‘I say,’ she whispered to Harker, now offering her hand. ‘Gorgeous backdrops. I am Ellen Terry.’
— IX —
In which an eerie interlude is offered, a wondrous country discovered, and the question of nudity considered
At the post-show celebration, held on the stage, Irving is quiet, seems withdrawn and exhausted.
‘What do you mean, she didn’t stay?’
‘As I told you, she left after only a moment or two in the wings.’
‘She didn’t wish to see me?’
‘She remained thirty seconds, if that.’
‘Any message?’
‘Just this calling card.’
‘Read it out to me, can’t you? I haven’t my spectacles.’
“‘Darling, well done. Your Ellen.’’’
‘That’s all?’
‘I have let the newspapers know she attended. Come, a glass of champagne. Congratulations.’
But the fizz doesn’t spark him. Scowling for the photographer, peremptorily accepting handshakes and embraces from the players, sulking as he watches the beckonings and flirtations. Chefs have set up stoves to fry sausages and boil crayfish, furnishers have draped the pillars with lengths of crêpe de Chine. Minstrels in domino, strumming lutes and plucking dulcimers. A bucket of lobsters overturns and its denizens escape, inching across the boards towards the wings.
‘Best cooked alive,’ he mutters. ‘Like critics.’
‘I must leave,’ Stoker says. ‘I am completely bunched and hope to get a little writing done before sunrise, now we’re up on our feet.’
‘You are not permitted to leave. If you do, I shall curse you. I see by your chuckle that you do not believe in curses.’
‘I believe in science.’
‘The religion of fools.’
‘Science is measurable truth. Curses are fiction.’
‘Read your Darwin, old hog. Even a fool is occasionally correct. There was a time in earthly history when the apes could not speak. Then some found the power’ – he quaffs his glass – ‘whilst others disbelieved.’
‘And?’
‘And so, in every generation, a small number possess powers that the rest of the apes do not have or believe in. That elite is what brings about whatever small progress there is.’
‘I find the notion fanciful. I am a democrat.’
‘Find it what you wish.’ With his dagger he stabs morosely at a dish of ribs and rare liver, the unctuous bloody juices running down his chin and staining his collar. ‘Thrice in my life I have sincerely wished harm on an enemy. I uttered his name nineteen times, a black-magical number. In each case, he died within the month.’
His dog slinks to him from the wings. He feeds it a dripping steak. Three laughing young actresses approach with a salver of grapes. ‘Auntie, you look famished, let us feed you.’
‘Careful there, ladies,’ Irving chuckles. ‘Your aunt is a respectable girl who is on her way home to the nunnery.’
‘Oh no, Auntie, don’t go! .. Really you mustn’t, it’s too bad of you … Auntie, will you dance with me, I shall be the boy?’
‘Waiter,’ Irving calls. ‘More fizz for my aunt.’
‘I suppose I can stay for just one.’
Tottering homeward after dawn, through crowds of workers and schoolchildren, he remembers to buy the newspapers at the stand on Tavistock Street. Fumbling for his keys, he enters the house. From her seat at the communal breakfast table, the signora regards him, a vision of florid sternness among the porridge plates.
Upstairs in his sitting room, he lights the fire, puts on a kettle and seats himself in the window banquette. Outside on the windowsill a mangy London crow is staring in at him like a cornerboy. The sky is yellowish grey with smog, as though the gods have vomited.
TRIUMPH FOR IRVING
LYCEUM BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE
GALA REOPENING OF LYCEUM ATTENDED BY MISS TERRY
IRVING RISES AGAIN
As he reads, his hands tremble, and his eyes begin to hurt, and he realises he is not alone in the room.
‘Florence. My dearest heart.’
Her hair long and loose, her dressing-robe gull’s-egg blue.
‘Is everything well, Bram? I was a little alarmed.’
‘We had – a celebration after the show. It rather ran on. I’m afraid I am somewhat drunk.’
