Dracula in London Part 6

"You've killed my servant," he said in some surprise.

"I'd kill her again if she'd get up," I said tartly. "Miss Lucy-"

"Is none of your concern." He walked around me, staring at me with red-flecked eyes.

Like a lion that wasn't quite hungry enough to pounce. "I could kill you all tonight."

I couldn't think of any reason he wouldn't. Penny, Kate, Alice... all helpless. Me only a breath away from it. The laudanum was a thick black pool in me, and I was drowning in it.

"Go ahead," I said, as if I didn't even care. "If you'd stoop so low."

He smiled at me then, Dracula did. "For you, I might bend my principles, little one. Or make you my own."

"Go to h.e.l.l!" I shot back, amazed at my own bravery. I'd never cursed in my life, not like that, certainly not to a man. And still he smiled.

"Soon," he promised. "The dead travel fast."

I felt my knees buckle then, and I fell, face down in the ashes of Elizabeth Gwydion. I rolled over, spitting out the bitterness of her, and saw him looking down at me from such a far, far distance. His cold fingers caressed my face."No," he said. "I don't think I will do you the favor of killing you. Explain this tomorrow, to your betters. Explain your drunkenness and your dead mistress. Perhaps I'll come to kill you when you're starving on the streets."

His words struck fear in me, absolute fear, because he was right. I fought the dark as he walked away, but there was nothing I could do but fall. I dreamed, you know. This time no adders, no abbeys, no pale wasting ladies. This time I dreamed I was in a great cathedral, and I lit a candle to the smiling statue of Mary, and I prayed.

I prayed until the morning, when Dr. Seward arrived at the house and found Mrs.

Westenra dead and Miss Lucy dying.

No, no, I'm all right. A fleck of coal dust in my eye, most likely. But it was a sad house, very sad. And no one to blame it on but four drunken servants, which Dr. Seward promptly did, though of course later he said he knew all along we'd been drugged.

It was Dr. Van Helsing who came to our rescue, finding positions for Kate and Alice. Dr.

Van Helsing himself who gave me and Penny posts here in his house. Do you know what he said to me, Nora? He said, "There are monsters all around us, Mary Margaret. Some that people in my position will never see, but perhaps you will."

So here I am. Doing the same ironing, the same scrubbing, the same sweeping. Some things never change, as I said. And some do.

Yes, that one's good. Hand me the next. Now, you must put a good sharp point on them, Nora. Sharp enough to pierce skin like b.u.t.ter. It's got to go right to the monster's heart, you see? Dr. Van Helsing and the others are going after Dracula, but like I told you, this has nothing to do with Dracula. It's below stairs business.

Poor Penny's lying in her coffin in the parlor, waiting on the undertaker. And she were bitten by Dracula that night at Hillingham. If she wakes, we've got to do for her like the Doctor did for Miss Lucy. Test the knife. Sharp enough to cut bone?

Oh, wipe your tears, girl. And say your prayers. There's plenty below stairs who might need the same mercy, before this is all said and done.

We care for our own.

Dear Mr. Bernard Shaw

Judith Proctor

1st October 1893 22 Barkston Gardens Earls Court, S.W.

Dear Mr. Bernard Shaw,

I write to you because I'm not quite sure who else to write to. You, I am sure, will tell me honestly and fully what you believe of these circ.u.mstances. I know you well enough to know that you will not gloss over anything in your reply and that if you feel I am being foolish, you will be blunt enough to tell me.

Be the critic for me once more and tell me if this speaks to you of something possible or simply an overactive imagination on my part. You're as firmly grounded in the real world as anyone I know- your play last year on slum landlords had all of London talking-usually to tear your name to shreds.

I'm wandering off the topic-I'm even being serious-perhaps that tells you how much this has distressed me!

We're playing King Lear. You know that anyway... You see, I'm still dithering.

To begin-for I shall never get going if I don't-it started about two weeks ago. I think it was Wednesday, though it might have been Thursday.

