Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Outside, the darkness had thickened, and a mizzling rain was falling. The church bells tolled seven o’clock. “It starts at eight,” Parsefall said urgently, and hurried Lizzie Rose through the Haymarket toward Piccadilly. The streets were jammed with carriages full of elegantly dressed people bound for the theatre. Men in sandwich boards sauntered back and forth, advertising the shows; a fire-eater plied his trade on one corner, a Bible seller on another. There were a great many idlers: men in top hats and girls with painted faces. To Lizzie Rose’s distress, one young man exclaimed over the color of her hair, wished her a drunken good evening, and dogged her footsteps.

  “Wot’s ’e want?” demanded Parsefall. “Where d’you know ’im from?”

  “I don’t know him,” Lizzie Rose said shortly. She dodged between two carriages, jerking Parsefall along with her. “Men come here to stare at women. He thinks I’m pretty.”

  “Blinkin’ fool,” Parsefall said, not entirely to Lizzie Rose’s satisfaction. “Come on, Foxy-Loxy. He can’t ’urt you just by lookin’.”

  Lizzie Rose was not so sure. She was relieved when they reached the Egyptian Hall. It was a queer-looking building, she thought, with two nearly naked statues above the central door. She supposed they were heathen gods, though they wore wigs. It seemed odd that supernatural beings should be unable to provide themselves with adequate hair.

  “Come on,” urged Parsefall. “Let’s go in.”

  They passed through the papyrus columns and went inside. The interior of the Hall was colorful and outlandish, adorned with a riot of hieroglyphics and statues: crocodiles and sphinxes and hawks in wigs. Lizzie Rose had little time to admire them, for Parsefall was in a hurry to secure their seats. They paid their shillings, plunged through the crowd with more force than good manners, and planted themselves in the third row.

  Parsefall craned his neck, looking upward. Lizzie Rose’s eyes followed his. Far above their heads was an immense chandelier, glittering like a tree encased in ice; before them was the stage, curtained in olive green. Nestled in the folds of the stage curtains was a smaller theatre, a pavilion in gold-and-silver brocade. “For the fantoccini,” whispered Parsefall; the new term marionette was still strange to him. There was an orchestra. “Nine players,” said Parsefall, counting on his nine fingers. When the musicians began to tune their instruments, he whirled around and shushed the people in the fourth row with such passion that they stopped talking for nearly a minute.

  The show started. To begin with, there was a conjurer and a man with trained dogs. The conjurer had brown curls and a teasing smile; Lizzie Rose fell in love with him at once but forgot him when the dogs came in. There were two of them, dressed in pink and blue satin, and they danced a minuet on their hind legs. Parsefall was restless; he wanted the Royal Marionettes. When at last the curtains of the small stage parted, he leaned forward like a thirsty man about to take drink.

  For the next two hours, he never took his eyes off the stage. Beside him, Lizzie Rose watched the show, but from time to time her eyes came back to rest on Parsefall’s face. He was spellbound, and no wonder; the world before him was sharp edged, exquisite, and eerily alive. There were knights and fairies, demons and clowns, sword fighting, slapstick, and the ballet; there were fireworks and water cascades. The showmen had used every material to its best advantage: looking glass, pasteboard, paint, and wax; wood, cloth, and papier-mâché. The figure workers might not be as deft as Grisini, but their show was far more spectacular; Grisini’s equipment was tatty by comparison.

  “They ’ave a giuoco di luce — that’s a stage machine Grisini told me about” were Parsefall’s first words after the curtain fell. “That’s ’ow they did the fireworks and waterfalls an’ all. But their puppets ain’t life-size — that’s a take-in. The Mother Shipton was the biggest; she mighta been three foot tall, but she was closer to two.” He reached up, feeling his bony chin. “The mouths move wiv a wire from the chin to the top of the ’ead; they must be weighted so they stay shut unless you pull the string. That scene when the man in The Bottle Imp woz dying an’ the medicine bottles danced with demons in ’em — wiv all the demons mouthin’ and mockin’ — that was the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh, yes! Wasn’t it horrid?” exclaimed Lizzie Rose. “It made my flesh creep. And wasn’t the transformation scene lovely, with the fairy grotto —?”

