New Albion (3 page)

“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Borrow, in syllables sharp as knives, “the sentiments are there.”

“Sentiments?” responded Mr. Wilton, his own voice gruff and pugilistic.

“Anti-monarchist sentiments.” Mr. Borrow cleared his throat and peered menacingly at Mr. Wilton and then at me. One cannot peer menacingly at Mr. Wilton for very long.

Again I tried to cut through the solid fog of antagonism which had pervaded the room. “Mr. Farquhar Pratt fancies himself a bit of a history buff,” I said. “I’m certain he can vouch for the historical accuracy of what he has written.”

Mr. Borrow did not appreciate being contradicted. “God damn historical accuracy!” he fairly shouted. “It is not a question of historical accuracy.” He pulled his spectacles from his long nose and began polishing them incessantly.

Mr. Wilton cleared his throat, as well. “Mr. Farquhar Pratt is quite adamant about his setting,” he said evenly. “He claims that plot and character follow from thence.”

“Mr. Farquhar Pratt is a hack playwright in a minor theatre,” Mr. Borrow fairly hissed. His polishing grew more and more furious until I was worried that he would mangle his spectacles. “He can and will be brought to observe the strictures which this office is mandated to safeguard.”

There was another uneasy silence between Mr. Borrow and Mr. Wilton, until at last Mr. Wilton turned to me. “I begin to see that we are at an impasse,” he said. “We shall eliminate
Kerim the Bastard Buccaneer
from our playbills.” And with a sour glance at Mr. Borrow, he added, “Which have already been printed.”

“You should never have printed them without first having the play cleared by this office,” Mr. Borrow spat back. He remained sitting while Mr. Wilton and I were in the act of standing up.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilton, “you’ve made that point with eminent clarity. We were, however, given to believe that if Mr. Farquhar Pratt eliminated the sub-plot –”

“One more thing,” Mr. Borrow said, pointing a bony finger at Mr. Wilton. “Mr. Mayne’s people have notified me of another stabbing outside your theatre.” He was referring to a curious incident which had happened across the street from the New Albion on a Friday evening in late August. The proprietor of the Britannia Saloon, our closest rival theatre, had been accosted by young thugs moments after leaving our theatre. He had been to see Mr. Wilton about some alleged misdealings between the two acting companies and had stayed to see the play afterwards. An assailant had apparently slashed the man’s arm with a large knife. The injury was not life-threatening, and the man’s purse had not been stolen.

“Nothing to do with our enterprise,” Mr. Wilton said, dismissively. “Stabbings happen every day in the metropolis.”

Mr. Borrow drew another audible breath and grinned a cadaverous grin. “The victim had been one of your patrons that very evening.”

“That may be,” said Mr. Wilton, “but not the perpetrator. We have no control over the actions of such men. Unless you are implying that the victim brought the attack upon himself?”

“I’m told that the stabbing bore an uncanny resemblance to a similar incident in
Jack Larceny the Pickpocket
.” Mr. Borrow’s face was hard and his mouth set. He was again upright and tall, even as he sat there, making all of the furniture in the room look like furniture at a children’s tea party.

“All stabbings tend to look much the same,” Mr. Wilton shot back. If it were possible to stab with words, Mr. Wilton was doing just that. He nevertheless assumed a calm air, holding his hat in his two hands with nonchalance. “There’s usually a demand for money or some other valuable object, followed by a sudden thrust of the blade.” He managed to make the description sound somehow threatening in the present situation.

“If I learn that the perpetrator was also a patron of your establishment,” said Mr. Borrow, “I will have you closed down. You may depend upon it, Mr. Wilton.”

Smiling faintly, Mr. Wilton replied, “Yes, well, Mr. Mayne’s men will have to catch him first. Which they have to date seemed helpless in accomplishing.”

“Good day, Mr. Wilton. Mr. Phillips.” Mr. Borrow reached for a manuscript on his desk and began perusing it as if we were no longer in the room.

“And a hearty good day to you, sir!” said Mr. Wilton. We left the office with at least that much victory in hand.

