New Albion

by Dwayne Brenna

  With her listless daughter at last in her own home and able to rest, Mrs. Wilton summoned a doctor, who arrived before dinnertime last evening. The doctor, a young man, expressed horror at Miss Wilton’s condition and, while he was unable to do much for the poor unfortunate, requested the name and address of the man who had committed this botched procedure. Mrs. Wilton replied that she did not know the name and address of the apothecary and that her daughter was in no condition to answer the doctor’s questions at the moment. The young doctor prescribed rest for the patient but did not bear much hope for her recovery. Mrs. Wilton escorted him to the door and exhorted the young man to maintain the utmost confidentiality in the aftermath of this unhappy incident. The reputation of a young woman of quality, she said, was at stake.

  Miss Wilton’s condition deteriorated overnight. She had become fevered and nauseous by this morning, probably as a result of septic shock. She has been unable to assimilate food since breakfast time.

  While Mrs. Wilton has stayed at her residence to tend to her daughter for the entire day, Mr. Wilton did make a brief appearance at his office in order to respond to the Lord Chamberlain’s refusal to allow The Female Matricide of Paris to play in our theatre. I had difficulty trying to decide the best method of broaching the subject of his daughter’s condition with him. Standing in the doorway to his office and tugging at the few remaining hairs on my head, I said, “Forgive me for bringing this up, Mr. Wilton, but I have heard some news of your daughter from various persons in the theatre.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” Mr. Wilton grumbled. “This place is a viper pit of commentary and rumour.” He looked crumpled and defeated in his huge leather armchair, and I have not heard such a cynical statement issuing from him during my entire tenure as Stage Manager of this theatre.

  “I’m sure the actors and the technical personnel of the theatre are only concerned for the well-being of the poor girl,” I said.

  “Yes, yes,” the miserable man uttered hastily. “What is it you want to say, Phillips?” His eyes peered through me, not at me.

  I am unused to this kind of dismissive attitude, even from Mr. Wilton, and I am ashamed to say that I could not prevent a certain amount of churlish pique from creeping into my voice. “I only wanted to recommend, sir, that the theatre be dark for one night while the young lady recovers.”

  Mr. Wilton’s eyes teared up, and for an instant I saw the soft heart which has been usually covered by the gruff demeanor of the ex-military man. “You are a gentleman, Mr. Phillips,” he said, at last. “I apologize for my lack of consideration. But the theatre will not be closed on this night or any night. The show must go on. Isn’t that what the actors are fond of saying?” He attempted a wistful smile.

  “Very well,” I said. I could hardly contain my admiration for the man, a stalwart soldier in the face of adversity. “We will replace The Female Matricide of Paris with Fortune’s Fool tonight and for the next few evenings. And the dance will be cut from The Vicissitudes of A Servant Girl.”

  Wednesday, 27 November 1850

  Miss Wilton has survived the night, nursed by her doting mother. As dawn approached, the poor darling began to murmur erratically to the vacant air. Her face, I am told, was as emaciated as any pensioner’s in the Veteran’s Home. “Heathcliffe!” she whispered. “Come for me, Heathcliffe, across the moors!” The child was an avid reader of novels, and I fear that has been her undoing. Our pitiable lives will eventually conform to that which is in our minds. I fear Miss Wilton will not outlive this day.

  I met with Mr. Borrow alone at the Lord Chamberlain’s office this afternoon. Acerbic as usual, he apprised me of his objections to The Female Matricide of Paris, a melodrama penned by Mr. Farquhar Pratt some time ago and which has not been brought forth until the present. Mr. Borrow stood with his back to me, examining the rain-drenched street outside his window, and said, “It is highly desirable, as you know Mr. Phillips, to direct one’s exertions towards the moral improvement of those theatre-goers who frequent such establishments as the New Albion.” I could tell, by his inflections, that Mr. Borrow equated the New Albion Theatre with a booth at the Richmond Fair or with any number of Penny Gaffs found in the vicinity of Saint Pancras. “I have read Mr. Wilton’s communiqué,” he added. “As a humble representative of Her Majesty, I have an obligation to tell you that I see nothing in this Parisian spectacle which could be said to affirm the righteousness of Providence.” Mr. Borrow has always been meticulously dressed whenever I have met him – which has been quite often of late – and his short hair is parted crisply down the middle.

