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CALLASSA
Invicta Veritate
Father’s Icon
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Father’s Icon
Extract No. II
CALLASSA
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City of London
1882
autem
HRH The Queen Victoria Regina
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The origin of the celandine came to mind. It was from about six months ago, during a walk that we took together through Kew Gardens. It had been raining and the flower had been taken from inside one of the botanical glasshouses. There had been others too, but this one remained special because Mortimer had placed it on his lips before giving it.
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Father’s Icon
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Gertrude and the younger Charles Linton are taking a stroll together through the grounds of Wentbourne. Charles has insisted they tarry at the fountain, impressive in its large display of the Centaurs supporting the body of Chiron, and thereby, sit.
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A silence had descended, which I immediately found very uncomfortable. Ordinarily, the sounds of birds scattering overhead and the ones landing upon the fountain to drink and bathe would have delighted me, but Charles appeared to have begun brooding. The effect of his demeanor was like that of a rain cloud passing overhead and me, needing to rush away. As my discomfort was nearing its apogee and much to my relief, he stood up. However, he’d done so to engage me.
“I have made the decision,” came his declaration. “That you should paint all the portraits of the Linton family. Gertie, I am dman well offering you the commission.”
“Why, thank you, Charles,” I replied, well aware that he had seen none of my completed work.
“It will mean that we can be together, here, at Wentbourne. So, more time for us to get to know each other.”
Again, he was towering over me and he was also describing my future. According to him, it was going to be spent here, but I knew that it was merely a ploy. The offering of the commission to have the family portraits painted was not his only intention. If indeed, it was that at all. He really wanted me and being here would offer him the opportunity.
I felt immersed in anxiety. What he was saying was too much to cope with in its entirety. His obvious restlessness bothered me too. I assumed that he wanted to walk. However, he continued the conversation.
“Have you traveled much in the world, Gertie?,” he asked.
“I accompanied my father on a study tour of Italy, but only for a very short time and when I was a child. Since then, I have been busy at home.”
He began tugging on the lapels of his jacket. This action, I had noticed on prior occasions was the precursor to a declamation about himself. My assumption was proven correct.
“I have traveled a great deal. The Continent, Asia, the Colonies. There is so much made possible these days. I would damn well like to show you the places I have seen. Yes, Gertie, you and I, sailing off together.”
“Oh, Charles.”
After delivering me few words, I averted my eyes away from his and onto the fountain’s decoration. In my mind, were images of steam trains and of ships. That was all, because the possibility of becoming his traveling companion needed far more time to digest.
To my surprise, he brought his head very close and said in almost a whisper, “I am in love with you, Gertie. I have not known you long, but I am certain.”
Now fully prepared to engage him, I met his stare. “But Charles, how can you be in love with me? I have only been here twice. You do not know me and I cannot just go and travel with you, now can I? Whatever would people think of such a thing?”
What I was saying seemed so very obvious to me. Why he did not see it this way was perplexing.
“Of course you can travel with me,” he replied. “That is, between your painting our portraits.”
“I do not know what to say, Charles. You leave me speechless.”
“Gertie, everything is possible these days.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s true. The world is a garden to walk in and admire. I know you enjoy gardens, Gertie, I’ve been watching you……Yes, and I do too.”
I thought the idea of being able to forfeit convention an alluring one. It would require the kind of wealth that Charles obviously owned. But I was feeling his stare and within my claustrophobia, was a reminder that it was his fortune, that he would be in control of me. There would be no independence. Indeed, if I were to accept.
There had to be a way out of Charles’ offer of romance and I decided on an effort seeped in diplomacy. One which would appear as there were a door being left open for him.
“Charles, may we be friends? Please, very good friends. I would like this very much. Thank you for the very nice things that you have said to me, but you must see that I need a great deal of time to consider them. I could not just say yes……It would not be appropriate.”
I detected a brightness in his eyes which had begun after I had mentioned the words, ‘very good friends.’ Offering him friendship and him seeing it as the prelude to deeper intimacy was unavoidable. My alternative course, that of rejecting him completely, would be insensitive to his feelings.
“I would like nothing more than to be friends, Gertie. We are that now.”
“Yes, Charles, we are.”
“Gertie, without wishing to seem presumptuous, is there……….”
He seemed to find difficulty in completing his question. It was obvious to me that he was blundering around the issue of whether there was someone else. There was, and my explaining the relationship with Mortimer Smythe would no doubt be bothersome for him. It was also none of his business. Fortunately, he did not return to the question. Rather, suggested that we walk together.
When I offered my hand, he took it and held it clumsily, his large fingers gripping much too tightly. It was the same when he took my arm.
While walking, I soon found myself wishing the time would quickly pass. Then, while near the overhanging branches of a weeping willow tree, he stopped walking and while gazing into my eyes, made further peculiar remark.
“You know something, Gertie,” he said. “And this is difficult for me to explain.”
“Yes, Charles, what is it?”
“Well, how can I say it. If I try to be near to you physically, I feel pushed away. Even while we have walked together, here in the garden, I have felt the same sensation.”
“I would not push you away, Charles. Though I do not understand fully what you mean.”
“When I make a move to be near you, it’s as though I am being physically restrained. I have damn well never felt anything like it before.”
I noticed the emotion in his eyes, nay more now an outpour. It reminded me of certain of the officers of the Army whose portraits I had painted and who, while sitting, told me of their experiences in battle. But theirs represented extreme examples. This obviously was not the case with Charles, who obviously was merely prone to exaggerating his feelings.
He began explaining, “It happened the first time you came here. Each time I was near to you, I felt as though I was walking into a wall. By jove it almost drove me mad.”
“Charles, what on earth are you saying?”
