He sat back in his chair and scrubbed his teeth with his tongue, as he sometimes does when he is making a decision. “Well then, they’ll have to attend the read-through. I needn’t remind you, Phillips, that the supernumeraries are dependent upon the small wage they earn here to see them through Christmas.” He returned to his letter-writing with a singular concentration, and I knew that it would be of no use to continue arguing.
Having set up the tables in the rehearsal hall earlier, I returned there twenty minutes before the read-through of the final acts was to commence. I am always amazed by the assemblage of otherwise unemployables who turn to the theatre for income during panto season. There was a lengthy queue of lithe little girls in tutus, whose mothers were at pains to explain that their daughters were the delight of their dance instructors and that they had the voices of angels. There were a few local dollymops who were eager to display their wares from the stage. Big Sam, the famous Thames dock worker who could lift a five-hundred-pound crate of coal over his head but who could not remember his lines or sometimes even his name, was in attendance. A midget from Wapping appeared, having understood that dwarfs were needed for this and every pantomime. A man named Ben Bourbon, who was dressed in a Beefeater costume and who claimed to be a guard at London Tower, flirted shamelessly with the dollymops before all present were invited to sit and witness the reading of the last two acts of the pantomime.
“Where, pray, is Mr. Farquhar Pratt?” Mrs. Wilton asked before we began. She was standing at the head of a long row of tables, looking in her pink off-the-shoulder gown like a large-breasted robin that hadn’t escaped the December snows.
“He was feeling ill yesterday and had to remain abed,” I replied, from my seat a few yards away. “I would highly doubt, judging by the appearance of him, that he will recover quickly.” I was busily sorting the copyist’s pages into neat prompt scripts for each actor. The supernumeraries, as usual, would not receive a copy of the script.
“Very well, then,” said Mrs. Wilton, pursing her lips unhappily at the thought of a stock playwright who had the impertinence to be deathly ill during the rehearsal of his pantomime, “we shall commence.”
The actors attacked Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s manuscript with great verve. Neville Watts had decided, after all, to make the best of Pratty’s offering, and the other actors followed suit. They read in loud declamatory voices, and with shadow gestures, imagining for themselves how this particular set of actions would play out upon the stage. Soon their enthusiasm turned to confusion, however, and then confusion became wonderment and wonderment lethargic unease. There was a moment of silence after the final words of the play were read, causing Big Sam to giggle hysterically.
“It is a sad thing to watch a once-respected playwright whose powers are failing him,” Neville Watts said, finally, “but I fear it is precisely that which we are now witnessing.” There was no malice in what he said, only sadness. His eyes did not meet mine; they were locked upon the manuscript as if he were lost in the Chiselhurst caves and trying to find his way out. His face was blank.
“Why do you say that?” I could see that Mr. Watts was stung by the impertinent force of my question.
“Why? Why?” he sputtered. “The play is six acts long. Who produces a pantomime which is six acts long? Set-up, transformation scene, harlequinade, a return to normalcy. That’s all the traditional panto audience expects and longs for.” He shook his head slowly and looked at the ceiling. I could see that he was pained at having to explain his theatrical instincts to me.
For once, Mr. Hicks was in complete agreement with Neville Watts. He was holding on to a corner of a table and looking seasick. “And such a dark fekking ending,” Mr. Hicks said. “To have the heroine die at the end, and with her infant son dead too on the barren hearth. Where is the Hand of Providence in that? Where is the morally uplifting message that the Police Commission longs for?” His face was entirely green, and I thought that he might unburden himself of the contents of his stomach if he was allowed to continue.
I found myself standing. I am not entirely certain why I decided to stand at that particular moment. “You must understand, gentlemen and ladies,” I said, “this manuscript may be the final communiqué Mr. Farquhar Pratt makes with this world. I beg you, this once, to change nothing. Let the play stand as it is written, without adulteration.”
“It is the work of an obvious madman,” said Mrs. Wilton. Her lips were twitching at my audacity in speaking as I had. “If Mr. Farquhar Pratt is incapable of rewriting it at this time, then I shall rewrite it myself.”
