Fortescue nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself. He wanted to question the oxymoron of ‘serious spiritualist’, but kept quiet on the subject, merely nodding and producing a polite smile. A pleasure…’
‘Finally this is Mrs Helen Candee, a most accomplished author.’
Fortescue took the lady’s hand. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he said. ‘I’m an admirer. I followed your series of short stories published last year in The Times.’
‘Well, I shall leave you all to chat. I must circulate,’ Frieda announced and was soon engrossed in more introductions.
They formed an awkward group; people who would not normally associate informally but were now thrown together in this most unusual environment.
Stead was ebullient. ‘Fine young lady,’ he said, looking over towards where Frieda had vanished amongst her guests. ‘Terribly louche career choice, though, acting, wouldn’t you agree… er, sorry, I forgot your…’
‘Wickins, John Wickins,’ Fortescue replied and studied the man’s face. He was a showman, Fortescue realized immediately, and a big-mouth. Surely he could not be so poor with his memory as to forget a name offered only a minute earlier. It was a deliberate display of one-upmanship!
‘I imagine that would depend on how good one is as an actor,’ Fortescue commented. ‘She has the advantage that her brother Marcus is a writer and cinematographer.’
Stead exhaled through his nose. ‘Writer? Well, I suppose he could be called that.’
‘I spoke to him earlier,’ Mrs Candee interjected. ‘He seems to have a firm understanding of what he is planning to do… and he is an extremely well-read young gentleman with a penchant for Proust.’
‘Good old Frog literature, what?’ Stead glanced around at the others. Lady Duff Gordon frowned; the Italian couple had no idea what Stead was talking about. Only Sir Cosmo seemed to concur, nodding seriously.
Fortescue turned to Helen Candee, a broad-shouldered and well-upholstered woman in her early fifties, her thick wavy hair greying. She had dark, probing eyes and a rather severe face. Fortescue knew the woman possessed a sound intellect, and was a rabid feminist who supported the suffragette movement. He could sense that she was not well liked by the Englishmen in the group.
‘Will you be writing a piece about this voyage?’ he asked, turning away slightly from the others as Stead began to hold forth on something Fortescue suspected would be both boring and self-aggrandizing
‘Oh, no!’ Helen Candee said, shaking her head. ‘Purely a pleasure trip. I do not mind confessing that I’m quite exhausted. I have just completed the first draft of a novel.’
‘Indeed? How wonderful,’ Fortescue replied and was about to ask what the subject matter might be when he heard a commotion from the other end of the room. He saw Marcus Schiel getting on a chair.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, most welcome guests,’ he announced. His accent seemed a little more defined than on the only other occasion Fortescue had heard him speak, the previous night at dinner. ‘My sister Frieda and I have prepared a little entertainment for you. Many of you would have heard of the great filmmaker Georges Méliès who works from his astonishing studio in Montreuil near Paris. My sister Frieda and I have had the extraordinary good fortune and privilege to work with the great man since Christmas, and tonight we would like to show you a short segment of a film I helped direct and in which my sister acted. Ladies and gentlemen, would you please follow me through to the adjoining room where we have set up some of the equipment we have brought with us.’
Fortescue could tell the gathered elite were a little taken aback. He heard a woman say, ‘Well, goodness me!’ He turned to Helen Candee who had also sensed the bemusement. She beamed at him as he ushered her forward and they fell in behind Stead and the Duff Gordons. They all shuffled towards a darkened room off the side of the cafe.
It took a while for his eyes to adjust and he felt a little uncomfortable being squashed into a blacked-out confined space; but the sensation did not last long. He heard murmurs and someone trod on his left foot, but then a light burst across the room illuminating the faces of all those gathered around a central table that held a monstrous-looking contraption. A couple of the more nervous women exclaimed loudly and one of the gentlemen growled, ‘Good Lord!’
Fortescue had heard of film projectors and had read about their workings, but he had no concept of how big and ugly they were. The machine on the table was the size of a large dog crouched ready to pounce. The light was intensely bright; a dazzling beam shone on the far wall forming a rectangle about six feet by four.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ It was Marcus Schiel again. ‘Please don’t be alarmed!’ He laughed nervously. ‘We would like to present to you a full five-minute excerpt from Georges Méliès’ latest motion-picture masterpiece Conquest of the Pole, starring Frieda Schiel.’
Fortescue had in fact seen a movie once before. A year ago he had spent a very pleasant week in Brighton. One afternoon he had been caught in a deluge and had dashed for the closest building. It happened to be a venue called the Duke of York’s Picture House. There he had paid tuppence, been escorted to a rather uncomfortable chair in a small half-empty theatre and watched amazed as two films were shown, both recently acquired from America: Frankenstein and The Abyss. He had left the cinema reeling and thrilled. But that had not prepared him for the onslaught on the senses he now experienced. For in this confined space, and aboard a ship in the mid-Atlantic of all places, he was watching the most extraordinarily clever piece of art unfold on the makeshift screen.
He could sense the excitement of the others all around him, even a reverberation of fear, surprise, enchantment. It all added to the experience, making it almost surreal, so that after five minutes in the blaze of light and scintillating images, he found he was short of breath.
In the motion picture Frieda looked like a creature from a fantasy; she was dressed in an exotic headdress and played the Queen of Ice repelling the advances of prospective explorers determined to reach the North Pole. There was no doubting her talent and Fortescue could immediately understand why she and her brother had taken the chance of trying to find success in America. The camera loved Frieda — she was a natural.
The lights came up, and for a moment no one could speak, no one could move, then someone started to clap. Fortescue quickly picked up on it and joined in. Suddenly the room was echoing with the applause of the gathered guests. Frieda appeared on one side of the room with perfect theatrical timing The gathering parted to form a path for her to walk through. Then Marcus joined her and they both took a bow, the applause still going strong
‘My new friends, honoured guests,’ Frieda said and raised her hands to quieten the gathering They hushed and she went on. ‘It is wonderful of you to give my brother and myself such a fulsome reception. We —’ and she glanced at Marcus ‘— are so thrilled that you have enjoyed our little distraction. Now, I urge you all to indulge in the champagne and canapés — indulge!’ And with that she swept through the room and back into the main part of the cafe.