The Ballet of Dr Caligari

by Reggie Oliver

  Well, all this is to explain to you how in an early scene in the play, Margaret, who finds herself reluctantly betrothed to the old Earl’s usurping brother is wandering in a gallery of the castle with her father when the spectre of the dead earl steps out of the portrait and silently glides across the stage before disappearing. In this way, we are led to believe, Margaret is warned not to marry the pretended Earl of Marsden. Not that she needs warning, for she has already taken against the vampire, sensing, in the words of Mr Goole ‘a chill as of the grave about him’, and in any case she is about to become enamoured of a young and handsome fisherman with a poor memory. This young fisherman, as you may have guessed, bears a close and uncanny resemblance to the man in the portrait, and indeed the spectre, a circumstance which is not lost on Margaret, played in our production by Maria Falconer.

  Mr Mowbray and I between us took considerable pains to contrive a full length portrait within a frame which was also a vampire trap through which a man might pass and materialise as if by magic. Falconer was very particular about the portrait which had to be of a man resembling Mr Hawtrey but in armour and with a helmet on, the vizard up. The reason, he told us, was that he already had a costume which could be used that he had made for the ghost of Hamlet’s father in a production of that play. The ghost in Hamlet, if you remember, is described by Hamlet as ‘in complete steel’ and ‘armed cap-à-pied’ with the vizard up. Mr Falconer told me that that the costume was made from padded grey silk so that it looked like steel under the lights, but was much lighter and made no unseemly clanking sounds when moved. He produced the item and I spent some hot and comfortless hours modelling the suit for Mr Mowbray’s portrait.

  I also contrived on Falconer’s instructions a second vampire trap in a panelled wall on the other side of the stage through which the apparition then vanished. The whole effect was to be assisted by smoke, flash powder and the controlled use of gaslight and ‘limelight’ whereby a stick of lime burning in front of a gas lamp intensifies and concentrates the illumination. I began to be enthralled, almost obsessed by the work I was engaged in, an interest which was greatly enhanced by the complementary enthusiasms of Mr Mowbray and Mr Falconer.

  Rehearsals proceeded for The Vampyre, and other works were also in preparation. Othello was to follow Ruthven and I was asked to make a practical bed for it as soon as the Vampyre scenery was done. Davenant was to play Iago and Hawtrey the Moor. In addition, the curtain raising farces were being gone through, but these did not include the principal members of the company nor, thankfully, myself. I worked; I observed.

  The day of the first performance of The Vampyre was rapidly approaching. I remember coming up from the understage where I had been doing the carpentry for the second vampire trap. There were three people on stage: Ketterridge, the prompter, Hawtrey and Maria, Mrs Falconer. They were running through a scene of romance between the hero and heroine of the drama. Hawtrey seemed unsteady on his feet and was having a problem with his words. Maria regarded him with a mixture of horror and desperation. Several times she steadied him or fed him a line, but when he clutched hold of her too much she, with a despairing look out into the auditorium, tried to disengage herself as much as possible. Then there was a shout from the stalls and Mr Falconer came bounding onto the stage.

  ‘What is this, sir! You have been drinking. Have I not expressly forbidden drinking in my theatre?’

  Hawtrey looked down at his feet and mumbled something about not having drunk anything in the theatre, which I could believe because the back door of the Black Dog Inn was virtually opposite the stage door. But Falconer would have none of it. He almost leapt upon Hawtrey and began to rifle the pockets of his coat from one of which he pulled out triumphantly a flask of brandy. This he hurled into the orchestra pit. Glass broke; Hawtrey snarled.

  Hawtrey stood on the stage stunned, his face white, sweat standing out on his pale skin and glistening like diamonds under the single row of gas battens that illuminated the stage. Maria alone seemed unmoved. She drew her husband aside and began to speak to him earnestly. I could not hear what they said, but no doubt she was reminding him that we were to open in two days and that no possible substitute for Mr Hawtrey could be found in time. Maria was some inches shorter than Falconer and while he still quivered with rage she remained imperturbably still. His all-but irresistible force had met an immovable object.

  Presently I saw him withdraw from his tantrum and step back an inch or two. He even smiled, a rather ghastly attempt, and put up his hands in mock surrender. He turned his back on his wife and went over to Hawtrey who would have been almost his height had he not been cowering from the effects of sudden shocked sobriety. Falconer told him that he must swear off drinking, at the very least during the day before a performance, and that if he was found drinking in the theatre, or if any drink belonging to him was found in the theatre, he would be dismissed, regardless of the consequences. He then left the stage by the back, I slipping behind a flat so as not to be seen by him.

  When he had gone Maria in full view of the prompter Ketterridge, seized Hawtrey, kissed him passionately for some seconds then hit him hard across the cheek. They then began to rehearse again, this time to some purpose, while I withdrew to my carpentry.

  These events cast a pall over my young and inexperienced life and for me filled the whole theatre with a sense of fateful anxiety. The fact that those forebodings were fulfilled seem to me a mere accident; I do not ascribe to myself any gift of prophesy, only adolescent gloom. I tried to explain my feelings to Davenant with whom I shared lodgings again. He listened to me with grave courtesy, but I could tell that he thought my misgivings unjustified.

