This story was written for Hoggywartyxmas on Livejournal. The prompt was: Long before Harry's time, there used to be a Christmas play/pageant every year at Hogwarts. It was abolished after it all went horribly, horribly wrong one year […]. The whole sorry saga caused emotional trauma lingering to this day, and otherwise sane teachers still shudder at the sight of tinsel/trombones/whatever works.
This prompt on the true story behind the Hogwarts Pantomime was most intriguing. Professor Dumbledore collaborated most graciously, freely gave of his time and memories, and even allowed me to reproduce a few photographs from his private collection. The other teachers, however, were less willing. My requests met with winces, shudders, and, in the case of Professor Flitwick, gagging.
But in the end I managed to collect enough documentary evidence to piece together the events of September to December 1982.
Disclaimer: The first attempt at introducing a Christmas pantomime at Hogwarts, which took place under the headship of Professor Armando Dippet, has been described in Hermione Granger's translation of The Tales of Beedle the Bard (Flourish and Blotts 2007, annotated for Muggles by J. , Bloomsbury, 2008). I have no intention of infringing on Ms Granger's copyright. It is this performance to which Professor Dumbledore refers in his recollections.
I hope my readers, at least, will enjoy this story. Heaven knows none of the protagonists did.
Albus Dumbledore recalls [interview conducted with his portrait]
"While I fully understood Headmaster Dippet's decision to discontinue the Christmas Pantomime – quite a lot of parents wrote letters of complaint, the repair costs were prodigious, and it took months to get rid of the stench in the Great Hall – it had always been a regret to me that that one unfortunate occasion stopped all theatrical events at Hogwarts.
"Plays do have their own kind of magic and can be used to enlighten and educate. They also promote teamwork among the players. The benefits are endless.
"After Voldemort's first defeat, I felt that the various benefits of a play would outweigh the risks. But one can and should learn from the past. I therefore gave the matter much thought.
"The first play had been a catastrophe mainly for two reasons: to begin with, Professor Sylvanus Kettleburn had been asked to provide some of the props. As a result, an Engorgio'ed Ashwinder was brought into a wood-panelled room [see Granger/Rowling]. Of course, one could explain to dear Sylvanus that this had been a bad idea, and he would not repeat it. However, his particular mental make-up made it impossible for him to grasp the concept of a comparable situation and there was no knowing what he'd come up with next.
"The first Rule for the Hogwarts Pantomime Players was therefore: under no circumstance must Professor Kettleburn be asked to make a contribution.
"The second reason our play never made it to the final curtain was the human element. The actors were students, and the hormone-fuelled hexing-frenzy when the male lead transferred his affections from one actress to another did much to worsen the already tricky situation with the exploding Ashwinder eggs. [See Granger/Rowling]
"The second Rule was therefore that only Hogwarts staff members were eligible as players or backstage contributors.
"And much depended on the director of the play. After long deliberation I chose Professor Filius Flitwick. I thought him a very talented teacher with great leadership abilities, and he has a well-known fondness for the theatre.
"So at the start of the school year I called him into my office, explained my ideas, and, like the capable fellow he is, he started his preparations at once."
From Filius Flitwick's Diary
8 September 1982
A most exciting day! Albus has decided that Hogwarts is to have an annual Christmas Pantomime, and he has asked me to be the director. I can barely contain myself. I've always loved the theatre, and, as usual, Albus's ideas are festive and entertaining as well as educational.
We are to perform Muggle fairy tales. Quite a few of them are adapted to pantomimes by the Muggles themselves; if it can be done without magic, it will certainly be feasible for us. They offer great possibilities for sets, fabulous costumes (Albus waxed lyrical on ball dresses and embroidered waistcoats), and fun characters.
And it will not just familiarize our students with Muggle culture; it will make them embrace it as the festive highlight of our Christmas celebrations. A notion I wholeheartedly support.
Albus will announce his plans in tomorrow's staff meeting, and I'm to set up the first committee meeting at once. I will ask Charity to join, of course. She's the expert on all things Muggle. And I'll also ask the other Heads of House. After all, when you want something done, ask busy people.
A Letter from Charity Burbage to her sister Faith
Hogwarts, 10 September 1982
Dear Faith,
I hope Papa is feeling better now – did that recipe for a Muggle grog do any good? It is so like him to go out on the moors without his muffler. I hope he was able to get some good shots of the Pixies' mating dance, and I do admire his dedication to science, but I wish he would mind his health more, if only for your sake. Dear Papa can be a tad irritable when he's feeling unwell.
