The Muse of Fire

by Carol M. Cram

  “He’s the brother of Mrs. Partridge, who I believe is also acquainted with your mother. We met Mr. Renfrew in early January.”

  “I spoke with him briefly. Tiresome fellow.”

  “That’s unkind, Percival!”

  “You take an interest in him?”

  “I know him from the summer tour last year.”

  “I want you to leave the company, Grace. Mr. Kemble cannot expect you to act under these circumstances, and I cannot have you risking your health.”

  “No, Percival. I have no such plans.”

  She had to stay the course. Rising quickly, she hurried to the door, hiding her red cheeks from Percival.

  She must screw her courage to the sticking place.

  She must not fail.

  * * *

  “See here, Ned,” Mr. Kemble said, rattling his copy of the Examiner. “The management is accused of exhibiting, and I quote, the ‘merest feelings of tradesmen.’ What do you suppose they mean by that?”

  “I think, sir, that people don’t understand how much the theater costs to run.” Ned sorted and folded the London newspapers that lay open and scattered across the table. Each one contained an account of what was now being referred to as the Old Price Riots at the New Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.

  “What? They expect us to operate on air?” Mr. Kemble tossed the paper at Ned. “Insufferable!”

  “If you could explain to people . . .”

  “Explain? I tried that, and they refused to listen.” Mr. Kemble bounded to his feet and began pacing around his combination dressing room and office. The rack lining one wall was now crammed with costumes while the new set of shelves held hats, gloves, and shoes. “Don’t people realize that it’s no longer profitable to cater only to the tastes of the gentry? We built a theater large enough to accommodate over three thousand spectators. It’s a glorious accomplishment.” Mr. Kemble stopped pacing and glared at Ned. “Why can’t they understand that?”

  “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I’m not sure they’re going to stop.”

  “They must stop—and soon.” Mr. Kemble sat at his desk and picked up a pen. “I’ll appeal to their sense of fair play,” he said. “They are Englishmen, after all.” He wrote rapidly for several minutes and then thrust the paper at Ned. “This will calm them. Take it to the printer and tell him to add it to the playbill for tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ned took the paper and left the building to run across Bow Street to the print shop. The sour-faced printer scowled at the new paragraph.

  “He thinks this will help?”

  “Just get it set and printed,” Ned said. “Mr. Kemble knows what he’s doing.”

  “Lots of people don’t agree.”

  “Make that sentence bigger than the others.” Ned pointed to words that Mr. Kemble had underlined.

  “I can read directions same as you. Mr. Kemble’s added a note for large type.” The printer shook his head.

  TEN YEARS HAVE NOT BEEN SIX PERCENT.

  “He means the theater’s not making enough profit,” Ned explained.

  “Profits? What’s he on about? I read that he pays himself and his sister a bleedin’ fortune. Maybe he should look in his own backyard if he wants profits—not gouge the pockets of respectable men.”

  “I ain’t in the mood to argue with you.” Ned turned to the open door.

  “That’s on account of me being right about your Mr. Kemble,” the man called after him. “People have christened him King John, and they don’t mean it as a compliment.”

  Ned didn’t bother to reply. He sat on a bench outside the shop and lifted his face to the warm September sun. The truth was that he couldn’t care less about defending Mr. Kemble and his damn theater. For three nights in a row, he’d seen the morning sky lighten. When the printer came out with the sheaf of notices, Ned was snoring gently, his long arms and legs soft in sleep.

  “Oy!”

  Ned’s head jerked back, and he banged his elbow hard against the bench. He squinted up at the printer.

  “Good luck with these.” The printer thrust the notices into Ned’s hands. “You got your work cut out for you with old Kemble.”

  Ned stood up, towering over the printer, who was a short man with one arm noticeably more muscled than the other from working the presses.

  “Send the bill to the theater,” Ned muttered, taking the notices and blinking the sleep from his eyes. He felt as if he’d been thrown under a speeding coach and left for dead face down in the mud.

