Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  After that dark joy, scooping up shards with a handy shovel was like tipping Isa Firth into the place she belonged.

  ~~~

  Later, in the privacy of my room, when I’d gone through both laughter and tears, I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘Why did he do it, Bram?’

  ‘What? Take saucy pictures? Well, they’ve always been a popular commodity, and you might say Jack brought his talents to a very jaded subject -’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I meant the others. The pictures of you and me. Why did he take them – why keep them? That’s the question that’s tormented me. Jack always seemed such a decent man.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘To me, that’s the strangest part. That and whatever he saw in Isa Firth. He had some kind of partiality for her when she was young – God knows why. He couldn’t stand Bella. And he can’t have had a fancy for me, either, because in all the time I worked there, I never had so much as a hint of it. So why he took those pictures – and kept them – I can’t think...’

  Bram shrugged and made a face. ‘Nor me.’

  On consideration I thought he must have known a different side of Jack Louvain, a side I didn’t know at all. So after a while, pondering aloud and trying to draw him out, I said I’d always found Jack difficult to understand. He hadn’t been in love with Isa Firth, and it seemed to me that the only thing that mattered to him was what he did, observing people, photographing them, making a record of the way they stood and looked and behaved. If he was in love at all, I concluded, it had to be with the pictures he took, images captured on glass and paper – people and places at a distance.

  ‘He could go back to them, you see, whenever he wanted.’ I paused, and Bram was nodding, not meeting my eyes, but agreeing. ‘Like those pictures of you and me,’ I went on, aware of a sudden catch in my voice. ‘They were too good for him to destroy. I don’t suppose he ever considered what might happen to them after he was gone...’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he did.’

  He stood up to pour us both another drink. I waited until he turned his head to look at me. As our eyes met, I knew. It seemed so obvious, I wondered why I hadn’t always known. For a long moment I seemed to be pinned down for lack of air.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I asked, when I could breathe again. ‘He kept those pictures because they were of you...’

  With a brief nod he abruptly moved away. He lit a cigar and stood by the window, smoking, with his back to me.

  We were both embarrassed. The revelation cast such a different light I hardly knew what to think, where to begin. Eventually, I had to speak, just to break the silence.

  ‘That last night,’ I said anxiously, turning to look at him, ‘before Irving arrived – you were out for hours, alone. I thought you’d gone walking over the moors – I was worried sick about you. But when you got back you said you’d bumped into Jack Louvain, that you’d been drinking with him...’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I had.’

  I paused, aware of the tension between us. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘At least, nothing very much.’ Limping slightly, he began to pace the room, while I followed him with my eyes, willing him to tell the truth.

  ‘We had a few drinks and something to eat, then ended up going back to the studio with a bottle of whisky. As I recall, we drank rather a lot. We looked at some of his latest pictures – he showed me some of the saucy ones too. But more as an introduction, I think, to what he wanted to say, which – in short – amounted to the fact that he found women rather less attractive than men.

  ‘That was not a complete surprise,’ Bram admitted, clearing his throat, ‘although I was surprised – and not a little embarrassed – to discover that he was attracted to me. I was drunk, of course, and so was he, which cushioned things a bit, but still...’ He shrugged as though to rid himself of uncomfortable memories.

  ‘Did you find him attractive?’ I asked, and I could see the question embarrassed him further.

  ‘Well, I liked him – I always did like Jack, you know that.’ For a moment he paused, then added quickly: ‘I suppose, if I’m honest, there may have been an element of attraction, but it wasn’t something I’d been aware of. Although for a while that night, I must admit to a mixture of temptation and curiosity which nearly got the better of me... Nearly, but not quite. Anyway, I left.’

  Drawing deeply on his cigar, he paced up and down the room. Eventually, he said: ‘The encounter left me in a strange mood. I remember feeling angry and frustrated because I thought I’d found the simple life here in Whitby, yet it was turning out to be incredibly complicated.’