The tone of my own voice appalled me, but I continued speaking. “Then I must say, Mrs. Wilton, that your sentiments regarding Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s manuscript are really beyond the pale. You talk of family, incessantly you talk of family, and yet when a member of your theatrical family displays weakness you pounce upon him with the ferociousness of a jungle cat.” I felt a vein in my temple begin to pulse, and I could hear the thunderous tumult of my own heart.
Mrs. Wilton eyed me archly. “You are making a spectacle of yourself, Phillips,” she hissed. “I am sure that this theatre has shown Mr. Farquhar Pratt every lenience during his illness. He could hardly expect more.”
“He could expect to have his final words preserved as he has written them!” I said. The entire company was stunned by my boldness. Even Fanny was refusing to look at me, her averted face a portrait of unhappiness. I caught hold of myself and sat down again. “I apologize for this outburst,” I said. “It is, of course, a decision for the administration of this theatre to make.”
I sat and listened quietly as the company discussed the panto for the next half hour. What could be salvaged? What had to be excised from the script? How to remain true to the puffs, which had already been published in city newspapers? How to put Mrs. Hayes’ costumes and Mr. Sharpe’s scenery to their best use? I sat and listened and, as I listened, I realized that my hours in this theatre are finite.
A grand daydream began to take shape in my pitiable imagination, one which I fear will never leave me. I began to think of my brother Charles, my good-hearted and always cheery brother Charles, with whom I had once exchanged unkind words. I daydreamed of Manchester and of a little furniture-making concern there, one which my family has owned for almost a hundred years. Sometimes I have wished that I could go home, return to the awaiting embrace of my brother and his new wife, but never moreso than at that moment.
Friday, 20 December 1850
Mr. Wilton was assaulted after leaving the theatre last evening! I had seen him depart the building shortly after eleven o’clock. He was carrying his customary valise, which contained the meager takings of the evening’s performance. He always carries a sword-cane for the post-theatre walk to his home. The old Major is still gruffly confident in his ability to protect himself and his belongings should he be confronted with errant knaves during his late-night amble. This morning, his craggy face badly bruised and with a gash above his left eye, he narrated to me the sequence of events which had befallen him last night.
He had just turned off Whitechapel Road into the smoldering darkness of Fieldgate Street when a young man approached him asking for a light for his cigar. Sensing some duplicity, Mr. Wilton attempted to barrel past the young man, who was dressed in the traditional attire of the mob swell – beaver hat and frock coat and greasy white shirt.
“Where are you off to then, governor?” said the young man. “I asked you for a light.”
Mr. Wilton sensed another presence behind him, but before he could turn and see who was there, he saw a glint of shining wire before his eyes. He instinctively brought his hand up, which now accounts for the nasty gash along the inside of his knuckles. He felt the garroter's wire at his throat and the garroter's leg buckling his knees, forcing him almost to a prostrate position. The swell young man in front of him administered a number of blows and kicks to Mr. Wilton’s stomach and groin, and a third party, whom he did not get a good look at, relieved him of
his satchel and of the evening’s profits. This being done, the garroter urged the swell to commit murder. “Shiv him, Wully,” he said, his accent unmistakable, “the bastard did not hesitate to cut me loose when he had the chance.”
“I’ll not take a life,” said the swell, resolutely.
“Shiv the bastard.” Mr. Wilton, though he could not speak to accuse his assailants, recognized the voice behind him. It belonged to Colin Tyrone.
Having heard the muffled sounds of a street mugging as he was on his patrol, a policeman called out at the assailants to stop. They immediately bolted in separate directions, one down Greenfield Street, one toward New Road, and one through the mews of an adjacent building. Seeing that Mr. Wilton was not seriously injured, the Peeler decided to pursue the third fellow, who had disappeared into the mews. His search for the villain was fruitless in the dark alleyway behind the building, and he returned to Mr. Wilton, who must have been in a state of shock, some minutes later. “Did you recognize any of those sodding runts who attacked you?”
Having caught his breath at last, and found his voice, Mr. Wilton said, “No.”
