Dracula: The Un-Dead. Ian Holt
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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.”
Quid verum atque decens was the Stoker family motto: “Whatever is true and honorable.” Bram Stoker’s father had imposed it upon all seven of his children, but it was a sentiment that Bram was finding exceedingly difficult to embrace these days.
“T’anam an Diabhal,” cursed Bram Stoker in his native Gaelic under his breath. He had been waiting for that whip of a boy, Quincey Harker, to leave before emerging from his office. Much to his dismay, he overheard the boy leaving with Hamilton Deane. Heading off to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, Deane’s favorite watering hole, to discuss Basarab, no doubt. It would seem Deane was not going to drop this matter as Stoker had hoped. Stoker was always meticulous in life, even when it seemed to everyone that he was changing careers erratically. His every action was part of a bigger, well-thought-out plan. Having an unpredictable variable like Quincey Harker in the mix was unsettling.
Dracula was Bram Stoker’s last chance. One last chance to prove himself as a writer; one last chance to live his dream; one last chance to keep his theatre. Now that his son was grown and had left the house, Stoker had nothing waiting at home. Even his beautiful wife made him feel quite unwelcome, and it no longer mattered to Bram if his bed was loveless. The Lyceum had been his true home for decades, and he would die before he allowed anyone like Hamilton Deane to take over.
Stoker hobbled onto the stage deck. So many shows, so many memories in this great auditorium, and yet so much had changed. Gone was that glorious domed ceiling that he had loved so much. Two extra rows of seats cramped the orchestra. He despised how Deane was turning his beloved classic theatre into some sort of playhouse. While Stoker was not opposed to the new industrial age, he believed that a theatre was hallowed ground. Would one modernize the great Gothic cathedrals of Venice? He laughed to himself. Perhaps Deane would. Deane was obsessed with the latest modern gadgetry and he had marred Stoker’s theatre with it. He had installed Marconi’s private wireless station with the excuse that it would prevent actors from constantly running off to retrieve messages. There was Edison’s new “concentrated filament” spotlight. Deane even brought in famed theatre architect Bertie Crewe to redesign the interior of the theatre for “better acoustics.” Though Stoker detested Deane’s love for the “new and modern,” Stoker understood that it was this same love that allowed Deane to see value in innovative ideas. Deane saw potential in Stoker’s novel. He could see that horror stories, which had once been relegated to penny dreadfuls and pulp novellas, were finally finding a wider audience. Staging Dracula to