I saw no need to further malign Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “As an example, the initial scene might be about a father who refuses to allow his daughter to marry the young man she loves.”
“You can write plays about cranky old bastards like that?”
“But then a wizard will appear, disguised as a beggar,” I went on, trying to ignore Mr. Tyrone’s attempt at witticism. “He will ask for money and, when he doesn’t receive any, he will throw a magic powder in the air. And the scene will be transformed.”
“There’s many a beggar on these mean streets in London,” Tyrone replied, “but I’ve never seen a one bearin magic powder.”
“The wizard will transform the scene,” I continued, “to some exotic place – in this case to an exotic place in China, since that is where Mr. Farquhar Pratt has chosen to set his play. It will be a place inhabited by strange beings. Puss ’n Boots perhaps. Or Humpty Dumpty.”
“Childish that is,” was Mr. Tyrone’s judgement.
“Perhaps,” I replied, “but if it is done well, the audience will respond favourably. Both children and adults.”
“I don’t like to concarn myself with such tripe,” the young man opined.
“It’s a fanciful world, the world of the pantomime,” I admitted, “but it also gives the playwright license to prognosticate on current events.”
“Like what, fer instance?”
“The state of the economy. Mr. Paxton’s fine new edifice. Or the Eastern Counties Railway Station in Bishopsgate. It’s all grist for the mill.”
Mr. Tyrone peered at me quizzically. “So I can write about anything I like?”
“Practically anything,” I replied, “provided it is handled deftly. But it is best to write about what you know.”
Thursday, 14 November 1850
Mr. Tyrone arrived at the theatre today bearing a cheery aspect, a decided transformation from his habitual sullenness. He had his waistcoat slung over his shoulder in the manner of a swell. “I have written,” he said, “the farst scene of a pantomime. I think it as good as anythin yer man Shakespeare may have done.” He tossed a brown envelope on to my desk and sat expectantly on a nearby chair, waiting for me to read his magnum opus. Not wishing to antagonize the young scoundrel and hoping to avoid a beating similar to the one which had been visited upon the person of Mr. Farquhar Pratt, I desisted from my more immediate task of writing up a program of the next week’s entertainments and commenced reading:
Not a Very Merry Christmas
Or, the Servant Girl, the Horse Doctor, and the Bottle of Medicine
Scene One
(The setting is the Inns of Court. Jeremiah Chiselhurst is in the witness box, being questioned by Barrister McGuire.)
Barrister. Tell us then, Mr. Chiselhurst, in your own words, how exactly you foully murdered the young servant girl, Martha Liverstock.
Jeremiah. It weren’t murder, I tell ye. Have mercy on an old man whose spirit is already halfway in the grave beside poor Martha.
Barrister. Why don’t you simply tell us how the young girl died then, Mr. Chiselhurst?
Jeremiah. Poor Martha had been complaining of stomach pains all those two weeks before Christmas. Her situation had declined until she were near the door of Death. On Christmas Eve, it were, Martha’s sister Emily came to see me. She had been given my name by a Great Aunt Twice Removed, whom I had cured of a bad case of leprosy. Jenny came asking for my aid. She said her dear sister was near death and that the doctors couldn’t help her and so it was she came to me, a humble horse doctor but one with a multitude of successful treatments attached to his name.
Barrister. And how did you treat this innocent young girl, Mr. Jeremiah Chiselhurst? What medicines did you pour down her throat?
Jeremiah. I looked her over well, sir, I always do that with the animals I treat. I checked her joints for inflammation, noticed some swelling near her belly and a gurgling sound when I pressed on her intestines. I deduced that it were a bad case of food poisoning, brought on by poor Martha’s visit to the Britannia Saloon, and her procurement of food there, three nights previous. And so I gave her two grains of arsenic to allow her to shit the thing out.
Barrister. Two grains of arsenic. There you have the admission of guilt, Your Honour. Two grains of arsenic is enough to kill a horse.
Chiselhurst. That ain’t so, sir. I commonly feeds my horses five grains of arsenic for stomach problems and such. It gives them the heaves, but other than that no harm done.
Barrister. And how did poor Martha Liverstock react once you had administered two grains of arsenic to her, Mr. Chiselhurst?
Chiselhurst. She had a spasm and promptly died.
