Dracula: The Un-Dead. Ian Holt
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that agreement was made under duress. I had saved no money. He paid off that theatre manager to fire me on the spot and toss me out into the street. It was either accept Father’s agreement or be homeless and starve.”
“I intervened on your behalf. I gave my word. Your father wanted you to go to Cambridge, and I, with the promise that you would graduate and take the bar, convinced him to allow you to go to Paris—”
“So I could at least be around the art world, I know,” he interrupted. “I would have been better off in Cambridge. Do you have any idea what it’s like to want something so badly, to see it all around you every day, and know that it is forbidden fruit? It’s enough to drive one mad.”
“I understand how you feel more than you know, but none of that changes the fact that you promised to finish your degree. A promise is a promise.”
“If I am as talented as Basarab believes I am,” Quincey proclaimed, “I will be hired for this apprenticeship. Then I will have my own means and the old fool can go to hell.”
Mina leapt forward and slapped Quincey across his cheek. It was a shock to both of them. Never before had either of his parents raised a hand to him.
“Quincey Arthur John Abraham Harker!” Mina did her best to control her raging emotions. “Jonathan is still your father and he loves you very much.”
“Then why does he not show it?”
“You are still too young and naïve to understand, but he shows it every day. I know his true heart, and there is purpose in all he does. There is more at stake here than your selfish desires. I cannot give you my blessing on this, Quincey. You must trust us that we know what’s best for you.”
Quincey was brokenhearted. He and his mother had always been close. She was the one who would listen to his hopes and dreams and encourage him. Now she was trying to stifle those same dreams, just as his father had. It would seem that some things had indeed changed here, after all. He had always known that his parents had many secrets that they chose not to share with him. Whatever they were, it no longer mattered. “Ego sum qui sum. ’I am what I am,’ and it’s time for me to be.”
Tears welled in Mina’s eyes, her face distorted with what Quincey could see only as irrational fear. She implored her son one last time, “Please, Quincey, do not do this.”
The clock rang eleven. He coldly said, “I have a train to catch. I’ll be taking lodgings in London. I shan’t trouble you any further.”
Not wanting to look her in the eye, Quincey turned and, for the first time in his life, left without kissing his mother good-bye.
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