Even before asking him what it was he was trying to explain, I knew he was talking nonsense. I also was of a mind that it was likely that insanity had prevented his marrying. Alarmed, I waited for more of the silliness, but it did not come. He was silent. An explanation behind what he was saying would need to come from me. Quickly, I thought of one.
“Charles, please do not think that I’m disparaging you, but the aromas of oil paint can be a little off-putting, if you are unused to them.”
He looked away from me and towards the villa. Now, I was wondering whether I had said anything that would have made him feel pushed away? Perhaps my tone of voice or facial expression? Then it dawned on me that I had showed him irritation when he’d come too close. He’d become offended and that was what he had really meant. Yes, that was so.
We resumed the walk. I felt uncomfortable in the silence and began to ponder what he was thinking. I would ask him a question, one that may well throw light on his state of mind.
“Charles, would you be kind and tell me why you have never married?”
“Of course I don’t mind you asking, Gertie, my dear, dear girl. Well, I have had what would you call them, ‘romantic sprees,’ but the girls who have seemed absolutely right for me were always unavailable.”
“I see,” I said, having not understood what he meant. What were the qualities he was searching for? He carried on telling me.
“You know, Gertie, the girls I could have married were more interested in wealth and accoutrement…..Yes, they were.”
“But surely, you have met many wealthy and well-connected women?”
“Yes, Gertie, that’s what I meant. They all have been. Marrying wealth is what is expected. It perpetuates the ethos of the families.”
I held off on asking him whether he considered me as being without wealth and thereby an association with me would be a potential break in the expected ‘ethos’? Such a question would be tantamount to admitting that I thought it true, which I did not. I considered my talent as an artist to be at least equivalent to any amount of inherited wealth, as far as ‘value’ was concerned. Bringing up the subject would also seem like an attempt to justify myself to a potential suitor.
“I am impressed by you Gertie,” he said, squeezing my hand.
Suddenly, I felt afraid that he was going to attempt kissing me. I stepped back so to make a possible lunge problematic. Having moved out of his reach, I noticed the slight frowning of his brow. I was uncaring.
“I am impressed by your being an artist, Gertie, and a damned beautiful one at that. You bowl me out, stump, wickets and all. Means or. . .or, none.”
I held off telling him that his being impressed by me made me seem like the prospective purchase of a prize horse. Really, I found his attempts at explaining his feelings to be amusing. There was no point reiterating the statement that he knew hardly anything of the one who he was spilling out his heart to. Although I had no similar experiences by which to compare, his declaration seemed far too much, too soon. It was also ironic that Charles, was no doubt the very suitor many women longed for. As far as Gertie was concerned, my feelings were as a priceless work of art, locked from public view.
The beautiful villa came into full view, Wentbourne in all its splendour and I hoped that a different preoccupation than the one of the previous hour would ensue. It was a shame to disturb the tranquil grace of this ideal patria with the thwarting of his offers of love. I decided to ask Charles about the architect of the villa, thereby hopefully, prompting a long conversation. This would take place over tea. Then, while looking at the splendid stone frontage of the villa, the question crossed my mind whether in fact there was something wrong with me for not accepting Charles advances? This was a question that confused me because it could not be answered.
All that remained of today’s visit were the refreshments.
Charles had begun discussing the sport of horse racing with great enthusiasm and I felt cheered because of it. There would, hopefully, be any further talk of love and foreign jaunts.
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Charles led the way up the stone steps and through the carved, mahogany doors of the villa. The interior, I was of a mind, contained elements of the gardens. The most obvious being its extraordinary refinement. I was aware of Charles watching my eyes moving over the many pilasters, the alabaster carvings and the oil paintings, they being abundant and resplendent in their execution.
In the room that previously had served as a place of work, the absence of Charles Linton senior, made the room feel surprisingly empty. The tea was waiting, along with cakes. It was set out on silver and standing on a trolley. Upon the tray there was a white orchid placed in a small glass vase. Without asking, I knew the orchid was for me. It was going to be a difficult hour, unless the topic of romance could be successfully circled.
I was aware that during the morning, Charles had not spoken of his father at all without prompting. This, to me, was a significant factor in his disfavour.
However, when Charles delivered me the orchid and told me that it had been named, Gertrude, after me, I began to wonder whether in fact I could soften my feelings toward him?
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The artist is on her journey home by carriage following the unexpectedly eventful morning spent at Wentbourne Manor
My thoughts from the outset of the journey had been affixed upon Charles Linton. His proclamation of love had come so very quickly that it almost seemed absurd to me. Equally, did the question of who would turn him down? I had been asking myself this latter question and indeed, there had been no one who had sprung to mind.
In my thoughts, imaginary scenarios were also being toyed with, made this, that and the other. The one that predominated was actually having married someone, when the precious and vital emotion of love had been absent at the outset. I was seeing myself as the wife of Charles Linton junior, and immersed in luxury at Wentbourne. Charles was the security and the safety that was very difficult to attain by oneself and especially by a woman alone. Women were not usually in the position of making the choice over a wealthy suitor either. Charles had seemingly conceded to this. My thoughts were beginning to make me feel unwell. There had only ever been romance with Mortimer, and with him it had been complete.
There never had been any questioning as to whether the relationship or any part of it was appropriate.
After a while, I began thinking of Charles again. Whether, after the pursuit of me, he would change and if so in what way? Whether there would always be a yearning on my part for the most treasured emotion that wealth could not buy? At the point where Charles was to consummate the relationship, I came out of the daydreaming with a jolt. I knew that Charles could not usurp the deep intimacy shared with Mortimer.
However, the thoughts about financial security lingered with me for a few tortured moments. The whole matter of Charles, I decided, would require far more consideration at a later time.