‘All went as you hoped?’
‘One or two hiccups. Only to be expected with so little time for preparation. Ellen Terry was there. I shook her hand.’
‘You didn’t get my note? I sent a boy with it last night.’
‘Things were so busy, you see, I didn’t open it. But thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For sending the luck note. It was thoughtful of you.’
‘It wasn’t a luck note. I went to the doctor yesterday.’
‘My love. Is everything—’
She seats herself by the fire, her face pale as salt.
‘He says I’m expecting a baby.’
20th January, 1879
At noon I went to the theatre only to find it locked up and shuttered. Empty bottles, cigar butts on the steps, dubious puddles. Looked very poor indeed. Got a mop and bucket. Cleaned up the piss.
The innumerable excitements of the thespian life.
One detail disturbed me though of course a mere coincidence: on the sill of one of the portico noticeboards, a doll’s shoe.
In the foyer, the silk sofa was torn and three of the large French mirrors stained with I think red wine. Disappointing, disheartening to see such evidence of unruliness among the players. I suppose one should be grateful the bastards didn’t break into the Box Office and rifle the takings. Thankfully, being actors, they would be too stupid to contrive such a deed. Most actors couldn’t find a hole in a ladder.
The entire floor of the Box Office anteroom was covered in pound notes. As I bundled them and counted the receipts, I was taken by the intense silence around me, which seemed remarkable, eerie. No street sounds, but sepulchral stillness, like being inside the deadest most aortic inner chamber of a Pyramid. Never have I noticed before, must be the thickness of the walls. I could actually hear the scamper of the mice in the ceiling above me. Apart from them, I was alone. So I thought.
Entering the auditorium, I was startled to see the figure of a man on the stage. Tall, broad, in a cape, with his back to me. When he turned, I saw it was the Chief, last night’s dagger again in hand.
When I greeted him, he made no reply. It was as though he had not seen me or was in a trance. The approach I made was cautious, in case he was dreamwalking, which Collinson and some of the older players say he does when under a strain. They must not be awakened quickly, those who night-roam.
‘Chief,’ I said. ‘It is I.’
Now he seemed to swim up to the surface of himself, to become aware of where he was. There was a sore on his lower lip and it appeared to be suppurating badly. I noticed his feet were bare.
‘Did you see her?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘The girl-child. In the balcony.’
‘There is nobody here but we two. Take a moment to compose yourself.’
He beckoned me up, but, by the time I had gained the stage, he had hurried away into the wings. Now I saw the light from his office at the top of the stairs.
His face was white and waxen, his hands trembling badly. The room smelt stale and turgidly oppressive, as though someone had slept in it, which perhaps he had. On his desk-blotter was a syringe and a small bottle containing a clear liquid.
I knew what it was and wished he would not resort to it but its use (and overuse) is not unknown among people who work at night or are given to nervousness. I went to open the curtains and window.
‘Close them.’
‘But it’s a crisp healthy morning, I only thought to—’
‘I said CLOSE them. Are you deaf as well as ignorant?’
I was shocked to be spoken to in this manner. G
ruffness I have seen in him, but I had not myself received the treatment he sometimes metes out to the actors. Nevertheless I did as he asked. To every dog his first bite. It occurred to me that he was losing his mind, was under some kind of mental or nervous attack brought upon him by the exhaustion of these past weeks of preparation, for his whole face looked distorted, like that of an entirely different man. Even the voice seemed different, quite emptied of manliness or feeling, as the voice of a mechanical dog.
‘Get on with whatever you are here for,’ it said.
‘I came in to see to the correspondence. That was all.’
‘Then see to it.’
‘There is a letter of congratulations from Tennyson, a note from Wilde, one from Beerbohm Tree, one from Shaw.’
‘Shitting hypocrite.’
‘Requests for interviews from The Times and the Illustrated News. But perhaps those might wait a day or two. Until you have had a chance to rest yourself.’
