Pilgrim — A Copy-cat
A visitor was waiting for me at the Aquarium: Pilgrim. His exotic headgear was replaced by an old-fashioned tile, and he was wrapped up in a long and rusty Benjamin that might have belonged to a guardsman many moons ago. Other than that, he appeared as always - as dusty as his books and much inclined to be incomprehensible. He was perched on a chair by Pikemartin's box, and had been refreshed by a glass from the Two Tuns and had no doubt returned the favour twice over, for he was tipsy: his small, pointed face was flushed at its extremities - nose tip, ear tips, chin. Also, he was argumentative with his other self.
'Now then, Bob Chapman. I'm not your errand boy.'
('Who spread it about that you were? I'll draw claret if I hear it!')
'I have a business to mind and no leisure to be your lad.'
('Give it over, Pilgrim, and let me at him! Give me a pint of his cochineal dye!')
'Down with you, you beggar! Bob Chapman's a pal!'
It was an exhausting business when Pilgrim was in this mood, but I have learned to watch and wait and let him settle his two selves and trust that sense will prevail. He wrangled and wrestled with himself for some minutes, and even hit his palm hard with his fist, twice or three times, and threatened to spit in his own eye and choke himself to death. And then, finally, he subdued himself into quietness.
'Bob Chapman, I have a message for you from next door.'
('For him? Who wants him? Is it the mummers?')
'They don't want him, you fool! They already have him, according to this!'
Pilgrim drew from his pocket a thin, folded sheet ol paper. A playbill of the humblest quality. One that would dissolve into paste at the first drop of rain. He spread it out upon his knee and pointed a trembling finger to a black and inky line.
'Bob Chapman? In a place like this?'
('My eye! Yes he is, you dog!')
'Never he is! Scoundrel.'
I took the bill from him and read it carefully. From crown to foot. There was a real crown, indeed, with sparks of illumination bursting from it and balancing upon the words 'Royal Crown Theatre' and 'Fish-lane' under which, in smaller letters, the legend:
Where the Old may laugh, the Young may sigh,
The Student improve, the Romantic cry
sat hopefully in roman italics. Below that, the blurred image of a man in armour wrestling with a piebald dog and the striking announcement:
TALES (from popular Authors) adapted to delight all who may visit this TEMPLE OF THE MUSES
To the lovers of CANINE SAGACITY,
CHAPMAN'S DOGS
BRUTUS & NERO
Who have trod the Stages of all the principal Theatres in the Metropolis
In the well-known Entertainments of
THE FOREST OF BONDY
PHILLIP AND HIS DOG
THE SMUGGLER AND HIS DOG
THE PIRATE AND HIS DOG
And their able Master
Mr BOB CHAPMAN
Doors open 7, 9, 11, &c. Admission 1d.
Best order. No spitting.
Pilgrim had slipped into a doze as I read the bill once, twice. Turned it over. Shook it. Looked at Brutus and Nero and even showed it to them. And then read it again. I have heard of impersonators, and even imitators, but never considered myself important enough to be their subject! In truth, I felt put out and not a little irritated. There was a bouncefulness about the bill which rubbed me up the wrong way, and rather than feeling flattered, I had an altogether contrary impression and would have liked to have met the man who had the nerve to so ill-use me and poke him in the eye!
'I said it wasn't you, Bob Chapman,' piped up Pilgrim.
('You never! You bad-mouthed him all the way!')
'Give over, you! Bob Chapman is a pal! But our neighbours
- they are a gang of thieves and mountebanks and no surprises.'
('Quiet, you!')
'Now, will you take advice from an old friend? Don't be precipitate!'
('Bash 'em up, Bob! Draw claret, I say! Make a fist of Bordeaux!')
I have to say, I was much inclined in that direction, and was debating whether to make a snack of it now or later, when Pikemartin appeared and squinted hard at Pilgrim and nodded towards the door - they seemed to know each other - and before I could make anything of my annoyance, the party, as they say, broke up. But I folded the bill carefully into my pocket, and the memory of it stirred about my head the rest of the day, for it was a matter that needed attention. What would Mr Carrier say if he thought I was moonlighting in a gaff! What would my new friends - my old friends - say!