I tried to rid my mind of the whole morning’s event. I thought of Mortimer. With him, there had always been a sharing, the extent of which was difficult to imagine with another man. In many ways, it had been like having a sister or girlfriend to portion certain things with. Often, those ‘things,’ were those considered by many to be the most intimately female of all. To Mortimer, nothing had ever been taboo and shied away from. I also deliberated over how Charles would cope with the topic of my monthly time? Whether he would display embarrassment, or even be insulted at his being asked to share such unpleasant and womanly burdens? Perhaps, he would be like many men purportedly were and prefer her monthly discomfort be discreetly kept to herself? Mortimer had said that this, indeed, was the preference of most men.
The thought of Mortimer made me smile. I was envisaging him mixing milk with alcohol and kaolin for me to soothe my monthly pains. He was helping me to wash blood stained clothes and bed linen. I recalled him boiling cotton and drying the strips before the kitchen fire. It had always been an inclination of Mortimer to aid me in every conceivable way. Imagining another man doing these things was very difficult.
A few moments passed with peace of mind until I recalled the brutish way that Charles had held my hand. In fact, there had been much of the blunderer in everything he’d done and said. Mortimer’s touch, I recalled, was like that of a gentle stroking feather being held by a sensitive boy. The poetry he’d written and recited to me had been equally soft and delicate.
My father’s words also began prodding my mind. These words came as reminder of a sentiment that he had very often expressed. “Gertrude, never forget that love is the key to beauty.”
Although I knew my father had often stated that, in the absence of love, there was nothing, I found difficulty in imagining love in the midst of loneliness and even fear, as had recently been the case for me. What if Mortimer never came home from the Queen’s Army? The stupid fool he was for enlisting.
I was aware that my mind was beginning to race around in circles. It was obvious that Charles was not wanted as a husband, but neither was giving up on him altogether the best way. The sumptuous gardens at Wentbourne flashed through my mind. Then, there were the obscenely large and fabulously ornate rooms in that beautiful, European-styled villa.
Amidst the tormenting temptations of the Linton’s, came the idea to put off going home altogether for a while. Instead, I would visit the Artemis Theatre and there, inspect the dioramas. It would only require a ring of the bell in order to notify the carriage driver of my intention.
I was happy with the idea of visiting the theatre, because it would hopefully take away the consternation over Charles. Many of the staff were lighthearted conversationalists and going home would doubtlessly incur a brooding where nothing would be resolved. Alone, my uncertainty could become even more acute.
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Without warning, the sounds and human hustle and bustle of the City’s busy streets had begun greeting me. The quieter suburbs had already been passed through. It would not be long before St. Martin Le-Grand and the theatre destination. I straightened my bonnet and adjusted my belt to ensure that when standing, my skirts would touch the ground.
The view from the window of the carriage was one of contrasts and circumstances which had always affected me badly. Ragged itinerants glared back as the cab swiftly passed them by. My being reminded of the poor in their great numbers offered a very stark comparison with the luxury of Wentbourne Manor.
In order to preserve my fast plummeting mood, I concentrated my attention upon the shops and stalls, the signs and displays of wears. It was then that I found herself searching amongst the throng for a vendor of umbrellas, because it would be an association with the Linton’s business affairs.
My last thought as the carriage approached the Artemis Theatre, was that the poverty espied upon the streets was the reality which had to be avoided at all costs. Also, the examination of father’s esoteric possessions in the attic at home had been a mistake for its introduction to silly notions about the world. Even if there was another existence that impinged on the lives of certain human beings, what point was there in worrying about it? Bill collectors had to be paid and one’s well-being maintained.
There was no time left for ruminating, because the horse was coming to a halt.
Now stationary, I considered that in many ways, the journey had been made an ordeal by the constant upheaval in my mind.
I paid the carriage owner four pennies in farthings. It was more than the fare, but he would be certain to return in two hours for my journey home.
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While standing outside the theatre and holding my belongings, I encountered a foul smell. A group of women were explaining to man elderly man, in formal street-attire, that an omnibus had collided mwith a horse and cart bound for a poorhouse. The result had been a spillage of the cart’s whole cargo of eggs. A few stray dogs who did not mind the smell were eating the shells.
While treading carefully, I avoided the mess best I could.
Albert, my friend, was standing with another theatre hand and peering out through the doors. Albert came to greet me.
“Well, if it is not Gertrude Lawrence,” declared Albert and with a smile. He took hold of the wrapped canvas and bag.
“I was looking at those pretty gloved hands of yours, Gertrude.”
“Thank you, Albert.”
“Oh, I would say you are welcome. What are you doing out?”
“Out, Albert?” I asked, in response to the odd question.
He seemed too busy to answer me, having to carry the bag and canvas. I walked with him toward the tiny room set aside for me, as well as for various theatrical materials in their abundance. The theatre was busy. A few of the passers-by who recognised me smiled enthusiastically in acknowledgement.
“Oh dear, Gertie, I was just thinking.” Albert was speaking quietly, when the passersby were out of earshot.
“Yes, Albert?” I replied, knowing him not to be a secretive sort. His reaction was puzzling to me. He was also unusually silent, which was very unlike him. I suspected that he was tired because the performances of ‘Jumbo Johnny and the Elephant’ had not been going well. In the past, when this had been the case, it was not unusual for an air of despondency to sweep through the theatre. Of course, Albert was an old hand, having worked at the Artemis all of his life, so any unpredictability as far as audiences were concerned should have been gotten used to.
Albert’s whispering alarmed me. He was never quietly spoken.
“I, I….don’t know how to tell you this, Gertie.”
“Is there something wrong, Albert?” While speaking, I began bracing myself for being told of a catastrophe. Possibly, the artistic director had been beaten senseless or stabbed in the eye with a hat pin after being caught peeping through a keyhole as was his behaviour with me? Worse, the man could have passed on.
When in my room and after placing down my bag and canvas, mAlbert began explaining what was wrong.
