A Revenger's Tragedy

“ I will not tolerate that man anywhere near this theatre again,” yelled Angelica Lake, to no-one in particular throwing her mink stole onto the chaise lounge in the number one dressing room. “For God’s sake, Jessica, chuck that bouquet out, will you? I simply cannot have any reminder of that man’s existence in my own creative space. Jessica Purcell tried to suppress her frustration at this woman’s demands, and complied by unceremoniously dumping the wilting irises into a bin in the green room. She so hated that woman, with her constant stream of unreasonable demands and zero gratitude for all she had ever done for her.

Jessica had been Miss Lake’s “lady’s companion” and dresser for over two years now. Angelica had been bad enough when she was “resting”, but now she was back in the business, playing Arkadina in The Seagull , she was practically unbearable. In Chekhov’s play, Irina Arkadina is a flawed character, an actress whose beauty and fame have passed their prime. Angelica wasn’t what you would call a “method” actress, but she took the “flawed” part to heart and exercised it as frequently and extremely as possible.

Jessica knew that reminding Miss Lake about the suitor she had just ejected from the dressing room would potentially invite a long stream of bile and vitriol, but she felt a prurient interest in the saucy details and had to ask.

“What specifically did Lord Malplash do to earn your disapproval, ma’am?”

“Do? He suggested I was being paranoid and melodramatic! Melodramatic? Moi?” screeched Miss Lake, flinging her arms wide, sloshing Evian dangerously close to the clothes rail. “I’m not being melodramatic, simply justifiably cautious. After all, you and I both know what Marcus is capable of. Stupid girl.”

Miss Lake called practically everybody “Stupid girl” or “Stupid boy”, reserving the term “darling” for people she really didn’t like. Jessica offered a sympathetic nod as she reached for the tissues to clear up the spill. “Marcus certainly does have a reputation for being vengeful. I’m sure your caution is well placed ma’am.”

Marcus Fyne had been assigned the role of Arkadina’s son, and despite their age difference, he and Angelica has spent several clandestine evenings together at various shady locations, until Angelica claimed that he had made improper advances towards her and had insisted that he should be fired. Marcus had denied everything, of course, but Angelica created such a scene that he lasted less than 18 hours with the company before being replaced by someone much younger, and, Jessica believed, much more handsome. Since then, Angelica had convinced herself that Marcus was out for revenge, and had excused herself from most rehearsals, preferring to lock herself in her dressing room with just Jessica for company. At the director’s insistence Jessica ran her lines with her.

“I smell sulphur. Is that done on purpose?” said Angelica, for once remembering a line without prompting.

“Yes”, said Jessica, knowing that the next line nearly always tripped the actress up.

“Oh, I see; that is… damnit I knew this last night. No, no, don’t tell me, I’ll get it… part of, part of

“The effect.”

“I knew that. Stupid girl, I told you that. ’Oh, I see; that is part of the effect.’ See I know it. Of course, I know it much better in the original Russian. I’m not sure that this translator has truly captured the majesty of the text.

After nearly a week of this, Jessica knew the lines better than her mistress. She also knew the maxim of Chekhov’s gun, because every time they got to part when Treplieff comes in with a gun, Angelica would come out with the author's famous advice on cue "If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired.”

The set did prominently feature a pistol hung on the wall, above the window which looked out onto the lake, which, by Act 4 would be shown to be frozen. Konstantin would attempt suicide by this pistol in Act III, but by the end of the play, he would succeed. The play would finish, and the critics would set their typewriters to work, analysing every scene, passing judgement over every nuance and interpretation’ potentially labelling Angelica Lake as “washed out” and “past her prime”. Why did she even accept this role which seemed to reflect her own life so accurately? She still had so much to give to the theatre, and surely this would be a springboard to Hamlet’s Gertrude or something equally challenging?

“Run the lines again will you, stupid girl, I just need to get in the zone before I go on.”

“Of course, ma’am, but there is this card which you may want to see first.”

“Who is it from?”

“No idea, I picked it up from the stage door.”

Angelica took the card and used her nail file to cut it open.

“It better not be from Justin. I just couldn’t bear another of his misguided opinions at the moment. For Christ’s sake, who sent me this?”

The card which Angelica had released from the envelope bore the picture of a peacock and featured the message “Be proud”. Jessica knew that peacocks on stage were an omen of bad luck, but she had underestimated the effect one would have on her mistress, who instantly dropped the card onto the floor and began to shake visibly.

“Hals- und Beinbruch!” she exclaimed, “Why curse me with such a card? Read it to me, will you? Then burn it, and put the ashes outside the stage door.” Jessica retrieved the card gingerly by a corner, and read “Good luck Angelica, I’m sure your Arkadina will knock ‘em dead, just as your Lady Macbeth did, MF.”

“Perhot’ podzalupnaya!” exclaimed Angelica. Jessica had previously noted that in times of stress, her mistress reverted to her native Russian, but this expletive was a new one on her.

“Take it away. Taker. It. Away. This instant. Now. Stupid girl. Just go.”

“Of course, ma’am. But I really don’t see what…”

“ It’s a threat. From Marcus. ”

“A threat?”

“Of course, stupid girl. Marcus is an actor, so he of all people knows that peacocks are an omen, and you should never wish an actor ‘Good luck’ or mention The Scottish Play. I thought you, of all people would know that.”

