New Albion (10 page)

(He transforms the scene to the Kingdom of Needles and Pins.)

As the reading came to an end, a silence descended upon the assembled artisans of the New Albion Theatre. Mr. Hicks stared at the second and last page for a good long time. The other actors looked about them in disbelief. Pratty sat, beaming at us with red-faced pride.

“A good beginning,” Mr. Wilton allowed in measured tones. He was still staring at the pages in front of him. “But where is the harlequinade?”

Mr. Farquhar Pratt chuckled to himself softly, as if he were enjoying a joke which none else present could fathom. “There is no harlequinade,” he said, at last. “There is only the Kingdom of Needles and Pins.”

“No harlequinade?” responded Mrs. Wilton with a look of disbelief. “But my public is expecting me to perform the role of Columbine. I always perform the role of Columbine. And is there no dance for the Parisian Phenomenon?” The Parisian Phenomenon was, at that moment, primping her hair and staring
samurai swords at Mr. West.

“No dancing, madam,” replied Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “The new British pantomime will not tolerate anything so frivolous.”

“What exactly is the Kingdom of Needles and Pins?” The question belonged to Mr. Wilton, who asked it soberly.

“’Tis a Kingdom of the Imagination,” responded Pratty, “where life is everlasting and the good Luddite workers ply their trade in textile factories across the nation. There are only two enemies to the natural growth of such a state – the power loom and corrosion. The first of these is a man-made obstacle and can be dealt with easily by the workers, who threaten with muskets to tear down the local factory. The second is a natural enemy against whom the Needles and Pins wage a constant battle. Rust!” Pratty said the word emphatically, grinding a stubby finger into the table for effect. “Rust! Destroyer of all things. In the end, the New British Pantomime shall be a darker vehicle than its predecessor. It shall be the dark chariot of the four horsemen, the gondola which takes dead souls across the river Styx.” His oration done, Pratty looked expectantly from face to face.

The good Mr. Simpson, who is nothing if not the soul of politeness, was the first to react. “Is this quite serious?” he asked mildly, his face as inquisitive as a blind mole’s in the summer sunlight. “Or is this a jest of some sort?”

His eyes narrowing, Mr. Farquhar Pratt paused and then said, “Oh yes, it is serious, sir. More than serious.”

Our costume mistress, Charlotte Hayes, was next to speak. The diminutive woman was shaking with her habitual shyness, but apprehension had forced her to find a voice. “May I ask,” she quavered, “what kinds of costumes they wear in the Kingdom of Needles and Pins?”

“Why, costumes of steel, of course,” replied Pratty. “The characters are themselves needles and pins.”

Like a frightened bird, Mrs. Hayes commenced to quiver; her eyes darted to and
fro. “We still have chain mail left over from last year’s Shakespearean Festival. Would that suffice?”

“Use what you will,” Pratty responded. “The writing will be forceful, as usual, and so will be the act of imagination behind it. The costumes will hardly be noticed.”

It was the Chief Stagehand Mr. Sharpe who spoke next. He had been sitting as if he was unused to a chair. He tapped his sharp knuckles against the table. “Here then,” he said, his jaw thrust forward like a man who is permanently suspicious of actor-laddies and their stock playwright friends, “and what am I to make of the decor?”

Pratty waved his hand vaguely again. “Why, the inside of a lady’s sewing box would be apt. All padded satin with needles stuck into it. The actors could sit on thimbles and spools of thread.”

A silence descended upon the assembled company, broken only when Mr. Wilton said doubtfully, “Well then. I think we have to give Mr. Farquhar Pratt credit for creating something which is highly original and no doubt meritorious. And I think we have to trust his judgment in the matter when he tells us that it will be both entertaining and morally wholesome.” He looked around the table at the blank faces of the actors and assumed a confident face of his own. “When can we expect a fully realized play script, Mr. Farquhar Pratt?”

“Early next week, sir,” intoned Pratty. “I am working on it day and night. But you must also realize that the work of a true artiste requires some time for gestation and some for writing up.”

Mr. Wilton nodded his head. “I realize that, sir. Early next week sounds a capital time to begin rehearsing.”

