Stoker shows them the lobby and the ticket office first, and then takes them back to the hallway under the stage. He suggests that the “young ladies” go first, but Tiger demurs, saying she is frightened and wants to be near Jonathan, and Lucy says the same about Edgar. So Stoker takes the lead. Halfway along, deep in the theater at the darkest point in the hall, he stops and turns to them.
“I have a confession to make.” He pauses. “I am not what I seem.”
Jonathan, who is in front of his friends, makes himself large in the tight space and puts his hand into his pocket to find his pistol. Lear, who is wearing his greatcoat, has his huge knife concealed inside it. Tiger has stolen two small carving knives from the Langham’s restaurant and given one to Edgar: hers is in her purse, his up a sleeve. They all bear crucifixes on little chains around their necks, hidden under their clothing. Tonight—if they make it that far—the girls will be sure theirs can be seen, displayed on their chests.
“What are you then, sir?” asks Jonathan.
“I have powers,” says Stoker. No one responds. His left hand moves toward his coat pocket. “I am not merely the manager.” He pulls something out. Tiger quietly unsnaps her purse and puts her hand inside. “I have the run of the place.” Stoker jingles what is in his hands, and it’s hard to make out in the dimly lit corridor, but when he holds it higher, they can see it is a ring of keys. “Follow me,” he says.
They ascend the stone stairs again, pass the wing to the stage and move by the staircase that leads up to the Beefsteak Room. Then they descend a few steps and turn down another hallway, this one wider and wood paneled. They pass more doors, going deeper into the basement of the theater.
“These are the dressing rooms of the lesser lights, but here,” he pauses and mentions an actor who often plays opposite Irving, “is one that might interest you.” He unlocks the door, flips on an electric light and ushers them inside. It is small but cozy, smells of greasepaint and has a desk with a chair and mirror, lit up with lamps. There’s makeup in canisters and a rack of costumes along a wall. Among them is Faust’s clothing.
“Won’t he mind?” asks Lucy.
“It is my choice to show you,” says Stoker, “and he will not dare confront me.” There is a hint of anger in his voice, a dictator’s tone they haven’t heard before. But then he smiles. “Shall I leave you alone in here for a while?” he asks and begins to close the door on them, but Lear puts his big arm against it. They slip quickly back into the hall.
“One more,” says their guide. There is a long gap before they reach the next door. Stoker is about to use his key when he sees a line of light along the crack at the floor. “Ah, the great artist is in.” He knocks. There is silence but the door opens on its own. It hadn’t seemed that anyone had approached. In the entrance is Ellen Terry. Lucy and Tiger gasp.
“Uncle Bram!” Miss Terry exclaims and smiles at them all, her mouth large and sensual on a flawless face glowing without a stroke of makeup, her gray eyes bright with spirit. Her shining hair is tossed about on her head, not yet attended to but somehow perfect. She is fifty years old and ageless, as beautiful as the day she made her debut. The greatest actress in the world stands before them.
“Miss Terry, I thought I might acquaint you with some friends, readers of my novel.”
“Oh! I have begun it, though I don’t know if I can go on!”
Stoker grins and introduces his guests. The young ladies offer slight curtsies and the men actually lower their heads. Lear is speechless and extends a shaking hand, which the great lady takes gently and squeezes. She gives him a flirty look. Edgar wonders if he should stand near the old man to keep him upright. She is wearing a red dressing gown. It is done up to her chin and they cannot see her neck.
“Why are you here so early, dear one?” asks Stoker. “This isn’t like you.”
“I thought I might see him for a few moments, but he is not seeing anyone now. So I am glad to have visitors. Won’t you come in?”
They survey the room in awe. Her mirror, the pictures of her two children and her costumes seem to sparkle. As the five visitors leave, she gives them each a flower from a vase on her desk.
In the hallway, they turn in the direction from which they have come. Lear stops. He looks the other way toward a door down the hall, a good fifty feet from them, closed and in shadows, a light coming from under it too. “Can we not …” He pauses.
“Can you not what?”
“See his room?” asks Edgar.
Stoker glares at him. “The master’s? Have you taken leave of your senses, boy?”
“No, sir, but we saw Miss Terry’s and—”
“He is NOT Miss Terry! I shall show you the stage and then we must end the tour.”
Stoker is in much better spirits when they emerge onto the stage. He takes them out through the wing near the Beefsteak Room. The theater is still dark, just a few footlights are lit, but the dim lighting creates a spooky effect. They are in the realm of the devil.
