Chapter Seventeen #3
Bram passed the duty of toasting Mr Irving to Lord Houghton.
The noble waxed lyrical for some minutes, describing Mr Irving as the most extraordinary person who’d ever trod the earth, who’d done wonders for the dramatic arts and other pursuits, drawing laughter and cheers.
He all but eulogised him, claiming how Mr Irving’s rendition of Shylock rehabilitated a great villain.
Gilbert leaned over. ‘Does he mean the usurer or Irving?’
I snorted.
There was great applause, then everyone was invited to stand and toast Mr Irving’s health. Once we’d all resumed our seats, Bram then invited Mr Irving, who’d been lapping up the praise, to respond.
Mr Irving rose to thunderous claps, smiling and bowing, and with false modesty tried to quieten everyone.
When silence fell, he thanked Lord Houghton and, quoting from Richard II, began, ‘I count myself in nothing else so happy / As in a soul remembering my good friends.’ His arm swept the room and there were more cheers.
Gilbert groaned. ‘If this keeps on, we’ll be here until Christmas.’
The speech went for over half an hour, encompassing Mr Irving’s ambitions and his accomplishments.
Not once did he mention Bram, his stage manager Harry, or even Ellen, who’d been a wonderful Portia to his Shylock.
By then, even his most ardent devotees were growing restless.
It was all I could do to uphold Ellen’s advice and play the role of an admirer.
I resisted the temptation to respond to Gilbert’s occasional snide remarks and forced myself to listen.
Mr Irving closed by giving everyone permission to smoke within the pavilion.
As if on cue, waiters appeared with expensive cigars, distributing them to all the gentlemen and at least one lady.
Finally finished, Mr Irving stood while the diners stamped their feet, cheered and clapped. He pressed his hand to his heart, his smile wide. ‘Please, you’re all too kind.’
‘What he really means is, More, more,’ muttered Gilbert.
I gave a yelp of laughter, but fortunately, no-one heard.
Bram then invited anyone who would like to add their praise to Lord Houghton’s to speak.
Much to my astonishment, and everyone else’s, Oscar struggled to his feet.
‘As it happens,’ he began, ‘I’ve composed an ode just for the occasion.’
There was a smattering of applause, some groans too. There’d been enough speechifying for one night, surely. But this was Oscar. I couldn’t believe he’d lavish praise on someone like Mr Irving.
‘Hush, hush,’ said Mr Irving, banging his glass for quiet. ‘Let the man speak. I for one wish to hear this.’
There were cries of ‘Hear, hear’.
Aware he must deliver immediately or lose the moment, Oscar struck a pose and began to recite his work from memory.
‘I marvel not Bassanio was so bold …’
By the time he uttered the line, ‘For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold,’ only the dimmest or drunkest of those present would not have understood that this ode wasn’t for Henry Irving, but for Ellen Terry. More specifically, Ellen as Portia.
I looked over at Ellen, who was transfixed by Oscar.
Then I glanced at Mr Irving. Whenever I’ve read that someone had a face like a thundercloud, I oft wondered how they’d look.
I didn’t need to anymore. Mr Irving’s face was all booming thunderclaps and jagged lightning.
When he became aware others were looking in his direction, he smiled affectedly.
Bram was grinning, clearly enjoying Ellen being acclaimed. It was only when he looked at the Chief that his face fell.
‘Portia! Take my heart: it is thy due,’ continued Oscar, arms outstretched, facing Ellen. ‘I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.’
There was a beat when he finished, then, if not the rapturous applause that greeted Mr Irving, it was resounding nonetheless.
Using the cover of the clapping, I cried out, ‘A toast, a toast.’
Gilbert and Mr Marston joined me, calling out loudly enough to be heard. There was a scramble as everyone rose and raised their glasses towards Ellen, who blew kisses to Oscar, who returned them with a fervent grin.
‘To Ellen Terry’s Portia: all the world desires her,’ he cried.
Ellen clutched her hands to her breasts, her cheeks turning an enchanting pink.
Mr Irving’s claps were slow and measured.
