Stokers Shadow

by Paul Butler

  Electricity cannot be explained in words, she thinks. The substance of her heart and soul cannot be reduced to facts and times, especially when that substance touches another. She feels through the scene again slowly. His scent wafts upon her again, a gorgeous sweet smell of tobacco. She captures the good-natured nervousness, not just hers, but his too. She sees his face, rather a kind face, not old but a little careworn with his soft grey eyes. But of all things, it was in the silence that the connection was made, in the absence of bustle – no coughs; no sighs. Stillness and silence; a pool of connectedness.

  And then she thinks of her treasure: the book Dracula that has been weaving a spell in her; absorbing her old world; merging it with the new; teasing her inside out with its adventures parallel to her own.

  She thinks of the young hero, Jonathan Harker, and of his journey into the towering mountains of Transylvania to meet the Count. Was her own voyage to London not a parallel to that of the English solicitor, albeit in an inverted form? Was she not also a foreigner in a strange land, engulfed by a towering maze of spires and domes – as much of a wilderness to her as the cliffs and peaks surrounding the young Englishman? Was she not surrounded by queer customs and manners, by nobility and titles which she cannot begin to organize?

  When she reads of Harker’s carriage snaking along the winding road towards the Borgo Pass, the description, for Mary, is interspersed with the black prison-like walls of London hurtling ceaselessly beyond the dusty shield of her train window. As Harker arrives at the black, forbidding castle – a figure alone in a land of the imagination – Mary again beholds the vast, engulfing station with its cathedral ceiling and swooping pigeons. As superstitious villagers cross themselves and exclaim in foreign tongues, Mary’s ears are again assaulted by the garbled words of porters and cab drivers.

  This city is the wilderness, she thinks; a thrilling, fascinating jungle of stone.

  Mary thinks of Mr. William Stoker again. She realizes that, while she was reading and picturing Jonathan Harker’s mannerisms and facial expressions, she was in fact seeing him. More impertinent still, the feelings of the hero mirror her own so closely, she feels it has been her adventure all along as well. She wonders at the fusion between herself and Mr. William Stoker brought about by imagination and a story. She wonders at the strange new empathy she is feeling.

  She turns back towards her small dressing table, suddenly dissatisfied with the layout of her room. Thoughts quicken like electricity. She realizes what is wrong. That dressing table and chair should be placed in front of the window so she can overlook the night and breathe in the last blossoms of the season.

  FLORENCE STOKER GAZES at the framed pencil portrait of the beautiful young woman which stands on her dressing table – a simple drawing of herself done in profile thirty years ago. She sees the white pool in the eye, the light that represents her soul. She scans over the knowing upward curl of the lip, a humourous, optimistic half-smile; a Mona Lisa touch most impressive in such a limiting format, she thinks. Did she really seem so intriguing to an artist?

  She holds the frame in her left hand and runs her right palm an inch over the glass surface, as though it is a genie’s lamp with the power to turn some, as yet, obscure wish into reality. She feels as though the image of the portrait must have imprisoned her soul.

  A noise somewhere above her room distracts her – a scuffing and scraping from the servants’ quarters, as though furniture is being moved. Why would Mrs. Davis be shifting things around at this time of night? She places her portrait back on the surface of the dressing table and takes up her hairbrush. The edges of her mouth, she sees, are turned down in haglike misery. Not a trace of humour or optimism there, she thinks. She knows, in reality, she has not aged badly. She knows she is still admired for her looks. Yet she is unhappy with the image staring back at her tonight.

  She thinks over her day, the grey shambling stranger who called claiming to be her son. She remembers how William was as a little child. She sees him standing on tiptoe on the balcony, pointing to the ships’ masts and calling out their trades. “Spices, Mama, from India,” the piping voice called; “rugs from Persia, Mama look!” That was the William she had called upon for help, not the morose, middle-aged man who smelled of old tobacco.

