Not needing to be told twice, I quit the box. The rich masters had come to throw out the servant. With no revolution here to change the old ways in my favour, I would have to find another vantage point from which to watch Pedro.
Sneaking downstairs, I crept through the door into the Pit. Respectable girls did not usually come down here, so I grabbed a pile of theatre bills from Sally Hubbard, the doorkeeper, and stood by the entrance, pretending to be there to sell them.
Things were not going well for me if I was to get my wish of seeing Pedro and the balloon. It was now so crowded (standing room only) that I could barely see the stage, being several feet shorter than the men surrounding me. One portly gentleman standing at the very back noticed my predicament as I hopped from foot to foot. He offered his assistance in a most gentlemanlike manner and lifted me up on to a pillar by the entrance where I could hang on by the candle bracket. I now had a superb view over everyone’s heads to the stage. I smiled my thanks to him and he tipped his hat most courteously to me.
At last the curtain rose. The stage was empty. On realising this, the men in the Pit began to mutter angrily to each other. They had been promised a spectacle such as they had never seen before in the theatre and now it looked as though they had been duped. I smiled to myself, knowing they were about to witness something that would rival the feats of the most daring rope-walkers at Bartholomew Fair.
The orchestra struck up an oriental tune, evoking the exotic East, the land of moguls and tigers, diamonds and spices. The grumbling died away. Then, from the very roof of the stage, a long rope tumbled down, a small anchor at its end. It fell on the stage with a clatter. Next came a creaking of ropes and shouts of ‘’Ware below!’ and the basket of the balloon appeared suspended above the stage, swaying slightly. The crowd gasped. Slowly, without a hitch, the basket came down, Mr Andrews, its sole passenger, saluting the audience as it inched to the floor. I held my breath: had Mr Bishop really solved the problem with the ropes? I wondered. Now the silken canopy came into sight and the crowd cheered and began to applaud wildly, standing on the benches to whistle their approval.
‘Capital!’ bellowed my kind gentleman, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. The heat of the audience’s enthusiasm was making the Pit quite sultry.
The basket touched down and Mr Andrews, a tall man famed for his comic roles, leapt out and bowed. Everyone whistled and clapped.
‘Encore! Again!’ cried many voices around me.
Mr Andrews held up his hand for silence. The hubbub was quickly stilled.
‘I am one John Smith, a poor English balloonist. I earn an honest living by offering rides in my craft in Green Park in that greatest of cities, London,’ (a cheer from the partisan London audience). ‘But one day, as I mounted in my balloon, I was blown by a sudden wind to the east. I wonder to what fair country I have been carried? I shall explore before I return.’ He gave the last words special emphasis and winked at the front rows, in effect promising them another balloon ride at the end of the piece. Placated, the gentlemen resumed their seats and gave him their attention.
The farce was absurd and simple: John Smith has landed in the harem of the Great Mogul and is caught by the palace guards. Threatened with death, his only hope is to persuade the Great Mogul himself to spare him. The mogul, played by Mr Kemble, turns out to be not a monstrous tyrant but a man of learning and mercy. He frees John Smith in return for a balloon ride. Straightforward enough stuff, providing plenty of opportunities for the ballet and musicians to show off their prowess at the exotic style now much in vogue. But where was Pedro? I wondered as the minutes ticked by. The play was nearing its end and he had still not done his turn.
‘And now,’ declared the mogul, interrupting my thoughts, ‘I will show you the greatest wonder of my kingdom. My son and heir will entertain you before you depart.’ He clapped his hands and two pantalooned slaves entered, carrying a chest on poles built to resemble the bulbous towers of an eastern potentate’s palace.
What an introduction! Pedro had been pitched against the balloon. If he wanted to make his mark, he would have to produce something to rival that silken ball of hot air. I clenched my fingernails into my palm, my heart pounding for him.
The slaves lifted the lid of the casket and there was a blinding flash as two firework fountains burst into flame, spilling glowing white sparks on to the stage. With great agility, Pedro leapt over the trail of hissing embers and landed neatly centre stage. The silks and satins of his robe gleamed richly and the jewels in his turban flashed with fire to match the scintillating sparks of the fireworks. With the same swiftness I had seen him use that morning, he produced his violin as if from thin air and tucked it under his chin. He then began to play, a new piece full of such haunting melodies and strange harmonies that I was at once transported to the India of my imagination: a land of palaces, unimaginable riches, heavily-laden merchant ships at anchor, a beating sun. I cannot have been the only one so transfixed for the audience was absolutely silent, hanging on every note that issued from his instrument like a stream of liquid gold sound.
Pedro finished and there was a pause. Had I misjudged the audience’s reaction? Then the house erupted into tumultuous applause, stamping, cheering and whistling, crying for an encore. Pedro was ready. He launched himself into a new melody, spinning faster and faster as the tune gathered pace. The audience cheered and clapped in time to the beat until it got too fast for them to keep up. The music and Pedro’s wild spinning came to a stop at the same triumphant moment and applause rang out once more.