  With a humourless smile he went on: ‘Everything seemed against me – even my own sensibilities. All the usual curbs were failing. I’d even found myself responding to Jack, which was completely out of character, while my behaviour with you earlier that day had just – gone too far. It was alarming. I felt I was losing my grip...

  ‘I wasn’t in control of anything, least of all myself, and when I got back to the cottage I – well,’ he finished despairingly, ‘you know what I did. And I know how wrong it was.’

  Briefly, our eyes met, and in the midst of my own anguish I sensed his shame and distress. I could tell that, like me, he’d spent a long time, years ago, trying to account for his behaviour then, and had not entirely succeeded.

  ‘All I can say is that I was in love with you, Damaris – madly in love – and at the same time half mad with anxiety because I knew it was doomed. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you – God knows, I just wanted to love you. But I – I don’t know, somehow, somewhere, everything went wrong...’

  ‘It felt as though you hated me,’ I said with difficulty, ‘as though you blamed me for something – for not giving enough, or not being what you wanted me to be...’

  ‘Was that how it seemed?’ He paused, frowning; and then as I stood up he came to me. With a sigh, he reached out tentatively, touching my hair, my cheek, my shoulder, his eyes full of concern and affection. ‘It wasn’t like that, Damaris, believe me...’

  I was stiff with resistance. My throat felt dry, but I managed to say, ‘I always thought, afterwards, that you’d used me as a substitute.’

  ‘For what?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘For Irving.’

  Taken aback, he shook his head. ‘No. No, Damaris, you’re wrong there. I can see why you would think so, but believe me – no! You weren’t a substitute for anyone or anything – I loved you, I wanted you, you satisfied me. You gave me the freedom I’d always longed for -’ He broke off abruptly, breathing hard.

  ‘But?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘But I was beginning to be afraid of what I might do with it,’ he declared. ‘The more you gave, the more I wanted. It was as though I couldn’t stop. I wanted to possess you, body and soul. It frightened me.’

  ‘And me.’ Even so many years distant, the memories were chilling. I shivered, and he turned to me at once in mute appeal. I felt he needed my warmth just as much as I needed his, and, in spite of everything, I opened my arms instinctively.

  ‘I felt there was something wrong with me,’ he said as we embraced, his voice rough with emotion, ‘something sick and evil that would destroy you if I stayed. I wasn’t even sure it wouldn’t destroy me too, but I knew I had to leave. It was almost a relief when you said you never wanted to see me again...’

  Moved by his remorse, I was aware, more disturbingly, of wanting him to go on holding me. A sense of comfort and familiarity made me cling, as though he could and would defend me now, against all the maladies of the past. As though we could share the better times again.

  It had been too long since anyone had touched me, much less held me with affection. With an effort I forced myself to move away from him, and dragged my mind back to the matter in hand. A pulse was beating furiously against my throat, but now we’d begun, I had to see this thing through to the end. Now he’d told me about Jack Louvain, I had to know whether physic
al desire had been part of his feelings for Irving.

  My voice sounded strained but he heard me out, standing perfectly still, with his eyes closed, for what seemed a long time. I thought I’d gone too far, that he wouldn’t answer, or would make some excuse and leave.

  Instead he picked up his glass and drank from it, and when he’d put it down again, he said quietly, ‘Damaris, my dear, you must understand that Irving and I worked together, closely, for more than twenty-five years. Friendship changes. Feelings change. In all that time there was often hostility as much as affection, and if there were times when I loved him, there were times, I swear, when I loathed him, too.’

  But I couldn’t leave it there. A little desperately, I said: ‘Yes, I believe you, but there had to be more to it than that. Tell me the truth, Bram. All those years ago – did he tempt you?’

  At first he shook his head and, with something like exasperation, ran fingers through his hair. But then he said abruptly: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Damaris, yes, he did – at times – one time certainly.’ He broke off, and tension was dispelled on a long release of breath. A moment later, with a kind of weary resignation, he added: ‘The thing is, even when I knew, I wasn’t sure why he was doing it.