  My response was the same response I have provided to the Lord Chamberlain many times in the past three years. I leaned forward in my chair and said, submissively, “Ours is not to prescribe a cure for the many ills that beset society in the present day. Ours is only to diagnose the illnesses.”

  Mr. Borrow turned and looked at me firmly, his sharp nose high in the air. “Yes, but a matricide who so obviously sleeps with her own brother –” he intoned nasally.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Borrow,” I said, knowing enough not to call his intelligence into question. “Nowhere in this playscript will you find a scene in which the matricide and her brother are actually in bed together.” I smiled at him benignly.

  Seizing the manuscript out of my hands, Mr. Borrow began thumbing through it for the proper reference. “The dialogue makes their cohabitation obvious, sir. Here,” he said, flashing the offending page under my nose. “She says to Quentin, ‘You have, dear brother, all the love a sister can give. And more.’”

  “Mere sibling affection,” I objected softly. The more animated Mr. Borrow became, the more subdued I would be. “The daughter in Moncrieff’s celebrated play The Lear of Private Life demonstrates a more unnatural love for her father than our heroine has for her brother in Matricide.”

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Borrow, who seemed unhappy that I had not come prepared with a better argument. He strode to the other side of his desk, groping for some new objection to hurl at me. “And your heroine is a matricide. Are we to conjecture that your theatre condones the killing of a mother?”

  I wanted to appear reasonable. “I believe,” I said, “that a famous playwright named Sophocles once penned something called Oedipus Rex, about the killing of a father. But I do not believe that Sophocles was promoting father-killing as a recreational pastime.”

  “In the case of Sophocles, sir, the heroine was rewarded for her efforts by having to commit suicide at the end of the play.” Mr. Borrow spat the words at me from across his desk; he has an articulation, occasionally, that would make an actor of Mr. Hicks’ stature proud. “In the case of Mr. Farquhar Pratt, the matricide is rewarded by escaping into the catacombs of Paris in the play’s final scene and by the promise of animal bliss at the end of her brother’s pizzle.”

  ‘Again, I must object,” I said, feigning shock at Mr. Borrow’s use of the word ‘pizzle’. “Nowhere is the promise made that brother and sister will participate in the conjugal act.”

  Mr. Borrow sighed heavily and sat down at his tiny desk. “I could have this play banned,” he said, “if for no other reason than that it treats of contemporary politics in a neighboring country.”

  “Mr. Wilton was prepared for that objection, sir,” I replied, trying to maintain a calm demeanor, “and he will happily delete any references to the Paris of today. We propose to set the script firmly in the 1760s.”

  Mr. Borrow’s face darkened, and he glanced at me sharply. “If you were prepared for my objection, why didn’t you make the change before the script was sent to me?”

  “An oversight,” I replied. I cleared my throat and leaned forward almost out of my chair, as if I had a state secret to impart. He also leaned forward in anticipation. “Mr. Borrow, I must now tell you something that it is not my place to tell. The theatre has fallen upon hard times. Miss Wilton has taken ill with the whooping cough, and her illness has required the hourly attentions of a co
rtege of physicians as well as her father and her mother. That venerable old playwright Mr. Farquhar Pratt has also suffered incapacitation as a result of a nervous complaint. He is no longer in a position to compose his customary play each week, and I have seen the privations to which he and his wife are inured. The Matricide, which we had not thought to produce, was brought forth as a stop-gap measure, to buy us time while a morally edifying panto can be rehearsed.” My oration finished, I bowed my head and aimed my gaze firmly at the floor.

