Chapter Twenty-Seven
The one complaint Bram allowed about Henry was that he was going to bankrupt the Lyceum.
Nineteen months after Oscar wed Constance, a production of Faust was mounted, and almost did.
A full-size organ was built into the stage and a peal of bells worth four hundred pounds was specially cast. Over two hundred and fifty extras were hired to play demons, goblins and warlocks.
As if that wasn’t enough, Henry insisted that swords using the new-fangled invention, electricity, be made so that when fights took place, sparks would fly.
There were tinsel storms, floating mists, and a ladder of angels.
Extra trapdoors were built into the stage and ropes and pulleys constructed, allowing cast members to ascend and descend from the heavens.
There were apparitions, fires and so much more.
It was beyond spectacular, and the audiences adored it – and Henry, for what he gave them.
Despite a weak script, the run of Faust was already long, and the demands extensive.
As the season continued, Bram begged me to bring Irving to see the show.
Knowing it was a most unsuitable play for a young child (Irving was only six), I persuaded myself it could be no worse for him than listening to his father’s terrifying tales.
It would have been churlish to refuse after moaning about how Bram never saw his son.
I spied Bram the moment we entered the stage door, a still presence amidst the whirl and noise.
Irving was thrilled to be back at the theatre again and, I confess, so was I.
After being part of the chorus in The Cup, I’d never performed again.
The desire had been smothered. If I’d been offered another role, I would have declined.
Still, there was something charmed about the place; how from all the backstage chaos, clutter and clatter, the colour, haze of tobacco, sounds of instruments tuning, voices warming up, panicked squeals, running feet, shouted orders, the moment the lights dimmed, and the orchestra started, all fell into place. The audience were transported.
‘Maman,’ said Irving, clutching my hand nervously as we navigated the corridor, passing imps, goblins and assorted horned creatures chatting and rehearsing lines, his little eyes wide. ‘Pourquoi y a-t-il des monstres partout?’
Bram glanced back. He didn’t approve of Irving speaking French in his presence.
‘English, please, Irving,’ I reminded him.
Irving gave a weary sigh. ‘Why are there monsters everywhere?’
‘Oh, darling,’ I said, swooping on him, forcing Bram to stop.
I knelt so Irving could see my face. I pushed his hair back from his forehead, pressing the little worried furrow between his soft brows.
‘Remember I told you the theatre was pretend? These aren’t really monsters, they’re just people, like you and me, only they’re wearing costumes and face paint, doing make-believe, like you and Nounou Yvette do sometimes. ’
A particularly gruesome troll chose that moment to squeeze past. Irving squealed in fright and buried his head in my shoulder. ‘Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,’ I said to Bram over Irving’s head. ‘I’ll take him home.’
Bram scowled, then his face lit up and he snapped his fingers. ‘I’ve a better idea. I know exactly how to fix this. Irving,’ he said, prying him from me. ‘Come with me, laddie. I’ve someone I want you to meet.’
I stood, looking at Bram quizzically.
‘Leave him with me, Florrie.’ He placed a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘Why don’t you visit Ellen? She’d love to see you.’
Poor Ellen. She’d had a terrible time recently, losing three important men in her life in quick succession, including her husband, Charles Wardell Kelly. She’d been understandably downcast.
‘I’ll bring Irving back once I’ve eased his fears.’ Before I could ask how Bram intended to do that, he lifted Irving into his arms and disappeared around the corner.
‘Lemon!’ exclaimed Ellen as Judith opened the door. ‘Come in, come in. This is a lovely surprise.’ She enfolded me in a warm hug. My face was momentarily pressed into her shoulder, and I inhaled musk, jasmine and the slight mustiness of her heavily brocaded costume.
‘Sit, sit,’ she insisted as she resumed her seat.
Judith quickly brought over a chair, and I sat at an angle watching Ellen as she put the finishing touches to her make-up.
‘Dear God,’ she exclaimed, flapping her arms. ‘These bloody sleeves are a nuisance.’ Long and widely flared at the ends, the extra material dragged over the top of the dresser, knocking over bottles and causing her brushes to clank to the floor. I picked them up.
Ellen chuckled. ‘You’re too well dressed to be stooping for those.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I said, and passed the errant objects to Judith, who replaced them out of reach and then began to pin back Ellen’s sleeves.
