not all nonsense. One ought to sympathize with them; one ought to do one's best to understand. One has to remember how much has to be forgotten and how much has to be learnt when for the first time one faces life. It's not very easy to give up one's ideals, and the brute facts of every day are bitter pills to swallow. The spiritual conflicts of adolescence can be very severe and one can do so little to resolve them.'

  'But you don't really think there's anything in all this stuff of Roger's? I believe it's all a lot of communist nonsense that he's learnt in Vienna. I wish we'd never sent him there.'

  'You may be right. It may be that in a year or two he'll lose sight of the clo .ds of glory and accept the chain. It may be that he'll find what he's looking for, if not in God, then in art.'

  'I should hate him to be an actor if that's what you mean.'

  'No, I don't think he'll fancy that.'

  'And of course he can't be a playwright, he hasn't a sense of humour.'

  'I daresay he'll be quite content to go into the Foreign Office. It would be an asset to him there.'

  'What would you advise me to do?'

  'Nothing. Let him be. That's probably the greatest kindness you can do him.'

  'But I can't help being worried about him.'

  'You needn't be. Be hopeful. You thought you'd only given birth to an ugly duckling; perhaps he's going to turn into a white-winged swan.'

  Charles was not giving Julia what she wanted. She had expected him to be more sympathetic.

  'I suppose he's getting old, poor dear,' she reflected. 'He's losing his grip of things. He must have been impotent for years; I wonder it never struck me before.'

  She asked what the time was.

  'I think I ought to go. I must get a long night's rest.'

  Julia slept well and when she awoke had at once a feeling of exultation. To-night was the first night. It gave her a little thrill of pleasure to recollect that people had already been assembling at the pit and gallery doors when she left the theatre after the dress-rehearsal, and now at ten in the morning there was probably already a long queue.'

  'Lucky it's a fine day for them, poor brutes.'

  In bygone years she had been intolerably nervous before a first night. She had felt slightly sick all day and as the hours passed got into such a state that she almost thought she would have to leave the stage. But by now, after having passed through the ordeal so many times, she had acquired a certain nonchalance. Throughout the early part of the day she felt only happy and mildly excited; it was not till late in the afternoon that she began to feel ill at ease. She grew silent and wanted to be left alone. She also grew irritable, and Michael, having learnt from experience, took care to keep out of her way. Her hands and feet got cold and by the time she reached the theatre they were like lumps of ice. But still the apprehension that filled her was not unpleasant.

  Julia had nothing to do that morning but go down to the Siddons for a word-rehearsal at noon, so she lay in bed till late. Michael did not come back to luncheon, having last things to do to the sets, and she ate alone. Then she went to bed and for an hour slept soundly. Her intention was to rest all the afternoon; Miss Phillips was coming at six to give her a light massage, and by seven she wanted to be at the theatre. But when she awoke she felt so much refreshed that it irked her to stay in bed, so she made up her mind to get up and go for a walk. It was a fine, sunny day. Liking the town better than the country and streets more than trees, she did not go into the Park, but sauntered round the neighbouring squares, deserted at that time of year, idly looking at the houses, and thought how much she preferred her own to any of them. She felt at ease and light-hearted. Then she thought it time to go home. She had just reached the comer of Stanhope Place when she heard her name called in a voice that she could not but recognize.

  'Julia.'

  She turned round and Tom, his face all smiles, caught her up. She had not seen him since her return from France. He was very smart in a neat grey suit and a brown hat. He was tanned by the sun.

  'I thought you were away.'

  'I came back on Monday. I didn't ring up because I knew you were busy with the final rehearsals. I'm coming to-night; Michael gave me a stall.'

  'Oh, I'm glad.'

  It was plain that he was delighted to see her. His face was eager and his eyes shone. She was pleased to discover that the sight of him excited no emotion in her. She wondered as they went on talking what there was in him that had ever so deeply affected her.

  'What on earth are you wandering about like this for?'

  'I've been for a stroll. I was just going in to tea.'

  'Come and have tea with me.'

  His flat was just round the corner. Indeed he had caught sight of her just as he was going down the mews to get to it.

  'How is it you're back so early?'

  'Oh, there's nothing much on at the office just now. You know, one of our partners died a couple of months ago, and I'm getting a bigger share. It means I shall be able to keep on the flat after all. Michael was jolly decent about it, he said I could stay on rent free till things got better. I hated the idea of turning out. Do come. I'd love to make you a cup of tea.'

  He rattled on so vivaciously that Julia was amused. You would never have thought to listen to him that there had ever been anything between them. He seemed perfectly unembarrassed.

  'All right. But I can only stay a minute.'

  'O.K.'

  They turned into the mews and she preceded him up the narrow staircase.

  'You toddle along to the sitting-room and I'll put the water on to boil.'