Barrister. Had a spasm and promptly died?
Chiselhurst. Yes, sir. Within five minutes, I would say. (Breaking down.) I’m ashamed of it now, I am. If it were me in the grave instead of the poor innocent, I’d be much happier.
Barrister. The cause of death went unnoticed for some time. How was it detected that you had killed the young girl?
Chiselhurst. Poor Martha’s sister Emily got a writ of habeas corpus, or some such writ, from the local magistrate. They had some ruffians go out to the cemetery one night and dig Poor Martha up.
Barrister. Yes. Yes, and then they took her innocent body to a surgeon, didn’t they? And the surgeon pronounced it death by arsenic poisoning. Didn’t he? Didn’t he?
Chiselhurst. Yes! Yes! I am the guilty one. I am he who has taken the life of the poor innocent! Have me transported to the hottest hell Van Dieman’s Land can offer. Or have me hung! Hung from a Newgate gibbet. Please end the sufferings of a poor old Horse Doctor who never meant no harm but only administered the medicines which had made other beings well.
Judge. Enough. I’ve heard enough. I sentence you, Mr. Jeremiah Chiselhurst, to be hung by the neck until you are dead. (hitting gavel on table). Next case!
(Before the Judge can say another word, a Chinaman enters.)
Judge. What business do you have with this court, sir?
Chinaman. Oh, very funny business.
Judge. Guard!
(A Guard enters and attempts to apprehend the Chinaman.)
Chinaman. Hands off! Hands off!
Guard. Come here, you slippery Chinaman!
Chinaman. Then you leave me no choice!
(The Chinaman throws yellow powder in the air, and the scene transforms.)
Having read this work of genius, I paused and reflected upon how I might respond to its author. He gazed at me with much force, and so I pretended to reread the document. I could smell Mr. Tyrone’s oniony breath even from where he was sitting, an adamant reminder that he was still there and would not move until I had offered him an appraisal of his manuscript. Finally, I could bear no more. I looked up at Colin Tyrone and said, “Well. This is quite remarkable. Where did you first hear of this story?”
“In the Newgate Calendar,” he said, bluntly. “Right there before my eyes. You told me to read the Calendar and so I did. I was lookin fer a Christmas story, and this one popped out at me like a purse halfway out of a dandy’s waistcoat.” His smile was that of a prigger who had conned a tourist out of a great sum of money.
I looked again at the last page of his manuscript, hoping to find something there that was praiseworthy. “Em, I did mention the Newgate Calendar,” I admitted, “but do you really think that it’s the proper place to find a Christmas panto?”
“It’s hexcellent, though, ain’t it?” was the young man’s ingenuous reply. “You told me to write what I know.”
“Excellent?” I repeated. On Judgement Day, I shall have to account for my lack of candor. “Yes, it’s very good. But do you not think that it’s a trifle dark for a Christmas play? With an aged man being sentenced to death and all?”
“Are you sayin it’s not hexcellent?” Mr. Tyrone leaned forward in his chair and closed his fists in front of him until his knuckles were white.
“No,” I said hastily. “It’s very good. Very good. I only wish I could have read
the rest of it.”
“There is no rest of it,” the young man said, archly. “I figger I’ll just leave it to the actors to muss about and do the funny.”
“You want them to improvise the rest of the play?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
Mr. Tyrone’s eyes were positively fierce now. “Why the divil not?”
Having no desire to further incur Mr. Tyrone’s wrath, I directed him to go and see Mr. Wilton. “I am certain,” I said, “that he will be able to provide you with some advice as to how you might improve this already inestimable piece of literature.”
Unceremoniously grabbing his prized manuscript out of my hands, Mr. Tyrone stalked off in the direction of Mr. Wilton’s office. I breathed a palliative sigh and resumed the writing up of next week’s program.
Tuesday, 19 November 1850
This morning, Mr. Wilton and I met at the backstage entrance of the theatre on our way into the building. We stood in the cold November wind and spoke for a moment. “I've read Mr. Tyrone’s manuscript,” said Old Stoneface, looking as barren under his top hat as the trees in Hyde Park at this time of year. “Do you think there’s any hope?” He stamped his leather soles ardently on the cobblestones in an effort to drive the cold out of his feet.
