Dead for a Spell (14 page)

I
t was going to be a late night. Not that this was anything new. I frequently spent uncounted time after a performance checking props, making notes for discussion with Mr. Stoker the next morning, and even helping Sam Green repair and paint a piece of scenery that had been damaged during the play. But tonight was different. As I struggled into a clean shirt and impaled a stiff white collar onto the back stud, I almost salivated thinking of the rich steaks that would be served at the Beefsteak dinner. I did not have a lot of time. Both Mr. Stoker and the Guv'nor had the luxury of changing into their blue coats and buff waistcoats in Mr. Irving's dressing room. I had to rush back to my rooms on Chancery Lane, to make myself presentable.

I did not actually own evening dress. It was expensive, and in my case, it was seldom that it was called for. So, as on previous occasions, I had “borrowed” the appropriate attire from the theatre's wardrobe department. The majority of costumes there were Shakespearean, since that was Mr. Irving's forte, but in the days when the Batemans owned the Lyceum, Mr. Philius Pheebes-Watson had presented a disastrous production of
Hamlet
in our modern-day dress. It was booed off the stage and attacked by the press as being “anti-English.” A number of those “costumes” remained in our wardrobe department, and I felt it my duty to give them the occasional airing. I fixed my cravat, slipped into my frock coat, and hurried down the stairs, eschewing a topcoat despite the briskness of the evening.

I was relieved to find that I was not the last to arrive in the oak-paneled Beefsteak Room. It was usually a small, select group, but this evening it seemed that every seat would be taken at the long table. I immediately recognized the prime minister, Mr. William Ewart Gladstone, who was an old friend and admirer of the Guv'nor's. Mr. Gladstone was in his second ministry. He also served as chancellor of the exchequer (this being his fourth time in that position). One or two others of his cabinet I recognized, though I was not familiar with them all. Sir William Harcourt, the home secretary, was often pictured in the newspapers, as was the Earl of Northbrook, the First Lord of the Admiralty. Someone pointed out Lord Glenmont, a crossbencher from the House of Lords.

I was surprised to see Philius Pheebes-Watson, from Sadler's Wells, in attendance. He is now the lead actor at that theatre and has long been a rival of the Guv'nor's. There had been quite a tussle between the two theatres little more than a month ago when it was thought that someone from Sadler's Wells had tried to poison Mr. Irving. Apparently all was now forgiven, though I doubt forgotten.

Our own Anthony Sampson, John Saxon, Guy Purdy, and Arthur Swindon were huddled together in a corner, awaiting the call to be seated. I was surprised to see Swindon there since he had quite a reputation as an imbiber of alcohol. I seemed to remember Mr. Stoker intimating that the man would not be allowed to attend any further Beefsteak Club meetings after his performance at the last dinner. At that time he insulted a veteran actor visiting from Edinburgh and managed to fall over the prime minister's legs. It was a meeting that I had not attended. I noted that Swindon already had a tankard in his hand, which he was waving about as he spoke with his three cohorts.

“Ah! There you are, Harry.”

Mr. Stoker materialized out of the throng surrounding the Guv'nor and Mr. Booth. I couldn't see the colonel but had no doubt that he was in attendance.

“Quite a gathering this evening,” Mr. Stoker continued.

“Yes, sir. Distinguished company, as always,” I replied.

At that moment Mr. Irving called the room to order and invited all—members and guests—to be seated at “the long table.” There was a more or less orderly movement, though I noticed that Messrs. Sampson, Saxon, Purdy, and Swindon managed to be the first to sit. Happily they took seats at the far end and did not try to impinge upon the members and honored guests who habitually sat in the center area.

I recognized two waiters from Romano's, who had obviously been hired for the occasion, hovering in the background, waiting to start serving when given the cue by the Guv'nor. Not that I was ever able to dine at Romano's, but on more than one occasion I had been directed by my boss to deliver a note to Mr. Irving, who was there, reminding him of an approaching curtain time.

I found myself seated across from Mr. Stoker, who sat to the left of the prime minister. The PM, in turn, sat beside Mr. Irving with Mr. Booth on the Guv'nor's right. I saw that the colonel was on my side of the table, opposite Mr. Booth, with the Earl of Northbrook facing Mr. Irving. I was between Sir William Harcourt (seated beside the earl) and Philius Pheebes-Watson.

