The Muse of Fire

by Carol M. Cram

  “You’d better resign yourself, mate,” said Alec. “We ain’t going nowheres for a long time yet.”

  Alec was right. By the time he and Ned staggered out of the theater, the September sky was starting to lighten, and the bells of nearby Saint Paul’s tolled five times.

  * * *

  “Intolerable!” Mr. Kemble exclaimed. “Ned, listen to this!” He spread open the Times and began to read, his deep voice booming off the walls of his dressing room.

  “It was a noble sight to see so much just indignation in the public mind; and we could not help thinking, as Mr. Kemble and Mrs. Siddons stood on the stage, carrying each of them five hundred pounds upon their backs in clothes, that it was to feed their vanity and to pay an Italian singer, that the public was screwed.”

  Mr. Kemble flung down the paper. “Screwed, are they? Preposterous. The public wants fine acting and the best singing. How the devil am I to finance it without assistance? The rise in prices is trifling! They should be grateful!”

  Ned picked up the newspaper and folded it over the offending article that described in painstaking detail the proceedings of the previous night.

  “It’s bound to blow over soon, sir.”

  “We’ll not give in, I can guarantee you that. Is everyone ready for tonight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn good thing we scheduled The Beggar’s Opera. I’ve said before that whenever there’s any danger of a riot, always set an opera.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “The music will drown out the troublemakers. I’ll go myself to tell the conductor to play as loudly as possible. That will show them.”

  For the first half of the evening, Ned and the performers were relieved by the relative quiet of the audience. A handful of people waved banners, and in the pit several men stood with their hats on and their backs to the stage, but for the most part, the performance continued without interruption. The theater was not full, particularly the pit, but a respectable smattering of people in the boxes and galleries was enough to encourage the company.

  Everything changed after the third act—the traditional half-price-admission time when patrons paid half the full rate to enter the theater. Within minutes of opening the pit to the half timers, mysterious bulges under black coats transformed into rattles and horns and dustbin lids. Men brandished placards emblazoned with the new letters of the protest—OP.

  Old Prices.

  From the pit, rioters hoisted dozens of signs scrawled with a litany of grievances. A popular theme was the patriotic objection to employing Madame Catalani. Although admired for her florid singing style, many people objected to her exorbitant salary of seventy-five pounds for every performance, and also that she was a foreigner—an Italian! Ned had listened to the grand woman in rehearsal and thought her wonderful, but when Catalani appeared for her first turn onstage, the rioters drowned out her aria with screams of Cat and Nasty Pussy.

  Ned rushed around backstage, overseeing the entrances and exits. Anxious faces greeted him at every turn. None of the actors wanted to go onstage, particularly the principals who sang song after song with only their memories of the music to accompany them. The orchestra played valiantly, but despite Mr. Kemble’s orders to play fortissimo, the musicians might as well have put dampers on their instruments. Ned wondered why Mr. Kemble did not go onstage himself and call a halt to the evening. But while the actors sang and acted in dumb show, Mr. Kemble paced the corridors and wings, hands behind his back, his brow furrowed.

  The actors responded to the tumult by rushing through their parts so briskly that the second piece—a farce called Is He a Prince? that entertained no one—ended at ten o’clock, a full hour earlier than normal. Ned was glad of the early stop. Now perhaps the pit would clear, and everyone could gather at the taverns to enjoy their tankards.

  A cry went up from the pit. “Get on the stage!”

  The stamping of feet and roar of male voices reached backstage to where Ned stood in the wings. Mr. Kemble grabbed his elbow. “Alert the constables!”

  Ned ran back along the corridor on the side of the building that housed the dressing rooms for the actresses. The actors were accommodated on the other side. The women, most half-dressed, their makeup dripping from tired faces, crowded into the corridor. Grace put her hand on Ned’s arm as he passed. She had not performed that evening but had stayed to help soothe the nerves of some of the older actresses upset by the riots.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “They’re storming the stage!” He opened his arms to shepherd the women back into the dressing room. “Ladies! Get behind locked doors. The constables will be here soon.”

