Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Lyceum company were once again on tour in the provinces and had gone as far north as Scotland.
Naturally, I’d remained in London. A few weeks into their busy schedule, Bram wrote from Glasgow to tell me that Henry had fallen gravely ill.
What was first attributed to ‘clergyman’s throat’ was later diagnosed as both pleurisy and pneumonia. Bram’s anguish leapt off the page.
I allowed him to perform, Florrie. Against my better judgement and at Henry’s insistence, I let him tread the boards. I doubt I’ll ever forgive myself for such a serious lapse of judgement.
Henry was ordered to bed and the tour continued without him. Bram took over, travelling between each of the towns, keeping to the gruelling schedule, coming home briefly when he could.
Concerned he’d fall ill as well, I urged him to rest, to hand over the reins to Harry or at least share responsibility. He looked at me as if I’d suggested he dance naked down The Strand.
‘I can’t, Florrie. Henry’s debts are crippling. The only thing I can do to ensure an income so the seventy people who perform each night can be paid, is keep the tour going. Henry’s relying on me.’
Oh, I knew he was. There was, after all, no-one else. Those three men Henry hired years ago had, inevitably, proved worthless.
One night after visiting Henry in Bournemouth, where he was convalescing, Bram confided, ‘Henry’s a mess, Florrie.
’ The two men had spent the afternoon together.
Once again, Bram tried to persuade Henry to change his mind about Arthur Conan Doyle’s offer to write a drama just for the Lyceum.
Even though a play featuring his enormously successful character Sherlock Holmes would be guaranteed to fill every seat and a long run, it was to no avail.
‘Henry said he’d rather the theatre remain dark and empty than put on some populist claptrap.
’ Bram shook his head in frustration. I poured him a whisky.
Bram downed it in two gulps, then held out his glass for more.
‘He’s coughing up so much blood and pus yet refuses to see the doctor.
I had to provide a fresh handkerchief at least a dozen times. ’ He gave a theatrical judder.
I made what I hoped were sympathetic noises. No-one should suffer like that. But Henry’s stubborn refusal to listen to Bram, who’d always had his best interests at heart, failing to see his exhaustion, made the embers of ire stir within me.
Ellen had disclosed that Henry’s finances were in dismal straits. If only he listened to Bram, they could be repaired. He could be repaired. Without Henry to perform beside, and with Bram’s blessing, once the tour finished Ellen signed a short contract with Mr Beerbohm Tree’s new theatre company.
‘You organised for the doctor to attend Henry regardless of his objections, didn’t you?’ I asked Bram, joining him on the sofa.
The noise of the Sunday traffic intruded through the window. The sun was fighting a losing battle with bully-boy clouds, its weak light striking a vase of wilting flowers.
‘Of course,’ sighed Bram. He resembled the flowers, so worn and wan.
His cheeks were pallid; his eyes lacked their usual brilliance.
I wished there was something I could do to help reduce the burden that had always been his to bear when it came to Sir Henry.
‘Henry might be over sixty, but he doesn’t always know what’s best for him. ’
I rested a hand on his knee. He closed his over mine.
With his other, he swept the hair from his forehead.
I noticed all the grey among the copper-brown.
The deep lines fanning from his eyes, the grooves in his forehead.
When had he grown so old? None of us escaped time’s march, not even the indefatigable Bram Stoker; only his vampiric creations did that.
‘Fact is,’ he said softly, ‘if I don’t look out for him, protect him from his own worst tendencies, ensure his finances are in some order, who will?
’ Bram heaved himself off the sofa and dropped a kiss on top of my head, ‘Excuse me, Florrie, I’ve letters to write.
There are more folk I need to notify about Henry’s condition; the alteration to the Lyceum’s schedule. ’
Was Henry’s next decision the beginning of the end?
Or had it been hurtling towards us like one of the comets that streaked across the skies?
Perhaps the finale had been put in motion long ago when Henry first damaged his knee.
Reduced the insurance monies weeks before the prop warehouse burned.
Lavished money on his son Laurence’s failed productions.
Refused to consider Arthur’s offer. Collapsed with pleurisy.
Made Austin Brereton his press agent after the fire, effectively shutting out Bram and causing more friction between them.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but later, when Bram and I discussed these events, it was clear they all contributed to what I privately called the downfall of Sir Henry Irving. Bram would never be so direct.
While Henry was convalescing, and without consulting Bram, who happened to be in America organising yet another tour, enduring the worst storm the Atlantic had ever seen, Henry sold his rights to the Lyceum.
We only learned what he’d done after Bram returned. By then, nothing could be done. Bram felt betrayed. He was. But instead of railing against Henry, seeing him for the selfish bastard he was (oh, yes, I was cussing), Bram defended him. Again.
‘This damn consortium took advantage, Florrie,’ he said as I sat, aghast at the news.
‘They waited until I was absent and Henry in a weakened state. If he’d been in his right mind, if I’d been present, none of this would have happened.
’ His voice began to break. ‘Oh, God, Florrie, Henry thought he was going to die … Yet he said naught of his fears. Imagine if he had …? How could I …?’ He buried his head in his hands.
Words from long ago echoed.
I can always have another son … What I cannot have is another Henry Irving.
Bram could not see what was so clear. Henry was purposefully distancing himself. Bram had done nothing wrong. Nothing. But he was being cast aside like an outgrown toy. Loyalty, devotion, meant nothing to Henry.
I went to Bram and gently rubbed his back.
‘This will be an unmitigated disaster,’ continued Bram, raising his head, the tremor in his voice gone. ‘Though Henry still retains artistic control, and I’ll keep my job, the only one to financially benefit from this new arrangement is the consortium.’
While we were preoccupied with these Henry-induced dramas, news arrived from Paris that plunged me into an abyss of despair.