The Dracula Papers
Book I: The Scholar’s Tale
The Dracula Papers
Book I: The Scholar’s Tale
Reggie Oliver
Chômu Press
The Dracula Papers
Book I: The Scholar’s Tale
by Reggie Oliver
Published by Chômu Press, MMXI
The Dracula Papers, Book 1: The Scholar’s Tale copyright © Reggie Oliver 2010
The right of Reggie Oliver to be identified as Author of this
Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published in January 2011 by Chômu Press.
by arrangement with the author.
All rights reserved by the author.
First Kindle Edition
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Design and layout by: Bigeyebrow, Reggie Oliver and Chômu Press
E-mail: [email protected]
Internet: chomupress.com
Dedication
For Anthony Christian and Marian Fannon
great artists, great friends
“Oliver’s ability to create a sense of time and place in every one of these stories is exemplary.... As a work of spiritual terror it has few peers.... Thomas Ligotti and Matt Cardin are the only authors writing today who equal the assurance demonstrated by the author of this tale in ripping away the veil separating mundane reality from the shrieking abyss it conceals... The Dreams of Cardinal Vittorini is unquestionably brilliant.”
Jim Rockhill, All Hallows
“Oliver’s sharp eye for character and ear for dialogue never desert him.... Reggie Oliver rediscovers many if not all the qualities which make the English Ghost Story classic.”
Ramsey Campbell, Dark Horizons
“Reggie Oliver has a controlled and vivid wit, a precise eye and ear for style, and a powerful sense of the strange.... an infernally talented writer.”
Roger Johnson, All Hallows
Contents
Introduction by Reggie Oliver
Foreword by Abraham Van Helsing
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Three years ago I was in the Czech Republic at a place called Duchov, researching for a biography of Casanova. The great eighteenth-century adventurer spent the last years of his life in the castle of Dux (or Duchov) as librarian to Count Waldstein. It was there that he wrote his Histoire de ma Vie, the masterpiece of autobiography known to the world as the Memoirs of Casanova. Naturally I studied what original Casanova manuscripts remained at the castle, but I also decided to examine all the books in the library dating from Casanova’s time. I was looking particularly for volumes which had once belonged to him. It was known that Casanova came to Dux with a substantial library of his own and that these were almost certainly absorbed into the collection at Dux on his death.
It was a huge task, but full of interest. I discovered a number of volumes which had undoubtedly belonged to Casanova. Some had his usual signature, “Casanova de Seingalt”, scrawled in sepia ink over the title page; some even contained notes in his handwriting. Many of the books testified to his lifelong interest in the occult, and one in particular, a quarto edition of Aldo Sinesius’s De Conjuratione (Antwerp, 1567), was very well thumbed and annotated. But imagine my excitement when, turning to the back cover, I found, inserted into a sort of pocket in the binding, a few sheets of manuscript paper unquestionably in Casanova’s own hand.
It is the sort of discovery that every researcher dreams about. I was quite alone in the library. I could have put those pages into my briefcase there and then and walked out with them, though in fact I was not remotely tempted to do so. It was late in the afternoon; soon I would be turned out of the library by the curator and forced to drive the six miles back to my dreary hotel. I began to read frantically, making as I did so a rough translation. Here it is:
There have been many who professed knowledge of ars goetica (the magic art) but most of these were scoundrels and charlatans, and ignorant ones at that. The whole of Paris wondered at Saint-Germain who professed to be two hundred years old and who claimed that no food passed his lips. I knew him at once for what he was, an impostor, for, as the saying goes, “it takes one fox to smell another”, and I have to say in all modesty that though the soi-disant Count de Saint-Germain imposed upon King Louis himself, I was the subtler fox and possessed a deeper knowledge of the occult arts.
I have in my life met few people with a knowledge of these things equal to mine, and only one with a deeper understanding. It came about during my time in Paris in this way.
On a November evening in the year 1762 I was sheltering from the rain in the doorway of the Café de la Régence. I did not wish to go in for I was waiting for the carriage of the Marquise de M. to pass by. The Marquise was being most jealously watched over by the good Marquis and his spies, and the only way we could celebrate a mutual passion undetected was in my lady’s coach on the way to the opera. Be that as it may... I shall record my dealings with the Marquise de M. at some other time. As I was waiting I was approached by a tall thin figure of a man wearing a cloak. He began to engage me in conversation and, reluctant as I was — for my brain was seething with anticipations of my encounter with the Marquise — I responded with as much courtesy as I could muster.