  The disturbances couldn’t possibly go on for another night.

  Chapter 21

  Wilt thou, after the expense

  of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I

  thank thee. Let them say ’tis grossly done; so it be

  fairly done, no matter.

  The Merry Wives of Windsor (2.2.126–29)

  Mr. Kemble was wrong. His notice only served to inflame the rioters until finally he was forced to do what Ned dreaded.

  “Mr. K.’s closing up shop, is he?” Alec leaned against one of the four thick columns that held up the portico in front of the Bow Street entrance, his arms crossed as usual over his chest.

  Ned peeled off one of the new notices that he’d carried from the printer and held it up to show Alec. The largest word set in thick black letters was CLOSED. “That’s what it says here.”

  Alec waved away the notice. “I overheard Kemble talkin’. What’s it mean?”

  “It means that Mr. K. is giving in. I got to say that I didn’t expect him to cave so quickly. The notice says that a committee of swells is goin’ to get together to examine the accounts.”

  “Yeah? They’d be better off examining their heads,” Alec said. “It’s a right fix they’ve got themselves into.”

  “Let’s just hope Mr. K. and the other managers can sort things out so we can get back to work.”

  “What if the committee says the new prices are justified, like?”

  “Then we just got to hope the mob takes their word for it and stops their bellyachin’.”

  “You don’t think they got a point? The rioters, I mean?”

  “Nah, and neither should you. Remember, we work for the theater.” Ned grinned. “At least they got rid of Madame Catalani.”

  “Poor old Nasty Pussy,” Alec said, laughing. “I gotta say I’m glad to hear it. We don’t need to be payin’ no Eye-talian to squawk like an old crow.”

  “I can’t say I minded her singin’, but I agree she had to go. Lots of people want the second tier of private boxes ripped out as well, but that ain’t going to happen overnight. People got to be reasonable. Mind you, I’m not objectin’ to a few days off.”

  “You coming for a drink? You can paste up some of them notices on the way.”

  “Mr. Kemble might need me to run more errands.”

  “You’re his boy and all now, ain’t ye?”

  “Until he no longer needs me, yes.” Ned held out half the notices. “Go and put these up, will you?”

  Ned entered the theater and headed for the property room, passing the women’s dressing rooms on his way. The door to the main room shared by the young actresses was closed, but he could hear the girls chattering and laughing. He missed hearing Olympia’s voice. Ned had heard nothing about her since the day he’d left her at Astley’s. If she was married, she’d not seen fit to inform any of her friends at the theater. And if she was married, it wasn’t right for him to keep thinking about her so much.

  * * *

  “Where did you get it?” Grace picked up the thin pamphlet with the tips of two fingers as if any more contact would taint her by association.

  “They’re being sold all over.” Mr. Renfrew leaned against a table in the company rehearsal room where Grace had gone to practice lines. She had a small part to play in the afterpiece—another farce. It was Monday, September 25, and the riots had raged for one week.

  Grace read the title printed in large letters on the front piece of the pamp
hlet: BROAD HINTS AT RETIREMENT. AN ODE TO A TRAGEDY KING. PRICE ONE SHILLING. She glanced up. “They get money for this?”

  “People are angry, Miss Green. We are at their mercy.”

  “These riots must end soon.”

  “We are all on edge.”

  “I don’t understand why people can’t see for themselves that the New Theatre cost a fortune to build and run. The price increase is minor.”

  “Many people do not agree.” He nodded at the pamphlet. “Will you read it?”

  Grace opened the pamphlet and scanned the first page. The so-called ode was fashioned in mock heroic style complete with rhymes.

  “Dost thou not hear the Critics scoff?

  That damning cry of Off! Off! Off!

  Canst thou plead ignorance to sounds

  With which the theatre rebounds?”

  “That’s the most dreadful rhyme,” Grace said.

  “It gets worse.” Mr. Renfrew grinned and motioned with one hand for her to continue. Grace noticed lean fingers and hastily turned her attention back to the pamphlet.