Like the rest of the gown, they were heavily embossed and beaded.
A jewelled sash angled across her torso, while a beautifully decorated cap adorned her head, her golden hair framing her face sweetly.
‘You make a lovely Margaret,’ I said, smiling at her reflection. The desolation in her eyes only enhanced the character.
‘A Leadenhall butcher would look lovely next to Henry’s Mephistopheles. That make-up is hideous,’ she shuddered then looked about. ‘I thought you were bringing Irving?’ She dusted a brush across her cheek.
‘I did. The poor mite was frightened by all the actors in costume, so Bram’s allaying his fears.’
‘You were worried this wasn’t an appropriate play for him.’
‘Still am. But Bram gets to spend so little time with him. If worse comes to worst, and what Bram’s intending doesn’t work, can I bring Irving here until the play’s over?’
‘Of course,’ said Ellen, reaching for my hand and giving it a loving press.
While she lined her eyes with kohl, I asked her how she was feeling.
She lowered the brush from her eyes. ‘Relieved I can escape here each night.’ She gave a tremulous smile. ‘It’s easier to deal with this tragedy rather than my own.’
‘I’m so sorry, Ellen.’ I went to touch her, reassure her, but hesitated.
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ she said. ‘Instead, have I told you about Mr Tonkins? No? Well, he comes to see the play every week and insists on coming backstage to check on my welfare. He believes Henry really is the devil and my soul is in mortal danger.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ I said, grinning. ‘Not only from Henry …’
‘Lemon!’ began Ellen, faking outrage, when a piercing scream rang out.
‘Irving!’ I was out the door in a flash, Ellen behind me.
The actors parted for us like the Red Sea for Moses. The scream turned into wails, leading me straight to Henry Irving’s dressing room.
I burst through the door to find Henry, costumed as Mephistopheles, replete with horns and ruby and black make-up, looking utterly terrifying, looming over my son, who sat with his little face buried in his hands, facing the mirror. Bram was shaking him by the shoulder, clearly cross.
Both men started guiltily when I bowled in.
‘Irving!’ I raced to his side. ‘What is it, mon coeur?’ I rubbed his back; he heaved with silent sobs.
Henry made a scoffing noise. ‘He’s overreacted, that’s all. Tell her, Brammie.’ He stood and leaned back with his bottom pressed against the dresser, arms folded.
‘Bram?’ I looked to my husband. Irving was frozen in fear. I was unable to coax him to lower his hands and turn around so I might comfort him.
‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ began Bram, looking from me to Ellen then Henry. ‘All Henry did was put a little paint on him to prove that anyone can become a monster.’
‘I don’t want to be a monster!’ Irving howled into his palms.
I made a noise of dismay.
‘And you’re not, sweetpea,’ said Ellen soothingly, ruffling his hair. ‘The make-up is only so you look like one.’ She glared at Henry, then Bram. ‘What were you thinking?’
Irving’s cries began to ease.
Dismissing Ellen with a flap of his hand, Henry bent over until his face was level with my son’s. ‘That’s right, boyo, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Why don’t you show your mother? Show her what I did.’
Ever so slowly, as Ellen and I made noises of encouragement, Irving lowered his hands and stared in the mirror.
Beside him was Henry. I studied the two faces, side by side, one large, one small, one aged, one youthful, the crow-coloured brows, the hollowed cheeks, eyes reflecting the gaslight so they appeared to have twin flames in their heads.
Not only was my son named after Henry, in that moment he resembled him as well.
‘Dear God,’ I whispered. ‘A diabolical double.’
Irving’s eyes, already crudely emphasised with black rings, grew larger by the second, his lips began to quiver and his body to shake. He let out another piercing shriek, and shoved Henry away. ‘Enlève-le! Enlève-le!’ He began rubbing his face, smearing the make-up.
‘Merde!’ Henry, startled, fell on his arse and scuttled away.
Irving began to rake his cheeks, his nails renting the delicate flesh. Blood and tears mingled with the thick paint. He was sobbing, terrified, confused. I grabbed his hands and turned him around so he could no longer see himself. Ellen stood between Irving and Henry.
‘Dearling, Irving, listen.’ I kept my voice calm, soft. ‘Tu vas bien. You’re alright.’ He was panting heavily; snot collected between his nose and upper lip. Ellen handed me a towel and I knelt and wiped his face, wincing as the scratches reopened and bled afresh.