  Much care had been lavished on Ruthven, or the Vampyre of the Isles. It was billed as an ‘entirely new and sensational melo-drama’ and opened with great éclat. This was quite literally the case for, after the orchestra had discoursed wonders after the manner of Herr Weber, the curtain rose with a roll of stage thunder on a splendid scene of the interior of the basaltic caverns of Staffa. Moonlight streams through the opening beyond which can be seen the raging waves. There is a flash of lightning and a further roll of thunder. Rude graves and burial monuments of a primitive character are scattered among the rocks of the cavern. Ruthven, played by Mr Davenant, stands in a circle surrounded by witches and demons (of whom I am one) and is conjuring up the storm which he believes will shipwreck and kill his nephew Lord Ronald, thus enabling him to claim the title of Earl of Marsden.

  It was a scene which commanded much admiration on the opening night, as did the second scene that followed. This took place in a corridor or gallery of Castle Ruthven where Margaret is told of her destiny to marry the hated Ruthven who has usurped the title. It is in this scene that the ghost of the murdered Earl of Marsden in armour steps through the vampire trap in the portrait and glides across the stage to warn the heroine of her fate.

  This was a sensation scene which excited much admiration. Indeed, it was clear from the first that, despite any inadequacies in Mr Goole’s script we had a success on our hands. The only trouble came from Mr Hawtrey. He strongly objected to being required to make his first entrance as a silent spectre as it meant his having to be in the theatre earlier than might otherwise be the case. He even suggested that Falconer himself, being of a height with him, though somewhat taller, might appear as the ghost in his place. Falconer, however, was adamant: it was his theatre and his production. Maria, I could see, was conflicted. She would have liked to indulge her lover but did not care to arouse her husband’s suspicions. Moreover I think she was as distressed by Hawtrey’s drinking as was Falconer, and the more time he spent in the Black Dog over the way from the stage door, the worse it would be for her.

  Then one night Hawtrey performed tipsy. It was not so bad as to trouble the audience unduly, but it was noticeable to the whole company. He staggered somewhat, his words were wild and did not sustain an exact sense, though they remained within the bounds of intelligibility. Thereafter Falcon
er insisted that he should come into the theatre before the beginning of the curtain raiser (a ‘laughable farce’ entitled Chaos is Come Again, or She Would be a Sailor) and stay locked in his dressing room until let out for his first entrance. Moreover both his person and his dressing room were to be searched for bottles of liquor.

  It is not surprising that Hawtrey took this régime with a very ill grace and for a few nights all went well, but on the fourth night after the rule had been imposed I noticed as I passed him in the second act dance that there was brandy on his breath. To all outward appearances he maintained his sobriety. How he had come by his drink, I could not guess, except that the previous afternoon I had seen Hawtrey in earnest conversation outside the stage door with Peter the pot boy at the Black Dog and that coins had changed hands.

  It was on the following night that there occurred the baffling and tragic series of events in which I and my friend Davenant became so fatefully connected. All so far had gone well. Indeed, only a few nights hence we were due to change our program and put in Othello. The first scene in which Davenant as Ruthven conjures up a storm was particularly well received. And the second scene was as striking. I was looking on from the prompt side, as I usually did, anxious as I was that my vampire trap should work effectively. And it did. With the aid of a little smoke the ghost seemed to emerge as if by magic from his portrait. Moreover I and Mr Mowbray had contrived an additional effect of our own to the trap whereby, as soon as the ghost emerges from his portrait a series of flaps on springs conceals the painting and renders it black, so that it is as if the image has dissolved from the canvas.

  On this evening this effect was achieved—to gratifying gasps in the audience—albeit with slightly less perfect éclat than on previous nights. It made me wonder if Hawtrey had somehow contrived to get his brandy again. The ghost in his silent silken armour walked away from me across the stage so I did not see his face but I did see Maria’s whose look of perplexity followed by terror was so perfectly achieved that it deceived even me for a moment. Nothing lit the scene but a few footlights and a single limelight which made the atmosphere more vivid and awful. After he had disappeared through the second vampire trap in the wall opposite there was a gasp of wonder and then a round of applause. I retired to put on my lowly fisherman’s costume for the second act with a sense of pleasure. The best times in the theatre are those when you revel not in your own achievement, but in the general achievement to which you have, in however small a way, made a contribution. My exaltation was to be short lived.

  I was to make my second appearance in the play (having been a demon in the opening scene) as a fisherman at the beginning of act two. A group of merry fisherfolk are discovered dancing on the sea shore to the tune of ‘The Lass wi’ the Codlings Fine’. Among these roistering rustics is discovered Ronald, the heir to the Earldom who has, if you remember, lost his memory and become a fisherman. Why he should have done either was beyond my comprehension (or that of Mr Goole the writer, I suspect) but that was the way of it. As we were waiting to go on and the painted backcloth for the scene was descending, I experienced a certain agitation. There were five of us, three women and two men, assembled in the dark wings of the stage, but the sixth, Mr Hawtrey, was absent. I was accustomed to his making an appearance at the very last moment possible, but he was cutting it appallingly fine. I looked at Ketterridge, the prompter who was standing in the corner half in shadow, but his eyes glittered with agitation. He looked at me wildly, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.