  She thinks of the German pirates who have taken her husband’s novel. She sees that dreadful illustration again. Ghastly thing! She thinks of the Lyceum Theatre and closes her eyes. The fragrance of French perfumes and eau de cologne wafts upon her. She remembers how it felt to be at the centre of it all. She sees herself holding onto Bram’s strong arm at a premiere. She sees newspaper men twittering around her husband with their pencils and notebooks, begging for a quote from Sir Henry. No one would have dared to try and cheat them then. A great wave of pride rises and crashes within her, leaving in its wake a thousand conflicting streams of sadness. “Long gone,” the phrase whispers over and over like foam sizzling into nothing.

  Florence presses her palm onto the canvas-bound book on the corner of her dressing table. She has not yet started to read The Moonstone, although she had Mary borrow it from the library three days ago. She’s not even quite sure why she wanted it, having read it before. Perhaps she wants to submerge herself in the reliable, happy era it represents, she thinks, now that everything around her is creaking with grey malevolence and comfortless subversion. Florence remembers The Moonstone as an emblem, not a story. She remembers the Lyceum tour of America, the time she accompanied Bram. She recalls the detour to Niagara Falls, the silver, crystal waters and the exhilaration. She remembers the feeling of the moment; that her life was the centre of everything: past, present, future; east, west, north and south. Bram was acting manager of the Lyceum. He was Sir Henry Irving’s right-hand man. The Lyceum and Irving were conquering North America as they had already conquered England.

  Florence touches the cover of The Moonstone again, as though it were itself a precious gem. Dust from the cover rises with a fragrance she knows but can’t place. The room darkens, a murmur of conversation flowing in from some dark nowhere. Stars appear in the shadows of the mirror and just as soon turn into sharp tongues of candle flame. Florence lets herself settle into the recollection as though riding a wave. She sees the Lyceum’s leading lady, Ellen Terry, her shining, humourous eyes just above the bobbing yellow flame.

  “A Wilkie Collins story!” Ellen exclaims. “That’s what the Lyceum needs.”

  The soft gold light reflects upon the silken green of the actress’s dress. Ellen’s expression glistens with good-natured poise. Bram is there also, his romantic grey eyes a well of mournful energy. Henry Irving seems to hover over them all, hawklike and saturnine, with black hair and dark eyes. Next to him is Thornley, Bram’s older brother: solid, mild and respectable with his round face and white hair.

  “Oh indeed,” Florence feels herself saying. “Something mysterious but not sinister. Something like The Moonstone or The Woman in White.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Collins is dead,” snaps Irving, still carrying the intense malevolence of Mephistopheles, his latest triumph. The great actor absorbs his parts until they take him over, Florence thinks – a pity he can’t play someone more pleasant for a change.

  Irving takes a puff of his cigar which he then holds in front of his face like a shield as the smoke rises.

  “Are you suggesting that respectability in mystery fiction has died with him?” Bram asks gently.

  “I am.”

  “Indeed,” agrees Bram, looking from face to face, drawing them all in, with the steady rhythm of learned oration. “We live in a world of the unspeakable brought to life. Ibsen and the barbarian hordes of ‘progress’ are beating down the doors of decorum in drama.”

  “What of the supernatural, Bram?” asks Ellen. “That is where the public hunger is now, surely. Aren’t you working on something of that nature yourself?”

  “Ah that! I would rather call it ‘the unknown.’ The word ‘supernatural’ implies impossibility.�
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  Florence finds herself exclaiming in unison with Ellen. Thornley guffaws. “A mystery, Bram? Tell us.”

  “The novel I am planning,” Bram continues, his audience now spellbound, “is one that penetrates the uncharted territories of the mind, our dreams and nightmares.”

  “It sounds very modern, Bram,” says Ellen, beaming.

  “Indeed it is.”

  “Perhaps the Lyceum should follow suit, Irving,” Ellen continues. “Perhaps we should look to our own for a change.”

  Florence suddenly burns with self-consciousness – Ellen has unknowingly activated a volcano in her.

