Chapter Fifty-Five
Whereas Mr Deane had intended to play the count, he’d ended up casting Edmund Blake in the role and taking on the part of Van Helsing. His reasoning was the doctor had more dialogue. Honestly, actors and their egos. Just like Henry Irving, it was all about being centre stage the longest.
The censor had demanded some changes: the vampire’s death wasn’t to be shown – too gruesome a spectacle – and Lucy’s neck was not to appear penetrated.
Even without those, the play was as grisly and frightening as the book (Phillippa had read it to me in the interim and I’d even used Bram’s old magnifying glass to read sections for myself).
The atmosphere was grim, dark. Though I knew what was to happen, I was on edge.
A sense of doom pervaded, so much so, I began to have flashbacks to the drowned man.
Not the dripping corpse on the dining table, but as he used to appear in corners and shadows, a demonic presence or a dark guardian. I could never be certain.
The play was not the novel. It wasn’t accomplished enough for that.
And yet, as abridged as it was, it managed to encapsulate the mood – the dreadful supernatural and the hopeful spiritual.
What pleased me most of all was seeing how well the count played as a gentleman of refinement.
No longer was he the brusque, crude and hideous undead monster.
Dracula now moved among the ladies and gentlemen, entered their inner sanctums, posing a greater threat than ever because he was just like them.
Neelie gripped Noel’s hand as the play progressed, and startled exclamations escaped Phillippa throughout. Gasps and even small screams erupted around the theatre. I took joy in others’ discomfort. Did that make me a monster, too?
The audience clapped for a long time, the cast beaming as they were called back onto the stage to take their bows not once, nor twice, but thrice.
I hope you’re watching, Bram, I silently prayed. You too, Henry.
Overall, I was delighted with the play’s reception. Mr Deane had been a good choice. The audience loved it.
Sadly, reviewers weren’t so generous. Not that this prevented Mr Deane from touring the country and playing to sold-out audiences for months. All the time, he awaited the longed-for call from London.
I, too, was waiting for London to call, more specifically the Society of Authors to tell me that my long battle with Prana Film was finally over.
When they did eventually contact me, the news was not what I wanted to hear.
‘I’m afraid our victory in the German courts against Prana is short-lived, Mrs Stoker,’ said Mr Thring. I should have known when he telephoned and exchanged pleasantries with more grace than usual that he was preparing to deliver a blow.
‘What do you mean, short-lived?’ I sat on the little stool in the hallway, unwilling to trust my legs as a wave of disbelief and fury washed over me.
‘Last I heard was that despite declaring bankruptcy, they’d been ordered to pay me five thousand pounds.
I distinctly remember you saying it was better late than never.
’ I’d always loathed platitudes, they struck me as lazy and somewhat judgemental, but in this instance, Mr Thring’s had been warranted.
‘Yes, I did, but —’ he paused. ‘I was hasty.’
I waited for him to continue. I could hear my breath echoing down the receiver, laboured and heavy.
‘They’re simply trying to grind me down,’ I said. ‘They’re waiting for me to surrender. Well, I’m not going to, Mr Thring, even though I know you’d be glad if I did.’
‘I don’t think that’s entirely fair, Mrs Stoker —’
It was my turn to scoff. ‘We’ll beg to differ then.
Look,’ I said in a conciliatory tone, ‘if I don’t continue to pursue them for monies owed, Mr Thring, what’s to prevent some other unscrupulous producer swooping in and making a film from a book without buying the rights?
Nothing. They’ll view what’s happened with Prana and Dracula as consent – unless we stop this right now. ’
There was a beat. ‘Well, there’s always the solution we’ve discussed previously, Mrs Stoker …’
I shut my eyes briefly. ‘And, as I told you then, I’m not in favour of doing that. It’s so drastic … so final.’
‘Final may be the only language Prana understand.’ Mr Thring’s tone was conciliatory. ‘The Society, Mr Bang, even your friends have been telling you all along to go down this route …’
‘What do you think I should do?’
‘It’s not up to me to tell you what to do, Mrs Stoker.’
I resisted the urge to shout, What good are you then?
‘You’re the executor of Mr Stoker’s estate,’ wheedled Mr Thring. ‘The person who holds the rights. Only you can order this.’
I sighed. ‘I really thought Prana would pay me. I thought they’d want to make their film legitimate. I was wrong.’ I rubbed my forehead. A headache was building.
‘Maybe this will help you reach a decision,’ added Mr Thring.
‘While Nosferatu exists, and continues to be screened anywhere, I doubt anyone else would be interested in making a movie of Dracula, and there are good deals to be made in the burgeoning motion picture industry. Hollywood is growing in America. But if there’s any legal question hanging over a book, it’s unlikely to ever be picked up. ’
There was a long silence, filled with static and crackles.
‘You’re saying this is my last option.’
‘In light of what’s gone before,’ said Mr Thring carefully, ‘I think it’s your only option.’
This was a decision I’d resisted making. But what else could I do if I wanted to protect the book? Assert my rights?
‘Why don’t I leave you to think about it?’ Mr Thring was always eager to end our conversations.
‘I don’t need to. Not anymore.’ I straightened my spine, Boudicca about to go into battle.
‘This film has bedevilled my life for three years. I ask that you waste not a moment more but contact the Society’s lawyers and tell them this: I want every single extant copy of Nosferatu – both the positive prints and the negatives – destroyed. Immediately.’
‘You’re sure.’
Was I?
‘I am.’