Outside, on the wet cobblestones, Mr. Wilton put his hat on his head, and I opened my umbrella. Mr. Wilton eschews umbrellas as a mark of unmanliness. “So now,” he said, “Mr. Farquhar Pratt has proven himself a liability as a playwright as well as an actor.”

“He may yet turn things around,” I replied. “He is not without some wisdom in his lucid moments.”

We walked past rain-drenched buildings. Droplets of water that ran from the eaves glittered on Mr. Wilton’s lapels. “He cannot live much longer at this rate,” Mr. Wilton said. “Have you looked into his eyes?”

“I have assumed that the yellowing of Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s eyeballs has more to do with his laudanum habit than with advancing old age.”

“It comes to the same thing,” said Mr. Wilton. “I have known many an old soldier succumb to the drug.” We walked on in silence for a hundred yards, the rain drenching Mr. Wilton’s attire completely but with no acknowledgement from him. It pelted down in thick columns as we waited near the train station for an omnibus home. The rain falling down around him, Mr. Wilton reflected morosely for a time and then said, “We must look to the future, Phillips. I think we must hire an apprentice for Mr. Farquhar Pratt so that he might pass his wisdom along.” He said it with resolution, as though he had read the tablets of Moses himself.

Tuesday, 17 September 1850

There was intended to be a first reading of Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s
Abel Bellflower the Frontiersman
today. It did not go well. We were told that the play script would deal with events pertinent to the routing of the Americans in 1812 – something the Lord Chamberlain has little interest in censoring. The company was assembled at a table in the rehearsal hall at ten o’clock and had little patience for Pratty’s arrival at ten forty-five.

I could tell instantly that the old man was not himself this morning, or rather less himself than on other mornings. His eyes were those of a frightened animal, and I noted that his habitual cravat was tied in the manner of a sailor’s rude knot. He seemed to have an excess of saliva in him which coated his lips. When he spoke, his sentences were erratic.

Pratty had promised to take the play script to the copyist himself last week, but the sides he produced on this day were like no other I have seen. As I thumbed through the script, I witnessed a good deal of scribble that would flatter the term “illegible.” Several pages were completely blank. Several others had only one or two words written on them.

The actors, who had also had the opportunity to peruse their sides, gazed at the old man with blinking eyes.

“Ladies and…,” Pratty began. He was suddenly frantic, full of wild gesticulations, and the saliva on his lips multiplied accordingly. “Ladies and…apologize for…” The company blinked some more. “I have been seized, yes, that’s the word – seized by the hand of inspiration,” he went on breathlessly. “I could not do Abel Bellflower. No, I – I – I – that play is for another playwright in another theatre. No, no, I have given you Baroness Villiers instead – a return to the domestic melodrama.”

The actors remained motionless in their chairs, except for the blinking of eyes. “Yes, well,” Mrs. Wilton said at last in a measured cadence, “you could have given us
The Country Wife
for aught we know, for none of it is legible.”

Mr. Farquhar Pratt stopped in mid-gesticulation and eyed Mrs. Wilton ferociously. “Of course it is legible. It is entirely legible!” He was almost out of breath.

“Perhaps you will read me this passage, sir,” responded Mrs. Wilton, “since I am at my wit’s end with it.” She thrust the papers at him, and he peered at it as Moses must have peered at the Ten Commandments when he first caught sight of them.

“It says here –” he sputtered, and again, “it says here that –
” His confidence began deserting him, and he asked for another page which was summarily handed to him. “It says here –”

I could bear watching this no longer. “It seems,” I said, standing up, “that a brief adjournment is called for. A brief adjournment. We’ll meet in this room again at one o’clock.”

There was a collective sigh of relief as the actors rose and began exiting the rehearsal hall. Pratty remained at the head of the table, a piece of paper in his hand. “I’m – I’m – I’m certain that, if you’ll only remain, I can decipher this,” he said to no one in particular, “with ease. Or perhaps not with much ease. But decipher it I will.”

As young Theo West passed by me, I caught him by the arm and whispered, “For gawd’s sake, take the old man home!” Master West dutifully went to Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s side and, touching him lightly on the arm, offered to walk him to his lodgings.

