* Chapter Twelve *

Wednesday, 11 December 1850

Mr. Farquhar Pratt invited me to join him at the Cock and Hen Ale House in Whitechapel Road after rehearsals today. I informed him that I was an abstainer from alcohol, and he replied that it did not matter. I could have ginger beer, but he had something of import to discuss with me. I ate my noon lunch in the garish surroundings of the tavern while Pratty indulged in a pint of lager, which cannot have been good for him but which he said was excellent. Grey workmen sat listlessly all around us, staring as if for Life’s Meaning into their glasses of gin and pots of ale.

When I had settled down to my Ploughman’s Lunch and he to his lager, Pratty leaned forward confidentially and said, “The actors have no faith in my new panto.”

I scooped some chutney on to a jagged piece of rough bread and feigned ignorance. “The actors do not have faith in anything but what has been done beforehand,” I replied. “They will be brought around to your way of thinking in time.”

The old man was looking suddenly quite drained as he settled back into his chair. “I want to thank you for being my support,” he said. “I have not always been as respectful of you as I should have been because of your close relationship with Mr. Wilton. But whatever you are, Mr. Phillips, you are full of decency and honor.” He quaffed a mouthful of beer from the dimpled glass, swishing the liquid about in his mouth and savouring it as if it were a pleasant and long-forgotten memory.

I pretended to be deeply involved with my bread and cheese at that moment. “Very kind of you, Mr. Farquhar Pratt,” I mumbled.

He lowered his beer glass to the table, and it struck the coarse wood with a thud. “I am a failed playwright and before that I was a failed actor.” His manner was blunt and honest.

“Not true,” I said. “What of The Vicissitudes of a Servant Girl? What of your work with Kean?” I was in the midst of delivering a large triangle of Stilton to my mouth.

He dismissed my statement with a feeble wave of his parchment-skinned hand. “I will not be remembered past death.”

“Nonsense!” I sputtered, lying. “Of course you’ll be remembered.” I stuffed the cheese into my mouth in the hope of terminating this morose strain of conversation.

Pratty managed a smile. “You are extremely kind, Mr. Phillips. Did you know that when I was a young man, I had a horrible stutter? I surmounted that, as I did many obstacles, with hard work.” He took another drink from his beer glass and looked out the greasy window on to the street. He seemed to be looking through the pedestrians walking by, through the buildings opposite, across the Thames, across oceans, across the world. “But hard work is not enough, and genius, when it strikes, strikes but a few. I have not been one of them.”

I was eager to end the conversation, and I almost choked, as a result, on a large morsel of bread. “You have had a long and varied career in the theatre,” I managed, after a moment.

“Now I must look at things sub specie aeternitatis,” he said. The truths he was speaking were as unbearable for me as they must have been for him. “This panto is the last story I have in me. And I want somehow to thank you for supporting me in the writing of it.” He reached into his tattered satchel and produced a manuscript. “This,” he said, “has been passed down through the family. I want you to have it.”

The pages were aged and crisp. When they were in my hands, I read the title. “The Lieutenant and the Handmaid,” it said, “by George Farquhar.”

“I want you to have that particular piece of theatrical ephemera,” he reiterated, closing the satchel very deliberately and placing it on the floor beside his chair.

Until that moment, I had never really believed that there was any association between the esteemed Restoration playwright George Farquhar and the aged man who sat before me, resembling a small slag heap covered by a great coat. I was eminently pleased to have the proof of their relationship in my hands, but I also felt most unworthy of retaining the document. Trying to persuade Pratty to take the papers back, I said, “I cannot keep this. This manuscript has obviously been in your family for years. And it is quite possibly worth something.”

He smiled and lifted the beer glass once more toward his thin cracked lips. “One of the old gentleman’s more unproduceable plays.” Pratty was evidently chuffed at seeing the manuscript in my hands and at seeing my reactions as I gazed upon the virile handwriting of the great master. “It may be worth something one day, but I can promise you that it is worth very little at the moment.”

“Still, it is your heritage.” I held the manuscript before me as if it was a great treasure, and it was.

His eyes grew sad. “I have no children to pass it along to. I want you to have it.”

“But your wife –”

“My wife is a caring helpmate and my soul’s partner,” he said, “but alas she can neither read nor write.”

