James Miranda Barry
Page 18
A troupe of performing dwarves from France is attracting a good deal of attention as they tumble through the streets. One riding a ball whirls under my horse’s nose and makes him start. Most disturbing of all, a so-called doctor in a long black coat is doing magnificent business, with his pile of pink and blue medicines in little bottles, no doubt claiming to cure everything, from consumption to piles. He is telling the story of a huge cancer which shrivelled and withered before the pink potion’s mighty powers. I listen to his discourse in considerable alarm. His assistant is conducting a very profitable trade, down below among the bottles. Out of anxiety for the good people of Greenwich, I persuade a young woman to buy me a sample, which I secrete in my coat pocket. I will analyse it in the hospital laboratory. If it be no more than sugary water, as these things usually are, the potion may prove efficacious. Most of my patients suffer from hallucinatory disease. I have found that bracing speeches and accusations of hysterical malingering, although often more accurate as clinical diagnoses, do far less good than a dose of tonic salts, an energetic purge and a prescribed fortnight at the seaside. There is no gulf between the body and the mind. They form one another, just as a particular climate shapes the mind and character of a people, down to their most intimate habits and practices. Anxiety and depression of the spirits are therefore often alleviated by a change of air.
The theatrical booths occupy one side of the main square and already a large crowd is flocking around Richardson’s jugglers and performing dogs, who are leaping over little pyramids and through coloured hoops, to the cheerful belching of a mechanical organ. Two grotesque dancing figures circulate on top of this machine as the clown turns the handle. His face is horribly whitened and his teeth have rotted away so that his red lips frame an open hole for a mouth. He looks like an animated mummy.
I stable my horse at one of the inns and return to the square, to watch and to wait. I am casually acknowledged by other soldiers in uniform. I am, once again, the visiting spy. The bright stripes of flapping canvas and the endless activity of selling prove irresistible. It is many years since I have last been to the fair. An artist is doing very fine portraits, a shilling a time, and has a long line of clients, already impatiently waiting. He has that rare talent for catching an undeniable likeness, but has not lost the essential ability to flatter. The boils and double chains are all there, but so is a fine shading which makes the nose more noble, softens the frown, and heightens the fire in the eyes. Arrogance is transformed into dignity, cringing sycophancy into humble virtue, meanness becomes commercial acumen, and preening vanity a refined joie de vivre. The public are delighted and convinced by these remarkable forgeries. Mr Haydon exaggerates. He is intent on inflating us all to his level of bombastic heroism, when all we need to be pleased with ourselves is a very little adjustment in the lines of our chins.
I wander among the booths. Here is a muscular man, covered in tattoos, encouraging a tiny monkey to fling peanut shells into the crowd. There are flower stalls overflowing with spring blooms, dark tulips, very fashionable, freshly imported. One booth sells nothing but buttons and has a new line in large, shiny metal ones, each commemorating a famous battle in the late wars. The one which attracts my attention commemorates the battle of Aboukir, where Bonaparte defeated the Turks. It has an intricate symbol showing the descent of the star and the sickle moon. I buy it for Francisco.
The first official performance of the play is announced at midday. A boy with a decorated drum, hung with spoons, does the round of the square, shouting to make himself heard after each drum roll. The Siege of Troy is to be performed today, ending in a tableau vivant depicting the massacre of Hecuba and her children. That we must see; half-clothed bodies tumbled across the stage, and the Greeks with real blood on their swords. It will be real blood. They bought it this morning. I saw a bucket being carried backstage, behind the frayed curtain. To follow: songs from Shakespeare, to be performed by Mr Richardson’s tantalising new discovery, the beautiful and appealing Mrs Jones.
My first reaction is astonishment. Alice has many talents, but as far as I know singing is not one of them. She can whistle, certainly. I have heard her doing that, but I have never heard her sing. I join the crowd pressing inside the hastily erected canvas canopy which encloses the paying spectators. The walls of Troy are fetchingly painted around the front of the stage and above the action flaps a large white horse, painted on canvas. The same small boy who wielded the drum blurts out a loud fart upon the trumpet. Silence for the players! Let the performance begin!
I realise at once that it is the kind of audience where it is prudent to watch your pocket, and the smell of unwashed humanity, closely packed, is almost overpowering. But the people gaze entranced at the players, barely two feet above them, with so willing a suspension of disbelief that we need not fear for the future of faery land, goblins, elves, leprechauns with pointed ears, and general make-believe. Achilles is magnificent in plumes. He swears vengeance while standing over the colourfully bloody body of Patroclus, with thundering panache. And yes, indeed, it is real blood. Circulating in a pig until fairly recently, if I am not mistaken. It is drying nicely, and the smell is disgusting. Hector’s wife has bad dreams after the manner of Lady Macbeth. Go not forth to battle this day. The omens were evil. A chicken with a baby’s foetus, fully formed, cowering in its entrails, and a goose with three livers, sprawled upon the altar. I saw it with my own eyes. Ah! Ah! Here comes the wench. She has not slept one hour this night. For here she is, sweeping onto the stage, rejected, ignored, raving mad and prophesying doom. Here is Cassandra, her dark eyes rolling, her curls loose, her cloak and veils in suggestive disarray. I can quite see why Agamemnon lost his head and chose her for his concubine. It is Alice Jones.
