Chapter Twelve
The play wasn’t a flop. It was a huge success with at least four curtain calls (not counting the times Mr Irving appeared before the curtains at the end of every single act).
He was a marvellous Hamlet. Likewise, Ellen Terry was a magnificent Ophelia.
I was enthralled not just by the performances and the music, but the way the actors breathed life into the words.
I felt Hamlet’s rage at his uncle and mother burrow into my soul, I flinched when the sword entered Polonius, and I wept for Ophelia’s mute grief and Hamlet’s tortured soul.
After the play finished and the thrilled audience made their chittering, shuffling way to the exits, Bram had an usher bring George and me backstage to join him.
He was in Mr Irving’s dressing room, which was crowded with those wanting to congratulate the man – not just on the theatre but his performance.
Forced to wait in the corridor, listening to the rise and fall of voices, the shrill laughter, the deep guffawing, I could see Bram nodding and smiling, shaking hands.
Mrs Terry appeared briefly in a flurry of perfume and feathers, a sea of salutations inundating her. She saw me standing back and beckoned me forward with a warm smile.
‘Ah, Mrs Stoker, how lovely to see you again. Did you enjoy the play?’
I took her outstretched hands in mine. ‘I did, Mrs Terry. I did. You were simply remarkable as Ophelia. So convincing, I’m surprised to see you alive and dry.’
She laughed wickedly, a deep gurgle that drew one from me as well.
‘An actress is only as good as her leading man —’ She gestured towards Mr Irving’s dressing room. ‘And I’m blessed to have the best.’
‘I think the blessing goes both ways, Mrs Terry,’ I said, and meant it.
Much to my surprise, she kissed my cheek. Her breath was warm, and she smelled of happiness and grease paint. The hair against my nape tingled.
‘Lovely in every way, aren’t you,’ she said softly, and only then released my hands. It took some restraint not to press one to my breast. ‘How are you settling into London? Bram boasts about what you’ve done to the flat in Southampton Street.’
‘You must come and see it,’ I said impulsively.
‘I will,’ she said, and before I could add anything else, or introduce her to George, who was clearing his throat and doing all in his power to attract my attention, she was led away by a short man with a pronounced limp and a booming voice.
‘The finest Ophelia ever to grace London,’ he declared, waving his hat about.
Oddly, I was almost shy when Mr Irving’s dressing room finally cleared and George and I could enter.
George strode straight over to Bram, who was sorting through a battalion of cards – invitations mostly – piled on Mr Irving’s dresser.
He slapped his brother on the back, then shook Mr Irving’s hand. I remained near the door.
Sat before the dressing table, surrounded by the subdued glow of lanterns, Mr Irving was wrapped in a shiny green robe and still wore his stage makeup. The air was ripe with tobacco, violets and sweat.
It’s one thing to feel indignant if not downright angry towards someone in their absence, it’s quite another to find yourself face to face with that person, especially when reluctant admiration is added to your otherwise ambivalent feelings.
‘Ah, Mrs Stoker,’ said Mr Irving, spying me in the mirror and motioning me closer.
Bram nodded encouragingly, dropping a kiss on my cheek, before returning his attention to the invitations and cards.
He tilted his head towards George who was muttering away.
‘I trust you enjoyed tonight’s performance? ’
I stood behind Mr Irving. The top of his head came almost to my chin. ‘I thought it was splendid,’ I said. ‘I was just saying as much to Mrs Terry.’
He swiped a large cloth across his cheek, starting to remove the thick greasepaint.
It was a strange sight, watching the Prince of Denmark smeared across both fabric and face, a co-mingling of man and character.
His eyes locked on mine, waiting for me to say more.
The silence grew heavy between us. George’s voice was a background drone.
‘I thought you were superb,’ I admitted.
Mr Irving gave an enormous toothy grin. He put down the cloth, now striped vermillion, charcoal and chestnut, and spun around, giving me his full attention. ‘How very kind of you to say so, Mrs Stoker.’
I was about to add more when he continued.
‘Did you know, it’s Hamlet that brought me and your husband together?’
‘Oh?’ I glanced at Bram, who remained unaware of the conversation beside him.
‘Bram saw me play the prince in Dublin – would have been over two years ago, well before he met you.’ Mr Irving stuck a finger in his ear and wriggled it a few times.
‘He was so enamoured of me, my performance, I mean —’ he chuckled, examined his finger then wiped it on the cloth, ‘that he wrote a stellar review —’
I didn’t admit I’d read it, nor that I’d found it bordered on obsequiousness. We’d made fun of it at home.
