At first sight, we might be watching a Lonsdale comedy: in an old-fashioned, comfortable drawing-room, two men in dinner jackets chaff one another over a game of chess, an elderly lady on the sofa is quietly sewing, and a younger one sits reading nearby. But then we notice a disturbing element: one of the chess-players has a rug over his knees and is sitting in a wheelchair.
The play is by Somerset Maugham. Even his most frivolous works may carry some explosive baggage, and, for all its light-hearted dialogue, this one is certainly intended to disturb. Five years ago, while still in his twenties, Maurice Tabret has broken his back in a flying accident and is now completely paralysed from the waist down. His opponent at chess is his doctor, who sees no hope of Maurice ever getting better; the old lady is his mother, and the woman with the book his devoted nurse, who carries out all the distressing duties that his disabled condition requires.
With the intense feeling of the utterly dependent, Maurice adores his glamorous wife, Stella, and has insisted that his brother, Colin, should take her that evening to the Opera. When they return, Maurice makes her take off her opera cloak, for everyone to see her beauty� but at that moment she suddenly feels faint. The bantering exchanges falter; the poignant drama begins.
That night Maurice unexpectedly dies. The doctor puts down his death to heart failure, but the nurse is not satisfied, and it soon becomes almost certain that he has been given a fatal dose of chloral. Then it turns out that Stella is expecting a baby, whose father could not possibly be Maurice; in fact, she admits that it was Colin. As the nurse points out, the death of her husband has come at a remarkably convenient moment for her.
Put so baldly, the story may sound like a crime drama in the tradition of Edgar Wallace, but Maugham is too subtle a craftsman for that. He has been preparing our minds for all this; in Act I who should turn up but an ex-officer of the Indian police? He is an old admirer of the elder Mrs Tabret and happens to lead them into an ironic conversation about how unwanted relatives ought to be put down.
Besides, this is not Agatha Christie country, where everyone, including the villain, has a neat, logical secret to hide, but, once the murder has been detected, they can return to the best of all possible worlds. Maugham�s characters are more complicated; above all, Maurice�s wife, his mother and his nurse are driven by deep and ruthless instinct.
It is these three women who drive the action and on whom the play depends. Perhaps the simplest of them is the young and passionate Stella; Rose Abderabbani plays her with a puzzled innocence that fails to grasp how anyone can suspect her.
Her mother-in-law, Mrs Tabret, is the great surprise. Maurice has repeatedly asked her to help him end his life if it grows too painful to bear. Having been the first to see what is happening to Stella, she has taken him at his word and given him the chloral without his knowing, so that he shall never learn that his beloved wife has been unfaithful. As this unlawful killer, Judy Burgess offers us the essence of all the darling old ladies we have ever known�Mrs Tabret to the life.
Of course the third is the heroic whistle-blower, Nurse Wayland. She begins by asking the doctor for a post mortem. When he refuses, she will not tell her suspicions until the whole family are there to hear her. She is offered a gift of money, which she angrily refuses; they warn her that the scandal may ruin her, but she is willing to take that risk.
We admire her courage and feel for her indignation, but are her motives quite as pure as they seem? Questioned by Stella, she finally admits she was herself in love with Maurice but insists her feelings were untainted with sex and cannot believe her bitterness may be rooted in jealousy. It is only when Mrs Tabret reveals that she was the one who gave the fatal dose that Nurse Wayland�s hatred melts away. The play ends with mother and nurse reconciled by their shared grief for the dead man.
The character of Nurse Wayland is like a human tempest, and Nina Trebilcock leads us straight into the eye of the storm. We watch this shy character gradually put on strength until she grows into an avenging Fury, driven by justice and sorrow. When she learns the truth, our terror turns to pity for the bereaved and lonely woman who is all of her that is left behind.
In the English Theatre it is rare for women to take all the leads, and it is certainly not the men�s fault that in this play they only have supporting parts. By his sturdy appearance, Tom Boulter shows us what an athlete Maurice must have been before his injury. Colin is played by Andrew Grieve as a total contrast to his brother�a lover first and last. Simon Malpas makes Dr Harvester quietly genial, not very brilliant and perhaps a little lazy. Said Abdallah�s Major Liconda brings a note of disillusioned wisdom as the policeman who has long given up hope of a happy ending.
In most plays of the �twenties there is an unfortunate servant, deprived of any chance to shine, but even Clemency Keily-Baxter has her moments of glory. The first comes from the director, John Willmer, when he lets her clear the stage between Acts I and II, in a secular reflection of stripping the altar at Tenebrae. The second is a device of the playwright: at the end of Act II her brisk, cheerful entrance into the tense confrontation comes as a shock, almost an indecency.
Why did Maugham write this play? Its ethics trouble us even now and must have horrified its original audience. He knew that his own behaviour was utterly condemned by his generation, so perhaps this was his revenge. On his deathbed, they say, he asked Professor Ayers to reassure him that there was no life after death. Requiescat in pace.
The Sacred Flame – review
Bill Fry