Because he would not hear of taking back the manuscript, I had no alternative but to say, “Very well, then. But if you or your good wife should ever want it back, the manuscript will be at your disposal.”

He immediately began to discuss other matters – Mr. Hicks’ drunkenness; the weather, which has been cold and rain-drenched of late; the progress of the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, which he despises and derides as the delusions of “that power-hungry Austrian prince.” I sat and listened to him until I could no longer avoid going back to my work.

“Allow me to pay the reckoning,” I said, rising from my chair.

He would hear none of it. “Nonsense, Mr. Phillips. It is I who have invited you here.” But when the broken-nosed bartender demanded ten pence instead of five for his ale, Mr. Farquhar Pratt looked helplessly at me and then back at the bartender. “But a pot of ale has always been five pence,” he complained, “ever since I was an actor in Kean’s company.”

I quickly thrust ten pence into the bartender’s waiting palm, thanked Mr. Farquhar Pratt again for his present and hurried back to my desk off-stage left, back to the petty lives of actors and actresses who are more concerned with the number of words they are given to speak than with their contribution to mankind sub specie aeternitatis.

* * *

I had thought to lay a trap this evening for the thief who has been stealing the belongings of our actors and actresses. Having spoken with Mr. Sharpe, who climbs about in the fly tower ropes like an African chimpanzee, I left a five pound note in plain view on my desk near the stage-left entrance. Mr. Sharpe had agreed to keep an eye on my five pounds from the heavens when he wasn’t busy raising and lowering scenery. I made a point of standing by my desk at the usual times, to give the appearance of normalcy, and then disappearing to the Green Room or to the dressing rooms quite regularly. A less-than-subtle ruse, I know, but it was all my busy, addled brain could think of.

From his perch high above the stage, Mr. Sharpe observed the actors milling about at the stage-left entrance. At the end of the evening’s performance, he told me that Pratty had come in to see the first act and had stood by my desk in order to do so. Mr. Sharpe told me that the old man frequently steadied himself against the desk, with his hand near the five pound note. But when the old man left the theatre during an intermission, Mr. Sharpe observed, the five pound note was still there.

Young Colin Tyrone spent most of the evening in the Green Room, playing solitaire. I do not know how much longer Mr. Wilton can employ the young man when he is of no obvious use. When he tired of the card game, Mr. Tyrone went down to watch some of the last act. Mr. Sharpe kept a close eye on him, as he too viewed the proceedings from the stage-left entrance. (I was purposely downstairs, speaking into Mr. Hardacre’s ear horn, at the time.) Mr. Sharpe told me that young Tyrone never approached my desk, certainly never laid a hand upon it, but that at one point Mr. Sharpe looked down only to meet Mr. Tyrone’s gaze. The young man was peering breezily up into the fly tower and, when he locked eyes with Mr. Sharpe for a moment, Mr. Tyrone’s expression was jocular in the extreme. Then young Tyrone turned on his heels and left the backstage area.

The other actors were in the vicinity of my desk, of course, whenever a stage-left entrance was called for. Young Master Weekes had little to do on that side of the stage, but Mr. Hicks loitered there incessantly, often with a flask in his hand which he would place carefully under my desk when he was about to enter the stage. I know Mr. Hicks, though, and I cannot believe that he would stoop so low as to steal from his compatriots.

Mr. Sharpe had to busy himself with the raising of some scenery at the end of the play and, when he looked down at the desk again, my five pound note was gone! It was perhaps neither the best trap I have ever laid nor the best investment I have ever made.

Thursday, 12 December 1850

The oppressive clouds finally lifted today, and the rain stopped. The sun shone through along Cloudsey Road. All green spaces between there and the theatre were glistening, the dewed grass glistening, glistening also the leaves on the walnut trees. The actors and actresses, when they began arriving in the theatre, were in better spirits than I have seen them in for some time.

Mr. Wilton came down to my desk before rehearsals began, at ten o’clock, and announced that he’d leased the theatre to a church group for this coming Sunday and for all Sundays in the foreseeable future. This would help defray the costs of running the place, he said, since audience numbers have been so scarce of late. It would also prove to the Police Commission that the administration of this theatre was serious about improving the morals of its audience. In Mr. Wilton’s words, “The bastards will see that we mean to do good.”