“Well, Gertie…..Er.”
“Yes, Albert, what on earth is it?”
“There has been a slashing of your work. Yes, the dioramas, from corner to corner and more than once.”
“A what?”
With more than a concerned expression, he made an abrupt sweeping gesture to portray the movement that had caused the damage.
“Yes, Gertie, I am afraid it was a slashing.”
He made the same movement again, I now well understood how msuch a motion could cause damage.
“What was that you said, Albert, from corner to corner?”
I was thinking that the performances must have been terrible to warrant such retribution. This had never happened before.
“Don’t be upset Gertie. We were going to repair them ourselves, then arrange for some new ones. We didn’t want to tell you and cause you upset, but here you are so…..”
He was standing close and I noticed that he hadn’t been taking care of himself. Usually, his hair was meticulously groomed and his necktie and collar worn under his bib-front coverall was always kept neat. Today, I was of a mind, he looked both untidy and disheveled.
“Well, Albert, are we going to stand here all day?”
“Are you sure you want to see the damage?,” he asked me.
“Of course, I am here, so I will have to.”
I was assured that his asking me whether I actually wanted to see the damage was very odd. My determination was, to me, very appropriate, considering that I was the one who painted them. With what seemed as a reluctance on his part, he began leading the way toward the stage.
“Albert, have the performances been, ….not good then?” I asked.
“Excellent, Gertie. Truly.”
“Oh, they have?”
“A packed house. Good revues too, in The Herald, and The London News.”
“I see,” I replied, having not understood at all. Why would anyone damage the dioramas if it was not because of the performance?.
When I walked through the door that led on to the stage, mthe damage presented itself to my senses in the same way as had the lithographs depicting scenes of the war in the Crimea. It seemed that there had occurred a full scale attack with bayonets drawn. All three dioramas hung wounded and pathetically sad. Albert had not exaggerated when telling of their having been cut from corner to corner, but there was something erratic about the way the cuts had been made. They were not straight. Rather, in what seemed to be undulating lines that passed through the lower-abdominal areas of the figures. Even the elephant had not been spared.
I stood still, after having recoiled from the site of the damaged dioramas.
Albert’s voice consoled my battered senses.
“Gertie, don’t take it personally, will you?”
“How could someone do such a thing?”
“Oh, probably…..er, some yahoo. Er….maybe, after the show.”
“I shall have to repair them,” I told him while attempting to conceal my disquiet. Although I knew there was no purpose in being upset, my disturbance prompted by what was obviously lurid and vicious destructiveness, was difficult to hold back.
“Well, just before you arrived, Gertie, I was in the process of boiling some gum.”
“I shall certainly need it,” I replied with found resolve.
Although looking at the dioramas, the damage was formidable. Albert’s voice consoled me again as I stood touching one of the wavy cuts. He asked me, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, Albert, of course I do.”
I knew that he had been given much more time to survey the damage. However, my mind was made up. They would be repaired and the mends painted over. This evening’s performance would be unaffected.
“You know something, Gertie. I think your father would be proud of you.”
“Thank you, Albert.”
“Well, I’ll leave you for a while. If you need anything, please give me a shout, won’t you?”
“Yes, Albert, I…..”
Before I had ended what I was going to say he’d begun walking away. I assumed that it was the damage to the dioramas that was the cause of his upset.I noticed that he had seemed averse to looking at them while talking to me.
“Oh, well,” I said to myself, noting that no one else was paying any attention.
A group of musicians had been rehearsing. Now, with my concentration upon them, their music became calming and almost immediately took away my wounded feelings over the damage to my work. I mturned to look at the dioramas. They stood high, at least twenty feet, although I had never taken any measurements. It was puzzling how someone could have found a way to reach the top without steps. I came to the conclusion that the perpetrators would have fetched the special ones that Albert invented and had made himself. The steps were standing assembled. Then, I began wondering how anyone would know where they were kept and how to assemble the terribly cumbersome device? It seemed a great deal of trouble to go to. They had to have been left out, but this seemed unlikely if there had been a performance.
The music became lively and then tapered off with an untidy mixture of instruments and annoyed voices. I turned to see one musician standing with what looked like a euphonium curled around his shoulders and its wide horn protruding way above his head. The man appeared annoyed at having been stopped. After bellowing something in the direction of the other musicians and after smoothing his moustache, he sat down. The man was obviously aware that his movements were being laughed at by the other musicians, but the tomfoolery seemed of little concern to him. Soon, they were making music again. While watching them, an unfamiliar male voice came from behind me.
“Tannhauser,” the voice informed, “The Grand March. They will never get it right, if you ask me.”
I turned to face a short man, who looked to be in the later of sixty years. He was smiling and while moving his hand in tune to the music, he said, “I do so love it though.” I thought that there was a distinct flavour of the performer in his flamboyant mannerisms. Without having introduced himself, he carried on unabashed.
“La, lar, la, lar, la, lar, Richard Wagner. La, lar, la, lar.”
With great curiosity, I admired the man’s elegant swagger. The way he pulled back his shoulders and relaxed them suggested a lifetime of physical awareness, possibly as a dancer. Despite his age, in his wiry form an obvious strength remained. His precise hand movements seemed to scoop sounds from the air. Abruptly, he became still, his hands remaining frozen in the air, only his eyes moved, which he fixed upon me. Then, he smiled.
I smiled back at the man, then I realised that he was precisely mimicking my facial expressions. I laughed loudly in response. The man did exactly the same. When I touched my abdomen, so did he. I was quickly becoming enamored over the man with the very unorthodox method of making friendship. Having offered his hand and given mine a tiny squeeze, he said, “Hello, my name, is Hippolyte.”
“Hello, what a truly wonderful name you have. I am, Gertrude Lawrence.”
