Dracula in London Part 7

"Tate changed the ending because people are fond of 'poetic justice.' They like good to triumph over evil. It rea.s.sures people, convinces them the world is a safe place."

"But Irving chose to use the original ending? Why? Cordelia is the heroine. She is young; she is beautiful; she is loyal. Why do you prefer her to die?"

"Because it means that you'll never forget the play. If Lear and his daughter both die needless deaths, you'll cry for them and you will think far harder as to the reasons why they died. Cordelia's love and duty carry more weight when she pays the fullest price."

He was silent for a while. I studied his profile as we walked, that beaked nose and the strong forehead. He reminded me of a bird of prey, something cruel that swoops down and seizes young birds in its talons. Eventually he spoke: "Is it more important to live or to be remembered?"

"It's more important to live-that's why tragedy exists. Tragedy gives us the illusion that other people will remember us when we are gone. We have no choice as regards death, remembrance is closest we can come-we live on in the minds of other people."

I wonder if anyone will remember when I'm gone? Will they wander past my memorial and say "Ellen Terry? Who was she?" We all like to think our memories are immortal, but of course, they aren't. All things considered, they're probably more likely to stub their toes on my tombstone and curse.

I think Dracula understood people's desire for immortality. He asked me, quite seriously, if I would rather live for ever or be remembered for ever.

I laughed at that one (well, how can you answer a question like that seriously?), and said I'd look awfully decrepit if I lived for ever!

His answer was to ask if I would want to live forever if I could stay as I am now.

"Well," I said, "if you're going to wave a magic wand, I'd rather be ten years younger."

You realise, you'd probably be terribly disappointed in me if we met-I'll be a grandmother next year.

"Not you," he declared. "You should always be as you are now."

"You flatter me," I protested."You have more than beauty. You have intelligence, wit, and feeling. I have three sisters, and they are each worthless. They have no ideas in their heads that I do not put there. They do not read, they have no love of knowledge, they don't think. When I see you on stage, I see a woman different than the one I see here. That alone tells me the effort that goes into your work. Then I remember the emotion in the part you play and I know that must be a part of you, for it is impossible to truly simulate something that you cannot understand.

"My sisters tell me that I am incapable of love, but they lie. I recognise it when I see it and therefore I am capable of feeling it."

It struck me that this was a curious doubt for any man to have. Was love important to him because he had lived alone too long? Was there some dead love in his past? Almost on cue, he said- "You played Oth.e.l.lo the year before last. Oth.e.l.lo kills his love when he believes she has betrayed him, yet with her dying breath Desdemona seeks to protect him.

How do you read that? Can a woman truly love the man who kills her?"

I love Desdemona for her perception, the way she loved Oth.e.l.lo for what he was rather than how he looked. I couldn't help but wonder if Dracula had also raised the question for that reason. It would be hard indeed for a woman to love him for his face.

"It's a pity you weren't able to see it, " I replied. "But yes, her love for Oth.e.l.lo was always based on her understanding of him. Even when he is trying to kill her, she knows deep inside her that he still loves her. That's the tragedy of the play-he kills the person he most loves. If he hadn't loved her to such excess, he would not have been so enraged by her seeming betrayal."

"Do you think then that she forgave him?"

I pondered that one, because it's a tricky question. Love and a willingness to forgive don't always go hand in hand. "I think she wanted to protect him. I think she loved him...

Forgiveness? That's harder to say. He hadn't trusted her and that's always hard for a woman to accept."

"Suppose, for the sake of argument, she could have come back from the dead-would she have loved him then?"

He really did ask the oddest questions. Death seemed to be always at the forefront of his mind.

"I suppose she might. If a ghost is capable of love."

That seemed to really hit home. "It has to be possible!" he snarled. "There must be a woman capable of loving beyond the grave."

I touched him gently on the arm. "Who was she?"

"Everyone I have ever loved. Do you realise that it is possible for a man to live forever?

To go on down through the centuries, never changing, never aging? But there is a price, and that price is to be forever alone. Would you walk that path if you could take it?"To never see my few grey hairs turning into thousands? To never feel the stiffness and blindness of old age? To be able to see my grandchildren grow to adulthood? How could anyone not want these things?

"It would be a gift beyond price, but you're wrong about being alone. No one need ever be alone."

There was a cat lying down ahead of us, sunning itself on the pavement in the way cats do. A b.u.t.terfly carelessly darted within paw range and the cat had it at once. It teased it, and pounced every time the b.u.t.terfly thought it had escaped. I shouted at the cat to go away and it ran, leaving the b.u.t.terfly to struggle into the air once more. Such a pretty thing, all red and purple, the sunlight making the wings look as though they were dusted with gold.

