Who Was Dracula? (5 page)

Ellen Terry loves flowers, and in her playing likes to have them on the stage with her when suitable. Irving was always most particular with regard to her having exactly what she wanted. The property master had strict orders to have the necessary flowers, no matter what the cost. Other players could, and had to, put up with clever imitations; but Ellen Terry always had real flowers.

Years later, when the Lyceum company played in New York and encountered a blizzard, Stoker was determined to secure her roses for Terry's appearance in
Faust
. He located them “at famine price,” five dollars for each bloom, personally bought a bouquet, and carried them back to the theater through the snow.

—

When she joined the company for
Hamlet
, Terry was surprised to find that Irving refused to rehearse her scenes. He left the characterization of Ophelia to her. She went to him and registered her complaint, but he brushed it off. “We shall be all right, but we are not going to run the risk of being bottled up by a gasman or a fiddler.” That was Irving: imperious, diffident, and aching to trust the people around him.

Perhaps, too, he was trying to keep her just slightly off balance. Terry's neurosis was intact on opening night. As the curtain fell on the first performance, she had already left the theater confused and disappointed. She feared that she had done a poor job and, in turn, made Henry Irving look bad. She dashed into a cab without taking her bows. Irving received the cheers alone and then went to Terry's home to find her. They began an affair, insiders said, on that opening night of
Hamlet
.

—

Bram Stoker recalled Irving's relationship to Terry, officially, as “brotherly affection,” which was a neat understatement. When traveling, they silenced gossip by staying in separate hotels, and for years they conducted themselves offstage with propriety, as devoted friends. They spent their days off together and shared vacations. Each had Jack Russell terriers, fat and spoiled; hers was Drummie and his was Fussie.

Edward Gordon Craig, Terry's son, later described his mother as one of those women who continually think they are “wretchedly weak,” but who are always stronger than the men around them. Irving often boasted of her pathos, which he claimed was “nature helped by genius.” He knew that she made him better; she softened his performances onstage and made him bearable to others offstage. Stoker's prose seemed unable to analyze her. Instead, he massed his compliments with superlatives—they elbow their way into the sentences and then spill over the page. She was, in Stoker's telling, more than a woman: “The natural style does not admit of falsity or grossness. . . . In her, womanhood is paramount. She has to the full in her nature whatever quality it is that corresponds to what we call ‘virility' in a man.”

—

In December 1879, a year into the new Lyceum management, Irving Noel Thornley Stoker was born to Florence and Bram. He was their only child, named for Bram's surgeon brother Thornley and, of course, Henry Irving. Irving also served as godfather—which was remarkable, since he had not attended the christening of his own second son. The family favored the name Noel. When he was older, he explained that he'd always avoided the name Irving because he resented the man who had monopolized his father's life.

It's easy to describe Florence Stoker as the long-suffering wife, and, indeed, the sheer mathematics of Bram's schedule demonstrates that he spent very little time at home. Stoker's biographer and great-nephew, Daniel Farson, went one step further, speculating about an unhappy marriage, a vain, frigid wife, and a faithless husband. But it's mere speculation, and memories of Florence, as well as her surviving correspondence, show an engaging, insightful personality who delighted at being included in the social whirl, proudly attended Lyceum openings and special dinners, and enjoyed parties with her husband—like Bram, she was a bit of a snob when it came to celebrities.

When Bram was otherwise occupied, Florence sometimes attended social events with W. S. Gilbert, the acerbic playwright and librettist who was half of the team of Gilbert and Sullivan. Gilbert had already developed a strong distaste for Henry Irving, critical of his bombastic productions. Bram Stoker received these comments with diplomatic silence. He and Florence were happy to socialize with Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert, and Gilbert was always willing to chaperone the neglected Mrs. Stoker.

Another friend from their Dublin days had moved to London by 1880. Oscar Wilde was sharing a house with the artist Frank Miles, crafting his methodical assault on London society—witty afternoon teas with the very best people, long dinner parties filled with indulgent conversation, bright sparkling poems offered freely. His formula included evenings at the theater, of course. At that time Wilde was besotted with Lillie Langtry, the beautiful “Jersey Lily” who was starting an acting career. Lillie had real gravitational pull; she was the toast of society, celebrated by artists, and the mistress to the Prince of Wales. Wilde was then a mere satellite—a colorful, aspiring Irish playwright.

