The Journal of J. E. Fletcher
Currently at the Offices of the House of Chen
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Journal Entry, July 22, 1809
Yes, I have decided to keep a journal. Instead of railing against unseen, uncaring, and probably nonexistent gods, I shall put my thoughts and doings down on paper. Possibly they could prove of interest to someone in the future, though I cannot imagine why. However, this pointless scribbling does seem to soothe my still-turbulent mind to a small degree and so I shall continue to take up pen to record events as they happen.
Last night I took in her musical revue at the Emerald Playhouse and, were I not so bereft of joy in all things, I would have found it most enjoyable. My appreciation of her Spanish songs was tempered, however, by the suspicion that she learned them from one Amadeo Romero. Probably he sang them to her as he lifted his brush while she lay naked on—
No. I shall not pursue that line of thought as it only stokes the hot coals smoldering in my mind.
During intermissions, I have taken to chatting up this Molly Malone, a barmaid at the Pig and at the Playhouse. Molly is the only one of her cohorts whom I have not met on my previous visit to this town. She is a spirited Irish girl who does not shy from speaking to a raspy voiced, grotesquely deformed hunchback. Rather, she converses freely with me as I stand at the bar. “Aye, Sir, poor Miss Faber, she pines away for her lover who is far away at sea.” Which lover is that, I wonder? Number Two, Five, or Seven . . . One can only surmise.
This Molly is a merry sort and she gives me cheer. I have learned she is Arthur Goddamn McBride’s miss. That lout never seems to lack female companionship. Though I question her judgment in the way of men, still I enjoy her company. At least when she is present, McBride keeps his hands off J. Should he do so in my presence, I fear I would lose control and wrap my staff around his head, and to hell with the consequences. But it has not come to that . . . not yet, anyway.
Strange that I find it easy to talk to bar girls, and they to me. There were those in London who led me to Bliffil . . . and to Bess. Yes, dear sweet loyal and loving Bess . . .
At the end of the first part of the show, the aforementioned Miss F. performed a pantomime as the Lady in Red, and she did, indeed, end up “sleeping under the bar,” her face in mock sweet repose, mere inches from my foot. I could have lifted said foot and placed it on her countenance and given it a bit of a grind, but I did not. No, I did not, but it took a bit of effort not to. “Peace,” yes, I know, Master Kwai Chang, “Peace and the Calm of Buddha . . .”
After the intermission, the audience members, by now well oiled by their trips to the bar, returned to the main stage for the raucous remainder of the show. And raucous it was—the Shantyman, Enoch Lightner, bellowing out his fine sailor ballads in his deep baritone, with herself pumping her concertina and singing along, and a supposed humorous bit by Fennell and Bean, all of which culminated in an unexpected drama.
At the height of the evening’s hilarity, when the silly Villain Pursues playlet was being performed, and the dress was torn from the actress playing Prudence Goodheart, a man stood up in the audience and shouted out that she was no longer his daughter, publicly disowning the poor girl, who did seem stricken to her very core. It was then that full mayhem ensued, with articles being thrown by members of a local suffragette society—the COWS, I believe they are called. The place dissolved into chaos, with the actress, a Miss Clarissa Howe, being hauled off to jail on a charge of assault.
The proprietress of the Playhouse was fully ready to engage in the melee, having received an overripe vegetable to the side of her own face, and was in full fury over the destruction of her premises—the rum, whiskey, and wine were flowing quite briskly underfoot. And while I was somewhat gratified at the sight of the tomato sliding down her cheek, I did feel her distress. So in spite of all, when the contemptible Constable Wiggins attempted to apprehend her, I could not let him put his foul hands upon her. I just could not let it happen. I took my Bo stick, and feigning clumsiness due to my supposed infirmity, I contrived to insinuate it between his fat legs such that he pitched squalling to the floor. Thus, Ezra Pickering was able to get her out the back door to safety, at least for the time being.
Back now in my rooms, I think back on Molly’s words . . . “Her lover, far away at sea . . .” Indeed . . . food for torture . . .
J. E. F.