Dracula The Un-Dead

by Dacre Stoker

  He thought of a fitting quotation from the play that was about to begin as he quietly drew his medical bag from under his overcoat. “Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a word that cowards use.” Safely obscured on the floor behind the throne, he withdrew a leather belt and tightly cinched it around his sagging bicep. He filled a glass syringe with morphine. Only half a dose this time. Merely enough to quell the nausea. Seward knew that doping up was a gamble, but he could no longer function without the morphine. He felt the drug surge through his veins. It took only a few minutes for him to regain control of his body, and once he felt his legs were steady enough, he began his climb into the rafters.

  While the War of the Roses played itself out on the stage below with wooden swords and fake sugared blood, Seward would set the stage for the truly bloody battle. He drew his weapons from a hidden compartment in his coat. The pieces were set, and now the game was in motion.

  CHAPTER VI.

  It was now twenty minutes to nine. Only two minutes had passed since Quincey last pulled on his watch fob and checked the time. Curtain was supposed to be at eight o’clock sharp, and the audience was growing restless. Having spent time working in a theatre, Quincey was well aware of all the possible complications that could delay curtain time. Terrifying thoughts crept into his mind. What if Basarab couldn’t perform? They could be refitting Basarab’s costumes onto some poor understudy. Under usual circumstances, it was a stroke of luck for the understudy, but tonight the audience had paid to see Basarab. Quincey had paid dearly to see Basarab. A substitute would be most unwelcome. If the actor were unable to perform, it would all be for naught.

  A gentleman complained to his wife in French, a language Quincey knew well: “This Basarab is as bad as that Englishwoman Sarah Bernhardt. I saw a performance of hers when she began almost an hour late. A Frenchman would never . . .”

  Quincey was about to say something in defense of British performers when the houselights flickered off, section by section, and the theatre was plunged into blackness. Quincey expected a spotlight to appear, but nothing happened. The audience fidgeted in their seats. Still nothing happened, and Quincey strained his eyes in the hope of seeing into the darkness.

  Without any warning, a soft baritone voice reverberated throughout the Coliseum-like theatre: “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York.”

  A single footlight sparked to life, illuminating the pale face of Basarab with an eerie glow from below. His piercing black eyes fixed on the audience from under his dark brows. Quincey was in awe of the impressive transformation of the handsome actor into the hideous Richard III. He was, of course, dressed all in black, his left arm withered, sporting a hump on his back. Despite the heavy costuming, his mannerism and tone left no doubt that the figure on the stage was an aristocrat.

  “But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, nor made to court an amorous looking glass . . .”

  The stage light slowly grew brighter. Quincey could see the pain in Basarab’s eyes. He was not merely reciting Shakespeare’s words, but rather drawing forth the thought and meaning behind them.

  “I, have no delight to pass away the time unless to spy my shadow in the sun and descant my own deformity.”

  Basarab stopped, focusing his attention on one of the box seats. Quincey glanced over, immediately recognizing the dinner-jacketed woman from the lobby. “And therefore—since I cannot prove a lover—I am determined to prove a villain. . . .”

  Bathory was surprised to see Basarab looking so intently in her direction. With the luminous stage lights blinding him, could he actually see her, or was it pure chance? She stared coldly back at the actor. The dark-haired Woman in White whispered, “Is it he, mistress?”

  “It is he,” an unblinking Bathory replied. She ran her fingernails across the arm of the seat, causing tiny wood shavings to fall to the floor, as she realized that the arrogant bastard was doing the unabridged version of this horrid play. Having to sit through four hours of this tripe was going to be far more torturous than any device she had acquired from the Spanish Inquisition. The actions of the actors on the stage hit far too close to home.

  Ferenc Nádasdy was not an intelligent man. Elizabeth soon learned that he had no thought that originated from above his waist. It was this flaw in his character that ultimately enabled her to outwit him. She lulled him into a false sense of security by pretending to enjoy his sexual sadism and violent debauchery. Three years after they were married, in the hope of ridding herself of him forever, she had used his vanity against him and manipulated the count into taking command personally of the Hungarian troops in a war against the Ottomans. Through victory in war, he would enhance the Nádasdy family name, she had told him, assuring him that upon his victory parade, she would change her name to Countess Nádasdy in front of her entire family.