“I know,” he said, squeezing my hand again. His emphasising the word, ‘know’ made me wonder how he knew me so well? Having let go of my hand, he turned to look at the damaged dioramas, then stared down at the floor of the stage and began shaking his head. It was not long before he looked up and winked an eye.
“Hippolyte, will help with the repair,” he said.
“Oh, you do not need to do that. It’s not necessary.”
“Why do I not?,” he asked me.
“It would be unfair of me to expect it, Mr. Hipp…”
“Why would it?”
I was aware that he was not going to give in and was enjoying the conversation. I knew that I couldn’t tell him that he was an old man and need not be bothered, because he looked more capable than I was of climbing up and down the steps. Quickly, it dawned on me that he was here to do this very job. It would be fun having someone to talk with while applying the gum and mixing paints.
I thought of an excuse, lest he should think me not wanting of his assistance.
“I was of a mind that I would be taking your time,” I said, aware that the excuse sounded weak. The damage to the dioramas was severe and their repair would obviously require more than one pair of hands. He shook his head in a way that suggested he knew my thoughts and then began walking to where the steps had been assembled. Momentarily and while he was wheeling the steps, Albert appeared, brandishing a large bowl of steaming gum. Under his arm was what looked to be a roll of oversize bandages. He went to deposit the materials behind the dioramas. I waited for him to reappear. When he did, I acknowledged.
“Thank you, Albert,” I said, expecting him to remain, but he walked away. I watched him walk to the door of the stage, without having said a word to me.
“Albert!” My exclamation came at feeling unsettled for having been ignored. However, while holding open the stage door, he turned and shouted a reply, “Later, Gertie, we must talk.” The door closed behind him, leaving me convinced that there was something on his mind. Albert, not offering to help and such reticence from him was unheard of. Whatever it be, it would be sorted out later, as he had so very brusquely informed.
I turned, to find that Hippolyte had already begun. He was examining the slashes.
“I shall begin with the rear,” he said. “Then help you with the painting at the front.”
I watched the little man effortlessly wheel the steps to the rear of the dioramas. It became obvious to me that I would be the helper, not he.
Soon, I was passing him gum soaked cloth to begin the repairs.
Hippolyte, it turned out, was a retired actor, who now made and repaired stage costumes. The music halls were where he’d always wanted to be since growing up in Toulouse and traveling to London, at the age of ten with his puppeteer father. Every so often, he stopped working, and then began what I assumed to be the act of filling his lungs with air. After holding, he would exhale with a very loud, ‘Ahhhh.’ Witnessing his unusual mannerisms caused me amusement. I wondered whether, in fact, he was breathing in the atmosphere of the theatre?
Hippolyte spoke enthusiastically of his being an expert swordsman and how that skill had enhanced many a stage role. He hadn’t acted for ten years. I imagined him as a masked Cavalier, and in other roles as a brigand, always able to out skill his opponents. Whatever his role, he had loved the applause given after the finale, as I knew all actors and actresses did.
“We were the brilliant ones,” he asserted, while higher up on the steps, “You see, we had to be.”
I was enjoying listening, I wanted to know all about the performances of the distant past and how they had been different. He was talking about a time long before I had been born. However, the strips of gummed cloth had been stroking his white hair, causing locks to reach out from his head. The thought of having to wash out dried gum was horrifying, because I knew it would not come out. Now, I was having selfish thoughts. I was pleased that Hippolyte had taken over the task. Later, his hair would be neatly trimmed, as it was certain he would require it.
“I love to be with women,” he declared, “I have always worked among women.”
What he said brought me a long smile. I understood him to be saying that the theatre was not representative of everyday life. I had often imagined actors and actresses living in a world set apart from the constraints imposed upon others, especially as far as women were concerned. It had also beenstrange to me, how here, at the Artemis, the men in the audience would regard a woman on stage in ways that were completely at odds with how was normally demanded. The heroine was saluted and expected to partially bear a breast. Then when she did, the mostly male audience would erupt in approval and with delight. It seemed to me that many of the supposed morals normally imposed on women were left elsewhere when entering the theatre, where different standards were imposed.
I had been ignoring the man who had so graciously taken the unpleasant work away from me. “More often than not,” he was saying, “We were performing to candlelight, but our costumes were so brightly coloured it did not matter. These gas lights take much away from the stage and the special ambience that we made during our day.”
“Melodramas, made more real than real life,” I said, not quite knowing how to respond. All I had known at the Artemis was the offering of the present time.
“Magnificent operas,” came the shouted reply. “Magnificent!”
I was thinking that it was a pity his performances were so far away in time. That his art, like that of all performers past and present, deceased as soon as the performance came to an end. They were very unlike painting, where the representation was permanent and could be viewed and reassured indefinitely. The colourfully caricatured posters, modern lithographs and the phonograph machine, I thought, had come into being long after the time Hippolyte was referring to.
He was at the bottom of the first diorama. Soon, they would all be repaired, leaving the painting over the slashes to be done. Hippolyte had said nothing about who might have damaged them, nor what he thought of it. I decided not to ask him and risk losing my enjoyment of the conversation.
Immediately on finishing the first diorama, Hippolyte moved the steps to begin on the next. Although the gum was warm, it was beginning to solidify, which meant that there was little time or there would have to be a wait for Albert to boil more.
“Gertrude Lawrence,” shouted Hippolyte, then having caught my attention he said, “I think there should be a theatre just like the Artemis, where the old has-beens such as me can perform again.”
He began laughing, but what he’d said had struck a chord with I had not put much thought to becoming old myself. Simply, as the present time had sufficient demands placed upon it to keep my mind from wandering onto the subject. Now, I was putting myself in his place and feeling for what he was saying.
“I think you should never retire,” I said to him.
“There are so many of us. We old-timers are always available, but the stages are not.”