I hesitated for a moment, not wishing to offend the proprietor of the theatre in which I was gainfully employed. "If you’re talking about the Christmas pantomime,” I said, “then I must tell you that I feel the young man cannot do a credible job of it in the time allotted.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilton, blowing on his fingers. “Yes. I have to agree with you.” He looked immensely sad and beaten for a moment, and then miraculously he began to laugh. It was a hearty laugh from somewhere deep in his belly. “The Servant Girl, the Horse Doctor, and the Bottle of Medicine!” he managed to articulate through the guffaws. “Not exactly the potion needed to induce rollicking fits of laughter in a Christmas audience, is it?” Tears were streaming down his cheeks, already reddened by the autumn chill. “And his deathless line – ‘She had a spasm and promptly died.’ There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house, would there?”
“No, sir,” I said, “I fear not.”
After a few moments more of prolonged guttural laughter, Mr. Wilton produced a handkerchief from his greatcoat and proceeded to dab his eyes. “Oh dear, Phillips,” he said, at last, still shaking with the aftershocks of laughter, “what are we going to do for a Christmas pantomime?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I’m still waiting for a miracle to happen.”
* Chapter Nine *
Monday, 25 November 1850
A miracle! Mr. Farquhar Pratt has returned. He walks with a cane now, and his massive greatcoat hangs from his narrow shoulders like a Red Indian wigwam. His face is drawn and gray, and he is continually out of breath, even from the merest exertion. But the human spirit is an amazing force, and he has returned.
I must say that it did my heart good to see the reception he got after he’d made his way up the stairs, one step at a time, to the Green Room. Gone were the old animosities. The entire company, Mrs. Wilton and all, gathered round him and spoke with prolixity about how he had been missed, how he was one of the greatest living British playwrights, how our humble theatrical family had been poorer in his absence. Mr. Wilton came in late, and the look of delight on his face at seeing Farquhar Pratt was unmitigated. For my part, I found seeing Pratty again brightened my spirits; I think I developed a special liking for the old man when I visited him at his sick bed.
After the initial pleasantries, Pratty stood leaning on a chair in the centre of the room and began to apologize. “You’ve all been very understanding,” he said, “but I feel that I must say something about my rude behavior in the recent past.” He paused and inhaled two or three breaths before continuing. The mellifluous voice of one who had perhaps understudied Kean was still among Pratty’s attributes, but his lips seemed thin and bloodless and the skin on his face was yellow and taut as parchment. “My behavior has been inexcusable. I can only beg for your indulgence in forgiving me. The surgeon tells me that I have a condition which puts pressure against my brain and that I must relinquish my existence in this earthly life ere long.”
Cries of “No need to apologize, Mr. Farquhar Pratt!” and “No, no, I’m sure you’ll live forever!” filled the Green Room.
Pratty took another breath and held up his hand to quell the tumult. “Especially from you, Mrs. Wilton, whom I hold in the highest regard as an actress and as a human being, and from you, Mr. Wilton, who has given the gifts of your wisdom and your fine head for business to the British theatre, I beg forgiveness for my past indiscretions.” Mr. Farquhar Pratt spoke haltingly and punctuated his sentences with many shallow breaths, like a man who had run a marathon carrying a weighted knapsack upon his back. “And I promise each and every one of you, here, that I will do all that is in my power to better the lot of this theatre in the future.”
At this, Mrs. Wilton fairly danced across the room and administered an embrace of such ferocity upon Pratty’s person that it took the last of his breath well and truly out of him. Mr. Wilton likewise shook his hand and held Pratty’s arm aloft in a gesture of inordinate jubilation. “But you mustn’t exert yourself, Mr. Farquhar Pratt,” said Mr. Wilton. “The British theatre will have need of your services for many years to come.”
“I have not got years to give to the theatre,” said Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “Only perhaps months.” He was not playing for sympathy, or if he was, his acting was incomparable. His eyes reddened, like burning coals set deep in his skull.
“Years! Decades!” was the cry from the assembled company.
“But down to business,” said Pratty with subdued grace. He reached into his satchel and produced a ream of yellowed paper. I could see from where I was standing, across the room, that his scribblings had been those of a man who was deathly ill. The scrawl was faint, and the pen strokes seemed to descend at the end of each line as though the life was ebbing out of the man with every phrase that had been set down on the page. “I have completed the first act of the pantomime. Herewith.” He held the pages out in front of him, and his hands trembled, as though he were giving his last sacrifice to Apollo. “And I pledge solemnly to complete an act each week until the play is finished. You have my word.”
