Authors: Christine Trent
“And now”—Philipsthal extended his other arm—”we welcome with us tonight Major Ellery, who was present at the mauling and has sought vengeance for the past four years.”
A man in a military uniform entered from the opposite end of the stage and stood next to the cage, glaring at the tiger.
“When I release the lock to the cage, Major Ellery will come face-to-snout with his longtime enemy, Tippoo. Are you ready, dear friends?”
A woman seated somewhere near the front of the theatre—it was difficult for Marguerite to see in the dark and from her elevated
position—shrieked, and a gentleman nearby picked her up and carried her up the aisle and out of the theatre. The remainder of the audience was hushed, holding its collective breath in anticipation.
Philipsthal quickly released the lock and ran around behind the cage. The cage was towering enough that even from Marguerite’s lofty position she could not see where he went. The major took a step to the cage, putting his right foot up into it and was greeted with a roar of such magnitude that the very walls of the theatre shook. More screams sliced through the air and the fear of the spectators became palpable.
Major Ellery recoiled from the cage door, groaning and clutching his chest in apparent pain, then collapsed in the middle of the stage. The audience’s shrieks turned into shocked gasps. Philipsthal reappeared and moved to the front of the stage as a curtain dropped behind him, blocking the major and the tiger cage from view.
Philipsthal held up his arms in a supplicating manner. “Friends, fear not. The good major will live to continue doing his duty to king and country. I ask you to welcome back our brave soldier, Major Ellery.”
The midstage curtain swept back open. Major Ellery was standing and smiling. He swept a bow to the audience, now filled with murmurs of disbelief. Philipsthal nonchalantly flicked the fingers of his left hand, so subtly that Marguerite was certain no one noticed it but her, and almost immediately the tiger’s head pulled back and he roared again, this time becoming utterly still afterwards.
Ah, Marguerite thought. The tiger is as mechanical as the Cossack.
The curtain again came between Philipsthal and his act. Once more the spectators burst into applause.
A parade of other performances followed, including a mechanical peacock that could eat, drink, cry, and unfold its tail, but the most amazing feat was saved for last. As the midstage curtain fell again, Philipsthal moved to the very front of the stage and spoke in an exaggerated whisper, clearly heard within the fine acoustics of the theatre.
“And now, my most esteemed guests, I would like to present you with something so puzzling, so mystifying, so extraordinarily peculiar that the world’s foremost men of science and reason cannot explain it.” Philipsthal held an arm in the air as though summoning higher powers.
“Yes, many have known that our earthly world is inhabited by those of the spiritual realm. Desperately these spirits try to communicate with us, but they’ve had no means to do so until now. For, ladies and gentlemen, tonight you have the special privilege of being in contact with specters from the realm of the departed!”
Philipsthal swept his raised arm down dramatically and the curtain rose as the remaining candles on stage were extinguished, plunging the entire theatre into darkness. Marguerite could see nothing, but felt the hushed presence of the other show-goers.
Onstage was the backdrop of a cave with skeletons and other ghoulish figures glowing in relief on its walls. After being given mere seconds to view these creatures, the audience was inundated with thunder and lightning, resulting in ear-splitting cries of surprise and confusion from the audience. Marguerite shut her eyes and held her hands over her ears to block out the mayhem.
The noise and flashes abruptly stopped, and were replaced by the sight of the figures on the cave wall starting to move, their eyes and mouths opening and closing. They dashed about the wall and slowly began receding, finally vanishing in a point, only to be replaced by what looked like a cloud that got larger and larger. Out of the cloud came the figure of King Charles I, the head of which transformed into a skull. He charged forward and back over the stage. King Charles receded back into the cloud, only to be replaced by a skeleton that transformed into the visage of Lady Jane Grey. Back and forth a variety of specters went, some in human form, others as ghastly skeletons.
The audience recoiled in terror from the apparitions, but were petrified by what happened next. Instead of merely charging back and forth in the air over the stage, the ghoulish figures appeared all together and charged the audience, dashing about madly over their heads. Both men and women cried out in distress and attempted to hide down in their seats, although some of the less
fearful spectators actually reached up to try to touch a passing phantom.