But work needed my attention: I had been away from my stand all morning and some of the afternoon and, according to Mrs Gifford, who appeared suddenly (but with the cold whiff of the outdoors still upon her) and lost no opportunity in bringing me up when we passed on the stairs, there had been enquiries about me and if I was ever going to return.
'I said I didn't know,' she told me over her shoulder, snapping on her gloves as if they were manacles. 'You might have disappeared for the duration, for all I was aware.'
Which wasn't true, for I had left a notice prominently displayed. But I wanted to savour the pleasantness of my holiday at the Pavilion, so I did not let her spoil a shred of it, and marched her off to a prison ship, there to lock her up and bolt the door! It is a fancy I have employed all my life - this picture of locking up my troubles, in chains or stocks or, most recently, in the hold of a prison ship, which I then cast off upon a high tide. That prison ship had not been a busy one until these past few months - when I had been visited by unpleasant dreams and memories of my childhood - but, since the episode with the Nasty Man, it had done a couple of turns of duty and would come back in flotilla if I was not careful.
So, another good reason for keeping busy. And why I was grateful for my new work at the Pavilion, and my good health (which I have not always been able to rely upon) and my good friends. By the time Pikemartin had drawn down the shutters and blown out the lamp in his box, I had completed four good exhibitions, had a handful of coin and the makings of a light heart, and as I tidied my stand, put the eggs in the correct box and hung my hat upon its hook, I contemplated treating myself to a chop from a supper-shop, even though the risk was hours of indigestion and wakefulness.
This was my little life and if I could so order it, there would be nothing to disturb its pleasantness. I would have my show at the Aquarium, regular as the army, and take my breakfast at Garraway's and an occasional supper at the Cheshire Cheese with my friends. For amusement, I would enjoy my new acquaintances and the changing vistas at the Pavilion Theatre, and for the future, anticipate a life of cabbages and peas, early mornings and crisp country air. I went through the list like a catechism, and could almost believe that if I said it over to myself, I could keep unpleasantness at bay. I was saying it as I turned down the gas and summoned my two boys, as I avoided Mrs Gifford when our paths crossed once again in the hall, and even as Pikemartin handed me a note, it was turning in my head.
To my dear Bob Chapman.
Please to attend upon the Princess at yr earliest. For cups
of tea.
I thank you.
It is the smallest note you have ever seen, a fairy note on fairy paper, the draught from mice yawning under the wainscot would have blown it away. But in its power to command, it was a royal summons, written on old-fashioned parchment, stamped with red wax and ribbons and delivered by a six-foot guardsman! It was the Princess's pleasure to 'take tea' late in the evening when it had, certainly upon me, such an enervating effect that I was guaranteed not to sleep at all that night. But she could not be refused, so of course I turned about and presented myself and my two freshly groomed boys at the door of the attic, what Will called the 'top drawing room', where she had her strange little 'palace'.
Princess Tiny was twenty-three years of age, stood only twenty inches high, but was the most perfect creature. Her skin was as soft as a child's and her hands the siz
e of a doll's, each finger so fine it might break simply by breathing upon it, each nail like a piece of pearl. She had pale-golden cobwebs for hair, and the face of a fairy angel. But if she looked and sounded like a child - for her voice was no stronger than a newborn baby's - she had the wit and cleverness of an educated man. When Herr Swann, our seven-foot giant and the Princess's devoted slave, remarked once, 'Princess, you are a divine creature,' she instantly replied, in her high bird's voice, 'Then you are the more divine in divining it!', at which we all laughed, and none more heartily than the Princess, who put a tiny hand to her mouth and wiped tears as fragile as dew from her eyes!
