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

by Reggie Oliver

  The following day I took my charges out to read Horace in the woods. We read from the Odes. It refreshed us to think of the little spring of Bandusia — brighter than crystal! — that the poet celebrates, bubbling away in the peaceful Roman Campagna. I lay back, knowing the words by heart, in a little glade by a pool, and allowed my pupils to translate for me:

  “You shall be numbered with far-famed fountains;

  My verse shall sing of the oak that hangs over you

  Brushing its leaves in the stream that leaps out

  From the cavern that covers your birth... .”

  I must have fallen asleep, but the sleep came as a mercy. My nights had been too long the prey of anxious thoughts about wars and exile. The sun was bright and slanted through the trees causing the earth to give off a rich, humid odour. We were protected from wind here and deliciously warm.

  When I awoke I looked around and discovered that my charges were no longer studying Horace. I looked down into the hollow beside which I had been sleeping and there saw a strange scene. In a thicket stood Vlad, his back to me, hiding his face, quite naked. On the edge of the pool Rozelinda was undressing. She was nearly naked now, just untying her bodice to reveal a shape which would have been perfect in itself if it had not promised even greater perfection.

  No nymph by an Italian master was more smoothly or more sweetly formed, no Aphrodite in Parian marble was more nobly proportioned. Her back was turned to me and as she bent to remove her last garment and put it on the bank beside the pool, new and harmonious curves bent and unbent with the slow, disciplined rhythm of a sensuous dance. Yet every move was utterly without conscious art.

  Slowly she began to move down into the pool. The still, sunlit water rose to her ankles, then her calves, then cut her off sharply at her rounded thighs. She went in deeper and half turned, revealing those exquisitely formed, though not fully matured, breasts, then she began to swim, slowly, with great wide confident movements of her arms. Smooth ripples began to course towards the bank. She called to Vlad who turned and ran down the bank to join her in the water. He entered it quickly, but with as little noise as possible, casting an anxious look in my direction. Instantly I lay back and feigned sleep.

  I closed my eyes and heard faint laughter and splashes and giggles. To this sound I once more fell into an enchanted sleep. It may not have been long, for when I awoke I heard them talking in low voices. They were still in the water.

  “Let me see you,” said Vlad.

  “No,” she replied. “You promised to turn your back and not look.” They were facing each other, about three yards apart, only their heads showing above the water.

  “I only asked.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

  “How could I be disappointed?” Then he added irrationally: “We may never see each other again.”

  “I told you not to say that.”

  “But you’re leaving tomorrow. What will happen to us?” There was a pause.

  “Swim with me to the edge of the pool. Do not speak.” Covertly I watched them take lazy strokes towards the bank. Rozelinda went a little ahead.

  Then she commanded Vlad to halt. She stood up. The water was lapping just below her knees. The water glistened on her white skin which had slightly roughened into goose pimples from the cold. In the melting sunlight of evening her skin seemed gilded and lit from within. In that moment she was Venus born in the waves by Paphos, or perhaps a woodland Diana, untouched by man. Vlad gasped.

  “It is more than I ever could have expected,” he said. “This is the most beautiful moment of my life.” Rozelinda looked at him curiously.

  “Just because you have seen me as I am?” Vlad made a move towards her.

  “Stay where you are!” Vlad stopped.

  “Don’t you want to see me?” he asked.

  “I know what men look like,” she said, squeezing dry a wet lock of hair.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  “You make me feel so.”

  “No. You are.” Rozelinda looked round to see if I was still sleeping and I managed to deceive her.

  “Well,” she said. “It’s beginning to get cold.”

  “May I touch you?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “I could force myself on you.”

  “I could scream.”

  “I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t do anything more than touch you. For the last time.”

  “Come here then.”

  He came to her. At first they held each other closely and rather awkwardly, then he backed away from her. She looked at him and smiled. He blushed. Then he knelt down in the water in front of her and laid a hand gently on her stomach. She held it there for a moment. Then he came forward and bowed his head on her breasts. He began to sob convulsively.

