New Albion (4 page)

“God damn Macready and the ilk that fawn over him!” Mr. Hicks shouted. “Your beloved Mr. Macready has announced his impending retirement at the end of the season, has he not?”

“He has.”

“And none too soon.”

Mr. Hicks and Mr. Watts, who have heretofore managed to sequester their animosity, were standing toe-to-toe. It was left to me to do what stage managers must do, in short, to put out fires. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I think we must defer to the wishes of the playwright himself who is, in this case, Mr. Farquhar Pratt. His stage direction, for Joseph Brant, is ‘with a start’.”

Friday, 20 September 1850

A frightful incident in the theatre this evening.

It occurred during the interlude between
My Own Blue Bell
and
Lady Hatton
, when the Parisian Phenomenon came out to dance a
pas de deux
with young Master West standing in as her partner. The stagehands had been instructed to increase the intensity of the footlights due to the fact that, a week ago, the Parisian Phenomenon and her expensive pink tutu could hardly be seen during the same number.

Tonight, as the curtain went up, Mr. Alexander Hasbrough the gasman fired his footlights to their full so that the open flame could be seen above the footlight shields. He had been warned that another dance in the dark would not be tolerated, and because his gas table is below the stage, he was not able to witness at first hand the fruits of his labours.

Accompanied by woodland nymphs – local children who were paid twopence each for their pains – Master West and the Parisian Phenomenon leapt and twirled to the forestage so that she could be seen in all her pink glory. The nymphs had been strictly commanded to remain against the back wall in various grandiose poses and not to enter the lighted area. Which was all for the best as things turned out.

Whilst involved in a particularly strenuous twirl, the Parisian Phenomenon’s pink crinoline caught flame from one of the gas lamps. At first unaware that her attire was billowing smoke, the Parisian Phenomenon danced on. At last, Master West stopped in mid-twirl, pointed at her and shouted, “Fire!” He valiantly commenced patting her in familiar places with his hands, trying to stamp out the flame but without success.

I had no choice but to access the safety blankets back stage and to rush to the Parisian Phenomenon’s aid. I threw the blankets around her. At that moment, Mr. Smith also appeared from the prompter’s side with a pail of water and doused us all.

The flame was at last extinguished, and the Parisian Phenomenon left the stage of her own volition, with only a few minor burns on her hands and forearms. It was lucky that her hair had not also caught fire. Mrs. Wilton summoned a doctor, who poured cold water over the affected areas and declared that the Parisian Phenomenon would be “right as rain” within the fortnight.

It was nevertheless a frightful event, and Mrs. Wilton made her displeasure clear to Mr. Hasbrough. “Are you trying to maim our finest asset?” she asked him as the evening drew to a close.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I was only doing what I was told to do.”

“You must do better than that, Mr. Hasbrough. You must do as you are told, but you must also exercise some judgment.”

Monday, 23 September 1850

Mr. Farquhar Pratt has spent the past week at his residence in Bethnal Green, resting, as they say. I am given to understand that no doctor’s services have been procured as Pratty derides their work as mere quackery and as he is in no position financially
to afford one. Mr. Wilton had offered to pay for a doctor in this case – an honourable offer, I might add – but even this much assistance was declined.

I know that Mr. Wilton has not been looking forward to the eventuality of a meeting with Mr. Farquhar Pratt, but the urgency of such a meeting is apparent. All through the week, Mr. Wilton has been seen walking nervously about the foyer, the short grey hairs on the back of his neck standing as they do whenever he is anxious or angry. He had instructed me to arrange a meeting in his office with Mr. Farquhar Pratt as soon as the old man proved himself fit and coherent. This was done, and the meeting was scheduled for this morning.

Mr. Wilton always arrives early to the theatre. I have no idea how early. My work day begins at eight o’clock, and I have on occasion arrived as early as seven, only to find Old Stoneface in his leather chair going over statements from his textile factories.

