by James Reese
And so here I had the cause of Speranza’s dolour: Oscar’s growing renown—upon which she has planned, & over which she has sometimes schemed—is depriving her of his company. She is jealous of the world. So be it. I’d feared worse, for Speranza is not well: She has suffered much from her reduction in circumstances and takes every chance to condemn her many “creditori.”27
Relieved to learn that Lady Wilde was otherwise well—and with Tumblety having set off on the scent of Oscar—I determined to take my leave then and there; but Speranza teased me into staying with:-
“Do be sure, Mr. Stoker, to say hello to my Irish poet, wherever he is. He says he knows you. A Trinity connection, if memory serves…. Ah, there he is, leaning against the mantel.” She nodded towards a tall young man at room’s end, a man too young to have been a schoolmate of mine. “He has a fine, fine forehead: We shall hear from him in the literary world, of that I’m certain. Oh, but do tell him to un-slouch himself. His bones are his, after all, and he must bear the burden of them.” She called me nearer to say:
“His name is Yeats, and he’s been nose to nose with Oscar’s Constance for fully an hour. You will tell me, won’t you, Bram, their topic of discourse? I do not mean to pry, mind, it’s just that I rather worry about our Constance.”28
Yeats, had she said? Ah, yes, thought I in the long minutes it took me to cross the room, here must be the son of John Butler Yeats, who’d been some few years ahead of me at Trinity. We’d long been out of touch, but as I neared the conversing couple, I recognised the young man I’d met nearly ten years ago, when, early in my tenure with Irving, the older Yeats had brought his son to the Lyceum, writing first to say that the boy—Billiam, I believe he called him—was most fond of Shakespeare. I’d arranged a box, if I recall rightly, and arranged, too, that father and son should meet Miss Terry afterwards. Yeats the younger, then but thirteen or so, had proved impervious to the lady’s many charms; but here he was now, grown quite tall and, yes, slouching, though far be it from me to admonish him for that.
“Sir,” said I, proffering a hand, “I know your father. Never did Trinity see his like—some men paint, others speechify, but few do both as well as him. Likewise do I know your lovely interlocutor here; though you talk to her so intently, I am loath to interrupt. Do say you forgive me, both of you.”
I was of course forgiven, and further salutations were seen to. Still, the weight of the words I’d interrupted could be felt, verily felt—rather as the arthritic are said to feel rain yet to fall. I had indeed interrupted speech of some import. And so I decided: I would bid them good-bye and be on my way. It was just as well; for, as I’d not seen Tumblety in some while, I could now blamelessly take my leave of him. However, as I spoke those remarks prefatory to departure, Constance, dear, sweet Constance Wilde, cut me off; so:
“Do stay, Bram. Indeed”—and here she and Yeats shared a look—“we have been wondering how long Lady Wilde would wait before sending you our way, as I earlier asked her to.”
Whatever did she mean? Were the women complicit in a plot of sorts? Sly Speranza. Cunning Constance.
It was Yeats who answered the question. “A word with you, Mr. Stoker, was the day’s objective for both Mrs. Wilde and myself. In achieving this we enlisted, yes, Lady Wilde.” He peered out from behind circular spectacles that cast him in an owl’s role. A forelock of blackest hair fell over that brow on which Speranza sees greatness writ. For my part, I saw but the father reflected in the son, and as the sight made me feel old, quite, I may have countered too curtly with:-
“Whatever do you mean, sir? It is my habit to speak plainly, even on Saturdays. Pray make it yours.”
“Bram,” said Constance, soothingly, “we wish a word with you. In private.”
How deucedly odd, all this. “Privacy,” said I, “is not the salient trait of Speranza’s salons, as you know, and—” But before I knew it, Constance had taken my arm and was leading me from the room, Billiam coming behind.
We three had passed through the hallway where Wilde, halfway up the stairs, was holding forth on All & Everything. He looked much as I’d seen him last, and much as he does in the myriad photographs which weight the walls of his mother’s home. I did not see Tumblety amongst those standing in rapt attendance. And as I had not seen the American, I was pleased to think he had not seen me.
