by Ray Russell
“To . . . sate them?” I said. “Nay, Dorottya but calm’d me with anointings and sport . . .”
Dorottya, long silent, threw back her head and laugh’d. “Is’t innocence or idiocy?” she said. “Wert thou indeed purblind, that thou wast unaware how interdicted and unlawful was our congress? Did not these ‘calmings’ and ‘anointings’ and our romps, from which thou didst derive such glee, not once seem contraband or guilty?”
“Nay . . . nay, never!” I rejoin’d.
Ferencz then spake. “I do believe it, Dorottya. For when, tonight, she lay clasp’d within mine arms, I did attempt to sound her, by talk of ‘secrets’ hidden from me, hints of things unholy in the world, righteous warnings of the faceless sins that ‘creep unseen into the soul.’ And not once was she disquieted by guilt or shame, she is so pure. I press’d the point e’en further, bade her read Scripture, spoke of Paul, recited verses that I hop’d would lead her on to fuller guessings.” He look’d down upon me, still manacled, by hand and foot, unto that chair. “Dost recollect, Elisabeth? Those pagans who, ’tis writ, ‘worshipp’d and serv’d the creature more than the Creator’? The Holy Book has ever fill’d thy days, thou saith. Then canst thou not recite the words that follow? ‘For this cause . . .’”
In memory, the page of Scripture rose before mine eyes: For this cause God gave them up into vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature . . .
“Then I . . .” My voice falter’d and broke.
“Ay, little one,” said Ferencz. “Thou, either by the fault of too excessive innocence, or the strain of Bathory perverseness in thy veins, hath done things call’d uncleanly and corrupt.”
Dorottya said, “Thou art now one of us, Elisabeth.”
“Bound to us by bands stouter than the ties of blood,” said Ferencz.
“Ay,” said I in hollow answer, “and likewise damn’d with ye.”
“If that be so,” said Ferencz, “then let thine arms embrace damnation like a lover . . .”
“And let us lead thee onward,” added Dorottya, “to keen delights far stranger and more bold than those thou hast already savour’d . . .”
“Ay, wife,” said Ferencz, “and be thou Bathory not but in name, but in hot deed, as well!”
“And let us seal this compact with a solemn pledge,” Dorottya said, “a ceremonial bath to signalize our fealty to sin.”
“We three to bathe?” said Ferencz. “’Tis well. And what, of all thy unctions, Dorottya, shall we bathe ourselves withal?”
“One richer far than all the others,” she replied, pointing to the girl who lieth, scourg’d and raw, upon the floor. “That which floweth in her veins.”
VIII
GREX SANGUINARIUS
Thou knowest, Lord, that blood bath was the first, but not the last, in which I would immerse myself in all the years that follow’d. As if a gate of Hell had been thrown open, Ferencz and Dorottya, made confident by the bastion of my family name, now steep’d us all in reeking devilish rites, and vilest pleasures; whilst I, like unto one in whom the soul has died, became a stunn’d, obedient creature, sharing both dark lust and blame.
Whether ’twas truly some streak of grainèd foulness in my stirps that made me such an unobjecting partner in those crimes; or whether disenchantment with my Ferencz and with all humanity had stifled gentler humours; or whether Dorottya’s cunning simples had a part in blunting my fair nature (as they had blunted poor Ilona’s), I know not. I only know that I became as despicable and perjur’d as Ferencz and Dorottya, for all of us would make a show of most devout obeisance when the village priest would call to say mass; and our confessions were but cynical recitals of small vices and transgressions, nothing more.
As hideous vermin crawl from under lifted stones, now bloated, grinning cohorts stream’d to Csejthe, call’d hither by Dorottya. Thou wert long familiar with them, Lord: the sorcerers Ujvary and Thorko, the first a skillful crafter of new tormentry which far surpass’d in cruel genius those of rack or wheel or any hitherto invented; another witch, call’d Darvula, whose energies and hungers rivall’d those of Dorottya; two serving maids, Otvos and Barsovny, to tend my person, chosen by Ferencz for youth and beauty and total absence of all scruple; and troops of others, nameless to me now.
