New Albion (20 page)

“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 pock
ets 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 cir
cles 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.”