“Well, I think that is preposterous.”
His reply to me came while waiting for more gum-soaked cloth.
“I think so too,” he said, and smiling enthusiastically at my show of understanding.
“No one is ever too old,” I stated and with conviction.
“That’s true. I have memories though. I live many memories, here, in my mind.”
I was thinking of my house and how father’s work, which reached back fifty years, adorned many of the walls. Many, were a visual reminder of a precious facet of life, and effectively preserved. I took Hippolyte to be saying that there was nothing of his art at all other than his dreams.
With a twinge of sadness, I wondered how else it could possibly be?
When Hippolyte had almost worked his way down to the bottom of the second diorama, an idea came to me out of the blue. It was that perhaps he would appreciate a sketch of himself? The work could be titled, ‘The Performer,’ or better still, ‘Hippolyte, the Great.’
I noticed Albert was watching from the back row of the auditorium. He was standing with his arms folded. Hopefully and soon, he would be making the tea.
When the third of the dioramas was almost repaired, the requisite colours were prepared for painting over the slashes. It would not take long to restore the Indian scenes to more or less what they had been before. No one would know of the damage if plenty of paint was applied. I knew that it would not do for the audience nor anyone else to be given cause to laugh at the repair, for that could reflect upon me, the one who had the responsibility for creating the scenes in the first place.
Hippolyte’s sketch would be made later or possibly another day, if he was here at the theatre. When asked about it, I was sure that he would most certainly agree.
Beginning at the bottom of one of the dioramas a start was made by applying the paint. Now, on looking at the slashes from the front it became obvious to me that it was, in fact, one long cut which really did pass through the female figures and even the elephants in a most disturbing way. The gruesome detail had been noticed on first sight, but now on closer inspection, it did seem to have been a deliberate and awful violation.
I felt pleased by the fact that no holes had been cut out because they would have been much more difficult to make good. Then, I noticed something else which was very odd. At equal distances apart and along the now repaired slashes, the word, ‘nex’ had been scratched into the paint. The word was just visible to my eye, but sure enough, there it was. Although I had no idea what it meant, covering the word with plenty of paint would ensure that it would never be seen again and a solemn goodbye to it.
With great frequency as I painted, and much to my annoyance, the strange word, ‘nex’ echoed through my mind. It became very difficult to ignore because I found herself reading the word before it was covered over by the brush. The orchestral practice did help in taking away the annoyance, but the music appeared in too sporadic a fashion. Hippolyte had arranged the steps so that I could reach the entire height of the dioramas. He paid no attention to the slash, nor what had been written along its length. Rather, was content to stand, holding the make-shift palette for the artist and add more colours when they were required. A completion of the work was not too far away, thanks to the help of the old man, who had been asked to do it anyway. His being usurped had not bothered him at all.
The further accounts that Hippolyte told about the theatre were well in accord with my already held suspicions, that the experiences it offered the people involved were indeed very unlike those of conventional life. Those experiences were, among much else, bound up with a delight in projecting colourful exaggeration onto audiences. All this, I was of a mind, offered a challenge as far as representing drama on canvas would be concerned. A painting of a performer would be so different to that of someone like the elder, Charles Linton, where the energy of life had literally to be put in.
Just as my enthusiasm for representing performers on canvas had lifted my mind from the upset caused by the damage to the dioramas, Albert’s gloomy appearance with the tea interrupted myconcentration. After placing the teapot and cups on a nearby table, he stood surveying the almost completed work, his head quickly following the outline of the dioramas. He seemed to be cringing.
“Well, well…..Tis a far prettier sight, I must tell. I thought we might have to lay them down.”
“Thank you, Albert, for the compliment.”
“Come and have a drink, Gertie lass,” he said while gesturing and then turning away to shake his head.
Hippolyte took the brush and palette from my hand and with enthusiasm, he said “You go and sit down, I’ll finish the work. I can paint. I can do anything.”
I smiled at Hippolyte.
“I must say I feel better for looking at them now,” admitted Albert while pouring the tea. He nodded impatiently at the chair next to the table for me to sit down.
With a huge mug in his hand, Albert began shaking his head again. I watched him drink and detected what I thought was fear in his eyes. He continued shaking his head and mumbling at the same time. Very quickly, I had found his behaviour to be irritating. It was as if he was holding a thought that wanted a voice but he would not oblige its release.
The mug he’d brought for me was far too large and heavy. Usually, he provided a cup and a saucer and often not matching, but it didn’t matter. In exasperation at almost spilling the contents down the gathered bodice of my dress, I declared, “Albert, I feel as though I am drinking from a chamber pot.”
There was no answer from Albert. He was staring the moments away in a preoccupation unknown in him, until this day.
“Albert!” I cried. My exclamation was intended to startle the man.
“Sorry……Yes, Gertie?”
“You have also put sugar in my tea.”
“Oh, I forgot…….I, I.”
He’d faded away again. Albert was not the only one lately to do the same. So had Julian during his recent visit and there was the elder Charles Linton too. I wondered whether it was a contagion of some kind? Of course, Charles Linton the elder was ill, so had an excuse. Most surely, Albert was not ill in the same way? I was determined to find out.
“Is there something wrong, Albert?” I asked and in a manner which was guaranteed to bring his attention back onto me.
“Wrong, Gertie?” came the reply.
“Yes, you seem to have something on your mind.”
“Gertie…..I think you are a better artist than your father was.”
“Is that it, Albert? The reason you are so vague with me, today?”
Suddenly and without any hint of his presence, the artistic director, Mr. Higginbottom, appeared, clumsily bumping into the table as he walked by. Albert shot a withering scowl at him, as he wavered and while walking away.
“Damned dipsomaniac fool,” barked Albert. “Lost again in his own place of employment.”