  She held him and stroked his hair while the hot tears ran down her body. I turned away from this sight and slept again. When I awoke they were studying the Regulus ode with apparent diligence. This had been their farewell, for when the Count and his retinue left under escort the following day Vlad was nowhere to be seen. He hid himself somewhere in the castle for three days after their departure, then emerged, red-eyed and staring, with a strange look on his face. I could not fathom it at first, but, catching him in an unguarded moment when he thought he was alone in the library, I knew at once. It was rage, white hot, but held in an iron vice of self-control.

  That day Ragul arrived from the battle. The Turkish army’s progress had been slow as it takes time for half a million men to move with supplies and heavy guns. Ragul’s troops had managed to delay progress even further by raid and ambush, but a pitched battle had been out of the question. More troops were needed.

  The King in council gnawed his lip. He was reluctant to let more men go. He needed them to defend his stronghold at Castle Dracula. Here, he reckoned, they could hold out for at least a year, if not indefinitely.

  He allowed Ragul to demand from the boyars a number of their serfs to be pressed into service and even gave commands that the boyars themselves should join Ragul’s staff, but this he did to annoy Ragul rather than assist him. Xantho began to conduct even the most confidential of state business in the Great Hall, and would not allow Ragul to see him alone, distrust of his commander having grown during the weeks he had been away. Had there been anyone to replace Ragul he would have done so, but there was no-one either willing or able. Trapped by circumstance and his own suspicions Xantho conducted his councils of war in a desultory way and needed regular distractions. If discussion became too intense he would torment a boyar, or ask Razendoringer about his wedding night. Several of us were always on hand to relieve his anxiety in some way, and so it happened that, on the last occasion before Ragul left again for the war, many of us, including myself and Prince Vladimir, were present to hear vital matters being discussed.

  Ragul was requesting that he might be allowed to take with him at least a detachment of the Castle Guard to help instil some order into the raw recruits that he had mustered. Xantho was trying delaying tactics, saying that he would send some on later, when, quite unexpectedly, Vlad interrupted. He stood before the King announcing that he wished to go to the war and that he would ride to it with the Castle Guard.

  I saw still that look of contained anger in his face: such feelings as he now had could only scorn death and he had abandoned fear because he had abandoned hope. I think he looked on death in battle as a way of getting revenge for the loss of his love. Alexander smiled and the Queen turned pale but remained silent. Xantho looked at the young Prince in astonishment.

  “I have no objection to the Prince accompanying me, provided that he does not get in my way,” said Ragul. “And I am sure that Prince Mircea too will want to show his prowess against the heathen invader.”

  Mircea turned red but he was quick enough to realize that he had been issued with a challenge that he must take up. He stepped forward trying unsuccessfully to assume an air of quiet casualness, but he was a po
or dissembler.

  “Of course I will go. But surely my brother is too young.”

  “I am not!” shouted Vlad at the top of his voice. I saw the Queen his mother start forward and the King hold her back.

  “They shall both go,” he said, “but under supervision.”

  “Dr. Bellorius shall go with them,” said Alexander, as quickly as possible to forestall further discussion, “and the dwarf shall be their squire.”

  I do not know what malice prompted this last suggestion, but it earned a sharp look from Xantho who nevertheless nodded his assent. Then he rose and began to hurry towards his private apartments so as to insure that there would be no more troublesome decisions that day. And so it came about that I and Razendoringer went to war against the army of the Grand Turk.

  Verney was to remain behind. He had become a favourite of Alexander’s and was engaged in his usual practice of promising wonders. To Xantho he promised a means of making gold; Alexander he enchanted by entering into his love of devices. He was no longer attached to me since he had become a figure in his own right with his own loyalties and favourites, and he was not, if he ever had been, on my side.

  The days spent preparing to leave were distressing for me chiefly because of the agony of the Lady Dolabella. She pleaded with me to get her husband discharged from warlike duties, making these overtures to me without the knowledge of her husband who was stoically resigned to his fate.

  I tried my best, but my efforts, as I expected, were met with scorn. Whenever I saw the dwarfs together, she clinging onto him, he trying to comfort her by seeming to be hopeful of the future, my heart was torn. I knew that together their lives could have some dignity and meaning. Separated, they once more became rootless freaks set down in an alien court to entertain jaded appetites.