‘Nothing from the palace?’
I looked at him.
‘Thought the queen might have written,’ he said, now staring hard at his hands as though he had never seen them before. ‘One would think she might want to encourage excellence for once in her idle stupid life. Vulgar middle-class trollop.’
By now, I was truly frightened and could see that a doctor was needed. But having no other choice for the moment, I did my best to humour him.
‘You were happy with the evening?’
He uttered a tight, bitter laugh. ‘You ask Christ if he was happy with the crucifixion. I will never forget the shame. I’ve seen a better play done by drunken beggars in the street.’
‘There were naturally First Night nerves. But the audience was more than satisfied. I expect you haven’t yet seen the notices this morning?’
He tapped his head. ‘I do not need to see them. I see them in here. Before any of those whores’ curs writes a line it is visible to me. Nothing scalds me like the praise of a fool.’
I (reading aloud): ‘A Masterpiece Performance.’
He (snapping): ‘Burn it.’
I: ‘For Heaven’s sake.’
He (louder): ‘Dare you talk to me of Heaven when you have put me in Hell? You and the other mediocrities who stain this place by your presence. The thought that Ellen Terry was here to endure it makes me sick to the stomach.’
I (standing up to him despite his approach): ‘The company’s performance in my view was of a singularly high level given the difficult conditions under which we have been operating.’
His rage was now so extreme that it caused him to stammer and drool. ‘You are not in M-M-Mickland now. I do not accept your grubby standards. It must be flawless! Every night. Nothing less than perfection will do.’
‘That is a noble aspiration,’ I said, ‘but not practicable. Please calm yourself.’
Now he roared from the pit of his lungs, his whole face ragingly scarlet and engorged. ‘It is not an aspiration! It is how it shall be.’
‘Again, I appeal to you—’
‘Anyone who doesn’t wish to join me, there is the door, only mark you I shall have my pound of flesh before he goes.’ He pointed the dagger towards me as he spewed these ugly words and I was afraid that I soon must have no option but to strike him and knock him down, which I had rather not, for I have never struck a man less than my height and weight. But it was good to know that if I must, I could fell him.
By now, he had shouted himself into a new moon of the anger, a quiet, cold, bitter phase. I said nothing, for it is better to let a man rant and bubble when his blood has run away with him, for the sooner rage spills, the faster he calms. He snatched a cigarette from a silver case on the desk and lit it and seemed to smoke away the entire thing in three or four dredger-like sucks. I poured a tumbler of absinthe from his decanter and took a small sip for I needed something merciless to drown down the nerve. And now we came to the true meat of his rage.
From a drawer in the desk he pulled out a copy of Belgravia magazine and tossed it contemptuously on the rug between us as though it was some piece of vilest obscenity.
‘I suppose you know what that is,’ he said without looking at me.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you deny that this rag contains a so-called story under your name?’
‘It is a well-thought-of journal among literary men. Why would I deny it?’
‘“Literary men.” An oxymoron if ever there were.’
‘You may banter if you wish.’
‘You are employed – and remunerated well – to assist me in my work. Not to compose witless yarns for bitches that have recently learned to walk on their hind legs. I am entitled to every shred of your attention and support. You did not give it. You betrayed me. What is more, you associated this theatre with the trash appearing in that publication. What have you to say for yourself?’
‘I write a little in what minuscule spare time my position here affords. I am sorry if that does not suit you. I shan’t be stopping.’
‘You shall do precisely as I say, when I say it, without question.’
‘On this point, no.’
‘You will defy your superior?’
‘If needs be.’
By now, I could hear voices and laughter from the stage downstairs, and the thud of the trapdoors opening. Some of the flymen and players must have come in for the rehearsal of Macbeth. His dog appeared in the doorway and regarded us, long tongue hanging. In the wings, someone was playing a jig on a violin.
I have seen many expressions on the face of the Chief but never one quite as resolvedly charged with raw hatred.