Pitiful were those who came to Csejthe unwillingly: the blossoming young girls, who, in the mounting hundreds, were requir’d to fan and then appease our raging appetites. Entic’d from the village by pretty Otvos and Barsovny, who told of fair employment and reward at Csejthe; or drugg’d by Dorottya or Darvula; or overwhelm’d and beaten by the hulking Thorko or the slavering Ujvary; these pathetic creatures (all young and fair, for none else did we crave), were herded like swine into our cellars and our dungeons, to await the most deprav’d extremity of our pleasure.
Dorottya told me once she was far older than she seem’d, and that she held the years in check and retain’d the youthful freshness of her skin by bathing in the blood of virgins. She bade me join her, and I did. If such a thing be horrible—the draining of young veins for such a purpose—how much more horrible, and to no purpose whatsoever, was the manner by which these hapless prisoners were put to death: not with the swift, blunt mercy that is dealt even to dumb cattle, but by prolong’d and calculated tortures, which I have not stomach to set down here, so degraded and inhuman were they.
Inhuman, saith I? Nay: the beasts of the field and forest, lacking all humanity, e’en the most terrible among these, slay not by long deliberate slaying and for lust. Human, then, indeed, were those fell crimes.
From time to time, my brain—like to a wanderer lost in fog which sometimes lifteth, showing clary sun, only to weave greyly ’round the stumbling wretch again—would comprehend the fullest, deepest horror of our acts; and I would then resolve to end them, by freeing our poor victims, allowing them to spread the tale of our decay throughout the village, till it was arous’d. But never did I this, and now, upon reflection, I do think it was somehow for love of Ferencz that I refrain’d; some shred of former feeling clung to me, and I could not bear to think of him haul’d up before tribunals and punish’d.
Then, on one day, fate took that fear from me.
Ferencz was summon’d to the battlefield again to fight the Saracen. As on that night years before, I bade farewell to him whilst cannonades of thunder boom’d through Csejthe and pelting rain curtain’d the countryside.
“Dost recollect,” I ask’d him, “what words thou spake that other time thou left me for the wars?”
“Nay,” he answer’d, “what said I then?”
“Thou didst declare: ‘God’s my guardian, thou my guerdon: how else, then, can it be but I will triumph over Death and foe alike?’”
“A pretty speech,” he said, and mounted his palfry.
“Say it now!” I bade him.
“Art silly still?” he scoff’d.
“Say it, Ferencz!”
“Nay, have done. Fare thee well, and—” (irony congeal’d his face) “—prithee, do not pine away in solitude!” He goaded his mount, and rode into the night.
Less than a score of days from then, a courier deliver’d unto me the news: Ferencz was dead, “honourably slain in battle, by the heathen Turk who long hath ravag’d and lain waste our land.” The King himself had signed it.
O fortunate husband! Dead with honour; whilst I still languish’d in a filthy sty of sin. ’Twas then I cast from me all caution, and conspir’d to let the world know of the foul blight Castle Csejthe had now become.
One morning, my gore-streak’d companions still abed, so worn were they by ghastly revels in the night, I stole into the dungeons and unlock’d the shackles from the limbs of a single youthful captive, destin’d soon for torture and for death. I bade her flee to the village, and tell all—“Spare nothing,” I beseech’d her, “relate all horrors thou hast se
en, all gushings of fair maidens’ blood, all gloating torments, all!”
The frighten’d maid, at first, thought ’twas some trick, some game design’d to raise her hope, then dash it to the ground and thus torment her further. I begg’d her to believe me, trust in me (why should she trust in one who had partaken of such infernal rites?), and perchance for some sincerity that shineth from mine eyes, she believ’d me and did as she was bidden.
She was not miss’d by Dorottya or the others (’twas for this reason I but set free a single prisoner), and word soon spread. Grumblings commenc’d to reach us at the castle; village girls no longer were so easefully accessible to our procurers.
But there it stopp’d: rumblings and rumours; frighten’d glances cast toward Csejthe; a need by us of greater stealth; from the village church, veil’d sermons which, by indirections, weakly touch’d on a certain “bloody band” abhorr’d by God, yet even these pale warnings couch’d in Latin—“grex sanguinarius”—which the villagers could scarce divine. And still our base carousals went uncheck’d!