  “Go, take the hint, and take thy flight,

  And with thy Witches fly by night

  Go, go, John Kemble, quickly go,

  While the stormy winds do blow.”

  She stopped again. “Oh, honestly, they’re even quoting Shakespeare? This is ridiculous.”

  “You must admit it’s rather amusing.” Mr. Renfrew smiled. “We must side with Mr. Kemble, but I can’t help being diverted.”

  Grace threw down the pamphlet. “How can you say that? You know how it feels to act in front of such a load of ruffians.”

  “Most of them are clerks and tradesmen. Some are gentlemen. They’re not criminals to want the ticket prices lowered.”

  “You take their side?”

  “I see no sides, Miss Green. Kemble’s made a mistake, and he needs to fix it or risk losing the theater.”

  “There’s no danger of that. People will get tired of these silly protests, and everything will go back to normal.”

  “Tell that to Mr. Kemble. He’s closed the theater tonight.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m to perform in the afterpiece.”

  “Not anymore. I’m afraid you’ve come to the theater today for nothing. On my way here, I ran into Ned coming from the printer. He was carrying a sheaf of notices announcing that the theater will be closed until a committee of gentlemen completes an investigation of the books and accounts. That’s good news, I’d say.”

  “How can this be good news?”

  “It shows that Mr. Kemble is prepared to have the accounts examined. People deserve an explanation. Once they have it, they’ll settle down.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this when you first came in?”

  “And miss the opportunity to have you read to me?” Mr. Renfrew smiled and reached for her hand. “I think not.”

  * * *

  The financial report on the New Theatre appeared in the Times nine days later on October 3, the day before the theater was to reopen with another performance of The Beggar’s Opera.

  “They’re spending thirty-one thousand pounds just for salaries? No wonder people are angry.” Alec lounged against the wall alongside his bed as Ned read out loud from the newspaper.

  “That’s what it says here.” Ned held the paper out.

  “Just read it to me.”

  “The sum includes everyone, even us. See here, it says ‘Salaries, including Band, Painters, Supernumeraries, Carpenters, and all other Servants throughout the Theatre.’ We’re the Servants.”

  “Mrs. Beecham told me that the big stars like Mrs. Siddons make fifty guineas for every performance. No one’s that good.”

  “I guess they think Mrs. Siddons is. And what are you doing talkin’ with Mrs. Beecham? We’ve been closed all week.”

  “Never mind. Keep reading.”

  Ned scanned the remaining list of expenses. “It says here that it costs almost fifty-seven thousand pounds a year to run the theater. Even in a good year, the box office don’t take in more than sixty thousand pounds.”

  “You’re making my head ache with all them numbers.”

  “Mr. K. says the riots will stop when people read that he was right to put up the prices,” Ned said.

  Alec chuckled. “Old Kemble ain’t got a clue what people want.”

  “And you do?”

  “You’re like a bantam cock, standing there defending the honor of Mr. Kemble. He can look after himself.”

  “He pays our wages.”

  “But that don’t give him the right to treat us like dirt. None of us got paid this past week.”

  “We got to get back to normal, Alec. It’s awful the way people carry on. It ain’t right.”

  “If you ask me, it ain’t right to charge an arm and a leg to watch a bunch of fancy people prancing around a stage as if they owned it.”

  “If that’s what you think, why stay at the theater?”

  “I got a right to complain, same as anyone,” Alec said. “You think the sun shines out of Kemble’s backside, and I don’t. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Yer callin’ me a flunky?”

  “If the shoes fits.” Alec bounced off his bed. “I’m gone to Mrs. G.’s. When you see sense, you can come join me.”

  As soon as he left the room, Ned balled up the paper and threw it at the door. Damn Alec.

  * * *

  The large crowd filling the pit and boxes included a great many young men wearing OP badges and OP hats. From the wings, Ned watched Mr. Kemble brandish a page detailing the accounts and profits of the New Theatre.