  “That was lit gauzes.” Parsefall snapped his fingers. “It were quick, though, weren’t it? They must ’ave people just to change the scenery. The figure working weren’t too bad. The same worker did the lead females — the fairy queen and Lucretia — did you notice? It were the same style —”

  “Parse,” Lizzie Rose interrupted gently, “I think they want to close the theatre now. We’re the only people left —”

  “I know that,” Parsefall said, to her surprise. “I’m waiting to talk to ’em.” He jerked his head toward the stage, and his eyes narrowed. “I mean to work for ’em,” he said. “I ’eard they woz good, but I didn’t know —”

  “But, Parsefall,” protested Lizzie Rose, “we have to stay together. And besides, they wouldn’t let you in. You know how it is with puppet workers. It’s almost always a family company, and they pass down their skills from father to son. They wouldn’t want you.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” demanded Parsefall. “Even the best of ’em ain’t better than Grisini, and Grisini taught me. They wouldn’t ’ave to pay me at first — I could be an apprentice —”

  “Parsefall,” Lizzie Rose said thoughtlessly, “you’re a little boy.”

  The minute the words left her lips, she regretted them. Parsefall did not think of himself as a little boy. His face reddened. In another instant, he was out of his chair. He dodged around the two front rows of seats and leaped onto the stage, narrowly missing the footlights. Then he lifted the edge of the curtain and ducked underneath.

  “Parsefall!” Lizzie Rose called, but it was too late. She heard voices backstage, a man shouting and another swearing, and then Parsefall’s voice, speaking rapidly and pleadingly. He was answered by a low growl. A moment later, the curtain bulged outward, as if someone had stumbled against it. Lizzie Rose left her seat. She reached the edge of the stage as Parsefall came out through the slit between the curtains. For one dreadful moment, she was afraid he was crying, but though his face was working, his eyes were hard and dry.

  “They don’t want me. Let’s get out” was all he said, and he jumped down from the stage. He darted forward so that she had to run to keep up with him, and when she tried to put an arm around him, he struck at her, knocking her muff to the floor.

  Parsefall couldn’t sleep. He was plagued by two powerful enemies of slumber: hurt pride and an upset stomach. His stomach muscles jerked and strained, trying to subdue the half-digested mess inside: oysters, mashed turnips, eel pie, sausages, and a pudding compounded from treacle and suet. A wave of nausea passed over him, and he wondered if he was going to be sick.

  He shifted, sat up in bed, and swallowed hard. Parsefall detested being sick. It wasn’t the sour taste he loathed, or the mess; he hated being forced to part with anything that was rightfully his. He opened his mouth, hoping to belch. A faint hiccup rewarded him.

  He wondered if Lizzie Rose was awake. He knew that she was cross with him, and he didn’t altogether blame her. She had tried to console him after his rejection, but her pity was salt in the wound; he’d been nasty to her all the way home. Once they were back in their lodgings, Ruby — bloody ’orrible Ruby — had started in where Lizzie Rose left off, trailing after him with sad eyes and pawing at his trouser legs. He had sworn at the dog and aimed a kick in her direction. That was when Lizzie Rose lost her temper. She’d called him a horrid cruel beast, and he’d answered back in kind, greatly relieved that she had stopped pitying him. They ended the evening by shouting insults at each other and retiring to bed in icy silence.

  Parsefall sighed, wishing he trusted his stomach enough to lie back down. The room
was cold, and he was sleepy. He wrapped the thickest blanket around him like a cocoon. Outside, a cat yowled. Parsefall shivered a little. He wondered what time it was. The fire on the hearth had burned low, but a streetlamp shone through the grime of the window. It made Grisini’s old coatrack look like a humpbacked crone. Parsefall glanced from corner to corner, making sure nothing stirred in the shadows.

  Clara was staring at him.

  Parsefall felt the hair on his arms rise. She lay on the mantel with her head twisted outward, and her glass eyes caught the glow from the streetlamp. It was a trick of the light, no more. But looking back at the mantel, he could not rid himself of the idea that she was awake. “Lemme alone,” he whispered, but her gaze was unblinking.

