Читать книгу Dracula: The Un-Dead - Ian Holt, Dacre Stoker - Страница 17

The tall figure of Count Dracula, wearing a well-worn dinner jacket and a black cape lined with red, filled the dusty English drawing room menacingly. His dark eyes stared out from under a furrowed brow. This grim expression slowly gave place to an ominous smile as he asked with a thick continental accent, “Would you repeat what you just said, professor?”

The older man sighed. “I said, ’Count, do you wish to know what I prescribed for our ailing Miss Westenra?’”

“Anything you do concerning my dear Lucy is of the utmost interest to me, professor.”

Professor Van Helsing produced a massive wooden cross and spun to face the Count. Dracula hissed and recoiled, snapping his cape. Stepping on a corner of it, he tripped into the furniture, knocking over a lamp table. An explosion of smoke startled both men.

The count coughed uncontrollably. “Now that you…you and that solicitor…Jonathan Harker…have learned what you think it is…you have learned, Professor Van…Helstock…”

Van Helsing rolled his eyes.

Count Dracula continued, “It is time for you to depart these shores for…” He was at a momentary loss for words. “…the land of your little wooden shoes.”

“The name is Van Helsing!” the other man shouted. “And could you be referring to my home of Holland, you idiot?”

“You insolent little fly speck!” Count Dracula screamed back, without any trace of an accent. “Do you have any idea of the awe-inspiring talent that stands before you?”

“All I see before me is a talentless drunkard who can’t remember his bloody lines.”

Outraged, Count Dracula turned toward the lights. “Stoker! Fire this arse immediately!”

Van Helsing grabbed Dracula’s cape and pulled it over his head. Dracula, in turn, caught hold of Van Helsing’s collar. The men struggled until the count was plagued by a second coughing fit.

“I’ve swallowed a goddamn fang!” he bellowed. He tore himself away from the cape and struck Van Helsing with a right hook. Van Helsing’s nose exploded in a spray of blood.

In a blind rage, Van Helsing lowered his head and charged at Count Dracula.

“Keep away, you fool! You’re getting blood all over my jacket!”

At the back of the opulent, Greek-inspired Lyceum Theatre, Quincey Harker shook his head. So this was the great actor John Barrymore from America, stumbling about the stage in a cheap magician’s cape. He even expected more decorum from Tom Reynolds, the man playing Van Helsing, whom Quincey had once seen in Madame Sans-Gêne as Vinaigre. Now in a tremendous amount of pain, Mr. Reynolds had forgotten about respect for his fellow actor and was wildly trading blows with the staggering Barrymore.

It was a most unbecoming sight to behold. The theatre was not a boxing ring. There were very specific rules of decorum to be followed. To see actors behaving in such an uncouth manner gave truth to every negative opinion that the general public held about them. Even so, Quincey knew he had made the right choice in following Basarab’s advice. Basarab was elegant and professional—just what Quincey wanted to be. But the sight of the sad circus on the stage was not the only thing that bothered Quincey.

Bram Stoker, a husky old Irishman with graying reddish hair and a beard, sat in the front row. He pounded his cane onto the floor, shouting, “Gentlemen! You are professionals!”

The younger man sitting beside him jumped up onto the stage to break up the fight, crying out, “Stop now! You are behaving like children!”

“He started it!” Reynolds snorted, bloodied hands cupped under his nose.

Barrymore tried to steady himself. “Mr. Stoker, I will not tolerate insubordination from such an inconsequential jackass! I demand he be dismissed immediately.”

“Mr. Barrymore, please be reasonable.”

“Reason? This is a point of honor.”

“Let us not forget that I am the one who is producing this play,” Hamilton Deane interjected. “I say who is to be fired and who is not. To recast would be an unnecessary expense. Mr. Reynolds stays.”

“Then, Mr. Hamilton Deane, producer of garbage—you have lost your star!”

And with that, Barrymore marched off the stage.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Stoker rose. “I brought you here from America out of my high regard for your father, God rest his tortured soul. He made his theatrical debut on this very stage. Stop treating this play as one of your silly comedies. You have the potential to be a great dramatic actor here in London. Even greater than Henry Irving, but at least he ruined himself with the evils of alcohol after his fame was secured. You’re well on your way to destroying yourself before the public has the chance to see your full potential.”

“Are you going to fire this dolt or not?”

“I most certainly will not. Mr. Reynolds has been a loyal member of the Lyceum Company for over thirty years.”

“Then I’m on the first tub back to America,” Barrymore said. He turned and stumbled up the aisle.

