The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale

by Reggie Oliver

  Vlad was more than usually silent as we walked back to the castle, but his step was light. Razendoringer sang; it was an ugly sound.

  They had come in an embassy from the Emperor to Xantho who was flatteringly addressed as “His Right Royal Cousin”, the purpose being to forge a defensive alliance against the Turk. Rudolph, it seemed, was prepared to pay Xantho gold to levy an army and keep Murad at bay in his own lands. Had Rudolph known of Xantho’s torpor and his lust for gold he would not have shown such generosity. But he was young enough to believe that liberality is a golden key that will open any door, however rusty the lock.

  By the evening of that day Razendoringer was already one of the best informed men in the castle on the subject of Rudolph’s embassy. I asked him what role the ladies were to play.

  “Count Cantemir’s wife,” said Razendoringer, “is of nobler blood than he. She is the Emperor’s cousin, and the Count owes his advancement to her. There is some talk of sealing the alliance through a marriage between Prince Mircea and her daughter, the Lady Rozelinda. As for the Lady Dolabella, her position after the death of Martok was a difficult one. But she found favour with the Countess Cantemir and especially her daughter. So it was decided to bring her as a gift to the Queen. God is gracious after all.”

  I smiled at his optimism. But perhaps he was right: better to thrive in the present and turn a blind eye to the future.

  That evening we all met in the Great Hall for a banquet and reception. The air was thick and hot from a hundred lighted torches. Vlad had put on his best clothes. He wore his red and black velvet almost with an air. His eyes shone whenever they turned towards the Lady Rozelinda. But she did not notice him. She gazed about her in wonder while her mother directed her attention towards the place where Prince Mircea was seated, flushed and laughing in peach satin, in a place of honour next to Count Cantemir.

  Concerning this Prince I must write what I was told by Razendoringer about the revenge of the kitchen maid whom he had raped. A few days after the banquet I had occasion to rebuke Mircea for being inattentive at his lessons. He looked worn and haggard. I asked if he was ill but he merely shook his head and stared out of the window. He did not even show pleasure when I was forced to punish his attendant Emeric. When I mentioned all this to Razendoringer he told me this story.

  “Last evening, some three days after the rape, the same kitchen maid put a note into Mircea’s hand. It told him that though she had cried out with pain when he assaulted her, that pain had been mixed with the most exquisite delight. For, she said, he was a great man in all senses of the word, but she was afraid to come to him. Could he not come to her? Her chamber was the third in the kitchen turret. Now Mircea was ignorant of the way these kitchen women lived, so he went and when he came, as requested, at midnight with his candle, he found the chamber Spartan enough but larger than he expected. And there was not one but many beds in the room.

  “Nevertheless only the kitchen maid was there and she rustled her blankets whispering for him to come. As her eagerness flattered him he was soon unbreeched and rampant. Seeing this she lifted her nightshirt and was spreading her legs to receive him when the door opened and in came another little kitchen maid.

  “‘What is this?’ said the Prince.

  “‘Pay no attention,’ said the first maid. ‘That is Marcia. She is also a kitchen maid. She shares my room. She will not disturb us. Come on, for I am very anxious to receive your caresses once again.’

  “A little abashed, the Prince embarked on his work and the kitchen maid began to moan with pleasure. But he noticed that Marcia was holding a candle over them, for the hot tallow was dripping onto his back. Then Marcia said:

  “‘Tell me, sister, is it pleasant, and is he a fine man?’

  “‘Oh, he is, Marcia. Truly, I am in paradise.’

  “‘Then let me join you there,’ said Marcia, and removing the few rags that made up her costume she leapt upon the bed and began caressing the Prince.

  “Now at this interruption Mircea lost for a moment the force of his desire, but presently the combined caresses of these two creatures began to work upon him. He became a man once more and began to relish the prospect of this double satisfaction. In truth, neither Marcia nor the maid were great beauties, but all’s one on a windy night in a castle turret.

