Dracula in London

so easy to become distracted—sometimes the slightest thing can throw me and I lose my lines.

That’s what was so strange—I knew he was watching me even when I couldn’t see him. Have you ever had that sensation? The feeling of eyes looking at the back of your neck?

I’d swear his eyes were red, but it was probably just a trick of the limelight.

I never did get a good look at his face. Even when he stood to applaud at the end, he was still in the darkness. All I could really tell was that he seemed to be well-dressed; he looked like a man with money.

Actually, that’s probably how he got along to Henry’s post-show supper a few days later. Bram Stoker— Henry’s manager— ‘ has a real nose for possible investors. He does all Henry’s correspondence and I honestly don’t know where Henry would be without him. He corresponds with theatres for us, arranges tours, and leaves Henry free to do what he does best—acting.

I knew the stranger was there the moment I entered the room. He stood out in the crowd, there was a space around him and you don’t normally get much of that at Henry’s parties. I’ll try and describe him for you, though memory may make him more dramatic than he actually was. He was tall, almost six foot in height. He’d a real beak of a nose—you could have cast him as Julius Caesar any day—a black moustache, a pointed beard, and a hard cruel face. His teeth were pointed—like a dog’s canines. I didn’t like the look of him at all.

He became aware of me immediately. Coming over to me, he bowed. “May I introduce myself, Miss Terry? Count Dracula.”

He had a European accent, though I couldn’t place where from. It certainly wasn’t French or German. I really didn’t fancy talking to him, but one has to make the effort. One is expected to sparkle at such affairs, so sparkle one does.

I made him feel welcome and asked him where he was from. He wasn’t too pleased at that.

“You can tell I am not English?”

“You do have rather a strong accent,” though I hastened to add, “but your command of our language is superb. You have obviously studied for many years.”

That seemed to mollify him a little. “I wish to come among you as a gentleman, a man of learning. I have no desire to be taken for an inferior.”

Well, I had his measure now. “That could never be,” I assured him. “Your clothing, your manner, and your speech all declare you to be a nobleman by birth.”

Now he was happy—positively preened himself. “The clothing is fashionable? I read your newspapers, but they are short of information on reliable tailors. I do not entirely trust tradesmen who advertise. I asked my legal representatives to recommend a firm to me.”

I looked him up and down. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but they’d certainly done their best. The cloth draped in the way that only really expensive fabrics do and the cut was excellent. “You must tell me the name of your firm,” I said. “If their legal advice is as good as their choice in tailors, I might need them some day.”

“I sent my measurements in advance; my wardrobe was waiting for me when I arrived.”

I still didn’t like him, but he was beginning to impress me. He certainly planned carefully enough—he’d never have made an actor. He’d also dodged my question, although I didn’t think about that until later. Maybe he would have made an actor after all.

Loretta waved at me from the other side of the room and I tried to make my excuses to go and join her, but Dracula simply took no notice. He had that kind of natural arrogance that comes from having people leap to do your bidding all your life. At least he was polite about it—well, more or less.

“Miss Terry, I must speak to you about the play. Why is it different from what I have read?”

“Didn’t the reviews do us justice?”

“You misunderstand me. The play was not performed as it was written. Why did you change the words of Shakespeare?” (You know, you’d have loved him. You’re always criticising Henry’s version of Shakespeare. You ought to be a theatre critic instead of shredding musicians.)

“A play is a complex thing…”I began, when Bram came to my rescue. Or Henry’s rescue if you look at it another way. I really believe that Henry has no more devoted fan than Bram Stoker.

“Henry Irving is a creative genius!” Bram declared. “The words written by a playwright are just the starting point. There is nothing sacrosanct about them. They are clay to be taken and moulded by an actor to suit his needs.”

“I have re-read the play,” the count declared. “Mr. Irving has changed the words. He has got them wrong.”

Whoops… Beard not the lion in his lair… (Do lions have beards?)

Bram exploded. When a six-foot-two, twelve-stone Irishman explodes, you tend to know it.

“Have you no soul!”

The count took an abrupt step back in the face of that fury.

“Don’t you know genius when you see it? Henry Irving breathes life into cold words. He puts passion where there was only paper. There isn’t his equal on the whole of the British stage.”

Dracula’s protest was washed away in the onslaught. (I really do think you might have felt quite sorry for the poor man.)

“If you used that play as written, would it have the impact, the drama of what you saw tonight?”

“Have you ever seen a better performance? Have you?”

I felt compelled to intervene. “Bram, dearest, he’s only been in England a few weeks.”

Didn’t help of course. “So he thinks himself qualified to judge English theatre when he’s hardly even watched any?”

Dracula finally got a word in edgeways. “Your theatre is excellent. I have greatly enjoyed the performances. But is it right to change what has been written? Would not the play be even more excellent if performed as written? Would you rewrite the novels of your great authors?”

Philosophy at that hour of the night? What is the world coming to? The argument was obviously good for ages yet. I took my chance, left them to one another’s company, and slipped away to join Loretta. I spent the rest of my evening in dedicated pursuit of the trivial and I’m glad to report that I found it.

The next day, the 22nd, an hour before the show, I found Dracula waiting outside my dressing room. The stage doorman must have let him in. I wonder how much the count tipped him?

“My dear Miss Terry, I wish to apologise for last night. It was not my wish to embarrass you. May I apologise?” He held out a ring in the palm of his hand. The oddest thing—I hadn’t noticed before—he had hair growing on his palm, black and wiry. It was rather unnerving; I’ve never seen anything like it before.

Let me tell you though, that ring was several carats worth of apology. (Tell me, why do men always give jewellery rather than money?) I accepted it with the best grace I could muster and thanked him.

“I find your city fascinating,” he said slowly. “There are few people living in the high mountains of Transylvania and they are ignorant and superstitious. There are no men of learning there, no people who understand art or literature. It is possible for me to order books, to learn other languages, and to study the works of other great men. But with whom can I discuss these things? Who can make them come alive?

“Shakespeare is perhaps your greatest playwright. I read his words on paper and thought that I understood them. I saw the play performed upon the stage and realised that I understood nothing at all. The rhythms and poetry of the words are invisible to me until they are spoken, and then they come alive. They speak of possibilities, of things that an old man had forgotten and the memory of laughter. It is a lifetime since I laughed, an eternity since I cried.”

I get sickened by continual flattery, but he meant it. I’d swear he meant every word. What kind of a man did that make him?

“Is it really so empty where you live? Surely there must be towns? Theatres?”

“There are travelling entertainers who amuse the peasants with shadow puppets and old stories, but any attempt at a play is crude indeed. They play their parts with enthusiasm enough, but they do not become the part as you do. There is no emotion, no truth to it.”

I felt then that he was drawn to the theatre because his own life had no emotion in it. All he could find to fill his need was the synthetic emotion that we supply to any who will come and watch. And yet there can be truth in a good play, of a kind anyway. I pondered that as I went into the dressing room and checked over my sticks of