Sullivan, page 20
Neither had Tony.
Greta coughed.
‘Forgive me,’ said Oswald. ‘This is Greta. What can you think of her but admire her? Turn around, Greta.’ Greta turned. ‘ Walk away and come back,’ he said. She did so. As she returned they saw the twinkle in her deep-sunken blue eyes. Sullivan laughed.
‘You see,’ said Oswald, spreading his arms as if now they knew all. ‘Katherina.’
‘Oh,’ said Sullivan.
‘This is Sil,’ said Tony, indicating Sil who was leaning on his elbows on the counter just as bewildered as they were.
‘Hello, miss,’ said Sil.
‘You have champagne?’ Oswald asked. ‘Good champagne?’
Sil was indignant.
‘Certainly I have good champagne,’ he said.
‘A magnum,’ said Oswald, clicking his fingers. ‘Bring a magnum. Come in, Greta, and close the door.’ Greta did so. Tony rose hurriedly to see her seated. She thanked him with a luminous smile. Sil departed, shaking his head as if he had a hangover, although it would be very difficult to surprise Sil.
‘I will explain,’ said Oswald. ‘It is very simple. I am talking about a play.’
‘Oh,’ said Sullivan.
‘Not just another play,’ said Oswald, sitting on the one chair the place possessed and practically embracing the table with his arms. ‘I have been engaged on this play for, I might say, the whole of my life. It is about kings. It is called I The King. It is a dramatic assessment of kingship in our time. There are sixteen scenes in this play. It will be one of the greatest plays ever written. I say this. I wrote it. Don’t be surprised at the assertion. I am not boasting. I am speaking from a position of strength; knowledge, assessment of the theatre-going public of England over a period of forty years. I could afford to wait until now. Why?’
‘Why?’ Tony asked.
He smacked the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Because I would not perform it until I had found perfection,’ he said. ‘There are three main characters in the play. There is Katherina the Queen. How long did it take me to find Katherina? Five years. But I found her. Look at her!’
But can she act? Sullivan was going to say, but didn’t. Brother, if she can act too, she has everything.
‘There is Paul the King,’ said Oswald. ‘I saw you last night, Mr. Sullivan. I knew. I had a feeling in here, the minute I saw you put a foot on the stage.’ He thumped his heart with a closed fist.
Sullivan mumbled.
‘And when you and Mr. Mahon clashed in that scene, my heart, my whole heart, turned over, because then I saw you and him in I The King. Nitro and Paul; Paul and Nitro. I shouted it out loud. Didn’t I, Greta?’
‘You did,’ said Greta.
‘People may have thought I was mad,’ said Oswald.
‘The champagne,’ said Sil, putting it down carefully.
‘Thank you,’ said Oswald, rising and taking it and loosening the foil with a practised hand.
‘The glasses,’ said Sil.
‘Thank you,’ said Greta, taking them from him.
‘The money,’ said Oswald, taking a white five-pound note from his pocket and throwing it on the counter, and then he popped the cork.
Sullivan and Tony were looking at one another. Sullivan was beginning to feel a bubble of laughter rising in him. As if all this was something you were hearing about from somebody else and not believing.
‘Drink,’ said Oswald, who had half filled the glasses. He held his own up. ‘To the assured success of I The King, to me myself for the genius of persistent searching. To the three of you and your future fortune; success; money; undying acclaim.’
He drank and then he sat at the table again.
‘Have you any questions?’ he asked as if they knew anything.
‘Tell us more about the play,’ said Sullivan.
‘The play,’ said Oswald. ‘ I have lived in it so long that I am astonished that everybody else in the world doesn’t know all about it. How can I describe it? The thought that kingship can be saved; that kingship is from God; how it has been distorted, abused, negatived, and how it can be revived to a surging triumph. You have the King, moulded in an old mould. He must be patched. He must be torn apart. He must be built anew from a fresh cloth. He must be new wine in a new bottle. How can I make you see it? The glory, the empty trappings; the luxurious empty trappings. The wedding. The glittering pageant, empty as the gold and trappings of dead kings in a museum or an Egyptian tomb. And then the resurrection. By Nitro. By the people. All good things can only come from the bones of the people. I’ll show you scenes. Burning pyres. Flaming cannons, tattered banners, palls of smoke; the calm and beauty of a peaceful state before the onslaught; the onslaught itself; the forces of freedom converging on the state, and the tragic and glorious, the pent-up, releasing death of the Queen. Can’t you see it? The begrimed King, his glorious uniform in tatters, coming down the steps into the advancing spears with the body of the Queen in his arms; her long fair hair sweeping the ground; her pitiful sword-pierced breast exposed to the gaze of the ravening wolves; in her death, in his learning, the fall of an oligarchic kingship; the rise of a new king of the people, purged by death, suffering and destruction; a new seed rising from the purging of the old. How does it sound?’