She gives a terrifying performance. She quivers and sways as if possessed. Her bosom heaves delightfully. But her eyes are demonic, staring, as brilliant as Mr Kean in full tirade. A baby starts howling in the front row. Cassandra lands a handsome fountain of spittle on the infant’s head. The crowd cheers. The brilliant Mrs Jones steps out of character to curtsey, but then, with the rapid ferocity of an opera star who has heard her cue from the orchestra, she flings herself at Hector’s feet, shrieking. To no avail. The story must unfold as it has always done. Cassandra is never believed. Hector takes on Achilles, is briskly butchered in a splendid sword fight and dragged off by the hair to tour the walls of Troy in the bloody dust, behind the chariot of Achilles. The audience is desperate to see this. It has been so thrillingly described.
Then, in bellowed asides, close to the audience, so that we become their fellow-conspirators, straining to hear, the Greeks plan their perfidious ruse to enter Troy. We are all agreed upon the plan. Tonight! Tonight! Make ready the ships. Douse the camp fires. Our enemies must believe in our retreat. The play proceeds at a cracking pace. Even I, against my better judgement, am captivated by the action. I notice too that we all change sides and support whoever is on stage, whether they be Greeks or Trojans. There are often up to five players, creaking in chorus on the frail boards above us. Their costumes are heavy and authentic, their faces whitened or reddened according to their parts. They are giving us the essence of Homer, at the double. What they communicate to the bewitched and delighted audience is a perilous sense of urgency. Something truly terrible is about to happen. Right there. Before us. Soon. We cannot leave. We cannot look away. We are the witnesses.
A master stroke has been prepared for the entry of the Greeks. There is an invisible slit in the canvas belly of the white horse above us. One by one, the Greeks ascend the ladder behind the stage, then tumble down the drop, emerging, monstrous infants, fully armed, from the Trojan horse itself. They fall expertly, clanking weapons, one after another, down onto the stage, enjoining our complicity with their rolling eyes and pursed lips. Shhhhh. We stifle our children, hush one another’s gasps. No one in Troy must hear us come.
The massacre begins.
I notice that the young woman next to me, crushed i
n the press of spectators, is standing with her mouth open and tears in her eyes, as the infants, podgy, bumptious and pleased with themselves, are slaughtered at their mothers’ feet. Hecuba literally does rend her garments, exposing a magnificent shelf of bosom to our expectant, awestruck eyes. The Greeks are bloodthirsty and pitiless. Which is how we want them to be. The women fling themselves upon the appropriate swords with terrible shrieks and yells, and above them all, seated on the altar dedicated to the forsaking gods, sits Cassandra, now revealingly deshabillée, with a tragic grimace fixed upon her lovely face. And here is Agamemnon, already lascivious, contemplating rape. In the tableau vivant, which they hold for several minutes, to thunderous applause, he grasps her gown, a lustful sneer distorting his lips. One of the dead children sneezes, but nothing else spoils the effect.
We make the canvas flap more vigorously in the spring sunshine with our shouts and gesticulations, as the players thaw, disentangle themselves from their violent ends, join hands and bow. Some of the audience leave the tent and others push forwards to take their places for the songs. We are promised the lovely Mrs Jones as Viola, in a plumed hat and breeches. Just as soon as she can get the blood off her face and transform herself into a rural swain gone a-wooing. In the meantime the children do a frolicking, tumbling act, dressed as tiny clowns. They bounce across the boards.
Ah, here is a rural cottage with a spring setting being unrolled as the backdrop. It is rather well painted, with a convincing perspective. A real bucket full of milk is placed near the painted cow. And here is Feste, with his cap and bells, carrying a lute. Would you like a love-song, or a song of good life? We all roar back. A love-song! A love-song! Ay, ay. I care not for good life. And here she is. A gasp goes up. Her tunic clings tight to her bosom and her fine legs are displayed for all the world to see. Natural and at ease in her buckskin boots, Alice saunters to the centre of the stage, a little melancholy, twirling a rose still in bud. She looks at us all reflectively. I turn my face aside. Has she seen me? No. She is wrapped in her own thoughts. She begins to sing.
O mistress mine! where are you roaming?
O! stay and hear; your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
And like Sir Andrew and Sir Toby before me I am forced to admit that she has a mellifluous voice, as I am a true knight. The public get three songs for their money and insist on a fourth.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.
A generous, sweeping bow, her plumes dusting the floor, and exit, to a monstrous chorus, roaring for more.
Alice can sing after all. Both high and low. But someone has taken pains with her. Her timing is perfect. She has been well taught. The confidence and daring are all her own. And always have been.
I take advantage of my uniform to insist upon my entry to Mrs Jones’s dressing room. The green room is in fact a canvas flap, nailed to the back of a cart behind the booth. Hecuba is chewing a carrot and Mrs Jones is transforming herself back into Cassandra for the first afternoon performance. Troy falls at least five times a day if the weather is fine.
