Dracula_in_London Page 8

  "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 embarrass 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 superstitious. 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 nobody 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 passing 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?"

  "Tate changed the ending because people are fond of 'poetic justice.' They like good to triumph over evil. It reassures people, convinces them the world is a safe place."

  "But Irving chose to use the original ending? Why? Cordelia is the heroine. She is young; she is beautiful; she is loyal. Why do you prefer her to die?"

  "Because it means that you'll never forget the play. If Lear and his daughter both die needless deaths, you'll cry for
them and you will think far harder as to the reasons why they died. Cordelia's love and duty carry more weight when she pays the fullest price."

  He was silent for a while. I studied his profile as we walked, that beaked nose and the strong forehead. He reminded me of a bird of prey, something cruel that swoops down and seizes young birds in its talons. Eventually he spoke: "Is it more important to live or to be remembered?"

  "It's more important to live—that's why tragedy exists. Tragedy gives us the illusion that other people will remember us when we are gone. We have no choice as regards death, remembrance is closest we can come—we live on in the minds of other people."

  I wonder if anyone will remember when I'm gone? Will they wander past my memorial and say "Ellen Terry? Who was she?" We all like to think our memories are immortal, but of course, they aren't. All things considered, they're probably more likely to stub their toes on my tombstone and curse.

  I think Dracula understood people's desire for immortality. He asked me, quite seriously, if I would rather live for ever or be remembered for ever.

  I laughed at that one (well, how can you answer a question like that seriously?), and said I'd look awfully decrepit if I lived for ever!

  His answer was to ask if I would want to live forever if I could stay as I am now.

  "Well," I said, "if you're going to wave a magic wand, I'd rather be ten years younger." You realise, you'd probably be terribly disappointed in me if we met—I'll be a grandmother next year.

  "Not you," he declared. "You should always be as you are now."

  "You flatter me," I protested.

  "You have more than beauty. You have intelligence, wit, and feeling. I have three sisters, and they are each worthless. They have no ideas in their heads that I do not put there. They do not read, they have no love of knowledge, they don't think. When I see you on stage, I see a woman different than the one I see here. That alone tells me the effort that goes into your work. Then I remember the emotion in the part you play and I know that must be a part of you, for it is impossible to truly simulate something that you cannot understand.

  "My sisters tell me that I am incapable of love, but they lie. I recognise it when I see it and therefore I am capable of feeling it."

  It struck me that this was a curious doubt for any man to have. Was love important to him because he had lived alone too long? Was there some dead love in his past? Almost on cue, he said— "You played Othello the year before last. Othello kills his love when he believes she has betrayed him, yet with her dying breath Desdemona seeks to protect him. How do you read that? Can a woman truly love the man who kills her?"

  I love Desdemona for her perception, the way she loved Othello for what he was rather than how he looked. I couldn't help but wonder if Dracula had also raised the question for that reason. It would be hard indeed for a woman to love him for his face.

  "It's a pity you weren't able to see it, " I replied. "But yes, her love for Othello was always based on her understanding of him. Even when he is trying to kill her, she knows deep inside her that he still loves her. That's the tragedy of the play—he kills the person he most loves. If he hadn't loved her to such excess, he would not have been so enraged by her seeming betrayal."

  "Do you think then that she forgave him?"

  I pondered that one, because it's a tricky question. Love and a willingness to forgive don't always go hand in hand. "I think she wanted to protect him. I think she loved him… Forgiveness? That's harder to say. He hadn't trusted her and that's always hard for a woman to accept."

  "Suppose, for the sake of argument, she could have come back from the dead—would she have loved him then?"

  He really did ask the oddest questions. Death seemed to be always at the forefront of his mind.

  "I suppose she might. If a ghost is capable of love."

  That seemed to really hit home. "It has to be possible!" he snarled. "There must be a woman capable of loving beyond the grave."

  I touched him gently on the arm. "Who was she?"

  "Everyone I have ever loved. Do you realise that it is possible for a man to live forever? To go on down through the centuries, never changing, never aging? But there is a price, and that price is to be forever alone. Would you walk that path if you could take it?"

  To never see my few grey hairs turning into thousands? To never feel the stiffness and blindness of old age? To be able to see my grandchildren grow to adulthood? How could anyone not want these things?

  "It would be a gift beyond price, but you're wrong about being alone. No one need ever be alone."