  “Just as he was being brought to the pitch of excitement the door opened and in came another little kitchen maid.

  “‘Now who is this?’ said the Prince.

  “‘Pay no attention,’ said Marcia. ‘That is Badea. She is a kitchen maid. She also shares our room. She will not disturb us. Come on, for I have never known such a thrilling moment as this.’ The prince did his best and the girls gave out squeals of ecstasy, but presently he found Badea hanging over them with a candle in her hand.

  “‘What is happening?’ said Badea. ‘Is there pleasure afoot?’

  “‘Oh, yes,’ said Marcia. ‘We have been in ecstasy with this man.’

  “‘Then let me join you,’ said Badea. ‘For I cannot bear to miss any opportunity for enjoyment with my friends.’ And so she dropped her shift and clambered aboard.

  “The small plank bed was by this time a seething mass of naked humanity with Prince Mircea, already exhausted, at the bottom of it. Such was the combined weights of the prince and these hefty girls together with the vehemence of their struggle for pleasure that presently the bed collapsed and they all rolled onto the floor.

  “The Prince tried to escape, but the girls pinned him down. He cried aloud as their great breasts swung in his face and they struggled to mount him once again. With a supreme and, it must be admitted, valiant effort he revived his manhood and found himself in the grip of Badea who worked the bread ovens and was the strongest of the three.

  “But at this very moment, just as passion was returning, the door was flung open and a great monstrous shape filled the doorway. By the light of a lantern which she held to her face Mircea could see that it was a massive woman in her forties.

  “‘In the name of the Blessed Virgin of Snagov, who is this?’ cried the unhappy Prince.

  “‘Pay no attention,’ said Badea, not ceasing to bounce up and down on top of him. ‘That is only Gritsa, the cook. She also shares our room. She will not disturb us. Come on, bestir yourself, for I can feel you shrinking inside me.’

  “‘Girls!’ bellowed Gritsa from the door, ‘What is this? A feast in the dormitory and no shares for me! Is this fair? Is it for nothing that I allow you to gnaw the mutton bones before they are thrown to the dogs? Stand aside, for my husband was drowned four years ago and since then I have lived almost like a nun.’

  “So saying she began to cast off her clothes in every direction. She had on a great many garments and the process took some time during which she cursed and shouted at the girls who still continued their work.

  “Finally her huge bulk was divested of any encumbrance and, with a triumphant cry, she thrust aside her naked companions and hurled herself upon the exhausted prince. Now she had greater knowledge of the passions than the others and, under her instructions, the three girls and she kept themselves amused with Mircea until the small hours of dawn when they all dressed themselves again to attend to their kitchen duties.

  “Prince Mircea they left on the floor of their chamber in a state of anguished exhaustion.”

  This is the story that Razendoringer told me, and I have reason to believe it is true since, for upwards of four months, Mircea was thought by the court ladies to be a chaste and reformed character. But the kitchen staff knew better.

  XIII

  But this is of no real consequence. What is, I now must tell you, because on the evening of the banquet, having had perhaps a little too much wine, I felt bold and decided to see what I could discover behind the secret door in the library.

  The feasting in the main hall was still in its infancy at midnight when I left as quietly as possible as the ladies took their leave. Xantho, I knew, could go on eating and drinking
till dawn; but Cantemir was already pale with exhaustion. Pausing only to take up a great branched candlestick from the kitchen gallery, I made for the room in Glem’s Tower. When I reached the library, without daring to pause for thought, I went to the fireplace and turned the hand of the hag with the head of the dog. The wall of the inglenook moved back. Putting a large book in the way of the stone door to prevent it from accidentally sliding shut, I took up my candlestick again and entered.

  A flight of stone steps led upwards. The masonry here was smooth and of the highest quality; its surface so polished that it dimly reflected the light of my candles. I noticed that there was very little dust about. At the top of the steps I found a wooden door with a great ring handle of iron, richly wrought. I half hoped the door would be locked and that my researches would end there. But I turned the ring and the latch rose easily on the other side. I had a feeling that the door had been recently used.