  “Damn yer eyes,” Parsefall said. “I don’t ’ave to look at you.” He turned his back to the mantel. He folded his lumpy mattress so that it supported his shoulders, easing himself into a half-reclining position. He swallowed, shut his eyes, and drifted into sleep.

  In his dream, he heard a rhythmic sound, repetitive as the song of a cricket. It was the creak of a rocking chair, and in the rocking chair sat Grisini. The puppet master lurched back and forth, smiling a little. Parsefall yelped, twitched, and woke himself up.

  He sat up in bed. Grisini wasn’t there. He listened, wondering if Lizzie Rose had heard his cry, but there was no sound from her bedroom. He thought of calling her, remembered the quarrel, and clenched his teeth to keep from whimpering.

  Grisini was dead. That was the thing he was counting on, the thing he had to remember. Grisini was dead, and there was no rocking chair in the room. Parsefall remembered Grisini’s rocking chair. It had broken one day, and Grisini had cracked the frame apart and thrown the fragments on the fire. Parsefall twisted about, gazing at the dying coals, half expecting to see the shards of burning wood.

  He raised his eyes to the mantelshelf. Clara was still staring. Her glassy eyes were piercing, as if she saw through his skin to the nightmares he carried inside. He felt a surge of rage that overcame his fear, and he squirmed out of his cocoon. He wasn’t going to put up with her one minute longer. He would take her into Grisini’s room and hang her from the bed frame. Or perhaps he’d shut her up in the wicker trunk; he was almost sure she hated that. Even better, he would throw her on the fire; burn her, like a witch. . . .

  He reached up and caught hold of the wooden perch, but his hands were shaking and he dropped her. Clara fell faceup onto the carpet. Parsefall squatted down and picked her up.

  She felt different from the other puppets. They were sticky with shellac, and their clothes were limp and greasy. Clara’s frock was crisp and clean, and her skin was soft. Her body emitted a faint heat. Parsefall’s anger melted away. He lay back down, clasping the puppet against his unquiet stomach.

  Almost at once, he felt better. As he lay there with one hand draped over her, he fancied that she sympathized with him, that she understood his terror. The idea was comforting. He pulled her closer. She was warm and strong and solid. As if he were stretching out a hand, he tried to think himself inside her, to imagine the thoughts that passed through her mind.

  The answer came at once. She felt trapped. She was trapped, locked in her puppet body, unable to speak or move. She wanted him to finish stringing her: to give her life. And he could do it. He might not be welcome at the company of Royal Marionettes, but he could liven up Clara. Tomorrow he’d start working with her, rehearsing the ballet dance he’d copied from Grisini. Lizzie Rose wouldn’t like it — she didn’t think Clara ought to be treated like an ordinary puppet — but it wasn’t any of Lizzie Rose’s business. She’d abandoned the theatre; she’d rather do housework. Very well, then; he’d put together a show without her. He’d start his own company.

  He began to review the possibilities, subtracting the acts that called for two figure workers. He might start with the sailor’s hornpipe — he’d have to get the audience clapping to provide a beat for the dance — and then the circus acts, followed by the ballet. He could take Grisini’s old music box and wind it up, so that Clara would have music for the dance. That would work. Then he would end with the skeleton puppet. It wouldn’t be as good without music, but it was his best act; it had to go last.

  “I’ll finish stringing you tomorrow,” he whispered to Clara. “It won’t take long. We’ll practice the bally dance — and soon we’ll do the shows. Lizzie Rose won’t come with us, but we’ll get along by ourselves, won’t we?”

  He did not bother to imagine the response from the puppet in his arms. He was drowsy now, and his nausea had almost passed. He dragged the coverlet up to his shoulders and fell asleep. Even as he slept, his fingers twitched, rehearsing the movement of the puppets.

  Four days later, Clara was packed inside the new wagon and hauled off to perform her first show.

  She was swathed in a muslin bag, so she couldn’t see. As the wagon rattled through the streets, she hung from the puppet gallows, swaying back and forth with every bump and jerk. She heard the din of the crowded city: the scraping of wheels against cobblestones, the clip-clop of hooves, the shouts of coachmen and costermongers. The wagon’s progress was fitful: Parsefall was too small to make anyone give way to him, and he was forced to travel in zigzags, dodging foot traffic and coaches alike. Once or twice, Clara heard someone swear at him. A woman shouted, “’Ere, now!” and a man bellowed, “D’you want to end up under the ’ooves?” Undaunted, Parsefall answered with oaths of his own.