  “What are you suggesting?” Irving asks her calmly.

  Florence fidgets with the stem of her glass, unable to look up.

  “What I’m suggesting is this,” Ellen answers, determined to make her point. “That rather than constantly hiring outside hacks to adapt popular stories for major productions, we should use something our own Bram wrote.”

  Florence shoots a glance at Bram, her lip trembling. She sees his face redden and his huge shoulders hunch over.

  “My dear,” Irving answers, taking a casual puff of his cigar, “I did not realize you were joining our management team.”

  Florence dabs her napkin over her mouth, wanting to scream. Do something, Bram! Stick up for yourself, somehow! But she knows he won’t, and she is just as ashamed of herself for allowing any woman but her lobby his cause.

  “Is it such a bad idea?” Ellen says, leaning towards Irving. The two actors are becoming insulated from their surroundings like a married couple arguing.

  “I have endeavoured to make the Lyceum the very jewel of our profession,” says Irving, leaning back in his chair. “It must never be tarnished by untried hands no matter how well-meaning or industrious their owner, no matter how much affection we have for him.”

  “Mr. Irving is right,” says Bram.

  “Bram!” hisses Florence. Suddenly she doesn’t even care who hears. A fire of betrayal smoulders in her chest.

  “No, my dear,” Bram continues in his soft deep voice. “I am still bound in the shallow and treacherous waters of prose. Only when I have mastered that form will I consider turning my hand to the peculiar demands of the stage.”

  “Bravo!” cries Irving with a clap.

  Florence can feel her skin burn like coal. Then an instinct forces her to glance at the door. There, at the entrance to the dining room, is her son, William. He is in formal school clothes, evidently just returned from his school in Winchester. He has grown so much in the last two months that she has to think for a moment before she’s certain it’s him. He looks like a near-replica rather than the real thing – larger, thinner and darker.

  “William!” she cries, reconciling the emotions of joy with worry about what he might have just witnessed.

  She flies to the door. “You’re home for the holidays!”

  The redundant exclamation draws attention to the awkwardness of the moment. Florence hears cutlery clink behind her and she thinks she can see a broody darkness in the boy’s eye as she swoops down and takes his head into her shoulder. His bashful resistance seems stronger and more wiry than she remembers it. She tells herself it is her imagination. Boys don’t notice awkward scenes. They are too busy with sports and adventure.

  She pulls herself away to look at him; tears spill into her eyes. Bram has risen formally and puts out a genial hand which the boy takes looking to the floor.

  “How long have you been standing there?” Florence blurts.

  “Why?” William replies, looking up. He holds her steady with his grey eyes.

  Now she knows for sure; he has seen the submissiveness of his father and it has disturbed him. This boy, half a stranger to her now, has peered into the imperfection of their lives. The poison of reproach and self-criticism is upon them. In some inexplicable way, she feels this is the beginning of a decline.

  THE DINING ROOM fades into a landscape of tired skin and shadowed lines; Florence faces her sixty-three-year-old self in the mirror again. Some agent from the other side of the world is trying to unearth all her griefs. And she feels as though she is already upon a precipice. Her own clan has long since passed, or its few surviving members are, like herself, diminished by age. She is the whimpering remnant of an army. She is a relic in an Egyptian exhibition, her bones and withered skin exposed to a leering audience and the flashes of cameras. Something has been set in motion to bring about her last defeat – that German film with its reduced vision of her husband’s work; that girl from Ireland. “Was that a mistake?” she wonders. “Should I have found someone from Dublin?” This girl seems too confident. There is an almost presumptuous quality in her open, rustic face with its freckles and in the way she answers questions without the hint of trepidation. Somehow such optimism doesn’t seem entirely decent. It is as though the girl expects she can be at the centre of things. Florence knows these feelings fall short of the rational. And yet something in the house does feel alien since she came. She needs familiarity around her now and she feels as though colonies of strange insects are gnawing away at the foundations of her house, turning the values of her generation into swirling dust.

