by Dacre Stoker
The count coughed uncontrollably. “Now that you . . . you and that solicitor . . . Jonathan Harker . . . have learned what you think it is . . . you have learned, Professor Van . . . Helstock . . .”
Van Helsing rolled his eyes.
Count Dracula continued, “It is time for you to depart these shores for . . .” He was at a momentary loss for words. “. . . the land of your little wooden shoes.”
“The name is Van Helsing!” the other man shouted. “And could you be referring to my home of Holland, you idiot?”
“You insolent little fly speck!” Count Dracula screamed back, without any trace of an accent. “Do you have any idea of the awe-inspiring talent that stands before you?”
“All I see before me is a talentless drunkard who can’t remember his bloody lines.”
Outraged, Count Dracula turned toward the lights. “Stoker! Fire this arse immediately!”
Van Helsing grabbed Dracula’s cape and pulled it over his head. Dracula, in turn, caught hold of Van Helsing’s collar. The men struggled until the count was plagued by a second coughing fit.
“I’ve swallowed a goddamn fang!” he bellowed. He tore himself away from the cape and struck Van Helsing with a right hook. Van Helsing’s nose exploded in a spray of blood.
In a blind rage, Van Helsing lowered his head and charged at Count Dracula.
“Keep away, you fool! You’re getting blood all over my jacket!”
At the back of the opulent, Greek-inspired Lyceum Theatre, Quincey Harker shook his head. So this was the great actor John Barrymore from America, stumbling about the stage in a cheap magician’s cape. He even expected more decorum from Tom Reynolds, the man playing Van Helsing, whom Quincey had once seen in Madame Sans-Gêne as Vinai gre. Now in a tremendous amount of pain, Mr. Reynolds had forgotten about respect for his fellow actor and was wildly trading blows with the staggering Barrymore.
It was a most unbecoming sight to behold. The theatre was not a boxing ring. There were very specific rules of decorum to be followed. To see actors behaving in such an uncouth manner gave truth to every negative opinion that the general public held about them. Even so, Quincey knew he had made the right choice in following Basarab’s advice. Basarab was elegant and professional—just what Quincey wanted to be. But the sight of the sad circus on the stage was not the only thing that bothered Quincey.
Bram Stoker, a husky old Irishman with graying reddish hair and a beard, sat in the front row. He pounded his cane onto the floor, shouting, “Gentlemen! You are professionals!”
The younger man sitting beside him jumped up onto the stage to break up the fight, crying out, “Stop now! You are behaving like children!”
“He started it!” Reynolds snorted, bloodied hands cupped under his nose.
Barrymore tried to steady himself. “Mr. Stoker, I will not tolerate insubordination from such an inconsequential jackass! I demand he be dismissed immediately.”
“Mr. Barrymore, please be reasonable.”
“Reason? This is a point of honor.”
“Let us not forget that I am the one who is producing this play,” Hamilton Deane interjected. “I say who is to be fired and who is not. To recast would be an unnecessary expense. Mr. Reynolds stays.”
“Then, Mr. Hamilton Deane, producer of garbage—you have lost your star!”
And with that, Barrymore marched off the stage.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Stoker rose. “I brought you here from America out of my high regard for your father, God rest his tortured soul. He made his theatrical debut on this very stage. Stop treating this play as one of your silly comedies. You have the potential to be a great dramatic actor here in London. Even greater than Henry Irving, but at least he ruined himself with the evils of alcohol after his fame was secured. You’re well on your way to destroying yourself before the public has the chance to see your full potential.”
“Are you going to fire this dolt or not?”
“I most certainly will not. Mr. Reynolds has been a loyal member of the Lyceum Company for over thirty years.”
“Then I’m on the first tub back to America,” Barrymore said. He turned and stumbled up the aisle.
“Mr. Barrymore, think of what you’re doing,” Stoker called after him. “You left New York because no one there would hire a drunken lead actor.”
John Barrymore paused, swayed a little, turned back toward Stoker, and said, “You think yours is the only offer presented to a man of my talents? I’m going to California. I’ve been offered a role in a moving picture. Mark my words; you will regret this moment for the rest of your life.”
