by Sam Gafford
I talked at some length to a man who had only recently returned from a military stint in India. His descriptions of the land and people were astonishingly vivid, as were his stories of the battles he had participated in. Although he could tell that I knew nothing of India nor of military service, he was polite and did not speak condescendingly to me. I have often wondered what happened to him in the years since. For all his pride in his service, there was more than a hint of regret.
We were talking to an elderly couple, impeccably dressed, about the changing face of London’s art and architecture when there was a sudden flurry of activity at the front door. I turned to find the most confident and flamboyant man I had ever seen entering Arthur’s house. He looked to be in his early thirties and had a most striking profile. His clothes were so stylish that they must have come over from France, as I had never seen someone dressed that way. He gave his hat and cane to Rose as he shrugged off his overcoat and entered the room. I was amazed to see the women flock to him like moths to a candle. Even Ann seemed taken with him.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Arthur had come up behind me and answered, “That is Richard Mansfield. Stand aside, Albert, his ego takes large steps.”
Amy rushed up to greet him. Even though I was halfway across the room, I could hear his voice clear as day. His theatre training was very obvious, as his every move was exaggerated and dramatic. Here was a man who was larger than even his own life and knew it.
I disliked him immediately.
“How could I possibly stay away, dear Amy? I only wonder that the invitation came from Arthur and not you yourself!”
Softly, to me, Arthur said, “That is my cue. Watch this, Albert.”
“Well, Richard,” Arthur said as he walked up to Amy and Mansfield, “I should imagine that an invitation from a woman would be old hat to you by now! I thought that an invitation from a man would stand out from the rest!”
Mansfield laughed, but it was a forced amusement. Something in the comment from Arthur annoyed him.
“If you wished to stand out, Arthur, you should have sent the invitation to Oscar.”
Arthur was right there with his reply, almost as if he has expected it. “Ah, but an invitation from a man is hardly new to Oscar, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quite so, quite so.” Mansfield replied. “But Amy, I am most upset that you have yet to come and see my new play.”
Amy made a sour face. “Richard, you know I don’t care for such things. I find your play to be most disturbing.”
“Now why should you feel that way? Jekyll and Hyde is about man’s dual nature! The saint and sinner both in one body! Surely that is an important idea?”
“Sin?” I heard Arthur say. “Did you say sin?”
At that point I steered Ann away but, I must admit, she went slowly. “Albert, do you know who that is?”
“An actor, I presume.”
She snickered. “Not just an actor, but Richard Mansfield! He’s currently playing the lead in The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde at the Lyceum.”
“Mr. Stoker’s theatre?”
“Yes! He was invited here by Henry Irving to perform the play, but I’ve heard that they’ve had a falling out and aren’t even speaking to each other now.”
I stared at Ann. “How do you know these things?” I asked in amazement.
Ann made a dismissive motion with her hand. “If you want to be in the theatre, you have to know the people. It’s important to keep up on who’s doing what, where, and to whom!”
I had not seen this side of Ann before and it was not particularly appealing. The naked ambition she was showing was something entirely new and started me wondering if there might be other things about her that I did not know.
“So,” I asked, trying to get the conversation on a more even level, “what part does he play? Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?”
It was the wrong question to ask, as Ann’s eyes fairly gleamed with delight as she answered, “BOTH!”
“How is that possible?”
“I have heard,” Ann’s voice was fairly quivering with delight, “that he changes from one to the other right on stage!”
“How? Does he use makeup or a mask?”
“No! I have heard that he does it entirely himself. It is supposed to be amazing to behold!”
“You haven’t seen the play, then?”
Ann slowly quieted down. “No. I’m afraid that is a bit more than I can afford these days. Maybe someday, though. It must be something to see.”
“I would imagine.” I thought for a moment but then pushed ahead. “Would you like to meet him?”
This time Ann looked stunned.
“I’m sure that Arthur would introduce us. Why not? I mean, how often do you get the chance to meet the legendary Richard Mansfield?” I was being slightly sarcastic, but Ann didn’t notice.
“Do you think he would? Should we? I mean, I’d be so nervous.”
“No time like the present!” I said, taking her arm and walking her towards the great man.
As we approached, I could see that Arthur was talking, Mansfield was confused and bored, while Amy was desperate for any interruption.
“No, no, no,” Arthur was saying, “you are still thinking too literally. You have to think beyond yourself and what you see.”
“Excuse me, Arthur,” I said, “I wonder if we might say hello to your friend here?”
Amy’s face instantly showed relief and delight, while Mansfield looked to be happy that anyone other than Arthur was talking.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Arthur said. “Richard Mansfield, this is my good friend Albert Besame and his lady, Ann Simmons.”
Mansfield shook my hand, but I could tell that he had little interest in me. His attention was completely focused upon Ann.
“How do you do, my dear?” he purred. I had the impression of a large panther preparing to leap upon a sleeping gazelle. Mansfield kissed her hand, and I was sorry to say that I could see how much she enjoyed the attention.
“Mr. Mansfield, this is such an honour.”
“Oh, please,” Mansfield grinned, “call me Richard. And I shall call you Ann?”
