The Riddle of the River Page 4

  ‘It wasn’t that at all,’ said Kathleen. ‘It was because she realised that her past would not leave her alone, that she would always meet people in society who knew about it. Marriage or none, in fact, respectability was simply out of her reach.’

  ‘I think perhaps it was because she found respectability itself disappointing rather than unattainable,’ I said. ‘Her husband is so stuffy, the girl Ellean is cold and the life is portrayed as being horrendously stifling. I think that once she found it, she was disillusioned and found she could not stand it.’

  ‘Man is a fool,’ hummed Ernest, ‘when it’s hot he wants cool, when it’s cool he wants hot, he always wants what he has not. And woman is worse, of course.’

  ‘How unfair,’ said Kathleen. ‘Women’s lot is a difficult one, and if they dream of something better, they are accused of not knowing their own mind.’ And she pinched his ear, nearly knocking over his glass of wine as she did so. I noticed that droll or tender gestures always accompanied and attenuated the echo of bitterness in her words.

  ‘Well, your lot may be hard,’ remarked her husband, ‘but think how you’d hate it if you had to be respectable like Mrs Tanqueray.’

  ‘Ho! I am respectable, thank you very much.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he teased. ‘I don’t see you dying of boredom in a country house.’

  ‘That was only because Mrs Tanqueray had a past! All the truly respectable people in the play live in London and visit the Continent and go to restaurants and have dinners, and no one has a word to say about it!’

  ‘The whole thing is like a supercomplicated game of chess with a thousand subtle rules,’ observed Arthur. ‘If one has not done such-and-such before, then it is all right to do such-and-so now, but not this other thing, whereas if one has done it before, then such-and-so is unthinkable now.’

  ‘It is not so complicated as you make out,’ said Ernest. ‘There’s really just a single rule. Stay straight on one matter – let me make myself clear, just a single one – then everything else is open to you.’ He blushed as everybody stared at him, open-mouthed at such plain-speaking. Although now that I write the words down, it occurs to me that plain-speaking is not such a good description. Indeed, he did not pronounce the words stay straight on all that concerns love. Still, we all understood him perfectly, a sign, perhaps, that our minds are not as pure as they might be.

  ‘No,’ said Kathleen sharply. ‘That’s far too simple. For one thing, what you just said applies only to women. No, don’t deny it, don’t even bother. You know it perfectly well. And for another, a woman can be as virtuous as you like, and yet put herself outside the bounds of respectability by her profession. Just take Mrs Campbell as an example. Do you think she could ever be invited to a bourgeois home?’

  ‘Well, an actress,’ said her husband, with a little, secret smile.

  ‘There, you see? You are simply assuming that an actress cannot be virtuous! But why?’

  He considered the question for a moment.

  ‘Well, she might be virtuous, but she can never appear virtuous, because she’s public,’ he said finally. ‘That’s the whole point, really, isn’t it? Virtue is essentially private.’

  ‘I don’t see that,’ said his wife. ‘Mrs Tanqueray in the play had lived with a man without being married to him, before she married the stuffy fellow. That was perfectly private.’

  ‘No, it was public, because everyone knew about it. She had a ‘‘set”, remember? All her friends knew, and they didn’t care, because they were just the same themselves.’

  ‘The real question is, why should we care?’ said Arthur surprisingly. ‘And why women particularly, indeed?’

  ‘What an awkward conversation,’ said Kathleen; ‘we keep having to stop and think.’

  ‘In order not to find ourselves giving out easy formulae or pat words,’ I added. ‘I wonder, if each one of us admitted to the first answer that came into our heads at Arthur’s question, if we would not find out something rather disagreeable about ourselves?’

  ‘You mean when he asked why we care? Because society’s dictates have power over our thoughts,’ said Kathleen. ‘That’s what you call a disagreeable thing, isn’t it? But we should be praised for at least trying to resist, should we not? I’ll admit to my first thought in answer to his question: I thought that we care about respectability in – in much the same way we care about cleanliness. Because we don’t like to be soiled. But I know that Arthur could then just as well ask me why living with a man without being married to him should necessarily be perceived as soiling.’

