Chapter Fifty-Four
It was a Monday when I first met Mr Hamilton Deane. He came to my flat just past ten of the clock. Mr Bang had arrived earlier, and we’d swiftly gone over the kind of questions I should ask. Phillippa took Moonbeam for a walk, promising to stay away for a good couple of hours.
It was one of those spring mornings that announce nature’s rebirth with a burst of colour, comforting warmth and a delightful breeze.
Well, it would have been delightful had it not carried the odours of the streets.
The sun was shining, birds were twittering and the cheery voices of neighbours drifting in the window lifted my heart. Why, even Vera, my maid, was singing.
Mr Bang was most congenial, and we agreed about everything – except my intention to have a say in the production, should it proceed.
Mr Bang was of the mind that we should hear what Mr Deane had to say before I put in my tuppence worth lest I risk the opportunity.
I disagreed. It was against this setting that Mr Deane made his entrance.
There was something about Hamilton Deane that, despite my determination to keep him at arm’s length and act like the consummate businesswoman, I warmed to immediately.
It wasn’t only that he grew up in my old neighbourhood of Clontarf, or that his mother knew Bram many years ago, or that he possessed the roguish charm of so many of my former countrymen.
It was quite simply that he reminded me of Oscar.
There wasn’t a physical resemblance, not really, apart from the high forehead and the expressive mouth.
It was more his style, the hand gestures, the confident walk.
The way he gave such a formal yet enchanting bow over my extended hand before collapsing with fluid grace into the armchair near the window.
I made a conscious effort not to touch my hair, my skirts. Not to stare as, barely drawing breath, he excitedly told me how much he admired Bram’s work, the drama of it, the way he was able to create worlds, evoke such deep emotions with words.
My heart swelled. I couldn’t recall the last time someone spoke so generously about Bram’s writing.
‘You’ve read all his books then?’
Vera chose that moment to enter with a tray containing tea and slices of Battenburg.
‘All? Erm … why, yes. I mean, I’m not certain. I’m referring of course to Dracula.’
I inwardly groaned. ‘I see.’ Frost framed my next words. ‘Dracula was not the only book Bram wrote. In fact, he wrote a total of eighteen.’
Mr Deane took the teacup from Vera. ‘Eighteen! I … I’d no idea he’d written so many. I will amend my oversight immediately. I’m afraid all my spare time has been devoted to the one I’m here to talk to you about.’
‘You disappoint me, Mr Deane. You can hardly declare yourself an aficionado of my husband’s work if you’ve only read one of his books.’
Mr Bang choked on his beverage. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
‘Oh, but, Mrs Stoker,’ continued Mr Deane, smiling in a disarming way, ‘I am an aficionado of Dracula. I’ve read it so many times, I defy anyone to claim they know it better.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him that there would be at least one other person, but he was dead.
Mr Bang discreetly coughed into his napkin.
Mr Deane then proceeded to prove how well he knew Dracula by taking us through the book blow by blow.
When he began to recount Renfield’s predilection for rats, I put a stop to it.
Nevertheless, I felt guilty that, unlike this stranger, I was not as well acquainted with the tale.
With my eyesight so poor, I doubt I could manage a whole book anymore.
I determined to ask Phillippa to read it to me.
Mr Deane placed his cup and saucer on the table. The china clinked repeatedly. Why, the poor man was shaking.
My frost began to melt.
‘So, Mr Deane,’ I said. ‘Let us get to the heart of the matter. The reason you’re here. I understand you wish to turn my husband’s novel into a play.’
Mr Deane’s shoulders lifted; his spine straightened.
‘I do, Mrs Stoker. I do. I’m an actor-manager who fancies himself a novice writer.
’ He grinned. ‘For my sins, I’ve a small troupe that performs under the name the Hamilton Deane Company.
We tour the provinces mainly. Dracula would, I’m afraid, have its premiere and initial run there. ’
It was hard not to express relief.
‘Though, naturally,’ he continued, ‘I’m hoping that the big cities will call —’
‘Naturally,’ I said.
‘And I’m of the conviction that if any play can turn around the fortunes of my little company, it’s Dracula.’ He hesitated, flashed a grin at first me, then Mr Bang. ‘As I envisage it.’
I tried not to pull a face. This novice had lofty ambitions.
I still remembered the only time Dracula had been in a theatre – the copyright reading at the Lyceum.