Partway through the play, I became aware of someone in one of the boxes. Now that's nothing unusual. We've been playing to virtually full houses most nights and the boxes are popular. You wouldn't believe what people sometimes get up to in the boxes- the play must be quite a distraction to them. This man was watching the play though. He wasn't just watching it, he was virtually mesmerised. You'd think he'd never been to the theatre before. Henry was giving a bravura performance as Lear and I was doing pretty wellmyself. I'm really too old to play Cordelia now, but when the audience believes in it, I believe in it too. It's a conspiracy between us and as long as they keep paying to see me, I'm happy to oblige.

The box made him hard to see in the darkness, but I knew he was there-I could feel him.

Last week, he was back haunting me again. That was definitely a Monday. It's easier to get tickets at short notice on Monday, because we're rarely full then. Same seat-he obviously preferred the boxes. There was something so intense about him-like a traveller in a desert who'd finally reached an oasis. He wasn't just thirsty-he was desperate.

Something was different this time though, he wasn't watching Henry, he was watching me.

Just me.

I've been watched before-you get all sorts in theatres. Some can get a little obsessed. This wasn't the normal admirer hanging over the balcony though. He kept back, and I could barely see him beyond the shadow of the box. I couldn't get a chance to look properly at him; I have to concentrate on the part when I'm performing. It's so easy to become distracted-sometimes the slightest thing can throw me and I lose my lines.

That's what was so strange-I knew he was watching me even when I couldn't see him.

Have you ever had that sensation? The feeling of eyes looking at the back of your neck?

I'd swear his eyes were red, but it was probably just a trick of the limelight.

I never did get a good look at his face. Even when he stood to applaud at the end, he was still in the darkness. All I could really tell was that he seemed to be well-dressed; he looked like a man with money.

Actually, that's probably how he got along to Henry's post-show supper a few days later. Bram Stoker-Henry's manager- ' has a real nose for possible investors. He does all Henry's correspondence and I honestly don't know where Henry would be without him. He corresponds with theatres for us, arranges tours, and leaves Henry free to do what he does best-acting.

I knew the stranger was there the moment I entered the room. He stood out in the crowd, there was a s.p.a.ce around him and you don't normally get much of that at Henry's parties. I'll try and describe him for you, though memory may make him more dramatic than he actually was. He was tall, almost six foot in height. He'd a real beak of a nose-you could have cast him as Julius Caesar any day-a black moustache, a pointed beard, and a hard cruel face. His teeth were pointed-like a dog's canines. I didn't like the look of him at all.

He became aware of me immediately. Coming over to me, he bowed. "May I introduce myself, Miss Terry? Count Dracula."

He had a European accent, though I couldn't place where from. It certainly wasn't French or German. I really didn't fancy talking to him, but one has to make the effort. One is expected to sparkle at such affairs, so sparkle one does.I made him feel welcome and asked him where he was from. He wasn't too pleased at that.

"You can tell I am not English?"

"You do have rather a strong accent," though I hastened to add, "but your command of our language is superb. You have obviously studied for many years."

That seemed to mollify him a little. "I wish to come among you as a gentleman, a man of learning. I have no desire to be taken for an inferior."

Well, I had his measure now. "That could never be," I a.s.sured him. "Your clothing, your manner, and your speech all declare you to be a n.o.bleman by birth."

Now he was happy-positively preened himself. "The clothing is fas.h.i.+onable? I read your newspapers, but they are short of information on reliable tailors. I do not entirely trust tradesmen who advertise. I asked my legal representatives to recommend a firm to me."

I looked him up and down. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, but they'd certainly done their best. The cloth draped in the way that only really expensive fabrics do and the cut was excellent. "You must tell me the name of your firm," I said. "If their legal advice is as good as their choice in tailors, I might need them some day."

"I sent my measurements in advance; my wardrobe was waiting for me when I arrived."

I still didn't like him, but he was beginning to impress me. He certainly planned carefully enough-he'd never have made an actor. He'd also dodged my question, although I didn't think about that until later. Maybe he would have made an actor after all.

