Things haven’t changed much:

The Publisher’s Pudding.

This pudding can scarcely be made too rich. First blanch, and then beat to the smoothest possible paste, six ounces of fresh Jordan almonds, and a dozen bitter ones; pour very gradually to them, in the mortar, three quarters of a pint of boiling cream; then turn them into a cloth, and wring it from them again with strong expression. Heat a full half pint of it afresh, and pour it, as soon as it boils, upon four ounces of fine bread-crumbs, set a plate over, and leave them to become nearly cold; then mix thoroughly with them four ounces of macaroons, crushed tolerably small; five of finely minced beef-suet, five of marrow, cleared very carefully from fibre, and from the splinters of bone which are sometimes found in it, and shred not very small, two ounces of flour, six of pounded sugar, four of dried cherries, four of the best Muscatel raisins, weighed after they are stoned, half a pound of candied citron, or of citron and orange-rind mixed, a quarter saltspoonful of salt, half a nutmeg, the yolks only of seven full-sized eggs, the grated rind of a large lemon, and last of all, a glass of the best Cognac brandy, which must be stirred briskly in by slow degrees. Pour the mixture into a thickly buttered mould or basin, which contains a full quart, fill it to the brim, lay a sheet of buttered writing-paper over, then a well-floured cloth, tie them securely, and boil the pudding for four hours and a quarter; let it stand for a couple of minutes before it is turned out; dish it carefully, and serve it with the German pudding sauce of page 126.

Jordan almonds, 6 ozs.; bitter almonds, 12; cream, f pint; bread-crumbs, 4 ozs.; cream wrung from almonds, J pint; crushed macaroons, 4 ozs.; flour, 2 ozs.; beef-suet, 5 ozs.; marrow, 5 ozs.; dried cherries, 4 ozs.; stoned Muscatel raisins, 4 ozs.; pounded sugar, 6 ozs.; candied citron (or citron and orange-rind mixed), J lb.; pinch of salt; i nutmeg; grated rind I lemon; yolks of eggs, 7; best cognac, 1 wineglassful; boiled in mould or basin, 4J hours.

Obs.—This pudding, which, if well made, is very light as well as rich, will be sufficiently good for most tastes without the almonds: when they are omitted, the boiling cream must be poured at once to the bread-crumbs.

Poor Author’s Pudding.

Flavour a quart of new milk by boiling in it for a few minutes half a stick of well-bruised cinnamon, or the thin rind of a small lemon ; add a few grains of salt, and three ounces of sugar, and turn the whole into a deep basin; when it is quite cold, stir to it three well-beaten eggs, and strain the mixture into a pie-dish. Cover the top entirely with slices of bread free from crust, and half an inch thick, cut so as to join neatly, and buttered on both sides: bake the pudding in a moderate oven for about half an hour, or in a Dutch oven before the fire.

New milk, 1 quart; cinnamon, or lemon-rind; sugar, 3 os.; little salt; eggs, 3; buttered bread: baked | hour.

Pirandello is quoted as saying:

I think that life is a very sad piece of buffoonery; because we have in ourselves, without being able to know why, wherefore or whence, the need to deceive ourselves constantly by creating a reality (one for each and never the same for all), which from time to time is discovered to be vain and illusory . . . My art is full of bitter compassion for all those who deceive themselves; but this compassion cannot fail to be followed by the ferocious derision of destiny which condemns man to deception.

Last week we managed to see a performance of Six Characters in Search of an Author at Shaftesbury Avenue’s tiny gem of a theatre, The Gielgud. The production was a new version directed by Rupert Goold and starring Ian McDiarmid as the Father, Eleanor David as the Mother and Denise Gough (pictured) turning in a riveting performance as the Step-Daughter.

I suppose the idea was to bring the play up-to-date for a modern audience. Rupert Goold is strong on ideas and responsible for some wonderful productions, but sometimes goes too far. This is one of those times. He and his co-producer, Ben Power have tinkered with the script, replacing Pirandello’s original reference to a theatre production with a tv crew working in Denmark on a documentary about the assisted suicide of a young boy. There are several oblique and overt references to Hamlet, which must have been fun in rehearsals, but don’t really work in the play as such.

In fact, what really works in this production are the parts of the original script, and the ‘new’ frame in which it is wrapped serves only as an irritant to an audience who thinks they are about to engage with the typical Pirandellian contrast between art, which is unchanging, and life, which is an inconstant flux.