  During the count’s absence, his guards had initially kept a close watch on her, but she had tricked them as well, leading them to believe she was less interested in escaping than in running the affairs of the estate. She provided assistance for the Hungarian and Slovak peasants, even medical care. There were several instances in which she interceded on behalf of destitute women, including a woman whose husband was captured by the Ottomans and a woman whose daughter was raped and impregnated. Each night, alone in her bedchamber, she secretly prayed to God for her husband’s death on the battlefield.

  As a student of science and astronomy, Bathory had waited for the right moment. On the night of a lunar eclipse with total darkness as her ally, she had dressed in a black hooded cloak and vanished from the castle. With the assistance of the peasants whose loyalty she had bought and paid for with her husband’s wealth and her own calculated generosity, Bathory escaped to find refuge with her aunt Karla.

  Karla was said to be a pious woman. In the safety of her aunt’s home, Elizabeth had hoped at last to find the soothing love and protection of God’s embrace.

  Aunt Karla wore her dark matronly look with pride. Her clothes were crisp, black from head to toe, except for the large gold cross around her neck. Young Bathory assumed that she was merely in mourning for one of her husbands. Aunt Karla had been married four times, each husband having met some horrible inexplicable death. When Bathory arrived wearing a crimson velvet gown, instead of giving her niece a warm greeting, Aunt Karla had sneered, “Wearing bright colors is for the vain. Vanity is one of the seven deadly sins. God would not approve.”

  Although Aunt Karla seemed to be cold and strict in public, in private she was far kinder and gentler. She listened attentively to her niece’s tale and comforted Bathory. They grew close, close enough for Aunt Karla to confess during a night of drinking what seemed to be gallons of wine that she had murdered her husbands because they had discovered the true reason why she refused their bed. It was not because Aunt Karla was so in love with God that she took the Bible literally and believed lovemaking to be for the sole purpose of childbearing. The truth was that she gained no arousal from the male form. Aunt Karla could find satisfaction only with other women.

  Bathory stared at the cross around Karla’s neck, shocked by this murderous hypocrisy. Yet as a result of Karla’s revelation, so much of her own self that she did not understand at last became clear to her. Bathory, as a budding young lady, had “played” with several servant girls until discovered by her mother and scolded severely. Her parents had called in a priest to pray with their sinful daughter. Her marriage to Nádasdy came shortly thereafter.

  Seeing the confusion on young Bathory’s beautiful face, Aunt Karla had comfortingly stroked her hair, all the while staring longingly into her ocean-blue eyes. Before Bathory had known what was happening, Karla’s lips were upon hers.

  Bathory had pushed Karla away. The idea of touching her elderly aunt in such a way seemed repulsive. “Does the Bible not say that murder and those desires are sinful? Are you not sinning before God?”

  Karla stood up, self-righteously e
nraged. “You foolish, naïve child. I could not risk any of my husbands exposing me! At best, I would have lost my wealth and been forced penniless into the wilds, my flesh branded by a hot poker with the sign of the heretic. At worst, I would have been burned alive at the stake. It was not murder, but self-preservation! You would do well to not judge me so harshly. The way I see it, you have three choices. Stay with me, love me, and I will protect you from your husband. Go to a convent and let your unparalleled beauty waste away until you become as fat, old, and wrinkled as I. Or you can go back to the brutality of Nádasdy. The choice is yours.”

  Bathory needed time to sort out her thoughts, but Aunt Karla was not a patient woman. She had no choice but to give in to all of her aunt’s desires.

  Bathory had never experienced lovemaking like this. Why couldn’t her husband learn to touch her this way? As she climaxed for the first time in her life, she no longer gave any thought to what she was doing, and with whom she was doing it. At last Bathory had found her true self. How could something so enjoyable be called a sin against God? Was not love God’s way? It was in that moment when Bathory’s rebellion against God began.

