Chapter Fifty-Eight #2
I put down the newspaper and sat up, disturbing Moonbeam.
Was that why I was being haunted by ghastly phantasms night after night?
Conquering London theatres wasn’t enough?
If only I could break into America, ensure Dracula found a home there, in film or on stage.
Thus far, I hadn’t managed to sell the film rights anywhere.
Damn Nosferatu … As for theatre rights, well, there’d come a time when London audiences would grow weary of the count and his thirst for blood, no matter who produced the play or where.
What would I do then? How would I survive?
The thought was still preoccupying me when I finally crawled out of bed. I’d a luncheon invitation at Violet’s London residence. Lucy and Nancy would be there too. I rang the bell for Vera.
I sat before the mirror as she styled my hair, my pale blue dress with its slightly raised hemline a nod to the fashion.
Had I been younger, I would have enjoyed the dresses the girls now wore, with skirts that danced about the knees.
I did relish the feel of silk stockings, a gift from my friend Mrs Collins.
I rested my hand against the pearls at my throat.
Did they age me? Bram had bought them to mark the new century.
I was wearing them more often of late. And a lovely dragonfly brooch I’d inherited from my mother.
Then, again, I didn’t need pearls to prove I was getting on.
I’d be seventy next year. Seventy! Already, I’d been a widow for fifteen years.
Sometimes I wondered what life would have been like had Bram lived. How many more books would he have written? Would it have even mattered if all anyone cared about was Dracula? Or did he have better stories lodged away in that vivid imagination that would have delighted and tormented the masses?
As it was, I was doomed to try and eke out an existence from one, beholden to a bloodthirsty master who would wring every drop from me. Like it or not, I was Mrs Dracula.
I was still thinking about this when I returned home that afternoon to find a note awaiting. It was from a Mr Horace Liveright.
‘And who might you be?’ I pondered aloud.
I took my time reading it, first changing into something more comfortable, telling Vera to prepare a very light supper and asking her to walk Moonbeam again (I was far too tired).
I fell into my favourite chair, a cup of tea by my side and opened the latest Agatha Christie, forgetting all about the note until I woke from a light doze.
At first, I wasn’t sure where I was. The light was strange, filled with distorted shapes and hoary shadows.
The traffic hum from the nearby thoroughfare, the distant clatter from the kitchen, soon reminded me I was home.
I rubbed my eyes and searched for my glasses.
My hand landed on the neglected note. I tried to remember who it was from. A Mr Liver … spots? No. Right. Right.
I yawned, stretched and then, using my letter opener, unsealed it.
‘Live right,’ I repeated as I spied the monogrammed stationery. ‘Do you, sir?’
As I read, I sat up, the last vestiges of lethargy swept away.
I re-read the letter, then read it again, hope blooming in my chest, my mind clamouring with possibilities.
Why, this man was exactly who I’d been waiting for – the answer to my prayers.
Had I somehow summoned him through the power of my fervent wishes?
Or was it my nightly tormentor who made this happen?
Mr Liveright was an American publisher and stage producer. He’d seen the London production of Dracula no less than four times and wanted to discuss an opportunity. Would I be willing to meet with him?
My hand was shaking as I began pushing books and newspapers aside searching for paper and a pen. It was too late to meet with Mr Liveright today, but tomorrow, tomorrow was indeed another day.
‘So, you see, Mrs Stoker, if I was to take Dracula to the world, it would have to be with a new version, a different writer.’
From the moment Mr Liveright entered the drawing room, punctually at eleven o’clock, I took an instant dislike to him.
We shook hands and, after introducing him to Noel, who I’d asked to attend, as well as Mr Bang, I indicated for him to please take a seat.
Tea was poured, which he never even bothered to taste, nor did he try the delicious scones still steaming from the oven.
Noel and Mr Bang weren’t so reticent; they appreciated Vera’s baking.
A handsome man in his early forties with a high forehead and a Roman nose braced by broken capillaries that laced his cheeks as well, Mr Liveright was loud, arrogant and very forceful.
At first, he addressed all his conversation to the men.
He then provided a veritable roll call of his accomplishments as a businessman: a publisher who eschewed the general rules of censorship – ‘I’m the man who brought Freud to America’ – and a theatrical producer.
I’d never heard of any of his ventures and only learned much later that all had failed in one way or another.
When he noticed that both Noel and Mr Bang would defer to me for anything to do with Dracula, he finally deigned to include me.
Accustomed to that kind of treatment (what woman isn’t?), it gave me the opportunity to study him and conclude the reason for my instantaneous aversion: he reminded me of Henry Irving.
Worse, he reminded me of how I envisaged Dracula after reading Bram’s book.
And after seeing Nosferatu. There was an air of scandal about him.
He was … I searched for the right word …
unclean. Apart from the fact he reeked of alcohol and had clearly imbibed before arrival, he was more like a character than a real person.
As if he’d spent his entire life creating this hollow man, stuffed with boasts and others’ ideas.
He was as superficial as his words of praise, which, when it came to Dracula the novel, were cloying and hyperbolic.
I wanted to rinse my face and hands, swill my mouth. Even fetch garlic and a rosary …
‘As much as I adore it, the Hamilton Deane production,’ he continued (he’d scarce drawn breath), ‘I’m afraid, it simply wouldn’t work with our audiences.’
‘Our?’ said Noel, managing to get a word in edgeways.
‘American, of course.’
Of course. America had become the world. Nevertheless, a little frisson of excitement bolted through my chest. I rested a hand atop Moonbeam, who, sensing my discomfort in this man’s presence, had taken up a position on my lap facing him.
‘Since the play has been staged,’ said Mr Liveright, crossing his legs, ‘sales of your late husband’s novel have been growing steadily each year. Twenty thousand copies annually are not to be sneezed at.’
Noel caught my eye. Mr Bang looked impressed. The man had done his homework. Still, twenty thousand sounded good until you factored in Mr Bang’s percentage.
‘But if I were to take it to America, I would only do it with my writer.’
‘Your writer?’ I asked. ‘And who might that be?’
Mr Liveright gave me a condescending smile. ‘I doubt you’d have heard of him,’ he said. ‘He’s a fellow American but based here in London. John Balderston.’
It was my turn to preen. ‘Ah, the man who adapted Henry James’s novel The Sense of the Past for the stage. What was the play called again, Noel?’ I smiled sweetly at my son.
Noel bit back a grin. ‘Berkeley Square, Mother.’
‘That’s it. A fine production.’ I turned a wide-eyed mien to Mr Liveright. He didn’t even have the grace to appear humbled.
‘His reputation has preceded him,’ said Mr Liveright. ‘I’ve already approached him and he’s keen.’ Mr Bang began to object; I cut him short with a gesture.
‘Anyway, Mr Stoker, Mr Bang, Mrs Stoker,’ said Mr Liveright. ‘I think I’ve said enough. Basically, I’d like to purchase the theatrical rights to Dracula and take a new version of it to American audiences.’ He sat back in the chair, hands interlaced in his lap. ‘What do you say?’
What I said (after he’d left) was that I’d only agree if I didn’t have to deal with Mr Liveright ever again.
In his stead, the writer who’d adapted Henry James for the stage, Mr Balderston, carried out the negotiations, much to Mr Liveright’s consternation and, I imagine, fury at having been bested by an old woman.
Maybe there was another reason I was called Mrs Dracula: I still had bite.