Slowly, my dull mind fathom’d why: and, in its own way, the cause was far more crushing to my spirit than the grossest horrors we had wrought in Castle Csejthe.
IX
THE CURSE OF CATS
For Ferencz had spoke true.
My name was too refulgent, my family too high-plac’d: who dar’d chastise us? My cousin, Gyorgy, Prime Minister to the King, ignor’d all tales he heard of our debauches, so that his own escutcheon might not be stain’d thereby.
When this execrable truth became clear to me, my heart sank. Was this humanity? Was this nobility? Was this the Christian glory that presum’d to hold itself above the heathen Turk? To suffer innocents be sacrific’d on an altar of corruption, merely that a lofty family be spar’d discomfiture? Oh, this was tenfold more abominable than the crime itself, that high authority should wink at it! Dismay’d, revolted, heartsick, I in that moment of black revelation forswore mankind, abjur’d all ties of family, renounc’d and disavow’d sweet Christ Himself.
Why did I not, disgusted by the perfidious world, plunge with refreshen’d appetite into those hellish orgies? I know not. Some almost dead, not quite extinguish’d lamp of good, perchance, prevented me; and I instead sought out Ilona.
I spoke to her as in far bygone days: “Sweet nurse . . . dear old lady, dost thou hear? Put by thy dreaming ways, and list. Nay, do not drowse—thou must needs hear me! I’ll give to thee a letter, which I’ll straightway indite, and this I charge thee carry to good King Matthias—ay, to His Majesty, Ilona! Dost grasp my words?”
The good old lady nodded; the clouds lifted from her eyes. “What kind of letter, child?” she ask’d.
“A document describing all heinous, dire iniquities that hath sprouted here like poisonous weeds. An humble, penitent confession of mine own part in them. A strong entreaty that His Majesty send troops to storm this castle and ensnare this whole foul company of demons! Such a letter shalt thou bear, Ilona.”
The old nurse strok’d my hand, as she was wont to do of yore. “Dear child,” she said, “my little babe, thou wilt be tried before stern judges, put to torture . . .”
“It is no matter. I yearn to be dismember’d on the rack, or disembowell’d, or burnt alive, to expiate my sins! No penance less will serve, Ilona; the time for pious mutterings of mea culpa is long past, it is too late! Thou must, dear nurse, do this thing for me!”
“Send thee, Elisabeth, to such judgement? . . .”
“’Twere best, Ilona. In thine own unblemish’d conscience, thou know’st it must be done.”
My old nurse said no more, but obediently awaited my writing of the letter. This I did; and seal’d it with the signets of both Bathory and Nadasdy; and put it in her hand; and watch’d her until she was safe away from Csejthe.
• • •
The rest Thou knowest, too, O Lord:
How clement Matthias grew outrag’d, and made Gyorgy Thurzo storm my castle on the very eve of the New Year; how those captives left alive were freed; how all my despicable minions were put in chains and carried off to trial; how all, save me, were put to death.
Ay, all save me: that mercy was as bitter gall to me, who crav’d atonement. I, who wish’d for rack and fire, wast but condemn’d to stay in solitude, wall’d here within my chamber for the remainder of my days—for even when the grisly truth was told, my cousin interceded for me, and my life and comfort spar’d.
In all this tainted record, in all this sorry blot on privilege and authority, is there not one redeeming ray? One good and golden thing to shine in Heaven’s book and expiate, in some small part, this race of man?
Verily, there is one. One who, from loyalty and love, could not endure to see me dragg’d before the seat of mortal judgement; one who, lest such a fate befall me, took all blame, all censure, all chastisement, said, “’Twas not the Countess brought these witches to the castle; nay, ’twas I, and only I.”
Too late I learn’d of dear Ilona’s act: of how she made her way to His Majesty’s court, was recogniz’d as my old nurse and so admitted, and how she then (having destroy’d my letter) told the King an host of horrid truths, and one unselfish lie: her false confession.
