Supping With Panthers (39 page)

‘Was I?’ asked Lord Ruthven. He lit a thin cigarette, then shrugged faintly. ‘It would have to be damnation, at the very least’

‘Oh, the very least,’ agreed Wilde.

Lord Ruthven smiled, and blew out a wreath of blue smoke. He watched as it curled above the candle flames, then lowered his eyes to stare at Wilde across the table. ‘You think the loss of your soul a cheap price to pay?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Wilde. ‘Certainly I would prefer it to exercise, or respectable living. After all, when set against good looks, what is morality? – only a word we use to ennoble our own petty prejudices. It is better to be good than ugly – but it is better by far, my Lord, to be beautiful than good.’

I saw how disturbed my dear wife was at the turn the conversation was taking. ‘No!’ I exclaimed with some violence. ‘You are being too flippant, Oscar. To be damned, and yet still be alive, for ever … It would be … too awful. That would be not life, but a … a …’ – the horror of the idea seemed suddenly to possess me – ‘a
living death.’

Lord Ruthven smiled faintly at this last phrase, and breathed out another plume of thin smoke. He glanced across at Wilde, who was staring at him with parted lips and a gleam in his eye. ‘How much would you be prepared to suffer, Mr Wilde?’ he drawled.

‘For eternal youth?’

Lord Ruthven inclined his head. ‘Or indeed, for any youth.’

‘Youth,’ said Wilde, his expression suddenly solemn, ‘is the one tiling worth having. It is the wonder of wonders. The only true source of happiness.’

‘You truly think so?’ Lord Ruthven laughed.

‘You disagree, my Lord? But that is because you yourself are still beautiful. You will age, though. The pulse of your life will dim and grow sluggish. You will become lined, and loathsome, and sallow-cheeked. The light will fade from your dulling eyes. And then, my Lord, you will suffer terribly, remembering the passions and the delights that you once believed were your own by right. Youth, my Lord, youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!’

Lord Ruthven stared into his wine. ‘The beauty you speak of, Mr Wilde, is an illusion. A face that did not age would be nothing but a mask. Beneath its show of eternal youth, the spirit would be withering, a hideous mess of corruption and evil. Mr Stoker is right. Beauty can conceal, but it cannot redeem.’

Wilde stared at him, a slight frown on his brow. ‘You surprise me,’ he said. ‘You would not be tempted yourself, then?’

Lord Ruthven stubbed out his cigarette. I observed how he glanced suddenly at Eliot, but otherwise he made no reply.

Oscar Wilde laughed. ‘You are too honest for your own argument, my Lord. You are a hedonist, of course – with your beauty you could be nothing else – and hedonists always succumb to temptations. It is the only way to get rid of them, after all.’

Lord Ruthven leaned back in his chair. ‘Yes,’ he nodded slowly, ‘you are probably correct.’

‘Of course I am,’ said Wilde. ‘For in the end, what is suffering when weighed against beauty? For beauty, anything may be forgiven. You, my Lord, you might be guilty of the most horrific sins, you might be damned for all eternity, but your beauty would still obtain forgiveness for you – your beauty, and the love it would inspire.’

‘You would forgive me, then?’ The emphasis appeared strange to me and I noticed, as Lord Ruthven asked the question, how he glanced again at Eliot.

‘I forgive you?’ replied Wilde languidly. ‘I would not need to. Why, I prefer a beauty that is dangerous. I
prefer
to feast with panthers, my Lord.’

‘Say rather,’ murmured Eliot, ‘sup with the devil.’ He rose suddenly to his feet. ‘Stoker,’ he announced, ‘I am afraid I must depart.’ Everyone stared at him in surprise – everyone except Lord Ruthven, who smiled faintly and lit a cigarette – but Eliot, I observed, still avoided his eye. Instead, he turned and thanked my wife for the dinner, then hurried from the room; I joined him in the hall. I had expected to find him overwrought, but he seemed on the contrary almost cheerful in his manner. I pressed him to explain his sudden departure, but he would not, only thanking me instead for what he termed a ‘revelatory meal’.

‘Revealing what?’ I asked him; but again he shook his head.

‘I will see you shortly,’ he said, ‘and when I do, I may have some answers for you. In the meantime, though, Stoker, I must wish you a good night.’ And with that he was gone. I was left, if anything, even more perplexed than before.

Eliot had been right, though. Shortly I was indeed to be given answers; and answers more terrible than I had ever dared imagine…

Dr Eliot’s Diary.