When I passed his office at eight o’clock this morning, Mr. Wilton was sitting behind his great oak desk, staring mono-
ton
ously at the wall in front of him. He seemed in a kind of fugue state. It did not register with him that I had arrived until some moments after I passed his office, and I was a good way down the corridor when I heard his colonel’s gruff voice calling out, “Is Mr. Farquhar Pratt in yet?”

I retraced my steps to his open door. “He hasn’t arrived yet, sir.”

“Well, please let me know as soon as he is here.”

Arriving at the theatre at nine o’clock, Pratty looked much more himself than in the recent past. He was properly dressed, albeit in the same tattered great coat he has worn this entire year. He carried a weathered brown satchel under his arm. His face was white and perhaps a trifle puffy about the eyes but no more so than at any time in the past six months. He looked as though he had had a good night’s sleep, which is perhaps uncharacteristic of the old man.

“What’s the business now?” he inquired, when we were downstairs. “Am I to be relieved of my posting?” The question was blunt and bluntly put; it was apparent that some of Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s bygone pugilism had revived and that he was determined to protect himself from any further erosion of his responsibilities.

I deflected these questions as best I could. “I’m not entirely certain about what
Mr. Wilton has in mind,” I said. “Let us go upstairs to his office and find out, shall we? I would not be anxious or unhappy, though. Mr. Wilton is an honourable man.”

“Yes,” said Pratty, his jaw set, “we shall see.”

Mr. Wilton was still preoccupied with something on the wall opposite his desk when I escorted Mr. Farquhar Pratt into his office. He graciously offered Mr. Farquhar Pratt a chair.

I lingered in the doorway. “Will that be all then, Mr. Wilton?” I asked. My hope was that my presence would not be required during Pratty’s demotion, which was most certainly on the agenda.

“Have a chair, Phillips.” There was an air of command in Mr. Wilton’s voice.

I closed the door and sat in one of the antique chairs opposite Mr. Wilton’s desk. There was an audible drawing in of breath, first from Mr. Wilton and then from Pratty. Each man paused as if waiting for the other to speak. Finally Mr. Wilton drew his breath again and said, “You have been employed at the New Albion for quite some time, Mr. Farquhar Pratt.”

There was another silence, which was broken at last when Pratty said, “Eight, going on nine years, sir. I was snatched up from the Royal Victoria when my market value was high. I had only just written
The Vicissitudes of a Servant Girl
, which played for upwards of a hundred nights in that theatre. Before that time, I had spent fifteen years as Acting Manager and Stock Playwright at the Standard Theatre. Mr. Jonathan Edwards holds me in high regard to this day.” There was an unmistakeable air of petulance in his voice. Both Mr. Wilton and I had been regaled with the successes of
Vicissitudes of a Servant Girl
on numerous occasions, but on this occasion there was a hard edge to the presentation.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Wilton, “I am certain that Mr. Edwards holds you in high regard, and I am certain that you were as great a favourite at Mr. Osbaldiston’s theatre as you are here.”

“I have always striven for as much excellence as my health and intellectual capacities would allow.”

Mr. Wilton cleared his throat and said, “I have been thinking, Mr. Farquhar Pratt, that it is the responsibility of the management of this theatre to see that the wisdom garnered during such a distinguished career is, at last, passed on.”

Pratty intuited what would be next. His small eyes began to dart about the room, from Mr. Wilton to me and back to Mr. Wilton. “My plays are my legacy, sir,” he declared. “Let whomever will read them learn the elements of my craft.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilton, “and that is no small tutelage.”

“By my count, some five hundred plays and more have to this date emanated from my pen.”

Mr. Wilton cleared his throat again. He stood up and went to the window behind his desk. I could tell that he longed for the field of battle; he longed to be anywhere but here as he looked out over the grey tenements of Whitechapel. “I am thinking,” he said, “of allowing you to impart your store of knowledge in a more direct manner.”

“In what manner?” Mr. Farquhar Pratt gave each syllable extraordinary emphasis. He was fairly shaking; he could scarcely steady himself by grasping the arms of his chair.

