Read Online Havisham: A Novel by Ronald Frame - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ronald Frame
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four of us and our two companions, older women friends of Sheba, and urged us to leave.
‘Aren’t you cold? I feel I’m turning to marble myself –’
I waited a while longer, to prove that I wouldn’t be rushed, but I felt my eyes were out of my control, either swivelling about or waterily staring.
It was cold in here. More than that, though, it was airless, quite airless. I fanned myself with a pamphlet, as I might have done in the heat of high summer, and when I became a little dizzy I had to lean against a pillar. I closed my eyes. I felt a strong grip on my arm, my elbow, someone was holding me up. My eyes, still closed, saw W’m’s face, but when I opened them he was at the door, and protecting me was Moses. I took back my arm.
‘Thank you. I – I’ll be fine.’
That long face of angles, with all its sensibleness intact, the redoubtable decency.
I hurried away. I didn’t know why he had this effect on me, or why I was making so light of his kindness, even punishing him for it.
E LEVEN
Lady Elizabeth Gray was a favourite subject for tableaux. We took our inspiration from a couple of engravings. Valentine Green’s for ‘Lady Elizabeth Gray at the Feet of Edward the Fourth, Soliciting the Restoration of her late Husband’s forfeited lands, 1465’. John Downman’s later work caused us to enact ‘Edward the Fourth on a visit to the Duchess of Bedford is Enamoured of Lady Elizabeth Gray’.
We portrayed the death of Lady Jane Grey, as Green devised it in our essential text, Acta Historica Reginarum Anglia . There was the Marriage of King Henry VIII with Ann Bullen. And – marking my preferment to the centre of stage, where I had expected to be a grieving lady-in-waiting – Mary Queen of Scots, about to be executed.
Look at me!
I’m dressed in black satin and velvet, with a high white ruff. I wear two crucifixes and a rosary. I have walked, quite composed, into the great hall of Fotheringhay Castle. I have instructed my trusty servant, Melville, to take word to my son James, the King of Scotland, that I have always sought the unification of the two kingdoms, Scotland and England. I have listened as the execution warrant was read aloud to me, telling me I am about to be put to death like some ordinary felon. I have prayed in a voice that might carry to the nearly two hundred spectators gathered here, for blessings on the English Church, for my son James and for the agent of my doom, Elizabeth of England. I have given solace to my sorrowing attendants, I have – strangely – spoken with no little wit to the men who will put me to death, my killers. I have stretched out on the floor and laid my neck on the block, placing myself in the hands of God. My ladies weep. The axe is raised. I am on the point of speaking those words which will be my last. ‘Sweet Jesus.’ Secreted beneath my gown but visible is the little Skye terrier, true now as ever to his mistress, offering me my final comfort.
The tableau has been given the motto Mary embroidered herself on her cloth of state, which is placed beside the block. ‘In my end is my beginning.’
Look at me!
Awaiting the death blow.
I have laid my head sideways, so that the audience can see my face and I can see theirs. Just out of my sight – I’m thankful about it – is the executioner’s blade, which has to be held quite still for the two minutes it takes as the commentary is delivered from the side of the stage.
Only the wee terrier moves, but even he might be conscious of the solemnity of the grand event being depicted.
Some in the audience take handkerchiefs to their eyes. There’s a good deal of troubled wriggling in chairs. I feel chastened myself, and sad.
But this is Catherine Havisham’s dignification, even though I’m wearing a red wig – hair as red as Sally’s – and have my face heavily powdered. (There’s a little drift of the stuff on the block, on the black velvet of my gown.)
I feel I’m at the centre of
‘Aren’t you cold? I feel I’m turning to marble myself –’
I waited a while longer, to prove that I wouldn’t be rushed, but I felt my eyes were out of my control, either swivelling about or waterily staring.
It was cold in here. More than that, though, it was airless, quite airless. I fanned myself with a pamphlet, as I might have done in the heat of high summer, and when I became a little dizzy I had to lean against a pillar. I closed my eyes. I felt a strong grip on my arm, my elbow, someone was holding me up. My eyes, still closed, saw W’m’s face, but when I opened them he was at the door, and protecting me was Moses. I took back my arm.
‘Thank you. I – I’ll be fine.’
That long face of angles, with all its sensibleness intact, the redoubtable decency.
I hurried away. I didn’t know why he had this effect on me, or why I was making so light of his kindness, even punishing him for it.
E LEVEN
Lady Elizabeth Gray was a favourite subject for tableaux. We took our inspiration from a couple of engravings. Valentine Green’s for ‘Lady Elizabeth Gray at the Feet of Edward the Fourth, Soliciting the Restoration of her late Husband’s forfeited lands, 1465’. John Downman’s later work caused us to enact ‘Edward the Fourth on a visit to the Duchess of Bedford is Enamoured of Lady Elizabeth Gray’.
We portrayed the death of Lady Jane Grey, as Green devised it in our essential text, Acta Historica Reginarum Anglia . There was the Marriage of King Henry VIII with Ann Bullen. And – marking my preferment to the centre of stage, where I had expected to be a grieving lady-in-waiting – Mary Queen of Scots, about to be executed.
Look at me!
I’m dressed in black satin and velvet, with a high white ruff. I wear two crucifixes and a rosary. I have walked, quite composed, into the great hall of Fotheringhay Castle. I have instructed my trusty servant, Melville, to take word to my son James, the King of Scotland, that I have always sought the unification of the two kingdoms, Scotland and England. I have listened as the execution warrant was read aloud to me, telling me I am about to be put to death like some ordinary felon. I have prayed in a voice that might carry to the nearly two hundred spectators gathered here, for blessings on the English Church, for my son James and for the agent of my doom, Elizabeth of England. I have given solace to my sorrowing attendants, I have – strangely – spoken with no little wit to the men who will put me to death, my killers. I have stretched out on the floor and laid my neck on the block, placing myself in the hands of God. My ladies weep. The axe is raised. I am on the point of speaking those words which will be my last. ‘Sweet Jesus.’ Secreted beneath my gown but visible is the little Skye terrier, true now as ever to his mistress, offering me my final comfort.
The tableau has been given the motto Mary embroidered herself on her cloth of state, which is placed beside the block. ‘In my end is my beginning.’
Look at me!
Awaiting the death blow.
I have laid my head sideways, so that the audience can see my face and I can see theirs. Just out of my sight – I’m thankful about it – is the executioner’s blade, which has to be held quite still for the two minutes it takes as the commentary is delivered from the side of the stage.
Only the wee terrier moves, but even he might be conscious of the solemnity of the grand event being depicted.
Some in the audience take handkerchiefs to their eyes. There’s a good deal of troubled wriggling in chairs. I feel chastened myself, and sad.
But this is Catherine Havisham’s dignification, even though I’m wearing a red wig – hair as red as Sally’s – and have my face heavily powdered. (There’s a little drift of the stuff on the block, on the black velvet of my gown.)
I feel I’m at the centre of
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