  ‘I thought of those women you see on the street, late at night, in the West End, when you come out of the theatre alone,’ said Ernest. ‘The ones who come up and say ‘‘Cheerio, ducks”, and things like that.’

  ‘What things?’ enquired Kathleen with great interest.

  ‘Oh, nothing important – just things like that. What did you think in answer to your own question, Arthur?’ Kathleen looked both fascinated and alarmed, while Arthur, to his credit, looked merely thoughtful.

  ‘I thought that I should not like to share my wife with anyone else,’ he said simply. I laughed.

  ‘What did you think of, Vanessa? Tell the truth – the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ ordered Kathleen energetically.

  ‘I remembered a woman I met once who had a little restaurant,’ I said. ‘She was that kind of woman, and what of it? She was very kind.’ I glanced at Arthur, recalling how I had burst into tears on that surprised person’s ample bosom at a point when the outcome of his trial was looking particularly frightening. Having never told him about my hasty visit to London, I perceived that he was staring at me in surprise.

  ‘Oh, it was long ago, long before we were married,’ I said quickly, in order to ward off any questions. ‘But seriously, Ernest – you don’t really believe that all actresses are immoral?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, and in fact I don’t really care to know,’ said Ernest. ‘I like to see them where they are, on the stage, I mean, and shouldn’t like to see them in my own drawing room. That’s all I mean.’

  ‘The bourgeoisie may feel like you, but swells do marry actresses sometimes,’ said Kathleen. ‘Why, Pinero’s most recent play is about that very subject! It hasn’t been put on yet – they’re rehearsing it now. We’re attending a reading tomorrow. It’s to be about a rich young man who falls in love with a juvenile-lady from Sadler’s Wells.’

  ‘Falling in love is different,’ said her husband. ‘No one can explain why that happens. You see a hundred women on the stage – why fall in love with one of them in particular? And yet it happens. One among hundreds. I – I saw a lovely Ophelia last month.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Arthur eagerly. ‘Where was that?’

  ‘The Outdoor Shakespeare Company. It’s quite new. Have you heard of them? It was all put together by a bright young fellow called Alan Manning; he puts on Shakespeare’s plays, and other plays too, in fields and things on the outskirts of London. They have a kind of tent for when it rains, but they don’t play in the winter, of course. It’s very fetching, I can tell you. They like to set up their stage where there are trees, when they can. Ophelia actually floated away – literally floated away down a little stream, out of sight. It was most poetic, although in reality, she must have been cold and wet, poor thing. The Tempest was impressive as well, with Ariel darting about all over the place, disappearing behind things and turning up somewhere else. He was played by the same girl. Ivy Elliott is her name. A lovely creature.’

  ‘That sounds both charming and intriguing,’ said Arthur. ‘I wish we could see one of those.’

  ‘You can,’ said Ernest. ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream is running now, out in Hampstead. We haven’t been yet.’

  ‘And shan’t, if you keep on praising that actress to the skies,’ said Kathleen sharply. Ernest crimsoned.

  ‘Is she playing Hermia or Helena?’ enquired Arthur smoothly.

  ‘Neither; she’s booked
for Titania on the programme. She couldn’t be Hermia, as she’s blonde, nor Helena, as she’s rather small. You should go, really. There’ll be a matinée tomorrow, even though it is Sunday – these bohemians don’t respect anything any more! What time did you mean to leave for home?’

  ‘Oh, our plans for tomorrow are not firm yet,’ said Arthur. ‘Shall we, Vanessa? What do you think? We can go to a matinée and still arrive home before the children are in bed.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said, putting my hand on his. ‘It will be quite a psychological leap, won’t it, from Pinero to Shakespeare.’