‘I want to go home,’ he cried, tears trailing down his damaged face.
‘Hush, hush,’ I whispered, brushing them aside, pulling him into my arms. ‘If that’s what you wish, we’ll go.’ I looked pointedly at Bram, who had helped Henry to his feet. ‘Bram?’ I waited for him to offer comfort to his distressed son, to do something.
Henry’s eyes narrowed as he observed us. ‘You need to take that boy in hand, Brammie. Teach him to behave.’
‘Behave?’ I stood and lifted Irving into my arms. ‘What? Like any young Christian lad would when made to look like Satan? To having the devil himself transform him?’
Henry began to laugh. It was cold, brittle, like breaking glass.
‘Moi, the devil?’ He gestured towards me.
‘And there’s your problem, Brammie. The poor boy can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy.
I wonder who’s to blame for that?’ With one last accusing look in my direction, he swept from the room. Moments later, Harry’s voice rang out.
‘Five minutes until curtain! Show’s about to start.’
As far as I was concerned, the show was over.
I put Irving to bed, leaving him in the care of the new nanny, Mrs Cassan Simpson, Nounou Yvette having returned to France a month earlier.
I retired to my own, my mind filled with noxious thoughts about Henry and devils before I found myself dwelling on Oscar again.
Yesterday, I’d learned that his son, Cyril, was ill.
He was a sickly baby and a source of concern for him and Constance, who was very pregnant with their second child.
It was the reason Oscar had absented himself from his usual social circles, including my last few salons, though Bram said he’d been seen about town.
I confess, I’d missed his presence. I prayed for him, his son and Constance, before finally drifting off …
Something woke me from yet another feverish dream. I found Bram at his desk, writing. The sun hadn’t risen but from the bugling of a distant cock, and the mauve and sapphire sky, dawn was approaching.
‘How long have you been home?’ I asked sleepily. I hadn’t heard him come in.
He waved towards a chair, inviting me to sit. ‘A couple of hours.’
‘You haven’t been to bed.’
Bram shook his head, even though it wasn’t a question. A half-drunk bottle of whisky and a glass sat at his elbow.
I waited for him to inquire after Irving. He continued to write. I cleared my throat. ‘Shouldn’t we discuss what happened with Irving? With Henry?’
The pen stilled. ‘I’m not sure what’s left to say about it, Florrie. The boy had a fright, that’s all.’
‘He did. Henry frightened him. I can’t believe you allowed him to do that to our son.’
‘Do what? Put a bit of greasepaint on him?’ Bram scoffed. ‘Henry was right; the boy overreacted.’
‘Overreacted? He was terrified, Bram.’
Exasperated, Bram put the pen down. ‘Did Irving have trouble settling when he got home?’
‘No —’
‘Has he had nightmares?’
I pursed my lips. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him of my own.
‘Then, Florrie, there’s nothing to talk about, is there? Please, don’t make more of this than it is. Irving is a sensitive lad, some might say oversensitive.’
‘Really? Who?’
Bram didn’t bite. ‘Let it go. If you do, the boy will. Henry will as well.’
‘Henry? Don’t tell me he was upset.’
‘Of course he was. Despite what you think, he’s not a complete monster. He was distressed by Irving’s reaction. Being a consummate professional, he didn’t let it affect his performance.’
‘Well, thank the good Lord for that.’
He returned to his work. I waited a full minute, then without another word, went back to bed.
Surely, if anyone was responsible for Irving’s flight of fancy, it was a father who’d raised him on a diet of ghost stories and tales of creatures roused from nightmares to pluck children from their beds and punish them.
Not that I was innocent of that particular sin, I supposed, having told Irving many tales of restless spirits and invisible beasts myself.
As far as our son was concerned, Henry was one of those storybook ghouls come to life – and had turned him into one as well.
How could Bram be so … cavalier? An image of his pen moving across the page filled my mind.
Maybe he was right, and Irving was simply a sensitive lad who just needed to learn the difference between make-believe and reality.
Visions of my own spectral visitor loomed.
Perhaps I needed to learn that lesson too.
Before I finally drifted off to sleep, I prayed that what happened to our son tonight wouldn’t harm him in any long-lasting way. I also prayed it wouldn’t somehow crawl its way into Bram’s fiction to live forever.