“Mr. Barrymore, think of what you’re doing,” Stoker called after him. “You left New York because no one there would hire a drunken lead actor.”

John Barrymore paused, swayed a little, turned back toward Stoker, and said, “You think yours is the only offer presented to a man of my talents? I’m going to California. I’ve been offered a role in a moving picture. Mark my words; you will regret this moment for the rest of your life.”

Quincey had seen some of those motion pictures at the flicker house in Paris. It was cheap entertainment: He found it exceedingly odd that a serious actor would put any stock in it. Since there was no sound, performers had to overact to convey their intent.

On his way out the door, Barrymore crashed into Quincey. “Watch where you’re going, boy,” he slurred.

“Mr. Barrymore, I beg your pardon.”

The theatre door slammed. With that, the great John Barrymore was gone. Quincey stood there, dumbfounded.

Deane and Stoker stared at him.

“Who the devil are you?” Deane demanded. “This is a private rehearsal.”

“I’m sorry I’m early, but I have an appointment with a Mr. Hamilton Deane,” Quincey said.

“Oh, yes. You’re the chap applying for apprenticeship. What is your name?”

“Quincey Harker.”

Stoker reacted as if he had swallowed a fly.

“Did I hear correctly?” Quincey continued. “Is one of the characters in your play a solicitor named Jonathan Harker?”

“Yes. What of it?” Stoker thundered.

“My father’s name is Jonathan Harker…and he’s a solicitor.”

A few minutes later, Stoker, Deane, and Quincey were crammed into Stoker’s tiny office. Framed posters from Henry Irving’s reign at the Lyceum Theatre lined the wall. Stoker looked concerned as Deane handed Quincey a book with a bright yellow cover and red type:

DRACULA by Bram Stoker

“A character in a novel. My father never even told me,” Quincey said, flipping through the pages. At last he held in his hands proof of his father’s hypocrisy toward the arts. How fascinating. There were so many questions racing through Quincey’s mind. And yet…Quincey bit his tongue. He did not want to start off on the wrong foot and show the same lack of respect for the theatrical rules of decorum as Barrymore. A lowly theatre apprentice never questions the producer or director of a play, not if he wishes to keep his job…and Quincey wasn’t even hired yet.

Stoker snatched the book from Quincey. “This is ridiculous!” he barked. “I based the name on Joseph Harker, a scenic designer we had working for us in the eighties. Any connection with your father is mere coincidence.”

“A rather large one, wouldn’t you say, Bram?” Deane said.

“Dracula is my novel, and completely fictitious.”

“No one has said otherwise,” Deane said. “Though I seem to recall that you insisted upon staging a reading of it in order to prove your copyright. I still don’t understand why.”

“The only thing you need to understand is the copyright is entirely mine,” Stoker snarled, who then turned his wrath upon Quincey. “I’m sorry, young man, but the Lyceum has no need for an apprentice at this time. Thank you.”

“But, Mr. Stoker…”

Stoker turned to leave. Deane placed his hand on his arm and whispered, “Bram, we’re behind schedule. Any assistance to this production would be very beneficial. We’re over budget and understaffed as it is. And furthermore, we’ve lost our lead actor.”

Quincey leapt up as an idea struck him. “Perhaps I can be of assistance with your dilemma.” The two men looked at Quincey. This was his moment. “What if I could produce for you the greatest actor of our age? A man about whom the reviewers have said, ’When he performs Shakespeare, it’s almost as if he actually lived the role, walked in the blood, fought in the battles.’”

“You’re talking about Basarab,” Deane said.

“He’s a personal friend. And I’m sure his name on the boards would increase your box office potential, justifying any further expenditure you might incur.”

Deane raised his eyebrow, contemplating the idea.

Stoker pounded the floor with his cane. “John Barrymore is the star of this play. He’ll be back.” He marched out of the office, grumbling, “Those motion pictures will never amount to anything.”

When Stoker was out of earshot, Deane said, “What Mr. Stoker forgets is, it will be three weeks of traveling before Mr. Barrymore even reaches California. Even if he discovers he has made a terrible mistake and comes back to us hat in hand, we’ll be bankrupt by then.”

“Basarab is only a day away in Paris. To me, your choice is clear.”

Deane searched Quincey’s eyes for an uncomfortable moment. “Are you a man of your word, Mr. Harker? A man to be trusted?”

“I most certainly am, Mr. Deane.”

“Good. Then perhaps you should join me for dinner,” Deane said. “I think we have much to discuss.”