Voices in an Empty Room Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘ I suppose that, like Hedda Gabler, I feel my time has come.’ But that was disingenuous. For months and months before meeting Audrey, he had day-dreamed, as the middle-aged often do, of the paths which, at each crossroads in his life, the mere choice of other paths had prevented him from exploring. What if he had opted for that job with The Times , instead of for his fellowship? What if he had accepted that chair in Australia, instead of sticking where he was? What if he had continued with his work on tropes and liturgical plays, instead of devoting all those years to the Meredith correspondence? Above all, what if he had married, had sired children, and had acquired a multitude of possessions? It was this last ‘what if’ which began to obsess him. Though there was nothing in his life to make him unhappy, he knew that he was not happy; and though his colleagues would certainly maintain that his career had been productive – after all, there were the eleven volumes of the Letters to prove it – none the less, he had a sensation of barrenness.
    When he and Audrey were playing Peter Pan and Wendy in their dank Cotswold farmhouse, he would often think to himself, Yes, this is the life – with the inevitable corollary, and that was the death, of those years now behind him. ‘I’ll bath the baby, dear, you go and put your feet up, you’ve had such a hectic day.… I want to try this recipe for taramasalata, I found it in the Guardian .… Betsy said the funniest thing, I went into the sitting room and there she was lying, motionless and flat on her back, with her arms outstretched and I asked her, ‘‘Betsy, what on earth are you doing there?’’ and she said, you won’t believe this, she said, ‘‘Sh, Daddy, I’m Christ on the Cross.’’ … Yes, it does look rather a peculiar colour, I’ll give Dr Duncan a call and ask him to drop in.…’ It was with remarkable conviction that he delivered such lines. ‘Who would ever have supposed that Hugo would have become so uxorious and domesticated?’ one of those wives of his colleagues remarked admiringly to Sybil as, kneeling on the carpet, Kleenex in his hand, Hugo wiped up some cat vomit. ‘There was a time when he would never have allowed a cat into his rooms. And if a cat had got in and, horror of horrors, had also vomited, he would have summoned a scout.’ But Sybil could not share the speaker’s admiration. She found it painful to see this distinguished scholar humiliate himself in so grovelling a manner – for so it appeared to her.
    But the actor, however dedicated and however much acclaimed, from time to time craves a respite from his role. Suddenly, at breakfast, Hugo would feel an irritation so intense that it was like a physical eczema, as Audrey dragged herself sleepily back and forth from Aga to table in nightdress, dressing-gown and Wellingtons (she had just returned from milking the cows), the two girls began to flick rice crispies at each other, using their spoons as catapults (‘ For God’s sake stop that, you nasty little brats!’) and outside the door the muddily dishevelled sheepdog, Bruno (‘Why does no one ever brush or comb him?’) was scratching away at the paint. Hugo would make an effort to restrain himself; and then he would say, ‘I think I’ll pop over to the school for a night or two to see how Sybil is making out,’ or else he would sigh that it was really time that he looked in on Henry, the poor chap was so ill and so lonely. Without complaint, but faintly exasperated, like an actress who realizes that her partner must have a rest for a few days and that she must put up with an understudy, Audrey would accede, ‘All right, darling. Why don’t you do that?’ and would then often add, though Hugo did not need this reassurance, ‘We’ll be perfectly all right on our own.’
    It