That said, the play is not without its moments, and comes to a clashing theatrical climax at the end of act 2 when the Mother discovers the Father in sexual congress with the Stepdaughter in the brothel. The scene transforms into a mini opera as first the Mother, then the others convey their shock, outrage, guilt and shame in a series of staggered exhortations, short of intelligent words but strong on gutteral sounds, harmonics and counterpoint which almost literally sends the audience into shock. I watched them filing out when the curtain came down and most of them still had their mouths open.

Unfortunately, act 3 is disappointing as Goold’s imagination gets the better of him, the stage manager has some kind of nervous breakdown and wanders around backstage, while we follow with the aid of a camera. Pirandello himself is walked on, and there’s some more Hamlet nonsense.

When it is good, it is very good, this production, and when it is bad it almost puts you to sleep. I’d love to recommend it, but I can’t.

The five characters approached me, a little diffidently to be sure but also with a certain purpose. The wild child, naked, seated himself at my table, the chair opposite, while the others kicked their heels a little way off, one or two looking our way, the others taking in the protesters and pretending not to be interested in me at all.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked the wild child. ‘I don’t want to be bothered with it just now.’

‘You may not, but I need to have this out with you.’

‘You can’t speak,’ I told him. ‘You don’t have language.’ He’d been adopted by a set of badgers when he was a baby and raised on a dell near Scotch Corner, a couple of miles from the A1. He was ten years old, thereabouts, maybe as much as twelve, but to all intents and purposes still a child. Large hands and a short neck and fully developed genitalia were his allotted features. Had we been in Tehrān or Kabul he would have been arrested and stoned or whipped for his nakedness. But we were in York, England, an outpost of liberty and sexual enlightenment and it was more likely that it would be me who was arrested for my association with a ten year old naked child in the centre of the city.
‘Language?’ he said. ‘This is one of the problems. I’m not happy with the way I’m being drawn. None of us are. The colonel’s wife wants to be more than a sex object.’

‘Your happiness is not part of the equation.’

‘That is obvious.’

‘And why should it be? I need you to illustrate something in other, major characters. You are a cipher.’

‘With no potential?’

‘None.’

‘You arrogant bastard.’

‘Listen. I’m in charge. It’s my novel. I draw characters how I like. I think about what is needed and I add a character here or there, whenever needed. It’s up to me. I’m concerned with a developing narrative, if every character had a say the thing would spiral out of control. It’d be like real life.’

‘I’m not every character and in any case I’m undervalued more than many of the others. A wild child, indeed. I don’t even have a proper name.’

‘I’ll give you a name. But please go away now. I want to enjoy my coffee.’

‘I’m not going away. I just got here. I want answers.’

I tried to ignore him but he was not about to give up.

‘I’m not leaving.’

‘I’ll answer three questions,’ I said. ‘Then we’re finished.’ I liked that, giving him three questions. Three times more than he expected. Deep within me the tide turned.

‘OK. I’m feral, afraid of everyone, but I respond to cuddles. What is that supposed to say?’

‘It says exactly what it says. You have only known the wild. Your instinct to flee is highly developed. It’s a survival mechanism. That you respond to cuddles when you can’t avoid them is also a survival mechanism. The cuddler is given what he or she wants when you respond, so he/she is less liable to harm you. You either outrun them or outwit them. Those are your possibilities.’

‘Why don’t I have a past? I want to be like other boys.’

‘You have a past. You were raised by badgers. You were loved, in a way.’

‘No, not like that. I want a human past. I must have a mother somewhere. A father. I’d feel better about myself if I knew who they were.’

‘That’s not important in the book.’

‘Maybe not, but it might be interesting for some of your readers as well as me. The colonel’s wife could do some research, look for babies that went missing ten, twelve years ago; it would be easy enough to give some indication where I came from.’

‘I’ll think about it. No promises.’

‘And I fight and spit and bite the colonel’s wife when she bathes me; but later I’m tender towards her.’

‘That’s because you’ve learned. The less opposition you put up against these people the more they take care of you. You learn to give them a little so that you gain a lot.’

‘Where did you find me?’

‘That’s the last question.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You were in my consciousness. I didn’t know you were there. I stumbled over you in a dream.’

‘Can we talk again, another time?’

‘That was your last question.’

‘You’re mean, you know that?’ He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t like the idea that I’m interested in anal scent glands.’ He scrambled down from the chair and returned to the other characters. They all looked my way. It was obvious they had problems.

Celia Gallagher, tall and leggy with a heart-shaped face, took a step in my direction and one of the others gave her a push. She took another two steps towards me and glanced back at the others.

I guzzled the dregs of my coffee and moved away from the table, dodging between the banners and flags of the protesters and striding across the road towards home.