Another burst of applause, in the midst of which sounded three raps. Then up went the curtain, and all fell silent. I, as Aubrey, spoke the first line of the play:
“I’m no Othello, darling. …”
XV
“Whither? I Dread to Think—”
Sigrid and I struck on the instant the proper note of affectionate gayety, and I could feel in the air that peculiar audience-rhythm by which an actor knows that his effort to capture a mood is successful. For the moment it was the best of all possible worlds, to be exchanging thus the happy and brilliant lines with the woman I adored, while an intelligent and sympathetic houseful of spectators shared our happy mood.
But, if I had forgotten Varduk, he was the more imposing when he entered. His luminous pallor needed no heightening to seize the attention; his face was set off, like some gleaming white gem, by the dark coat, stock, cape, books, pantaloons. He spoke his entrance line as a king might speak in accepting the crown and homage of a nation. On the other side of the footlights the audience grew tense with heightened interest.
He overpowered us both, as I might have known he would, with his personality and his address. We might have been awkward amateurs, wilting into nothingness when a master took the stage. I was eclipsed completely, exactly as Aubrey should be at the entrance of Ruthven, and I greatly doubt if a single pair of eyes followed me at my first exit; for at the center of the stage, Varduk had begun to make love to Sigrid.
I returned to my dressing-room. Pursuivant sat astride a chair, his sturdy forearms crossed upon its back.
“How does it go?” he asked.
“Like a producer’s dream,” I replied, seizing a powder puff with which to freshen my makeup. “Except for the things we know about, I would pray for no better show.”
“I gave you a message in my speech before the curtain. Did you hear what I said? I meant, honestly, to praise Byron and at the same time to defy him. You and I, with God’s help, will give Ruthven an ending he does not expect.”
It was nearly time for me to make a new entrance, and I left the dressing-room, mystified but comforted by Pursuivant’s manner. The play went on, gathering speed and impressiveness. We were all acting inspiredly, maugre the bizarre nature of the rehearsals and other preparations, the dark atmosphere that had surrounded the piece from its first introduction to us.
The end of the act approached, and with it my exit. Sigrid and I dragged the limp Varduk to the center of the stage and retired, leaving him alone to perform the sinister resurrection scene with which the first act closes. I loitered in the wings to watch, but Jake Switz tugged at my sleeve.
“Come,” he whispered. “I want to show you something.”
We went to the stage door. Jake opened it an inch.
The space behind the lodge was full of uncertain, half-formed lights that moved and lived. For a moment we peered. Then the soft, larval radiances flowed toward us. Jake slammed the door.
“They’re waiting,” he said.
From the direction of the stage came Varduk’s final line:
“Grave, I reject thy shelter! Death, stand back!”
Then Davidson dragged down the curtain, while the house shook with applause. I turned again. Varduk, backstage, was speaking softly but clearly, urging us to hurry with our costume changes. Into my dressing-room I hastened, my feet numb and my eyes blurred.
“I’ll help you dress,” came Pursuivant’s calm voice. “Did Jake show you what waits outside?”
I nodded and licked my parched, painted lips.
“Don’t fear. Their eagerness is premature.”
He pulled off my coat and shirt. Grown calm again before his assurance, I got into my clothes for Act Two—a modern dinner suit. With alcohol I removed the clinging side-whiskers, repaired my makeup and brushed my hair into modern fashion once more. Within seconds, it seemed, Davidson was calling us to our places.
The curtain rose on Sigrid and me, as Mary and Swithin, hearing the ancestral tale of horror from Old Bridget. As before, the audience listened raptly, and as before it rose to the dramatic entrance of Varduk. He wore his first-act costume, and his manner was even more compelling. Again I felt myself thrust into the background of the drama; as for Sigrid, great actress though she is, she prospered only at his sufferance.
Off stage, on again, off once more—the play was Varduk’s, and Sigrid’s personality was being eclipsed. Yet she betrayed no anger or dislike of the situation. It was as though Varduk mastered her, even while his character of Ruthven overpowered her character of Mary. I felt utterly helpless.
In the wings I saw the climax approach. Varduk, flanked by Davidson as the obedient Oscar, was declaring Ruthven’s intention to gain revenge and love.
“Get your sword,” muttered Jake, who had taken Davidson’s place at the curtain ropes. “You’re on again in a moment.”
I ran to my dressing-room. Pursuivant opened the door, thrust something into my hand.
“It’s the silver sword,” he told me quickly. “The one from my cane. Trust in it, Connatt. Almost eleven o’clock—go, and God stiffen your arm.”
It seemed a mile from the door to the wings. I reached it just in time for my entrance cue—Sigrid’s cry of “Swithin will not allow this.”
“Let him try to prevent it,” grumbled Davidson, fierce and grizzled as the devil-converted Oscar.
“I’m here for that purpose,” I said clearly, and strode into view. The sword from Pursuivant’s cane I carried low, hoping that Varduk would not notice at once. He stood with folded arms, a mocking smile just touching his white face.
“So brave?” he chuckled. “So foolish?”
“My ancestor killed you once, Ruthven,” I said, with more meaning than I had ever employed before. “I can do so again.”
I leaped forward, past