‘Well, I had to meet the man who clearly understood and appreciated my talent, the artistry involved.’ He gave a flourish.
I followed the arc of his hand, taking in the costume rack with its gilded jackets, dun-coloured robes, hats, furs, boots, various weapons, and jewels, the lanterns catching every surface, creating a landscape of shadows and glimmering light.
The pots of face paint, brushes, powders, bottles of scent, nestled like a small village on a wasteland of fabric and wood.
Piles of paper sat yellowing on a chair.
A thick coat was draped across another. A chaise lounge against a wall was buried under swatches of glittering materials.
Bram said that Henry’s goal was to bring real repute to the theatre, to have it upheld as serious art and its practitioners as bona fide artistes.
Hence the fortune spent on sets, costumes and props.
The jewels sparkling in the crowns that dangled from the hatstand near the door weren’t paste.
Likewise, the kingly robes that hung on the rack were lined with real ermine, the gold and silver cups the Danish royal household drank from on stage were the genuine article.
All that glisters in Henry Irving’s world was gold.
‘We’ve been inseparable ever since, really,’ he said, flashing a smile at Bram. ‘Haven’t we, Brammie?’
Brammie?
‘’Tis true,’ admitted Bram, beaming fondly at the man.
How he could listen to both George and Mr Irving simultaneously might have been something to admire if he’d shown the same faculty at home.
‘I’ve said it before, and in print, your Hamlet was unparalleled.
Still is. But it was your recitation of the poem “Eugene Aram” that I’ll never forget. ’
Mr Irving nodded solemnly. ‘Nor I, dear fellow. Nor I.’ He turned back to the mirror, plunged the cloth into a washbasin and wrung it out before applying it to his face again.
I’d heard something of this recital from others – how Bram had become all but hysterical after Mr Irving finished and committed himself to the actor’s cause that very night.
How had Bram explained it to me when we were courting?
‘Soul looked into soul.’ The description had rattled me, and still did.
From the sly gleam in Mr Irving’s eye, he was making sure I was reminded of Bram’s pledge to him, a pledge akin to a marriage vow.
‘Shall we leave Mr Irving to his toilette, Bram?’ I asked.
There was a beat. Bram stared at me blankly.
‘It’s late,’ I added. ‘Let us go home, dear.’ I was looking forward to discussing the play, hearing any gossip, too.
I also wanted to tell him that I’d met the wonderful librettist, William Gilbert, and his wife Lucy.
Seated next to George, they’d introduced themselves during interval.
Before I could change my mind, I’d invited them for afternoon tea at the flat.
‘Home?’ His expression would have been comical had he not been so obviously thwarted. ‘I’m afraid I’ve agreed to supper at the Garrick with George and Henry …’
Perhaps realising his mistake, Bram swiftly dissembled. ‘Of course. I’ll take you home, Florrie. I’ll join you gentlemen at the club later.’
‘Make sure you do. The adoring crowds are expecting us,’ said Mr Irving, trying to disguise his smirk. ‘All of us.’
‘Not all,’ I corrected with a syrup-smile.
I was about to take my leave when Mr Irving twisted about on his stool again.
‘Brammie tells me you’ve an interest in treading the boards, Mrs Stoker.’
Just as anger propelled me towards the door, hope, followed by suspicion, gave me pause. I slowly spun about. What was Mr Irving up to?
‘Someone once suggested I might consider it —’ I didn’t admit it was Oscar and his friend Frank Miles, the artist. They’d spent time with the actress Lillie Langtry in London.
Seeking to flatter me, they told me that my looks meant I was also destined for the stage.
I’d told Bram what was said, but not the source.
‘I think we might be able to accommodate you,’ said Mr Irving, his eyes raking me top to toe.
Despite my wariness, and the fact I’d never seriously contemplated acting, dreams took flight. The rack of costumes beckoned, the pastes and unguents, the dazzle of rubies and diamonds. The orchestra struck up another tune in my head. Applause drowned me.
‘Mention it to Harry, will you, Brammie?’ said Mr Irving with a sharp gesture. ‘As soon as a suitable play is being cast, we’ll arrange a part for your wife.’
My heart thundered. I could scarce believe what I was hearing.
‘It won’t matter if she lacks talent,’ continued Mr Irving, captivated by his reflection again. ‘She’ll give the patrons something lovely to look at. She’s quite a vision, the Wife.’ He gave a dark chuckle.
Before I could summon a suitable retort, Bram grabbed my wrist and rushed me from the room.