  ‘Interestingly enough, it won’t be as much of one as it might if it were any other play,’ observed Arthur, irresistibly entering his stride. ‘We were saying before that Shakespeare did not deal with such seemingly artificial questions as respectability and social strictures in his tragedies, being concerned with much more powerful human driving forces—’

  ‘Like ambition—’

  ‘Like jealousy—’

  ‘Like passion—’

  ‘Yes, all that. Shakespeare expresses the fundamental drives that define the human condition, not only the social condition. Yet those social questions make their appearance as well. Often, in fact – especially in the comedies.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Kathleen. ‘I never thought of the comedies that way. They always seem to be delving into stories of awful complications due to mix-ups, misidentifications, and confusions.’

  ‘Yes, but think how often he creates those mixed-up situations by raising questions about one’s ‘‘place in society”,’ persisted Arthur. ‘Think of all the girls dressing as boys, the women who fall in love with young men who are actually other women, the various comical punishments endured by those who would infringe the sacred rules of marriage – Falstaff, Katharina, Titania also for that matter.’

  ‘I guess,’ I said slowly, ‘that the point is that the questions which concern Pinero also concerned Shakespeare, but what Pinero sees as tragic, Shakespeare saw as the stuff of comedy. He actually perceived all the rules people make to keep every person in his own little box as funny, and even funnier the mishaps that occur when the prisoners attempt to escape.’

  ‘Oh, he knew what he was doing,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s no accident that our sympathies always lie with the shrew rather than the tamer, with Falstaff rather than the merry wives.’

  ‘It’s much less dramatic put that way,’ remarked Kathleen, ‘one loses that exciting feeling of being surrounded by bad people whom one mustn’t know, but who live secret, sinful lives.’

  ‘Yes, Shakespeare’s characters are allowed to flow in and out of naughtiness,’ said Ernest. ‘But that was another century. It’s not so easy any more. Or perhaps it was difficult even in his time, in reality.’

  ‘So you think that Pinero is representing reality?’

  ‘Well, as it is now; today’s reality. Yes, I think so. Perhaps it was a little exaggerated to make Mrs Tanqueray commit suicide, but the description of her social isolation was accurate enough, I would say, and it’s understandable that such a situation can lead to despair.’

  ‘I believe you have a point,’ said Arthur with a shade of surprise in his voice. ‘We tend to be thankful for the times we live in; we tend to assume they are better than those that came before. But our society must be horrendously more difficult than it used to be, for some.’

  This conversation was still floating vaporously in my mind as we took a bumpy omnibus to Hampstead, carrying our bag and a picnic basket generously filled by Kathleen and covered with a chequered cloth. The streets were full of people in their Sunday best, and the sunshine gilded dusty London with a golden glint.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ she had said good-heartedly on seeing us off. ‘You’re lucky with the weather. I hope it lasts.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to come?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh – I think not,’ she replied quickly. ‘We’re going to the Pinero reading, I told you; a friend of Ernest’s will be reading one of the main parts. And anyway – well, no. It’s better not.’

  We walked for some distance after descending from the omnibus, asking our way several times, until we reached the expanse of meadow where the play was to be held. Large signs with directions had been installed in its vicinity, making the last part of the walk easy enough, and we arrived more than an hour early, and settled ourselves a short distance away from the bustle going on around the tent and caravan that were being set up near a little grove. The tap-tap of a hammer rang through the still, warm air. Bees buzzed, other small creatures came to investigate our meal, and Arthur removed his jacket and reclined upon it, accepting the large wedge of bread and cheese I handed him. Kathleen had put in a piece of meat pie as well as a bottle of water and several fruits. I leant against Arthur and allowed myself an hour of dreamy respite from life’s responsibilities.

  When the play was soon to begin, we gathered up our things, swept off crumbs, shook out the cloth and made our way to the makeshift ticket stall which had been established in front of the clearing which was to serve as a stage, upon which the long-stemmed Queen Anne’s lace and the reedy grasses had been carefully shorn. For an extra penny one could rent a cushion; we took two, and settled ourselves in an inviting spot. There were few people as yet, but as the minutes passed they began to arrive in a trickle which turned into a steady stream, and by the time the three knocks signifying the raising of the non-existent curtain were to be heard, we were surrounded by a human swarm clad in shirtsleeves, muslin and straw hats.