Loretta waved at me from the other side of the room and I tried to make my excuses to go and join her, but Dracula simply took no notice. He had that kind of natural arrogance that comes from having people leap to do your bidding all your life. At least he was polite about it-well, more or less.

"Miss Terry, I must speak to you about the play. Why is it different from what I have read?"

"Didn't the reviews do us justice?"

"You misunderstand me. The play was not performed as it was written. Why did you change the words of Shakespeare?" (You know, you'd have loved him. You're always criticising Henry's version of Shakespeare. You ought to be a theatre critic instead of shredding musicians.) "A play is a complex thing..."I began, when Bram came to my rescue. Or Henry's rescue if you look at it another way. I really believe that Henry has no more devoted fan than Bram Stoker.

"Henry Irving is a creative genius!" Bram declared. "The words written by a playwrightare just the starting point. There is nothing sacrosanct about them. They are clay to be taken and moulded by an actor to suit his needs."

"I have re-read the play," the count declared. "Mr. Irving has changed the words. He has got them wrong."

Whoops... Beard not the lion in his lair... (Do lions have beards?) Bram exploded. When a six-foot-two, twelve-stone Irishman explodes, you tend to know it.

"Have you no soul!"

The count took an abrupt step back in the face of that fury.

"Don't you know genius when you see it? Henry Irving breathes life into cold words. He puts pa.s.sion where there was only paper. There isn't his equal on the whole of the British stage."

Dracula's protest was washed away in the onslaught. (I really do think you might have felt quite sorry for the poor man.) "If you used that play as written, would it have the impact, the drama of what you saw tonight?"

"Have you ever seen a better performance? Have you?"

I felt compelled to intervene. "Bram, dearest, he's only been in England a few weeks."

Didn't help of course. "So he thinks himself qualified to judge English theatre when he's hardly even watched any?"

Dracula finally got a word in edgeways. "Your theatre is excellent. I have greatly enjoyed the performances. But is it right to change what has been written? Would not the play be even more excellent if performed as written? Would you rewrite the novels of your great authors?"

Philosophy at that hour of the night? What is the world coming to? The argument was obviously good for ages yet. I took my chance, left them to one another's company, and slipped away to join Loretta. I spent the rest of my evening in dedicated pursuit of the trivial and I'm glad to report that I found it.

The next day, the 22nd, an hour before the show, I found Dracula waiting outside my dressing room. The stage doorman must have let him in. I wonder how much the count tipped him?

"My dear Miss Terry, I wish to apologise for last night. It was not my wish to embarra.s.s you. May I apologise?" He held out a ring in the palm of his hand. The oddest thing-I hadn't noticed before-he had hair growing on his palm, black and wiry. It was rather unnerving; I've never seen anything like it before.Let me tell you though, that ring was several carats worth of apology. (Tell me, why do men always give jewellery rather than money?) I accepted it with the best grace I could muster and thanked him.

"I find your city fascinating," he said slowly. "There are few people living in the high mountains of Transylvania and they are ignorant and superst.i.tious. There are no men of learning there, no people who understand art or literature. It is possible for me to order books, to learn other languages, and to study the works of other great men. But with whom can I discuss these things? Who can make them come alive?

"Shakespeare is perhaps your greatest playwright. I read his words on paper and thought that I understood them. I saw the play performed upon the stage and realised that I understood nothing at all. The rhythms and poetry of the words are invisible to me until they are spoken, and then they come alive. They speak of possibilities, of things that an old man had forgotten and the memory of laughter. It is a lifetime since I laughed, an eternity since I cried."

I get sickened by continual flattery, but he meant it. I'd swear he meant every word.

What kind of a man did that make him?

"Is it really so empty where you live? Surely there must be towns? Theatres?"

"There are travelling entertainers who amuse the peasants with shadow puppets and old stories, but any attempt at a play is crude indeed. They play their parts with enthusiasm enough, but they do not become the part as you do. There is no emotion, no truth to it."