Was I Monsieur de Casanova? I was. The gentleman apologised for thus forcing his company upon me, but he had heard my name mentioned in connection with a divination system using a cabbalistic pyramid of numbers.
He wore a heavy tricorn hat laced with gold, and his face was further obscured by the shadow of the doorway, but I could tell that it was long and thin, the skin waxy and of a strange pallor. It was a face which seemed to lack all animation save for the eyes, which not only glittered but — I could have sworn — glowed in the darkness. His address was most courteous — clearly that of a gentleman — and he introduced himself as the Baron de Caulard; but though he spoke French with the fluency of a native, and an educated one at that, there was some indefinably alien element in his accent.
We were soon deep in conversation. His knowledge of every branch of the occult arts was astonishing. I had supposed that my numerical system of divination using a cabbalistic pyramid was my own invention, but he pointed out that a very similar scheme had been devised by Ramon Lull in his Ars Notoria more than four centuries before, a fact which I have since verified. He suggested various improvements and amplifications to my method which I later incorporated to very good effect. So absorbing was our con
versation that I quite forgot about the rain, and almost about my exquisite Marquise de M.
Her coach arrived and stopped on the other side of the street, opposite the Café de la Régence. Hastily I invited the Baron to come to me the next day so that we could continue our discussion. He said that he was occupied during the day but asked if he might come the following night. I agreed and darted across the road to meet my inamorata. On reaching the coach I looked back, but the Baron was gone.
When I stepped into the coach I found my Marquise in a frenzy of excitement. By the soft glow of the lanterns in the carriage I could see that her pretty face was suffused with the blush of eager passion. As soon as the door was shut and the vehicle was in motion our fevered hands began to explore the tenderest and most intimate parts of each other’s anatomies. Strangely enough however, perhaps because my mind was still full of the Baron and his conversation, my desire failed to manifest itself in its usual physical way. I could see the disappointment in her face as her fingers found that the object of her longing was only partially awake. My distress was equal to hers, but with a supreme effort of mind I hurled all thoughts of the Baron aside. This was assisted by a sudden lurch of the carriage which threw the Marquise and her petticoats into the most divine confusion, so that I was able to catch a glimpse of... But I must give details of this episode elsewhere.
The following night I waited for the Baron with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension, for, though I had found his conversation unusually fascinating, there had been something repellent about the man. On a number of occasions during our first encounter he had put his face very close to mine in order to impress some point or other. I had found this peculiarly disquieting, especially when I felt his breath upon my cheek; it was as cold as ice.
I did not know when he would arrive, but I had my servant prepare a cold supper with a bottle of my best wine in the front upper chamber. I myself took up a book, half hoping that he would not come to me. I did not notice the passing of time, for the fire and the candlelight made me drowsy and the book, a volume of Ariosto, was one I knew almost by heart. Near midnight my senses were suddenly alerted into full consciousness. I listened but I heard no sound; nevertheless something drew me to the window and, looking down into the street, I saw a figure in a long cloak and a gold laced tricorn hat. It was the Baron. Not wishing to rouse my servant, I went downstairs myself and opened the door to him.
He came into my house as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be thus welcomed. We sat down together, but he would take no food or drink. We talked of many things, on all of which he spoke with great knowledge and keen insight. On the wars against the Ottoman Turk he spoke with peculiar fervour and described battles which had taken place two centuries ago in such lively detail that I almost believed he had been present at them. When we touched on the subject of magic he gave me a formula for winning at Faro, based on the so-called “Devil’s Number”. I have since used this formula on two occasions and won large sums as a result, but, as these successes were both immediately followed by periods of acute personal misfortune, I have never used it since.
Knowing no better at the time, I was most grateful to the Baron for the secrets he had revealed to me and asked if I could show him any kindness in return. I expected some polite demur on this point and was surprised when he expressed his desire for a reciprocal favour in the clearest possible terms.
“I understand,” he said, “that you are acquainted with a Madame V and that you are partners with her in a certain business venture.”
“You are very well informed,” I replied in a tone of irony to which however he appeared not to be susceptible.
“I am told,” he went on, “that the lady in question has a select clientele, acquired always by means of a personal introduction?” I nodded my assent. “And that she is able to supply her clients with untainted goods, by which I mean young persons who are virgins?”