What's more, she is, as we say in our profession, 'a great draw' and although she had been at the Aquarium for quite six months, visitors still queued around the corner to see her exhibition when she introduced a new song or wore a splendid new gown (which she was very fond of doing). But Mrs Gifford, when she was not bustling to and fro between the Aquarium and some other places (which she kept to herself), had taken over her supervision and kept her toiling until the poor little creature almost dropped through exhaustion. I have seen that woman stand upon the landing and actually call down to the rabble in the hall, 'Hi! Hi! Hi! In here! Come and see the Princess Tiny! Just about to begin!', when 'Hi-ing' and 'Just about to begin!' are universally regarded as very common and more suited to the fairground. 'Shake hands with a real fairy princess!' she would bawl. 'Only a penny extra to pick her up and see how light she is!'
Of course, she had no business letting any ruffian off the street handle the Princess, whose tiny bones are as fragile as a baby bird's. But was Gifford concerned about that? Not a bit of it. I think she would take over the Princess entirely if she could.
'You should be more agreeable with the gentlemen,' I heard her say one evening, between performances, talking to the Princess as if she was a child. Or an idiot. 'Gentlemen would like it better if you would sit on their knee and let them hold your hand.'
'But I would not like it,' returned Princess Tiny, rearranging her dress and refusing to look Gifford in the eye.
'That is neither here nor there. You will do as you are told.'
'You do not tell me what I should do,' retorted the Princess in her bird-like voice. 'You are not my employer, and Mr Abrahams would never ask me to do such things.'
'Don't give yourself airs, my lady,' snapped Gifford. 'You're an exhibit. Thru'pence a time, and don't you forget it.'
It was a cruel thing to say, and from that moment Gifford was banished from the Princess's attic palace, though it didn't prevent her from loitering about the door, from where she would try to peer into that fairy land whenever she could. And for that I would not blame her. It was enchanted, a place like no other, and fitted Princess Tiny, as Trim once remarked to me, like fairy wings.
'For,' said he, 'she has everything here exactly to her own size. And how pleasant it must be to sit upon a chair or reach a shelf without anyone's assistance. Here she has her own stove, and pots and pans and cups and saucers, just as anyone would have in their own room.'
It was strange, however, to wander in this fairy world under the great Aquarium roof, lit by many skylights and, at night, by twinkling lamps, and hear, like a faint hum, the London streets below. She had a little sitting room in which her own comfortable chaise and Herr Swann's plump cushion were placed on either side of an antique stove. Her boudoir was a bower of soft curtains and silken pillows and charming miniature pictures of sunny landscapes. Another little stove burned and the lamps (there were many of them) glowed warmly. Brutus, Nero and I discovered her in her bed, regally propped up by satin cushions, and resplendent in a tiny fur mantle and bonnet, quite as though she was ready to take a sleigh ride. On her bed, close to hand, was a pile of penny magazines, her only reading (for she was no scholar), but oh! how much she relished those tales of highwaymen and lovelorn maidens. And no wonder she gazed wide-eyed and blushing upon Will Lovegrove, and was very much inclined to giggle and hide her face when he whispered charming nonsense in her ear. Trim, she was in awe of when she learned he was sometimes the author of this nonsense, and would ask him, ever so modestly, to tell her, if he would, 'how the beautiful princess won the heart of the handsome pirate'.
But although she was comfortable in her little bower, outside she wheezed and coughed constantly, complaining that the damp London weather turned her lungs to water.
'You see, Bob, I am a child of summer, of golden hills and tall black cipresso. And blue skies and winds like baby breath, warm and sweet. This London is wet and dark, and my feet and hands, they are never warm. Always like - how is it? - ghiacciolo.'
I had no idea and shook my head, so she appealed to our giant friend - 'Herr Swann, wie iibersetzt man bitte Eiszapfen?'
He frowned and wrinkled his nose. 'I believe,' said he, after some moments of deep thought, 'that it is the icicle you refer to, meine Prinzessin. Eiszapfen. Ah, how many years since I have seen the German icicle, which is much superior to the English. Much bigger and colder.'
'The English ghiacciolo, he is big and cold for me,' piped up the Princess, pushing her tiny hands into the furry depths of her muff. 'Now, my sweet Anselm will make us tea while I chitter-chat with Bob,' and without another word Herr Swann lumbered away to the little kitchen, from where the tinkling of crockery could soon be heard. The Princess settled herself and allowed Brutus's golden head to lie upon the bed next to her.