‘It sounds good,’ said Sullivan.
‘It is good,’ said Oswald. ‘When I show you the lines they will inflame your heart When you read what you have to say. Things that you will have to search your soul for. I will drag every emotion in the frame of man from the depths of your heart; And Nitro too. What he has to say. This play is very good. I’m saying this. I know. Not, I may say, since Shakespeare will there be such beautiful things said; will there be such dramatic emotions unloosed. Are you free to come?’
‘It sounds good,’ said Sullivan. ‘What do you think, Tony? Doesn’t it sound good?’
‘What?’ said Tony, who had been exchanging looks with Greta.
‘Doesn’t it sound good?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Terrific,’ said Tony.
‘What did I say?’ said Oswald. ‘Will you be free in a week?’ he asked.
‘My God!’ said Sullivan. ‘Hey, Tony, will we be free in a week?’
‘Certainly you’ll be free in a week,’ said Sil, who was still there. ‘Man, it sounds powerful. I can see you in that, Sullivan. Janey, you’ll be smashing in that.’
‘Out of the mouths of men,’ said Oswald. ‘How much money are you getting per week now?’
Sullivan told him.
‘Street sweeper’s salary,’ said Oswald. ‘Listen, from once you come with me I will give you double that and six times it when we start on the road. Is that good?’
‘Is that good!’ said Sullivan.
‘Is that colossal!’ said Sil.
‘The end of the week, is it?’ Sullivan asked.
‘The end of the week,’ said Oswald.
‘What about it, Tony?’ Sullivan asked. Tony was still looking at Greta, trying to find flaws in her. He couldn’t do it. Unless her character is all wrong, he was thinking, she is the most perfect person I have ever seen.
‘What about it, Greta?’ Tony asked, sipping his champagne.
‘You’ll enjoy it,’ Greta said. ‘It’s really a tremendous piece.’
‘What’s the answer, Sullivan?’ Tony said. ‘Didn’t I prophesy half an hour ago? What did I tell you half an hour ago? About the man looking for you. Man, was that sharp? About smoke from motion. Here’s the motion. I’m in. I’ll sign anything. This is ordained.’
Sullivan was hesitating. This was unlike Sullivan. Sullivan wasn’t a one for hesitating.
‘You have my word,’ said Oswald, holding his arm, almost piercing him with his eyes. ‘You have my word, boy. This play will make you great.’
Sullivan hesitated no more.
‘I’m your man,’ he said. ‘You were sent from the sky. In the name of God let us make smoke.’
Chapter Twenty One
There were questions. In the dress-circle bar.
‘How long have you been acting?’
‘All my life.’
‘This is your first major part in London?’
‘Yes.’
Oswald says: ‘All due to me, men. I was the one who found him. Don’t forget that, Sullivan. Always remember that.’
‘Yes,’ said Sullivan.
‘Any film experience?’
‘Just one,’ said Sullivan, thinking of that one. ‘ Disastrous.’
‘Are you married?’ His heart was contracting. He was very despondent. He must be tired. All that rehearsing. All that work. Five weeks, and then four travelling a different place each week. Different digs. A hard part. Five costume changes. All that was why he was weary. He would give an awful lot just to have Bernie there in front of him. Saying, ‘ Hello, Sullivan.’
‘Fancy free,’ he said. That’s what he always said. Apart from the fact that if it percolated through the papers, it would reach home and what would Morgan say to Bernie then? Besides, she was his. He could have at least some secret thing to treasure. A treasure so far away, though.
Oswald said: ‘Not for long. Not for long. They will soon be drooling over him.’