"Do you know what my sisters would have done?" Dracula asked.

I shook my head.

"Pulled its wings off"."

I pulled away in instinctive horror.

"The price," he said, "is to be unloved and always alone."

The b.u.t.terfly flew higher and as I watched it, I heard the church clock strike noon.

When I turned back to face Dracula, he was gone. Make of it what you will.-Yours sincerely, Ellen Terry * * * * *

Later- I still haven't posted this. Maybe I never will. I'm still not sure what happened, or whether, indeed, anything happened. It's been a month now, and I've seen nothing of Dracula. Where did he go? Why did he go? Could he have been immortal as he claimed? I never liked him, but I'm surprised to realise that I'm concerned about him.

No, not concern-pity.

The Three Boxes

Elaine Bergstrom

London-August 19.

"The English is not difficult," the Count said, settling into a plush chair in his host's den, his reflection curiously absent in the polished mahogany top of the desk. His host did not notice, so intent was he on watching his visitor's face, his body.

"You might find it odd that I should sit like this. But I find the acts of sitting, standing, even breathing-or at least pretending to-so important now that I am surrounded by the life of this great city and must do my best to fit in."

His host did his best to listen the tale. One that would end here in Mayfair, but began days earlier in a far less civilized corner of the country. He would say nothing in the hour that followed, for in truth there was nothing he could say as the Count continued...

The Englishman himself is the puzzle. In my country, the poorest work the hardest, for they know it is only through work that they will survive. But here, after the s.h.i.+p ran aground and broke apart in the tide-that is good sailors' English for the matter, I think-with all the wealth the s.h.i.+p carried scattered across the beach, none of Whitby's poorest watching the s.h.i.+p break apart would provide me with any a.s.sistance in retrieving my sea-soaked boxes and getting them safely to sh.o.r.e.

So there was I, with not a soul to help me, dragging my boxes, heavy with soil and water, above the tide line. I had only the little money I had taken from the sailors. The bulk of my wealth was in jewels that I loathed to show to the lazy rabble lest they plot to rob me while I slept. Not such a fool, I worked alone, waiting for someone to come and offer service.

Someone did, but not at all the person I expected. To anyone less perceptive my helper appeared to be a boy, a youth of about sixteen. But I noted how the body moved, how weak the work it did, the slight scent of blood. No, not a man but a woman pa.s.sing as one.

There were many reasons for such a disguise when I was alive-escaping slaves or willful women who did not like the husbands chosen for them. But I had come to understand from my solicitor visitors and from my readings of your land that a woman here would notneed to hide. Not understanding, I did not let her know I had seen through her disguise.

I also did not have time to speak of it. Night was giving way to a dawn barely visible through the thick clouds. "How soon will the sun rise?" I asked my helper.

Face lifted to the sky, studying. "Noon," she finally said, and shrugged.

I understood, and she seemed so clear on it that I trusted her. With my life. But, you must understand, I had little choice.

As she predicted, the sun did not break through the mists for some hours. By the time it did, she had already been paid and taken leave of me, promising to meet me at the warehouse five nights later. And so I slept in the innermost box, thankful that two pounds and the promise of more covered the storage cost.

A happy meeting with a fine outcome. I was safe for the moment with time to get my bearings before I left for the city I would call home. For the next four nights, as I walked the cliffs near the city, watching men and women, absorbing language and manners, even while dining on a n.o.blewoman of uncommon beauty, my thoughts returned frequently to the woman who had helped me.

I met her again as we'd arranged. Her clothes were the same as before, but were now ripped and muddy from the knee down as if she had been hiding in some swamp. Again, I did not ask for an explanation. It was not my affair.

"These boxes you need s.h.i.+pped, are they all yours?" she asked.

I nodded. "I have property near London. I need to take them there."

An interesting woman. She did not question the contents, instead asking, "You have money for this?"

"I have... means to obtain it," I replied, still wary-not of her honesty but of the possible slip of her woman's tongue.

She began a long explanation of currency exchanges until I stopped her with a wave of my hand, the gesture having some effect even on someone who did not know my temper. "I have the means... not in coin, but in goods. Do you know an honest person who would buy some... trinkets in gold?"

"Gold?" Her voice rose in curiosity, almost betraying her s.e.x. "There are always those who would buy gold. As to honest, I can see what I can discover."

The person would, of course, be honest. I have ways of dealing with those who are not.