Quincey had seen some of those motion pictures at the flicker house in Paris. It was cheap entertainment: He found it exceedingly odd that a serious actor would put any stock in it. Since there was no sound, performers had to overact to convey their intent.
On his way out the door, Barrymore crashed into Quincey. “Watch where you’re going, boy,” he slurred.
“Mr. Barrymore, I beg your pardon.”
The theatre door slammed. With that, the great John Barrymore was gone. Quincey stood there, dumbfounded.
Deane and Stoker stared at him.
“Who the devil are you?” Deane demanded. “This is a private rehearsal.”
“I’m sorry I’m early, but I have an appointment with a Mr. Hamilton Deane,” Quincey said.
“Oh, yes. You’re the chap applying for apprenticeship. What is your name?”
“Quincey Harker.”
Stoker reacted as if he had swallowed a fly.
“Did I hear correctly?” Quincey continued. “Is one of the characters in your play a solicitor named Jonathan Harker?”
“Yes. What of it?” Stoker thundered.
“My father’s name is Jonathan Harker . . . and he’s a solicitor.”
A few minutes later, Stoker, Deane, and Quincey were crammed into Stoker’s tiny office. Framed posters from Henry Irving’s reign at the Lyceum Theatre lined the wall. Stoker looked concerned as Deane handed Quincey a book with a bright yellow cover and red type:DRACULA by Bram Stoker
“A character in a novel. My father never even told me,” Quincey said, flipping through the pages. At last he held in his hands proof of his father’s hypocrisy toward the arts. How fascinating. There were so many questions racing through Quincey’s mind. And yet . . . Quincey bit his tongue. He did not want to start off on the wrong foot and show the same lack of respect for the theatrical rules of decorum as Barrymore. A lowly theatre apprentice never questions the producer or director of a play, not if he wishes to keep his job . . . and Quincey wasn’t even hired yet.
Stoker snatched the book from Quincey. “This is ridiculous!” he barked. “I based the name on Joseph Harker, a scenic designer we had working for us in the eighties. Any connection with your father is mere coincidence.”
“A rather large one, wouldn’t you say, Bram?” Deane said.
“Dracula is my novel, and completely fictitious.”
“No one has said otherwise,” Deane said. “Though I seem to recall that you insisted upon staging a reading of it in order to prove your copyright. I still don’t understand why.”
“The only thing you need to understand is the copyright is entirely mine,” Stoker snarled, who then turned his wrath upon Quincey. “I’m sorry, young man, but the Lyceum has no need for an apprentice at this time. Thank you.”
“But, Mr. Stoker . . .”
Stoker turned to leave. Deane placed his hand on his arm and whispered, “Bram, we’re behind schedule. Any assistance to this production would be very beneficial. We’re over budget and understaffed as it is. And furthermore, we’ve lost our lead actor.”
Quincey leapt up as an idea struck him. “Perhaps I can be of assistance with your dilemma.” The two men looked at Quincey. This was his moment. “What if I could produce for you the greatest actor of our age? A man about whom the reviewers have said, ‘When he performs Shakespeare, it’s almost as if he actually lived th
e role, walked in the blood, fought in the battles.’ ”
“You’re talking about Basarab,” Deane said.
“He’s a personal friend. And I’m sure his name on the boards would increase your box office potential, justifying any further expenditure you might incur.”
Deane raised his eyebrow, contemplating the idea.
Stoker pounded the floor with his cane. “John Barrymore is the star of this play. He’ll be back.” He marched out of the office, grumbling, “Those motion pictures will never amount to anything.”
When Stoker was out of earshot, Deane said, “What Mr. Stoker forgets is, it will be three weeks of traveling before Mr. Barrymore even reaches California. Even if he discovers he has made a terrible mistake and comes back to us hat in hand, we’ll be bankrupt by then.”
“Basarab is only a day away in Paris. To me, your choice is clear.”
Deane searched Quincey’s eyes for an uncomfortable moment. “Are you a man of your word, Mr. Harker? A man to be trusted?”
“I most certainly am, Mr. Deane.”