The aroma from the chateaubriand, baked potatoes, and onions was mouthwatering. The steak was to be served with a reduced sauce made from white wine and shallots, moistened with demi-glace and mixed with butter, tarragon, and lemon juice. I understood that originally the Beefsteak Club's steaks were plain and unadorned, but Mr. Irving's cook had recently started taking liberties, and no one had complained. I couldn't wait for the speech making and inductions to be over so that we could eat. But, catching my boss's eye, I tried to contain myself.

“When Captain James Cook sailed to the antipodes to observe the transit of Venus, he took with him a large number of casks of porter.”

I swung around. It was Sir William Harcourt who had spoken. Although not looking directly at me, I presumed that the comment was addressed to me.

“Really, sir? I didn't know that.”

He nodded sagely. “Porter is enjoyed around this globe of ours, thanks to such luminaries as Captain Cook.”

I wasn't quite sure what to say. Porter was certainly one of the most popular drinks, and I myself was no slouch when it came to disposing of it. I saw that the vast majority of those sitting at the table were quenching their thirst with the black beer. I was about to make some comment about the porter when Philius Pheebes-Watson stuck his head forward and spoke across me to Sir William.

“I understand that porter is giving way to these newer ales. Milds and pale bitter ales. So I hear.” Pheebes-Watson's Yorkshire accent was in stark contrast to the refined tones of Sir William Harcourt.

Sir William turned his head and glared at the speaker. “Where did you hear that, might one ask?”

Pheebes-Watson was taken aback. “Oh! There—there have been reports in the papers . . .”

“I saw nothing in the
Times
.”

Pheebes-Watson shrank back again. Obviously Sir William was not to be challenged on the subject of porter. I couldn't help smiling. With a snort Sir William directed his ensuing conversation to the earl, sitting on his far side, completely ignoring Philius and myself.

“Well, I think we now know where we stand with Sir William.” So saying, Philius Pheebes-Watson lifted his own tankard and drank.

I was not too happy at being cut out of any further conversation with the home secretary. It meant I was stuck with Philius, though happily Mr. Irving came to his feet at that moment, and all thoughts of conversing were put out of my mind.

“Gentlemen!”

The Guv'nor's “stage voice,” as I liked to call it, resonated around the relatively small room, and all conversation died.

“Gentlemen, I welcome you here—members and visitors alike—to this our esteemed and historic Sublime Society of Beefsteaks. I venture to state that there is no other of its ilk in the whole of London, and we should feel ourselves blessed to be so intimately associated with it.”

There were murmurs of approval, one or two mutterings of “Hear, hear!” by the politicians, and a general thumping of the table by several dozen pewter tankards of porter.

The hint of a smile touched Mr. Irving's lips. He nodded his appreciation.

“At our regular meetings here we enjoy the gastronomic delights prepared by our Mr. Cooke . . .”

Here he stopped and raised his glass—Mr. Irving was a port man rather than a porter aficionado—and all about the table did likewise with their glasses and tankards, acknowledging the somewhat red-faced, white-aproned figure of our chef.

“. . . and we leave the verbal badinage until our appetites are sufficiently appeased,” continued the Guv'nor. He gave a dramatic pause before continuing, the table hanging on his words. “This evening, however, we reverse that order. I ask you to hold rein on your appetites, gentlemen, if only for a few precious moments. For tonight we have the privilege, nay the honor, if I may so state it, of welcoming into our midst a new member. If only by reputation he is known to us all—especially we of the theatrical fraternity—as a world-class thespian who has made his mark across the waters of the broad Atlantic Ocean. I refer, of course, to our honored guest, Mr. Edwin Booth.”

Applause, supported by more banging of tankards on the table, broke out around the room. Led by Mr. Stoker, we all came to our feet and decorum swiftly gave way to shouts and whoops of glee, if nothing else attesting to the potency of porter.

