Page 27 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

George leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, ‘The play’s a flop.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

The play wasn’t a flop. It was a huge success with at least four curtain calls (not counting the times Mr Irving appeared before the curtains at the end of every single act). He was a marvellous Hamlet. Likewise, Ellen Terry was a magnificent Ophelia. I was enthralled not just by the performances and the music, but the way the actors breathed life into the words. I felt Hamlet’s rage at his uncle and mother burrow into my soul, I flinched when the sword entered Polonius, and I wept for Ophelia’s mute grief and Hamlet’s tortured soul.

After the play finished and the thrilled audience made their chittering, shuffling way to the exits, Bram had an usher bring George and me backstage to join him. He was in Mr Irving’s dressing room, which was crowded with those wanting to congratulate the man – not just on the theatre but his performance. Forced to wait in the corridor, listening to the rise and fall of voices, the shrill laughter, the deep guffawing, I could see Bram nodding and smiling, shaking hands.

Mrs Terry appeared briefly in a flurry of perfume and feathers, a sea of salutations inundating her. She saw me standing back and beckoned me forward with a warm smile.

‘Ah, Mrs Stoker, how lovely to see you again. Did you enjoy the play?’

I took her outstretched hands in mine. ‘I did, Mrs Terry. I did. You were simply remarkable as Ophelia. So convincing, I’m surprised to see you alive and dry.’

She laughed wickedly, a deep gurgle that drew one from me as well.

‘An actress is only as good as her leading man —’ She gestured towards Mr Irving’s dressing room. ‘And I’m blessed to have the best.’

‘I think the blessing goes both ways, Mrs Terry,’ I said, and meant it.

Much to my surprise, she kissed my cheek. Her breath was warm, and she smelled of happiness and grease paint. The hair against my nape tingled.

‘Lovely in every way, aren’t you,’ she said softly, and only then released my hands. It took some restraint not to press one to my breast. ‘How are you settling into London? Bram boasts about what you’ve done to the flat in Southampton Street.’

‘You must come and see it,’ I said impulsively.

‘I will,’ she said, and before I could add anything else, or introduce her to George, who was clearing his throat and doing all in his power to attract my attention, she was led away by a short man with a pronounced limp and a booming voice.

‘The finest Ophelia ever to grace London,’ he declared, waving his hat about.

Oddly, I was almost shy when Mr Irving’s dressing room finally cleared and George and I could enter. George strode straight over to Bram, who was sorting through a battalion of cards – invitations mostly – piled on Mr Irving’s dresser. He slapped his brother on the back, then shook Mr Irving’s hand. I remained near the door.

Sat before the dressing table, surrounded by the subdued glow of lanterns, Mr Irving was wrapped in a shiny green robe and still wore his stage makeup. The air was ripe with tobacco, violets and sweat.

It’s one thing to feel indignant if not downright angry towards someone in their absence, it’s quite another to find yourself face to face with that person, especially when reluctant admiration is added to your otherwise ambivalent feelings.

‘Ah, Mrs Stoker,’ said Mr Irving, spying me in the mirror and motioning me closer. Bram nodded encouragingly, dropping a kiss on my cheek, before returning his attention to the invitations and cards. He tilted his head towards George who was muttering away. ‘I trust you enjoyed tonight’s performance?’

I stood behind Mr Irving. The top of his head came almost to my chin. ‘I thought it was splendid,’ I said. ‘I was just saying as much to Mrs Terry.’

He swiped a large cloth across his cheek, starting to remove the thick greasepaint. It was a strange sight, watching the Prince of Denmark smeared across both fabric and face, a co-mingling of man and character. His eyes locked on mine, waiting for me to say more. The silence grew heavy between us. George’s voice was a background drone.

‘I thought you were superb,’ I admitted.

Mr Irving gave an enormous toothy grin. He put down the cloth, now striped vermillion, charcoal and chestnut, and spun around, giving me his full attention. ‘How very kind of you to say so, Mrs Stoker.’

I was about to add more when he continued.

‘Did you know, it’s Hamlet that brought me and your husband together?’

‘Oh?’ I glanced at Bram, who remained unaware of the conversation beside him.

‘Bram saw me play the prince in Dublin – would have been over two years ago, well before he met you.’ Mr Irving stuck a finger in his ear and wriggled it a few times. ‘He was so enamoured of me, my performance, I mean —’ he chuckled, examined his finger then wiped it on the cloth, ‘that he wrote a stellar review —’

I didn’t admit I’d read it, nor that I’d found it bordered on obsequiousness. We’d made fun of it at home.

‘Well, I had to meet the man who clearly understood and appreciated my talent, the artistry involved.’ He gave a flourish.

I followed the arc of his hand, taking in the costume rack with its gilded jackets, dun-coloured robes, hats, furs, boots, various weapons, and jewels, the lanterns catching every surface, creating a landscape of shadows and glimmering light. The pots of face paint, brushes, powders, bottles of scent, nestled like a small village on a wasteland of fabric and wood. Piles of paper sat yellowing on a chair. A thick coat was draped across another. A chaise lounge against a wall was buried under swatches of glittering materials. Bram said that Henry’s goal was to bring real repute to the theatre, to have it upheld as serious art and its practitioners as bona fide artistes. Hence the fortune spent on sets, costumes and props. The jewels sparkling in the crowns that dangled from the hatstand near the door weren’t paste. Likewise, the kingly robes that hung on the rack were lined with real ermine, the gold and silver cups the Danish royal household drank from on stage were the genuine article. All that glisters in Henry Irving’s world was gold.