* * *

A poor house again this evening. Mr. Wilton’s open letter will be published in tomorrow’s paper. Hopefully, it will charm audiences back into the theatre.

At eight o’clock, during the final act of Lady Hatton, I left my desk and wandered down to the gentlemen’s dressing room. Shortly before I reached the door, I could hear somebody rustling about inside, which I thought was odd, since all of the actors had to be onstage for the last act of the play. Not knowing what I would do if I found a thief there in flagrante, I nudged the door open half an inch and observed young Mr. Tyrone rifling through a set of pockets, liberating any spare change he happened to find there. His act of thievery and betrayal, perpetrated within a close-knit theatrical grouping, infuriated me so that my next move was to thrust the door open fully and to confront him with his misdeeds.

Mr. Tyrone was caught, literally, with his greasy hand in somebody else’s pocket. Instead of covering up, he continued in this activity, smiling crookedly, when it became apparent to him that I was in the room. “Sure, they hought to pay a man a livin wage in this theatur,” he said calmly.

“You surprise me, Mr. Tyrone,” I said. “To so easily betray the trust we have placed in you.”

He discarded the pair of trousers he was rifling through and turned to me, baring his rotten teeth. “Oh, and what trust might that be, sar? I have been hired in this theatur expressly because I beat up on Mr. Lane down at the Britannia. Not because I’ve shewn promise as a playwright.” The bones of his prison-shaved skull seemed to protrude obliquely. He reminded me of a pug-faced dog.

“You leave me no choice but to inform Mr. Wilton of your backstage shenanigans,” I said, speaking to the young man in a language he could understand. I still had the doorknob firmly in my grasp in case he leapt at me and I had to take flight.

He advanced toward me, his bare hands clenched. “Aye, but you wouldna do that, Mr. Phillips, because I know where you live. I also know where you’ve been spendin your Sunday evenins.”

Piqued by his utter disregard and forwardness, I said, “I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea of what you are insinuating.”

“With Sally Bainbridge,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “at a dance hall in Seven Dials and then back to her lodgings for a little cunny.” He was standing directly in front of me, and not ten inches away, and he slipped his hands into his trouser pockets as if daring me to lash out at him.

“Preposterous, sir,” I sputtered, “that you would think you could blackmail me with what every man does.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Phillips, you will not accuse me publicly for fear of what I know.”

I am not entirely certain how much of our conversation had been overheard by the acting company, but Seymour Hicks, Neville Watts, Master Weekes, Mr. Simpson, Mr. Holman, and the others barged through the open door past me at that moment and confronted Mr. Tyrone. Mr. Hicks was most vehement in his chastisements. “So it would seem that a lolly prigger such as yourself, Mr. Tyrone, feels he can rob and thieve with impunity in this lovely little theatre and that he can then berate the company into silence. If you are threatening to slander the good name of Mr. Phillips here, who has never before known impeachment, then I shall have to inform you that you are also slandering the good name of this theatre and of each one of us who labour in it.” Mr. Hicks commenced to roll up his shirt sleeves in preparation for a physical confrontation.

The ladies, having heard these tense remonstrations, also arrived at the door of the men’s dressing room, further blocking Mr. Tyrone’s exit. The young hoodlum began to pace round the outer extremities of the room, hurling insults and threats at us. I have seen lions pace in such a way at the zoo. “I am sure,” he shouted, “that you never did think I was one of you. I have sunk low in my life, but never so low as to stand upon the open stage and pretend I have done the deeds that other men have actually done.”

‘The theatre is a noble calling,” Neville Watts said, simply.

“Noble enough for you!” Mr. Tyrone shrieked, pointing a finger. “For a fine gentleman who would like nothing better than to feel a warm prick up his arse.”

“Have a care, sir,” Seymour Hicks said in a low voice, “lest you trip over your tongue with your incessant babbling.”

Mr. Wilton then appeared in the doorway and inquired what was going on.

“This is the youngster,” Mr. Hicks replied, “who’s been making free with the company’s belongings while we labour upon the boards.”

The company was hushed. “You, Mr. Tyrone?” Mr. Wilton asked incredulously.

“Aye, sar,” Tyrone replied. “You need not look surprised after the services I have performed for you.” He ceased his anxious pacing and gazed resolutely at Mr. Wilton.