  She went in and sat down. She looked round the room that had been the scene of so many emotions for her. Nothing was changed. Her photograph stood in its old place, but on the chimney piece was a large photograph also of Avice Crichton. On it was written for Tom from Avice. Julia took everything in. The room might have been a set in which she had once acted; it was vaguely familiar, but no longer meant anything to her. The love that had consumed her then, the jealousy she had stifled, the ecstasy of surrender, it had no more reality than one of the innumerable parts she had played in the past. She relished her indifference. Tom came in, with the tea-cloth she had given him, and neatly set out the tea-service which she had also given him. She did not know why the thought of his casually using still all her little presents made her inclined to laugh. Then he came in with the tea and they drank it sitting side by side on the sofa. He told her more about his improved circumstances. In his pleasant, friendly way he acknowledged that it was owing to the work that through her he had been able to bring the Firm that he had secured a larger share in the profits. He told her of the holiday from which he had just returned. It was quite clear to Julia that he had no inkling how much he had made her suffer. That too made her now inclined to laugh.

  'I hear you're going to have an enormous success tonight.'

  'It would be nice, wouldn't it?'

  'Avice says that both you and Michael have been awfully good to her. Take care she doesn't romp away with the play.'

  He said it chaffingly, but Julia wondered whether Avice had told him that this was what she expected to do.
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  'Are you engaged to her?'

  'No. She wants her freedom. She says an engagement would interfere with her career.'

  'With her what?' The words slipped out of Julia's mouth before she could stop them, but she immediately recovered herself. 'Yes, I see what she means of course.'

  'Naturally, I don't want to stand in her way. I mean, supposing after to-night she got a big offer for America I can quite see that she ought to be perfectly free to accept.'

  Her career! Julia smiled quietly to herself.

  'You know, I do think you're a brick, the way you've behaved to her.'

  'Why?'

  'Oh well, you know what women are!'

  As he said this he slipped his arm round her waist and kissed her. She laughed outright.

  'What an absurd little thing you are.'

  'How about a bit of love?'

  'Don't be so silly.'

  'What is there silly about it? Don't you think we've been divorced long enough?'

  'I'm all for irrevocable divorce. And what about Avice?'

  'Oh, she's different. Come on.'

  'Has it slipped your memory that I've got a first night to-night?'

  'There's plenty of time.'

  He put both arms round her and kissed her softly. She looked at him with mocking eyes. Suddenly she made up her mind.

  'All right.'

  They got up and went into the bedroom. She took off her hat and slipped out of her dress. He held her in his arms as he had held her so often before. He kissed her closed eyes and the little breasts of which she was so proud. She gave him her body to do what he wanted with, but her spirit held aloof. She returned his kisses out of amiability, but she caught herself thinking of the part she was going to play that night. She seemed to be two persons, the mistress in her lover's embrace, and the actress who already saw in her mind's eye the vast vague dark audience and heard the shouts of applause as she stepped on to the stage. When, a little later, they lay side by side, he with his arm round her neck, she forgot about him so completely that she was quite surprised when he broke a long silence.

  'Don't you care for me any more?'

  She gave him a little hug.

  'Of course, darling. I dote on you.'

  'You're so strange to-day.'

  She realized that he was disappointed. Poor little thing, she didn't want to hurt his feelings. He was very sweet really.

  'With the first night before me I'm not really myself to-day. You mustn't mind.'

  When she came to the conclusion, quite definitely now, that she no longer cared two straws for him she could not help feeling a great pity for him. She stroked his cheek gently.

  'Sweetie pie. (I wonder if Michael remembered to have tea sent along to the queues. It doesn't cost much and they do appreciate it so enormously.) You know, I really must get up. Miss Phillips is coming at six. Evie will be in a state, she won't be able to think what's happened to me.'

  She chattered brightly while she dressed. She was conscious, although she did not look at him, that Tom was vaguely uneasy. She put her hat on, then she took his face in both her hands and gave him a friendly kiss.

  'Good-bye, my lamb. Have a good time to-night.'

  'Best of luck.'

  He smiled with some awkwardness. She perceived that he did not quite know what to make of her. Julia slipped out of the flat, and if she had not been England's leading actress, and a woman of hard on fifty, she would have hopped on one leg all the way down Stanhope Place till she got to her house. She was as pleased as Punch. She let herself in with her latchkey and closed the front door behind her.

  'I daresay there's something in what Roger said. Love isn't worth all the fuss they make about it.'