“Good. Then perhaps you should join me for dinner,” Deane said. “I think we have much to discuss.”
CHAPTER XIII.
Quid verum atque decens was the Stoker family motto: “Whatever is true and honorable.” Bram Stoker’s father had imposed it upon all seven of his children, but it was a sentiment that Bram was finding exceedingly difficult to embrace these days.
“T ’anam an Diabhal,” cursed Bram Stoker in his native Gaelic under his breath. He had been waiting for that whip of a boy, Quincey Harker, to leave before emerging from his office. Much to his dismay, he overheard the boy leaving with Hamilton Deane. Heading off to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, Deane’s favorite watering hole, to discuss Basarab, no doubt. It would seem Deane was not going to drop this matter as Stoker had hoped. Stoker was always meticulous in life, even when it seemed to everyone that he was changing careers erratically. His every action was part of a bigger, well-thought-out plan. Having an unpredictable variable like Quincey Harker in the mix was unsettling.
Dracula was Bram Stoker’s last chance. One last chance to prove himself as a writer; one last chance to live his dream; one last chance to keep his theatre. Now that his son was grown and had left the house, Stoker had nothing waiting at home. Even his beautiful wife made him feel quite unwelcome, and it no longer mattered to Bram if his bed was loveless. The Lyceum had been his true home for decades, and he would die before he allowed anyone like Hamilton Deane to take over.
Stoker hobbled onto the stage deck. So many shows, so many memories in this great auditorium, and yet so much had changed. Gone was that glorious domed ceiling that he had loved so much. Two extra rows of seats cramped the orchestra. He despised how Deane was turning his beloved classic theatre into some sort of playhouse. While Stoker was not opposed to the new industrial age, he believed that a theatre was hallowed ground. Would one modernize the great Gothic cathedrals of Venice? He laughed to himself. Perhaps Deane would. Deane was obsessed with the latest modern gadgetry and he had marred Stoker’s theatre with it. He had installed Marconi’s private wireless station with the excuse that it would prevent actors from constantly running off to retrieve messages. There was Edison’s new “concentrated filament” spotlight. Deane even brought in famed theatre architect Bertie Crewe to redesign the interior of the theatre for “better acoustics.” Though Stoker detested Deane’s love for the “new and modern,” Stoker understood that it was this same love that allowed Deane to see value in innovative ideas. Deane saw potential in Stoker’s novel. He could see that horror stories, which had once been relegated to penny dreadfuls and pulp novellas, were finally finding a wider audience. Staging Dracula to compete with the successful adaptations of Frankenstein and Jekyll and Hyde could make a small fortune. Stoker had the theatre, and Deane had the money: a perfect combination. But Stoker had been in the entertainment business long enough to know the Golden Rule: He who has the gold crafts the rules. Deane refused to listen to Stoker. And why should he? If Stoker knew so much, why was his theatre failing?
Bram had always had aspirations of becoming an author. In order to honor his parents and stay true to himself, in his youth he had studied law in college, but he had never stopped writing. He had hoped his teachers would recognize his talent. Then he could persuade his parents to allow him to change his vocation. Unfortunately, this was not to be, for he had been overshadowed by his friend and classmate, Oscar Wilde. Bram’s rivalry with Wilde even carried into romance. From afar, Bram loved Florence Balcombe, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Yet it was Wilde, courting her with gilded poems of love, who swept her off her feet.
Perhaps Florence had an inkling that Oscar preferred the company of young men, for their relationship eventually ended, and she came to accept Bram’s company. But as time passed, Bram realized that Florence’s choice had been motivated more by financial security than by love. He had been hired to clerk in a law firm, and Florence did not want to eke out an existence with a vagabond artist. She yearned to be a part of London’s high society. Stoker shook his head. Although Oscar might have lost the lady, Bram continued to covet Wilde’s literary status. In order to keep his sanity, Bram kept one foot in the literary world. He wrote theatre reviews for the Dublin Mail for no pay. And after he had written a lustrous review of Henry Irving’s Hamlet, he had been invited into that great Shakespearean actor’s circle of high society friends in London.