His laugh was hollow, the eyes that rested on first Oscar then Ellen, empty.
I shuddered to think what he might do – not to Oscar, but Ellen.
They might be secret lovers, but I’d no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to punish her for stealing his show.
But, when they were such a theatrical team, I couldn’t fathom how.
I managed to speak to Oscar once more before the night was over. I weaved my way through those remaining, trying not to cough as the fumes of over a hundred cigars choked the stage. I found him seated with Willie and Charles Millward, the composer, and a friend of Gilbert’s.
‘Your poem to Ellen,’ I said, bending over so my words were for his ears only, ‘was beautiful and more than deserved, even on a night intended to honour one man.’
Oscar gripped my wrist, forcing me to remain. ‘A man who fails to appreciate what he has and how she illuminates him.’ He looked pointedly towards Mr Irving, before his gaze slid to Bram.
I snatched my hand away and took a step back.
‘Bram appreciates me.’
‘As much as he does Mr Irving?’
I stared at Oscar in dismay. ‘I’m his wife. Mr Irving is just his —’
‘Master,’ said Oscar.
‘You make it sound like my husband is a slave. He’s simply doing his job.’
‘Is he? I find that the things one feels absolutely certain about are never true.’
‘You’re impossible,’ I said.
‘And you are adorable.’ We locked eyes before I broke the moment and went and found Gilbert.
‘Take me home, Gilbert. I find I’m suffocating from either the smoke of cigars or the panegyrics to Mr Irving.’
‘Well, we can’t have that.’ He looped his arm through mine. ‘Come, we’ll find Bram and let him know we’re departing.’
I glanced over my shoulder. Bram was standing with Mr Irving, who had his arm draped so far over my husband, it was almost as if he was about to strangle him.
Damn Oscar, I thought, all a-flurry as I hurried Gilbert from the auditorium, aware of Oscar’s eyes upon me the entire time.
After two hundred and fifty performances of Merchant, the season finished, and we prepared to leave for our very first holiday to Southsea, near Portsmouth on the coast. The entire household was making the trip, including our maid, Emma, and the nursemaid, Elizabeth.
Matilda and George would remain in London.
The day before we left, just as I was supervising the last of the packing, I asked Bram what Mr Irving was planning to do now the season was finished.
‘He’s going on holidays.’
I was in my bedroom sorting out which hats to take.
I needed a wide-brimmed one to protect me from all the sun I just knew was going to shine.
‘Oh?’ I asked, only halflistening. I didn’t really care what he was doing, but this was all a part of my new strategy.
‘And where does the guv’na go on holidays this year?
Another cruise on the Mediterranean with the baroness? ’
When Bram didn’t immediately reply, I turned and looked at him. He’d not long returned from the theatre.
‘He’s holidaying in Southsea.’
Molten metal rushed through my body.
‘That’s rather a peculiar coincidence, isn’t it?’ I gave a brittle laugh. ‘He’s bound to run into us.’
‘Run into us? Florrie,’ said Bram, as if talking to a wayward child, ‘I told you. Henry is holidaying with us.’
I slowly put down the hat I was considering. ‘I think I’d remember if you’d told me that, Bram,’ I said, proud my voice was steady. A high-pitched whine began in my ears.
‘We’re travelling there with Henry and Ellen – by train.
She’s accompanying him. It will be the four of us.
With wee Irving and the maids, of course.
Think of the fun we’ll have.’ Refusing to meet my steady gaze, he began to stride around the room, pausing by the window and pulling back the curtains.
It was still light outside, with the lovely, bruised glow the late evening sky gets in summer.
The percussive sound of horses was faint as was the strain of a violin.
He let the curtain fall back and faced me. I hadn’t moved.
‘You’re always saying we should spend more time with each other,’ said Bram, throwing my words back at me. ‘Now we will. That calls for a celebratory drink, don’t you think?’ He rubbed his hands together, as if he’d just made the most thrilling announcement, and left the room.
I stared after him in utter disbelief before falling onto the bed, my heart so heavy it held me there.
There was no escaping the man, was there?