Mr. Booth himself, like all prominent thespians inured to such displays of approbation, stood and raised his own glass, turning first one way and then the other, inclining his head in acknowledgment and appreciation. As the applause died down and we again sat, the Guv'nor waved to Anthony Sampson and Guy Purdy, whom I saw now stood at the back of the room holding bundles of clothing. They moved forward, and I noticed that what they held were the buff waistcoats and blue jackets to be presented.

“Along with Mr. Edwin Booth,” continued Mr. Irving, “I would like to welcome his manager, Colonel Wilberforce Cornell.” There was a smattering of applause. “Both gentlemen are this evening inducted into our ancient and esteemed brotherhood, the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks.
Absit invidia.
Gentlemen!”

I felt hot breath at my ear. Philius's hoarse voice whispered, “Absent what? What's he talking about?”

I was loath to take my eyes off the proceedings but whispered back, “
Absit invidia
. It's Latin. It means ‘may discontent be absent.' Or something like that.” I only knew that courtesy of Mr. Stoker. “Shh!”

He sat back in his seat, grumbling about people not speaking English. I thought of his pronounced Yorkshire accent and smiled.

Guy Purdy walked around the table to where the colonel sat, and then he and Anthony Sampson assisted the two guests of honor in exchanging their dinner jackets for the traditional buff waistcoats and blue jackets. When suitably adorned, they turned to face the Guv'nor.

“Gentlemen, I bid you welcome. Know that any time you visit our fair city you are welcome to join with your brother Beefsteakers and partake of the best that London has to offer. As a token and official insignia—insofar as any of our mutual enjoyment may be official—I would like to present to you a set of gold cuff links, which you will see are emblazoned with the gridiron motif that we have adopted as our emblem. By mutual agreement with the owners of the Waldorf Hotel restaurant . . .” Here he acknowledged an elderly gentleman with bushy white eyebrows, who merrily waved his tankard and smiled around at everyone. “I may advise you that by the simple act of shooting your cuffs and displaying these links, you will experience what many refer to as ‘the royal treatment' at that esteemed establishment.”

There were again loud cries of “Hear, hear!” and once again much banging of tankards.

Messrs. Sampson and Purdy did the honors of delivering the cuff links, which I noticed were in beautiful silk-lined presentation boxes, to Mr. Booth and the colonel, who graciously accepted them and lost no time in installing them in their cuffs.

“And now, without further ado, gentlemen, I think we have all worked up an appetite such that can only be abated with the introduction of our prestigious and—if I may wax poetical for a moment—almost apotheosized beefsteaks.”

To shouts of glee, applause, and the inevitable table thumping by tankards, the waiters moved forward and began serving the meal for which we had waited so long. I ignored Philius Pheebes-Watson's grumbling about the delay and the quality of service and concentrated on my enormous pewter plate, barely large enough to contain the magnificent chateaubriand and baked potato. There was a conspicuous pause in the conversation, the chatter replaced by the clink of knife and fork and the sound of tankards being repeatedly drained and refilled.

I was aware of a wide grin spreading and setting on my face, as I gazed about me at the crowded table. Sir William Harcourt, the home secretary, nodded appreciatively and smiled at me, apparently forgetting and forgiving Pheebes-Watson's earlier faux pas. All was serene, and I felt at peace.

*   *   *

T
he port and the porter flowed freely, and more extensively as the night wore on. Perhaps I should say the morning, for I knew we would be greeted by the rising sun when finally emerging from the back room of the Lyceum Theatre.

With the meal over, the table was cleared and the participants, drinks in hand, rose and mingled freely. Those unable to rise sat and digested, imbibed more, or—in a few cases—slumped forward and rested their heads where their plates had been. I found myself chatting variously with an enthusiastic young actor down from Birmingham for a visit to “the big city”; a pale and painfully thin poet who couldn't stop talking about the quality of the steak we had enjoyed; and the hard-of-hearing politician, Lord Glenmont, who spouted platitudes regarding the Anglo-Afghan War and the war against the Mahdi in Sudan (I thought I recognized several quotes from the prime minister himself but couldn't be sure). I soon thereafter found myself fending off a loquacious scenery designer from the Drury Lane Theatre. He seemed to think that I might be able to help him gain employment at the Lyceum, despite my protestations that I had no part in any of the hiring.