  The wagon swerved and jolted for more than an hour. The streets grew quieter; they were entering a less crowded part of the city. Clara felt the wagon back up and strike something hard. A moment later, the gallows rose into the air; Parsefall was lifting it. His hands fumbled for Clara’s bag, loosening the drawstring. He drew her out, and at last she could see.

  They had come to a square in Pimlico. There was a large rectangle of garden surrounded by iron palings, and the houses around the square were white columned and prosperous looking. It was very like Chester Square, and Clara felt a wave of homesickness.

  Parsefall set to work at once. He pushed the wagon close to the iron palings, so that the fence would be at his back. Clara understood why. Performing alone, he had no one to guard his puppets. He reached into the wagon and unpacked the drum, the music box, and a toy horn. He shoved the horn into his mouth. As he prepared the theatre for the show, he blew a series of earsplitting blasts. Between the blasts, Clara heard childish voices from the other side of the fence. There were children playing in the garden. Parsefall was hoping to attract them.

  He set the gallows at right angles to the stage, pinned back the curtains, and unrolled the backdrop. He arranged a black cloth over his head and mounted the wagon. Picking up the drum, he began to play.

  Clara listened with misgivings. Who would come? The day was raw; the sounds of the horn and drum were faint; the wagon was gimcrack and rickety and small. But luck was with Parsefall. The children’s voices grew louder. They had heard the horn and followed the sound. The gallows vibrated as Parsefall reached for one of the fantoccini.

  The show began. Clara could not see the audience, but she heard ripples of laughter and gasps of delight. After a quarter of an hour, she heard the staccato whirr of machinery: the winding up of the music box. It was her cue. She felt herself being lifted off the gallows and flown through the air. She ended up center stage, in front of the painted backdrop.

  She was surprised by the size of the audience. A governess with three children, a nursemaid carrying a baby, a red-faced clergyman, an errand boy with his hands full of envelopes . . . So far, so good — but beyond this crowd of respectable-looking people was a sprinkling of paupers. She saw a chimney sweep and two ragged girls, evidently sisters. There was an ancient man with black teeth and an idiot grin, and a drunkard in a red kerchief.

  It was the drunkard who stood closest to the stage, close enough to touch her if he chose. Clara quailed at the sight of him. He was thickset and unshaven. He seemed fascinat
ed by the puppet show. He stood head cocked, hands dangling, rocking back and forth in time to the music.

  Clara was afraid of him. She wished she could close her eyes and shut out the faces of the crowd. But her eyes were wide open and the music box was tinkling. Parsefall was tugging at her strings.

  She rose on the tips of her toes, her arms coming together, her wrists crossing. One of the ragged girls gave a coo of admiration. Clara stretched out her left foot, toe pointed, and lifted her arms to pose. The perch raised her, and she floated into a leap. She obeyed every motion of the strings; her limbs were as light as flower stems and as smooth as water. The crowd was silent, held in thrall by the silvery music and the little dancer in the white frock.

  A thrill of joy ran through Clara. She was moving with such lightness and sureness that she almost fancied that she moved by herself. The drunken man jerked his thumb at her and said, “Look at that!” and she wanted to smile at him. Why, he was — she searched for the right word and found it — innocent. He might be coarse and dirty and drunk, but he was as hungry for enchantment as she had been at her birthday party.

  The music was slowing down. Clara kept time. She gave one final cat leap, lowered her arms, and sank into a curtsy. The old man with the black teeth clapped like a child, elbows out. The others joined in, and there was a round of excited applause. Clara wanted to laugh with happiness. She felt Parsefall’s triumph ripple through his hands and down her strings. She wanted to dance again. But the perch was yanking her away, swinging her past the curtain; she felt the hook at the top clamp over the gallows rack. It was time for the skeleton to dance. Clara swayed back and forth, her strings still quivering. Little by little, the swaying stopped, and her body hung slack and still.