30
July. Late.
– The breakthrough I had hoped for may now be very near. I met Lord Ruthven tonight – the last of Stoker’s guests to arrive. I had not even suspected he would be present. I sat opposite him at table, but made every effort not to engage in conversation and instead talked with Edward Westcote for much of the meal. Lucy had spoken to me earlier about him, in a low urgent voice as we repaired to the dining room. There are rumours, it appears, that Westcote’s sister is not dead, after all – reports from some subaltern have reached him, saying that an expedition had been sent into the hills. Lucy, not surprisingly, is very concerned that her husband will be disappointed; it seems that she half-expects some cruel hoax. I asked her why and she shrugged faintly. ‘The letters he has received,’ she replied, ‘they don’t seem quite right. Why, for instance, if his sister has truly been found, has Ned heard nothing from their father? He is out there in India too – yet he has not written at all, only ever this subaltern.’

‘But who would have an interest in practising such a cruel hoax?’

‘I don’t know. But please, Jack – I am certain that Ned will ask you about Kalikshutra, for he knows now that you have had some experience of that place yourself. Deal with him gently. I cannot bear to think of his spirits being raised so high, only to be dashed again.’

Indeed not. And yet in many ways, I hope that his sister
is
truly dead, for if she is not then I dread to contemplate what state she may be in. As Lucy had asked me to do, I attempted to lower Westcote’s sense of expectation; he bore it well, and I knew he did not entirely share my pessimism, for he continued to ask about Kalikshutra. Naturally, Lord Ruthven pricked up his ears at this, and I was reluctant to continue; but I knew I owed it to Westcote to tell him all I could. Inexorably, inevitably, I began to talk of the disease in the hills, and the fears and superstitions it had bred. This brought in Lord Ruthven; and soon all the other guests. A general conversation on the philosophy of death. Lord Ruthven’s contribution unsettling. He spoke with his customary grace and wit, so that the horror of what I knew to be self-analysis seemed almost charmed away. Almost, but not quite; for the horror remained, concealed beneath the beauty which Lord Ruthven himself chose to describe as a mask, laid over agony and rottenness. Occasionally, just occasionally, I would see this mask slip; I would glimpse what lay beneath; I would have no choice but to recognise the agony. Shaken by this, and lacking the social art necessary to disguise it, I determined to leave. I needed time to be alone, to prepare myself. For I knew that Lord Ruthven would follow me.

I walked from Chelsea back along the Thames. Before Vauxhall Bridge, I heard the roll of a heavy carriage’s wheels. As I glanced round, the carriage began to slow down, then stopped by the pavement where I stood. The door swung open, I clambered in; Lord Ruthven rapped on the door with his silver-headed cane.

‘I am sorry,’ he whispered, ‘if you feel I intruded tonight.’

I listened to the carriage as it began to rumble forward again.

Lord Ruthven sighed. ‘I was wondering, you see, if you might not reconsider your decision.’ There was a silence; I assumed he was waiting for an answer from me. However he turned, pressing his cheeks against the glass of the window, and stared out at the moon-stained Thames. ‘You saw it tonight, did you not?’ he asked.

‘Saw it?’

‘When you fell silent. You understood. I know you did.’

‘Diseased souls are not my field, I’m afraid.’

Lord Ruthven laughed softly. ‘It is not my soul I am asking you to heal.’

‘Then what?’

‘My blood – you have told me so yourself, Doctor – the disease is in my blood. I am right, aren’t I? There may be a physiological cause.’ He had leaned forward, taken my hands; as he looked into my eyes, I recognised the glitter of desperation in his own. ‘You must help me – for my own sake, and for all those whom I threaten.’

‘And if l do not?’

Lord Ruthven shrugged. ‘Nothing. You will be in no danger from me, Dr Eliot, if that is what you mean. I do not wish you to continue your work under duress. It is perfectly true that I kill, but only because I also have to drink. You have seen the cells; you understand why – I can no more help myself than your patients can help the effects of their diseases. But I am not a wanton murderer. At least…’ – he paused – ‘that is, I mean, in the main… in the main, I can select my victims …’ He swallowed; a shadow passed across his face; again I do not know how, but for a second his agony seemed naked before me. ‘You
must
help,’ he murmured. ‘In the name of – he smiled bitterly – ‘humanity.’