Stepping into the scullery—of all places—we surprised the Betty taking a long pull upon her flask. The scent of sloe berries lingered longer than she. “Really,” said I to my captors, for so they seemed, “I cannot imagine what—”
“There will be a meeting, Bram, two weeks hence, on the first of June. A meeting of…of a new society which we feel will be of interest to you. Brief: You are most, most suited for membership.” This from Constance, whom I’d never known to speak so directly. Who, I wondered, was the “we” she referenced? For whom did she speak?
“‘Membership,’ you say? In what kind of society? Pray tell.”
“A secret society.” This from Yeats, finally; whereupon he and Constance simply stood there, staring at me. There ensued a silence most awkward.
“Well, sir,” said I in my turn, “if this ‘society’ be so secret as to preclude you and Mrs. Wilde from explaining yourselves further, I’m afraid I must decline your invitation. We have been quite busy at the Lyceum of late, and now Mr. Irving has announced his intention to mount Macbeth before—”
With rather too much cheek, I thought, Yeats interrupted me:
“Mr. Stoker, excuse me, please; but Lady Wilde has told me of the long hours you spent in Sir William’s study, both with and without the man, listening to his tales of Egypt and studying on your own. I have spoken to Budge, too, and he—”
“Is this society concerned then with travel to the East?”
“No,” said Constance, “not travel, and not the East in general. Rather it is Egypt in particular that interests us; and, more particular still”—here she lowered her voice to a whisper—“the secrets and truths of ancient Egypt.”
“Truths, you say?”
“Indeed,” said Yeats, his handsome face quite stonily set, his bright eyes holding fast to mine. “Have you, sir, heard of the Order of the Golden Dawn?”
“I have not,” said I, words which seemed to touch a nerve in Constance, for she then said, rather apologetically:-
“Oh, Bram, I fear we were wrong to broach the subject with you to-day, and here of all places—tucked in a scullery with a conversazione going on beyond!”
In fact, it seemed I could hear the salon disbanding. As I longed to take my own leave, and as the stink of soiled pots and pans piled in the sinks was somewhat mephitic, I said with some acerbity, “Yet introduce it you have, Constance. Why not continue on, then?”
She took both my hands in hers, as if we were about to waltz. As for young Yeats, he surrendered to a sudden interest in the scuffed tip of his shoe. Finally, in confidential tones, Constance set in; so:
“Bram, for some while now, whenever I’ve seen you, I’ve seen…something. Dare I call it…disquiet? Oh, Bram, forgive me. I would never presume so, except I know that same disquiet.” She stood so near me now that her head was back at an awkward angle, and as she looked up into my eyes, I saw tears welling in her own. “We are searchers, Bram, both of us. No: all of us.” I assumed she referenced other members of the aforesaid Order. “Together we are stronger than if we each stand alone, each search alone. And so we are inviting you to join our common search.”
I knew not what to say. I was at once flummoxed and flattered: a secret society, and one wanting me for a member? What was it they were searching for, specifically? Amidst these and other questions I could not ask aloud, not then, I heard one answer, as it were: echoing in my head were Whitman’s words. And if I am to sign God’s name to the letter of my life, well, haven’t I to write that letter first, to live the life, truly, and with intent? Yes. Yes. Perhaps a path toward that life was being presented to me in Speranza’s scullery.
Stranger things have happened, surely. And so I said to Constance, to young Yeats:-
“I shall consider your invitation. I shall consider it deeply.” And so I shall.
We three having nodded, each to the other—which bespoke a sort of understanding, I suppose—Constance stepped toward the fore. She’d be the first to quit the scullery; but as she stepped into the kitchen proper, she started and nearly screamed as Tumblety suddenly appeared in front of her, naught betwixt him and her but his ridiculous hat, which now he held in hand. Constance recoiled. Yeats took her in: damning appearances, he nestled her into the crook of his arm, and—this being no occasion for introductions—together they repaired to Speranza’s common rooms.
“Sir,” said I to Tumblety, my ire up, “as you profess to admire English propriety, I feel myself at liberty to inform you that it is not considered proper, neither in England nor elsewhere, for a gentleman to eavesdrop so.”
“Forgive me, Stoker.” Too familiar, this, too familiar by far: He hasn’t my permission to address me so. “I sought you out only to see if you were ready to leave.”