I was flabbergasted when I heard this and impatient with Mr. Wilton for not taking the opportunity to report the young hoodlum. “Why did you not identify Mr. Tyrone? He is likely to do it again.”
Sitting in his office, Mr. Wilton touched the gash above his eye with the tender remembrance and fondness for battle of an old army man. “No,” he said, “I think Mr. Tyrone has settled the score. Now we can all live in peace.”
I do hope that Mr. Wilton has become a better judge of character than he was hitherto wont to be, but I fear that is not the case. “Are you certain?” I asked. “The only way to deal with blackguards is to put the full force of the law upon them.”
“I am certain,” said Mr. Wilton. “I think we are free of Colin Tyrone now.”
Wednesday, 25 December 1850
Pandemonium in the theatre at this time! The pantomime is to open tomorrow evening, and the play script underwent a major change again last night. Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s theatrical animal has been tamed considerably, brought down to a more domesticated size and shorn of its genitalia. The poor weaver lady who dies on her hearth with her accursed infant is no more. Last night, after a frantic rehearsal, the decision was made to obliterate the Kingdom of Needles and Pins altogether; the audience is instead to witness an absolutely traditional harlequinade with Neville Watts as Wanky Twanky Fum and Pantalone. Mr. Hicks will play Arlechinno, Mrs. Wilton Columbine, and the Parisian Phenomenon will return to the stage by popular demand to perform the Dance of the Great Wall of China. The costumes and setting are all that remain of Pratty’s original concept.
Mr. Farquhar Pratt has not entered the theatre in over a week, and I cannot help thinking that his absence is for the best. It would not do his fractured constitution good to witness the emasculation of his work.
The actors and actresses inspire me, as always, with their capacity for long hours and excruciatingly hard labour. They have rehearsed tirelessly, and with unequaled good humour from seven in the morning until six in the evening for the past seven days. And then they have performed the evening’s bill, finished at ten-thirty and gone home to learn pages of lines before retiring to bed. Yesterday, Mr. Hicks was presented with his lines altogether rewritten. He was no more or less ivre than usual, and still he had memorized the gist of his scenes by sunrise this morning. While the exact wording of the lines escaped him, as usual, he was able to improvise his way through with some degree of accuracy. The rest of the cast was perfect in their lines.
The theatre being dark today – Christmas Day! – we rehearsed for sixteen hours while the three wise buzzards, Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Manning, and Mr. Hampton, carried newly created set pieces across the stage and secured them in the grooves. It was perhaps not a wise decision (but one that I made) to utilize a wing and shutter set for this production, but Pratty’s original script seemed to require it, and the New Albion is one of the few theatres in London which makes use of a hemp fly system but has also not ridded itself of the archaic grooves in its stage floor. Some of the flats have not been painted – they are being painted as I write this, with Mr. Sharpe cursing the actors for monopolizing the stage all day long.
Mrs. Hayes will work through the night to finish sewing a tutu and crinolines for the Parisian Phenomenon. Approximately half of the costumes for what is now the harlequinade have still to be cut and sewn. I offered to stay and help her in any way I could, but knowing me to be practiced only in the art of upholstery sewing, she cheerily declined my offer.
And still the indomitable spirit of the actors and actresses is what impresses me most. To see their faces at ten o’clock this evening, white and lined with fatigue, their eyes sunken, even the miraculous Fanny Hardwick’s hair in obvious disorder, an errant ringlet accidentally framing her magnificently sculpted ear. Then to see them concentrate every ounce of strength and to channel that into an emotional scene or a physical pratfall is miraculous indeed. Mr. Hicks has abandoned all pretense, carrying his gin bottle with him, deposited in the lip of his tall boots, and I fear he has escorted young Mr. Weekes halfway down the dreary road to inebriety. Alcohol is the fuel Mr. Hicks needs to unleash his seemingly endless reserves of energy; he takes a drink before every new scene, and I saw him offering Mr. Weekes his bottle in the wings before the second run-through last night. “Have a pull, young swabber,” he slurred. “It’ll loosen you up for what is to come.” Mr. Weekes graciously accepted Mr. Hicks’ offer, and the young man’s performance during the second run-through had an uncharacteristic freedom about it. Young actors often have broomsticks up their arses for one reason or another, and Mr. Hicks’ bottle did manage to dislodge that broomstick for a moment or two. Mr. Hicks, in the meantime, straightened up like a boy of sixteen and performed his backflips at the required moments with as much dexterity. And he insists on dancing a sailor’s hornpipe during the curtain call, having directed Mr. Lovat the orchestra leader to play “Hearts of Oak.”