Wilde was drawn to the Lyceum's glorious productions and the concentration of desirable society that filled the boxes. He also found Ellen Terry, whom he christened “Our Lady of the Lyceum.” This was the start of a long, sincere friendship. He was her fan. She was a fascinated friend, who became his fan. Wilde grandly offered his first play,
Vera; or, The Nihilists
, to Terry and Irving, sending them copies bound in red leather. Terry avoided responding and Irving politely refused; it was not a Lyceum production.

Wilde was more cautious—with Victorian social graces—in approaching the Stokers, remembering the awkward situations from their Dublin days. During
Othello
in 1881, when Irving and Edwin Booth alternated the roles of Othello and Iago, Wilde was drawn to the Lyceum. Newspapers observed him greeting friends in the box, leaning over to shake hands with admirers in the stalls, and talking with Bram Stoker in the lobby. If any awkwardness remained, it was evidenced in Bram, circling cautiously. For a while, he could still imagine himself as an equal to Wilde—a Trinity man with a writing career, who had fixed the theater in his sights—but Wilde's successes had already eclipsed his.

—

Bram spent most vacations with the family, writing. He had never abandoned his literary career; he simply moved it to the side burner when Irving's needs at the Lyceum glowed red-hot. After
The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland
, Stoker produced an array of titles.
Under the Sunset
, published in 1882, was a collection of dark, enchanted stories inspired, in part, by his mother's recollections of the Irish cholera famine. The book consists of fairy tales within a fairy tale—the fables gathered from a mysterious land, which exists only in dreams. It was dedicated to his son. A rumor among the Lyceum staff suggested that Stoker had paid 700 pounds ($3,500) to have the book printed; in other words,
Under the Sunset
was a vanity publication.

His following books included more traditional adventure novels:
The Snake's Pass, The Watter's Mou'
, and
The Shoulder of Shasta
. Modern critics feel that these works were hurriedly produced during Stoker's time away from the theater, primarily diversions from his work. Their romantic situations or adventurous spirit are in keeping with popular novels of the day, or the dramatic scripts for melodramas that were a part of Stoker's daily work.
The Snake's Pass
is set in Ireland.
The Watter's
Mou'
uses Cruden Bay, Scotland, inspired by one of his vacations there.
The Shoulder of Shasta
is set in the American West for its exotic locale, after one of Stoker's American tours with Henry Irving.

The novels received mixed reviews. For example, the
Athenaeum
, a literary magazine, criticized the dialogue in
The
Watter's Mou'
, suggesting that stilted phrases were better “adapted for the Adelphi stage than for a discussion between two Scotch lovers.” That Adelphi remark would have been cutting to Stoker; the Adelphi had been infamous for cheap, “blood-and-thunder” melodramas, unlike Irving's more refined fare. Stoker was at his best describing local color, although—not surprisingly for a man who dealt with scripts—this sometimes turned into dialogue written in dialect: Irish, Scottish, American. Some critics found it all tedious and unnecessary.

The Shoulder of Shasta
was also snubbed. “This story will not increase his literary reputation nor appeal to many readers. . . . This want of maturity and a sense of humor may be due to haste, for the book bears the stamp of being roughly and carelessly put together. Mr. Stoker can probably do much better than this,” the
Athenaeum
concluded.

If the books were carelessly dashed off, it may be that Stoker was busy with his career. He trained for four years to become a barrister (a trial lawyer) and was called to the bar in April 1890. He never practiced law or tried a case. Perhaps he was readying himself for the time when he would no longer be working for Irving, or indeed, perhaps he felt a need to raise his status with Irving.

—

Voice recordings survive of Ellen Terry reciting “The quality of mercy” from
The Merchant of Venice
and Henry Irving performing “Now is the winter of our discontent” from
Richard III
. Both are from the last years of their careers. Their voices are stagy and affected, with the sharpened enunciation that was always necessary before electronic amplification. Terry's voice is powerful but lilting, filled with sincerity. Irving's voice gives evidence of his affectations: a quirky purr calls attention to itself.