  Beyond the door there was a series of small interconnecting chambers. The thing of which I was most immediately aware was an overpowering odour. The place reeked of decay and disintegration. As I looked round I saw the visible evidence of it. I was in a sort of lobby or anteroom, most lavishly furnished. A Levantine Turkish rug was on the floor, its rich colours misted over with dust. Great hangings drooped in tatters from the walls. I was startled by a terrible scrabbling noise, only to find it was mice gouging a little city for themselves out of a divan.

  I went into the second room, and there in the centre was a great bed. It was roofed with a vast canopy of grey velvet dripping with golden thread. Moths and other creatures had gnawed great holes in its draperies so it looked as if the bed was enmeshed in the web of a gigantic spider. Sheets and pillows were on the bed, the clothes slightly rumpled. Were it not for the dust you might have thought that someone had just got out of it.

  The next room was a dining room and even thicker with dust. The table was made of various marbles in the Italian pietra dura style, its surface, still visible under the grime, a dazzling patterned mosaic of colour.

  Silver plates and jugs, much tarnished, stood on the table. At one end of the room was a magnificent cupboard, made from all kinds of wood, with rustic scenes fashioned out of gilt and tortoiseshell on the doors. The doors opened up to reveal the miniature facade of a house in the new Italian style with pillars and pilasters, rusticated masonry on the lower range and a wonderfully carved pediment depicting Neptune in his chariot drawn by sea-horses and surrounded by conch-blowing Tritons. All this was in ivory, gilded here and there, with the windows made from the finest Venetian glass. The doors all opened to reveal spaces for keepsakes or old letters. Sections of the building could be pulled out as drawers by means of tiny golden knobs, and these drawers were filled with jewels of every kind, some loose, others made up into ornaments, and a hoard of gold and silver coins. I drew back from the sight, half afraid I might be tempted by these riches. I had a feeling that they were protected from theft by more than my own scruples.

  Above the cupboard was a picture in an octagonal wooden frame. It was the half-length of a woman dressed in the style of fifty years past. I say dressed, but she was so covered in jewels and chains that, one could barely see the silks and velvets beneath. The face was white, the lips red, and perfectly formed while in the green eyes the painter had captured an expression of malign suspicion. They seemed to glitter in the candlelight and follow one about the room.

  At the end of this suite of rooms was a door of wood, braced and ornamented with iron. It had a great iron catch which lifted easily enough. On smooth, uncreaking hinges the door swung inwards. I stepped into the next room which was vast, with a coldness about it quite unlike the others.

  I knew that I must be in the bathhouse of the Old Queen’s apartments. I hardly had time to gaze on the Eastern sumptuousness of its marble and mosaic before a cold gust of wind from somewhere blew out my candles. I cursed myself for not bringing a lantern. I applied flint and tinder to the candles, but each time they were blown out. Then another blast of wind blew the door shut behind me.

  The bang of the door was like a cannon shot and the sound reverberated for what seemed like minutes. I knew terror as I had never known it before, like a great marble fist thumping my chest. Shaking and retching, I felt my way back to the door, murmuring little prayers like a child. I found the door, but it was shut fast and there was no way of opening it on this side. I tore my nails, scrabbling at the merciless oak, I screamed and whimpered and banged till I was wet with blood and tears and perspiration.

  For a time — I do not know how long — I was no better than a wild beast caught in a trap, and I only stopped shrieking finally out of exhaustion. If I had had the means to do so I would have killed myself. Even now I blush at the things I thought and screamed aloud in my agony, and I wonder if God can ever forgive me for my blasphemies. The only excuse that I offer is that my terror drove me a little mad, and so perhaps did the almost palpable evil of this place.

  Once my emotions were spent, I felt a kind of calm coming to me. My senses were sharpened. I could see absolutely nothing as the place was pitch dark, but I could hear, feel and smell with great intensity. I felt again the cold blast of wind which had deprived me of light, then blown the door in my face.