I acknowledged that this was true, and he accordingly demanded an introduction to Madame V as his favour.
Readers of the History of my Life will be well acquainted with my many vices, but they will also know that the wanton debauchery of the innocent is not one of them. It yields little pleasure save that of cruelty and leaves behind nothing but remorse. I know naturally that Madame V catered for such depraved tastes as the Baron’s, but I flattered myself that my association with her was purely commercial and therefore separated from some of the more vicious practices of her trade. For the first time I began to be ashamed of my connection with her.
Nonetheless I agreed to help him, and no action in my entire life have I come to regret more bitterly.
The moment I had consented the Baron rose to his feet, making no secret of his eagerness to leave. We had talked for some hours and dawn was approaching. I asked if he would not stay and take some breakfast with me, but he refused and I saw something like fear pass across those icily impassive features. Pausing only to secure an agreement that we should meet at the same time the following night, he was out of the room, down my stairs and into the street like the wind. Looking from my window, I caught a glimpse of him as he ran away down the road with astonishing speed. With his cloak billowing out behind him he seemed almost to glide, like some monstrous bird of prey, or a bat.
The following night, true to my word — though more out of some nameless fear than from honour — I took him with me to Madame V’s establishment. Having effected the introduction, I left him there and never saw him again; but not long after I was forced to see the work he had done... [There followed three lines in the manuscript which had been scored out by some heavy strokes of the pen and were therefore illegible, then the handwriting became more erratic and I could just make out the following:] ...the girl was no more than thirteen years of age but as white as marble and somewhat withered, as if all the blood had been drained from her. Others were found in a similar condition, all protégées of Madame V. The long and the short of it was that some of the blame for these atrocious crimes fell upon me and I was compelled in the end to take ship for England.
If the solemn dictates of Reason did not decree otherwise, I might believe that this self-styled Baron de Caulard — for naturally no such title ever existed in the register of nobility — was the very Devil himself. Certainly he had better claims than that charlatan Saint-Germain to have hidden powers and to know the secrets of the grave. And when I come to my own grave, as I fear I shall soon, may my Creator have mercy and not send me to the place from which this Baron surely came.
Here the manuscript ended. The fragment is of interest to the Casanova scholar in particular because it helps to explain why he abruptly left France for England in June 1763. Up till now this had been something of a mystery. Readers of his memoirs will know that it was from this ill-fated visit to our shores that Casanova dated the decline in his fortunes.
My excitement at the discovery of these papers was slightly dampened when I turned over the last page of the manuscript and found some writing in another, later hand. It ran as follows:
“Could this be D? Van Helsing’s papers, published and unpublished, should confirm. A.S. 1898.”
A.S. was undoubtedly the minor poet and critic Arthur Symons, thought by some to be the model for Max Beerbohm’s Enoch Soames. Symons had visited Dux in 1898 and, while there, discovered two new chapters of Casanova’s Memoirs as well as some letters. One can only speculate why he did not also release this fragment to the world.
The reference to Van Helsing suggested to me that the “D” in question was none other than Dracula, and my guess was corroborated by the fact that the Baron’s name “Caulard” was an anagram for Dracula. Students of the Cabbala will know the mystical significance of preserving one’s identity by using the letters of one’s name in a different order.
But I was baffled. Everyone knows that Dracula is the fictional creation of Bram Stoker, and yet here was his contemporary, Arthur Symons pretending that he was real. Symons, as far as I know, was never
acquainted with Stoker, though they were both in London during the 1890’s and had some mutual acquaintances. Symons’s friends, though, were more exclusively literary. Symons admittedly suffered from mental illness later in life, but why should he forge a document so convincingly, then hide it away in the back of a book? I had no doubt at the time of the genuineness of the document. Perhaps this Caulard had nothing to do with “Dracula”, though everything seemed to point to it.
But this was not the only mystery. When I returned to the library at Dux the following day and took down again the quarto of Aldo Sinesius’s De Conjuratione I could find no trace of the manuscript. The pocket in the back cover was there, but it was empty. Did I imagine it all? Did I spend several hours translating a document that existed only in my imagination? Had the manuscript been stolen, and if so why and how and by whom? These questions kept turning and turning in my head, so that any further work became impossible. How could I prove it existed? The scholars would laugh at me. How could I trust myself?
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