Marguerite could not help herself. She dug her fingernails into her hands in fright, even though the rational part of her whispered that it must all be a trick.
In a great rush, all of the figures flew speedily back toward the cave wall, and the orchestra’s cymbals clanged with every visual impact made by a specter colliding with, and disappearing into, the cave wall.
With the disappearance of the last spirit, Philipsthal reappeared on stage while workers relit all of the candelabra around the theatre. The audience was still in a state of fluster over the unimaginable scenes it had witnessed.
“Esteemed guests,” Philipsthal began. “I know that this evening has stretched your understanding of the world in unimaginable ways. What you once thought was ordinary you now see can be quite … phantasmagoric. I thank you for your kind attendance in witnessing these wonders, and do beg that you will share what you have seen with your friends. My show will not be here indefinitely, so persuade them to come right away.”
And so the show ended.
Marguerite waited for Philipsthal to return to her box to fetch her, and she remained quiet and reflective until they were seated in a nearby restaurant for supper.
Over glasses of sherry they discussed whether Napoleon might invade England now that the Americans were negotiating for the purchase of a large tract of land that included Louisiana. Such a sale would replenish his war coffers.
They were served whole trout in a short crust with rosemary sprig decoration, and completed their meals with cups of chocolate. Before sipping the sweet drink from her cup, Marguerite ventured into questions about the show.
“Mr. Philipsthal, I must confess to amazement over tonight’s performance. I know the spirits were some kind of trick, but I can’t see how you did it.”
“Ah, usually such wonders must remain the secrets of their masters.
But you were so kind as to accompany me that I will tell you that my secret relies upon a magic lantern.”
“A magic lantern?” Marguerite was intrigued enough to put down her last forkful of food.
“Indeed. It is a very special device that enables me to project images on backdrops. For tonight I used several lanterns to produce the effect I wanted.”
“It was truly amazing. I was frightened even though I knew what I was seeing could not possibly be real.”
“Every professional showman loves to hear praise of his productions. When it comes from a creature as lovely as you, the pleasure is doubled.”
Marguerite mentally retreated from his compliment and sat silently nibbling her crumbs. Mr. Philipsthal had promised this outing to be free of romance.
“Mrs. Ashby, forgive me. I let my reckless tongue run away from me. I should not have offended you so. Please, tell me of yourself. How did you come to be Madame Tussaud’s apprentice?”
Marguerite described as simply as she could her past as a dollmaker and the death of her husband, with her resulting stay with the Greycliffes and eventual decision to move into a related trade. She deliberately left out any mention of her shrew of a mother-in-law.
“You have suffered great misfortune. It delights me that this evening’s entertainment served to divert you for a little while.”
“It was very enjoyable. But I also find my apprenticeship to be pleasantly distracting.”
“Is it? You don’t find the wax figures to be a bit boring? How do you find it working directly with Madame Tussaud?”
Marguerite carefully considered the question with her hands around the warm cup. “I suppose some might think her abrupt, but I think that’s a result of her difficulty with the language and the troubles she has witnessed in her life. She’s been kind to me, and she obviously has a deep affection for her son.”
“How long will your apprenticeship last?”
“I don’t really know. We didn’t actually establish that. Until she finds me to be a proficient waxworker, I suppose.”
“And what then? Will you open your own exhibit?”
“I’ve honestly given it no thought. I’ve hardly started to learn how to even work with the figures, much less put much reflection into what the future may bring. Right now I’m happy just to be continuing on with life.”
“Of course, of course. But you should eventually consider breaking away from Madame Tussaud. I could help you do so.”
After Mr. Philipsthal had returned her to her lodgings, Marguerite sat quietly in contemplation.
What a strange man,
she thought. She couldn’t decide if he was genuine in his friendship, or lurking about with the intent of starting a love affair.
Well, he won’t get very far on that score. My devotion now is for waxworks, not love affairs.