“Shall I offer this young brigand a quick lesson in manners?” Mr. Hicks asked, never taking his eyes off young Tyrone.

“No. Thank you, Mr. Hicks,” said Mr. Wilton. He edged through the crowd to face Colin Tyrone, unimpeded. “And now I must ask you, young man, to empty your pockets on that dressing table there. And then we will decide whether or not the police shall be called.”

Seeing no way past Mr. Wilton, Mr. Hicks and the rest of us, young Tyrone approached the dressing table in a surly manner. He emptied his pockets of some loose change, a handkerchief, and Mr. Watts’ snuff box. “There,” he said, “take it, ya bastards. And may you choke on it all the way to yer graves.”

Mr. Hicks took a quick step toward the young man but was prevented from throttling him by Mr. Wilton and Mr. Simpson. “Come back into this vicinity again,” Mr. Hicks warned, “and I will dance a hornpipe across your tender backside, my young Irish jackanapes.”

Mr. Wilton interceded, towering over the young offender. “On condition that you will leave us in peace from now on, and have no further dealings with any of us present or with those dear to us, we will let you go, Mr. Tyrone.”

“A wise choice,” the young man said, looking brazenly into Mr. Wilton’s eyes.

Mr. Wilton’s eyes settled like lead upon the young man; his gaze was unflinching. “I want you to give me your word, your gentleman’s word, that you will agree to the terms I have specified.”

“He ain’t no gentleman, sir,” Mr. Hicks interrupted, cracking the knuckles in his left hand. “A gentleman wouldn’t do the things that he has done.”

The young man smirked, baring his receded gums. “I give you my word, sar.”

“Then Mr. Hicks will see you out,” Mr. Wilton said.

Mr. Hicks took young Tyrone by the elbow, and they exited through the company. There was quietude in the dressing room after they had left, the actors and actresses having seen one more disillusionment heaped upon the refuse pile of their hopes and dreams.

At last, Mr. Wilton blurted out, “Good Gawd! We’ve got the burletta still to perform.” There was an immediate flurry of costumes flung about, beards glued and make-up daubed on faces. “The public awaits!” Mrs. Wilton shouted, and then the actors made their way upstairs toward the stage.

Friday, 13 December 1850

When Mr. Farquhar Pratt had heard of the previous evening’s commotion, and of Colin Tyrone’s sacking, he seemed immensely saddened. The old stock playwright’s hands were shaking as he discussed his newfound fondness for the young man. Pratty takes the long view of everything now, and he seems more concerned for mankind’s destiny than of old. “There is good in everyone,” he said, “but sometimes a single character fault will smother all that goodness.” Farquhar Pratt was sitting beside me in the stalls at the time, waiting for the beginning of the day’s rehearsals. “Do you know what is going on in Ireland now?”

“I do read the papers, Mr. Farquhar Pratt.” Busy sorting pages of the prompt script, I had little time to engage in idle chatter.

“Yes, of course, but I do not believe that the journalists have fully captured the horror of it.” Some note of sincerity in the old man’s voice caused me to look up into his face. His eyes were burning passionately. “I have a nephew who is touring the Emerald Isle at the moment. He speaks of scores of young ladies eager to offer their services to any foreigner. In Galway, he was told of a young mother and her infant son found dead on the cold hearth of her home. The husband had either died or deserted them. The famine has struck a hard blow.”

“There are hard times here, as well,” I said. ”Many a Yorkshire lass is driven to the city, where she will become indentured to a tyrannous master.” Indeed, several of Pratty’s play scripts, produced at this theatre, have chronicled the common fate of these serving girls.

The old man regarded me gravely. “I used to believe in the inexorable righteousness of Providence,” he said. “I am afraid that I can no longer commit myself to that. All is not well. All will not be well.”

Saturday, 14 December 1850

A fairly ugly incident in the Green Room today. I was having a cup of fruit salad and cottage cheese, as is my habit, when I heard a volatile conversation erupt between Neville Watts and his apprentice young Master Weekes. The discussion was mostly discharged in hisses and whispers, and so I was unable to hear every word, but it had something to do with the unhappiness of Master Weekes’ parents and with his relationship with our copyist Mr. Calloway.

“You are my apprentice,” I heard Neville Watts say, “and you owe your loyalty to me.”