Mr. Wilton thought it best to march into the line of fire rather than retreating to fight another day. “I am thinking,” he continued, “of offering the gift of your wisdom to a worthy apprentice.”

“An apprentice!” Pratty said the word as though it were syn
onymous with “prigger.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilton, his jaw set as though he were facing down a shipload of convicts in Moreton Bay.

“I have scarcely enough time for my own work, much less the work of others. Now that I am no longer paid to act.”

Mr. Wilton was losing his patience. “That was inevitable, Mr. Farquhar Pratt. What else could I do?”

Seeming chastised by this, Mr. Farquhar Pratt glanced at me and replied, “I do not say that relieving me of my line of business was unwarranted. But please, sir, do not erode my last means of earning a living in this theatre.”

Pratty’s response seemed to calm Mr. Wilton, as well. “I have no intention of doing that,” he said, evenly. “You will be paid two pounds per week, for a period of six weeks, merely to teach this apprentice. Any plays you produce during that time will also be remunerated at the new rate.”

“I will not have time to write plays and teach, as well.”

Mr. Wilton chose to disregard this. “Perhaps this new apprentice can help you write the Christmas panto?”

This stopped the old man in his tracks. It was as though Mr. Wilton had desecrated the altar at Westminster. “No, sir,” said Pratty, almost with an air of disbelief in his voice, “no apprentice you can offer will be of any help to me in that. He will only be a hindrance.”

“Damn it, Ned!” shouted Mr. Wilton, in a sudden battlefield fury. I was wondering when Mr. Wilton would finally cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.

“And who might this apprentice be?” Pratty continued. He was also suddenly quite angry. “I presume that you have someone in mind?”

“It is none of your business who the apprentice might be. But know that there will be an apprentice.”

“I will be heard, sir!” The old man was actually banging on Mr. Wilton’s desk with his tiny fist.

I went to Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s side and attached myself to his elbow. “I think that we should let cooler heads prevail, should we not?”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” said Mr. Wilton, regaining some of his composure, “I have other business which is also of some import.”

I was gradually moving the old man toward the door.

“I will be heard, sir,” reiterated Mr. Farquhar Pratt. But by then he was standing in the hall as Mr. Wilton’s office door closed behind him.

Saturday, 5 October 1850

Catastrophe!

I was downstairs in the dressing room last night during the final act of
Jack Larceny the Pickpocket
, having a word with Mr. Hicks, when I heard the first caterwaulings on the stairs leading to the dressing rooms.

A few moments later, Mrs. Wilton and her entourage passed by the open doorway, en route to the ladies’ dressing room. Mrs. Wilton was borne aloft by our strapping young juvenile lead Master West and also by Elias Bancroft, one of our comedians, who is always helpful where the welfare of the ladies in the company is involved. The gentlemen had clasped their hands under Mrs. Wilton’s legs and behind her back and were transporting her laboriously down the corridor. The Parisian Phenomenon was fanning the air around her mother’s face without much effect. Looking suitably distraught, Suzy Simpson, still costumed like Mrs. Wilton as a coquette, encouraged the gentlemen to bear Mrs. Wilton gently into the dressing room and to put her down on the divan. Mrs. Wilton was sobbing loudly through the ordeal.

Leaving Mr. Hicks to his own devices (and to his flask of gin), I followed the histrionic bunch into the ladies’ dressing room. I heard Mrs. Wilton curse the stage carpenter vehemently as well
as a few of the stagehands. Tears had given way to bitterness.

I entered the ladies’ dressing room with trepidation, as I nearly always do.

“I am very glad you are here, Mr. Phillips,” Mrs. Wilton said in a choking voice. Her face was crimson and her eyes narrow. “You may go upstairs at this instant and sack Mr. Sharpe.” Mrs. Wilton was now reclined on her red velvet divan with her left leg on a cushion that Mrs. Simpson had gotten for her. She looked at her leg and began to sob again.