  The Greeks entered upon the scene, in white swathes and sandals, and the severe scolding of Hermia for loving a man not of her father’s choosing began. I found myself concentrating on the familiar words – and realised with a shock that I never had listened to them properly before.

  Theseus: What say you, Hermia? be advised, fair maid:

  To you your father should be as a god;

  One that composed your beauties, yea, and one

  To whom you are but as a form in wax

  By him imprinted and within his power

  To leave the figure or disfigure it.

  Hermia’s fundamental sin is to possess a will. For this, she is given the choice between obedience – murder of the will, death – murder of the body, or perpetual reclusion – murder of the soul. And she chooses the last.

  Hermia: So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,

  Ere I will yield my virgin patent up

  Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke

  My soul consents not to give sovereignty.

  And I perceived in these words the eternal and fatal circle of transgression and punishment, where previously I had seen nothing but a poor maiden crossed in love, but certain to triumph in the end. I poked Arthur in the ribs with my elbow, and he glanced at me, shrugging very slightly.

  There it was, in Shakespeare’s own words: what are you, what are we all, but forms in wax, controlled by authority, destined to yield or die?

  Was this comedy? Were we meant to laugh or cry?

  To laugh, of course. We all know that Hermia will wed her beloved in the end.

  Yes – thanks to supernatural help. The price of her rebellion is paid by Titania, whose own submission is a work of sorcery. I was reminded of my mother, who invariably added a benign hunter to Perrault’s Little Red Riding Hood, who kills the wolf and rescues the previously devoured child and her aged grandmother. I was stunned when I first read the story for myself and discovered that in fact it ends abruptly after the wolf’s repast. Was the hunter truly nothing but a little show of magic destined to console and reassure the tender listeners, who would be shocked and frightened by the plain reality?

  ‘Look,’ whispered Arthur suddenly, interrupting my train of thought. ‘It’s Puck’s scene. Ernest’s flame will soon appear!’

  I shifted on my cushion, rearranged my posture and observed the mischievous youth cheerfully recounting his exploits, until the fairy shushes him out of the
way for the advent of the Queen.

  ‘What a silly Ernest is – that’s obviously a wig!’ I whispered into Arthur’s ear, as a lady stepped forth wielding a sceptre, followed by a ragtag band of fairies carrying her lengthy train. She was not young, but her gait was strong and elegant, and the blonde mane which streamed nearly to her knees was crowned with a wreath of leaves and berries. The effect, while very unlike my personal vision of Titania, was not unqueenly, and the reproaches she immediately proceeded to heap upon her wayward husband reminded me faintly of Kathleen. I noticed Arthur smiling privately.

  I continued to stare at Titania curiously during every scene in which she appeared. Stately rather than fairy-like, I actually thought she would have been better as Helena – except –

  ‘Ernest is odd,’ I said, smiling, as we rose a little stiffly, and gathering up our wraps and basket, made our way across the broad meadow over which the slight dimming of the late afternoon sun was beginning to be perceptible. ‘Too small to play Helena and too blonde to play Hermia, indeed! Why, if anything, it’s the opposite. She’s quite tall, but if her eyebrows are anything to judge by, I think she’s really dark-haired.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that,’ agreed Arthur. ‘Careless of them. Surely they could have lightened them up a little, to match the wig.’

  And he teased Ernest about it, as he and Kathleen met us to deliver our small bags and join us in a final cup of tea before we boarded our train.

  ‘So you took the lovely Titania for a true blonde?’ he said laughingly. ‘Vanessa and I have a theory that she isn’t really. Her eyebrows were too dark. It’s particularly strange as they took such pains with the costumes. They were really most successful. I wonder how theatres manage it – so many costumes, for so many different plays!’

  ‘And even worse – the same ones in a different size, any time they change the actor for a given role,’ I added. ‘All those alterations…’ I stopped suddenly, struck by my own remark.