“There is no need,” Mr. Wilton interjected, “unless you are certain that you have the fortitude to do it.” I knew how badly Mr. Wilton wanted to see the script of the pantomime in a state of completion, and it was a testament to his own humanity that he did not press the issue with Mr. Farquhar Pratt. Courageous men are rarely cruel, and Mr. Wilton is a courageous man. He placed his hand on Pratty’s slender shoulder and smiled at him genially.
“I am certain,” said Farquhar Pratt, setting his jowls against any possibility of failure, “and I will do it. I will not let you down.”
After Pratty had picked his way down the corridor and outside through the stage door, I heard young Tyrone berating Mr. Wilton. They were standing at the top of the stair, near Mr. Wilton’s office. “So I take it then, sar, that you’re not going to produce my wark?”
Mr. Wilton replied that Mr. Tyrone’s “wark” showed promise but that he wanted to give the young man the benefit of Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s tutelage a while longer.
“Well then,” said Tyrone, “my labours have been all for naught.”
Tuesday, 26 November 1850
Tragedy has struck in the theatre today. Young Miss Wilton, Eliza, who had foolishly taken Mrs. Toffat’s advice and gone to see an “apothecary”, was taken ill at suppertime. She lies very near death at the moment of this writing.
Much rumor and innuendo has surrounded the incident, but I have managed to glean a few of the pertinent details from Mrs. Hayes, who was a firsthand witness and who was also privy to a conversation between Fanny Hardwick and Mr. Simpson.
Having learned from Mrs. Toffat the name and address of a r
eliable man in Parker Street, Miss Wilton proceeded to his place of residence at the appointed hour, which was nine o’clock yesterday morning. She was apparently transported by means of a hansom cab, which departed from Liverpool Street. Neither her father nor her mother were aware that Miss Wilton had been contemplating this action. The young lady wore a hat and veil, which partially covered her face and which prevented her being recognized when she exited the cab and removed to the subterranean office of her quack doctor.
Apparently, the man has been in the business of terminating unwanted conceptions for at least twenty years. Mrs. Toffat maintained that she could personally vouch for the reliability of the treatment, but she did not provide specific information about her own past dealings with the apothecary. The image I have in my mind is of a well-intentioned elderly man who is forced by law to provide his service to womankind in a squalid Holborn apartment.
My own squeamishness prevents me from imagining the actual treatment. Suffice it to say that the poor child was penetrated with a sharp instrument of some sort, rudely and haphazardly administered in the hopes of quickly terminating the life within her. When the bleeding did not stop after some time, the amateur apothecary improvised some sort of sponge, smothered in antiseptic, at the end of another probing instrument. This latter treatment apparently quelled the bleeding, and as soon as the poor child was able to walk, she was given an elixir of unknown composition to drink. Said elixir, she was told, would have the effect of deadening the senses until the most painful postoperative hours had passed. After a fee of twenty-five pounds had been collected – so exorbitant apparently because the operation had not gone as planned and had required more of the apothecary’s attentions than originally predicted – the dear girl was sent out of doors to fend for herself.
I can but imagine the unhappy circumstance that followed. Drugged to the point of confusion, Miss Wilton wandered the maze of streets near St. Giles for the better part of the morning. It is amazing, really, that she did not come to some violent end at the hands of some local sharper. Whether brought on by the agitation of her perambulations or whether it had not been adequately staunched in the first instance, Miss Wilton’s bleeding again resumed. When she was discovered in Covent Garden by Mrs. Hayes, who had very fortunately been involved in her weekly foray to Regent Street for textiles, she was as white as the chalk caves of Chiselhurst and a profusion of blood intermingled with rain splashing off the cobblestones had rendered her stockings a horrible crimson. Not having enough money to hire a hansom cab for the return trip to Varden Street, where Mr. and Mrs. Wilton keep their residence, Mrs. Hayes was forced to drag the dazed girl through the uneven cobblestone streets and crowded sidewalks. Together they trudged to Varden Street, Miss Wilton almost fainting several times due to exhaustion and loss of blood.
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