‘Get out of my sight,’ he said. ‘Before I harm you.’
THE VOICE OF ELLEN TERRY
At the time, I loved attending a London First Night. And I did adore a tragedy.
Darling, who wouldn’t?
Adultery, vengeance, cruelty, lust, betrayal.
That was before one got through the foyer.
I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. Must we? Oh I see … Well I suppose it’s so very long ago that probably it doesn’t matter. But yes, I toddled along to the opening night of Harry’s Lyceum.
Didn’t like it much, I’ll be honest.
Harry could be a dreadful old stomper, a scenery-chewer, as we say. It came out like that when he was nervous, he’d take a bite out of a goblet. Stamping like an ostrich. Sweat and spit flying. Darling, if you were seated in the front row of the stalls, you’d want a sou’wester.
There are people whose cup of tea it is, but I wasn’t one of them, I’m afraid. If I want to hear a fellow roaring, I’ll get married.
Make no mistake, he was a peerless actor. The greatest I’ll ever see. Majestic, powerful, like an animal not a man. You couldn’t look away, not even for a second, it was as though your neck was in a vice and your eyes on the stage. Couldn’t blink, damn near. Couldn’t move. There was only one Harry, on a good night he was untouchable. And most of his nights were good.
I never saw anyone more able to get out of his skin. Like a snake, we used to laugh. But we knew he was the greatest. What Harry had was unearthly. That’s the word I would use. I swear to the Dickens, he actually changed before one’s eyes. Gave one collywobbles to see it. Magnificent.
Trouble is, he adored the applause and that gets in the way. There’s a certain sort of actor – a clap-hound, I term them – who’ll do anything for the applause, set himself on fire if he needs to. And Harry was king of the clap-hounds.
In a lesser player, one wouldn’t mind, might even sort of admire it. One does what one can, after all.
But it irked me when Harry did it. He did it too often. It was like watching the world’s greatest concert pianist juggling coconuts in a booth on Southend Pier. Fine, so far as it goes. But there’s a Steinway behind you, darling. Give us a ruddy tune while you’re up there?
That was what one felt about the night. ‘Stop clap-hounding, idiot. Don’t be such a tart. Be Harry.’
You see, acti
ng is not a matter of pretending to be someone else but of finding the other person in oneself and then putting her on view. It’s nothing mystifying, it’s what children do; you’ll have seen them when they play. It isn’t letting on, it’s being. I learned it when I was a little girl myself, my father ran a travelling pantomime. He never told me ‘Pretend to be a fairy.’ He’d say ‘Today you’re a fairy, Len. Fly.’
So, I don’t like seeing the acting, I like seeing the fairies fly.
But one doesn’t say it, of course. Well, one can’t. And one mustn’t. What’s done in a performance is done, there’ll be another tomorrow night, and you must never put your sister or brother player in a funk. Cardinal rule. The eleventh commandment. You’ll have an off night yourself. It happens to everyone, often enough on a First Night, when people are anxious. And you wouldn’t want them doing that to you.
The way of saying it gently is, you don’t go to the party. So I didn’t. Bit stubborn. There we are.
One was young enough to think high principle is important. Nowadays, I’d pootle along and get squiffy as hell and lie a ruddy hole through a bucket.
The best acting at a First Night is never on the stage. It’s always at the party afterwards.
2nd February, 1879
It is difficult to know quite how to manage a particular and notable aspect of backstage life without either giving offence or causing self-conscious feelings among the young. One wishes there was a confidante one might ask.
The fact is that, during performances and sometimes even rehearsals, a certain amount of ‘quick change’ is required, for the Chief wishes us at the Lyceum to pride ourselves on the gorgeousness of our costumes and the dexterity with which they are deployed. It is his habit to inform us with no little frequency that the response he wishes to evoke in the audience is not the statement ‘that is wondrous’ but the question ‘how the ****ing **** do they do it?’
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