“Tomfoolery and nonsense,” was Marie’s full summation of Marguerite’s report of the Phantasmagoria show the next morning as they walked to the Lyceum. “Idiotic entertainment for the equally stupid. Waste of time. Tomorrow we close the show to do a special modeling. I show you how to do life masks.”
Life masks! Finally, an opportunity to truly get involved in waxworking. Marguerite tried to suppress her excitement throughout the day as she stayed stationed at the entrance of the Cabinet, collecting admissions.
Exhibit visitors were charged a shilling to walk through and gawp at the wax figures. Marie was not satisfied with her clientele, desiring the more elegant members of society to traverse through the gallery instead of setting up private visits to commission figures, but her debts were high and the lower social orders were happy to spend a shilling for such exciting entertainment. Marie constantly reminded Marguerite that one day her gallery would be in demand by the upper class, and that they must constantly work toward that aim.
When the appointed hour for closing the exhibit came, the two women and young boy returned to Surrey Street, where Marie asked Mrs. Slade to watch her son for a few days while she and
Marguerite went out on a special commission. Joseph’s face registered first his shock, then his complete displeasure at having been left out of whatever special sale his mother had made.
“But Maman, I am your helper. I should go with you. You need me to translate for you.”
“No, Nini, this is work for the apprentice. She will help with my words. You stay here.”
Mrs. Slade’s offers of cakes and lemon candies could not remove the boy’s scowl, and he stomped off to the quarters he shared with his mother.
Still Marie beamed with pride. “My boy is such a hard worker. Wants to be with his mother.”
Inside their hired coach the next morning, along with their traveling cases, crate of modeling tools, and two other anonymous passengers, Marie explained their destination as that of Oatlands Park in Surrey. The Duchess of York was now living there, separated from her husband, the favorite son of the king. She had ventured into London some time before Marguerite’s arrival and visited the exhibition after closing hours, so as not to be seen visiting with commoners. She now wished to have her own wax portrait made to amuse herself. Marie was hopeful that a royal commission such as this one would help turn her exhibition into one that was more exclusive.
Marguerite understood. As the quasi proprietor of Aunt Claudette’s shop, she knew that it was receiving the royal warrant from the House of Hanover that had truly launched the doll shop into its most successful period.
During the long and bumpy ride, Marguerite assisted Marie with the practice of her English. Her mentor was slowly developing her speaking skills, but always slipped into her choppy English when upset or excited.
The coach stopped for an hour at an inn on the outskirts of Richmond to enable its passengers to have a light supper. Marguerite used some of the time to walk and stretch her legs, while Marie chatted up her exhibition with the innkeeper. Tussaud was indefatigable when it came to her business, and talked of nothing else.
The coach resumed its uncomfortable journey and it was near twilight when it finally arrived at another inn in the town of Weybridge, where the two women were met by another carriage displaying the Hanoverian seal. Their meager belongings were hoisted onto the carriage and they were soon entering the drive leading to Oatlands Park.
They approached the large, drab, gothic-style house in tan brick from the right side. Candles were already burning in many of the mullioned windows. The coach pulled up to the entrance, a stone portico with three sets of columns topped with arches.
“How curious,” Marguerite remarked. “It doesn’t even seem as grand as the Lyceum, and it’s a royal residence.”
“Hah! This is the replacement to the old Tudor house that was here. I hear that was very grand with many towers and courts.”
The women were escorted into a large entry hall by a liveried doorman and were requested to wait. Within a few minutes they heard a sharp clicking noise in the distance, followed by several sharp barks. Three black, mop-haired little dogs came bounding in, stopping short to warn their mistress of the two intruders in their house. Behind them entered the exhibition’s new client, Princess Frederica Charlotte, the Duchess of York and Albany.
The duchess, whom Marguerite guessed to be about Marie’s age, wore an emerald green dress with white trim and a gold sash around the waist. Her matching cap with a purple ostrich feather sprouting from the crest of it covered her curled and frizzed red hair. Her nose was overly long and her eyes almost crossed, giving her a homely look, but her charm was captivating. Marie and Marguerite curtsied before her. In response, she approached both women, giving each a gentle kiss on the cheek.