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Overview
In the penal colony of Sydney Cove, Australia, at the farthest reaches of the late-nineteenth-century British Empire, Lieutenant Ralph Clark has received a bizarre commission. In honor of the king’s birthday, Clark is charged with staging a production of the George Farquhar comedy The Recruiting Officer using as cast and production crew the highwaymen, whores, cutpurses, killers, and other assorted disreputables exiled there from the British Isles. Pining over the family he left behind, Clark must work miracles with only two printed scripts, a company of unstable and largely illiterate “actors,” and the dubious assistance of his colleagues. But the success—or failure—of the mammoth enterprise rests largely on the shoulders of lead actress Mary Brenham, the mesmerizing and enigmatic female convict to whom Clark finds himself strangely and dangerously attracted.
Based on the lieutenant’s real diaries, The Playmaker is a truly remarkable achievement. Atmospheric, dreamlike, and richly evoking time and place, featuring a monumental cast of magnificently drawn, unforgettable characters, it is a work of insight, imagination, and true genius by one of the most notable names in historical fiction.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504026772 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 12/22/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 353 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Playmaker
By Thomas Keneally
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1987 Serpentine Publishing Company Proprietary, Ltd.All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2677-2
CHAPTER 1
The Reading
APRIL 1789
Ralph began hearing for the parts in the play early in April, the day after the hanging of Private Handy Baker and the five other Marines. His purpose was to find eleven or twelve convicts for the chief speaking parts. Much later he could find and begin rehearsing the lesser actors in their movements about a stage which he could only dimly envisage as yet, and among leading players he would somehow have to perfect in the coming two and a little months.
H.E. had given him that span of time in which to bring about the very first presentation of this or any other play ever performed on this new penal planet, which so far as anyone knew had gone from the beginning of time till now absolutely play-less and theatre-less.
On this morning of his first auditions, he was heavy-headed from sitting up late with Harry Brewer the Provost Marshal, and from drinking with him a dangerous quantity of brandy. Then, returned to his hut, he'd paid for it with one of those murderous old dreams he thought Dabby Bryant the witch had cured him of. As long as he drank wisely and modestly, Ralph was safe from them. But in occasional drunkenness they returned, deadly and perfectly discreet little dreams to do with loss, desire, and jealousy.
In this one he met a city and a wife he had been separated from almost precisely two years in time and eight months' travel in space. The city was Plymouth, for which his convict transport had sailed to join the others at Portsmouth. The wife was of course little Betsey Alicia, her heart-shaped face sharp as a knife in the dream's definition. He had been holding two chestnut horses, one on either side of him, by the bridles. He had wanted Alicia to mount one of them and go riding with him, but she had refused. He got angry and abused her, falling back on convict insults in his fury, calling her an ulcer, a torment, threatening even to punch her. He hated to satanic lengths her perfect little shoulders and her neat rose of a mouth.
When she had still refused to mount, he'd let go of the bridle of one of the chestnuts, mounted the other and gone flying through the countryside, he and the horse both speeded along and made one creature by a delicious anger. Rounding a corner, however, he had been stopped by the sight of Alicia sitting under a hedge with a sharp-featured young man in a white suit of clothes. And singing a particular song with him, "The Myrtle of Venus — with Bacchus Entwined."
The day-time Lieutenant Ralph Clark had no doubts about the faithfulness of his wife. But the old question was, did the nighttime Ralph, that child of the prophets, of the seers and the holy dreamers, looking straight through the eight moons which divided him from his wife, know something better than the day-time functionary and playmaker might know?
He had had Private Ellis erect the marquee again at the side of his hut, and at ten o'clock on a rainy morning at the beginning of April, a month which here, on this reverse side of the mirror of space, was not spring but instead a temperate autumn, he sat in there at a folding camp table, his green coat slung over his shoulders and two copies of the chosen play in front of him. This was The Recruiting Officer. It had been written some eighty years past by a sad young playwright called George Farquhar, who had not lived to see it become a great favourite of the theatre or to know any of the wealth and fame it would generate for those who presented it or acted in it.