“But you have used me most ill!” was young Master Weekes’ remonstrance.

“Used you most ill?” said Mr. Watts, the disbelief evident in his voice even as he endeavoured to keep his reaction confidential. He saw me looking and lowered his voice, but I heard him still. “I have given you the benefit of my years’ experience in the profession of actor.”

The conversation soon subsided into silence, and the two of them ate their sandwiches hurriedly. Mr. Watts was the first to finish this sprint of mastication and digestion, and he rose from the table whilst Master Weekes was still eating. I heard Mr. Watts utter the one word which is possibly the most hurtful insult an actor can hurl at his apprentice. I heard him spit the word at Master Weekes. I heard him say, with acid on his tongue, “Untalented.” He repeated the word, this time louder so that Master Weekes could not misinterpret what was being communicated. “Untalented,” he hissed. Tearing the napkin from his collar, Neville Watts crumpled it and threw it at the young man. Then he departed for the dressing room.

Young Master Weekes was shaking uncontrollably by the time Mr. Watts had gone. I saw the tears standing in his eyes. No master should ever treat an apprentice thus.

How different this is from their former relationship, which has been close and thick. I have seen them both in earnest conference, late into the night, discussing the techniques involved in learning one’s lines or the playing of a particular character. Young Master Weekes then seemed a hard-working apprentice, despite that he was as yet unable to translate his knowledge into credible performances on the boards of the New Albion. And Mr. Watts then seemed entirely patient and fatherly in the advice he gave.

After Mr. Watts had exited the room, I went and sat down across the table from young Master Weekes. The young man was fighting hard to retain his composure, and I did not want to upset him. “Are you all right?” I asked quietly.

“Yes,” he said in a quavering voice, “it’s nothing.” He looked at me for a moment with burning red eyes, and then he got up and proceeded downstairs toward the dressing rooms.

Sunday, 15 December 1850

No performances tonight, as always on a Sabbath.

My family and I attended the religious service which was held in the theatre, commencing at seven o’clock. I had made a solemn promise to myself never to admit my daughters to my place of employ, but I felt justified in rescinding that promise owing to Mr. Wilton’s decision to transform the place into the Lord’s House on Sunday evenings.

Quite a different audience than at last night’s performance of Lady Hatton. The poorest of the poor were not in attendance this evening. There were no young ladies in gay bonnets patrolling the galleries in search of inebriated young gentlemen. If pickpockets were in attendance, I neither saw nor heard them. The Peelers did not even bother to take their customary positions at the back of the stalls. The middle class filled the place to the rafters; there was no room in God’s chosen fold for the destitute or the idle rich.

Before the service began, I peered about in the semidarkness at the congregation. Mr. and Mrs. Wilton and Eliza sat in the front row of the stalls, looking as if they’d dressed to meet their Maker, all starched collars and crisp new gowns. Fanny was also there with her young gentleman. They did not appear to be in love; their hands never touched, as far as I could see, and in their eyes was a certain respectful distance. Neville Watts sat behind me in the first gallery, with young Master Weekes. They seem to have repaired their relationship since arguing so bitterly yesterday.

The service was somewhat more evangelical than I have hitherto experienced. Two gentlemen in shiny frock coats, one rangy and the other rotund, stood upon the stage and spoke in turns about subjects as far-ranging as the evils of gin, Catholicism, and railroad travel. Laudanum, in their interpretation, was equal to idolatry. They related a parable about an ex-soldier who, until recently, had resided in New York City and who, owing to an unkind injury, had become addicted to the pain-relieving effects of laudanum. Whilst walking in Central Park one day, after several years of laudanum use, he was seen to burst into flames spontaneously. The several reliable witnesses to this event ran to his aid and attempted to extinguish the fire. But to no avail. It was as if, they said, the burning man’s body was composed of dry tinder.

The evangelists rounded off their two-hour harangue with a condemnation of sloth and lechery, and I would like to say that their remonstrations had a salutary effect upon me. The truth is, however, that I had sworn off dancing girls and dollymops at Mr. Tyrone’s departure, three days earlier.

After the service, we chanced to meet Fanny and her gentleman friend outside the theatre. A quiet snow had begun to sift from the heavens, and I was in a hurry to take the children home. But I was also curious. “Miss Hardwick,” I exclaimed. “How nice to see you here. These are my daughters.” I introduced each of them individually. “I don’t believe you have met them before this evening.”