  The Bow Street police station was just steps away. Ned dashed into the street and almost collided with a posse of constables.

  “We’ve heard,” a constable said grimly. “Stand aside.”

  Ned followed them back into the theater and out onto the stage.

  “Open the traps!” Mr. Kemble’s voice cut like a scimitar across the tumult. Ned veered into the wings where he met Alec leading a group of backstage boys into battle. A crowd of rioters climbed from the pit to the stage and rushed toward them. Alec banged open one of the trap doors and then stood back, his arms crossed, laughing, as a man pitched head first into the abyss. He’d land on a mattress on the second stage ten feet below and have the wind knocked out of him. Ned hoped he got good and terrified on the way down.

  The other boys opened the rest of the trap doors. For the next several minutes, unmanly shrieks drowned out the yells of OP. A young lad—he couldn’t have been more than nine years old—landed in the thick of the struggling men. Ned rushed forward to whisk the lad away from the stomping feet, but two rioters caught the boy and hoisted him to their shoulders. Ned glimpsed a white face and wide eyes before the boy rode to safety, with memories that he’d dine out on for decades.

  The Bow Street constables flowed from the stage into the pit. Slowly, methodically, they rounded up a dozen or so young men. The sight of men being led away eventually calmed the ones who remained. Within another half hour, the crowd dispersed, leaving Ned and Alec and the other backstage lads to clean up the mess. Someone had kicked a stage door off its hinges, and in the pit, rioters had upended benches and littered the floor with ribbons, OP badges, and torn placards. But for all the mayhem, the damage was surprisingly light. Ned didn’t think the young men meant any real harm. They had grievances that Mr. Kemble refused to hear. No wonder they were frustrated. The next night had to be calmer.

  Chapter 20

  Chewing the food of great and bitter fancy.

  As You Like It (4.3.100)

  “Ready?” Ned came up behind Grace, his lips close to her ear.

  “I hope so,” she said.

  “Keep yer wits about you,” Ned said, moving to stand in front of her so she could see the concern on his face. “You’re a brave girl to be doing this.”

  Grace managed a small smile. “Each of us is brave in our own way, Ned.” Of all the parts available to her in the repertoire, the role of the doomed Lady Anne in Richard III was one of the most difficult to play convincingly. In one short scene, Lady Anne went from cursing Richard, the murderer of both her husband and her father-in-law, to accepting Richard’s offer of marriage. The role of Lady Anne belonged to Miss Norton, but she had pleaded a violent cold. From being the understudy to Mrs. Siddons, Grace had been quickly promoted to general understudy. That afternoon, Mr. Kemble had dispatched Ned to Grace’s home with the message that she was to come early to the theater to prepare for Lady Anne. Fortunately, Percival had been out; otherwise, Grace was sure he’d have tried to stop her. The subject of the riots—and Percival’s worries for her safety—had formed the chief of their conversation at breakfast.

  Ned returned her smile. “I suppose you’re right, Grace, but that don’t make you any less brave yourself.” He nodded toward the auditorium. “It’s quiet for now. After two nights, them that’s makin’ the noise ha
ve likely had enough. I’m guessing we’ll have an easy time of it tonight.”

  “Thank you, Ned.” She took a deep breath and walked to where she could see a portion of the auditorium. It was alarmingly empty. A cannonball shot through the pit might damage the wainscoting but not necessarily hit a human being. “Where is everyone?” she whispered.

  “It’s just the pit’s that’s empty. The boxes are full.” Ned grinned. “As usual.”

  Grace had heard that Covent Garden’s whores—popularly called Cyprians—often used the private boxes to service their well-heeled clients. One of the grievances of the so-called OPs was that two tiers of expensive private boxes had replaced two tiers of regular gallery seating. People objected to the boxes being used for more than just watching the plays.