I admit that the situation with Mr Gorringer is difficult. But Papa may truly not realise that 'writing the weekly shopping down' still means it must be paid at the end of the month. If only there was a second grocer in the village –I do see how uncomfortable this situation makes you. Still, dear Papa's mind is on scholarly topics only – and of course, as his loving daughters, we could not really wish him otherwise.
Your idea to try and sell some articles to less scholarly (but better-paying) papers may work out very well, though, and I've written to Pandora Aurifaber – you remember her? She was in my year, and she married Xenophilius Lovegood, the editor of The Quibbler. Perhaps he's interested.
But now for my own news. You may find some comfort in reading it – when you see what I have to suffer with my colleagues; you'll thank Merlin that you can live quietly at home, with just Dear Papa to look after.
Yesterday we had the meeting of the Pantomime committee, and it all went very much as I had feared. There was no willingness to embrace Muggle culture and no understanding at all for the completely different world Muggles live in. A famous Muggle writer once said that "the past is a different country, they do things differently there". The same is true for Muggle tales.
Oh, they were all in favour of greater understanding in principle. But in practice! Every single story was rejected, each time with the same argument. "Being tolerant of Muggles is all very well, but they discriminate much more than we do. Look what they say about …" Fill in the creature in question.
… werewolves (in Little Red Riding Hood), and it's not as if Horace has any particular tolerance for werewolves himself!
… giants (in Tom Thumb), and I agree with Pomona that Hagrid is kindness personified, but I don't think he would like to have his name brought up in a discussion about giants, kind or otherwise.
… evil witches (in Hansel and Gretel), and I know Minerva was speaking metaphorically, but only last week she said that a student was "half-baked, and it's a pity one can't just bake them properly."
… goblins (in Snow White), and of course no-one should be made to dress up as a Muggle lawn ornament, but the whole story shows the helpful nature of goblins. Even among Muggles they are known for their skills in mining – Filius ought to feel flattered.
The final choice, however, is a lovely one. We are to perform The Sleeping Beauty. Do you remember how we loved that story when Mama read it to us? We liked it far, far better than any of Beedle's tales. What fun we had imagining what our prince charming would be like! I look forward to giving that pleasure to our students, and I'm happy to help write the script.
But the other scriptwriter is Minerva McGonagall. I can only hope for the best.
I'll tell you more in my next letter, dear. And as soon as I hear from Xenophilius I'll be in touch.
Your loving sister,
Charity
A Letter from Charity Burbage to her sister Faith
Hogwarts, 17 September 1982
Dear Faith,
First the good news! Xenophilius is very interested in a short piece on Pixies, and he's offering two Galleons for it. He'll also consider further articles if the first one is received well. Dear Papa could dash it off in no time at all, so it seems as if your financial troubles will be at an end. Nothing could make me happier.
In fact, it's all that makes me happy right now. You have no idea what I suffer with The Sleeping Beauty. Minerva wants to rewrite it completely! With the help of Irma Pince, she has unearthed what she calls the 'original version', by one Charles Perrault. It's dreadful. There is no romantic kiss at all! The Prince just sits there and talks!
And can you imagine why Minerva loves such an insipid tale? Take three guesses.
No, not because watching a kiss is unsuitable for the very young – that I would have understood. She wants it because in this version the prince asks for consent. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? Really. A handsome, rich, dashing young man wants to kiss a girl and then she's supposed to feel insulted because he didn't ask for consent? Why, any girl would leap at the chance of marrying a prince!
But Minerva is adamant that she won't have a play where girls get kissed "without as much as a by-your-leave", as she calls it. I told her that girls love stories like that, and surely millions of Muggle girls can't be wrong. And of course Minerva, like the stubborn Scotswoman she is, says that millions of Muggle parents may have "fed the poisonous nonsense to their girls", but she won't do it.
I pointed out that her version is plain silly. Not only is True Love's First Kiss the key element of the story, but the Prince can only ask for consent if the Princess is awake, and until he kisses her, she cannot wake up.
Trust Minerva to overlook the obvious. She has left me no other option than to complain to Filius. You know I hate to be a trouble-maker, dear sister, but perhaps he can make Minerva see sense.