Saturday, 26 October 1850

Too busy to write these last eight days. There has been much to do! The puffs about Pratty’s pantomime had to be readied for the newspapers. I trudged unceasingly all week from shop to sewing room, reassuring people and spurring them on in their creation of props and costumes. Of course the prompt script for
Murder House
also had to be resurrected from the bottom drawer of my desk, dusted off, and studied in preparation for a rehearsal next week.

Still no believable word concerning Mr. Bancroft and Suzy Simpson. Mrs. Hayes told me that the wife of an actor-laddie friend thought she had seen them boarding a boat for Calais three days after they’d absconded from the theatre. Others conjecture that they are bound for America, where Mr. Bancroft feels he will easily become a star on the Broadway stage.

Young Master West was sacked today without notice. The firing was not entirely unexpected – rumours have been circulating inside the theatre for some time now.

I met the unfortunate young man as he was coming out of Mr. Wilton’s office. There had been a raising of voices in the minutes preceding his departure to which nobody in the theatre had been oblivious. Master West left the office weeping, which seemed an incongruous activity for so strapping a young man. His shoulders were heaving as he spoke to me, and the sob in his throat was audible. He was suitably embarrassed by his unmanly show of emotion and was not particularly interested in entering into a discussion of his problems.

“My dear Master West,” I said. I wanted to be as supportive as possible. The young man has conducted himself with diligence in everything that has to do with being on stage. “Is anything the matter?”

“My da’ will kill me!” he blurted, collapsing against me with all of his not inconsiderable weight. Even in an apartment full of daughters, I must confess that I have not been used to such a blatant and demonstrative display. I had no choice but to enfold the young man in my arms and to listen in earnest. “He’s always said I was a ne’er-do-well,” the young man sobbed, “and now I’ve proven him correct.”

I patted him self-consciously on the back. “You must bear up now, Theo. I’m certain you’ll find gainful employment elsewhere.”

“Yes, cutting fish in my da’s shop! If I don’t end up cutting my hand off first. That’s all I’m good for now.”

“Nonsense,” I said, holding him at arm’s length. “Time will show that that is nonsense. You’ve had an apprenticeship here, and an apprenticeship at the New Albion must be worth something. I’m going to give you the name of the acting manager at the Surrey.”

Master West’s demeanor brightened. “Would you do that for me, Mr. Phillips?”

“They may be hiring now,” I continued. I knew that they were not, but a penny’s worth of hope is worth a pound in today’s economy. “Tell Mr. Mapplethorpe that Phillips sent you.”

“I will do that,” the young man said with resolve. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Phillips.” It looked as though the youngster would again melt into a softer emotion. I was quick to take my hands off him.

“You see,” I said, “all will be well.”

I offered to help the young man clear out his makeup and costumes, an offer he took for kindness but which had more to do with efficiency in business. I have overseen the sacking of workers before. When we were finished in the dressing room, Master West grasped my hand and shook it firmly. His eyes were still red. “You are a good man, Mr. Phillips,” he said.

“Thank you.” The exchange was a trifle awkward, considering
that I was overseeing his departure from the theatre with only those objects that belonged to him.

“I’m a good person too,” he said, looking for my affirmation.

“Yes, you are.”

“I said I’d marry her. If that’s what she wanted.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean no harm to anyone.”

* Chapter Seven *

Monday, 28 October 1850

Scandal at the New Albion!

Mrs. Wilton left the stage in tears last night, after a performance of Lady Hatton. When asked, in the women’s dressing room, if her leg was still bothering her, she replied that yes it was but that something else was bothering her too. One of the walking ladies, Mrs. Amelie Toffat, coaxed the truth out of her over a cup of hot tea. Mrs. Toffat is given few lines to say on stage, but she has much to say in the dressing room.