  Well, I thought, if there is wind in the place, there must be some aperture through which it comes. I got up and began to walk around the bathhouse, keeping close to the walls. Many times I stopped, held my breath and listened. Had I heard something other than the sound I made? Was it a quiet, breathy, almost imperceptible snicker of laughter? The walls were damp and once or twice I touched patches of slime. My feet slid gingerly over the floor in case I should meet with some obstacle. Once I tripped against something which rattled. I fell and, stretching out my right hand to protect my fall I touched an object hard and round which rolled away. I stretched out again to grasp the thing. It had large holes in it. Some of its surface was smooth, some of it cracked and ragged. Then further down there were two rows of smaller objects like pebbles... Or teeth. My hand recoiled from the skull in horror. I picked it up and hurled it from me. It gave me an odd satisfaction to hear the thing smash like an earthenware vase against a wall.

  Twice I went round those walls. The first time I seemed to come across a door and rejoiced. But no, it was the door that had closed on me. I confirmed my fears with a second tour. Then again I wanted to scream curses at my God and die. I think I was closer to madness then than I have ever been, but something in me fought against it silently in the dark. I humbly invoked my God and slowly the urge to madness weakened, then it vanished as if it had never been. No victory was greater; none has left me more dispiritedly in possession of the field.

  I became convinced, I do not know how, that God could not leave me to die in this absurd situation. I found also that I had lost all fear of the horror of the place. Let the Old Queen do her worst! I almost said it aloud, but then reflected that it would be tempting fate to do so.

  I remembered that I had not yet located the source of the breeze and began to walk about feeling for it with my hands in front of me. The impression that I received was that it came up from somewhere. But it arrived in gusts so that I had difficulty in following it to its source. Nevertheless my attention was so fixed on feeling and hearing this one thing that I began to track it like a hound on a scent.

  It was then that my eagerness betrayed me. As I began to feel this blast of air I stepped forward confidently and my foot met vacancy. I threw myself backwards and so just managed to prevent myself from falling into the sunken basin of the bathhouse. My caution returned. I crawled to the edge of the basin and let myself down into it.

  The draught seemed to be coming from the floor of the basin which was dry and had no trace of water in it, but though I was walking cautiously my foot nearly betrayed me again. Part of the tiled base of the bath had given way and a hollow space underneath was exposed. The base of the pool was held up by brick pillars some two feet high. Evident
ly it had been heated in the ancient Roman manner by hot air from a furnace underneath. I climbed down into the spaces under the basin where there was just room enough to crawl. If there had been a furnace under there, there would have been doors from which the fire was fed. It must have been from these that the breeze was coming. In retrospect it was a small hope that I would be able to get through those doors, but it was the only hope I had.

  I had to clear much debris before I began my journey under the bath and through the forest of brick pillars that supported it. Afraid that the floor above me might collapse I moved gingerly. Even so, my head frequently bumped against the pillars which also helped to divert the course of the breeze so that there were times when it seemed to be coming from two directions at once.

  It might have been an hour, or more, or less — my situation robbed me of all sense of time — before I ran up against a wall. I could have been going in circles for a long time before I met it. I worked my way along its brick surface, feeling carefully for any kind of door or aperture. I felt every crevice of the brick for a breath of wind. At last I could hear its whistling and moaning more distinctly. My hopes rose, but also my fears. I realized that I would soon know if there was a way of escape or not. Then my hands touched a pair of rusty metal plates under which the draught was blowing. These were the oven doors of the hypocaust. Would they open inwards or outwards?

  I pushed and they made no movement. There was no way of gripping them from the inside. With all the power that was available to me in that confined space I heaved my shoulder against the metal. For my pains I was deluged by an invisible but choking fall of dust and plaster. Even now the whole floor could collapse on top of me and I could die. Yet I fancied that the metal door had moved a little.