The Newgate Jig (14 page)

'You
should be more agreeable with the gentlemen,' I heard her say one evening,
between performances, talking to the Princess as if she was a child. Or an
idiot. 'Gentlemen would like it better if you would sit on their knee and let
them hold your hand.'

'But
I would
not
like it,' returned Princess Tiny, rearranging her
dress and refusing to look Gifford in the eye.

'That is neither here nor there. You will do as you
are told.'

'You
do not tell me what I should do,' retorted the Princess in her bird-like voice.
'You are not my employer, and Mr Abrahams would never ask me to do such
things.'

'Don't
give yourself airs, my lady,' snapped Gifford. 'You're an exhibit. Thru'pence a
time, and don't you forget it.'

It
was a cruel thing to say, and from that moment Gifford was banished from the
Princess's attic palace, though it didn't prevent her from loitering about the
door, from where she would try to peer into that fairy land whenever she could.
And for that I would not blame her. It was enchanted, a place like no other,
and fitted Princess Tiny, as Trim once remarked to me, like fairy wings.

'For,'
said he, 'she has everything here exactly to her own size. And how pleasant it
must be to sit upon a chair or reach a shelf without anyone's assistance. Here
she has her own stove, and pots and pans and cups and saucers, just as anyone
would have in their own room.'

It
was strange, however, to wander in this fairy world under the great Aquarium
roof, lit by many skylights and, at night, by twinkling lamps, and hear, like a
faint hum, the London streets below. She had a little sitting room in which her
own comfortable chaise and Herr Swann's plump cushion were placed on either
side of an antique stove. Her
boudoir
was a bower of soft
curtains and silken pillows and charming miniature pictures of sunny
landscapes. Another little stove burned and the lamps (there were many of them)
glowed warmly. Brutus, Nero and I discovered her in her bed, regally propped up
by satin cushions, and resplendent in a tiny fur mantle and bonnet, quite as
though she was ready to take a sleigh ride. On her bed, close to hand, was a
pile of penny magazines, her only reading (for she was no scholar), but oh! how
much she relished those tales of highwaymen and lovelorn maidens. And no
wonder she gazed wide-eyed and blushing upon Will Lovegrove, and was very much
inclined to giggle and hide her face when he whispered charming nonsense in
her ear. Trim, she was in awe of when she learned he was sometimes the author
of this nonsense, and would ask him, ever so modestly, to tell her, if he
would, 'how the beautiful princess won the heart of the handsome pirate'.

But
although she was comfortable in her little bower, outside she wheezed and
coughed constantly, complaining that the damp London weather turned her lungs
to water.

'You
see, Bob, I am a child of summer, of golden hills and tall black
cipresso.
And blue skies and winds like baby breath, warm and sweet. This London is wet
and dark, and my feet and hands, they are never warm. Always like - how is it?
-
ghiacciolo.'

I
had no idea and shook my head, so she appealed to our giant friend -
'Herr Swann, wie iibersetzt man bitte Eiszapfen?'

He
frowned and wrinkled his nose. 'I believe,' said he, after some moments of deep
thought, 'that it is the icicle you refer to, meine
Prinzessin. Eiszapfen.
Ah, how many years since I have seen the German
icicle, which is much superior to the English. Much bigger and colder.'

'The
English
ghiacciolo,
he is big and cold for me,' piped up the Princess,
pushing her tiny hands into the furry depths of her muff. 'Now, my sweet Anselm
will make us tea while I chitter-chat with Bob,' and without another word Herr
Swann lumbered away to the little kitchen, from where the tinkling of crockery
could soon be heard. The Princess settled herself and allowed Brutus's golden
head to lie upon the bed next to her.

'Now,
Bob, I must be quick before Anselm returns. I need your help tomorrow. But it
is secret.'

This
was a surprise to me, for Herr Swann was so completely her guardian.

'I
wish you to take me to the Pavilion Theatre tomorrow morning. Very early, Bob,
so you must collect me from here in good time.'

I
could hear the little kettle whistling upon the stove as the Princess leaned
forward and whispered.

'I
must meet a friend, Bob. He
is
a friend, you must believe, who
needs my help.'

Of
course I agreed. How could I refuse her! And she turned her radiant smile upon
me, as Herr Swann broke into song:
'Meine Lieber! Meine Lieber!'

'Anselm
is a dear, good man, the best of men,' she whispered, 'but he will not
understand. You
will
understand, Bob,
mia cara,
and that is why I ask you this favour,' and she took my hand, just as Herr
Swann, doubled like a spring, staggered in with the tray of rattling cups.

We
made our farewells late that evening, for the Princess and the giant were good
company, and insisted on schnapps 'to complete the evening, no?' Herr Swann
sang more German songs, which became sadder and softer as the schnapps in the
bottle grew less. And the Princess sang in a strange language, well suited to
the chirrupings of her thin, bird-like voice. Even my dogs showed their tricks,
Brutus picking up from the tray one of the Princess's tiny, fragile cups, and
Nero allowing one of her tiny white mice to sit upon his coal-black head. This
last trick filled us all with great delight and the little woman clapped her
hands and shouted
'Bravo,
signor Nero!'
until she was overcome
with a fit of coughing and lay back, panting, upon the pillows.