And, for that glorious sacrifice, which I neither desir’d nor deserv’d, the noble dame was grimly martyr’d: for though Ujvary, Thorko, Darvula, Otvos, and Barsovny were swift dispatch’d by the headsman’s axe, a most particular doom was meted out to those two thought the most despicable of that band: Dorottya and Ilona. Both luckless women (one a fiend, and one a blessed saint) were condemn’d to have their fingers, one by one, ripp’d off their hands, before they were conducted to the stake and burnt alive.
And soon I, too, will die, for I have left untouch’d for many days the food that has been brought me. Before I die, O Lord, I ask that I be granted but one boon:
I ask that Thou send cats—lean, vicious cats with teeth and claws as sharp as daggers—and set them on all pious souls who, when they knew full well what things were being done at Csejthe, sat idly by and mumbl’d orisons, and cross’d themselves, and did no other thing. On my too generous cousin, Thurzo, set these clawing beasts; on that o’ercautious priest down in the village, who water’d down his Christian zeal into an insipid broth; and on all others of their ilk, rain yellow-eyed, mad, scratching, squawling cats! Do this, O Lord, I beg!
And, if Thou dost, why, when I see Thee soon, I’ll thank Thee. For what should such an inky soul as mine do in the jasper halls of Heaven? I am so dipp’d in blood of innocents that my intolerable stench would cause the angels to stop up their nostrils at me! And so, instead, I have consign’d myself to Thee, for in Thy realm I am assur’d of welcome. I come, then, like a mistress, to Thy terrible Arms, and offer up mine own immortal soul to Thee—my Sovereign Lord, great Lucifer!
Thine own
Elisabeth
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Without exception, every person and place named in this story existed. The main lineaments of the narrative are reconstructed from events that did, in fact, occur. Elisabeth Bathory died, as close as can be determined, on August 21, 1614, in a walled-up apartment of Castle Csejthe, county of Nyitra, northwestern Hungary. After her death, the village priest testified that he had been savagely attacked by a multitude of cats which, after biting and scratching him severely, vanished like mist.
Comet Wine
I’m a bloodhound. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I’m a meticulous researcher, an untiring zealot, a ruthless bloodhound when pursuing facts. I’m not a professional musician, granted; not even a gifted amateur; but my fondness for music can’t be disputed and my personal fund of musical and musicological knowledge happens to be huge. All the more remarkable (wouldn’t you say?) that no catalog, no concert program, no newspaper file, no encyclopedia, no dictionary, no memoir, no interview, no history of music, no gravemarker has rewarded
my efforts by surrendering the name V. I. Cholodenko.
Such a person, it would seem, never existed. Or, if he did exist, became an Orwellian unperson who was whisked from this world as completely as were Ambrose Bierce, Judge Crater, or the passengers and crew of the Mary Celeste. I’m well aware of the transliteration problems regarding Russian names, and I’ve doggedly searched under the spellings Kholodenko, Tcholodenko, Tscholodenko, Shcholodenko and even Zholodenko, but to no avail. True, I haven’t had access to archives within the Soviet Union (my letters to Shostakovich and Khachaturian appear to have gone astray) but I’ve queried Russian musicians on tour in the United States, and to none of them is it a familiar name.
Its exclusive appearance is in a ribbon-tied bunch of old letters, crisp and desiccated, purchased last year by me, along with items of furniture and art, at a private auction of the effects of the late Beverly Hills attorney, Francis Cargrave. They had belonged to his grandfather, Sir Robert Cargrave, an eminent London physician, to whom they are addressed, and all were written, in elegant if somewhat epicene prose, by Lord Henry Stanton, a fashionable beau and minor poet of the period.
The curiosity, the enigma, lies in the fact that all the people mentioned in the three pertinent letters are real people, who lived, whose names and achievements are well-known—all, that is, but the name and achievements of Cholodenko. Even the briefly-mentioned Colonel Spalding existed, as will be noted later. Down to the most insignificant details—such as the color of his famous host’s eyeglasses—Lord Stanton’s letters can be substantiated (the only exceptions, again, being the references to the elusive Cholodenko).
Is the man a fabrication? Was Stanton the perpetrator of an elaborate hoax? If so, I can’t in all honesty understand why. The letters were written to his closest friend, a presumably sober pillar of the medical profession. Both men were no longer youngsters, and undergraduate pranks strike me as uncharacteristic of them.