The last thing I wanted was a production replicating that effort.
‘You’ve just spent the last twenty minutes expressing your admiration for the novel, Mr Deane, yet you would change it. In what way?’
Mr Deane cleared his throat. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Mrs Stoker, a play is a very different beast to a novel.
Cuts are required. Reorganisation. A fresh vision, if you like.
’ He inched forward and lowered his voice, as if he was about to share a confidence.
‘If I may be so bold, I’ve already taken the liberty of commencing a draft.
’ He nodded, smiling, like a child seeking approval.
Mr Bang’s considerable eyebrows travelled up his forehead and he opened his mouth.
‘Have you now?’ I said before Mr Bang could interject.
Mr Deane’s smile fled as he became aware of the miasma of displeasure filling the room.
He held up his palms. ‘I’ve no intention of taking it further, not without your consent.
I’m aware there have been … issues … A foreign company taking liberties with copyright and such.
I wouldn’t dream of doing anything so unethical. Why, that’s theft.’
‘It certainly is,’ piped up Mr Bang, taking a cautious sip of his tea. ‘And that attracts penalties, you understand.’
‘Oh, I do. I do. But unlike those German filmmakers,’ said Mr Deane, nonplussed, ‘I intend to not only pay you for the privilege of adapting the novel but remain true to the original.’ He reached for the satchel he’d brought with him and pulled out a very worn journal.
There were crumpled pages sticking out, notes and other pieces of paper crammed within the leather covers.
‘I bought two copies of Dracula and cut out every piece of dialogue and pieced it together. See? I removed all the descriptive passages so I might hear the characters speak.’
He opened the journal at a random page and carefully held it out for me and Mr Bang to study.
He wasn’t exaggerating. Even though it was a bit of a blur, I could make out ribbons of printed paper. They were glued one above the other. He flicked the pages to reveal more of the same.
‘Mrs Stoker, Mr Bang,’ he continued, ‘if I may say so, Mr Stoker had an ear for dialogue, and I want to use as much of it as possible. But I can’t proceed any further without a binding contract.’ He shut the book and Bram’s characters ceased to talk.
‘I’m relieved to hear that, Mr Deane,’ I said as calmly as I could.
It was quite unsettling seeing Bram’s work carved into pieces like that.
I put my empty teacup beside Mr Deane’s and was pleased to note my hands at least were steady, even if my stomach was not.
‘Dialogue aside, why don’t you tell me exactly how you envisage a theatrical production of Dracula.
After all, the book is vast in scope, moving from somewhere in Europe, to London, Whitby, and other locations.
I can’t imagine it being easy to adapt, let alone stage. ’
‘In that, you’re absolutely right, Mrs Stoker.’ First putting the journal back in his satchel, Mr Deane wiped his hands down his trousers, inhaled deeply and leapt to his feet. The movement was so unexpected, Mr Bang and I startled.
Poised before my chair, he towered over me.
‘Imagine this, if you will.’ He flung out his arms. His voice was deep, husky and beguiling.
‘A darkened auditorium, lit only by a few tremulous candles. A large, arched window at the rear through which the tenebrous sky can just be discerned. Slowly, the lights brighten to reveal a large room, lined with books, some comfortable leather chairs, a desk and table. In this room are three men and a woman, all of whom are grieving the mysterious death of a beloved friend …’
For the next few minutes, Mr Deane gave what I suspect was the performance of his life. What he described was an abridged version of Bram’s novel, which not only removed many of the settings and characters but had most of the action taking place in one room in a house in London.
As he spoke and glided about with leonine grace, the day grew dim, the sunshine weaker.
His onyx silhouette followed the walls, climbing across the mantelpiece, the sideboard, swallowing the silverware, the books, the flowers in their vases.
It grew and diminished, reaching, yearning, camouflaging Mr Bang’s features, casting mine into temporary shade as the tale of Count Dracula and the Crew of Light was told anew.
The mouth I’d thought mobile and generous became thin, cruel, a hollow space from which I expected elongated teeth to protrude.
Gone were Mr Deane’s kind eyes, replaced by fearsome, all-seeing bloodshot orbs.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Neither could Mr Bang.
Once again, Bram’s vampire had entered my home. I’d invited him in.
I wasn’t aware Mr Deane had finished until the thrumming in my ears alerted me. How long I’d sat there without speaking, one hand pressed to my breast, I’m uncertain.