The man in question had disappeared through the door at the opposite end of the stage to where they were sitting.
“Albert what’s wrong? You are not usually short tempered like this?
“Oh, take no notice of me,” he asserted, then rubbing his brow with his hand.
“So, Albert, pray tell me, how did the ones who attacked the dioramas know where your steps were kept?”
He offered no explanation, but instead carried on noisily sipping his tea. This annoyed me more than ever. There came a shout from Hippolyte to say the painting was almost complete. The news had no visible effect on Albert, who remained entrenched in thought, with the mug of tea held to his lips.
“Albert!” I cried.
“What?”
“That is the second time I have had to shout in order to make you remember I am here.”
“Er…..Yes, sorry, Gertie. Well, I’m pleased you came in today. Truly.”
“I was thinking through something. Those responsible for doing the damage, ‘they’ surely would have needed to have assembled your steps. Which means they……..”
Albert cut me short.
“Gertie,” he said, brusquely. “You shouldn’t be out when it gets dark.”
The force of his reply took her aback. There was also the lingering cast of fear in his eyes.
“What are you talking about, Albert? You know that I never go out during the evenings and anyway, it’s not dark now, is it?”
“It will be,” he maintained.
The brevity in his remark angered me.
“ALBERT! What on earth is the matter? Last time I was here you were asking me if I was coming to the show. That would have been during the evening. Do you remember?”
“NO! NO!. You must not.”
I almost spilled my tea in surprise at his reaction. His voice had reached the back row of the auditorium. Two people who’d been dusting between rows of seats were now looking over to see what was amiss.
As Albert held the mug to his mouth, there was an easily visible tremble in his hands.
“Please, Albert, I want to know if something has happened?”
He was silent. Judging by his grim expression, it was very likely that it had.
Laughter erupted among the few musicians remaining and who were rearranging their belongings. Soon, the theatre would be left in a silent and pregnant mood because any moment the preparations were due to begin for the evening’s performance. I thought it had felt much better with the music of earlier.
Albert began offering me advice.
“You should be going home now, Gertie……Before it becomes dark.”
“What do you mean, ‘before dark,’ for heaven’s sake?”
With his eyes bulging from their sockets, he looked toward the dioramas and growled, “Gertie, make damn sure you’re never out alone at night. Never alone, do you hear me?”
“I am alone at home and it gets dark there too!”
He turned to me, displaying the same peculiarly grim expression. If he hadn’t been familiar, it would have been easy to mistake his manner as one belonging to the actors rehearsing for a part on the stage. Albert, as far as I knew, had never done any stage acting.
Then, the explanation came to me. He’d been attacked by those who had damaged the dioramas. That was surely it. He was still upset from the trauma. Perhaps they had chased him around the theatre? Maybe stolen his money? That certainly would have upset him. Getting Albert to tell would take gentle diplomacy.
“Albert…….Albert. You know we are friends and that I care about you. Did you see someone in the theatre? The ones who damaged the dioramas in such a despicable manner? Did they attack you?…..Say horrid things?”
Suddenly, he grasped one of my hands. The action startled me and in the process, he’d almost knocked over one of the mugs. At long last, it seemed that whatever was on his mind was going to be shared. Just to make sure, I gave him a prompt.
“Well?,” I asked.
“No, I wasn’t attacked, Gertie.”
“Albert, what then, for heaven’s sake?”
I wanted to laugh, but as he was obviously deeply concerned over something. I held back the urge.
“Your father,” he began. “Yes, your father. He wouldn’t like it if he knew I was telling you things that would make you have nightmares.”
“What do you mean? Father is not here to know, is he?”
“Gertie……You shouldn’t have to worry about things like this.”
“I don’t know what it is yet, do I?”
In the frustration caused by waiting for Albert to speak, I cast my mind to the prior visit of the morning, to Wentbourne. Charles, the younger Linton had also acted peculiarly, but in a different way. His amorous advances had brought an overwhelming dilemma for me. Now there was Albert’s acting strange. I thought this to be one more event in a series of events that were more like dramas than anything else.
At last and very tentatively, Albert began his offering of an explanation. It came just at the point where my interest in knowing what was bothering him had begun to wane. Life, I thought, was complicated already, why allow it to be made more so?
I listened.
“No one else knows about ‘this’ Gertie,” he said, in what was almost an inaudible murmur.
“Oh, what on earth is it, Albert?”
“But…but I’ve known you all your life and your father was a friend………And you don’t work here all the time.”
I began filling his mug with tea. He waited until it had been placed in front of him before continuing.
“It was last night…….I, I, I…..heard a noise down here. It was very late and I was polishing some of the gilded seats in the special guest box.”
He gave a nod in the direction of the place he had referred to. One of two places in the hall that supposedly had the best view. I thought it was a matter of opinion. A view from near the front row and beneath the atrium, was by far the better.
“Er, I was kneeling down,” he said. “I had no idea there was also someone else in here.”
The sounds of voices began distracted him, his name was also being called out. The evening’s entertainment would begin within hours, so most likely, he would have to go. Surprisingly, he carried on, “I saw ‘who’ it was damaging the dioramas….I wish I hadn’t. Let me tell you, Gertie, more than anything and on my mother’s grave, I really wish I had nay.”
“You said, ‘someone’, so it was one person?”
“Not a person,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders as though shivering, “Not like any I’ve ever known. Some kind of visitant, if you ask me.”
“A visi……?”
Albert’s reply came with an emphatic nod of his head, “Yes, it was a visitant.”
I wondered what he was talking about. Ghosts?. Phantom performers who haunted music halls and theatres? There were stories abounding about such personages. Certain ghosts had been reported having been seen carrying their heads under their arms. But could a ghost assemble the steps and destroy the dioramas?. It was very unlikely.
“You saw a ‘ghost’? Is that what you are saying, Albert?”
