Prologue: “A pun and a play within a play”

ll summer, and now fall; it was as though my feet were on a ‘perpetual motion machine’.

Sedwick hit a particularly rough patch, while turning onto Kensington Road. A bit of ink spilled, foolish of me to ever attempt composition. An incessant rhythm of clattering wheels against the intolerably spaced washboard effect, was forming—against my will—a ‘perpetuem mobile’ on the chord c-minor. I tried to ignore the wheeling refrain; it still sounded on C, in minor. Like some demonic machine for the stage, with chattering, ever-cranking pulley, it ground out a treading bass to the beat of hooves.

Now the same figure transposed to f-minor. It was becoming a fine song. Yes! I snatched a quill and a slim, corked-bottle from my satchel. Scrawling feverishly between jolts…alas, lost in a mess of blobs—the manuscript, quite useless.

     I capped the bottle just in time. Sedwick hit a pothole, I hit the ceiling receiving a considerable knock, my butt landing rudely back in the seat. I leaned out the window: ‘Sedwick! I wish to get there with spare time, but I should like to arrive,’ (I paused one beat to phrase) ‘with all my appendages intact!’

            ‘Sorry Sir; nothing I can do about the road. Last week’s storm, remember?’

            It might as well have been last year. I gave my new pocket watch another furtive glance—the cheat was ruling every hour of my day!

            ‘You did ask me to hurry our commute—impatient as usual. Perhaps Grosvenor’s—‘tis heavily traveled—more mud as well.’

            ‘Quite right—a nightmare of commoner’s at this hour.’ I waved him on. ‘Do hurry, Sedwick!’

‘I’ve the Michaelmas celebration on Sunday to prepare,’ I complained to myself, withdrawing my head inside. I had yet to choose today’s music for rehearsal. Ensemble this morning, theater after noon, then choir at four—and Britton dumping that cheap masque in my lap. Shall it make us richer? The season’s all but over. ‘Michaelmas! Cannot remember ever composing for it. They make up these festivals—after too much communion wine no doubt.’

            Sedwick swerved to avoid another pothole, narrowly missing a perambulator (a pedestrian to you). He had to execute a quick maneuver, reining in the horses, and there was another rut, this one filled with mud; I felt bad for him, and again lowered the window, and offered my cheerful condolences: ‘Sorry dear sir—a free ale at my pub tonight, if you can make it!’ He did recognize me.

            ‘Bah! Oh Sir Henry, hello. I shall take you up on that!’

We tore along, negotiating a series of ‘s’ turns, my foot tapping incessantly. An infatuated beat, reminding me of my ‘Devil’s Masque,’ a new opera I was toying with. Another peek at the watch had me considering that perhaps I was the possessed devil, to that spinning accompaniment of the ‘Perpetuem Mobile’. I began to regret it. Revolving in my mind like a miller’s wheel in a rushing stream—it was in a sinister way, pleasant grinding.

            ‘You’re the tempest as of late—and pity your family.’ Strange, tempest means storm and tumult; I always thought time as well—in Latin. Perhaps they meant a “Tempest of Time.”

I poured a minute amount of tea into a teacup Sedwick had provided. It chattered convulsively, rocking perilously on the bench, the tea forming agitated rings of little wavelets.

            ‘What’s bitten you? ‘Tis nothing but a tempest in a teapot.’ I’m surprised it has not yet shattered to the floor—must be that “gravity” issue Isaac Newton harps on in the science journals—why I hear, if it were not for that, we should all fly off this ‘mud-ball’ and into the celestial vault.

            Perhaps Dorinda has a point about theater work—yet a practical woman she is not. I perused the shopping list she gave me that morning.

‘She wants all this out of two pound ten!’

Two opinions of what’s practical. Yet, ‘tis hard on her—and my sweet girls. ‘You must simply choose from the music you’ve composed to date, dear sir.’

After what seemed endless bars, including a da capo repeat, Sedwick hit the benign paving of Westminster, the clatter, in a long diminuendo, receded to the background. We rattled up Piccadilly, across St. James, and finally flew up The Mall’s good paving to Chapel Royal. I had addressed little of today’s concerns; with my thoughts scattering like rats in the Abby’s bell tower, I could not think what we should play. I shall decide only after I arrive.

            Nevertheless I smiled, the Chapel made even the least of my pieces resonate grandly. Grabbing a bundle stashed against the clapboard, I turned and faced the door. My feet beating time on the wainscoting, I steadied myself, one hand on the handle.

T&T

‘Are you all right, Sir?’ My bluecoat asked with concern. He’d jumped down from the driver’s seat, helping me by the arm as I rose, brushing dirt off my breeches. The door springs no doubt had broke, being rusted, the door flew open, and I pitched out into the drive.

            ‘I will also survive this.’

            He had slowed down. I’d been ‘chomping at the bit’ again, my hand on the door.

            ‘The pace will simply not relent.’ I picked up my polished silver watch from the paving, where it had spilled.

            ‘I believe it started when I acquired this watch. I should hurl the cheat into the Thames if I had the sense.’

            ‘Was it not a gift from Queen Mary Sir?’

            ‘Yes, she gave it to me at that final performance of ‘Dido,’ back in May.’

            “Made in France,” as I read the inscription. Umm—imports, I thought. I had wanted London made. I gave it a glance. ‘Not quite half-past nine.’

            ‘Sedwick, see if you can have the door fixed and be back here after noon.’ I handed him the shopping list and he drove off leaving a cloud of dust, on this mild, cloudy fall morning. I walked up to the thick Chapel door, noticed someone had posted a flyer, and stared, attempting to make sense of it:

“A MASQUE…”

Anyone could see the jumble of fonts and misspellings!

            ‘Britton’s been by. Who’ll see it down here? You can make no sense of that chaos.’

            I read it through just the same, as laughable as it was. A new song by Miss Cross, from ‘herLover who is supposed Dead’—‘Ha! Good one!’

            ‘Face it; sex sells. She’s the public draw. The Queen save me from the commoners’ three-minute attention span. And I mean so literally.’

            It would be pop music and fads, but did Britton have to have that Italian, Reggio’s song in our Masque. Besides, I was annoyed; someone had not only misspelled my name, (twice!) but credit given to me and my singers was limited to small print near the bottom. You hire an agent who gets ten percent and what do you get? Ninety percent of the common stupidity!

            ‘Where did he find this sot?’

            “musick”

            ‘ That’s spelled music!’

            “at ye figne of ye Trhee pidgins!”

            ‘He obviously doesn’t proof his work—“est. 1689?” I do not think he’s established even yet.’

            ‘Paul’s Churchyard my arse! He found him along Thames’ Row I’ll bet.

            ‘There’ll certainly be other pieces! There’ll be a “Masque of Devils,” and it’ll be by me.’ I yanked the notice, went in, and slammed the door grumbling. ‘Supposedly dead lover!!’