There was another wild flinging about of limbs, and Pratty shouted, “Goddamn it, no, insolent fellow! We are having a read-through here.” He glared at Master West with the eyes of a cornered rat.

Mr. Hicks, who had been set to play Abel Bellflower himself, came to young Master West’s aid. “Have a care, Ned,” he growled like the sailor he once had been. “The young man is only wishing to be of service to you.”

This seemed to placate Mr. Farquhar Pratt, and he allowed himself to be led from the rehearsal hall.

When he had gone, Mrs. Wilton came back into the room and asked me what was to be done.

“I was thinking,” I said, looking at the floor, “that we might remount
Laura Secord and the Corporal
.”

I waited for a harsh rebuke or, at least, a stern warning. None came. Mrs. Wilton pondered my suggestion for a moment. “I suppose we must,” she said at last. “Another play about the bloody Americans.”

“The show must go on, you know.”

“Very good thinking, Mr. Phillips. We must see that you get a rise in pay.”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

A smiling Mrs. Wilton turned and, with sprightly step, disappeared from the room. Another crisis had been averted.

But what of poor Mr. Farquhar Pratt?

Wednesday, 18 September 1850

The rehearsal hall was like a painter’s canvas early in the morning before the actors arrived. It was nauseatingly empty, awaiting that first act of commitment, that first brush stroke, to begin
the quest. From that first brush stroke, we hoped, would mater
ialize the vision that illuminates a work of art, that illuminates the truth.

I arrived at my accustomed hour. The hollow echo of my own footsteps on the wooden floor resounded in my head as I strolled from wall to wall lighting the coal oil lamps. A few wooden blocks had been left in the rehearsal hall last night, at my bidding, and I placed the blocks meticulously on the hardwood in a resemblance of the floor plan we had used when
Laura Secord
was first produced. The actors straggled in at about eight thirty.

Mrs. Wilton created the role of Laura when the play was produced three years ago. She will not countenance anyone else playing the part, despite the fact that Suzy Simpson is the right age for the role and certainly Fanny Hardwick, though relatively new to the company, is a more refined actress. It has been rather off-putting, of late, to watch as Mrs. Wilton skips her considerable poundage across the stage in the accustomed ingénue roles.

This morning, she jounced into the scene as a rather elderly Laura Secord, danced a little jig for Mr. Neville Watts and Mr. Seymour Hicks, who played Lieutenant Fitzgibbon and his trusty Mohawk sidekick Joseph Brant respectively, and announced, “The bloody Americans are coming!”

Mr. Hicks then gave a start, one of his trademark starts that could not fail to attract the attention of some future audience, and shouted, “By Gitchegoomie, we will engage them!”

Mr. Neville Watts, who was to have uttered the next line – “In the name of Isaac Brock, we will!” – instead paused for a moment and broke character. “Do you really think,” he asked Mr. Hicks, “that such an intrusive start is called for there?” The two actors have not managed to co-habit well since Mr. Watts’ arrival in the theatre some months ago. It was apparent, at the time, that Mr. Watts’ services had been procured in order to transplant Mr. Hicks or to inspire him to new heights of histrionic grandeur. Since arriving at the New Albion, Mr. Watts has endeavoured to introduce Macreadyan understatement into the artistic lexicon of the acting company, but with limited success.

“The start, sar,” Mr. Hicks replied exceedingly evenly, “is, of all the tools in the actor’s tool box, one of the most useful.”

“Yes,” Mr. Watts said, “but wouldn’t Joseph Brant appear to be braver and more capable of war-like resolve if he merely received
the news of the invasion without resorting to histrionics?”

Mr. Hicks was sputtering like a tea kettle on a hot stove. “Histrionics, you say? Histrionics?” He met my gaze and then looked Mr. Watts firmly in the eye. “Are you, by chance, attempting to direct me now?”

“Direct you, sir?” Mr. Watts said gently, trying to extend the proverbial olive branch. “Direct you, sir? No. I was merely trying to be helpful. The great Macready once said –”