  “Will they be satisfied?” asked Grace, who came to stand next to him. Although Ned hoped for an end to the riots, he’d hate to see Grace demoted back to Mrs. Siddons’s understudy when the great actress returned. Grace had not succumbed to the melancholy that infected most of the rest of the company.

  “I hope so. Listen. He’s explaining the position of the managers.”

  Mr. Kemble launched into his defense of the new prices. “The independent auditors have proven us right!” he shouted and then swept his arm across the wide expanse of the theater. “The expenses associated with building the New Theatre have made the increase in prices essential. As people of London, you must understand our obligations to pay for this magnificent new building.”

  The theater erupted. From the pockets of hundreds of coats emerged rattles, whistles, dustman’s bells, postboy horns, trombones, and dozens of other noisemakers. Angry voices rose to the ceiling, heels pounded, the din so loud the floor creaked. A thousand hands waved a sea of placards, proof that the mob had decided Mr. Kemble’s fate long before he opened his mouth.

  SUPPORT KING GEORGE, RESIST KING KEMBLE!

  NO PRIVATE BOXES FOR INTRIGUING!

  PRIVATE BOXES FOR YOUNG CATS AND OLD FOXES!

  OLD KEMBLE BEGINS TO TREMBLE!

  Ned couldn’t help smiling at the last one, although he hastily suppressed it when Mr. Kemble stormed offstage. He touched Ned’s shoulder, told Grace she’d go on the next night, and stalked off to his office.

  Ned sprang into action. He signaled the scene changers to lower the flies for the first scene and dispatched a callboy to tell the conductor to cue the orchestra. Ned then ran to the dressing rooms and shouted a two-minute warning to the actors. Most of them looked more resigned than frightened—better another night playing to chaos than going through another week without pay.

  Chapter 22

  The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth

  And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change . . .

  Richard II (2.4.10–11)

  Dressed as the ghost of the doomed Lady Anne, Grace waited patiently onstage for her turn to speak. Next to her stood Mr. Renfrew playing the ghost of Lord Hastings, and on either side of them ranged the ghosts of Richard’s other victims. Downstage lay Mr. Cooke as Richard III. He mimed a fretful sleep as one by one the ghosts stood forward to curse hi
m on the night before his final battle.

  Like a poorly harmonized overture, the constant clattering and rumbling in the audience intertwined with the words spoken by the actors. Grace watched the two youngest actors who played the princes murdered in the Tower of London speak their lines and then exit from the stage, her cue to step forward. She glided downstage to stand over the sleeping Richard and delivered her lines with as much intensity as she could muster, sweeping her arms wide and then clutching them before her breast.

  “Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife,

  That never slept a quiet hour with thee,

  Now fills thy sleep with perturbations.

  To-morrow in the battle think on me . . .”

  For the last line, she raised one arm, holding her hand palm down above Richard’s head so that she appeared to be giving a benediction and not a curse.

  “And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!”

  This was the second time that Grace had played Lady Anne. She should have felt more comfortable in the part, but she felt only relief to have it done with when she exited the stage and waited in the wings to watch Mr. Cooke rise from his sleep and plod through the rest of the scene. From her vantage point offstage, she could also see a portion of the pit. A young man wearing a large hat emblazoned with the letters OP clambered onto a bench. Three men joined him, and then all four took up heavy staves and turned their backs to the stage. A roar from the audience was their signal to begin.

  Mr. Cooke flinched and kept acting.

  The men raised their staves at least two feet off the bench and crashed them to the floor with a hollow boom. Although Grace could see only their backs, she noticed the stiff way in which they held themselves, as if they were a quartet of ceremonial guards.

  “What are they doing?” she asked Mr. Renfrew, who had also lingered to watch the final scenes of the play. She didn’t bother to lower her voice.

  “It’s the OP dance,” Mr. Renfrew said. “I’ve heard they practice it in the taverns and then come here to cause their mischief.”

  “Do you still agree with their grievances?” Grace asked.