BEATRICE'S MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

A WOMAN AND THE APPROACHING MADNESS.

Your husband stands by the window, his tall, thin frame is turned from you, he is looking at the fields beyond the garden, the low window that he looks through makes his mild stoop worse. You gaze at him with a mixture of mild interest and a vague knowledge of who he is and what he is doing there.

You pretend to be asleep, assume the features of one lost to consciousness, for no other reason than that it seems easier than speaking to him, trying to acknowledge who he was and what relationship he has with you, if any. You open your eyes very slowly, see that he is looking away from you, hear only the faint hum of his voice as he moves about the room and stops by the window to peer out.

He has that inquisitive look about him, that what-is-all-this-about look, that stare which Cook probably had when he saw land after months at sea. He is intense, dark-hair growing grey at the sides, reveals nothing of his age. You watch him as he hums some melody, quietly, so as not to disturb you, puts his hands into his pockets and stoops even lower, as if he'd seen some strange sight beyond the fields.

You turn away from him and look at the breakfast tray on the bedside table. You must have been asleep when that was brought in, you don't remember, you recall vaguely some birdsong at dawn, some voices below stairs, but beyond that nothing. Birdsong always brings misty images to mind: a large man with a beard and deep voice, whom, you believe must been related to you some how, some when. A tall thin woman, her hair fair, growing grey, stooping over you, her hand on your brow, her eyes gazing over you, as if she knew you well, as if maybe you meant something to her. All lost now. Hidden away in the dark rooms of your memory.

"It’s a fine day out there, Beatrice," Leo says, giving you a quick glance over his shoulder. You lift your eyes from the breakfast tray and gaze at the man by the window.

"Are you not Signoir Benedick?" you ask, screwing up your eyes, peering at him now, raising your head from the pillow.

"No, Beatrice," Leo says. "I’m Leo." He turns back to his view of the hills and sighs quietly to himself.

"Good Signoir Leonato, are you come to meet your trouble?" you ask. Leo says nothing. He pushes his thin fingers through his hair, brings them down to his face as if he wanted to hide briefly from the world, peer at it through his fingers. You study his hands, small, thin hands, made for small tasks, delicate occupations. His frame too is not robust, not made for fight or battle, but for charting wars, histories and such.

"Ness is coming later," he says. "She wants to paint from the garden. Likes the view of the stream," he adds almost to himself, as if he'd given up on any reply from you making sense to his orderly world.

"God match me with a good dancer," you say, sitting up in the bed.

"You loved to dance, once," Leo says, his voice sounding far away as if from another room. You see a sadness come over his features like dark clouds on a fine day. He turns to you, studies your face, your eyes, the way you sit with your long fingers resting on your lap. He smiles, but it is a sad smile, a smile of one trying to deceive, attempting to hide feelings, conceal doubts. "I must go,” he says. "You must eat, rest," he adds, nodding towards the breakfast tray as he leaves the room.

The door closes quietly. A faint hush descends upon you. You hear his descending footsteps on the stairs, faintly as if mice tiptoed there.

"By this light he changes more and more, I think he be angry indeed," you whisper, turning towards the door. Changes more? More from what? You muse, letting your eyes float over the room like a descending leaf. "I think he be angry indeed, indeed, indeed," you whisper to the room.


You sit in a deckchair on the lawn, your hat over your eyes to keep out the sun. Ness, your sister, is down by the stream with her easel, paints and brushes with Leo beside her looking at the fields.

"Is Beatrice no better?” Ness asks.

"No," says Leo.

"Is she not speaking?”

"Nothing which makes sense," Leo replies. "She asked if I was Benedick this morning." Ness looks back over her shoulder, at you on the lawn.

"Who is Benedick?” Ness asks, gazing at you, contemplating your pale face partially hidden by your hat.

"No idea," Leo says. He seems exhausted, jaded. "Someone she knew years ago?”

"Don’t remember any Benedicks," Ness says. "She was always flirtatious with men, but she shrank back from any physical contact. Never was a Benedick amongst those whom I knew she went with."

"She is still the same," Leo says. "She’ll be coquettish with most men she meets, but she and I have not had any physical relationship since that disastrous honeymoon."

"I did wonder," Ness says quietly. "Didn’t want to ask too much."

"Why is she like that?” Leo asks, looking back at you momentarily.

"Don’t know for sure," Ness says, looking back at her canvas, dabbing the brush at it. "She did have a bad experience with our half-brother Geoffrey as a child."

"I never knew about that," Leo says.

"Neither did I until recent years. She let it slip once when she was on one of her low ebb periods," Ness says, standing back a few paces, gazing at the canvas.

"How serious was it?”

"Well, not sure, really. Touching, squeezing places he should not have done, but to a child it seems more, larger than life. Geoffrey denies all, said it was all playing, tickling, nothing more," says Ness.