In fact Ralph had read the play four times in the past week, and during at least one of these readings began to see how the play could be thought of as dull and contrived. Just the same, in all this vast reach of the universe this was the one play of which two copies existed. There was Lieutenant George Johnston's copy, and Captain Davy Collins's. He himself would have preferred The Tragedy of Lady Jane Grey, because he could remember how he had wept when reading it aboard the convict transport Friendship during an Atlantic storm. But the cultivated Judge Advocate of this penal commonwealth, Davy Collins, commenting on H.E.'s demand for a play, had said with some justice, "Something lively, eh, Ralph? Confused identities, inheritances, lovers, girls dressed as officers, double meanings! We all know the convict lags won't sit still for death and destiny!"
Four large and robust speaking roles for women, seven or eight grand to minor speaking roles for men. Sitting at a table inside the marquee, he felt ill enough to hope that few prisoners would come to be heard, but he knew many would. For the women prisoners liked to consider themselves actresses, and many of them had followed the trade which, cynics always remarked, was so close to that of the stage — whoredom.
He was not prepared for the first auditioner to be the prisoner Meg Long, the woman-beater. He saw her suddenly at the tent flap, her big flat features gleaming at him wetly through a slick of raindrops. Her hair was slick with rain too, and terrible bald patches from ringworm glistened pinkly. As she came closer, her breath blinded him.
"Morning, Captain chuck!" she said gaily. "I ain't no mere pretty nun. I'm a Covent Garden woman of high class."
She smelled like death. She was quite incontinent. The surgeons quoted her as an argument for the building of an asylum. Occasionally she would jump on one of the younger female prisoners and try to caress her, and the girl would scream into those rapt great hammer-flat features until rescued by other women or constables or Marines. But here now her face was lit from within with the hope of Thespian glory. It was so strangely touching that Ralph, despite her madness and her stench, felt it would be inhuman to send her away at once.
"Meg, you must come in out of the rain," he told her.
She stood in front of his desk, grinning and shaking herself. Water flew from her as from a wet dog. "There are not many parts for women," he said. "I am looking particularly for actresses who can write. They will have to make copies of this play for their own use."
He riffled the pages of The Recruiting Officer. He saw the names of Plume and Worthy, who before the play was over would find themselves engaged to heiresses, and the name of Silvia Balance, that lusty, forthright girl who — to fit Davy Collins's requirements for a play — dresses as a young gentleman and attracts the desire of a farm girl called Rose. Who would be Silvia and who the virago Melinda? This dull morning Meg Long seemed not only to incarnate the gulf between his own fortune and that of happy Captain Plume, hero of the play, but also to show him too clearly the gulf between the convict women and the true actresses, the women of authentic theatrical spirit, he was seeking.
"Now you can't write, Meg, can you?" he asked.
Meg Long nodded crazily. "I have penmanship, Captain chuck."
"Where did you get penmanship, Meg?"
"From the abbess of my mob, my canting crew, when I were a kiddie. She teached me penmanship to the hilt."
"Oh sweet Christ!" he murmured. He tore off a small slice of paper — there wasn't much to waste of the stuff — and pushed a pen and ink toward her. "Come here and write me something."
She held the pen deftly and with delicacy, and he was surprised. Then, leaning over the desk, dripping on to it and giving off miasmas that stung his eyes, she began to write, dipping the pen twice. There was some blotting, and when she had finished she waved the sodden paper back and forth, helping it to dry. Then she handed it to him. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," she had written. He studied the succession of vowels, wondering how to get rid of her. Without warning she had her arms around him, threatening to crack his ribs with her maniac strength. Once, in another hemisphere, she'd beaten the wife of a coffee merchant so livid and swollen that members of the jury had wept when the victim gave evidence. In Meg Long's arms, Lieutenant Clark understood how misused the woman must have been, and why Meg had been given a lifetime's exile — what the convicts called a bellowser — to a distant star.
He had only just collected himself to struggle with her when he saw a black face appear over her shoulder. A harmonious voice, marked by elements of French and Kentish and something irreducibly African, came from the face.