Meanwhile I comfort myself with the thought that you, my dear, will be able to look Mr Gorringer in the eye again, once Papa has written his little piece.
Your ever-loving sister,
Charity
From Filius Flitwick's Diary
20 September 1982
I feel as if I've played a Quidditch match with ten bludgers and no beaters. Good grief, I had no idea that being a director involved so much risk. Give me a duelling championship any day.
After Charity's visit I approached Minerva to get her side of the story. I have realised that many of my colleagues have rather strong feelings on Muggle fairy tales – the first meeting of the committee was hardly all joy – but I still found it hard to believe that Minerva "wanted to make a complete mockery of a tale that is loved and revered by millions of Muggle girls", as Charity put it.
Minerva showed me her version of the Muggle story, a very well-written one by a Frenchman. I liked it and regretted that his gentle humour would be difficult to convey in a play. Minerva, however, explained that the real problem was not that it would be hard to do justice to this excellent version, but that Charity wanted "an insipid, watered-down story that sends entirely the wrong message to girls".
When she had explained the differences between her version and Charity's, I could only agree. It is the same problem we have with our own tales: many a wizard or witch who reads Beedle's original story is shocked by the large discrepancies between his tales and the versions they heard at Mother's knee – and they blame and reject Beedle for spoiling what they call the real story.
But it was quite clear that Charity was totally opposed to any changes, and I spent some time pondering the problem. In the end, I consulted Horace. Horace is what I would call highly effective, in exactly the way I want to be effective. That is to say, when Horace wants to achieve something, you don't actually see him rushing about doing things, but somehow, suddenly, after a little talk with Horace, everyone is enthusiastic about his idea and truly pleased to be working on it. That's the very thing I want.
So I acted upon Horace's instructions. It was an education to listen to him. "What you do, dear boy," he said – Horace calls everyone under fifty a 'dear boy', and it's his special magic that one doesn't feel insulted and patronised, but actually rather flattered – "what you do is invite them to a little meeting. And make sure they feel comfortable.
"You must have tea, and set out properly, too, with nice cups, comfy seats, a little table to put down their cup, or their quill, for Minerva will come prepared to take notes. Everything must be very convenient.
"Have a little treat, too. I recommend chocolate-covered ginger newts. Both Charity and Minerva love them. It's one small thing they have in common, and I've often found that subtly stressing the things people have in common is a good starting point for mediation.
"You tell them you have a problem with each of the versions. Just make sure it isn't your problem. Use something like 'Albus wouldn't allow' or 'from a director's point of view it's difficult to …'. Don't make it the personal opinion of Filius Flitwick. And then you steer them, ever so gently, to the solution you want. Make sure you know exactly what you want beforehand, though!"
I did as Horace advised, and everything worked like a charm. Horace even went over the two versions with me, and together we came up with something. I told him he had quite a gift for script-writing – his ideas about the fairy godmothers were inspired!
People sometimes accuse Horace of never doing anything unless it fits his personal agenda, but I think he's much maligned. He has truly been wonderfully helpful and generous with his time.
On the day of the meeting, once the ladies were sipping their tea and nibbling their biscuits, I started by pointing out that, while both versions had a lot to recommend themselves, they both presented difficulties for a director – difficulties they might help me with.
The Perrault version, I said, has a whole sequel involving an Ogre mother-in-law who wants to eat her grandchildren. Fortunately there are no Ogres in our world, so no-one needs to feel offended, and children love the scary parts of stories, as long as they end well.
"But," I continued, "there is this one, enormous problem: to do the story justice, we need the cauldron in which the Ogre dies. And that's only realistic when there's a fire under the cauldron. Dumbledore will never allow it."
And I told them how, during the first Hogwarts pantomime, the fire from the exploding ashwinder eggs had badly burnt the great hall. "Albus will never take the chance of fire during performances again, not even with protective spellwork," I said. Mind, I think if I had offered to make the props myself, Albus would have agreed. He knows he can trust my spells. But for obvious reasons, I didn't mention this.
Minerva, who realised that as Deputy Headmistress she would be the one organising all the repairs should the Great Hall be damaged, immediately agreed. Charity, of course, wanted Perrault's story gone from the beginning.