"Well it could have made her as she is," Leo says, his voice tired.

"Come hither neighbour Sea-cole," you shout, lifting your head, viewing the two people by the stream." God hath blessed you with a good name."

Leo looks back at you, his eyes focusing on your raised head, your blue eyes, the thin lips, parted revealing white teeth. "See what I mean?”

"Who is Sea-cole?” Ness asks, gazing at Leo, studying his strained thin features.

"If I knew that I'd know more of what this is all about," Leo confesses. "Maggie does a lot to ease this burden. Helps her dress, makes sure she eats, but she's just a servant, she has no more idea than I do."

You stare at them both by the stream. He walks towards you, his hands by his side, his head lowered. She is dabbing her brush on the canvas, pushing the red pigment against the material as if she were a bird making a nest.

"What is it you want, Beatrice?” Leo says, his voice low, his eyes drifting over you like rain clouds.

"In faith she's too curst," you say, pointing to Ness by the stream.

"What is it you want, Beatrice?” Leo repeats, standing by you, his thin hand on the top of the deck chair.

"In my chamber window lies a book, bring it to me...in the orchard," you say, gazing up at Leo, wondering who he is, wishing he looked happier, wondering why he looks so sad. Leo frowns, turns to go, stops and lowers himself near to you.

"What book is it?” Leo asks.

"In my chamber window," you say. Leo nods and turns. He walks slowly back towards the house, his shoulders lowered, his head shaking, his thin hands held behind his back, as if he were captured, held against his will, a prisoner of fate and ill fortune. You gaze at him, turning your head by the chair's rim, your cheek hard against it, your blue eyes following him until he disappears into the house, like a stranger in a dream, dream that seems to go on forever.

Clive, Ness's husband, sits beside you on another deck chair. He lays his head back and gives you a sideways glance.

"Leo says you're no better, Beatrice," says Clive, unsure if you'll answer him, or if you do what kind of answer it will be.

" Shall I speak a word in your ear?" you say, leaning towards him, your hat pushed back, your blue eyes wandering over his face like determined climbers on a high mountain side.

"Of course, "says Clive,” speak away, my dear."

"What a pretty thing man is," you say. Clive smiles, nods and contemplates your pale features as if an answer lay somewhere between your eyes and lips.

"Women too are pretty," says Clive. "My wife is one of the prettiest."

"You may think I love you not," you whisper.

"I never doubted you," Clive says. He taps your hand gently.

You turn and gaze down at Ness by the stream, her back bent, her arm pecking at the canvas like a hungry bird. You remember one like her, the long hair down the back, the eyes a piercing blue, the mouth sensual, full of words. She has that sensuality you fear, mistrust and lack. You let your eyes move over her figure like a sculptor, smoothing out, feeling the rough and smooth, sensing the secret places where darkness looms, easing out sharpness and unwanted pieces.

You stand up from the deck chair and move slowly down the lawn. Clive watches you with a mixture of apprehension and interest, but does not rise to follow you.

The birds sing to you. The flowers almost overwhelm you with their scent. Your head swims in the fragrances, heavy and light, sweet and sickly. You pause, look back, see the man in the chair, sitting cross-legged, and move on, closer to the stream. Ness senses you beside her and turns.

"Come to see me work?” Ness asks.

"Is this the monument of Leonato?" you ask, gazing at the painting. Ness smiles and puts down her brush. She takes your hands in hers and draws you nearer to her breast.

"Beatrice, how lost you seem. This is merely a reflection of nature itself, but seen through the eyes of imperfection, not a mere mirror image. What do you see?” Ness asks.

"Didst thou not hear somebody?" you say. Your voice lowers to a whisper, your eyes glance quickly over your shoulder. Ness shakes her head; her hair flows like a field of wind swept corn, her lips move, but do not speak. "Not hear somebody?”

Ness shakes her head again, her blue eyes have a deep wonder about them, as if you could drown there, lay in their depths, silent and unmoving.

While you stand with Ness watching her paint, Duncan and Lytton arrive and sit on the wooden garden seat under birch tree. Clive and Leo sit in the deck chairs close by all watching you and Ness from their viewpoint.

"She was great dancer,” Duncan says. "I wish she would be well again and dance once more."

"Does she not dance, Leo, not even in her present state?” Lytton asks, his bushy beard hiding his lips, his deep eyes sunk in to his head.

"She needs to rest," Leo says, "I try not to encourage her. If she gets too excited there's hell to pay." He sighs deeply, his head slightly forward.

"She was born for ballet," Clive says,” born for the dance."

Lytton watches you, wondering what he would have done or how he would have coped if you and he had married. It would have been too much for him, he muses silently to himself. His preference was for young men, but he did love you in his own way, in that way he had of loving.