Stoker is going on about a scenery detail, his chest puffed out and proud, but Edgar can barely listen. He cannot believe where he is. The seats rise before him like a sea of possibilities—he can see thousands of mesmerized eyes, hear the rapturous applause. He notices marks on the boards. One near the edge of the stage says Mephistopheles. It’s Irving’s mark! He goes to it and stands on it. For an instant, he is Sir Henry Irving! He becomes Satan. But he shakes himself out of it. He knows he needs to be respectful and listen to Stoker, and turns back to the others. The stage tour is in full swing. Stoker writes some of Irving’s public speeches and has a way with words: he loves to hear himself speak.
“There are, of course, many special effects in our production of Faust: from the opening in heaven to the devil materializing from smoke when he comes to tempt Dr. Faust, and so on. But the ultimate moment occurs on the Brocken, the fearful German mountain top where, on Walpurgis Night, the witches and other evil ones meet and dance in a horrific display.” Stoker smiles at the thought. “In order to create such scenes, we move parts of the set on and off the stage, but some things are permanent. All of the Walpurgis Night set remains in place throughout, here at the back.”
Stoker takes them toward the rear of the stage. Upon it they see mounds of what appears to be black earth. Edgar reaches down and touches it.
“Yes, it is real,” says their host. “Sir Henry demands nothing less. And how, you might ask, did we get so much soil on stage? It is ingenious yet simple. Directly below, at the most removed part of the stage, is a deep basement with an earthen floor. We opened up the stage and, using a pulley system, raised tons of soil. When we are done, we will remove the boards again and let it fall back from whence it came!”
The huge mounds have a scattering of gravestones, a guillotine and five-foot wooden stakes for grave markers, sharpened to deadly points. Edgar remembers the Walpurgis Night scene. It was during that presentation of flying beasts and evil that he imagined he saw the beautiful young woman thrown upon the boards at the feet of Irving and the tall man.
“There isn’t a graveyard or a guillotine in Goethe’s original play, but we added them for effect.”
Edgar recalls, with a shiver, the gravediggers excavating one of the plots as Mephistopheles spun tales of depravity and temptation for Faust.
“Do they fill it back in after every show?”
“That was what you heard last night when we walked down the hallway—stagehands shoveling soil into a grave—though it may have been our ghost, as well.” Stoker grins.
Edgar approaches the guillotine. He remembers the animals’ heads being put into it during the scene, the sound of the blade falling, the blood oozing, the thunder cracking through the building, the orchestra playing frightening music. The animals seemed real and so did the blood. They had cried out as they were being taken to their deaths.
“Is this real too?” asks Edgar, reaching out for the killing machine.
“DON’T!” cries Stoker.
But it is too late. Edgar puts his hand on the guillotine, right where a victim’s head would go, and the blade is unleashed. The heavy steel shoots down in a flash.
“No!” cries Lucy.
At the last second, Edgar gets his fingers out of the way, leaving the flower Miss Terry gave him behind. The blade slices through it, sending its red petals spraying across the soil like drops of blood on black.
They all stand still.
“The …” says Stoker finally, “the mechanism is tripped by placing something in the head hole. Sir Henry insisted it be real. All the stagehands have been warned.”
Half an hour later, Bram Stoker walks alone down the hallway toward the door at the far end. He can hear Irving talking to himself again, imitating the old man with the eastern European accent. Stoker hears just snippets. “Tonight is the night,” he thinks he hears the old man say. “Yes,” replies Irving in his own voice, “tonight.”
Stoker raps on the door. There is a long silence and then it opens. Looking gaunt and strange in the full makeup of Mephistopheles, a ghoulish green tinge on his face, his lips blood red and eyebrows thick and as black as brimstone, Irving stands before him. That face, put into the red hood of the character, presents an unnerving appearance each night. He wears red tights and shoes, red from head to foot, a new color for the devil on stage.
“Yes, Stoker, what do you want? You know I do not like to be disturbed this close to a performance.”
“Might I come in?”
“For seconds.”
The room is dark, only the mirror lit. Irving likes it this way. It feels evil to him and he is summoning that feeling tonight.
Stoker eyes the painting of the Impaler again.
“What did you want?” asks Irving.
“It’s about my novel.”
“Did we not speak of it before?”
“I would like to turn it into a play.”
Irving grins. “An admirable idea, I am sure, though transforming your sort of work into a production that makes the money we demand would not be easy, you know.”
“I think this one would suffice.”
“Oh, really?” He smiles indulgently again.
“It is much different. And I would, of course, like you to play the lead role, sir.”
“Yes, I would have guessed that, dear Stoker. And what is the role?”
“Count Dracula.”
“A count? I see. Well, that in itself has possibilities. What sort of man is this chap?”
“He is not a man, sir.”
“Not a man? Then what, pray tell, is he?”
“He is a vampire.”
Irving’s green-tinged face seems to turn white.
“Nonsense!” he says. “Leave me. I must prepare!”