The Riddle of the River (4 page)

‘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.

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.

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.

‘According to the play we have just heard –
Trelawney of the Wells,
it's called – some actors are obliged to purchase their own costumes,' said Kathleen. ‘They must share, though. It's too expensive for the beginning ones, on their tiny salaries. After all, theatre costumes are no ordinary clothes. They are both special and expensive. The actresses in the play shared everything, although Ernest's friend told us he keeps his own things for himself. But there isn't anything about the theatre that Pinero doesn't know.'

‘You mean that the play you heard was a play about acting?' I said curiously.

‘Exactly. It was about the life of actors and actresses in a small London theatre. But the true subject is not so different from what we were discussing yesterday. Rose Trelawney is an immensely popular, successful young actress, but she falls in love with a rich young man of good family, and gives up the stage for him. Yet she cannot get used to the life of his family and social class. She suffers from the restraint, and from agonising boredom, exactly like poor Mrs Tanqueray. Only this play ends on a much happier note, with Rose returning to the theatre, and her young man running away from home and becoming an actor himself in the hopes of winning her back.'

‘And does he succeed?'

‘Well, yes, although it doesn't seem too realistic. He gets his heart's desire, his career, and the forgiving acceptance of his parents as well. All very positive, and done with humour. Yet it's easy to see that it's all just a happy ending to make sure the play is perceived as a comedy and not a tragedy. The pain, the sensation of bitter failure during the scenes showing the clash of the classes, that's what carries the force of the play.'

‘Yes, it is a tragedy disguised as a comedy, and it won't be so easy to perform,' agreed Kathleen. ‘It's difficult for an actor to succeed well in both tragedy and comedy. And the more so as one tends to get used to the actor in one persona, and have difficulty admitting of his appearance in the other, so that even if he is doing a fine job, one feels somehow put out.'

‘Or else one cannot help feeling the tragedy behind his comedy, or vice versa!' added Arthur.

‘No, but there are actors and actresses who can do both, extraordinarily,' said Ernest enthusiastically. ‘Their tragedy is not heavy, and their comedy contains tears. That is exactly what I admire in Ivy Elliott. I've seen her in both types of role and she is totally convincing in both.'

‘But you saw her in both types of role in Shakespeare, isn't that right?' said Arthur. ‘It's a bit different, because there is no question that all of Shakespeare's characters spring from the same family, whether tragic or comic. Like the strange kinship, or twinship, between Lear and his Fool.'

‘Yes, that is true. Playing Shakespeare is a whole art in itself. I'd like to see Ivy in a play by someone else – then we'd see what she's really capable of!'

‘Pah!' interrupted Kathleen. ‘A girl who wears a wig, they
say, and you don't even notice it! I'll take Mrs Campbell, myself. You've only seen her in Pinero – but we saw her as Mélisande not four months ago. Maeterlinck, you know –
Pelléas and Mélisande
. Now, that's an actress. It's not that I'm really taken by that symbolic stuff – it's all rather too heavy for me. But Mrs Campbell played Mélisande as a waif-like lost girl that made me cry.'

‘Well, if anyone was wearing a wig, it was she in that role!' said Ernest, harping a little unnecessarily, as I thought.

‘That's different,' argued Kathleen, ‘it's symbolism. Mélisande's long blonde braids are part of the play. You can't do without them, and no one has such braids in reality.'

‘Rubbish,' said her husband.

I started to smile, until I caught sight of Kathleen's face, and all of a sudden felt a little stab of worry.

Two little boys knelt at the edge of the road, giggling uncontrollably, concealing something under the bushes with busy hands.

‘It will never work,' said one of them, covering his mouth to stifle the sound, as he scrambled to hide from some elegantly dressed passers-by.