I felt then that he was drawn to the theatre because his own life had no emotion in it.

All he could find to fill his need was the synthetic emotion that we supply to any who will come and watch. And yet there can be truth in a good play, of a kind anyway. I pondered that as I went into the dressing room and checked over my sticks of greasepaint. He stood, hesitant, in the doorway. I was reluctant to dismiss him, but I needed to get ready. I sat down and looked at my reflection-the empty doorway framed my head.

I heard his clothes rustle and spun round. He was still there!

I could not have turned back again to save my life. To turn around would not only have left him standing behind me, it might also have allowed me to confirm what the mirror had told me. There are some things that you don't want to be certain of.

My lips took over and started talking even while my mind was frozen in panic. "Count, I really must get ready for this evening's performance. Why not see me some time when I'm less busy? How about Sunday afternoon in St. James' park?"

He dipped his head in a gesture that was half nod and half bow. "Would three o'clock be suitable?"

"At the end of the lake nearest the palace."

"I will be there." He took my hand, and I'm proud to say that I didn't shake when he kissed it. Theatrical training has its uses now and then.I was safe, at least until Sunday. A foolish invitation on my part, but I'd had to get rid of him fast and that was the fastest way I could think of. Anyway, I'd no intention of keeping the appointment.

What was he? A demon? An angel? Or do you think I imagined it about the mirror? I'm not sure myself now. Maybe I just had an attack of nerves because he was standing behind me? I don't know. I don't trust my own judgement any more.

I didn't tell anyone about it-I'd have felt such an idiot. They'd probably have decided my eyes were playing up again. It's not quite so hard writing to you, because I can put the words on paper and that's easier than saying them out loud. It's easy to imagine I'm talking to myself, just keeping a journal.

I actually did feel a little guilty about Sunday. Was it just his appearance that made me so uneasy? None of us get prettier as we get older. Men can't help the looks they are born with- Dracula had been nothing but courteous to me. I was almost relieved when I got a really bad headache that saved me the necessity of inventing an excuse. Besides, it was a terrible day, pouring with rain all afternoon.

Still, I should have known putting him off was just delaying the inevitable. He was waiting outside my dressing room after the show on Monday. I made a mental note to ask Henry to fire the doorman-I'd given strict instructions that n.o.body was to be allowed in.

"Miss Terry, I would not intrude upon you here and now, but I must speak with you sometime."

I tried to apologise for Sunday, saying that if I'd had his address, I'd have contacted him to say I was unable to make it. He brushed it aside-wasn't relevant. There were things he wanted to discuss-things that were important to him.

Why me? There's people enough in London. Why couldn't he talk to somebody else? No point in asking really-I recognised the symptoms all too well. People love me-not for what I am, but for what they imagine I am.

In the end, I'd no choice but to agree to another meeting. I probably wouldn't have kept that one either, except that George the doorman swore blind that he'd never let Dracula into the theatre that night. He'd never even seen him. I think the reason I believed him was that he voluntarily admitted to accepting a large bribe the first time. If Dracula was able to get into the back of the theatre without going through the stage door...

I met Dracula outside the actor's church on the Sabbath and trusted in the Lord to look after his own.

When I came out from the service, the day was bright and sunny. I could hear a blackbird singing somewhere, its song affirming everything that's good about life. Dracula stood waiting for me under the church portico. Daylight seemed to diminish him; he looked no different and yet-somehow-I feared him less when I saw him by the light of the day star.He bowed and asked me what my pleasure was. I chose to walk. This Old Smokey was clear of fog for once and I wanted to enjoy it while I could. I had a need to be aware of everything around me, to have people pa.s.sing and to see couples out strolling. I didn't offer him my arm and he didn't ask for it; instead, we walked side by side and just talked.

"Your friend Stoker told me that a hundred years ago, the ending of King Lear was changed to allow Cordelia to live. She marries Edgar and lives happily ever after. He said this version was popular, but now the proper ending has been restored. Why? What is the purpose of tragedy? Why is her death so important?"