It was last night when I was about to retire when she knocked on our door. She apologised profusely for coming at such a late hour, but she needed to speak with me in confidence, away from the theatre.
Florence had already gone to bed. We had argued earlier about my long hours at work and though I had ultimately placated her I knew the peace was tenuous. I worried that attending to theatre business so late in the evening would only serve to revive our disagreement, so I was reluctant to admit Miss Terry, but I could see by her state that I had no choice.
I invited her in and we withdrew to my study. It was a frightful mess and I had to clear a seat for her. She didn’t notice the clutter as she was quite frazzled.
It seems she had found herself alone in the theatre that night. Monday is our dark day, but she had stopped in for some private rehearsal on the set. Afterwards, she had retired to her dressing room to review some script notes and fell asleep, awakening a few hours later in the darkened theatre. She was disoriented for a moment, but not overly alarmed; she had lived at the theatre for a time before she settled in with Lucy and her aunt.
She was startled to hear Mr. Irving’s voice as he was escorting someone up the stairs to his office. Upon exiting her dressing room, she caught a glimpse of the person Irving was talking to as they disappeared at the top of the stair.
“It was a woman, a common streetwalker by the looks of her,” Miss Terry said, with none of the shock with which most women would have made the statement. “It is none of my business with whom he associates, and I was quite prepared to be discreet and not repeat what I had seen for fear of starting gossip among the company. I gathered my things and was about to quietly exit and hail a cab when I heard a muffled scream!
“At first I thought I’d imagined it. I froze at the bottom of the stairs, straining my ears. And there was another unnatural sound I could not make out.”
“Perhaps it was a rehearsal,” I offered, but my imagination went in other, less gentlemanly directions.
“Or perhaps it was a scream of ecstasy,” she said, completing my thoughts. “I did not want to rush to judgement, throwing open his office door to embarrass us all if that were the case.”
I felt a blush creep into my cheeks. (Damn my Irish complexion!)
“But what if the girl were in danger?” she continued. “Or Mr. Irving for that matter, for these poor women often resort to robbery. What if she had stabbed him and it were his screams I heard? You can see what a predicament I was in, Mr. Stoker.
“I continued to listen but heard nothing. How long I stood there, I don’t know. Seconds? Minutes? I was paralysed with indecision, which is not something I am often prey to. Ultimately, I could wait no longer. I grabbed my trusty sword – the one I used to fight off the burglar several months ago – and headed up the stairs. And there I stood outside the door, again unable to act. Do I knock and give him time to compose himself, or do I throw the door open and gain the element of surprise?”
I feared for her, though she was safe in my study. “That was foolish, Ellen. You should’ve summoned the police!”
“I considered that, I did. But what if it were a tryst? Think of the scandal to Mr. Irving and the theatre. I gathered all my courage and threw the door open to find…to find the office empty! Neither he nor the girl was anywhere to be seen, yet they could not have exited the office without passing me.”
“Perhaps you dreamt it. After all, you were asleep in your dressing room only moments before.”
“Ah, a possibility. Yet, there on the back of his office chair was a woman’s scarf.” She pulled it out of her sleeve as a magician would a bouquet of silk flowers. “This very scarf. Take a close look at this, Mr. Stoker.”
She handed it to me to examine. It was wool, once white and now grey. It smelled of stale perfume and gin. On it were several drops of what could have been blood. The spots were already dried and brown from exposure to the air so there was no telling how old they were.
“You suspect foul play,” I said. “But where is the girl? How did Irving slip past you?”
“I don’t know. Did I stumble upon a crime, or did I dream it and the scarf is but a piece of wardrobe or something left by the cleaning lady? I was hesitant to come to you, but I didn’t know where else to turn. You must think me a silly woman….”
“Not at all,” I said. “You have shown remarkable bravery and astuteness in this situation. It is worth further investigation. I will look into this discreetly, I assure you, if only to put your mind at rest.”
I escorted her through the back courtyard to the rear French doors of her own home. The private garden is accessible only to the rear of the houses on our street and the street adjacent. The only other entrance is a single locked iron gate, with the groundskeeper having the only key. I suspected it was safe enough, even at night, for a woman to cross its scant width, but I knew she felt better having me walk her.
“How is Lucy’s health?” I enquired.
“Better, I think. She was up and about earlier today. The tonic the doctor has given her seems to be helping. Your brother’s recommendation, I believe?”
“I am glad it has been a help,” I said.
She said good night and gave me a little peck on the cheek, which caused me to blush yet again. I was thankful for the cover of night. “I am glad to have you as our manager, Mr. Stoker. I think you will keep us all safe.”
On my stroll back, I mulled over the many things that could explain what she had seen. Could my benefactor have done something nefarious? It did not seem possible, yet the story Ellen told me was mysterious to be sure. My one comfort was the knowledge that Irving is not a vampire or other supernatural creature, for with my powers I would know. Still, a man need not be supernatural to be a fiend.