  ‘I thought it was just me, a combination of fatigue and frustration, my own lurid imagination getting carried away. It took a while for me to see that all the looks, gestures, touches, were deliberate, that he was well aware of what he was doing. He used his appeal to manipulate people – men as well as women. But he did it in such a way that it appeared innocent, unintentional, charming – you were never quite sure, you see...’

  He described Irving in the early days, before success changed him: young, handsome, possessing an amazing mind as well as that prodigious talent, and the kind of charm that was later to mesmerise audiences both at home and abroad.

  From their first meeting, the two men had seemed to understand each other; on his part, Bram described the feeling as akin to finding a soul-mate, even though he could hardly believe that such a dazzlingly talented man would choose him for a friend. In fact he’d been chosen for his own talents, for the energy and organisation that was to assist Irving in his great venture at the Lyceum. But in those days, Bram said, he was far too inexperienced to see that. He was simply overwhelmed by the offer at a time when he felt his own life was stagnating in a backwater.

  ‘Oddly enough, my mother accused me of being infatuated. She sensed Irving’s power and was afraid he’d drop me when I was no longer of use...

  ‘And even though the position was beyond anything I’d dreamed of, still I had qualms about it. Mostly to do with Irving himself. I was certain we could reach the heights, but at what cost, I wasn’t sure. Rather like Faust, later,’ he confessed with dry self-mockery, ‘I think I was afraid of losing my soul.’

  I remembered the impact Irving had had on me, and shivered. ‘And did you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I hope not. I think I paid with more immediate things – my peace of mind, my marriage, whatever talents I possessed – and you.’

  Reaching for his glass, Bram sighed and swilled the whisky round for a moment. ‘With regard to Faust – the play we were rehearsing when you and I first met – he was playing Mephistopheles. Your Gentleman in Black,’ he added with a dry smile. ‘Except Irving set a new benchmark by playing him in red...

  ‘He was always affected by a part, so I should have been prepared for the worst. But he was so devilish he came close to destroying everything – abused his power, did everything possible to belittle those of us who had been with him since the beginning. Even Ellen, who’d been in love with him for years, he treated abominably. As for me, well, it was as though he was determined to bring everything to the surface, just to make me suffer. And he did. Love, hatred, jealousy – the full gamut of emotions. I thought I was going mad.

  ‘He’d flirt with his coterie – quite openly, often with a sly look to be sure I was aware of it. And while I was holding onto my temper with the greatest difficulty, he would come to me and slide an arm around my shoulders, for all the world the affectionate friend he’d always been.

  ‘But then he would whisper, say something lascivious as a joke, and laugh at my reaction, which I’m afraid could never quite match his. I was too serious, you see, too aware of his cruelty to find it in the least amusing.

  ‘I felt stupid and angry – powerless. I wasn’t eating or sleeping properly, Florence and I were arguing all the time... between home and the theatre,’ he added with bitter humour, ‘it was like living in a Shakespearian tragedy! I racked my brains for alternatives – writing for a living, retiring to Scotland or the West Country, as far as I could get from Irving and the theatre.

  ‘Then there was talk of arranging the next provincial tour, so I seized the opportunity with both hands...’

  I recognised the edginess of the man I’d met then. That was when he’d come to Whitby for the first time, when, as he said, he’d braved the cliffs to do battle with the elements. He’d gone away feeling that I’d cured him of his megrims with a blast of real life.

  The play was a success – but that, as he said, brought its own peculiar pressures. Over the winter his relationship with Irving had worsened, bringing him back to Whitby at the first opportunity. As we talked, I saw it all quite clearly: the strain of overwork, torment from Irving, lack of sympathy from Florence, too little rest and a complex build-up of resentment and anger and fatigue. At the time I’d joked about his need to escape, but Bram had been escaping a nightmare; and having got away, his fear of discovery was very real.