'I
am well,' said she, waving away our concern, 'much better for seeing my
handsome boys - Brutus and Nero, of course!' and we all laughed as though we
had no cares in the world.

To the
Pavilion Theatre — Barney — the Nasty

Man —
Will
Lovegrove, Hero

Pushing
the Princess in her chair to the Pavilion Theatre was such a novelty. We
bounced along like a little empress and her court, both of us enjoying the
'Good morning, Princess' she attracted from early risers. Her chair was a
remarkable and sturdy machine, with wooden sides and large wheels and coiled
springs to stop it lurching over the cobbles and bumping its fragile passenger
about. Its seat was made of red leather and padded with cushions, and there was
a hood which could be raised or lowered to keep out the weather. Princess Tiny
sat high upon her throne, tucked around with rugs and resplendent in her white
bonnet and muff, waving and smiling, and singing a cheerful little song in her
own language, which she said was about 'beautiful Santa Catharina, happy to go
to her death on the wheel'. Of course, if Mr Abrahams had known about our excursion,
perhaps his feelings would have been mixed. Whilst he would never deny the
Princess her dose of fresh air, the showman in him might be troubled lest the
gratis exhibition of his star attraction in the streets affected the coins in
his pocket.

But
he need not have worried, for there were few enough people out in the bright
morning air and, scurrying around the back streets, we arrived at the Pavilion
early, long before any performer (let alone any spectator!) would contemplate
rising, though Mint, the doorkeeper, was already about and bustling in his
cupboard - and, according to him, had already been in that enclosure for some
hours. Through the cloud of smoke from his briar, that estimable man read to
us, unprompted, the list of 'orders' he had for rehearsal today, which included
the cast as well as the children's ballet, myself and boys ('teatime-ish, I
would say, Mr Chapman'), and Mons. Gouffe, the man-monkey, who had yet to make
an appearance, being unavoidably detained in South Islington.

We
escaped, after the Princess had given free Aquarium passes to Mint and the four
little Mints, and made our way to the side of the stage. The Princess was much
taken by everything, and looked with interest at those theatrical effects
which are so shabby in the half-light, but look magnificent from the
auditorium. I mean the wood and plaster throne, which appears to be carved out
of stone, and the heap of rocks, which look heavy and jagged, but which the
stage hands carry with one hand. I wheeled her about the stage and she leaned
out of her chair, eagerly touching the curtains and the great swaying roll of
canvas scenery on which was half-painted a view of Greenwich by night.

Suddenly,
the Princess plucked my sleeve and I was aware, as was she, of someone standing
in the shadows, quite still and reluctant to be seen. She was eager to be
lifted out of the carriage and I did so, putting her very gently upon the
boards. She tottered to the centre of the stage, calling out like a baby bird,
'Barney mio, will you come? Do not be afraid. I am here, Princess Tiny.'

Who
could mistake her poor, thin voice calling like a bird's into the darkness of
that place? It was very affecting and no empty performance, either. When the
boy stumbled out from behind the scenery and dropped to his knees at her feet
like the convict son in
Ben Brown, the Shepherd's Lad; or Whistle o'er the Downs,
that picture could have done good service as an act
two
tableau
- the one where the errant daughter (or son)
returns to the crofter's lowly cottage, and begs his (or her) mother's
forgiveness. I was moved, and wiped a tear, and coughed. Then his face was
caught suddenly lit up (the theatre door must have been opened), and I was
surprised to see it was
that
boy. It took me by the
throat, for certain sure, and brought back unpleasant memories.

Did
I, then, stride out upon the boards and firmly take the boy by the collar, deaf
to his protests and ignoring his kicks and threats? Did I show a little slack,
perhaps, and offer to set him upon the right road at Mr Fishburn's Ragged
School and Industrial Farm, where boys in his situation might be 'saved' before
they were 'spent'? Or did I clout him soundly about the head and introduce my
shoemaker to his tailor on the way to the door?

Not in these boots!

I
quickly tiptoed from the stage to seek out Mint, for if there was going to be
trouble - and the boy seemed to be brother chip with
it -1
wanted seconds. He was not in his box, so I poked
my head out of the theatre door.

'Mr
Bob Chapman,' said the Nasty Man. 'A pleasure - indeed, a pleasure. And Brutus
and Nero, no doubt? Handsome fellows all!'

I
tried to shut the door, but he was there already. And how was he there? If he
had followed the Princess and me through the early street, then he was
uncommonly careful, for I swear I never saw him, and my boys, pressing close
against my legs now, had given no sign that they knew he was near. But here he
was, with an elegantly booted foot in the door and wiping his mouth with his
terrible red handkerchief.

'Now
then, sir, I am come to ask you "Any news?"' he said, so amiably that
I might have smiled back. 'Not to beat about the bush, as the magistrate said
to the pretty girl.'

This
cat-and-mouse game evidently gave him much pleasure, for he struggled to hold
back his laughter.