Then, suddenly, it was as if that very thought had brought the curse upon my eyes once again! A green streak of light pierced the darkness in the corner of my vision. I whirled around and looked in its apparent direction. A large birdbath and marble statue obstructed my view. It had been so fleeting I was not sure I had seen it at all, but then a rustling of leaves drew my focus further into the darkness.
My heart raced. It had followed me to my home!
“Who goes there!” I yelled.
The creature burst forth from the cover of bushes and sprinted away from me at high speed. I gave chase, but it was to the garden wall in seconds and leapt over the eight-foot height as an ordinary man might step onto a kerb.
I bolted through my apartment and out the front, but I had lost him (it?).
I stayed up much of the night looking out the back window, standing guard over our neighbourhood, which no longer felt safe.
Letter from Florence Stoker to Phillipa Balcombe, 13th of June 1879
Dear Mother,
I must share with you some momentous news, which will bring you great joy. You are to be a grandmother, for I am with child. The doctor says I shall deliver by the end of the year, or very early in the next. Bram and I are already discussing names and he has given me a modest allowance to outfit a nursery.
I feel so very blessed, though I must admit the news comes at an inopportune time. As I have written before, I have a small role in the Lyceum’s production of The Merchant of Venice and am understudy to (the regrettably healthy) Ellen Terry in the role of Portia. I hope to continue until the play closes, or until my condition precludes it, as we are a tremendous success and attendance shows no sign of waning! However, Bram would prefer I leave the cast now. Ammunition for this request is provided by the costume mistress, who has darkly hinted that there are limits to how far she can let out my costume. Add to this the fact that I feel ill often and disagreeable nearly always and I fear I will be dismissed before I have a chance to resign.
I had hopes for a larger role in our next production, but alas, that dream will have to be foregone in favour of the joys of motherhoo
d. Perhaps the one after that, if we have a reliable nanny. If so, I hope that you and Father can come to see me perform. I believe you would be proud of your daughter.
I must go, for it is nearly time to leave for the theatre. I do hope you and Father will be able to visit us when we have the new baby. I miss you terribly.
Yours always,
Florence
P.S. I am sure you realise that my comment above regarding Ellen Terry was only in jest. She is a dear friend, and I wish her nothing but health and happiness. And, perhaps a few days of rest in the country!
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 13th of June 1879
2:00 p.m.
It has been several months since I have felt any evil presence, and for that I am grateful.
In even happier news, I am to be a father. This joyous time is somewhat dampened, however, because Florence feels motherhood spells the end to any hope she had of a career on the stage.
This is nonsense, of course, as I pointed out. Several of our female players have children. After the child is weaned and a proper nanny can be hired there is no reason she could not pursue acting on an occasional basis. This did nothing to calm her fears, however. She, in fact, became hysterical today and could not be consoled. My attempts to bring her to a more tranquil state led to her throwing a teacup at me, missing my head by mere inches. I have never seen her in such a state.
“My figure will be ruined!” she screamed. I knew not what to do and sent for her friend Lucy to console her. I left for the theatre and am not looking forward to going home.
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 14th of June 1879
5:45 p.m.
After my discussion with Miss Terry on Monday night – and my glimpse of the creature in the courtyard – I found myself unable to concentrate on my duties the next day. As Irving does not come to the theatre until the evening, I had most of the day to investigate the possible crime of the night before.
I checked his office thoroughly. Nothing seemed out of place: no signs of a struggle, no telltale drops of blood or strange tinglings from my second sight, as Wilde calls it.
As the sun set and Irving failed to appear, I became worried he may have been a victim of a crime himself. Perhaps the woman had an accomplice who came in through the window to help her dispose of his body. One reads of these things in the penny dreadfuls and police blotters all the time.
I was both relieved and anxious when he finally entered his office. He could tell by the look on my face that something was amiss and asked me about it quite directly.
I decided to match his straightforward approach and told him what was witnessed the night before, though I substituted myself for Miss Terry. I told him that I had returned to the theatre to collect a book I had left behind, that I had fallen asleep reading, and it was I who thought I saw the events but was unsure as to their veracity due to my drowsy state.
He forced a smile and sat down in his favourite office chair. “I am embarrassed to confess you caught me at a moment of weakness,” he said.
I did not wish to proceed but knew I must. “Sir, it is none of my business what you do with your private time, but I need to know if anything more than a crime of the heart took place here.”
“Some men drink or play cards. My vice is the company of a young woman from time to time,” he confessed. “But I assure you that she left in good health.”
He stood and went to a bookcase on the far wall. “As for our quick disappearance.” He slid out a book, then pulled down a lever that was concealed there. The case swung open to reveal a hidden stairway. “When I heard someone coming up the stairs I hurried her out through here.”
I was greatly relieved, though embarrassed that I had pressed him on so personal a matter, and apologised for prying into his personal life.
“You are a man of honour, Bram. I would have expected no less of you if you had any suspicion of foul play. But I hope I can count on your discretion regarding this matter.”
“Of course, sir, as in all things,” I said.