“Well, let me say, it was a man who was destroying the dioramas.”
“A ‘man’…..and?”
I laughed at how ridiculous my question was. Of course it was a man. What else could it be?
He continued.
“I looked down from the box. ‘He’ wanted me to see him……I know he did. Let me tell you, I’ve never run away from any such thing as fast in my life.
“But, I ……” I began, but he interrupted.
“Gertie………Gertie, he wasn’t using the steps.”
“Ha!. Well, how did he reach then? Tell me that. Go on, you must.”
“He wasn’t using them, believe me. I know what I saw. He moved up and down, from side to side,……with no support.”
“Oh, Albert, Albert, Albert. What on earth are you telling me, that you saw a flying man?. Oh, dear me.”
Other than trapeze artists, I knew no stories of men being able to fly. Now, I was wondering whether perhaps Albert had been given a cigar containing opium? Whatever was the explanation, disputing his story while he was telling it would not help.
With very long gulps, Albert drank more of his tea. Then, following a wipe of his lips with the back of a hand, he continued, “I know it sounds outlandish, don’t assume I have not thought about it. I’ve bloody well thought of nothing else. What I saw was a spook. Yes, a spook. Not even the Camden Town Spiritualists have seen anything like it. The worst imaginable bloody spook, I tell you. A spook that levitated….Flew, if you like.”
He touched my hand. “Gertie,” he said. “What it was I saw stopped doing what he was doing, he knew I’d seen him. The thing looked over his shoulder, laughed and carried on slashing……while in the air. It’s bloody true.”
“Are you sure there was nothing holding him up? Ropes or something? Surely so?”
“His feet were ten or fifteen feet from the stage. His movements were…….of the spirit world.”
“Well, Albert, I’ll say! What did ‘he’ look like?”
“As massive as a bull and he wore a long black cloak. I only saw the side of his face because I ran away. He looked like a battle victim, if you ask me.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Oh, Gertie, he was the ugliest monstrosity I’ve ever seen among men. Horrible…….A grotesque spook.”
It had become difficult for me to think of any more questions to ask. He’d been forced to tell what was bothering him and his story was one of the most ridiculous ever. It was time he had a break from work. His being among creative people was obviously having an adverse effect. I was tempted to suggest that perhaps a joke had been played on him. But then, the dioramas would not be damaged just for the sake of doing that.
There was also the faint writing that followed the lines of the slashes. Possibly, Albert knew what it meant?
“What does the word, ‘nex’ mean, Albert?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I saw that too.”
“Anyway, it’s covered up now. I want to tell you not to worry, but Albert, I am not sure what it is I would be telling you not to worry about.”
“I have a blunderbuss and powder handy,” he said and with great conviction. “Just in case and I’ll bloody use it.”
I laughed loudly at what he was saying.
“That would take some explaining, Albert, your shooting a flying man!”
His name was being called again and people were beginning to appear on the stage.
“I have to prepare the gaslights,” he said, “But I’ll make sure someone goes out and pays you a carriage. Go home and lock your door, windows too. Do you hear me?”
“Oh, Albert,……what can I say?”
He got up and began sauntering away, carrying the teapot and mugs. A line was created on the floor by the tea which had been left in one of the mugs.
What Albert had said came as an enormous shock to me. Hopefully, he would not be put in prison for blasting the head off of some poor lost soul who’d ventured inside the theatre by mistake. The whole telling of the episode hitherto was seeped in the macabre. This was a place of enjoyment and smiling faces, not devilish occurrences. The two things did not go together. Then and again, I amused myself with the thought of this lending a new level of drama to the place. At the far end of the hall, Hippolyte appeared, carrying a wide sweeping brush. He waved acknowledgement.
Others were passing glances indicating that the table where I was sitting was in the way, which, indeed, it was.
Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed the opportunity to relax and see the performance, but this day had been tiring for many reasons. A hot scrub and food had much more appeal. The sketch of Hippolyte would have to be done another day. He would be here, I thought, which is fortunate really, him being an expert swordsman and all. He will be able to protect Albert. What on eath next, the saints be praised.
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I got up to collect my belongings and make ready for my leaving. I envisioned many future evenings spent here at the Artemis Theatre, with Mortimer. The thought made me smile.
“Flying men wearing black cloaks, ha!” I said to myself, upon taking a final glance at the dioramas.
The afternoon spent here and the conversation with Albert had lifted my mind almost entirely away from the earlier episode with Charles Linton and his amorous advances. The people of the Artemis Theatre really were entertaining, no matter what their role. The journey home for me, would be one containing very different thoughts, than had been the case with that from Wentbourne Manor.
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Addendum
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Rather than continuing myself in moments fraught with Charles, I opened the collection of Mortimer’s beautiful thoughts. Immediately a pressed celandine flower fell out from between the pages. Though old, its aromatic and yellow leaves were still rich with fragrance.
While reading the page, the dry leaves of the celandine pricked my fingers, as did the words prick deeply my emotions, thus;
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Seraphina
For Gertrude Lawrence by Mortimer Smythe
London. 1882
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Into your hand, I placed a celandine flower. I placed it
with a piece of purple light. During the night, I wanted
your sight to be coloured with sunlight, purple and bright.
I touched your face and I whispered the sound that races
in laughter, around and around the miraculous stars
which abound, throughout the universe that, together we found.
Into your mind, I placed pictures of a seascape made
beautiful by a purple waterfall, where the one who had come
to write verse for you would stand and would wait….would wait and call
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Darling Philip : Well, this is Part II as promised and . . . with every dream I have, therein you are my lover true. Soon to fly from the dream and into something more physical. I appreciate your reading and so, to the moon. I just thought I would mention the last bit. XXX
PS. Part III should be good !
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CALLASSA
FATHERS ICON
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