  I could see out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Borrow’s face palled. Despite his crisp demeanor and his customary black waistcoat, the Lord Chamberlain’s Reader does have a tender heart. “I had no idea,” he gasped. “Will the Parisian Phenomenon survive?”

  “It looks unlikely,” I said, shaking my head.

  Mr. Borrow rose from his chair magnanimously. “Very well, then. If you will agree to delete any references to modern-day Paris, I will license this play for performance. But please, in future, ensure that the manuscripts you submit on the theatre’s behalf are not entirely devoid of an edifying moral.”

  Thursday, 28 November 1850

  Some good news in the theatre today. Miss Wilton has not only survived another night, but she is also showing signs of improvement. Her fever abated at around three o’clock in the morning and by daybreak she was able to swallow a morsel or two of boiled cabbage.

  Mr. Wilton came into the theatre at eleven or so, smartly dressed and fairly bouncing with jubilation. ‘Well, Phillips,” he said, “it looks as though there will be a Christmas after all this year.” An inkling of his old military demeanor had returned, and he went briskly off to the Green Room, where the actors were on break from rehearsal. I followed along, not wanting to miss the rest of what he had to tell. The actors, lounging about with cups of tea and talking vigorously, had already heard the news, and they burst into unmitigated applause at the sight of their intrepid leader. When the applause had abated, Mr. Wilton delivered the following oration, in a style not unlike Mr. Hicks’ delivery of the Crispin Crispianus speech in Hank Cinq at last year’s Shakespeare Festival. “My friends,” he said, a general in front of his war-weary troops, “my noble friends. I have come to tell you, because I have heard heartfelt expressions of your concern over the past two days, that the Parisian Phenomenon rests, at this moment, in a state of health that cannot be described as perfect.” There were confused murmurings from all those present at this news; we had all heard that the Parisian Phenomenon was up and practicing her pliez, and then to be told that her health was not perfect! Mrs. Toffat, who has been in a state that can best be described as hysterical with soft emotion these past two days, burst into tears anew. His head held high, like the soldier he was, Mr. Wilton quickly caused the air of defeatism which had pervaded the room to evaporate. “That having been said,” he went on, “the fact of the matter is that she is in a much happier state than had previously been the case.” This was followed by a collective sigh of relief. “A doctor was summoned to the house this morning, and his prognosis is that by all indications the Parisian Phenomenon is on the mend.”

  “A miracle!” Neville Watts shouted.

  Mrs. Toffat looked up from her handkerchief, red-eyed.

  “I want to thank you all for your support in this near tragic instance,” Mr. Wilton went on. He rested his gaze upon Mrs. Toffat, whose rivulets of tears had eroded the considerable thickness of makeup which had been meticulously applied to her face. “I blame nobody for what happened. And now, God willing, we can hope for a complete recovery and a triumphant return to the stage, perhaps even by the year’s end.”

  Mr. Wilton is, for all his brashness and impetuosity, truly a noble human being, a fact that I have been aware of even since the old days, when I began working at the New Albion. That he is capable of such paternal tenderness toward a girl who is not his own flesh and blood but merely a stepdaughter speaks volumes about the stout heart which beats within his breast. He is a calculated businessman, certainly, but he also longs for the familial joys that escaped him when he was an orphan child growing up in a Manchester workhouse. I have heard stories of the privations he endured at that time and of his having been pressed into the army at an early age. He still bears the marks of overwork in his large gnarled hands. Having delivered this much good news, Mr. Wilton executed an about-turn and summoned me to follow him to his office.

  The old businesslike air had returned. He did not bother to sit at his desk once we had ensconced ourselves safely out of sight of the acting company. Instead, he paced about the room, as he had been known to do, like a lion in the London Zoo. It was good to see him returned to his former self. “We are in the midst of the early winter doldrums,” he announced. “Our patrons are anxiously awaiting Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s earth-shattering new panto, and in the meantime, they are not bothering to come to the theatre.”

  “Quite normal, sir,” I replied. “Ticket sales will pick up again after the New Year.”