"Ma mère, you must let go that gentleman. Yes, chérie, in the name of the Fragrant One. Ease them little arms of yours. This gentleman is foko to me, is brother, so ease your arms, mammie."
Mad, shitty Meg Long let go of Lieutenant Clark and began to caress the black man's face. His name was John Caesar. He came from Madagascar and invoked the Fragrant One, some sort of Madagascan god, endlessly. He was very dangerous — the strongest and hungriest of all the prisoners.
"I have come here for the play, maître," he told Ralph, pushing Meg Long deftly to one side. "There was a black servant in every play I see in Maidstone." He had been someone's servant in Maidstone once. His great member was said to be renowned among the convict women, but not always welcomed by them, since he turned so easily to blows.
Lieutenant Clark thought he had better not entertain Black Caesar's artistic ambitions too much, since he had seen how dangerous it had been to give any space to Meg Long's. "There are no black men at all in this play," said Ralph, his head pulsing. Meg Long's lunatic muscles had squeezed all the blood into his brain. "There are no black servants, Caesar."
"There be always beaucoup black servants in every drama I see," Black Caesar insisted, frowning.
"Now do not argue with me," said Ralph. "It is not down to me that there are not black roles in the play; it is down to George Farquhar, who wrote the play eighty years ago, before you were born, and who died of consumption before he was as old as you or me."
Now, in the lessening rain, there was a crowd of convict women, noisy but waiting to be invited in, at the flap of the tent. They displayed that delicacy which, apparently, Madagascans lacked. Ralph saw among the faces that of Liz Barber, who had once, aboard the convict transport Friendship, invited Captain Meredith to kiss her arse and called him a thief. Now she wanted, of course, to be first woman of the stage in this penal latitude. In her berserkly enthusiastic face, Ralph could tell what a grief this play, demanded by H.E. and Davy, might be for him.
"I will take your name," Lieutenant Clark told the Madagascan, and did so. "If we find we need a black servant, I shall send to the sawpits for you."
Oh what an axeman he was, the Madagascan! "By the Fragrant One," said Black Caesar, almost gently, "you will need a black servant. Tout le monde needs a black servant for their play."
"I shall send to the sawpits," Ralph Clark promised again, trying to keep out of his voice the hope that Caesar would return to his labour.
The Madagascan went, but Meg Long sat for hours by the tent flap, just inside, listening without comment or movement as forty convicts, men and women, offered their halting readings to Ralph, some with nearly as much desperation as Miss Long had earlier shown, as if they sensed like her that their best chance out of hunger and lovelessness and a bad name was to capture the first primitive stage of this new earth.
CHAPTER 2Isle of Turnips
April 2nd 1789
Concerning the play The Recruiting Officer:
For the Information of His Excellency.
General Principles of Procedure —
For the chief male parts, those with less outlandish British accents. West Country people — whom the convicts call Zedlanders, I notice, because of their well-known inability to pronounce S — will serve pretty well for the lower and more comic parts. The play is set in Shrewsbury, but there are not many Salopians among the prisoners, and certainly none with any Thespian ability. For the women, Melinda and Silvia should be capable of polite London accents, but Rose and Lucy can be wilder. Nancy Turner, the Perjurer, would be a perfect Melinda — she is handsome and dark. But perjurers should not be honoured, particularly in parts which have been graced by a line of great actresses, beginning with Mrs. Rogers. I might say it is surprising to find her reading for a play the day after her lover Dukes was hanged, reading without apparent grief. There's a steeliness to the woman, however, which might be the mask of grief.
So far I have settled upon only one actor — Henry Kable has the right levity and intelligence to play Captain Plume. His East Anglian voice is very pleasant, and given that he is a convict overseer he will be able to keep order among the others. Your Excellency might remember too he is a characteristic East Anglian Dane, very fair-haired, but his complexion a quite handsome leathery brown. Your Excellency might also remember that he is married to the convict Holmes and that his history is somewhat more interesting than that of the run of felons. He is still a thief — I remember from the Friendship how when he was working the pumps with another lag he managed to cut a way into the forrard stowage and take a quantity of flour. But his present behaviour is such, and his engaging character so marked, that we are not likely to find another quite like him. I shall keep Your Excellency informed concerning the preparations for our play.