I said nothing, and so Tumblety took my turn:-
“Shall we, then?” Regrettably, we then took our leave together.
Upon the street, Tumblety let it be known that Wilde had much amused him. I, in turn, let it be known that he could spare me the details. In my opinion, said I, Oscar has far to go to match his wit to his mother’s and his worth to his father’s. And at the earliest opportunity, I attempted to point the American towards Batty Street. “A roundabout route, that one,” said he of my proposal, “wouldn’t you say?”
“As you please,” said I; whereupon Tumblety fell back into step beside me. He may have spoken more. I was silent, resolutely so, though inwardly I cursed Caine. When Tumblety decided to head off a few streets farther on, he did so with that horrid handshake of his and this, said—it seemed to me—with something of a sneer:-
“Well, then, Stoker…June first if not before.” Whatever did that mean? But before I could ask him, Tumblety—with a tip of his foolish hat—took his leave. And I’d walked half a block more before I heard his words, truly heard them. Only then did I understand that he had indeed been party to the secrets of the scullery.
…I close, and duly, for the crunch of coach wheels upon the drive tells me wife & child are come back from Grim’s Dyke.
LETTER, BRAM STOKER TO ELLEN TERRY
24 May ’88
Dearest, Most Dutiful Daughter,29
Your Portia was resplendent last night, as ever she is. Henry sits at his desk across from mine here in the XO and asks that I add his accolades to this note, which now I do, appending X’s and O’s of a more intimate sort.
As per your request, lately made, re: your desired research into Lady Macb., I write to say that I hesitate, quite, to accompany you into the precincts of an insane asylum. That said, I realise, too, that a mere NO! from your ol’ Ma shan’t dissuade you; and so I wrote to my brother, Thornley, for advice.
A response come in to-day’s post tells me that—owing to Thornley’s intercession on his beloved brother’s behalf!—we, you and I, shall be welcome at Stepney Latch on Wednesday week. Thornley writes, too, that we would be wise to visit in the forenoon, whilst the nocturnal inmates yet sleep and the matutinal ones are medicated. If the day and hour do not suit, let me know at once, as I am to write to one Dr. Stewart to apprise him of our details.
I hope you know what you are doing, my dear!
Your loving Ma, AKA,
Stoker
P.S.—Thornley advises that we go incognito, as we cannot assume that the insane are yet sane enough to leave the London press unread, and, were you to be recognised, true Pandemonium would ensue.
P.P.S.—Not a word of this to Henry, agreed?
JOURNAL OF BRAM STOKER
28 May—a spitting, sunless Monday.—Thornley’s advice sought/ received: He opines that a New Woman such as E.T. won’t be much the worse for having seen the inside of an asylum such as Stepney Latch. I shall of course accompany her, though Henry shall have my head if he hears of it! He would deem the scheme too dangerous, as well it may be. But I have long pitied Ellen Terry the artiste in one particular and one only:
Henry steadfastly refuses to work with her on the realisation of her roles. I have never had more from him on the subject than, “Best not to ask the hummingbird how she flies, lest—in considering the question—she fall”; but this bothers Ellen no end. And so it was that when she came to me confessing her dread fear of going-up at year’s end as a half-achieved Lady Macb., and broaching the idea of researching the insane—itself insane!—I heard myself say that I’d see what I could do. Stoker will see to it.
And so I have seen to it: We are expected at Stepney Latch two days hence. There E.T. will observe the inmates in their surrounds and various states of delirium, hopeful of borrowing from the demonic and the docile alike. She shall go incognito, of course. Though I am known in certain circles, they are not circles of the Dantean sort, but Ellen’s fame & face are equally recognisable in Hell as they are On High, surely. And so we are to meet to-morrow morn. in the Lyceum’s costumery. There Ellen Terry will become someone else whilst I watch with envy.
Later.—Post-performance. To-night’s Bassanio better: prompter tells me the two minutes are retrieved (and with H.I. none the wiser).
Un-tired. No desire to dine. The Guv. is off to the Garrick Club in unknown company (?). So I will walk till the markets open and the first cries of the costers come with the sun. Wh’chapel, will it be? The Ten Bells? No. Silence and solitude shall suffice this night till sleep sees me off, long hours hence.