Jessica, did, of course. Her mistress, like so many of her profession had so many superstitions, she had lost count. She did as she had been asked and scattered the ashes of the card outside. When she got back to the dressing room, Miss Lake was draped on the chaise longue, her head covered with a serviette which rose comically with each wheezy exhale.

“I can’t go through with this," she sighed. “He’s got it in for me, I know it.”

“You can do this ma’am. I’m sure he didn’t mean to upset you. And think of your fans."

“Of course he did, he knew precisely what he was doing. But, you’re right, my public deserves me and I must try to soldier on regardless. But do me a favour will you? Walk the set and check my props for me? I don’t feel up to it, but it needs to be done in case Marcus has left more ‘surprises’ for me. The list is under my make-up case.”

Jessica didn’t need the list; she knew the play inside out and knew precisely what her mistress would need on stage. She also appreciated the ritual of checking everything before curtain up, and was happy to assist on this occasion. She made her way into the wings and entered the stage, set to mimic a Russian garden and outdoor stage. She checked the presence of the stool, cigarette lighter and book before moving to the part of the set that would be brought on in Act III to represent the dining room inside the house and checks for the tea cup and box of bandages. Everything was as it should be, except the pistol which was missing from its place above the window. That shouldn’t affect Miss Lake’s performance, but it was remarkable, none-the-less.

Upon returning to the dressing room, she did remark on it, and the missing pistol did nothing to improve her mistress's mood.

“It’s another sign from Marcus. He knows the stagehands and he’s got onto the set to threaten me. I can’t go on, I simply cannot go on.”

As she flopped into her chair by the mirror, there was a short rap on the door.

“Miss Lake, this is your half hour call.”

“Thank you,” she yelled back, stirred by the return to routine and she began applying the base layer of her make-up, all thoughts of threats excised by the magic of “Doctor Theatre”. For the next 15 minutes, she prepared and Jessica helped her into her Act I dress.

“This is a very agreeable dress, Jessica,” she announced. “The colour suits my complexion, and in fact, it’s very similar to your own, although, mine, of course is much more ornate, reflecting the importance of Irina’s station.”

Jessica knew that this wasn’t meant as a slur on her own humble position, but it hurt, nevertheless, and she responded by pushing the hat pin a little too firmly into Miss Lake’s bonnet.

“Careful, darling, I don’t want to get any blood on … Oh hooy morzhovy, there’s blood on the dress now, shluha vokzal’naja.”

Jessica knew the meaning of this one, she’d been called a “train station whore” far too many times for it to really make an impact anymore, but she carefully dabbed at the spill, apologising.

“Sorry ma’am, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Fine words butter no parsnips as my mother used to say. Now, out of my way, they’ll be calling Act I beginners soon.”

As she stood up, barging Jessica aside, the predicted rap came on the door.

“Act I beginners please Miss Lake.”

“All right, I’m coming, if I could just get past this zalupa konskaya, I’ll be there.”

Angelica pushed past Jessica and made her way up to stage right. She had 5 pages of dialogue to go before she had to make an entrance with Sorin, but she liked to be ready in plenty of time. It was all part of her routine, and she hated it when others were not in step with her.

Jessica followed at a safe distance, and once the curtain rose on the park on Sorin’s estate, she dutifully came forward to tidy up her mistresses’ attire.

“Where the hell is Sorin? He should be here to escort me. He knows I hate it when he’s late. He’s doing this to taunt me, I know it.”

“There’s still 3 pages to go. He’ll be here. Don’t panic.”

“You know very well that telling me not to panic has the opposite effect, stupid girl, now let me near my entrance so I can hear my cue.”

Jessica stood aside, and Miss Lake headed to the upstage right entrance. As she looked onto the set, she froze.

“Hooy morzhovy,” she whispered under her breath. “The pistol. It’s on the table pointing directly at where I come on. It’s a message. A threat. From Marcus. He’s planning something. I know it.”

“But your public, Ma’am...”

“Hang the public. They’ll be lining the streets at my funeral if I set foot on the stage.”

“Be quiet! Here they come,” came the cue line from the stage, but Miss Lake was rooted to the spot and refused to move.

“Here they come,” was repeated, louder this time, and by now, a small crowd was gathering around Miss Lake’s petrified form. The Deputy Stage Manager had grabbed a broom and was attempting to push her onto stage whilst the actor playing Sorin was tugging at her arm.

“It’s no use, she’s stuck like a limpet. What on earth are we going to do?”

“Don’t panic,” said Jessica, “I know the lines better than she does. Hand me that bonnet will you?”

“But…”

Any protestations were pointless as Jessica strode onto the stage, dragging Sorin with her.

“Don’t ask me where all those antediluvians are! I know nothing about them.” She announced, sitting next to the pistol, which she knew very well was not loaded. The next 2 hours flew by in a trice as she triumphed in her well-earned West End debut.

At the end, three curtain calls later, she returned to Miss Lake’s dressing room, which bore no sign of her former mistress’s presence. She carefully took the "Good Luck" card envelope from the bin and ripped it up, just in case someone recognised her handwriting and asked any awkward questions. She flopped into the chaise longue and began composing an advertisement for her own lady's companion.

Success had been a long time coming, and in the end, it had relied on Chekhov's gun, and she didn't even have to fire it. She sipped on Miss Lake's Evian.

"Hmm, " she mused, spitting it out. "Vodka. That sly out trout!"