  Bathory jolted suddenly in her seat as an actor screamed onstage. She couldn’t sit through another moment of this performance. She rose.

  “Mistress, what is it?” the blond Woman in White asked.

  Bathory’s eyes were firmly focused upon the stage character of Christopher Urswick, the priest. “I need to leave this place.”

  “What of Basarab?”

  “You know what must be done. Do not fail me.”

  Quincey had no idea what fortuitous extravagance this evening would bring. He had never seen a production of The Tragedy of Richard III performed in its entirety, nor could he have ever imagined it being so spectacular. The costumes looked authentic, the scenery detailed and grandiose. The performers were magnificent. Most wonderful of all was Basarab, who played the Machiavellian king with such conviction that, for a short time, Quincey forgot he was watching a performer. Basarab made the lines sound as if they were the first words that came to his mind. Quincey had memorized the entire play years ago, but then it had only been words on a page. Now those words lived and breathed.

  The play soared to its climax. Basarab’s entire presence seemed so filled with remorse that Quincey truly believed he repented his evil deeds. He could feel the tragedy of the character who realized it was too late. As King Richard, Basarab thundered onto the stage, waving his sword. “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” Quincey’s heart pounded like a war drum. He was completely unaware that he was gripping the seat in front of him so tightly that he was almost pulling the unfortunate patron who occupied it backward. A battle cry rang out. Several actors playing soldiers sprang onto the stage to attack Basarab, who swung his mighty sword with the deft skill and agility of a true warrior knight. Lost in the moment, Quincey was about to stand up and cheer when more soldiers appeared. It seemed that an army of a hundred men was attacking King Richard. Quincey was in awe at the most stunning display of sword choreography he had ever seen. There were no words to describe the vicious reenactment of the battle that ended the Plantagenet dynasty.

  He gasped when Richmond plunged the sword into the king’s chest. All characters on stage froze in tableau as the stage lights, with the exception of the solitary footlight, went out. Quincey knew that the death of King Richard ended the play, but he found himself frozen along with the rest of the audience. No one breathed. Basarab stumbled and, in a splendid fashion, died.

  The audience applauded madly, so much so that Richmond’s final soliloquy could not be heard. No one cheered louder than Quincey.

  Basarab returned to the stage, gave his final bow, and then made eye contact with the wildly applauding Quincey. The young man’s heart soared. Basarab’s attention drifted over to the dinner-jacketed woman’s box seat. It was empty. Who were those women? Did Basarab know them? When he looked back to the stage, the curtain had already descended, separating Basarab from the adoring audience. He could not wait to meet this magnificent man face-to-face.

  There was no longer any doubt in Quincey’s mind. The theatre was where he belonged, not in some oppressive law firm. He needed to find the quickest way backstage to see if Basarab had received his letter. He waited for the crowd to begin to disperse before attempting to exit to the aisle. As he started to make his way out of the row, he noticed the head usher pointing him out to Antoine, the theatre manager. Antoine approached the end of the aisle, intercepting Quincey.

  “Allons,” Antoine whispered. “Monsieur Basarab will see you now.”

  CHAPTER VII.

  Quincey felt like a present-day Theseus as he followed the manager through the backstage labyrinth of the opulent Théâtre de l’Odéon. He noticed the “horses,” men who now resembled centaurs as they struggled to free themselves from their elaborate costumes. Half-dressed female performers with nymphlike bodies scurried by. Antoine stopped in front of a door bearing Basarab’s name.

  He knocked. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur Basarab? The young gentleman is here.”

  There was a long moment of silence. As Quincey began to think that he would not meet Basarab after all, the baritone voice resonated from behind the door, “Send him in.”

  Quincey took a deep breath, swallowed his nerves, and stepped through the door. Basarab sat in front of his makeup mirror, reading Quincey’s letter. The actor did not look up, but, as he continued to read, he gestured gracefully and said, “Enter, please.”

