Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [47]
It was a lack that came mainly from want of occasion. So far he had not succeeded in being completely alone with her for more than a few minutes at a time. By contrast, he had seen more of Charles Wolpert in these few weeks than during the previous ten years. He was not particularly drawn to Charles, but he was her brother after all, the same parents had engendered them both, the same blood ran in their veins – something of her might be shed on him, though it seemed unlikely, Charles taking after his father, with the same dark eyes and prominent nose. However, it was the nearest he could get. So he went riding with Charles, accepted a spaniel bitch that he didn’t really want from Charles, dined out with Charles and other young men of Charles’s acquaintance.
On the few occasions when by accident or contrivance he had found himself alone with Sarah, he had floundered rather, the time had been too short, he had failed to find words that without startling her would do justice to his feelings.
In this she had not given him a great deal of help. That she knew what his feelings were he had no doubt whatever; it was the nature of hers he was not sure of: off-stage, in her real person, she was considerably less frank about them than Miranda. He garnered what crumbs he could get, smiles or words that were for him alone, glances they had exchanged one evening when he had dined there and she had played on the clavichord and sung for them, while old Wolpert sat heavy-lidded and the mother stitched at some eternal embroidery. So far, this had been all.
Today, midway through the rehearsal, refreshments were brought down from the house in an operation that involved the ancient footman, Andrew, two kitchen maids with trays and the stable-boy with a card-table. Tea and wine and sweet cakes were laid out on this. Erasmus was making towards Sarah, who was for the moment alone, when he found Parker in his way. The curate’s face had the pale, ardent look it always wore when he was about to offer advice. He was dressed in his best clerical garb today, black silk stockings, a suit of black broadcloth and an immaculate white neckband. He had come from a baptism – the vicar had been away from the parish for some weeks now and Parker had much to do.
‘I hope you won’t be put out by this, Kemp,’ he said, ‘but I think – and I am not alone in this, in fact I have been delegated to speak to you – that you emerge from your cave in too soldierly a style, almost as if you were answering the call of the bugle rather than the voice of one whom, er, your soul cherishes. Try relaxing the shoulders.’ Here, as if in illustration, Parker moved his own narrow shoulders up and down in a series of shrugs. ‘I know you will take this in good part,’ he said. ‘To assist me with Caliban I am constantly practising the sinuous movements of the savage.’
Erasmus hated advice of any kind as an unwarranted and impertinent comment on his activities. It was particularly displeasing just at present, as it had cost him his chance of a few moments alone with Sarah, who he saw had now seated herself on a bench and had Trinculo on one side of her and Hippolito on the other. ‘You may be right,’ he said coldly. ‘Can I by the same token bring to your attention what is generally considered an imperfection in your portrayal of Caliban? I am referring to that part in the second Act when Trinculo plies you with wine and you take him for a god. It is not felt that you are totally convincing as a drunken monster. You do it more as if you were taking the Sacrament, if I may say so.’
A flush had risen to Parker’s face. His excitable hair was glinting round his head like an aureole. ‘But you have totally failed to understand that scene,’ he said. ‘Caliban is not drunk, he is exalted. He says it himself, it is celestial liquor that he is given to