  She watched Mr. Cooke as the evil Duke of Gloucester, later crowned Richard III after he’d killed everyone in his way, exit to the other side of the stage. Two of the utilities—the dozen odd players who performed the walk-on roles—pushed forward the casket containing the corpse of King Henry VI, the murdered father of Lady Anne’s murdered husband.

  This was her time. Grace took a deep breath. The polished stage boards glowed with the light thrown by over three hundred oil lamps trained upon the stage and scenery.

  “Go now,” Ned said. “There’s a girl.” He gave her the slightest of pushes to propel her forward. She took three steps downstage and then knelt and laid her hand upon the casket. The few people sitting in the pit rustled and talked, but no one made any commotion. She launched into her long, lamenting soliloquy, her gaze fixed on the coffin. Halfway through, she glanced out at the pit to see a few young men sauntering to a bench in the front row. As soon as they got there, they clapped tall beaver hats on their heads and turned their backs to the stage. The insult sent a surge of power through her. She spoke louder and added more pronounced gestures. When she finished her speech, the utilities returned to take up the coffin, only to be stopped by Mr. Cooke limping toward them, his shoulder overpadded and his neck bent to one side in imitation of a hunchback. Ned had warned Grace that Mr. Cooke had already drunk several cups of wine. When he croaked out his line, the fumes knocked Grace back a foot.

  “Stay you, that bear the corse, and set it down.”

  Mr. Cooke swayed and regained his balance, his eyes widening as he squinted past the two men lifting the coffin, obviously only just realizing that Grace had replaced Miss Norton.

  Grace delivered her line in a strong, clear voice:

  “And what black magician conjures up this fiend,

  To stop devoted charitable deeds?”

  Mr. Cooke ordered the utilities from the stage and then, with an unctuous smile, focused bleary-eyed attention on Grace. For the next several minutes, they played the scene—her shrill protests inexorably wilting in the face of his flattery. Out of the corner of her eye, Grace saw one of the young men standing with his back to the stage turn around. His companions admonished him, but he shushed them with a gesture before taking off his hat and sitting.

  She aimed her lines like darts to wipe the smug look off Mr. Cooke’s face. He advanced, she countered, finally throwing up her hands and saying her line with careful, deliberate emphasis on each word, drawing out the last word with vicious pleasure.

  “And thou unfit for any place but hell.”

  Mr. Cooke stepped so close to Grace that she saw wine-laced spittle drying at the corners of his mouth. She tried to step back, but he took hold of her arm.

  “Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.”

  Even drunk, Mr. Cooke made a good Richard—smooth, dark, evil. Grace pulled back and spat her line.

  “Some dungeon.”

  Mr. Cooke’s lips curled into a leer.

  “Your bed-chamber.”

  Grace threw him off and strode downstage. Mr. Cooke followed her, beginning his assault with lines calculated to appeal to Lady Anne’s vanity.

  “Your beauty was the cause of that effect;

  Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep,

  To understand the death of all the world,

  So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.”

  Back and forth the dialogue went, with Mr. Cooke throwing out line after line about his desire for her. Grace continued to resist Mr. Cooke until he brandished a dagger and urged her to stab him. They had not had time to rehearse the scene, so Grace acted on instinct. She turned away from him, one hand shielding her face—an exaggerated move that she hoped Mr. Kemble would approve.

  The curtain dividing a box on the second tier from the private corridor behind flew outward, and several young wags emerged. They yelled Old prices at the men in the pit, who pulled out large wooden rattles and swung them with noisy enthusiasm. The young man who had turned to watch Grace stomped and hurrahed.

  Her next line—I will not be thy executioner—fell at her feet.

  Mr. Cooke cast away the dagger and launched himself at her. “Let’s get it over with, girl,” he muttered as he dropped to one knee. He shoved the heavy stage ring onto her finger, almost bending it backward in his haste, and then yelled a few more lines. Grace wasn’t positive they were the right ones. Mr. Cooke glared at the audience and then limped to the side of the stage and leaned against the column holding up the proscenium.

