death. His letter professed that he had done good service in his country’s name, and so he had, but it was service on the boards of the good ship Albion and not onboard any other kind of ship.
Tears were standing in Mr. Holman’s eyes as he related this tale to me. “I was on my way home from the North,” he said. “I had no idea…no idea.”
I think Mr. Holman feels somehow responsible for supplanting August Levy, and I tried to console him by saying, “There now, Ernest, you know that every man has his day in the sun.”
He was inconsolable. “I had no idea,” he said again.
Thursday, 10 October 1850
The company meeting. Crowded into the rehearsal hall were the actors chattering ebulliently among themselves, the stagehands leaning against the walls and smoking, and the denizens of the Properties and Costume departments looking like moles who’ve just resurfaced after months of hibernation. Our new playwright’s apprentice, young Colin Tyrone, kept to himself in a corner of the room, smoking a clay pipe and observing the company with surly bemusement. Mr. and Mrs. Wilton kept us all waiting for fifteen or twenty minutes and then, when they arrived, swept across the room and occupied their customary chairs. Mr. Wilton motioned to me to begin.
There was something in the air, a frisson of excitement at some shard of gossip. Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Manning, and Mr. Hampton were whispering to each other. Occasionally, they would scan the throng of actors before returning to their quiet conversation. The actors, for their part, were somewhat too excited, too energetic and talkative. All except for George Simpson, who sat apart from the others and kept his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him, and Mr. Farquhar Pratt. Mrs. Simpson and the comic man Bancroft were conspicuous in their absence.
In my ignorance, I assumed that Pratty was the subject of the gossip, and so I resolved to stay clear of any mention of yesterday’s improprieties. I did not relish my intended role in today’s proceedings. Standing up, I said falteringly, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We have a number of issues to discuss today, most of them connected with the opening of our Christmas panto.” I informed the assemblage that Mr. Farquhar Pratt had agreed to deliver the script by the beginning of next week and that I was to have the puffs written and ready for the printers by the fifteenth. I would then prepare a list of properties and costumes from that script and have it in to the pertinent departments by the end of the month, at which time set construction would commence. We would begin rehearsing with the actors on the first of December and would engage the supernumeraries from about the tenth. The theatre would be dark from the twenty-first, as that is the date of the end of the season this year. “Please be prepared for long rehearsals once the theatre is dark and until opening,” I told the company, “which is the twenty-sixth.”
Mr. Neville Watts stood up slowly and began to speak, enunciating meticulously and self-consciously. “May I ask what is the title of this extravaganza?”
This brought Pratty to his feet. His quiet mumble, like a man talking more to himself than to other men, coupled with the glassiness of his eyes, led me to believe that he had been no stranger to the laudanum bottle these past few hours. He said some words which were intelligible to no one and then sat down.
Mr. Watts rose again, his face chalky. “I’m sorry, Mr. Farquhar Pratt, I failed to catch that.”
After a pause, Pratty spoke again, this time more volubly but not so well articulated as he was wont to be. “The title of the pantomime is –” he said, and again he pronounced some undecipherable syllables. I am not able to spell or to regurgitate what he said. “It will be set” – he paused as though he could not for the life of him remember what he had been talking about or whether he was standing in a theatre and not a green
Tears were standing in Mr. Holman’s eyes as he related this tale to me. “I was on my way home from the North,” he said. “I had no idea…no idea.”
I think Mr. Holman feels somehow responsible for supplanting August Levy, and I tried to console him by saying, “There now, Ernest, you know that every man has his day in the sun.”
He was inconsolable. “I had no idea,” he said again.
Thursday, 10 October 1850
The company meeting. Crowded into the rehearsal hall were the actors chattering ebulliently among themselves, the stagehands leaning against the walls and smoking, and the denizens of the Properties and Costume departments looking like moles who’ve just resurfaced after months of hibernation. Our new playwright’s apprentice, young Colin Tyrone, kept to himself in a corner of the room, smoking a clay pipe and observing the company with surly bemusement. Mr. and Mrs. Wilton kept us all waiting for fifteen or twenty minutes and then, when they arrived, swept across the room and occupied their customary chairs. Mr. Wilton motioned to me to begin.
There was something in the air, a frisson of excitement at some shard of gossip. Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Manning, and Mr. Hampton were whispering to each other. Occasionally, they would scan the throng of actors before returning to their quiet conversation. The actors, for their part, were somewhat too excited, too energetic and talkative. All except for George Simpson, who sat apart from the others and kept his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him, and Mr. Farquhar Pratt. Mrs. Simpson and the comic man Bancroft were conspicuous in their absence.
In my ignorance, I assumed that Pratty was the subject of the gossip, and so I resolved to stay clear of any mention of yesterday’s improprieties. I did not relish my intended role in today’s proceedings. Standing up, I said falteringly, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We have a number of issues to discuss today, most of them connected with the opening of our Christmas panto.” I informed the assemblage that Mr. Farquhar Pratt had agreed to deliver the script by the beginning of next week and that I was to have the puffs written and ready for the printers by the fifteenth. I would then prepare a list of properties and costumes from that script and have it in to the pertinent departments by the end of the month, at which time set construction would commence. We would begin rehearsing with the actors on the first of December and would engage the supernumeraries from about the tenth. The theatre would be dark from the twenty-first, as that is the date of the end of the season this year. “Please be prepared for long rehearsals once the theatre is dark and until opening,” I told the company, “which is the twenty-sixth.”
Mr. Neville Watts stood up slowly and began to speak, enunciating meticulously and self-consciously. “May I ask what is the title of this extravaganza?”
This brought Pratty to his feet. His quiet mumble, like a man talking more to himself than to other men, coupled with the glassiness of his eyes, led me to believe that he had been no stranger to the laudanum bottle these past few hours. He said some words which were intelligible to no one and then sat down.
Mr. Watts rose again, his face chalky. “I’m sorry, Mr. Farquhar Pratt, I failed to catch that.”
After a pause, Pratty spoke again, this time more volubly but not so well articulated as he was wont to be. “The title of the pantomime is –” he said, and again he pronounced some undecipherable syllables. I am not able to spell or to regurgitate what he said. “It will be set” – he paused as though he could not for the life of him remember what he had been talking about or whether he was standing in a theatre and not a green
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