For all the actors’ labours, for all of Mrs. Wilton’s rewrites, I have never seen a pantomime more in shambles on the evening before opening. I pray to Almighty God that a miracle will happen and bring some sense of cohesion to this otherwise disjointed theatrical extravaganza.
* Chapter Fourteen *
Thursday, 26 December 1850
Opening of the pantomime.
The actors rehearsed until a few moments before the house was let in, frantic to create order out of chaos. They were warned by Mr. Sharpe to avoid touching the set pieces as the paint had not yet dried. I saw Mrs. Hayes, at five minutes of seven, trying to pin the Parisian Phenomenon’s costume in place, even as Eliza limbered herself by performing the splits on the floor backstage. It is good to see young Eliza completely recovered and back to her own form. Mrs. Wilton was giving the supernumeraries last-minute instructions in a gruff, tense voice, having to repeat everything at least three times for the benefit of Big Sam. I had already explained to them when they were to come onstage in the new scheme of things and where they were to stand, what their facial expressions should be, and so forth. There was a distinct odour of insanity in the whole preparation. Mr. Hicks and Mr. Weekes were sharing the gin bottle liberally, with Mr. Hicks in such a state of drunkenness that I feared he would not be able to stand for his first entrance as the Genie.
It was rumoured that the famous Charles Dickens himself would be in attendance for the pantomime this evening and that he intended to review the production for the newspapers. I kept a lookout for the esteemed author, peering through a peephole in the proscenium arch. He did arrive at a few minutes before seven, followed into the theatre by two women, one of whom appeared to be his wife although his manner was also quite affectionate toward the second woman. Dressed in a fashionable blue frock coat, and with a handsomely trimmed beard touched up with brilliantine, he cuts a fine figure. When he unbuttoned his frock coat, I could see that he was wearing a brilliant
yellow and black waistcoat and that his ruffled white shirt was as billowy as a cloud. His hands were encased in yellow gloves. A murmur went through the place as he found his seat in the first gallery. “Dickens…it’s Mr. Dickens…him wot wrote ‘ousehold Words.” Dickens’ relationship with the New Albion Theatre has not been a happy one, unfortunately; only last spring, his lawyers were threatening to sue because of Pratty’s adaptation of David Copperfield.
The house was full for the first time in many weeks, but that was not entirely unexpected. The New Albion panto has always been highly regarded, at least by the local population.
The performance of the pantomime did not go well. Mr. Hicks remembered none of his words, which is not too much out of the ordinary except that he ad-libbed so outrageously that the rest of the actors were barely able to keep to the story line, which was already somewhat tenuous due to the constant rewriting of the play. In the opening scene, he entered, danced an impromptu hornpipe in his Arabian Genie’s costume, performed a back-flip (badly, landing flat on his backside), got to his feet and recited, “I am…I am…I am…” His nose and cheeks glowed like red coals as he waited silently for the prompter Mr. Smith to supply him with his first line. Neville Watts’ eyebrows ricocheted off the riggings in the fly gallery, and then he looked at me, basset hound-eyed and helpless, in the wings, willing me to make the pain of Mr. Hicks’ performance go away. Smith, meanwhile, hissed the remainder of the line at Mr. Hicks, but the audience was somewhat restless and Mr. Hicks was therefore not able to hear his prompt. “I am…I am…I am,” he repeated daftly.
“The Spirit of Chaos!” Mr. Smith fairly shouted.
Still Mr. Hicks did not hear. He staggered to the edge of the stage, sat down there and spoke directly to a spectator in the first row, an elderly gentleman in a threadbare coat. “What the devil did he say I am?”
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