We spoke a bit longer then retreated to the first pub we found, where she and I sat in the larger room, one filled only with men and an occasional woman dressed in a way that convinced me that some professions are the same in any country.

I told her that I had already eaten, though in truth I was famished. I tried not tofocus on my savior too closely, watching instead the men at the bar. Most were drunk or nearly so. When one stumbled out the door, I said I needed to step out back where the privies were built on the wharf. My partner shrugged and continued to devour her stew, gripping her spoon with her fist the way the men in the tavern did.

The building backed nearly up to the water, and there was no way to get to the front but through the pub or over the roof. Fortunately, the latter is not so difficult for one such as myself. Mist-like, I moved from back to front, finding my prey just as he was about to enter one of the foul-smelling hovels your poor call homes.

Too drunk to scream, he instead looked at me with wide eyes as I took form before him. Perhaps he even thought me some image of his sodden brain. No matter, he was mine in an instant. I moved his inert body into a narrow s.p.a.ce between his building and the next and drained him. Even through his blood, I could feel the heat of the alcohol, so strong that I wondered if it would affect me. But I was not so foolish that I did not slit his throat before I left him.

His blood did give me a headache by the time I said goodbye to my evening's companion.

But that was later, far after we left the public room.

Hunger gone, I could be more genial, enough that she eventually found the courage to say, "I am not what I seem."

I smiled, closed mouth, afraid that were I to open it I would laugh and she would notice my teeth and likely guess why. "I know," I said.

"So I thought. Thank you for being silent."

"And why such clothes?"

"I have reasons," she replied then looked at me, frowning, weighing my discretion. I must have pa.s.sed, for she explained them.

I do not presume to understand her whispered lecture about women working in terrible conditions, living with brutes for husbands, denied land and a say in governing. But I did understand that last, the part that had her in so much trouble. "It is the same everywhere,"

I replied when she had finished. "Women have large families. They work too hard. They die young. At least here they have food to eat."

"And would have far more if they limited their children to two or three."

That was the number that would likely be left after plague and misfortunes and an occasional famished creature such as myself took their weaker offspring but I kept silent, believing that such a statement would not be well-received by the woman. She went on, in a voice so close to silence that even I had to strain to hear her.

"I and my sisters came here to help as we have helped many in London with information on how to limit children. I have pamphlets that explain the basics to those who can read. To those who cannot, we hold lectures.""And what do their men think of this?"

"Many approve. Others don't. But the government needs their soldiers and laborers and they do not approve. Nor does my husband. He forbade me to continue this work. I do not have his support in this endeavor."

"And why not?"

"He is a banker. They have reputations."

I killed a fair number of bankers when I ruled, and rarely pleasantly. "All bankers have reputations," I said, pleased when she understood the joke and laughed.

"So I waited until he left for business on the continent, then came here with my friends from London. But they were arrested for public lewdness. Now I give the lectures, always ahead of the authorities looking for me."

"And so the clothes?"

"Exactly. But now I must return to Mayfair... that is, to London, by whatever means I can before my husband gets home on the 18th. Since my money was with my sisters I have no means. And I thought..."

She could not continue. Women, no matter how they play at independence, are not good at bargaining. "You thought one foreigner with a similar need might help?"

"A train ticket. Some money for food and I will help you get all your boxes safely to London," she said, leaning close to me as if we were partners in some crime. I needed the help. I agreed.

We were just leaving the establishment when some unfortunate woman found the remains of my night's meal. She screamed, drawing a crowd. My partner took a step toward the group, then moved back close to me. "It is good I have someone to walk with tonight,"

she said.

Ah, yes, this is not Romania. With luck it will stay so.

Such a charming woman, intense Sarah Justin. And she might not know how to bargain well but she got a fair enough price for the gold bracelet and ruby ring I gave her, and by the next evening all my boxes save three were being s.h.i.+pped to London through the efforts of the Billingtons, father and son.

Fifty boxes left my hands, but I am no fool. Fifty might be listed on Billington's records, but I kept the remaining three with me.

Those and my partner pulled out of Whitby a day later, on an afternoon train. I was safely resting in one of my boxes in a baggage car, not asleep but well aware of the train's motion; the faint, pleasant rocking as it headed west and south.Would that I had been more aware of my companion. In truth I should have been wary.

I have had a history of choosing the wrong sort of servant. Now that I have even more need for such loyalty, the matter has gotten worse. That lunatic Renfield, screaming out his fantasies in the charnel house you call an asylum, is the worst of any. But it matters little.

Servants can always be replaced.