She doesn’t notice me. Hecuba does.
‘Alice, here come a courting soldier,’ says the woman dryly, as if this were a regular occurrence, and chomps her carrot. Alice stares.
‘I didn’t know you could sing, Alice.’
Her face is suddenly transformed. And her joy is unfeigned.
‘James!’ she shouts and flings herself into my arms, covering my face with kisses. Hecuba gets up.
‘She stoops to conquer,’ smiles the doomed queen, revealing a blackened tooth in the upper range. Alice is a good deal taller than I am and I vanish, engulfed in her embrace. Alice’s manager, the portly Mr Richardson, appears, curious to see who is interfering with his leading lady. No gentlemen visitors in the green room.
‘This is Dr Barry,’ says Alice hastily. ‘We grew up together.’
It’s true. We did.
Tell me everything.
Out it all comes in a giant rush.
‘I’d been stitching costumes, backstage at the Lyceum. Well, that didn’t get me anywhere except to watch women with legs like bent palm trees getting cheered for bugger all in the way of talent or charm. Then I met Lucy, that’s Hecuba to you, and she introduced me to Richardson. And he saw me sing in Viola’s costume. One of the songs I’ve just done. And off we go to the fair. Then I did Cassandra and I’ve also done Galatea in another classical thing where you have to sing. It’s a beginning. The boss likes me. I’m paid per performance at the moment. He wants to see if I can stick it out. But if all goes well I’ll get a proper contract in September. James, I love it. We’re going on tour. Aylesbury, Oxford and as far afield as Worcester and Bath. I’m nearly home then. If I can get a message through to Ludlow. I’ve told my brothers where I am. But we daren’t tell Mother yet. I will if I’m a success. Then she can’t be very angry. Obviously you have to hope you’ll get noticed. And go down well with the public . . .’
‘Don’t you worry, Alice. You’ll get noticed.’
She has the grace to blush.
‘I can’t believe it. All my dreams are coming true. I’m an actress. I earn my own money. And here you are . . .’
‘Alice. James Barry is very ill. In fact, he’s dying. And he is asking for you.’
The darkness floods across her face.
‘Is it about the box?’
I say nothing. I just stare back, gravely.
‘You’ve never stolen anything of value before, Alice.’
She puts her chin in the air. She is giving nothing away.
‘The box is with a pawnbroker in Whitechapel. I pawned it.’
‘And I suppose you’ve sold the stones.’
She says nothing for a moment. Then bursts out furiously, ‘He owed me wages.’
The box alone was worth a year’s wages. I say nothing. Then I ask her to solve the mystery of James Barry’s urgent distress.
‘Alice, listen to me. Was there anything else in that box?’
She looks up, puzzled.
‘I don’t think so. But if there was I’ve sold it.’
She is unrepentant.
‘Look,’ she says, anger just below the tension in her voice, ‘whatever I took, he owed me.’
I take her hand in mine. I want to believe her.
‘I gather that you were on quite intimate terms with my uncle, Alice.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Mr Haydon.’
‘Oh, him.’
Pause.
‘He said that you used to fight with Barry. Quite violently.’
‘What of it? How do you expect me to get on with someone whose ideal of womanhood is the Virgin Mary?’
There is a grim, antagonistic silence between us. But she does not withdraw her hand. Then she bends towards me, pleading.
‘James, please don’t be cross with me. I’m on stage again in less than an hour.’
‘When can I see you?’
‘On a Sunday? We don’t perform on Sundays. Mrs Richardson’s a Baptist. But I can’t come this Sunday.’
‘Where are you lodging?’
‘With the Widow Dewey. By the river. It’s filthy. But cheap. You can leave messages there if you want. Come next Sunday. And if the day’s fine we can walk out to Batsford Warren. I know a way through the woods.’
‘Alice.’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you tell your mother that you’ve found me?’
‘No.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘All right. Then I promise too.’
And we look straight at each other.
‘I don’t forget things,’ says Alice. ‘You taught me to read.’
* * *
She pauses on top of the stile and sits there for a moment, with her skirts drawn up about her. All around us the earth unleashes fresh scents of early morning. I notice the tulips, hanging their heads in the cottage gardens, as if they have been pricked by the last sharp nights, and then, sure enough, at the corner of the barn, still in shadow, we feel the ground beneath our feet, the dew crisp with a faint, white frost. Yet all the world is green. Here are the fresh leaves, tender and unsteady, columbine and monkswood stirring in the wilder gardens. Out in the fields, dandelions are yellowing the short grass. We stand in the landscape of our shared childhood. Even the apple trees are in full bloom, unfurling their delicate pink and white flowers. Alice walks on fallen petals in the pitted dust.
‘Shall we go on through the coppice?’ she asks. ‘There’s a stream just beyond.’
‘It’s like Shipton, isn’t it?’
‘Not really,’ she says, with the pedantry of a country girl. ‘Up there the spring is longer in coming. Ludlow is always freezing at Easter. We’d have stormier weather later in the year. You wouldn’t hear the crickets till the end of June. If then.’