Oswald answered questions. Yes, this was his first theatrical venture. Yes, he was the author of The Isles of Greece and the well-known Appreciation of Homer. How long did it take him to write I The King? How long indeed! A lifetime. A lifetime of scholarship and hard work. Would he lose money? Yes, the settings were expensive. It was a big cast. It was costing a lot of money to put on. Yes, perhaps even five thousand pounds. But worth it. He considered it worth while. It would be an unusual theatrical experience for most people. Assuredly. He could make a fortune on it but that wasn’t his sole aim. He felt he could put a lot of honour back into the popular theatre. Humbly. He would try. Yes, he was producing it himself. He knew it so well. Every nuance. He could have had a professional producer, but after all he knew a lot about the theatre. He had been criticising the theatre all his life, as they knew, in that good journal. He had learned a lot. Yes, he was pleased with the reception the play got in the provinces: spectacle, blinding colour, magnificent scenery, Shakespearean dialogue, the tensions, the tremendous drama. One or two dissenting notices? Yes, these pleased me. Why, a full paean of praise means nothing. Objections, dissenters, these mean controversy. I am very pleased. I am confident of what I am presenting tonight.
Sullivan again.
‘What profession was your father?’ Sullivan wanted to double up, as if he had a sudden pain in his heart Why should all these intimacies be brought into it? What had they to do with it?
‘My father was a nurseryman. He loved flowers.’ That’s for you, Tim. Why should they know how you died?
‘Miss Porteous.’ That was Greta.
‘Yes, I always loved the theatre.’
Greta came the certificate way; Academy of Dramatic Art. More academies, and repertory and back and forward. Nothing spectacular. Oswald told how he discovered her. The casual calling in to the small theatre. An Arts Theatre, holding about thirty people. Because it was a Greek play, he went. Couldn’t believe his eyes. That classic beauty; the long flowing white gown. No, Miss Porteous wasn’t married.
‘Won’t be long,’ said the reporters and went after drinks.
‘Back to work,’ said Oswald. ‘ Back to work, my children. Just that one scene. So little time left.’ He bustled out. Sullivan rose wearily.
‘Are you tired?’ Greta asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I wish Oswald wouldn’t keep going over and over the same speech,’ she said.
‘That’s his way,’ said Sullivan. ‘Come on.’
She followed him docilely.
The stage was as if it was hit by a hurricane. The great theatre looked small with all the confusion, wrapped in wires, men crawling all over it.
They had to feel their way onto the stage, past lamps on heavy stands and criss-crossing wires, and men hammering and cursing. Mr. Gurnett, do we have to have a rehearsal now? How will we get the stage done? How will we ever be ready? All the old shouts. Sullivan was thinking how confused he was. It was hard work moving in with a lot of new people. Trying to get to know them. Never getting to know them apart from the surface that each presented to the other; wondering what they were like at home, when they got home; what were their dreams (apart from being very famous and wealthy actors and actresses). All that was work too, trying not to hurt anyone’s sensitivities. Like Martin long ago with the Great Gregory. He wondered what had happened to Martin. Thought of the way he had dramatically exited from that company; about meeting Pi. Grinned now when he thought of Pi as his dresser. A new job for Pi. Comforting to know that Pi was in the flat getting the dinner ready. Thought of Bernie’s orchard. Imagined lying on the grass and having a good long sleep, knowing she was there; that when you opened your eyes you would see her.
‘Right, now! Right now!’ Oswald shouting. Up at the back. ‘You know the lines I want from you both. Greta, please, concentrate. You must sense what I desire from them.’
Fifteen times Sullivan said his lines so that she could say hers.
‘The first time I saw you, I thought you were a statue stolen from a Greek shrine, classical, beautiful, but as cold as marble.
She had to answer: ‘I was marble, Paul, until your touch awakened me.’ And later he had to say: ‘The diadem which you wore, Katherina, grubbed from the bowels of the earth by the labours of men, is no longer a crown of gold, but a crown of thorns.’
She had to say: ‘To have known you, Paul, was the beginning of life for me; to have loved you was the living of life for me: to die for you would not be suffering but immeasurable glory.’
Oswald wasn’t satisfied with the way she spoke them.
