me.”
I tried to steady him with my gaze. “Are you sure you’re quite well, Mr. Farquhar Pratt?”
Like a hurt animal, he scurried about, crashing into the gothic set which had been erected in the stage grooves. The quiet-mannered Mr. Simpson moved toward him and tried to placate him, which inspired Farquhar Pratt to rush down stage and to leap into the auditorium.
“If you would allow me,” said Mr. Simpson in a nasal voice, “I would only like to help you, Mr. Farquhar Pratt.”
“No! No!” shouted Pratty, his arms outstretched in a melodramatic pose. “You’re all in’t, I can tell.”
“In what, sir?” inquired Mr. Simpson. The other actors joined him at the lip of the stage.
Mr. Farquhar Pratt ran to the back of the auditorium and stood against the wall, his arms pressed into the velveteen wallpaper as if to anchor him. “In this plot to cook and eat me.”
“To cook and eat you?” said Mr. Simpson incredulously. He took a deep breath and wondered, as did we all, how he had offended the gods in order to exact this kind of punishment.
“Aye, sir. You, the madhouse keeper. The fat one there –” he pointed at Mrs. Toffat, who could not hide her anger and embarrassment – “the cook.”
“Somebody get Mr. Wilton,” Mr. Simpson whispered so that Pratty could not hear. “This is not Sweeney Todd , Mr. Farquhar Pratt. This is the New Albion Theatre in Whitechapel.”
Gesturing toward Eliza Wilton, Farquhar Pratt fell to his knees. “Cecily,” he screamed, “Cecily Maybush! Help me! Find the string of pearls before it is too late!”
Miss Wilton burst into tears again and had to be escorted offstage.
I stepped down into the auditorium and spoke in measured cadences to Mr. Farquhar Pratt, who scurried about at the back of the stalls like a caged rat. “Please remain calm,” I said, “and allow us to help you, sir.” I knew that if I moved another inch he would be out the front door and into the street.
At last, Mr. Wilton entered hurriedly to the stage, looking grey and stern. Mrs. Wilton was not far behind him. “What is the to-do?” he asked, surveying the perplexed faces of all those around him.
“It’s Pratty,” said Mr. Simpson out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s become a bloody nutter.”
Mr. Wilton came down stage and tried to address Farquhar Pratt, who cowered against the back wall of the auditorium like a frightened animal. “There he is!” shouted Pratty as he pointed an outstretched finger at Mr. Wilton. “Mr. Sweeney Todd himself. The Demon Barber of Fleet Street!”
When Farquhar Pratt turned and bolted toward the front of house, some of the men in the company, myself included, gave chase. We saw the doors at the front entry slam shut and ran into the street after the old man. His madness made him surprisingly swift, and it required the sprinting talents of young Mr. Tyrone to catch up with Mr. Farquhar Pratt near Petticoat Lane. The market was in full swing, reverberant with barkers and walnut roasters and sellers of used and recently fingered clothing. Several amazed hawkers watched as Mr. Tyrone administered a flurry of blows upon Farquhar Pratt’s person, thereby bringing him to the cobblestones and rendering him incapable of further resistance. There was only a momentary lull in the hubbub, broken with the lamentation, “Cockels! Eels! Fish of all sorts!” as the men of the theatre scooped up the insensible Mr. Farquhar Pratt and carted him back inside.
Thursday, 31 October 1850
I visited Mr. Farquhar Pratt in his digs this morning. He is living amongst the Huguenot weavers in Bethnal Green, in a downstairs flat. There seemed to be a horrible row going on in the upstairs the whole time I was there – the crash of heavy footfalls across the floor, a woman caterwauling, a male voice responding drunkenly, the piercing shriek of an unhappy infant. How anybody could write in these surroundings was beyond my comprehension.
Pratty’s flat was itself
I tried to steady him with my gaze. “Are you sure you’re quite well, Mr. Farquhar Pratt?”
Like a hurt animal, he scurried about, crashing into the gothic set which had been erected in the stage grooves. The quiet-mannered Mr. Simpson moved toward him and tried to placate him, which inspired Farquhar Pratt to rush down stage and to leap into the auditorium.
“If you would allow me,” said Mr. Simpson in a nasal voice, “I would only like to help you, Mr. Farquhar Pratt.”
“No! No!” shouted Pratty, his arms outstretched in a melodramatic pose. “You’re all in’t, I can tell.”
“In what, sir?” inquired Mr. Simpson. The other actors joined him at the lip of the stage.
Mr. Farquhar Pratt ran to the back of the auditorium and stood against the wall, his arms pressed into the velveteen wallpaper as if to anchor him. “In this plot to cook and eat me.”
“To cook and eat you?” said Mr. Simpson incredulously. He took a deep breath and wondered, as did we all, how he had offended the gods in order to exact this kind of punishment.
“Aye, sir. You, the madhouse keeper. The fat one there –” he pointed at Mrs. Toffat, who could not hide her anger and embarrassment – “the cook.”
“Somebody get Mr. Wilton,” Mr. Simpson whispered so that Pratty could not hear. “This is not Sweeney Todd , Mr. Farquhar Pratt. This is the New Albion Theatre in Whitechapel.”
Gesturing toward Eliza Wilton, Farquhar Pratt fell to his knees. “Cecily,” he screamed, “Cecily Maybush! Help me! Find the string of pearls before it is too late!”
Miss Wilton burst into tears again and had to be escorted offstage.
I stepped down into the auditorium and spoke in measured cadences to Mr. Farquhar Pratt, who scurried about at the back of the stalls like a caged rat. “Please remain calm,” I said, “and allow us to help you, sir.” I knew that if I moved another inch he would be out the front door and into the street.
At last, Mr. Wilton entered hurriedly to the stage, looking grey and stern. Mrs. Wilton was not far behind him. “What is the to-do?” he asked, surveying the perplexed faces of all those around him.
“It’s Pratty,” said Mr. Simpson out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s become a bloody nutter.”
Mr. Wilton came down stage and tried to address Farquhar Pratt, who cowered against the back wall of the auditorium like a frightened animal. “There he is!” shouted Pratty as he pointed an outstretched finger at Mr. Wilton. “Mr. Sweeney Todd himself. The Demon Barber of Fleet Street!”
When Farquhar Pratt turned and bolted toward the front of house, some of the men in the company, myself included, gave chase. We saw the doors at the front entry slam shut and ran into the street after the old man. His madness made him surprisingly swift, and it required the sprinting talents of young Mr. Tyrone to catch up with Mr. Farquhar Pratt near Petticoat Lane. The market was in full swing, reverberant with barkers and walnut roasters and sellers of used and recently fingered clothing. Several amazed hawkers watched as Mr. Tyrone administered a flurry of blows upon Farquhar Pratt’s person, thereby bringing him to the cobblestones and rendering him incapable of further resistance. There was only a momentary lull in the hubbub, broken with the lamentation, “Cockels! Eels! Fish of all sorts!” as the men of the theatre scooped up the insensible Mr. Farquhar Pratt and carted him back inside.
Thursday, 31 October 1850
I visited Mr. Farquhar Pratt in his digs this morning. He is living amongst the Huguenot weavers in Bethnal Green, in a downstairs flat. There seemed to be a horrible row going on in the upstairs the whole time I was there – the crash of heavy footfalls across the floor, a woman caterwauling, a male voice responding drunkenly, the piercing shriek of an unhappy infant. How anybody could write in these surroundings was beyond my comprehension.
Pratty’s flat was itself
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