  ‘It sounds slightly mad now, that I should have been so fearful. But I was. I knew that once Irving discovered my whereabouts I’d have to face him again. It made me desperate, made me cleave to you ever more fiercely. You were my salvation, Damaris – I wanted to be part of you, have you be part of me. Only then would I be strong enough to defeat him. Because I knew, as soon as I saw him, it would start all over again.’

  ‘And did it?’ I asked after a while.

  After an even longer pause, he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, sounding mildly baffled, ‘not really. Of course the play was over, so that probably had something to do with it. But all those uncontrollable emotions had somehow been dispelled. I was still moved by him, still in awe of his talent – but by some miracle, when we came face to face, I could see who and what he was. I was no longer dazzled.’

  I knew the symptoms. ‘You were no longer in love with him.’

  ‘No. I was in love with you, that’s why.’

  Fifty

  It was late and we had yet to dine. Since neither of us could face formality, we studied the menu and ordered a light meal to be sent up to my rooms. Afterwards I felt calmer, more relaxed, and as waiters brought coffee and cleared away the remains, I found myself thinking how strange it was that Bram and I should be sharing such intimate secrets after all these years.

  In the beginning, chance had brought us together, calling up passions that might have been better left dormant. Although the consequences had haunted the rest of our lives, I felt there was a kind of predestination in the way we’d been brought together again. Painful emotions had come to a head, and had finally been lanced. And some unmistakable truths had been revealed. I was satisfied that Irving had not won his battle for Bram’s soul, no matter how clear the victory had seemed to me then. Also, I must confess, I was vain enough to be glad that Bram had forgotten very little of that time. It had been etched as deeply into his soul as mine.

  In truth, I was even glad when he told me that he harboured regrets about his writing, which over the years had been accommodated between the twin pressures of Florence and Irving. Everything had always been completed in haste; he felt that if he’d been able to devote his entire attention to writing, the stories would have been fuller, the characters more rounded, his editing better executed. Despite that, the books had been successful; not enough to make his fortune perhaps, but he’d managed to prove
Irving wrong, and I found that particularly satisfying.

  ‘But tell me, what did he think about Dracula?’ I said slyly. ‘I looked it up – it really does mean Son of the Devil. Mephistopheles, indeed! Did Irving recognise the analogy, d’you think?’

  With a little grunt of surprise, Bram said, ‘Well, I’m delighted you read it, although I’m not sure he ever did.’

  I stared at him, unable to credit the truth of that. It didn’t seem possible that his closest friend could have ignored such a powerful piece of work. But, having also produced a rough playscript to protect the copyright, Bram maintained that Irving had given it no more than a glance, before flatly refusing to have anything to do with it.

  ‘It was a great shame,’ Bram sighed: ‘one of the few times he was wrong about a part. When I think of his other mysterious roles, Dracula would have been perfect... You should have seen him as the Flying Dutchman – his eyes glowed red, just like burning coals. Amazing – I don’t know how he did it.’

  With a wicked smile, he said: ‘Just think what he could have made of the Count!’

  ‘Mmm, yes, I can imagine,’ I replied, with perhaps too much emphasis. ‘The part was made for him. Why wouldn’t he play it? Did he ever say?’

  Bram pursed his mouth and, with a negative gesture, leaned back into the chair. ‘I imagine it was too small for him, too much offstage. He never did explain, apart from making one ringing comment at the end of the read-through. Dreadful! he said, and that was that. I told myself afterwards that he was referring to the hasty adaptation, not the plot, but even so, it was the kind of remark I’d come to expect from him. Anything that didn’t have Irving at the centre was never worthy of his praise.’

  On an indrawn breath, I said, ‘Well, then, it’s a pity he didn’t recognise himself! Or did he, do you think, and that was just his way of capping you?’

  Bram shook his head. ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t. Anyway, it wasn’t intended to be a portrait of Irving. To start with, the Count’s description was based on much older men – like Tennyson – like your uncle, in fact...