Amy stepped in—which pleased me no end.
“Now Richard, reel yourself in. Ann is not one of your stage door ladies.”
Richard made a pained look. “Amy, you cut me to the quick. One would think that you don’t have a very high impression of me.”
“Not at all, Richard,” Arthur said, “she just has the right one.”
Mansfield gave a short chuckle and then turned his attention back to Ann. “Your voice, Ann, I believe I hear some training. Am I right?”
Amy blushed. “Just a little. I’ve been taking voice lessons.”
“Ah,” Mansfield said, “I thought so. Tell me, my dear, are you set for lead or chorus?”
“Oh, well, I would love to take a lead role, but I’d be happy with anything in a chorus.”
“And that,” Mansfield raised his finger to dramatically illustrate his point, “will be your downfall. Never settle for anything less than a lead. Once you do, you will be stuck in the chorus forever. You must sing something for us.”
Ann was blushing but thoroughly enjoying the attention. “I can’t. I have nothing prepared.”
“And the evening is much too young, Richard,” Amy said. “Once we are all settled, I believe that Ann must favour us with a concert, but not just yet.”
“Ah, such disappointment, Amy. You love to make me wait!”
“Waiting is what men do best, Richard,” Arthur said, “particularly married men!”
They all laughed, and I felt as if I had ceased to exist.
“Oh, and Albert, isn’t it?” Mansfield turned to me. “What do you do?”
Arthur put his arms around my shoulder. “Why, Richard, don’t you know? Albert has come to London in search of plays in which to invest his considerable millions!”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Indeed?” Mansfield looked me over for the first time and found me wanting. “And is this how millionaires are dressing these days?”
“Oh, you know how eccentric they are, Richard! They want to keep attention away from themselves.”
“Well then, Albert, we should definitely talk! You know of my play, Jekyll and Hyde, no doubt? I have an idea for a whole series of such plays exploring the depths of man’s evil and madness! Such scenes of vile wickedness that the stage has never seen before! I—”
“Oh, dear, is that the time?” Arthur said. “I’m sorry, Richard, but I have to steal Albert for a bit. I’ve been instructed to bring him to see George the minute he arrived, and the poor fellow’s been waiting for minutes now! But you just stay here with the women until we get back. No doubt they will find your stories as thrilling as we all do.”
Arthur grabbed my arm and pulled me away. I don’t think I even said one word to the great actor.
“Arthur, what are you doing?”
He was laughing. “Just having a little fun. I’m sorry, but Mansfield is such a pompous ass that I can barely resist. You noticed, of course, that he had no interest in you until he thought that you had money to spend?”
“Yes, that seemed rather shallow.”
“Unfortunately, that is part of the curse of being an actor. Particularly one like Mansfield, who produces many of his own shows. You’re always on the alert for new money. But trust me, Albert, not everyone in the theatre is like that. Most are hard-working people who are as dedicated to their craft as we are to ours. Which reminds me, what have you been writing?”
The question took me off guard.
“Ah, nothing right now. I just haven’t had the chance.”
“Nothing? Now that is not acceptable, Albert. You must write, each and every day, without fail. No matter what happens. Do you promise me?”
I was taken aback by the earnestness of his request.
“Yes, Arthur, I promise you. I will write every day.”
“Good! And every week you must bring me what you write, yes? We’ll go over it together. Life is a hard thing, Albert. It will take your time and your soul if you let it and leave you nothing for writing. You must always guard against that, always!”
“Do you write every day, Arthur?”
“Ah, well, perhaps it is not always best for the pupil to turn the questions back on to the teacher. But the translations of these damned Casanovas is taking far more of my time than I would like. Come, I want you to meet some of these other poor souls who are cursed with the writing bug. But they have it even worse than we, Albert, for they are journalists!”
Arthur brought me over to a small group of men who were all huddled together near the table of food. They had the appearance of hungry wolves waiting for the fox to appear. As we got closer, I could tell that the subject they were discussing was the East End itself.
“I am telling you, the East End is about to explode! All it will take is the right spark to set it afire.” A taller man with red hair and a beard was talking very emotionally and seemed quite upset.
“Oh, do calm down, Shaw. You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” another man said.
“Of course he is, he’s Irish!” a third man said, and they all laughed except for Shaw.
Arthur stepped boldly into the pack. “Ah, Shaw, good. I see you’ve found some company.”
“Not much, I’m afraid. These ‘reporters’ wouldn’t know a story if it jumped up and bit them on the arse!”
“Which could just happen in the East End!” The second man replied, and there was more laughing. Shaw was not having any of it. He appeared to be a very intense man who suffered from extreme passions.
“Machen,” the third man said, “we came here in the spirit of good food and company, not to be attacked by this godless socialist!”
“Really?” Arthur replied. “I should think that a good reporter would love to be ‘attacked.’ Just think of the press!” More laughter. “Gentlemen, please allow me to present my good friend, Albert Besame. I’m afraid that he is one of us, a doomed writer!”
“God help him!” the second man said and lifted his glass to me.
“Albert, meet Robert Emmons from the Daily Mail, Walter Elwell from the Globe, and George Bernard Shaw, who occasionally writes theatre reviews but spends most of his time spouting socialist dogma.”