I then pointed out that the other version, charming though it was, posed another problem: too few scenes. There's the Christening scene. Then there's a sixteen-year interval, then the Princess scratches her hand on the spindle, then there's a hundred-year pause, then the Prince hacks his way through the roses and kisses the Princess – end of story.
I then suggested we elaborate the story a little. What, for instance, would the King and Queen do when they heard the curse on their daughter?
"The King orders to burn all the spinning wheels in the country," said Charity.
"How like a man," countered Minerva. "What were people supposed to wear for sixteen years? In those days, spinning wheels were a vital necessity."
"Could he try to hide his daughter?" I suggested. "In a place without spinning wheels?"
This notion was received favourably, and after lengthy discussion I managed to steer the ladies towards the storyline Horace and I had created. They are now working on a script, and I'll have to consider the casting.
If this experience is anything to go by, I fear the worst.
A Letter from Charity Burbage to her sister Faith
Hogwarts, 25 September 1982
Dear Faith,
I was so very, very sorry to hear your news. Really, dear Papa is a bit unreasonable. I know that The Quibbler is not a truly scholarly publication, but to refuse all collaboration! I enclose five Sickles – it's not much, but it's the best I can do right now. I would send more, but you'll understand that in my position I need to look professional at all times, and I have to spend some of my savings on clothes.
But I don't think it's a good idea to write those articles yourself, my dear. I know you've helped Papa, and it has given you some knowledge of the subject. Had Dear Mama not passed away, had you been able to go to University … but it was not to be. You have done very well as Papa's secretary, and he was kind enough to praise your assistance in some small matters of research, but we must be realistic.
It's dishonest to publish under Papa's name, and Xenophilius wouldn't pay money for your scribblings. And what if Papa finds out? I really think it would be much better to try and be more economical in your purchases. What about growing some vegetables yourself? That would save money, and Dear Papa would not object were you to take up gardening. He approves of suitable out-of-door activities.
Now, you'll be eager to hear about my adventures!
Filius was very sympathetic when I told him of my difficulties with Minerva, and he has solved the problem wonderfully. He has been very clever about it: he said Professor Dumbledore would never allow the second part of the story, for it would involve an open fire on stage. That put an end to Minerva's idea!
And I must admit that he was right when he pointed out that our beloved tale offers to little scope for a long pantomime. Here is our revision, for which I've been consulted at every step.
The Christening scene will remain unchanged, only at the end the King will not decide to burn all spinning wheels. Instead, he decided to hide his daughter in a cottage in the woods, where the three good godmothers will bring her up. In order to remain hidden, they promise never to use magic.
On her sixteenth birthday the godmothers will send her out of the house to prepare some birthday surprise – I suggested a cake and a dress – and the Princess, we'll call her Aurora, will then meet the handsome Prince. (This, of course, is a little sop to Minerva. The Prince and the Princess will fall in love, and thus she has her precious consent. It does mean that we'll have to skip the notion of a hundred-year sleep, but Filius's alternative is even more romantic.)
Aurora then learns that she is, in fact, a Princess, and must go to the castle to be married off to some unknown prince to whom she has been betrothed since birth. This is of course no other than the Prince she has met, but she doesn't know that!
The Princess goes to the castle to obey her dear Papa, she scratches her hand on the spinning wheel after all, and she falls asleep. Her very own handsome Prince comes to give her "true love's kiss", just as we have always heard it! And it's all wonderfully romantic. You will remember how much we liked stories of thwarted love, and I'm sure girls today feel the same.
Your loving sister,
Charity
From Filius Flitwick's Diary
10 October 1982
AARRGGHH! AARRGGHH! AARRGGHH!
I never want to be a director again.
Or rather, I want to be the kind of director who can order auditions and then say, "Thank you. We'll call you." And who has actors who accept his verdict. Quietly and meekly.
Whereas I …
When I think of today …
AAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHH!
[Author's note: While this entry gives us a fascinating insight in Professor Flitwick's feelings at the time of the casting, it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi in the facts department. Since the previous section contained a reference to Horace Slughorn, who had clearly worked in an advisory capacity, I wondered whether he might throw light on the matter. He said that, like everyone else, he didn't want to talk about it ever again, but he wished me every possible success with my research. "To change the subject entirely," he added, "have you read that interesting article about the positive effects of red wine on the memory?" I felt a bottle of Burgundy was a small price to pay. You'll find his recollections in the next installment.]