Chapter Sixteen #3
I glanced at the babbie and already his features took on a cast I’d grown to dislike. Please, God, I sent a silent prayer heavenward, let me see my boy, not the name. Let me love him.
Could I? Or had Henry Irving stolen that from me too – a mother’s love? No. I wouldn’t allow it. It took me a minute to realise Bram was speaking.
‘You should have seen him tonight, Florrie,’ said Bram, approaching the bed and sitting tentatively upon the mattress, adjusting the babbie into the crook of his elbow.
‘All anyone can talk about is Henry’s Shylock.
How they’ve never seen a Jew portrayed like that before.
The Beefsteak Room was filled with praise.
’ The wee mannie twisted slightly in his swaddling, his little eyelids fluttering, his rosebud mouth making gentle smacking noises.
Bram didn’t notice, he was too busy extolling Mr Irving’s virtues.
‘To think, if Henry hadn’t gone away on holiday with the baroness,’ said Bram, ‘if he hadn’t met that Levantine Jew and rethought the whole concept of Shylock, none of this would have happened.
’ He shook his head in bemusement. ‘I told him he needed to make a holiday a regular thing, not once every twenty-three years. You know what he said?’ Bram’s eyes were shining.
‘He said, next time, I must – we must – go with him.’
‘What? Where?’ I fisted the sheets.
‘On holidays.’
I’d sooner go to hell.
‘He has transformed Shylock from the hand-wringing usurer,’ continued Bram, lost in the throes of worship, ‘into an intellectual, a regal being who’s wronged. Audiences are loving this version. They’re calling it genius.’
I silently sighed as I gazed tiredly at Bram’s face. Already forgotten, his little boy lay asleep in his father’s arms. A will-o-the-wisp, trapped in a flesh cage.
Could Bram really be so unaware of what Henry Irving was doing?
He’d turned my husband into a creature of the night, one who fell into bed as the sun rose, departing Southampton Street as it was setting, disappearing into the dim theatre, the world of eternal darkness.
A world where all his creative energy was being siphoned away.
Where any dreams Bram had were shelved in favour of Mr Irving’s.
The danger was, as Ellen had pointed out that day on the Embankment, the more I told Bram exactly how I felt about Mr Irving, the more Bram would simply batten down the hatches, defend the man; cleave to him in a way that would make it impossible for anything to come between them.
She’d seen it happen before. If I wanted Bram to see Henry for what he really was, a selfish man who, if allowed, sucked the life and joy out of all those who came within his compass, all those who didn’t serve his purpose, then I needed to try a different tactic.
‘Instead of bemoaning Henry,’ said Ellen, ‘do the opposite. Heap praise upon him.’
‘I … I can’t do that.’
‘You damn well can,’ she said. ‘Even better, encourage Bram in his affections, his devotion and adoration, and most importantly, join in.’
I stared at her in horror.
‘What if,’ Ellen lowered her voice, ‘by doing that, instead of feeling like the third party in your marriage, Henry Irving became the extra?’ She shook my arm and laughed.
‘Come on, Lemon, I hear you want to try your hand at acting. Here’s your chance.
Play the role of Henry’s admirer. What’s with that face?
Remember, this is my lover we’re talking about.
Trust me. It will be easy. Just base your performance on Ma’s.
Remember, men and women are merely players … ’
I thought back to when Bram and I saw The Taming of the Shrew, and I’d argued along similar lines, advocating that kindness and tolerance were the best way to persuade someone to change their behaviour.
I wanted to eat my words. Then I recalled Bram’s analysis of the play: It’s an interesting way to observe marriage … As if there’s an enemy to defeat.
I flicked a glance in his direction. Dear Lord, he was still harping on about Shylock.
This time, it was the costume – the dark brown robe and sash, the brocaded tunic.
I waited until he drew breath and then touched his arm, stopping the flow of words.
What if the goodwill approach worked? It was worth a shot, surely? Especially if it defeated my enemy …
‘I’m very happy for Mr Irving. For you too, Bram.
’ He blinked in surprise. I contrived a smile.
‘Perhaps you’re right. Mr Irving does deserve our gratitude and, if you think we’re showing it by naming our son after him, well …
’ The words were sour in my mouth. I leaned over, wincing as my hips and stomach throbbed, and stroked the babbie’s soft furry cheek.
‘Just wait until you meet your namesake, Irving,’ I said softly.
I nestled as close to Bram as I could, resting my head against his shoulder.
‘You’re going to love the man just as much as your father does. As I do too.’ May God forgive me.
Bram beamed at the babbie, then at me.
I eased myself back down and shut my eyes. Ellen would be so proud.