LITMIR.BIZ

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‘Excuse me, sir. I must confer with Maria, our cook. Dinner, at which we hope you will join us, will be ready at eight o’clock prompt.’

      When the two men were alone, Stoker leaned forward to poke the fire, saying as he stared into the flames, ‘Tell me, do you have any theories regarding vampires?’

      ‘I assume they are products of the imagination. As I rather assume you are too.’

      Stoker then gave him a hard look, holding out a glowing poker.

      ‘Is that some sort of joke? I don’t find it funny.’

      ‘I’m sorry, I apologize. I meant that to be sitting here with you, a famous man, seems to me like wild fantasy.’

      ‘Wilde? Oscar Wilde? He was once engaged to my Florence. Well, he’s got himself into a real pickle now, to be sure … Let me ask you this. Men are made to feel guilty about the sexual side of their natures. Do you believe that sex and guilt and disease and vampires are all related?’

      ‘I never thought of it.’

      ‘I have reason to think of it, good reason.’ These words, spoken with a morbid emphasis, were accompanied by equally emphatic wags of the poker, as though the ginger man was conducting the last bars of a symphony. ‘Let me ask you a riddle. What does the following refer to, if not to planets: “A night on Venus means a lifetime on Mercury”?’

      Despite the obvious good nature of his host, Bodenland was beginning to wish he had looked for a simple inn for the night.

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

      ‘Syphilis, Mr Bodenland, that’s what I’m talking about. VD – the soldier’s term for it. Syphilis, the vampire of our amorous natures, that’s what. “Thou hast proven and visited mine heart in the night season.” That’s what the psalm says, and a ghastly saying it is … Now, perhaps you’d care to have a wash before we go in to dinner.’

      This was a moment to be grasped, Bodenland saw, in which to explain how he had arrived, and how his country was more distant than even the imaginative Stoker might guess.

      Stoker listened with many a tug of the beard, many a dubious shake of the head, many a ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered!’ many a ‘Saints in heaven!’ At the end, he remained stubbornly unbelieving, saying he had endured many a far-fetched thing acted out on the stage, but nothing like this. He knew of occupants of the wards of the nearby lunatic asylum who believed themselves to be Napoleon, but even there none imagined they came from a future when their mothers were as yet unborn.

      ‘I come from an age where anything can be believed,’ Bodenland said, half-way between amusement and irritation. ‘You evidently live in an age where nothing can be. Even when you have proof.’

      ‘What proof do you offer?’

      ‘Tomorrow, you shall see the vehicle by which I arrived here.’

      Nodding rather grimly, Stoker rose from his armchair. ‘Very well then, until that time I shall be forced to play the mistrustful host, who doubts the veracity of his guest, and regards his account as merely a tall story told before dinner.’

      ‘I hope, sir, that over the soup you may reflect that my sincerity in this matter is some token of my honesty.’

      ‘… And by the cheese course I’ll have swallowed your every word!’ With an explosion of laughter, Stoker led his guest from the room. His good humour went some way towards smoothing Bodenland’s ruffled feelings. It was only later that he came to realize how human beings came equipped with a defence mechanism which saved them accepting immediately anything which lay beyond their everyday experience; for so it was to prove in his own case.

      The dining room was decorated in scarlet, and less elaborately furnished than the drawing room. They sat down to a laden table under a large chandelier, the heat from which Bodenland found uncomfortable. Round the walls of the room, mahogany dressers, sideboards and carving tables gleamed, reflecting the light muzzily.

      Everything looked prosperous, safe, snug, repressive. Stoker looked through the curtains and muttered in Bodenland’s ear, ‘I’m worried about that hostage you put in my shed.’ In other respects, he played the role of genial host.

      Clutching a decanter of red wine, he ushered his doctor in to the proceedings. Dr Abraham van Helsing was a fussy little man with a sharp bright face and cold bony hands. He wore a velvet suit and smelt of cologne. He laughed and smiled rather much when introduced to Bodenland.

      ‘And you should be resting, Bram, my friend,’ he said, wagging a finger at Stoker. ‘You should not be embarking on a heavy meal, you understand?’

      Bodenland thought there might be some truth in this observation, reluctantly though it was received by his host. Before them were laid a huge cold home-cured ham, a leg of mutton, ptarmigan, and a grand brawn jelly, which trembled slightly in its eagerness to be eaten. A little tablemaid circulated with a tureen of chicken and celery soup.

      ‘It’s the full moon tonight,’ announced Stoker, tucking his linen napkin under his chin. ‘The lunatics will be restless.’ Turning to Bodenland, he added by way of explanation, ‘The lunatic asylum is next door to us – quite a way through the trees, I’m happy to say. Used to be a priory, in the days before Oliver Cromwell. It’s quite a pretty place, as such places go. I thought I saw someone or something out on the terrace, by the way, but we won’t go into that. Mustn’t spoil our appetites.’

      ‘You’re like my father – nothing spoils your appetite,’ said Florence Stoker, affectionately, smiling at her husband.

      ‘I’m big and tough and Irish – and can’t help it.’

      ‘Nor can you ever take a holiday,’ added van Helsing. ‘You’re too dedicated to work.’

      ‘And to Henry Irving,’ said Mrs Stoker.

      Stoker winked good humouredly over his soup spoon at Bodenland.

      ‘Well, it was Henry’s Mephistopheles gave me the notion for my Count Dracula. I’m sure I shall have a hit, if I can ever get the damned book finished.’

      ‘When do you hope to finish?’

      Ignoring the question and lowering his voice, Stoker said, ‘It may be because I’m writing this novel that the house is surrounded by eerie forces. Van Helsing doesn’t seem to understand – in fact only the loonies next door seem to understand. Must be going loony myself, shouldn’t be surprised.’

      ‘You’re sane, we live in a nice scientific world and the soup’s delicious,’ said van Helsing, soothingly. ‘Every single problem in the world will soon be capable of a scientific resolution. Just as the savage populations of the world are being brought into the arms of civilization, so the already civilized world will soon be turned into a utopian meritocracy.’

      The conversation became more general. Mrs Stoker spoke of the happily married state of each of her sisters. Servants brought in more food. More wine was poured.

      As Bodenland was confronted by huge green blancmanges, plum pies with ornamental pastry crusts, bowls of cream, jellies, and trifles decorated with angelica, Stoker reverted to the subject of asylums, which seemed to prey upon his mind.

      ‘Many of the poor fellows in the asylum suffer great pain. Dementia and its sores are treated with mercury. It’s agonizing, I hear. It’s a matter of wonder why such suffering should be visited on humanity, Mr Bodenland. Would you care to visit the asylum with me?’

      Bodenland shook his head.

      ‘I’m afraid all that interests me is getting home.’

      Stoker leaped from his chair with a sudden impulse and went to peer through the window again.

      ‘It’s a still night,’ he declared, in the voice of one announcing the worst. ‘It would be ideal for cricket now, if only it was day.’ He laughed.

      ‘Come and eat your trifle,

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