'Now, Bob, I must be quick before Anselm returns. I need your help tomorrow. But it is secret.'
This was a surprise to me, for Herr Swann was so completely her guardian.
'I wish you to take me to the Pavilion Theatre tomorrow morning. Very early, Bob, so you must collect me from here in good time.'
I could hear the little kettle whistling upon the stove as the Princess leaned forward and whispered.
'I must meet a friend, Bob. He is a friend, you must believe, who needs my help.'
Of course I agreed. How could I refuse her! And she turned her radiant smile upon me, as Herr Swann broke into song: 'Meine Lieber! Meine Lieber!'
'Anselm is a dear, good man, the best of men,' she whispered, 'but he will not understand. You will understand, Bob, mia cara, and that is why I ask you this favour,' and she took my hand, just as Herr Swann, doubled like a spring, staggered in with the tray of rattling cups.
We made our farewells late that evening, for the Princess and the giant were good company, and insisted on schnapps 'to complete the evening, no?' Herr Swann sang more German songs, which became sadder and softer as the schnapps in the bottle grew less. And the Princess sang in a strange language, well suited to the chirrupings of her thin, bird-like voice. Even my dogs showed their tricks, Brutus picking up from the tray one of the Princess's tiny, fragile cups, and Nero allowing one of her tiny white mice to sit upon his coal-black head. This last trick filled us all with great delight and the little woman clapped her hands and shouted 'Bravo, signor Nero!' until she was overcome with a fit of coughing and lay back, panting, upon the pillows.
'I am well,' said she, waving away our concern, 'much better for seeing my handsome boys - Brutus and Nero, of course!' and we all laughed as though we had no cares in the world.
To the Pavilion Theatre — Barney — the Nasty
Man — Will Lovegrove, Hero
Pushing the Princess in her chair to the Pavilion Theatre was such a novelty. We bounced along like a little empress and her court, both of us enjoying the 'Good morning, Princess' she attracted from early risers. Her chair was a remarkable and sturdy machine, with wooden sides and large wheels and coiled springs to stop it lurching over the cobbles and bumping its fragile passenger about. Its seat was made of red leather and padded with cushions, and there was a hood which could be raised or lowered to keep out the weather. Princess Tiny sat high upon her throne, tucked around with rugs and resplendent in her white bonnet and muff, waving and smiling, and singing a cheerful little song in her own language, which she said was about 'beautifu
l Santa Catharina, happy to go to her death on the wheel'. Of course, if Mr Abrahams had known about our excursion, perhaps his feelings would have been mixed. Whilst he would never deny the Princess her dose of fresh air, the showman in him might be troubled lest the gratis exhibition of his star attraction in the streets affected the coins in his pocket.
But he need not have worried, for there were few enough people out in the bright morning air and, scurrying around the back streets, we arrived at the Pavilion early, long before any performer (let alone any spectator!) would contemplate rising, though Mint, the doorkeeper, was already about and bustling in his cupboard - and, according to him, had already been in that enclosure for some hours. Through the cloud of smoke from his briar, that estimable man read to us, unprompted, the list of 'orders' he had for rehearsal today, which included the cast as well as the children's ballet, myself and boys ('teatime-ish, I would say, Mr Chapman'), and Mons. Gouffe, the man-monkey, who had yet to make an appearance, being unavoidably detained in South Islington.
We escaped, after the Princess had given free Aquarium passes to Mint and the four little Mints, and made our way to the side of the stage. The Princess was much taken by everything, and looked with interest at those theatrical effects which are so shabby in the half-light, but look magnificent from the auditorium. I mean the wood and plaster throne, which appears to be carved out of stone, and the heap of rocks, which look heavy and jagged, but which the stage hands carry with one hand. I wheeled her about the stage and she leaned out of her chair, eagerly touching the curtains and the great swaying roll of canvas scenery on which was half-painted a view of Greenwich by night.
The Newgate Jig Page 9