“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.
Wednesday, 30 October 1850
More scandal and sadness!
Eliza Wilton returned to the theatre today, looking pale and withdrawn. Mr. Wilton had sent a note down to inform me that she would be dancing after the interval tonight.
Mrs. Toffat was the first to console the young girl. She sidled up to Eliza while she was waiting backstage to rehearse The Murder House. I heard Mrs. Toffat say something to the effect of: “He’s a wicked boy. Nobody should treat a respectable young lady like that.”
Her eyes welling with tears, Eliza replied, “But I love him, Mrs. Toffat, I love him.”
Mrs. Toffat took the innocent in her arms and murmured, “There, there, my girl. Love is a hard thing. Do you observe my customary suit of black?” Mrs. Toffat stepped backwards into the wings to show off her dress, which resembled the broad black flag of a pirate ship.
Eliza looked at her quizzically. “I do.”
“I have buried three husbands,” said Mrs. Toffat, her lips pursed and her jowls shaking ominously. “I have been where you are.” She embraced Eliza again. “If you choose to go through with this, then so be it. But if I were in your place, I would find a worthy apothecary to free me of it.”
Miss Wilton emitted a startled little cry and stepped back from Mrs. Toffat’s motherly embrace. “Mrs. Toffat,” she said, her young face hard, “I am surprised. I’m sure I wouldn’t think of such a thing.”
At that moment, Mr. Farquhar Pratt came up from the stage door minus his habitual greatcoat. His shirt was open nearly to his waist, revealing the gray hair on his weak chest. He looked as though he had been running; he was frantic and out of breath. His eyes darting wildly about, he confronted those actors present and shouted, in a strange, high-pitched voice, “They’re out to get me! They’re out to get me!”
My first impression was that Pratty was somehow playacting and having the rest of us on, although such an activity would be foreign to his otherwise staid nature. “
Mr. Farquhar Pratt,” I said. “Is this a joke of some sort?”
“Yes,” he said, again in that weird high pitch, “joke all you like, but you won’t fool me.”
I tried to steady him with my gaze. “Are you sure you’re quite well, Mr. Farquhar Pratt?”
Like a hurt animal, he scurried about, crashing into the gothic set which had been erected in the stage grooves. The quiet-mannered Mr. Simpson moved toward him and tried to placate him, which inspired Farquhar Pratt to rush down stage and to leap into the auditorium.
“If you would allow me,” said Mr. Simpson in a nasal voice, “I would only like to help you, Mr. Farquhar Pratt.”
“No! No!” shouted Pratty, his arms outstretched in a melodramatic pose. “You’re all in’t, I can tell.”
“In what, sir?” inquired Mr. Simpson. The other actors joined him at the lip of the stage.
Mr. Farquhar Pratt ran to the back of the auditorium and stood against the wall, his arms pressed into the velveteen wallpaper as if to anchor him. “In this plot to cook and eat me.”
“To cook and eat you?” said Mr. Simpson incredulously. He took a deep breath and wondered, as did we all, how he had offended the gods in order to exact this kind of punishment.
“Aye, sir. You, the madhouse keeper. The fat one there –” he pointed at Mrs. Toffat, who could not hide her anger and embarrassment – “the cook.”
“Somebody get Mr. Wilton,” Mr. Simpson whispered so that Pratty could not hear. “This is not Sweeney Todd, Mr. Farquhar Pratt. This is the New Albion Theatre in Whitechapel.”
Gesturing toward Eliza Wilton, Farquhar Pratt fell to his knees. “Cecily,” he screamed, “Cecily Maybush! Help me! Find the string of pearls before it is too late!”
Miss Wilton burst into tears again and had to be escorted offstage.
I stepped down into the auditorium and spoke in measured cadences to Mr. Farquhar Pratt, who scurried about at the back of the stalls like a caged rat. “Please remain calm,” I said, “and allow us to help you, sir.” I knew that if I moved another inch he would be out the front door and into the street.
At last, Mr. Wilton entered hurriedly to the stage, looking grey and stern. Mrs. Wilton was not far behind him. “What is the to-do?” he asked, surveying the perplexed faces of all those around him.
“It’s Pratty,” said Mr. Simpson out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s become a bloody nutter.”
Mr. Wilton came down stage and tried to address Farquhar Pratt, who cowered against the back wall of the auditorium like a frightened animal. “There he is!” shouted Pratty as he pointed an outstretched finger at Mr. Wilton. “Mr. Sweeney Todd himself. The Demon Barber of Fleet Street!”
When Farquhar Pratt turned and bolted toward the front of house, some of the men in the company, myself included, gave chase. We saw the doors at the front entry slam shut and ran into the street after the old man. His madness made him surprisingly swift, and it required the sprinting talents of young Mr. Tyrone to catch up with Mr. Farquhar Pratt near Petticoat Lane. The market was in full swing, reverberant with barkers and walnut roasters and sellers of used and recently fingered clothing. Several amazed hawkers watched as Mr. Tyrone administered a flurry of blows upon Farquhar Pratt’s person, thereby bringing him to the cobblestones and rendering him incapable of further resistance. There was only a momentary lull in the hubbub, broken with the lamentation, “Cockels! Eels! Fish of all sorts!” as the men of the theatre scooped up the insensible Mr. Farquhar Pratt and carted him back inside.
Thursday, 31 October 1850
I visited Mr. Farquhar Pratt in his digs this morning. He is living amongst the Huguenot weavers in Bethnal Green, in a downstairs flat. There seemed to be a horrible row going on in the upstairs the whole time I was there – the crash of heavy footfalls across the floor, a woman caterwauling, a male voice responding drunkenly, the piercing shriek of an unhappy infant. How anybody could write in these surroundings was beyond my comprehension.
