The Curfew - Jesse Ball [25]
—Seats!
Mrs. Gibbons settled herself in the back row.
—A LADDER OF RAIN AND THE ROOF BEYOND, a play by Molly Drysdale (mostly) and Siegfried Gibbons (hardly).
Molly’s hand was signing something beneath the chair, but it could not be observed.
It was now early in the morning and William still had not returned.
PART 3
A
LADDER
OF RAIN
AND
THE
ROOF
BEYOND
A horse rides in on a horse’s back. It is dressed as a colonial soldier. The movements of the horse are exactly like those of a horse.
—Those who know me not, know this, said the horse: there are things that must be said, and this is how we say them: without regard to safety, and saving nothing for last. Else the fire cannot last the night.
The horse rides away.
A voice says:
Louisa is approaching a small window that has been cut into a wall. She looks back. She appears to be sneaking. Her life has been so far a happy one. Educated at the best schools, given the best things, taken to the best restaurants. Journeyed abroad. An owner of horses. Taken up in airplanes. Rail travel. Widely read. She felt as many well-brought-up people do that her life is a collection, that she is always collecting. She is also very brave and although rather weak, objectively, is physically tough by virtue of a fierce will. She had once cut herself in a shop while looking at hunting knives. Instead of saying anything, she just put her hand in her pocket. Halfway home someone made her take it out and found that it was covered in blood. Her pocket was soaked. Rather than hurt, she was just embarrassed.
Louisa approaches the window. It is really very small. She looks through the window. It is not the sort of window that divides indoors from outdoors, but rather that more secretive sort of window which privileges one room over another. Into a grand auditorium she peers. A figure is on the stage. Over her shoulder, we can just see through the window the vastness of the room beyond.
CURTAIN
A grand auditorium. William stands, not on one foot, not on two. His feet appear to be bearing his weight, but it isn’t true. In fact, all his attention is on the violin in his hands, which he is about to play. He looks up at a small window cut into the back corner of the room. Someone in the back of the audience is whispering, and this is what they say:
This is an auditorium without seats. There is a stage and fine carpeting, a place for seats, but no seats. There is tiering, and avenues up to doors, footlights. There is a figure at the window. She shouldn’t be here.
CURTAIN
Several scenes then in which Louisa and William become acquainted with each other. She is the daughter of a prominent politician. He is a musical prodigy from humble origins. He is gentle and dark and unrelenting. She is witty and playful. Her speech is littered with references to philosophical figures and instead of arguing a point she will sometimes choose to point out that so-and-so has already shown that concept to be fallacious. She is an expert horticulturist, a hobby of her mother’s that she took on as a child. She, however, has never mentioned this to William. He is desperately in love with her. They meet in odd places. They eat supper on the floor of the room he lives in. He sneaks into her house at night. They are daring and hopeful. They expect that they will soon be married.
Molly’s mouth is open slightly. Her posture is raised, expectant. The theater could not be so many things, and yet it is. The puppetry is beyond all expectation. Who could believe that the puppets are not alive, that their movements do not originate there in their wooden frames beneath their finely sewn garments, their fur, their feathers? One has always understood what a puppet looks like, what it can do. But this is not that. Is it possible,