For a long while I did not reply. ‘I cannot,’ I said at last. ‘What you are asking me to find for you – the removal of the craving for blood from your cells – such a cure, as I have said, would mean immortality.
Immortality,
Lord Ruthven. That is beyond my or any man’s power to find.’

‘No,’ answered Lord Ruthven very shortly. ‘It must be possible,’ He leaned across to me. ‘Find it for me, Doctor. Do all that you can. Somewhere, somehow, you must find me hope. Me, and all my breed,’ He squeezed my arm, and his fingers gouged deep. ‘Do not turn me down, Doctor.’

The carriage had halted by a junction. I broke free from his grasp and rose to my feet. ‘I will get out here,’ I said. Lord Ruthven watched me as I opened the door and climbed out into the street; he did not try to hold me back. ‘We could take you to Whitechapel if you wished,’ he said.

‘I need to walk. I have a lot to think about,’

Lord Ruthven arched an eyebrow. ‘You do indeed.’

I looked up at him. ‘I will do all that I can,’ I said. ‘But for now – please – I must be on my own.’ And then I turned, and crossed the road, and walked into a tangle of streets where his carriage could not follow. As I went, I smiled to myself. I realised that I felt almost exultant. Perhaps my research was not doomed, was all that I could think; perhaps now, with Lord Ruthven as my patient again, I would attain the breakthrough I had been working towards so painfully and for so long. Immortality – that was too much even to contemplate – but there were other goals I might now perhaps reach. I would need Huree, of course. He was the expert on the vampire’s world. And as I spoke this word to myself, ‘vampire’, I realised how reluctant I had been even to utter it before. No wonder my research had been a failure – I had never dared admit what its true object had been. I could have no such qualms now. I could not hold back as I had done before.

Circumstance seemed determined to bless this resolve. I reached home after half an hour’s walk; as I climbed the stairs that led to my rooms, I saw that my door was ajar and a light flickering from inside. I approached the door carefully; the light, I could see now, was very weak. I entered my room. Propped up on my desk was a picture of Kali. It had been garlanded, and in front of it were candles and bowls of burning incense. Beneath one of the incense burners a book had been left. I picked it up, and read the tide:
The Vampire Myths of India and Roumania: A Comparative Study.
Tucked inside the first page a note had been left. I removed it.
‘Thought you never went out. Things must have changed. Will see you tomorrow and get all the news. Yours, Huree. ’

Surely, together, we cannot fail?

31
July.
– Huree round this afternoon. He is still the master of disguise. Did not recognise him at first, since during the course of his European travels he has transformed himself into something almost Viennese:
pince-nez,
goatee beard, ghastly Alpine hat. His bulk betrayed him, though; he is even rounder than before. Offered to put him up but he refused, saying he was damned if he was going to live in a slum. Instead, he is staying in Bloomsbury with an old lawyer-friend of his from Calcutta. This lawyer has a servant who can cook Bengali food. Huree keen to catch up, after a month of nothing but Parisian
haute cuisine.
Afraid, having languished in such a gastronomic wilderness, that he has been reduced to skin and bone. I was able to reassure him he has not.

I then narrated the events of the past few months. Huree pretended to keep his calm, but I could tell it was a show; he is excited and disturbed. Not much discussion or analysis from him as yet, but that will come, I am sure. For now, our most pressing task is to identify the cause of George’s illness; and, if it should prove to be what we both suspect, somehow to secure his safety. Not easy, in view of George’s refusal to see me, but I suggest to Huree that he attend the debate in the House of Commons tomorrow. The vote is to be taken on George’s Bill and George himself, as the Minister responsible, will be summing up for the Government. I have my own responsibilities, and will be unable to attend; but Huree at least should have the chance to study George. I will await his conclusions with considerable interest.

Only one hint that Huree is already developing theories on the case. As he left me, he paused and turned round. ‘Polidori?’ he asked. ‘Our opium-peddling friend – you are sure his name is Polidori?’

‘Yes. Why? Does he mean something to you?’

‘Is he a doctor, perhaps?’

I stared at him in surprise. ‘Yes. At least, according to Lord Ruthven, he was.’

Huree smiled. ‘Ah! Lord Ruthven!’

‘Huree, tell me, how did you know?’

He smiled again. ‘I remember,’ he said, ‘in your investigations in the past, you preferred to keep your cards close to your chest. Well, now the boot is on the other foot. Don’t worry, old man, it is just a little hunch of mine.’