Clive muses on you as you stand by the steam with Ness. He recalls how you and he flirted, how he adored your beauty, and that look you had, that far away look, but most of all he loved to see you dance.

Leo stares at Ness and you and how sensual she is, how frigid you are, how chill seems to envelop you. Had he married Ness, had she loved him, had it been all different, he might have been more alive, less strained, but she didn't, she loved Clive. Leo knew you loved him, in that way you had of loving. He stares at you now, how your thin frame stands, the dancing legs now still as if rooted in the ground. "Made for the dance," Leo says quietly.

Duncan sits crossed-legged, his head held back, as if he had you in his sights for a pose to paint. He watched you dance in London and was captivated, held by your movements, the elegant, delicate, movements of your body and legs. He dreamed of painting you in dance, capturing a moment when you leaped in the air as if in flight. If he could have captured you as Degas had done in Paris. If only.

"I thank thee for thy care and honest pains," you say to Ness. She dabs gently against the canvas, easing blueness between the green.

"If I could reach you and find you again I would weep for joy," Ness says, looking at you sideways on. "Your words I understand, but not the meaning that is behind them." She watches you gaze over the fields as if meaning were to be found there. "Beatrice, where have lost yourself?"

"Why then she's mine: sweet, let me see your face," you say vacantly, your eyes suddenly on your sister. Those eyes you know the deepness of them, the large sensuality that hides there. Had I known her? Had I not held those hands? You seek some memory in the dark passageways of your mind, some light beneath a door, some chink of light, some light, some light, some light.

Leo goes in the house to find Maggie. Clive and Lytton stroll round the garden talking of Impressionist art. Duncan stands beside Ness as she dabs her brush on the canvas, like a bird feeding her young. You sit on the grass by the stream watching the gentle flow of the water, studying the flickering sunlight on the surface.

"If you go on thus, you will kill yourself," you say.

"Beatrice, did you speak to me?” Ness asks, turning to look at you a few metres away.

"Do you not love me?” You ask, gazing at the water.

"Yes, Beatrice, of course I love you," Ness says. She watches you, watches your blue eyes, watches the way the sunlight plays on them. "Careful, Beatrice, you're near the edge of the stream." You seem far away, seem in a daydream.

"What will become of her?” Duncan asks.

"Leo hopes she will get well again. When she was last like this, it took six months before she could be said to be well again. We can only hope she will recover herself again," Ness says, her eyes still watching you.

"I hope she will dance again," Duncan says. "She made The Rite of Spring almost her own, and when I saw her last in Sleeping Beauty, she was like a goddess of dance." Duncan puts his arm around Ness's shoulder, kisses her cheek.

"She dances still," Ness says. "She danced last week, on the lawn. Maggie brought the gramophone out on the garden table and played some Stravinsky, and she danced as if she had wings on her feet." Duncan kisses her cheek again. Ness looks around the garden, but Clive is not in sight, he and Lytton are roaming in the rose garden. Ness kisses Duncan, eyeing you from the corner of her eye.

"Fare thee well, most foul, most fair," you shout. Leaping up from the grass, you run up the lawn like one possessed. You dance, you twirl, you leap and your arms and hands fling wide in gestures of the dance, as if they too, heard the inner music that made you leap up.

Ness and Duncan stand and watch in bewilderment. She putting down her brush and he bringing his hands beneath his chin as if to support his head.

"Born to dance," Duncan says.

"Even in her madness she can dance," says Ness.

Leo and Maggie watch from the bedroom window, he watching the slim legs, the graceful arms, she the flowing hair, the long thin fingers. He remembering a lost time, she feeling the hand about her waist, senses a minor shame.

"How she dances still!" Leo says, leaning forward, removing his arm from the waist of Maggie.

"If only her mind were as nimble as her feet," says Maggie, straightening her dress.

Lytton and Clive watch from the edge of the rose garden. Their eyes captured by the sight, their memories alive, their wonderment held.

"What music does she hear?” Clive asks.

"The music of the gods!" Lytton says, "which only the saints and lunatics can hear in this cynical world."

You twirl and leap; your arms and hands reach out to catch the stars, to touch the hidden galaxies, the realms of invisible kingdoms. Your feet touch the grass and away again as if wings held you aloft, as if invisible hands swept you upwards. Then, suddenly, you fall to the ground, your wings clipped, with a sickening thud.

The music has stopped, all is silent. The guests have gone, each to their home, each with their thoughts, their memories. Leo stands by your bed watching your rising and falling breast, Maggie stands by the door gazing at your closed eyes, wondering what they saw, wondering what they remember. You watch as the curtains close once more and listen as the applause slowly fades away like the light of the dying day.

 

Author's Note

OLD STORY REVISED AND RIVIVED.