We both returned to our duties and said nothing more of it.
The next day I met with Ellen at a café near the theatre. I told her it would be safe for her to return to work that evening and that Irving was none the wiser that it was she who had seen him with the girl.
She listened thoughtfully and thanked me for my efforts, and for saying it was I who had seen the woman, saying it was ‘clever and gentlemanly’. “And brave too, for if he were a maniac you could have been his next victim,” she said.
I assured her that it is a manager’s duty to protect the company and crew. There was an awkward moment of silence as she daintily sipped her tea.
“Still, our Mr. Irving has some strange habits,” she finally said. “Do you not think so? Having to cover mirrors when he enters the room if he isn’t wearing makeup. That is vain even for an actor.”
“It is all part of his artistic temperament,” I speculated.
“Ah yes, we mad actors,” she said, smiling wryly. I began an apology but she waved it away.
“I have never seen the man eat or drink,” she said, taking a bite of a cucumber sandwich.
I quickly searched my memory and realised I too had rarely seen him consume anything, even when we met for supper. He had always an excuse – he had just eaten, his stomach wasn’t well, a toothache – and he was so quick to engage in conversation I hardly noticed. He abstained from alcohol he told me, and when tea or coffee was served he usually took only a few polite sips.
“It’s not natural for a man not to have a hearty appetite,” she continued. “That is why he is thin as a rail, no doubt, and why he often is in a melancholy mood.”
“His friend, Reverend Wilkins, confided in me that he had a great tragedy as a young man and it turned him away from God,” I said, only then realising how it sounded like gossip. “Only recently has he regained his faith; perhaps that is why he seems overly serious at times. When not working, I can attest that he can be quite jovial and quick with a joke.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she said, smiling. “And I am glad he has you as a friend to manage his work and life.”
“He has been very good to Florence and me. I am happy to repay him in any way I can.”
She enquired after Florence and I confided that she was not feeling well.
“When I was expecting I was frightfully ill,” she said.
I had not heard her mention a child before, and it never occurred to me she might be a mother. Again, my face betrayed me. It is just as well I am a manager and not an actor.
“Oh, yes, I have two children, Edith and Edward. I am not married to their father, making it all quite scandalous. Currently, they live with their father and have assumed a separate surname to avoid the stigma of illegitimacy.” She said this all quite calmly and looked me in the eye with a confident gaze. “Does this shock you, Bram?”
It did, but I did so want to appear modern and liberal in my thinking as I am now working in the bohemian world of the theatre.
As I did not answer quickly, she continued, “Part of being an artist is to throw off society’s chains. I believe love should be fluid and taken where one can find it, for there is so very little of it in the world.”
I stammered some vague reply. It does make sense when she says it.
The theatre world runs on a different set of rules, I gather. Irving himself has a wife and children living in Italy, I am told. When I am a father I do not think I could bear to be away from my family to pursue a career.
“I do hope Florence feels better soon,” Ellen said. “I think she will, as the sickness is only a fleeting thing. In fact, being with child may make her feel important and invigorated. I quite enjoyed it myself, after the morning sickness faded.”
I did not tell her that Florence and I are barely speaking to each other or that Florence acts as
though she hates the very sight of me, let alone my touch. I wanted to confide in Ellen, but I could not bring myself to speak of such a personal matter.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said as we got up to leave. She handed me the scarf. “Perhaps he could return this to the girl. I’m sure she would like to have it back, as she is alive and will presumably have need of it again.”
I left the encounter with more than a bit of doubt about Irving. Back at my office I examined the spots on the scarf and wondered if they were drops of blood.
Was I blind to his faults to such a point that I could not recognise a monster in front of me? Or, am I seeing monsters everywhere I go because of my past confrontations with the supernatural?
From the Diary of Florence Stoker, date unknown, most likely the summer of 1879
Archivist’s note: These pages, written by Florence Stoker, were sold to the White Worm Society by William ‘Willie’ Wilde in 1898, a year before he died from complications related to his alcoholism. How these pages came to be in his possession is a mystery. They appear to have been ripped from a bound journal, and Willie Wilde claimed he found them in the former Stoker London residence under the floorboards of what would have been Florence’s bedroom.
Awakened.
Had that horrible nightmare again. I am giving birth, but something is wrong, blood pours from me, soaking the bed and spilling onto the floor. Bram and Ellen are across the room, unaware I need their help. They are talking and laughing. I call to them, but they do not hear me. For some reason Oscar is there, drinking tea and reading a book of poetry. He too is ignoring me, despite my cries for help. After a great push, the baby is born, but I cannot see its face because it is covered in blood. So much blood.
I gasp myself awake again, the sheets wet with night sweat. I am exhausted from lack of sleep. I feel the baby inside me writhing like a snake in my belly. I am reminded of the time as a child when I suffered from a tapeworm. How glad I was to be rid of it, and how horrified I was to think it had lived off of me for so long. How can a woman have such thoughts and become a loving mother?
Stoker's Wilde Page 14