(Mem.: Wire Constance to-morrow: Will attend 1 June. Send word of whereabouts, hour, &c.)
JOURNAL OF BRAM STOKER
29 May—Strangeness to-day. Strangeness, indeed.
As previously planned, and despite my late retirement last eve—walked miles to & thru Whitechapel—Ellen and I met to-day in the costume shop at 10 o/c sharp. Whilst partaking of breakfast—scones and lemon curd, consumed at the milliner’s table amidst ribbons, feathers, &c.—we discovered, with scant surprise, that we were like-minded re: her Stepney Latch disguise.
We both thought it best she go dressed as a man. She has dissembled so onstage innumerable times. But then we thought better of the idea, for isn’t it the madwomen of Stepney Latch she means to move amongst? Indeed. And though an artificer as skilled as Ellen Terry might sit, be-suited, through a season of Parliament amidst unsuspecting M.P.’s, in breeches amongst the female Bedlamites of Stepney Latch she’d be found out, surely. And so it was we decided that a wig, much maquillage, and some widow’s weeds would suffice as the bushel under which we’d hide her light. Far better a plan, this. Far safer. What’s more, Dr. Stewart has given us but one directive: Stir not the pot.
We shopped discreetly for Ellen’s disguise, lest the wardrobe mistress learn that the Lady of the Lyceum planned to meander amongst the mad. We allowed only that Miss Terry was to play against type in a production proposed, merely proposed, for a future season: a spinsterish ensemble was wanted. What had we in store? Alas, our costumer wasn’t a full minute amongst the racks before she loosed a blue torrent the likes of which I’d not heard from a woman since…well, since last night’s wanderings down the Whitechapel Road.
“Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Pinch?” Though this is not the lady’s name, it is so common a practice of hers when fitting the players that it has stuck. Stuck like her pins, yes, and stuck like the dog-produced dirt now featured upon the worn heel of her side-spring boot.
“I ask you, Mr. Stoker, sir, ’aven’t we rules about dogs ’avin the run of the theatre? Your sweet Drummie and the Guv’nor’s Flossie excepted, ma’am, of course.”
“Dogs?” I echoed, for I’d not yet seen nor smelt the substance in question. In truth, hearing of dogs astray in the Lyceum chilled me. “‘Dogs,’ do you say? Here?”
“Dogs I say indeed, Mr. Stoker, a
nd yes: ’ere in the shop! What but a mutt would leave a like mess?” Mrs. Pinch hopped nearer where we sat to show the proof upon her boot, which proof was yet…fresh. “Really, Mr. Stoker, sir, dogs ain’t appropriate to—”
“Dogs are not regular denizens of the Lyceum Theatre, Mrs. Pinch,” said I, pronouncedly; “and I shall have further words with our gatekeepers, be assured of it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said she, dropping her bulk onto a chair and setting to work upon her boot with an old brush.
“Ellen,” said I, “will you excuse me?”
“Surely,” said she; but I could not tell if her thoughts, too, had hied toward Tumblety and his twin hounds. Before taking my leave, I cleaned up a second…coil of soil, may I say, and told Mrs. Pinch to take an inventory and report to me of any missing attire, men’s attire.
To those at the Lyceum’s doors, both of whom swore they’d been in their positions some two hours or more, I posed the now-familiar question: Had they seen the American on the premises that morning? They had not. Neither had Mrs. Quibbel. However, Mrs. Q. was able to inform me that the American had indeed accompanied Henry to the Garrick Club last night. Had Tumblety explored our costumery before going? No: the spoor was too new. Had he returned later, then, either alone or with Henry? If alone, has he a key of his own? His free in-and egress would seem to indicate so. Good God! Can Henry Irving have been so charmed, so hoodwinked, by the American as to have conferred upon him a key of his own? I shall not be surprised to earn an answer in the affirmative, for Tumblety’s…influence, dare I deem it, is downright mesmeric. Oh, but if the man has a key to any of our doors I shall insist, insist upon its immediate surrender.
Later. Henry not keen on my enquiry. Not keen at all. Words were had, yet here I sit wondering still: Does Tumblety have a key to these precincts? I must and will ask the man myself when next we meet, though happy I’ll be if said occasion is a long time coming.