  As Grace turned to exit, she glanced up at the box on the first tier closest to the stage. Percival was leaning forward, his forearms resting on the railing. She was so startled that she walked right into Mr. Renfrew, who was waiting in the wings to go onstage as Lord Hastings after Richard finished his soliloquy.

  “I say!” For a second, his sturdy arms tightened around her. She smelled greasepaint and hair powder. He let her go, and she reeled back, tripping over the hem of her gown.

  “Mr. Renfrew!”

  Ned came up behind Grace. “Your cue, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Before he went onstage, Mr. Renfrew leaned toward Grace and whispered, “You make a most compelling Lady Anne, Grace. Perhaps I misjudged your potential last summer.”

  She stayed to watch the next scene. Mr. Renfrew lacked the imposing presence of Mr. Kemble, or even Mr. Cooke when he was sober, but the earnestness of his expression as he delivered his lines was not without merit. She turned away from the stage and hurried back to her dressing room. Although more confusing than pleasing, Mr. Renfrew’s praise of her performance was not altogether unwelcome.

  In act 3 of the play, she returned to the wings to see Mr. Renfrew’s Lord Hastings meet his death. A pair of utilities dragged off his body—splayed loose limbed and convincing. When Mr. Renfrew saw her standing in the wings, he jumped up and bowed.

  “That’s me done,” he said cheerfully. He jerked his head toward the constant assault of whistles, horns, rattles, and boos coming from the audience. “Poor Mr. Cooke hasn’t got a chance tonight. How are you holding up?”

  “Well enough.”

  “We hadn’t reckoned on them protesting for three nights.”

  “Do you think they’ll settle soon?”

  “It’s impossible for them to continue on much longer.” He smiled at her, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.

  “Your cue, Grace,” said Ned coming up behind her.

  She walked into a wall of noise. It engulfed her like a fire-heated blanket on a summer night. She spoke her lines into air that felt solid. With every ounce of her strength she amplified her gestures to compensate for the impossibility of making her voice heard.

  The pit was a sea of placards; the boxes, festooned with crudely lettered banners.

  OLD PRICES FOREVER!

  NO PRIVATE BOXES!

  NO CATALANI!

  When she finished her speech and returned to the wings, Mr. Renfrew was still there. He clapped his hands. “Well done,” he said.

  Grace bobbed a quick curtsy. “Thank you, Mr. Renfrew. That is kind of you to say.”

  “It’s not kindness to say the truth.” His smile dimmed the clamor beyond the stage. In t
he eight months since she’d last seen him, his looks had improved. He had gained a few pounds, which softened the foxlike sharpness of his features, and he had shaved off his mouse tail moustache and trimmed his whiskers so he no longer resembled a sheepdog.

  She could not admire him, but now that she was back with the company, it was wiser to have him as an ally than as an enemy.

  * * *

  That night after the performance, Percival railed for a short time about the insolence of the mob and then rang for soup and made Grace drink a glass of wine and water that he mixed himself—something he had never before done for her.

  “Can I bear it?”

  “You are not obliged to, my dear. I’d not be unhappy to see you leave. The disturbances are shocking. During the last act of the play, some miscreant let fly a pigeon from the upper gallery.”

  “People object to the design of the top gallery,” Grace said wearily. “It’s said to be no better than a row of pigeon holes.” She took a sip of the wine and let the warmth soothe away her exhaustion. She felt as confused as the poor bird that had flapped from the gallery to the stage and back, circling round and round the ceiling while people below shouted and pointed. Mr. Cooke had been in the middle of his famous speech during the final battle of the play.

  A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.

  He may as well have been bellowing for a pair of earmuffs.

  “Mr. Kemble made a good case for the price increase when he came on after the farce,” said Percival.

  “Oh? I didn’t hear him.”

  “Few did.” Percival smiled. “He told the crowd that the prices had not increased for over a hundred years and that, consequently, the profits were negligible. Of course, they didn’t believe him.”

  “They will soon, I’m sure.” Grace drained her glass.

  “Who was the fellow who played Hastings?” Percival asked. “He looked familiar.”