  He eyed me with the utmost seriousness. “Nevertheless and notwithstanding, I have engaged Enoch Wolsey to perform in the interval.”

  This did not strike me as a wise move; in fact, I was convinced that it was further evidence of Mr. Wilton’s impetuosity. “Mr. Wolsey?”

  “Yes. You've heard of him?”

  “Feats of legerdemain and physical adroitness,” I said, trying not to sound deprecatory.

  Mr. Wilton sniffed the air, as if trying to sense my true feeling about his announcement. “Mr. Wolsey has promised to fit himself entirely into a two-gallon pickling crock in plain view of the audience. That alone should create enough interest to fill the seats. And he performs conjuring tricks besides.”

  I began uncertainly. “While I am aware that Mr. Wolsey enjoys a stellar reputation in our far-flung provincial theatres, I have never heard of him performing elsewhere in London. He could be a hoax.”

  Smiling, Mr. Wilton said, “Yes, I have thought of that. Which is why I have obtained letters of reference from Mr. Barnstable at Penrith and Mr. Everett at the Theatre Royale in Bath. Wolsey received glowing endorsements from both actor-managers.” He sat down at his desk and began to scrutinize the boxes of receipts from performances over the past three evenings.

  I knew that I was expected to leave at that moment, but I remained. “I am also left wondering if Mr. Wolsey’s presence on our bills will win the good will of the Police Commission and of the general public beyond Whitechapel. Can he be seen as having made a positive contribution toward the betterment of the National Drama?”

  While Mr. Wilton will usually submit to a question or two about the decisions he has made, he is not one to endure a fulsome interrogation. “I have made the hiring,” he pronounced at last. “Please see to it that he is featured prominently in next week’s playbills.”

  With that, I was gestured out of the office, and I returned to the Green Room in a bit of a daze.

  The actors, in the meantime, had begun to pool money for a present for the Parisian Phenomenon. They are a generous lot. As I am privy to the financial goings-on of the theatre, I happen to know that no actor in the company earns more than four pounds twopence per week, not even Mr. Watts, despite his continual bartering with management. When tragedy strikes, however, all financial disputes are forgotten and every member of the company is capable of emptying his wallet in a good cause. Poor Mrs. Toffat was in the unfortunate position of feeling the most guilt yet being able to give the least amount of money, owing to her status as a walking lady. She furtively offered up her few pence when the hat was passed around and then retired to the dressing room.

  * Chapter Ten *

  Friday, 29 November 1850

  Mr. Levy was this day run over by a hackney coach and killed.

  He was possibly the wittiest man I have ever met, his eyes always twinkling over a merry jest. That he stood not an inch over five feet tall made him wittier still, and the hilarity of his frequent pairing with Mr. Bancroft was occasionally so acute as
to endanger a spectator’s health. When asked by a newspaper pundit how long he had been rehearsing for his star turn in Susan Hopley, I heard him reply without pause for thought, “All my life, sir, all my life.”

  And now he is dead. Grey hairs are given no honours when they are buried, buried down in London town. Bystanders reported that Mr. Levy seemed in a daze when he stepped into the street in front of the screaming coachman. They said that it was almost as if he had seen the four apocalyptic horses charging toward him but had believed himself to be invincible against their trajectory.

  Saturday, 30 November 1850

  Mr. Farquhar Pratt came into the theatre this morning, his greatcoat looking more threadbare than ever, and with a bundle of pages in his tattered satchel. “Act Two,” he said, breathlessly. “I apologize, Mr. Phillips, for the illegibility of the hand. It seems that the less hurried I am, the poorer the quality of my scrawl.”

  “Quite all right,” I replied, standing at my desk off stage left. “The important thing is that you have written, sir. I shall give these papers to young Calloway, the copyist, and they will be in the actors’ hands early next week.”

  “If Mr. Calloway needs me to stand over his shoulder and translate my hieroglyphics,” Pratty continued, “I shall be happy to do so.”