“Perhaps he should write his own plays so that he can finally publish a favourable review of something!”
“And I will someday. I always have ideas, you know, and they will come out eventually.”
“Ideas about what, Mr. Shaw?” I asked.
He looked at me, and for a moment it was like looking into the eyes of a madman.
“Many things, Mr. Besame, but at the moment I have been thinking about the East End and murder.”
“Ah, here he goes again,” sighed Elwell.
“I have been spending time in the East End lately myself,” I said.
“Have you? And what do you think about it?” Shaw asked pointedly.
I paused shortly. “I think it is an outrage. Here, in the greatest city in the world, we have an inner city of poverty, crime, and sin. It is like a sickness in the heart of London which spreads its tendrils further every day.”
There was silence.
I could tell that Arthur was stunned by my words, but I had meant them. Shaw, on the other hand, was fairly beaming. “My boy! At last here is someone who sees what is about him, not like the rest of you.”
Shaw held out his hand in friendship and pumped mine up and down vigorously.
“Oh, no,” Elwell went on, “Shaw’s found a convert!”
“Laugh if you must, gentlemen, but it will take young men like this who see the truth to change it,” Shaw replied.
“And how should it be changed, Shaw?” asked Arthur.
“Simple. Distribution of wealth, power, and production. Everyone shares in the government’s success or decline. Is it right and moral for people to be starving to death five miles away from such wealth and opulence as the West End?”
“It would never work, Shaw,” answered Elwell. “Without the incentive of making a personal success, man would not accomplish anything.”
“What a terrible thing to say,” I replied. “Do you mean that man is incapable of working with the sole purpose of helping their fellow man?”
“That is exactly what I’m saying, young sir. The human animal is a selfish, vicious beast which, in the end, cares only for his own gratification and desires. Nowhere is that more evident than in the East End.”
“But how can you say that? These people are poor, destitute. They struggle every day for survival.”
“And in that struggle, do they embrace the higher ideals or do they sink into the mud? Do they work to help each other or race to cheat one another? Steal from each other? Kill one another for a few pence or a loaf of bread?”
“What would you suggest they do, then? When pushed to such extremes, can we blame them for resorting to such actions?”
“By extremes are men tested. Only in that way can we know their true hearts.”
Shaw could no longer hold himself back.
“What a thick-headed, imbecilic thing to say! You are truly an idiot, Elwell.”
“No, Shaw, I am a pragmatist. You think you are the only one to walk the streets of Whitechapel or Spitalfields? I have seen these people and their ways, and I tell you that at this point in time they are no better than the beasts in the fields. Better to clear out the East End with a holy fire and be done with it.”
Shaw’s hands were curling into fists. He was nearly shaking.
“Were I not a guest in this house, sir, I would pound you into the ground!”
“Ah, so much for the famous Shaw wit, eh? Now we see the Irish temper. Would ‘pounding’ me solve any of the problems of London?”
“No,” answered Shaw, “but I would greatly enjoy it!”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” s
aid Arthur, “what say we fill our glasses again (I know, not you, Shaw) and simply enjoy the hospitality of the day. There will be time for such arguments tomorrow. Tonight, let us speak of trivial matters and fanciful things, hmm?”
Arthur had stepped between Shaw and Elwell, and I could see Shaw relaxing a bit. Perhaps Arthur’s Welsh roots had something to do with quieting Shaw’s mood. Because he had moved, Arthur was standing with his back to the front door, which was at the other end of the room. There were a number of people between us and the door (where had they all come from?), but as the room was set lower, I had a clear view of the door itself, which is why I was the first to see it.
I didn’t hear the door-knocker, but I saw Rose move towards it, open it, and let a couple enter. It was a young man and a woman who looked vaguely familiar. As they gave their coats to Rose, I moved for a clearer view and felt my breath catch in my throat as I recognised them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Amy Machen moving towards the newly arrived couple with a smile on her lips and a welcoming embrace. Somehow I had to get Arthur over there quickly before too much happened. Standing in the foyer, preparing to embrace Amy, was the painter, Walter Sickert, who looked as if his only goal in life was to be here, at this party. That was bad enough, but with a sickening gasp I saw the woman he was with and recognised her even though I had only seen her that one time in the Ten Bells. There, dressed beautifully and definitely to impress, was the enigmatic, mysterious, and quite possibly scandalous Mary Kelly. The woman Arthur Machen had been chasing over the East End was standing inside his front door, and her eyes were busily searching the room for Arthur.
Chapter 18
If you lived in London, where the whole system is one of false good-fellowship, and you may know a man for twenty years without finding out that he hates you like poison, you would soon have your eyes opened. There we do unkind things in a kind way: we say bitter things in a sweet voice: we always give our friends chloroform when we tear them to pieces.
—George Bernard Shaw
The room stretched before me like a mountain range. For every person I moved around, another stepped in my way. It was as if they were purposefully being placed between me and the door. As I went, I could see Amy hugging Sickert and, just as I came within range, I could hear those fateful words, “Amy, may I please present Miss Mary Kelly, my companion for the evening?”