Tony leaned his arms on the plush upper circle and watched her. Even under the naked lights she was beautiful. Even with the frown on her forehead. He thought Oswald was trying her too hard. Tony thought that Oswald himself was trying too hard. He looked at the magnificent bits of scenery jumbled on the stage. You could have held a real court in the palace rooms, you could have lived and slept and died in Oswald’s bedrooms. You could have fought a real battle on his platforms with real soldiers and real weapons, and cannon alone would have destroyed them. ‘I am sick of make-do,’ cried Oswald. ‘I want magnificence. I want reality. I want solidity.’ Oswald could afford these things. He got them.
Yet, Tony reflected, the real art of the theatre is simulating, making a thing appear to be what it is not. But maybe Oswald was right. Maybe people could be blinded with magnificence.
She has a nice voice, he was thinking. Certainly she ought to be a big success with that appearance and a good melodious voice. Tony felt himself bereft of critical faculties when he looked at her. He had never been interested in women apart from typing them to parts in plays and imagining how they would perform in the parts. With her it was different. He envied Sullivan, not because he had the principal part, but because he could be with her so much, touch her, talk to her. My God, I must be mad, Tony thought, after all this time. She was pleasant. She spoke to everybody. She had no side. Wait until she was successful, his mind told him, and you will see then. No, not Greta.
Greta was saying the lines over and over again, with Oswald shouting: ‘No, darling, not quite that. You know when you stretch out your hand in the darkness to lay it on a stone and you find a live frog under your fingers – try it that way.’
She tried it that way.
She is not a good actress, Sullivan was saying in his mind. She says it all right. She puts emphasis on the right word. She looks beautiful and maybe that will save her. Beautiful women are rare, and men’s critical faculties can be dulled by their appearance. Maybe it’s because I’m tired that I am so critical. Oswald was like a gadfly buzzing up the stairs and down the stairs from this balcony to the next. There were people moving scenery, fixing lights, subdued voices off stage. How can we get on with it and an effing rehearsal going on up to the last minute? Voices coming from the walls. Greta suddenly tore at the string of pearls on her neck and scattered them; pulled her hair out of its bun so that it fell in fair cascades around her; raised her head and bit out a filthy word four times, screaming up at Oswald. ‘ Stop them! Stop them! Stop them!’ she screamed. ‘ How the—hell can I talk or speak or hear? Stop them! You hear!’
Dead silence then. Stage hands appearing from corners like rabbits out of burrows to look at the lips that uttered such a word. Shaking their heads. Greta knelt on the stage, her hair sweeping the floor. Sullivan tried to collect some of the pearls, laughing, thinking, Now she is human.
‘Don’t mind them,’ says Greta. ‘They are only Woolworth’s, anyhow.’
‘But, darling,’ said Oswald from way up above, ‘that is exactly the way I want you to say the lines.’
Silly, thought Tony. That’s not the way to handle her. Wished he could have the handling of her. How he would have gently brought these things out of her, coaxing, squeezing, gently, gently. She was just a big beautiful girl who had to be handled carefully, with caution, to appear as something she was not.
‘To-night,’ shouted Oswald. ‘Until to-night. Go home and rest and pray. That is all.’
Sullivan helped Greta to her feet, feeling close to her for the first time, liking the feel of her silky hair brushing his face as he helped her up; hoping that everything would be good, that Greta would succeed.
They lived in a room in one of the tall houses off a square. A quiet placid backwater, built off a great main road eternally rumbling with traffic. Back here you didn’t notice the traffic. There were beech trees planted in the grass of the square. No railings; the railings had gone to war one time, and had never come home. It was filled with fat, fat, London cats stretching in the spring sunshine. All the tall houses were noble and symmetrical. Long ago it would have been a plush place. Sullivan would close his eyes and imagine it, when these houses were homes of the wealthy, with carriages and gaslight and tweenies. Now all the houses were divided into flats, or used as boarding-houses. Hardly any of the windows were painted the same colour. Outside the doors prams were parked, and go-carts and bicycles, and auto-cycles and small motor-cars that had seen better days. Sullivan often thought of the look that would come upon the faces of the original owners if they were permitted for a time to come back and view their square. He could see that look on their faces.