  There was a cat lying down ahead of us, sunning itself on the pavement in the way cats do. A butterfly carelessly darted within paw range and the cat had it at once. It teased it, and pounced every time the butterfly thought it had escaped. I shouted at the cat to go away and it ran, leaving the butterfly to struggle into the air once more. Such a pretty thing, all red and purple, the sunlight making the wings look as though they were dusted with gold.

  "Do you know what my sisters would have done?" Dracula asked.

  I shook my head.

  "Pulled its wings off"."

  I pulled away in instinctive horror.

  "The price," he said, "is to be unloved and always alone."

  The butterfly flew higher and as I watched it, I heard the church clock strike noon. When I turned back to face Dracula, he was gone. Make of it what you will.—Yours sincerely,

  Ellen Terry

  Later—

  I still haven't posted this. Maybe I never will. I'm still not sure what happened, or whether, indeed, anything happened. It's been a month now, and I've seen nothing of Dracula. Where did he go? Why did he go? Could he have been immortal as he claimed? I never liked him, but I'm surprised to realise that I'm concerned about him.

  No, not concern—pity.

  The Three Boxes

  Elaine Bergstrom

  London—August 19.

  "The English is not difficult," the Count said, settling into a plush chair in his host's den, his reflection curiously absent in the polished mahogany top of the desk. His host did not notice, so intent was he on watching his visitor's face, his body.

  "You might find it odd that I should sit like this. But I find the acts of sitting, standing, even breathing—or at least pretending to—so important now that I am surrounded by the life of this great city and must do my best to fit in."

  His host did his best to listen the tale. One that would end here in Mayfair, but began days earlier in a far less civilized corner of the country. He would say nothing in the hour that followed, for in truth there was nothing he could say as the Count continued…

  * * *

  The Englishman himself is the puzzle. In my country, the poorest work the hardest, for they know it is only through work that they will survive. But here, after the ship ran aground and broke apart in the tide—that is good sailors' English for the matter, I think—with all the wealth the ship carried scattered across the beach, none of Whitby's poorest watching the ship break apart would provide me with any assistance in retrieving my sea-soaked boxes and getting them safely to shore.

  So there was I, with not a soul to help me, dragging my boxes, heavy with soil and water, above the tide line. I had only the little money I had taken from the sailors. The bulk of my wealth was in jewels that I loathed to show to the lazy rabble lest they plot to rob me while I slept. Not such a fool, I worked alone, waiting for someone to come and offer service.

  Someone did, but not at all the person I expected. To anyone less perceptive my helper appeared to be a boy, a youth of about sixteen. But I noted how the body moved, how weak the work it did, the slight scent of blood. No, not a man but a woman passing as one.

  There were many reasons for such a disguise when I was alive—escaping slaves or willful women who did not like the husbands chosen for them. But I had come to understand from my solicitor visitors and from my readings of your land that a woman here would not need to hide. N
ot understanding, I did not let her know I had seen through her disguise.

  I also did not have time to speak of it. Night was giving way to a dawn barely visible through the thick clouds. "How soon will the sun rise?" I asked my helper.

  Face lifted to the sky, studying. "Noon," she finally said, and shrugged.

  I understood, and she seemed so clear on it that I trusted her. With my life. But, you must understand, I had little choice.

  As she predicted, the sun did not break through the mists for some hours. By the time it did, she had already been paid and taken leave of me, promising to meet me at the warehouse five nights later. And so I slept in the innermost box, thankful that two pounds and the promise of more covered the storage cost.

  A happy meeting with a fine outcome. I was safe for the moment with time to get my bearings before I left for the city I would call home. For the next four nights, as I walked the cliffs near the city, watching men and women, absorbing language and manners, even while dining on a noblewoman of uncommon beauty, my thoughts returned frequently to the woman who had helped me.

  I met her again as we'd arranged. Her clothes were the same as before, but were now ripped and muddy from the knee down as if she had been hiding in some swamp. Again, I did not ask for an explanation. It was not my affair.

  "These boxes you need shipped, are they all yours?" she asked.

  I nodded. "I have property near London. I need to take them there."

  An interesting woman. She did not question the contents, instead asking, "You have money for this?"

  "I have… means to obtain it," I replied, still wary—not of her honesty but of the possible slip of her woman's tongue.

  She began a long explanation of currency exchanges until I stopped her with a wave of my hand, the gesture having some effect even on someone who did not know my temper. "I have the means… not in coin, but in goods. Do you know an honest person who would buy some… trinkets in gold?"