Free Light Thickens by Ngaio Marsh Page B

play seriously. My great-grandfather was a cannibal,” said Rangi in his exquisite voice. “He believed he absorbed the attributes of his victims.”
    A complete silence fell upon the table. Perhaps because they had been rather a noisy party before, their silence affected other patrons, and Rangi’s declaration, quite loudly made, was generally heard. The silence lasted only for a second or two.
    “Four beers and two tomato juices,” said Ross, returning with the drinks. He laid the tray on the table.

Chapter 3
THIRD WEEK
    In the third week the play began to consolidate. The parts that were clearly spurious had of course been taken out — the structure fully revealed. It was written with economy: the remorseless destiny of the Macbeths, the certainty from the beginning that they were irrevocably cursed, their progress, at first clinging to each other, then separated and swept away downstream to their damnation: these elements declared themselves in every phase of this destructive play.
    Why, then, was it not dreary? Why did it excite rather than distress?
    “I don’t know why,” Peregrine said to his wife. “Well, I do, really. It’s because it’s wonderfully well written. Simple as that. It’s the atmosphere that it generates.”
    “When you directed it before, did you feel the same way about it?”
    “I think so. Not so marked, though. It’s a much better company, of course. Really, it’s a perfect company. If you heard Simon Morten in the English scene, Emily, saying,
My wife kill’d too
? Then when Malcolm offers his silly conventional bit of advice, Simon looks at Ross and says,
He has no children
.”
    “I know.”
    “Come down to rehearsal one of these days and see.”
    “Shall I?”
    “Yes. Do. At the end of next week.”
    “All right. How about the superstitions? Is Nina Gaythorne behaving herself?”
    “She’s trying to, at least. I don’t mind betting she’s taking all sorts of precautions on the side
but
as long as she doesn’t
talk
about it… Barrabell — he’s the Banquo, you know — feeds her stories, I’m quite sure. I caught him at it last week. The scrap shed down by the river was struck by lightning, you know.”
    “No! You never told me.”
    “Didn’t I? I suppose I’ve clapped locks on anything that looks like superstition and don’t unfasten them even for you. I caught Barrabell nicely and gave poor old Nina the shock of her life.”
    “What were they saying?”
    “He was going on about one of the witches — Blondie — making a scene and getting the jimjams during the storm. Some people do get upset, you know — it’s electrical. They always say they’re sorry and they can’t help it.”
    “Was Blondie all right?”
    “Right as rain when the lightning stopped.”
    “How unfortunate.”
    “What?”
    “That there should be a thunderstorm.”
    “You don’t mean —?”
    “Oh, you know how I feel about all the nonsense. I just thought how unfortunate from the point of view of the people who do.”
    “The silly fatheads have got over it. The theatre wasn’t struck by lightning. Being fixed up with a good conductor, it wouldn’t have felt it anyway.”
    “No.” After a short silence, Emily said: “How’s the little boy behaving?”
    “William Smith? Very well. He’s a good actor. It’ll be interesting to see what happens to him after adolescence.
    He may not go on with the theatre but I hope he does. He’s doubling.”
    “The Bloody Child?”
    “And the Crowned Child. They’re one and the same. You should hear him wail out his
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hi-i-ill shall come against him
.”
    “Golly!”
    “Yes, my girl. That’s the word for it.”
    “How are you working the scene? The apparitions?”
    “The usual things. Dry ice. A trapdoor. A lift. Background of many whispering voices:
Double, double
. Strong rhythm. The show of Kings is all Banquo’s descendants. Each wears a Banquo head — Gaston’s handiwork, of course. The