Your obedient servant,
Ralph Clark,
Lieutenant, Marines.
At the noon bell he cleared the auditioning convicts from his tent and Private Ellis brought him his plain lunch of rice pudding and bread. He ate the food without joy, and it sat like a cramp on his belly. The sun appeared, and suddenly the tent was full of those great black flies which infested this littoral. He would have liked to sleep, but he had a duty to his turnips.
A pug-faced man of about fifty years, wearing a crooked three-cornered hat, stuck his head in at the tent flap. "Holy Christ, Ralph," he said. "I swear I saw Baker watching me this morning, when I rose at first light to take a piss."
Private Baker had been hanged with the other Marines just yesterday, and it was normal for Harry Brewer, the Provost Marshal and owner of the rumpled face, to see the phantoms of the hanged.
"Did he speak?" asked Ralph, feeling again the oppressiveness both of yesterday's extreme punishment and of the sickly liquor in his blood.
"Nothing. I spoke, Ralph, though I am not sure he stayed to hear. I told him I was the one in possession of the earth, I was the only one with an active manhood left to ply. He was not the sharpest man of intelligence and it will take some days for it to come to his attention that his cock has fought its last fight."
Ralph wondered how Harry Brewer's image of the dead's behaviour fitted with the Christian doctrine of Heaven and Hell, of deliverance or damnation at the second of death. There was something heathen, Portuguese, or even Chinese about Harry's belief that spirits delayed and lingered and had to be spoken to harshly to make them move on.
Harry Brewer came fully into the tent now. There was a bottle of port in one hand. "If I come out to your island with you, we could sit in the shade and watch your old lag do the hoeing and recuperate ourselves. I want to get away from this Bedlam here. Every whore calling congratulations to me because Baker's hanged. Sometimes I wish I was a man of virtue, like you, Ralph."
"You have lost a rival." Clark smiled, lively now that the prospect of going out to the island had been raised — inspired also to eloquence by having read all morning the playwright George Farquhar's well-balanced sentences. "And gained only the small annoyance of a ghost."
A shudder — the sort of spirituous shudder good bottlemen seem to suffer as they get older — rattled through Harry's features.
Harry Brewer protested, "But you know I am unhappy to see any rival vanish that way. The hemp quinsey, as the convicts call hanging, and the shitten breeches. Christ, I swear I hate it."
"Well, there are no executions in our little comedy here," said Ralph, patting his two copies of the play.
"Deo gratias," said Harry. He had picked up fragments of Papist Latin in such places as Rio and Narbonne. He and H.E. had once spied on harbour fortifications in France, but enjoyed the occasional High Mass as well.
On the way down to the dinghy, Harry murmured, with that terrifying nothing-to-lose candour of his, "What I fear is that she had more ardour for Handy Baker than she does for me." Ralph felt desire pass through him like nausea.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Playmaker by Thomas Keneally. Copyright © 1987 Serpentine Publishing Company Proprietary, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Dramatis Personae,The Players,
PART ONE,
1. The Reading,
2. Isle of Turnips,
3. Players,
4. Recruiting the Perjurer,
5. Dreams,
6. By the Spikes,
7. A Full Company,
8. The Morality of Plays,
PART TWO,
9. The Hunt,
10. Wryneck Day,
PART THREE,
11. Perjury and the Play,
12. The Autopsy,
13. Hanging the Marines,
14. Playing to the Indian,
15. Enchanting the Indian,
16. The Play and Poetry,
17. Judging the Perjurer,
18. Exorcising Handy Baker,
PART FOUR,
19. Letters,
20. Bruises,
21. The Redeemed Forest,
22. Ca-bahn,
23. Curse or Cure,
24. The Watching of the Ill,
25. Withholding Prussian Blue,
PART FIVE,
26. Tattoo,
27. Celebrating the Part,
28. Lag Matrimony,
29. San Augustin,
30. Performance,
EPILOGUE,
Author's Note,
About the Author,