Bram soon quit his job and became Irving’s business partner and theatrical manager. This was a great gift, for it allowed Bram to live out his own dreams vicariously through Irving’s stardom. Florence had felt sure that this would be another of Bram’s failures but, as the money came rolling in, she had had a change of heart. The Stokers hobnobbed with the likes of the painter James McNeill Whistler, the poet Frances Featherstone, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. They found themselves in the company of greatness, but Bram knew it was only by association with Irving that he was allowed into this elite circle. No matter how much he pleaded, Irving would never produce any of Stoker’s plays. Despite the fact that Stoker worked tirelessly to manage all of his affairs, even his trysts with women, Irving disparaged Bram’s writing and would help him not one whit.
At last, a chance came for Stoker to step into center stage. In 1890, Oscar Wilde, straying from his usual style, penned a gothic tale, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and it was an instant success. Then suddenly, Bram’s former friend and rival was arrested, and the result had been a highly publicized trial for charges of gross indecency. Hoping to cash in on the latest literary fashion, Stoker had drawn from Wilde’s example and that of Mary Shelley and John Polidori. During the summer of 1816, the famed poet Lord Byron had challenged himself and his houseguests to write a horror story. It was assumed that the two established authors present, Lord Byron and Percy Shelley, would be triumphant. No one expected that Percy’s wife, Mary Shelley, or Dr. John Polidori, would rise above the others. Both the novel Frankenstein and the short story The Vampyre were born that night, resulting in the two most inexperienced authors in the group writing two hugely successful books. Bram adored all of these gothic horror stories and began to search for the opportunity to match their accomplishment. That opportunity came when Wilde’s imprisonment left a literary void. Bram decided this was the time to step out of the shadow of Irving and Wilde. Bram wasn’t being opportunistic—he just believed that his hard work had to pay off sometime.
It came as no surprise to him that his editor and publisher did not share his newfound desire; after all, Bram had previously published successful biographical and reference titles. But he was taken aback by Florence’s total lack of support. She thought Bram was wasting his time trying to write horror, and she considered this newest endeavor beneath them. Stoker solemnly realized he was quite alone in his quest to become a successful novelist.
Reflecting on this, Stoker understood that he should have sought a different editor and a new publisher for
his novel. He was certain they had wanted him to fail, in the hope that he would “return to his senses” and pen only factual material. The cretins had not only changed the novel’s title from The Un-Dead to Dracula but had also cut hundreds of vital pages from the book. Stoker wagered that Wilde had never been censored. Furthermore, his publisher had made no attempt to promote Dracula to Wilde’s literary followers. Of course the publisher blamed Bram alone for the unsurprising poor sales.
After all these years, Bram still felt overshadowed by his former friend. Even from prison, and later in death, Wilde was the greater success. Dorian Gray sold faster than it could be printed. Stoker had hoped that Irving might publicly praise Dracula. Instead, he proclaimed it “dreadful” and, with one word, killed Stoker’s hopes, for which Stoker never forgave Irving.
A few years later, Irving died before either man had a chance to apologize. To his surprise, Irving left the Lyceum Theatre to Stoker in his will. Stoker finally had full control of something in his life. But, without Henry Irving’s name attached to the productions, the audiences stayed home. Slowly, the best and brightest of his staff went to neighboring theatres. The Lyceum was hemorrhaging money, and the pressure was almost too much to bear. Stoker had a stroke.
Bram was aware that he was in the last act of his life and had one last chance to make his novel a success. He needed the theatrical version of Dracula to be a hit in order to drive the sales of the novel. If the play failed, he was sure that his failing health would never give him the opportunity for an encore. He did not want to be remembered as a faded footnote in Irving’s illustrious biography. He had to be the one to bring the successful ingredient to this production, not Hamilton Deane, or Quincey Harker.
Bram looked at the empty crimson seats of the Lyceum Theatre. He needed to be the one to fill them. He needed to bring Barrymore back and reestablish some modicum of control over his own play. He found it ironic that he could use Deane’s infernal wireless station to send a telegram to Southampton and beg Barrymore not to journey on to America. Barrymore was the star Bram wanted. He no longer had the desire or the time to compromise.