  The cloth depicting a fishing village on the shores of Skye was down, the music played and the five of us went on to do our dance. The others in the company who made up the scene seemed oblivious of the problem but I kept looking off stage for Hawtrey’s arrival. Half way through the dance I saw Ketterridge gesture to me in great agitation. I ran off stage to join him.

  ‘Must be still in his dressing room,’ said Ketterridge. ‘Come with me.’ it would seem that he wanted some support or corroboration. I had been aware for some time of his utter terror of and subservience to Falconer. ‘I’ve signalled to the orchestra to keep playing the dance.’

  ‘He’s already been on for the ghost scene,’ I said, ‘so he may not be in his dressing room.’

  ‘He would have had to go there to change after it,’ said Ketterridge.

  We arrived at Hawtrey’s dressing room door and found it locked.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Ketterridge. ‘He’s unlocked for the ghost scene.’

  ‘Who unlocks him?’

  ‘Vhokes, the hallkeeper. He must have the key. Let’s go there.’

  ‘But how—?’ My questions remained unanswered as we both ran down the corridor towards the stage door entrance. When we arrived there seemed to be no sign of Vhokes in his hallkeeper’s booth. Then, looking over the counter, we saw him slumped on the floor. A hearty kick from Ketterridge did not rouse him. At that moment the stage door burst open and Falconer entered.

  ‘What in thunder is happening?’ he said. ‘Where is Hawtrey?’ We pointed to Vhokes. ‘And what the devil is this?’

  ‘Hawtrey’s door is locked,’ said Ketterridge.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense man! Vhokes must have unlocked him. I saw him myself on stage as the ghost.’

  ‘But the door is locked,’ I said.

  Falconer first rifled Vhokes’s pockets. He was still unconscious. Then he looked around him and saw the bunch of keys that hung on a hook in the stage doorman’s booth.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Falconer ‘If you’ve been fooling me we’ll soon find out!’

  Ketterridge and I followed him to Hawtrey’s door. The key turned in the lock and the door opened a few inches but it was hard to get it fully open. The three of us put our shoulders to the panel and managed slowly to force the door open a few more feet. Something heavy had been propped against it from the inside. It was only when we had edged our way through the gap into the dressing room that we discovered that the obstacle was Mr Hawtrey’s body lying face downwards. Falconer dropped on one knee, then turned him over and felt for a pulse on the side of his neck. Hawtrey’s face was blank white from the ghost make-up that he had not taken off, but he was still in his street clothes. The white paint on his face only served to make the staring eyes and rictus of agony on his lips more dreadful and unnatural.

  Ketterridge gasped with horror and began to whimper. Falconer rose. His own face was white and his right hand twitched convulsively but otherwise he seemed in command of himself.

  ‘Control yourself, Ketterridge!’ he said sternly. ‘You are to bring down the curtain, then go before it and announce that a tragic accident has occurred. Patrons may have their money refunded on application in the morning. Go! Go at once! About your business!’

  Ketterridge finally roused himself from the shocked stupor into which he had fallen. By this time several people had gathered in the passage outside the dressing room. Falconer addressed them indignantly.

  ‘Don’t stand there boggling. One of you, fetch a physician. Mr Hawtrey is . . . I fear is—’

  At that moment there was a plaintive cry. Maria Falconer had arrived and had taken in the scene. She fainted dead away into the arms of Davenant who was staring at the scene with a cool detachment that I found a little unnerving.

  ‘Take her away man, take her away! And put her in my office,’ said Falconer with irritation, as if she were an inconvenient parcel. ‘Come, Dobbs,’ he said to me. ‘We will lock the door here and go back to the stage door. It may be that Vhokes too has perished by some similar misfortune.’ I saw Davenant glance at me enquiringly as he and a fellow actor began to escort the moaning Maria to her husband’s office.

  When we arrived at the stage door again, Falconer once more knelt down to examine Vhokes. The face, previously obscured, was turned towards me and revealed a grimace similar to that found on Hawtrey’s, except that Hawtrey’s countenance was a corruption of male beauty; Vhokes’s hideous grin seemed almost at home in his ma
levolent visage.

  Presently Falconer stood up and addressed me: ‘Dead, as I expected, Dobbs. But is this not most extraordinary? Most mysterious?’

  I nodded, but could not but notice a curious tremor in his voice, a tremor, it seemed to me of excitement, almost elation, albeit tinged with horror. Falconer had the air of a man thrilled by his own bafflement but also, paradoxically, by his command of the situation. When Mr Murray the physician came, Falconer showed him Vhokes, almost as if he were displaying a curiosity. Murray knelt down and put his face close to Vhokes and seemed to be trying to smell him. He was then taken to Hawtrey’s dressing room where, having been let in, he performed the same ritual. Having risen to his feet he said, as he dusted his knees: ‘I presume, Mr Falconer, you have sent for a constable?’

  ‘I have not. Why? Should I have?’ Falconer seemed perturbed.

  ‘Why, man! Of course you must! These two men have been poisoned.’