New Albion Read online

  Fourteen years in a London theatre have taught me that one can never go wrong by stroking the egos of artistes. “You have many many years in front of you, Mr. Farquhar Pratt,” I said, “as the well-respected playwright that you are.”

  He studied the scratched hardwood again with searching eyes until, at last, he said, “What’s to be done then, Mr. Phillips? I cannot complain that this is unexpected.” He chuckled morosely, the way I would imagine that a condemned man chuckles before the gibbet. “What’s to be done then, eh?” he repeated, but he did not wait for an answer. “We shall simply have to make a go of it, I suppose, shan’t we?” He laughed again, softly. His grey eyes met mine for an instant, and then he turned and picked his way down the stairs to the dressing room.

  Tuesday, 10 September 1850

  Another milestone in the changing of the guard. Mr. August Levy retired from the theatre today. I believe he saw his future before him when Ernest Holman was hired, some months ago, direct from Bath and with excellent references, to play the comic gentlemen opposite Elias Bancroft. These were the parts that Mr. Levy used to play with such abandon in his heyday. Well I remember, six short years ago, during the Shakespeare Festival and a performance of a butchered version of Hamlet, when he and Mr. Bancroft as gravediggers removed innumerable waistcoats in preparation for their labours and danced a final somber hornpipe on Ophelia’s grave when their scene was finished.

  Mr. Levy had chosen to go out of his own volition and on his own terms, unlike Mr. Farquhar Pratt who seems to be hanging on at all costs. “I’m seventy-two years old,” Mr. Levy said to me the other day. “I get winded going up the stairs from the Green Room.”

  For his part, Mr. Wilton has tried to do right by a man who has given his soul to the theatre. When arthritis began crippling Mr. Levy, making it impossible for him to go on stage with regularity, Mr. Wilton kept him on the payroll for several months. I think Mr. Wilton has been hoping that Mr. Smith might also be retiring soon, in which case Mr. Levy might have served as prompter. But the venerable Mr. Smith has showed no signs of slowing down. Mr. Wilton also offered Mr. Levy a posting in the front of house, which Mr. Levy declined. “What?” he said. “And give up the smell of the greasepaint?”

  There was a small fête for Mr. Levy this afternoon in the rehearsal hall. Many glorious speeches were made about how Mr. Levy had had an efficacious effect upon the future of the national drama. Mrs. Wilton gave Mr. Levy a gift of ten pounds, collected from the actors and stagehands, “as a small token of our appreciation for the many years of service” he had given to this theatre.

  Still I cannot help but wonder at Mr. Levy’s decision to retire. Is he simply taking the high road and refusing the charity of his colleagues? He was always a proud man. How will he fend for himself now that he is no longer employed at the New Albion? “Do not worry about me, Phillips,” he said blithely. “My good wife has come into an inheritance.”

  I watched him leave the theatre after a final goodbye from Mr. Wilton and the rest. He marched resolutely down the cobblestones in the direction of the Angel, where he resides. He did not look back.

  * Chapter Two *

  Wednesday, 11 September 1850

  A meeting with Mr. Borrow in the Lord Chamberlain’s office this afternoon and not a particularly pleasant one either. It is said that one needs a long spoon to dine with the devil, and Mr. Borrow is the Devil Incarnate. He stands approximately seven feet tall, with arms that seem to reach across an entire room at you when he offers to shake your hand. His fingers are long, bony, and cold. His face is long as well, his cheek bones high, and his grey hair is plastered to his cadaver-like skull with pomade. When he sits behind his desk in his little office at Stable Yard, he has the appearance of a slender giant riding the child’s carousel in Green Park.

  He beckoned Mr. Wilton and me to sit down in the hard wooden chairs opposite him. To an objective eye, we would have looked like errant schoolboys in the headmaster’s office. The discussion focused on Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s new play Kerim the Bastard Buccaneer. “It is highly desirable,” Mr. Borrow intoned, his voice as thin as his patience, “that the minor theatres of London encourage moral uprightness in their audiences.”

  Mr. Wilton knew what was coming and he interrupted early. “The New Albion, sir,” he said, “has promoted virtuous behaviour at every turn. Did we not have Mr. Farquhar Pratt, as you recommended, pen a speech about Christly virtue for the Christmas extravaganza last year?”

  Mr. Borrow’s lips turned up in a grimace or a smile or perhaps both. He peered down his long nose at Mr. Wilton. “One speech per year on Christly virtue is hardly a serious effort to promote moral uprightness among the denizens of Whitechapel,” he said, “where, I might add, moral uprightness is in short supply.”

  “And in the new year,” Mr. Wilton said evenly, refusing to take the bait, “we willingly replaced Table Rapping with another play you had suggested. At some considerable cost to our establishment since costumes and settings had been created.”

  “Y-e-e-e-s,” Mr. Borrow replied, stretching the one vowel in the word almost to its breaking point, “and since then you have visited my office…what?” – he was peering at some scribbled notes on a piece of paper before him –” three times, by my count. All to do with the work of your resident playwright Mr. Farquhar Pratt.”

  I wanted to ease the growing tension in the room, and so I smiled and said something like “Well, you know, Mr. Farquhar Pratt loves to create some publicity for himself now and then, but he is one of London’s most accomplished playwrights.”

  Mr. Borrow snorted and a flake of dry snot appeared in one cavernous nostril. I instantly found myself looking everywhere in the room but at Mr. Borrow. “He is hardly Oliver Goldsmith, is he?” Mr. Borrow said. He pulled a white handkerchief, almost the size of a bed sheet, from his trousers pocket and thankfully wiped his nose clean. “Or even Collie Cibber.”

  “He has written a great many plays,” Mr. Wilton said bluntly. “We are not prone to snubbing him now that he has grown old.”

  Mr. Borrow smiled or grimaced again. His colourless lips seemed to stretch to the ears on both sides. “That is a highly commendable sentiment,” he said. “Now, to the matter at hand. Kerim the –” he paused before he pronounced the words and then gave the plosives excessive force – “Bastard Buccaneer.”

  “We have been very careful,” I said, “to eliminate the subplot of Kerim’s daughter –”

  “Ah yes,” Mr. Borrow said wryly, “the young lady who masquerades as a boy sailor and who finds gainful employment aboard ship, until she becomes involved in a relationship with the young quartermaster.” Mr. Borrow peered up at the ceiling for a long moment. “A relationship that has the faint odour of homoeroticism about it.”

  There was no arguing the point. “Yes,” I said, “we’ve eliminated that subplot.”

  Mr. Borrow cleared his throat and went on. His long fingers were clenched in front of him on the desk; his knuckles had turned white. “But you have not persuaded Mr. Farquhar Pratt to eliminate his ceaseless references to current events in France?”

  It was my turn to smile, at least inwardly. “The events are hardly current,” I said. “The play is set in 1795.”

  Mr. Borrow leant back in his undersized chair, looking for a way to stretch the knot of tension out of his oversized body. He sighed audibly. “You are well aware, Mr. Phillips, that events pertaining to the Terror are a sore spot for monarchies across Europe. And for the monarchy here in England.”

  “The play does not touch on monarchy,” Mr. Wilton interjected. “It is about common people.”

  “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.

&n
bsp; 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’c
lock.”

  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 materialize the vision that illuminates a work of art, that illuminates the truth.