Irving was distant, demanding respect. Terry admitted that he allowed few people to know him; she wondered if Stoker really understood his friend. Max Beerbohm, the English writer and caricaturist, who knew Irving for years, believed that the actor gave the appearance of “watching from a slight altitude. I think [he] wished to be feared as well as loved.”

Despite being his costar, Terry had only slight influence over Irving. Her opinion was apparently always considered and often dismissed. Stoker recalled a time when Irving had interpolated a new line into
Much Ado About Nothing
, a silly joke to close the scene:

B
EATRICE
: Benedick, kill Claudio!

B
ENEDICK
: As sure as I'm alive, I will!

Irving was following a centuries-old tradition of bettering Shakespeare's lines: During Irving's early years onstage, the Bard was regularly rewritten, twisted, and tortured. Terry protested, “almost to tears.” She held every word of Shakespeare sacred and felt that this addition was wrong. Her reverence reflects the attitude of modern theatrical audiences.

It was Irving's theater, and Irving persisted, of course. Stoker dutifully agreed with the boss: “To my own mind Irving was right. . . . Modern conditions, which require the shortening of plays, necessitate now and again the concentration of ideas. . . . It may be interesting to note that this [new line] was not, so far as I remember, commented on by any of the critics.”

Like everyone around Irving, Ellen Terry came to suffer. She was denied a number of excellent parts because—just like poor Isabel's experience with
The
Bells
—every artistic decision was made by Irving and for the benefit of Irving. Her devoted fans, especially George Bernard Shaw, resented the limitations. The cult of Terry came to praise the greatness she'd achieved under duress and to grumble about the greatness that had been denied her.

But for her part, Ellen Terry never complained; she threw herself into each role and adored Irving, seeming to tolerate every one of his faults. She also understood the rules of an egotist. Terry once explained to her son, “Were I to be run over by a steamroller tomorrow, Henry would be deeply grieved; would say quietly, ‘What a pity!' and would add, after two moments' reflection: ‘Who is there—er—to go on for her tonight?'”

—

Many shows were dependent on extras to fill the stage; they called them “supers,” short for supernumeraries. Most managers paid them sixpence a night; Irving paid one and sixpence (18 pence) and then raised that to two shillings (24 pence). It was a handy job, a little extra money, for theater porters, workmen, soldiers on leave, or other friends. Supers could work for an hour each night to make extra cash for their beer. Stoker was watchful for people who were working only as supers—he considered them loafers.

One of Irving's most famous effects, for a show called
The Lady of Lyons
, involved a platoon of troops, four abreast, marching past an open window and door. As the scene played out, the hero pledged himself to the army and rushed out to join the brigade. Astonishingly, the troops marched, and marched, and marched throughout the long scene, and then through the curtain calls. Irving used 150 men; they stomped across the stage at an even pace, and into the wings, then turned and ran in the opposite direction, behind the backdrop, to join the line as it marched in from the other wing. In this way, the procession of supers was truly endless.

The Cup
was an 1881 play, a script by Alfred Lord Tennyson, Britain's poet laureate. It was set in ancient Greece at the Temple of Artemis. Neither the play's pedigree nor its learned exoticism was lost on Irving, who consulted archivists at the British Museum and contracted his finest scene painters to re-create the great temple. The mysterious ceremony, the centerpiece of the show, was supplemented in typical Lyceum largesse with one hundred vestal virgins, who supported Ellen Terry in the role of Camma.

Florence Stoker was recruited as one of the beautiful virgins. Perhaps she considered it a lark or as an attempt to ingratiate herself with her husband's associates. There's no question that she was pretty enough to be onstage and professional enough to be entrusted with the role. She was given a colorful costume and directed in the choreography—a fantasy pagan ceremony that Irving invented for the occasion. When Oscar Wilde heard that his dear Florrie would be making her debut onstage (standing behind his revered Ellen Terry), he sent Terry a package with two floral headdresses. His letter shimmered with intrigue.