A spectral Elvira Condomine (Heather Archibald)
*** Editor’s Note: the following is an imaginary backstory written by playwright/actor Ian Stauffer who plays Charles Condomine in OLT’s production of Blithe Spirit ***
April 18, 1925
It has been much, much too long since I confided in you.
Looking back, I see we were last acquainted when I was laid up in hospital in August ’24, having another bit of shrapnel taken out of my leg.
Hurt like the devil, but there was that stunning nurse as compensation. What was her name? Gloria? No, Gwyneth, of course. Welsh girl. What gentle hands she had. I told her I didn’t think I’d ever be able to dance again after the operation, but she got right to work on that front. Had me out of bed and doing that crazy American number, the Charleston. Fantastic legs. Frightfully acrobatic, if you know what I mean. I wonder where she is now? Certainly made me forget that weeper, Maud Charteris. Tremendously nubile, young Maud, but couldn’t turn off the waterworks, could she?
I still remember the fight with Mother when she found Maud and me in the pergola. Alright, we were a tad underdressed. Maudie was wearing the tiara I’d just bought for her and I’d kept on my cavalry boots and jodhpurs. I can still see Mama’s face, our clothes bundled in her arms. Nice of the old dear to tidy up the garden path like that.
Now, to present pursuits. Been doing a bit of research for my third book. Golly, the good old British public certainly laps up murder mysteries. My publisher tells me I’m even giving that Christie woman a run for the money with The Mists of Palliatani.
I remember that fellow Milne trying to convince me that there was money to be made in books featuring talking animals. I mean really! I shall leave the conversational flora and fauna to him and his ilk. Give me darkness, deceit and devilment. That’s what people want. Plus a pair of well-turned ankles, a come-hither look and some heavy breathing to top off the mix.
Which brings me to my latest discovery.
Been touring Tuscany, haven’t I, trying to get a feel for the setting of my next work, Now You See Her, Now…
I’ve been holed up in the Case Arcatina, racking the old brain, drinking far too much. I blame it on that Martini fellow who came up with the satanic concoction back before the War. Of course, the stuff got me through the last Hundred Days in ‘18, but now I can’t get to sleep without it. Tried the local vino. Absolutely discouraging. So, I’ve taught Guido at the local cantina how to mix a really dry one. Still puts a touch too much vermouth in it for my taste. We’ll keep trying.
I’ve decided that the main character in my book will be an Italian magician. It just came to me as I was staring off my balcony last afternoon. I looked down and an old fella was doing a shell game in the street. He’d collected quite a crowd and the shouting attracted me. And, as luck would have it, I saw a bright poster on a wall beside his head. I took out my binos and read about a magic show taking place that night in the town square.
I confess I wasn’t expecting much. I’ve been to I don’t know how many such affairs at the Albert Hall or in Soho. I even remember rubbing shoulders with the young Prince of Wales when the famous Bradmanoff came with his act to London in ’21.
But I can tell you, my Diary, that nothing could have prepared me for the act I saw last night.
I entered the huge tent as the blood red sun was setting. It took me a minute to adjust to the pitch dark inside. The smells of garlic and cooking oil, mixed with the local gentry’s aromas, made my eyes water a bit. As my vision cleared, I saw a small stage slowly materialize out of the gloom.
I could have sworn there was nothing there when I came in.
Then the distant sound of a cuckoo calling, followed by a growing sensation of wings flapping.
All at once, a tall man with a white mane of hair was standing on the stage. Was he the fella from the shell game? How had he gotten onto the stage? Trap door? He clapped his hands once, and a figure, completely covered in a diaphanous gold, wafted across to him.
The man raised his arms like a conductor and the material covering the figure began to rise with his movements. As the fabric unwound, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen was revealed. In keeping with the rural standards, I suppose, the final unveiling still left much to the imagination. I suspect even Queen Victoria would have approved of the garments remaining on the man’s assistant. Because, of course, that’s who the young woman turned out to be.
She wore a very loose, white satin top which revealed nothing. Red pantaloons, straight from Alladin’s time, exposed only an inch of ankle. A turban kept me guessing as to whether she was blonde or brunette.
She very demurely helped the old magician with the standard tricks. Her movements were exquisitely delicate, her eyes always lowered. Copious colourful handkerchiefs blossomed out of a very small hat, followed by several doves and a rather sleepy rabbit.
Then the act moved on to the more challenging stuff. The young woman lay on a table and then was levitated to the ceiling. This caused a small riot in the tent. A youngster jumped on the stage and waved his arms over and under the assistant. The crowd gasped. Oh, please. The lad was probably part of the act.
Next, the woman tied up the magician with multiple shackles and ropes. During all this the man stood stock still, his eyes never blinking. Suddenly, every light in the tent went out. Several women screamed simultaneously. I counted to five and when the lights came back on the man was standing, without a restraint showing.
However, what really caught my attention was the assistant. In those five seconds she’d donned a bathing suit, or more likely, had been wearing it all along.
Now there was really something to look at. I guessed her to be in her mid 20s, long, dark brown hair cascading in waves. Her ample bosom was now given its proper due. Excellent legs—a dancer? Barefoot, she radiated the quality of a cheetah. The air seemed to crackle around her.
The man clapped loudly and a huge glass container appeared, filled nearly to the brim with water. Another clap and a small step ladder materialized. The young woman prowled up the ladder. As she stood motionless at the lip of the tank all I could think of was Galatea, Pygmalion’s iconic statue.
Then, without hesitation, the woman stepped into the tank. There was just the smallest drop which ran over the top, such was the slightness of her displacement of the water.
The man swiftly placed a cover over the container and locked it down.
The woman was now completely immersed, her hair gently floating around her head in this watery grave. She had closed her eyes when she got in. Now, they opened. Fully. I had seen that colour before, as I looked down into the Aegean. I thought of Tennyson and his ‘wine dark seas’.
And then those eyes found me and held mine. I swear I heard a voice say, “Hello, Charles”. And then the lights went out again.
*** Editor’s Note: the preceding is an imaginary backstory written by playwright/actor Ian Stauffer who plays Charles Condomine in OLT’s production of Blithe Spirit ***