Dracula in London

greasepaint. He stood, hesitant, in the doorway. I was reluctant to dismiss him, but I needed to get ready. I sat down and looked at my reflection—the empty doorway framed my head.

I heard his clothes rustle and spun round. He was still there!

I could not have turned back again to save my life. To turn around would not only have left him standing behind me, it might also have allowed me to confirm what the mirror had told me. There are some things that you don’t want to be certain of.

My lips took over and started talking even while my mind was frozen in panic. “Count, I really must get ready for this evening’s performance. Why not see me some time when I’m less busy? How about Sunday afternoon in St. James’ park?”

He dipped his head in a gesture that was half nod and half bow. “Would three o’clock be suitable?”

“At the end of the lake nearest the palace.”

“I will be there.” He took my hand, and I’m proud to say that I didn’t shake when he kissed it. Theatrical training has its uses now and then.

I was safe, at least until Sunday. A foolish invitation on my part, but I’d had to get rid of him fast and that was the fastest way I could think of. Anyway, I’d no intention of keeping the appointment.

What was he? A demon? An angel? Or do you think I imagined it about the mirror? I’m not sure myself now. Maybe I just had an attack of nerves because he was standing behind me? I don’t know. I don’t trust my own judgement any more.

I didn’t tell anyone about it—I’d have felt such an idiot. They’d probably have decided my eyes were playing up again. It’s not quite so hard writing to you, because I can put the words on paper and that’s easier than saying them out loud. It’s easy to imagine I’m talking to myself, just keeping a journal.

I actually did feel a little guilty about Sunday. Was it just his appearance that made me so uneasy? None of us get prettier as we get older. Men can’t help the looks they are born with— Dracula had been nothing but courteous to me. I was almost relieved when I got a really bad headache that saved me the necessity of inventing an excuse. Besides, it was a terrible day, pouring with rain all afternoon.

Still, I should have known putting him off was just delaying the inevitable. He was waiting outside my dressing room after the show on Monday. I made a mental note to ask Henry to fire the doorman—I’d given strict instructions that nobody was to be allowed in.

“Miss Terry, I would not intrude upon you here and now, but I must speak with you sometime.”

I tried to apologise for Sunday, saying that if I’d had his address, I’d have contacted him to say I was unable to make it. He brushed it aside—wasn’t relevant. There were things he wanted to discuss—things that were important to him.

Why me? There’s people enough in London. Why couldn’t he talk to somebody else? No point in asking really—I recognised the symptoms all too well. People love me—not for what I am, but for what they imagine I am.

In the end, I’d no choice but to agree to another meeting. I probably wouldn’t have kept that one either, except that George the doorman swore blind that he’d never let Dracula into the theatre that night. He’d never even seen him. I think the reason I believed him was that he voluntarily admitted to accepting a large bribe the first time. If Dracula was able to get into the back of the theatre without going through the stage door…

I met Dracula outside the actor’s church on the Sabbath and trusted in the Lord to look after his own.

When I came out from the service, the day was bright and sunny. I could hear a blackbird singing somewhere, its song affirming everything that’s good about life. Dracula stood waiting for me under the church portico. Daylight seemed to diminish him; he looked no different and yet—somehow—I feared him less when I saw him by the light of the day star.

He bowed and asked me what my pleasure was. I chose to walk. This Old Smokey was clear of fog for once and I wanted to enjoy it while I could. I had a need to be aware of everything around me, to have people passing and to see couples out strolling. I didn’t offer him my arm and he didn’t ask for it; instead, we walked side by side and just talked.

“Your friend Stoker told me that a hundred years ago, the ending of King Lear was changed to allow Cordelia to live. She marries Edgar and lives happily ever after. He said this version was popular, but now the proper ending has been restored. Why? What is the purpose of tragedy? Why is her death so important?”

“Tate changed the ending because people are fond of ‘poetic justice.’ They like good to triumph over evil. It reassures people, convinces them the world is a safe place.”

“But Irving chose to use the original ending? Why? Cordelia is the heroine. She is young; she is beautiful; she is loyal. Why do you prefer her to die?”

“Because it means that you’ll never forget the play. If Lear and his daughter both die needless deaths, you’ll cry for them and you will think far harder as to the reasons why they died. Cordelia’s love and duty carry more weight when she pays the fullest price.”

He was silent for a while. I studied his profile as we walked, that beaked nose and the strong forehead. He reminded me of a bird of prey, something cruel that swoops down and seizes young birds in its talons. Eventually he spoke: “Is it more important to live or to be remembered?”

“It’s more important to live—that’s why tragedy exists. Tragedy gives us the illusion that other people will remember us when we are gone. We have no choice as regards death, remembrance is closest we can come—we live on in the minds of other people.”

I wonder if anyone will remember when I’m gone? Will they wander past my memorial and say “Ellen Terry? Who was she?” We all like to think our memories are immortal, but of course, they aren’t. All things considered, they’re probably more likely to stub their toes on my tombstone and curse.

I think Dracula understood people’s desire for immortality. He asked me, quite seriously, if I would rather live for ever or be remembered for ever.

I laughed at that one (well, how can you answer a question like that seriously?), and said I’d look awfully decrepit if I lived for ever!

His answer was to ask if I would want to live forever if I could stay as I am now.

“Well,” I said, “if you’re going to wave a magic wand, I’d rather be ten years younger.” You realise, you’d probably be terribly disappointed in me if we met—I’ll be a grandmother next year.

“Not you,” he declared. “You should always be as you are now.”

“You flatter me,” I protested.

“You have more than beauty. You have intelligence, wit, and feeling. I have three sisters, and they are each worthless. They have no ideas in their heads that I do not put there. They do not read, they have no love of knowledge, they don’t think. When I see you on stage, I see a woman different than the one I see here. That alone tells me the effort that goes into your work. Then I remember the emotion in the part you play and I know that must be a part of you, for it is impossible to truly simulate something that you cannot understand.

“My sisters tell me that I am incapable of love, but they lie. I recognise it when I see it and therefore I am capable of feeling it.”

It struck me that this was a curious doubt for any man to have. Was love important to him because he had lived alone too long? Was there some dead love in his past? Almost on cue, he said— “You played Othello the year before last. Othello kills his love when he believes she has betrayed him, yet with her dying breath Desdemona seeks to protect him. How do you read that? Can a woman truly love the man who kills her?”

I love Desdemona for her perception, the way she loved Othello for what he was rather than how he looked. I couldn’t help but wonder if Dracula had also raised the question for that reason. It would be hard indeed for a woman to love him for his face.

“It’s a pity you weren’t able to see it, ” I replied. “But yes, her love for Othello was always based on her understanding of him. Even when he is trying to kill her, she knows deep inside her that he still loves her. That’s the tragedy of the play—he kills the person he most loves. If he hadn’t loved her to such excess, he would not have been so enraged by her seeming betrayal.”

“Do you think then that she forgave him?”