Fanny shook Sophie’s hand and then Hortense’s, Davina’s, and little Susan’s. “How nice to meet you all,” said Fanny. She has a certain grace that cannot be manufactured outside the circles of aristocracy. We looked at each other expectantly for a moment, as the snow wafted to the street around us, and then Fanny blurted, “My brother, Mr. Phillips. George Castlegate.”

Having long suspected that Fanny was disguising her parentage by the assumption of a stage name, I smiled and shook the young man’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Castlegate.” I was hardly able to contain my joy.

“And you, sir,” was his reply. He gazed at me deeply and confidently, as if I ought somehow to have recognized who he was. In fact, the name Castlegate was not entirely lost on me; it is synonymous with railroad building in the North. I do read the newspapers.

Monday, 16 December 1850

Suzy Simpson returned to the fold this morning, looking much the worse for her brazen elopement with Mr. Bancroft. She remained at the stage door with Mr. Hardacre until Mrs. Wilton could be persuaded to come down and meet her there. A few minutes later, Mrs. Wilton escorted Suzy into the Green Room. Upon seeing her, Mr. Simpson stood up and left the room, his half-empty cup of tea still steaming on the table.

The fallen lady was not able to retain her composure. Her sunken eyes were continually overflowing with tears, and her delicate fingers quivered as she told us of her misery. It seems that Mr. Bancroft had deserted her in Liverpool, not possessing enough money to pay for two passages to America. What little money she’d had she’d given to Mr. Bancroft, and so she was left in a squalid hotel room with no means of remunerating the management for her stay. She’d agreed to “work off” her bill as a chambermaid, cleaning rooms and making beds, but when the landlord’s advances became intolerable she’d absconded altogether with only the clothes on her back, which were themselves in a state of disrepair. As she spoke to us, I noticed that her shawl was threadbare and torn. Her dress had not been washed in many days.

Actors and actresses are a sentimental lot, and despite past promises not to endure her presence if she ever darkened the door of the theatre again, the company was ready to forgive all. Mrs. Wilton brought the destitute lady a cup of tea and some oatmeal biscuits which she devoured as ravenously as Sir John Franklin’s sailors might, if they are ever rescued from their Arctic sojourn. When Old Stoneface entered the Green Room, Mrs. Wilton turned to him and said, “The poor thing has fallen from grace, and we must show compassion as we would if she was our own daughter.”

Mr. Wilton towered over the poor lady with a judgmental look upon his face, but then his face softened and he said, trembling, “God damn that blackguard Bancroft, and if he ever sets foot in this theatre again, I shall personally throttle him.”

“Oh please, sir,” said Mrs. Simpson, softly, “I do not desire you to hate Mr. Bancroft. He is willful and passionate and what he has done he has done out of impulsiveness.”

“He has left you in ruins,” Mr. Wilton retorted. “He has destroyed your family and left you destitute. I should think you would hate him with every fiber of your being.”

“I do not hate him,” was Mrs. Simpson’s meek reply. “I had rather hate myself.”

One thing I have observed: the kinship that grows up inside a theatre is closer to blood than to water. In time, I think, even Mr. Simpson will be persuaded to forgive his wife.

* * *

As promised, Mr. Farquhar Pratt submitted the remainder of his manuscript for the pantomime today, Acts Five and Six. The ream of papers he handed me was prodigious in weight, and I was certain that with a manuscript of this size, the pantomime’s length would exceed a day-and-a-half. Further perusal revealed that he had written only five or six words on some pages, and that in an exceedingly frail hand. Upon submitting the manuscript, Pratty said that he did not feel well and that he would not be available for today’s rehearsal. Indeed, his face was sallower than usual, and he leaned more heavily than ever upon the plain wooden cane he had with him. His breathing was heavy and, when he spoke, his voice was a fluttering of hummingbirds’ wings.

“You have finished your masterpiece,” I said to him. “Go home now. Go home and rest. I will see that the manuscript is in the copyist’s hands within the hour.”

“You are a kind gentleman,” Pratty replied, and I watched as he rattled across the stage and descended precariously to the stage door. I felt as if I were witnessing a momentous event or an epoch passing.