the evening at the theatre, watching a play in which a number of men and women committed a complex series of adulteries without any evident relish, to an accompaniment of jejune comment and cocktail glasses. He took some pleasure, however, in watching Yseut, and rather more, of a different kind, in watching Helen; and was somewhat irritated to find that he felt extremely possessive and proud whenever she came on to the stage, and had to suppress a desire to nudge his neighbours and win from them a similar approval. But the trivialities of the plot so wearied him that he slipped out before the end, and went home with hardly more than a thought as to how it would end. Doubtless they all succumbed to nervous diseases.
In consequence he arrived a little early at Peter Grahamâs room, to find that only Nicholas was there before him, comfortably settled in a corner and showing little inclination to move before the end of the party. Peter had certainly contrived an extraordinary display of bottles and glasses, and stood with a proprietorial air in the middle of them all, urging Nicholas, rather unnecessarily, to drink as much as he could before the others arrived. Nigel was astonished, though, how sober Nicholas remained throughout the evening; on reflection, he could not remember ever having seen anyone drink so much with so little effect.
After he had been there about ten minutes, Robert andRachel came in, to be greeted by Peter Graham with enthusiastic cries. A little later, two army officers, acquaintances of Peterâs, also arrived, and later still, a considerable contingent from the theatre, in twos and threes.
âYou asked us to invite a lot of people,â said Robert deprecatingly, âand I think most of the companyâs coming. Except Clive,â he added gloomily, âwhoâs gone up to town to see his wife.â The marital preoccupations of Clive were beginning to prey on his mind.
Jean, Yseut, Helen, and Donald Fellowes all arrived together, with a motley collection of hangers-on from the theatre. A semblance at any rate of good feeling existed between them, though as the evening wore on Nigel noticed no real change in the situation at all; if anything, matters seemed to be worse, Richard, a tall, fair-haired young man in the late twenties, was there, and so was Jane, the stage manager. Nigel observed with some amusement a tendency on the part of Peter to gravitate away from Rachel towards Jane, a manoeuvre he accomplished rather clumsily; but Rachel was certainly more relieved than annoyed. The stage of polite conversation soon passed, and a horrible gaiety set in; fragments of speech were lifted high above the communal babble.
âOh, Jane dear, you are a
slut
.â
âTchekov, I assure you, began the disintegration of the drama by
disintegrating the hero
â¦â
âSo I said that in my opinion you should play the whole of
Othello
in just one green spot â¦â
â⦠wanted to do Wycherly in modern dress, but the Lord Chamberlain stepped in â¦â
âDiana? Whereâs Diana?â
âYou see that awful boy over there.⦠Well, my dear, donât let it go any further, but heâs ââ
âI feel sick.â
â⦠no possibility of reviving the drama now that
the heroâs been disintegrated
â¦â
âHave another drink, old boy.â
âThanks, Iâve had one, old man,â
âWell, have another.â
âThanks.â
â⦠bit arty, some of these people, arenât they?â
âI really do feel awfully sick,â
âWell, go outside then.â
âTchekov ⦠disintegration of â¦â
â⦠an appallingly earthy play about a farm with a
great flock of chickens
all over the stage ⦠my dear, they were
uncontrollable â¦
whenever one went into oneâs dressing-room, there they were,
roosting
in the number nine â¦â
ââ¦
In consequence he arrived a little early at Peter Grahamâs room, to find that only Nicholas was there before him, comfortably settled in a corner and showing little inclination to move before the end of the party. Peter had certainly contrived an extraordinary display of bottles and glasses, and stood with a proprietorial air in the middle of them all, urging Nicholas, rather unnecessarily, to drink as much as he could before the others arrived. Nigel was astonished, though, how sober Nicholas remained throughout the evening; on reflection, he could not remember ever having seen anyone drink so much with so little effect.
After he had been there about ten minutes, Robert andRachel came in, to be greeted by Peter Graham with enthusiastic cries. A little later, two army officers, acquaintances of Peterâs, also arrived, and later still, a considerable contingent from the theatre, in twos and threes.
âYou asked us to invite a lot of people,â said Robert deprecatingly, âand I think most of the companyâs coming. Except Clive,â he added gloomily, âwhoâs gone up to town to see his wife.â The marital preoccupations of Clive were beginning to prey on his mind.
Jean, Yseut, Helen, and Donald Fellowes all arrived together, with a motley collection of hangers-on from the theatre. A semblance at any rate of good feeling existed between them, though as the evening wore on Nigel noticed no real change in the situation at all; if anything, matters seemed to be worse, Richard, a tall, fair-haired young man in the late twenties, was there, and so was Jane, the stage manager. Nigel observed with some amusement a tendency on the part of Peter to gravitate away from Rachel towards Jane, a manoeuvre he accomplished rather clumsily; but Rachel was certainly more relieved than annoyed. The stage of polite conversation soon passed, and a horrible gaiety set in; fragments of speech were lifted high above the communal babble.
âOh, Jane dear, you are a
slut
.â
âTchekov, I assure you, began the disintegration of the drama by
disintegrating the hero
â¦â
âSo I said that in my opinion you should play the whole of
Othello
in just one green spot â¦â
â⦠wanted to do Wycherly in modern dress, but the Lord Chamberlain stepped in â¦â
âDiana? Whereâs Diana?â
âYou see that awful boy over there.⦠Well, my dear, donât let it go any further, but heâs ââ
âI feel sick.â
â⦠no possibility of reviving the drama now that
the heroâs been disintegrated
â¦â
âHave another drink, old boy.â
âThanks, Iâve had one, old man,â
âWell, have another.â
âThanks.â
â⦠bit arty, some of these people, arenât they?â
âI really do feel awfully sick,â
âWell, go outside then.â
âTchekov ⦠disintegration of â¦â
â⦠an appallingly earthy play about a farm with a
great flock of chickens
all over the stage ⦠my dear, they were
uncontrollable â¦
whenever one went into oneâs dressing-room, there they were,
roosting
in the number nine â¦â
ââ¦
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