Pratty’s flat was itself a study in austerity. It contained two spare rooms. There was a plain wooden table in one of them, with two wooden chairs beside it. This must be where Mr. Farquhar Pratt does most of his writing. At one end of the room were a pump and a sink. A few grimy dishes had their resting place in the sink, along with other culinary instruments. There was no sideboard, no other furniture in the main room. There were no pictures on the walls. Any objects of comfort had, I suspect, been sold off long ago.
Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s wife, whom I’d never met before this day, was seated in one of the chairs by the table, her eyes fixed on the bare wall opposite. She too was in her sixties but not round and jolly like many of the matrons one encounters in the theatre. She was gaunt and sallow-looking, her eyes darkened by years of struggle and pain. Her gray hair was fairly pasted to her head, as though she had not had occasion to bathe in a long while.
The bedroom was perhaps six feet by nine feet. It contained a frameless bed with a sagging straw mattress, upon which Mr. Farquhar Pratt reposed. Beside the bed, there was a table of unfinished wood, upon which was situated a wash basin and Malthus’ book An Essay on the Principle of Population. At the foot of the bed, there was a rusty chamber pot. On the wall beside the bed, a curious engraving of what looked in the gloom to be a young girl.
A gruff young surgeon from London Middlesex was bent over Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s prone body when I entered the bedroom. He had his white shirt-sleeves rolled up, and he was grasping Pratty’s wrist, groping intently for a pulse. “I’ve given him enough opium to kill a large barnyard animal,” he said, almost without looking at me. “He’ll sleep the rest of the day and some of the night, at least.” He shook his head as he surveyed the comatose man one last time. “God knows these laudanum addicts are hardest to treat. No drug seems to have any effect on them.” At last, he turned to me, staring blankly into my eyes for a moment. “Who the devil are you?” he asked.
“His friend,” I mumbled. That was not exactly the truth; I’d had no particular friendship with the old man until then. I’d never been in his flat before. I had shared little more than words with him, usually mild chastisements for submitting a script too late to the Lord Chamberlain’s office. I was beginning to feel a kinship with Pratty now, however, beginning to see that he was not just living out his own old age but mine as well, and the old age of humankind. “What is the cause of Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s illness?”
“Hard to tell,” said the young doctor as he began wrapping up his instruments and placing them in a black satchel. “Ramollissement of the brain, perhaps, brought on by a life of laudanum use.”
“Ramollissement?” I’d never heard the word before.
“Softening,” the doctor said, snapping the satchel shut. “He’ll be in the ground before long.”
“Is there no treatment?”
The doctor cast me a withering look on his way to the bedroom door, in part to thank me for asking too many questions in the middle of his busy day. “If the behavior is erratic enough,” he said, “or if it persists over a long period, there is always Bedlam.”
“The insane asylum?”
“That is where many who find themselves in this man’s predicament are sent.” Without so much as a “good day,” he turned on his heels and was on his way. I heard him tell Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s wife, as he was leaving, to stay the course and to reach him by courier post should the patient’s condition worsen.
There was time to say a sterile prayer while Pratty slept, the kind of prayer one reserves for a man one barely knows, the kind of prayer which says, “There but for the grace of God…” After listening to his gurgling breath, audible even over the caterwauling upstairs, I turned to leave. My shoes clacked across the floor in the main room.
I passed Mrs. Farquhar Pratt on my way out. She did not look at me and did not offer to say goodbye. I stopped at the front door. “Do you have some food in the house?” I asked.
“Best to leave us in peace now,” she murmured, more t
o the barren wall than to me.
Friday, 1 November 1850
Company meeting this morning. Mr. Hicks and his supporters, comprising most of the company and stagehands, sat against one wall of the rehearsal hall. Mr. Hicks was newly shaved and barbered, a remnant of tissue blotting a razor cut on his chin, looking every bit the reformed alcoholic. Against the opposite wall sat Neville Watts, looking chastened, his blackened eyes having recently regained their natural hue. Sitting on either side of Mr. Watts were Mr. and Mrs. Wilton, who both seemed much lost in thought, as though looking for their way out of the labyrinth at Hampton Court Palace. Several of the ladies of the company, including Mrs. Toffat and Fanny Hardwick, were seated along the same wall. Of all the actresses, Fanny was most in support of Mr. Watts. She had been a party to one or more of Mr. Hicks’ drunken stage kisses, whereby he had endeavoured to slide his tongue down her beautiful throat, and she had lost her sympathy for him even as they shared an intimate moment.
Only Mr. Simpson sat apart from the general hubbub, looking out one of the greasy windows in the rehearsal wall, watching the rain. Mr. Simpson has spent an inordinate amount of time looking out windows lately, as if convinced that his ardent longing will bring Suzy back. I’m almost surprised that he would want her back, but I know that love does many wondrous things to men.
“Well,” Mr. Wilton began, not with his usual verve and composure, “the future of our little theatre is at stake. A house divided cannot stand, and it is now clear to me that, by virtue of incidents beyond my control, this has become a house divided.” He paused a moment to survey all present. Several of Mr. Hicks’ supporters squirmed in their chairs, while the supporters of Neville Watts gazed unwaveringly ahead like riverboat pilots. “Fisticuffs hurled upon stage! We have allowed ourselves to degenerate to an intolerable level and, I do not mind saying, such a degeneration cannot but have a furthering effect upon the evident decline of the national drama.”
There was a general murmur from the company, all in agreement that the fate of the drama generally was tied to the cart of the New Albion Theatre in Whitechapel. The stagehand Forbes, who was seated across the room from me in Mr. Hicks’ camp, shouted, “Hear! Hear!”
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