  Obeying as quickly as possible, Quincey closed the door behind him. He looked about the spacious dressing room. A neat stack of steamer trunks towered in one corner like a small fortress. Framed posters of Basarab’s previous productions were hung symmetrically against the wall fabric. Opulent furniture decorated the room, which was far more lavish than the standard assortment of spare, unmatched chairs normally found in an actor’s dressing room. An extravagant chaise longue that looked Egyptian was sitting next to a small, elegant pedestal table that was set for tea. Basarab kept reading. Quincey wondered if he was looking at the letter for the first time.

  “Forgive me, Master Harker,” Basarab said, his tone friendly. “I was quite taken by your letter. So honored, in fact, that I wanted to read it a second time very carefully.”

  It was as if Basarab could read his mind. Quincey said hastily, “I can’t believe I’m standing in your presence. I can’t explain it, but I see you and suddenly my entire life makes sense.”

  Quincey wondered if he could possibly have said anything more idiotic, but to his surprise, Basarab smiled warmly.

  “Forgive my ill manners.” Basarab laughed. “My father would disown me. Please, sit down and join me for some tea.”

  Quincey was almost afraid to sit on the delicate antique Egyptian chaise, but he didn’t want to offend his host. He perched on its edge while Basarab poured tea into two elegant glass teacups. Quincey carefully picked one up to study its silver-covered base and handle, engraved with the initials I. L. The teapot, cream jug, and sugar bowl all bore the same monogram. Quincey wondered who I. L. was.

  “Ivan Lebedkin,” Basarab said.

  Quincey gave him a startled look; once more the actor seemed to be reading his mind. Then he realized that he was unconsciously tracing the initials on his cup. Basarab wasn’t clairvoyant; he was a keen observer of human behavior. No doubt one of the many reasons why he was such a magnificent performer.

  Basarab continued, “He was the czar’s assay master. His initials verify that it is, in fact, silver.”

  “The czar?”

  “Yes. This tea set and the tea itself, Lapsang souchong, was a gift from Czar Nicholas. Enjoy. Na zdarovia,” Basarab toasted. He was about to take a drink from his cup when he realized his nose or, to be exact, Richard III’s nose, was in the way. He smiled, setting the cup down. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  As Basarab crossed back to his dressing table, Quincey couldn’t help but contemplate
the odd ways of the world. A day earlier, he had been imprisoned at the Sorbonne. Now he was sipping tea—chosen by the ruler of Russia—with the most celebrated actor in Europe.

  “I’ve seen you before, Master Harker,” Basarab said, pulling off the artificial nose, which had been fashioned from mortician’s wax.

  “Truly?” Quincey wondered if he remembered him hanging from the statue the previous night.

  “It was at the London Hippodrome. You were performing a one-man production of Faust.”

  Quincey coughed so suddenly that the tea almost erupted from his nostrils. The great Basarab had been in that small, unassuming variety theatre over a year ago? “You have seen me perform?”

  “Yes, I found you quite entertaining. Very original, and that is not an easy feat in this business. I proceeded backstage to congratulate you, but found you were in the midst of an intense argument with an older gentleman.”

  He knew exactly which night Basarab referred to. That night, his father, Jonathan Harker, had also been in the audience. Quincey had no idea he was there until it was too late. He had tried to sneak out after the show, but his father had already found his way backstage and was yelling at the house manager.

  “. . . and if you think you can stand in my way . . .”

  “Father, please!”

  “Get your things, Quincey!” Jonathan barked. “You will not be returning to this place.”

  “You cannot stop—”

  “What I cannot do is to allow you to pursue this avenue. You draw too much attention . . . on the stage you’re exposed . . . this is not safe.”

  “Exposed to what? I am not a child. I can choose what I do with my life.”

  “Very well. If that is your wish, fine. But, if you choose this course of action,” Jonathan said, coldly lowering his voice, “you will have to survive like your fellow performers, without any financial assistance from me.”