“Now then,” said Mrs. Toffat, who can be persuasive in a mature, no-nonsense way, “you know that it is better to speak about your problems than to keep them locked inside.” Mrs. Toffat has been married three times and has outlived three husbands, the latest of which was the scene painter Inigo Williamson, who left Mrs. Toffat half an inheritance, the other half going to an illegitimate daughter somewhere in the provinces. She now resides in the Angel with her three nearly grown daughters and works for a living despite the fact that she has had three opportunities to become a kept woman. All of this makes Mrs. Toffat something of an expert in affairs of the heart, and she has assumed the role of den mother, as well as walking lady, in our little establishment. At fifty-eight or fifty-nine, she speaks in a dry, sincere voice and dispenses advice gratis.

Mrs. Wilton fairly howled at this display of compassion, her thick shoulders quivering in an off-the-shoulder gown that Mrs. Hayes reluctantly created for her to wear in Lady Hatton. After more coaxing and more sips of hot tea, she sobbed, “It’s – it’s to do with the Parisian Phenomenon.”

“With Eliza?”

“Y-yes.”

The other ladies in the dressing room ceased in their business of makeup and corset removal and gathered around poor unhappy Mrs. Wilton. “Is Eliza not well?” Mrs. Toffat inquired, placing her hand gently on the heaving back of Mrs. Wilton.

The faux jewelry around Mrs. Wilton’s neck nearly snapped with the clenching of her throat. “No, she is not well!”

“Is she in the hospital then?” The other ladies in the dressing room gathered round in a circle, like crows eyeing a dog, and Mrs. Toffat gave them a knowing look which they then exchanged amongst themselves.

Eliza had been absent from performances for the past two days and was the subject of much conjecture among the acting company.

“No! No!” cried Mrs. Wilton, at last. “My daughter is with child!” She was entirely a mess, tears streaming down her broad round face.

According to Fanny Hardwick, who was also in the dressing room at the time, the gasps which issued from the ladies’ mouths were audible.

“There, there,” Mrs. Toffat replied, patting Mrs. Wilton gently. “I’m sure the child’s father will want to make an honest woman of her.”

“He does not. He cannot,” said Mrs. Wilton. “Thomas has sent him away.”

“Is young Master West the father then?” inquired Mrs. Toffat softly. There was a universal holding of breath in the women’s dressing room.

“Yes. Yes, he is.”

Mrs. Toffat glanced up at the other women with an ‘I told you so’ look on her face. “But surely Mr. West would not be so callous –”

“He is,” replied Mrs. Wilton. “And his father is a fishmonger.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Toffat.

“Oh dear,” said the other ladies present. There was certainly no hope for a union between the Parisian Phenomenon and a fishmonger’s son.

Mrs. Wilton dried her eyes on Lady Hatton’s crinolins. She seemed newly aware of her surroundings, of all the people present, of the inappropriate things she had said. “Please, I beg of you, not a word of this to anyone outside this room. Not even to your husbands. It would be a fatal blow to Eliza’s reputation as an actress and as a lady, if anybody knew.”

Every woman in turn was made to promise that this business would remain extremely confidential, whereupon Mrs. Wilton returned to her former self and began ordering her dresser about. “Bring me some facial cream,” she said, “all those tears are enough to make parchment of my cheeks.” She was helped out of Lady Hatton’s gown, which she then tossed into a corner on the floor. “Tell Mrs. Hayes from me that I will personally throw her next sewn costume on to a nearby dungheap if she can do no better than this.”

At last, Mrs. Wilton was gotten into a presentable state, and she left the theatre in a public carriage. Mr. Wilton had remained at home for the evening.

Apparently, the oath of confidentiality had been sworn with fingers crossed. The rest of the company was happily jabbering about it a quarter of an hour later as they left the theatre. Nothing is confidential at the New Albion.

The magnitude of these events continues to impress upon me that I am a lucky man. I have four lovely daughters. I stayed at home late this morning and wrote in my journal and ate my breakfast as Sophie prepared sandwiches for a picnic in Greenwich. Hortense was playing “Fur Elise” on the piano. Davina was busy with her diary, as all young women seem to be these days. Little Susan was still in bed, her soft blonde curls pressed against the coverlet of her pillow, when I found that I could not tarry longer and that I had to depart for the theatre. I am a lucky man indeed.