  MARY KNOWS IT’S gone twelve o’clock but she can’t go to bed. She just sits at the dressing table which now stands directly below the window. Occasionally, she skims passages from Dracula, and the descriptions merge into the night so that the words take form, becoming at one with the breeze which teases the curtain and lifts the pages. Jonathan Harker has been asleep on the floor of a room in the castle, and three strange white-faced women – two dark, one fair – whisper over him, discussing who will kiss him first. The young man pretends to sleep and has a “wicked burning desire” to feel their lips upon his neck. The passage is written in a light, hypnotic rhythm and Mary now more than ever sees the young man as Mr. Stoker. With a warm, bittersweet sensation, Mary also recognizes that she has put herself into the position of the fair woman who swoops down and holds her lips just above his neck until Dracula himself bursts in to stop her.

  Mary looks into the night, both afraid of and excited at the fluid, rushing feeling inside her and how she will describe its meaning once it settles into words. The sprinkle of stars is more intense than earlier. She believes she can make out the plough, the same shape she has seen on the far side of her own country. She listens to the silence and slowly a noise forms from the blood rushing in her ears. A glorious, exhilarating sound like claps of thunder, except they are evenly paced and rhythmical – perhaps more like hooves galloping. She closes her eyes and lets the sensation take her over. She opens herself to the night.

  CHAPTER III

  The carriage rocks. The night is like crystal, silver wavelets shimmering near and far. Huge, bright stars radiate spokes in six and eight directions at once. It is like an illustration from a fairy tale, William thinks. But the carriage sways and jolts so violently, he is afraid that if it is an illustration, he will slide off the page.

  William is a child again. The huge leather seat almost swallows him and he has to look upwards to see his mother’s youthful face. He feels a little sick, the carriage is plunging so hard in every direction at once. He makes a moaning sound and his mother shushes him gently.

  “Where’s Father?” William tries to shout. He finds his voice is reduced to a piping shriek. “Why doesn’t he save us?”

  “He’s too busy, William,” his mother replies. She hasn’t denied they need saving. This worries William. “He’s arranging a tour for Sir Henry. When he’s finished he’ll get us out of this.”

  As though responding to William’s fears, the carriage jumps crazily twice in succession and he begins to hear the ocean like thunder; mighty, earth-shattering, with a thousand whizzing and whirring noises overlaying a deep, everchanging growl of unrest. William feels that the carriage is a pinprick in hell. Then he notices that two huge sea horses are out in front pulling it along. He sees their exotically curved heads and tails and
their rough skin, like embossed leather. The ocean hurls a spray over their heads, a cold dribble sinking into William’s hair and oozing its way down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth. The saltiness makes him cough and William begins to see waves rising around him like small shining hills, groaning resonantly as they move.

  “I’m frightened,” William whines.

  “Don’t worry, William,” his mother replies. “Your father is writing this scene. He wouldn’t hurt us.”

  The carriage sways and jolts, turning on its axis, unsure of its direction for a moment, then recovers.

  “You mean we’re part of a story, Mother?” William asks, comforted despite the increasing ferocity of the ocean.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” she says with feeling. “You should be proud of your father.”

  “I am, Mother; I am proud of Father, honestly.” He shouts above the tumult. “What is this story about?”

  “We are going to meet Count Dracula’s carriage at the Borgo Pass,” she says, bending into his ear. “This is why it’s so thrilling. It’s an adventure – a fairy tale.”

  “I love adventure!” William says.

  But his excitement is swallowed by fear again. The waves are suddenly peaking a hundred feet high, some falling as quickly as they rise, some holding up like misshapen oaks. The carriage is losing its bearings, turning blindly once or twice, then swirling like a cork above a whirlpool.

  “Hold on!” his mother shouts.

  William closes his eyes, sick with horror. Salt water scoots up his nose and into his mouth; his body is dragged and pulled in many directions at once, like a rag doll being quartered, sheer terror jangling through his body and mind – a train whistle a thousand times amplified …