  29

  Four hours later it was all over. The play went well from the beginning; the audience, notwithstanding the season, a fashionable one, were pleased after the holidays to find themselves once more in a playhouse, and were ready to be amused. It was an auspicious beginning for the theatrical season. There had been great applause after each act and at the end a dozen curtains calls; Julia took two by herself, and even she was startled by the warmth of her reception. She had made the little halting speech, prepared beforehand, which the occasion demanded. There had been a final call of the entire company and then the orchestra had struck up the National Anthem. Julia, pleased, excited and happy, went to her dressing-room. She had never felt more sure of herself. She had never acted with greater brilliance, variety and resource. The play ended with a long tirade in which Julia, as the retired harlot, castigated the flippancy, the uselessness, the immorality of the idle set into which her marriage had brought her. It was two pages long, and there was not another actress in England who could have held the attention of the audience while she delivered it. With her exquisite timing, with the modulation of her beautiful voice, with her command of the gamut of emotions, she had succeeded by a miracle of technique in making it a thrilling, almost spectacular climax to the play. A violent action could not have been more exciting not an unexpected denouement more surprising. The whole cast had been excellent with the exception of Avice Crichton. Julia hummed in an undertone as she went into her dressing-room.

  Michael followed her in almost at once.

  'It looks like a winner all right.' He threw his arms round her and kissed her. 'By God, what a performance you gave.'

  'You weren't so bad yourself dear.'

  'That's the sort of part I can play on my head,' he answered carelessly, modest as usual about his own acting. 'Did you hear them during your long speech? That ought to knock the critics.'

  'Oh, you know what they are. They'll give all their attention to the blasted play and then three lines at the end to me.'

  'You're the greatest actress in the world, darling, but by God, you're a bitch.'

  Julia opened her eyes very wide in an expression of the most naive surprise.

  'Michael, what do you mean?'

  'Don't look so innocent. You know perfectly well. Do you think you can cod an old trooper like me?'

  He was looking at her with twinkling eyes, and it was very difficult for her not to burst out laughing.

  'I am as innocent as a babe unborn.'

  'Come off it. If anyone ever deliberately killed a performance you killed Avice's. I couldn't be angry with you, it was so beautifully done.'

  Now Julia simply could not conceal the little smile that curled her lips. Praise is always grateful to the artist. Avice's one big scene was in the second act. It was with Julia, and Michael had rehearsed it so as to give it all to the girl. This was indeed what the play demanded and Julia, as always, had in rehearsals accepted his direction. To bring out the colour of her blue eyes and to emphasize her fair hair they had dressed Avice in pale blue. To contrast with this Julia had chosen a dress of an agreeable yellow. This she had worn at the dress rehearsal. But she had ordered another dress at the same time, of sparkling silver, and to the surprise of Michael and the consternation of Avice it was in this that she made her entrance in the second act. Its brilliance, the way it took the light, attracted the attention of the audience. Avice's blue looked drab by comparison. When the reached the important scene they were to have together Julia produced, as a conjurer produces a rabbit from his hat, a large handkerchief of scarlet chiffon and with this she played. She waved it, she spread it out as though to look at it, she screwed it up, she wiped her brow with it, she delicately blew her nose. The audience fascinated could not take their eyes away from the red rag. And she moved up stage so that Avice to speak to her had to turn her back on the audience, and when they were sitting on a sofa together she took her hand, in an impulsive way that seemed to the public exquisitely natural, and sitting well back herself forced Avice to turn her profile to the house. Julia had noticed early in rehearsals that in profile Avice had a sheep-like look. The author had given Avice lines to say that had so much amused the cast at the first rehearsal that they had all burst out laughing. Before the audience had quite r
ealized how funny they were Julia had cut in with her reply, and the audience anxious to hear it suppressed their laughter. The scene which was devised to be extremely amusing took on a sardonic colour, and the character Avice played acquired a certain odiousness. Avice in her inexperience, not getting the laughs she had expected, was rattled; her voice grew hard and her gestures awkward. Julia took the scene away from her and played it with miraculous virtuosity. But her final stroke was accidental. Avice had a long speech to deliver, and Julia nervously screwed her red handkerchief into a ball; the action almost automatically suggested an expression; she looked at Avice with troubled eyes and two heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. You felt the shame with which the girl's flippancy affected her, and you saw her pain because her poor little ideals of uprightness, her hankering for goodness, were so brutally mocked. The episode lasted no more than a minute, but in that minute, by those tears and by the anguish of her look, Julia laid bare the sordid misery of the woman's life. That was the end of Avice.

  'And I was such a damned fool, I thought of giving her a contract,' said Michael.

  'Why don't you?'

  'When you've got your knife into her? Not on your life. You're a naughty little thing to be so jealous. You don't really think she means anything to me, do you? You ought to know by now that you're the only woman in the world for me.'

  Michael thought that Julia had played this trick on account of the rather violent flirtation he had been having with Avice, and though, of course, it was hard luck on Avice he could not help being a trifle flattered.

  'You old donkey,' smiled Julia, knowing exactly what he was thinking and tickled to death at his mistake. 'After all, you are the handsomest man in London.'

  'All that's as it may be. But I don't know what the author'll say. He's a conceited little ape and it's not a bit the scene he wrote.'

  'Oh, leave him to me. I'll fix him.'

  There was a knock at the door and it was the author himself who came in. With a cry of delight, Julia went up to him, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.