  My last resort was the Queen. It took some skill to outmanoeuver Alexander and see her alone. I first requested an interview with both the King and Queen to discuss the continuation of their sons’ education on campaign. Xantho, as I expected, said that he was too preoccupied to deal with such trivialities, but that I might discuss the matter with Her Majesty.

  Alexander raised the objection that this would be improper, which Xantho brushed aside. Then Alexander said that he needed to be present at such a meeting. Xantho looked at him curiously.

  “Why?” he asked. “Have you not more important things to do?” Alexander had no reply. He bowed and looked at me fiercely, as if threatening reprisals were anything to come of our conference.

  I was ushered into the presence of the Queen by Otrud, who was doing duty as her lady in waiting, and found Her Majesty sitting in a small chamber, evidently designed for her personal use. It was richly hung, but the furniture was spare and the ornaments few. A beautiful crystal jug full of water, with a silver basin beside it, stood on a chest. Against one wall was a prayer stool, above which was a crucifix of wood, crudely carved in the Transylvanian style. In a corner I saw another wooden statue, this time of the Madonna, black with age. The face was coarsely rendered, heavy and powerful like an old peasant woman. It was quite a shock to one who had become used to the delicate Virgins of the Italians, or those of the Dutch School, intense, febrile, refined. It spoke of a faith that was ancient and reposed in the common people’s heart, rather than in the splendid institutions of the West. Below the Madonna’s statue was a narrow wooden box, open, in which rested a leather scourge.

  Religion did not play a significant part in the life of the castle and this was the first time I had encountered it in such a strong form.

  Somehow the room reeked of a severe and inward-looking faith. It reminded me that I had neglected my devotions and that I might be facing death sooner than I thought. What had I done to make my peace?

  As I reflected on this, I stood quite still, waiting for the Queen to speak, but she also remained silent, in no hurry to begin the discussion, while Otrud fidgeted. Then the Queen dismissed her with a wave and Otrud left, not without favouring me with a secret nod and a smile.

  “What have you come for?” asked the Queen. I began my prepared speech about continuing the education of her sons on campaign, but she stopped me impatiently. She repeated her question. There was a pause, then I explained the case of Razendoringer about whom she seemed sympathetic, but in a distant way. It is often the case with religiously inclined people that as they begin to grow indifferent to their own fate, they feel entitled to show an equal carelessness about the fate of others.

  “You must know,” she said, “that what little influence I have is gone. And what is more, you know why. I have only myself to blame.” She looked down at her feet. Was I wrong in thinking that she took a secret pleasure in her guilt, a pleasure that she would not even admit to herself? I bowed and turned to go, but she ordered me to wait. There was another silence.

  “Ragul tells me that you are to be trusted.” I wondered how he had come to that conclusion, as I thought that he merely despised me. I nodded. “I have not long to live. The King will find a way to cause my death very soon. He knows everything.”

  “Everything!”

  “I have sinned. I confessed to him. It was the only way to redress the balance.”

  “What about Ragul?”

  “He has sinned too. He must fend for himself. He may live as long as he is useful to my husband. But I am of no use to anyone.”

  “Your grace—”

  “Don’t be foolish, doctor. All of us tire of life in the end, some of us earlier than others. I shall be happy to die. If I am taken before the Turk comes, so much the better. But if God pleases to make a martyr of me at the hands of the infidel, I shall embrace the agony of it with joy.”

  “But your sons—”

  “Yes. I was coming to them. You think I care very little for them—” I said nothing. The truth is, I had not given the question any thought. “No! Do not deny it. But I do. I live for them. Every moment! Every day I am on my knees praying for them.”

  I nodded, trying to hide my scepticism. Even as she prepared to die, I thought, she was building a web of comfortable illusions about her.

  “The King never let me see them. He tore them away from me as soon as they were born. Perhaps I should have been stronger, but you don’t know my husband. He is a man of violence. He knows no law. So they never came to love me as I loved them. For that I will always feel guilty.”

  I knew that I was expected to say that she had no cause to reproach herself, or some such phrase, but it stuck in my throat. The Queen’s delicate fingers drummed on the arm of her throne for a moment, then she went on. Her fine, worn features had assumed an air of exhausted resignation.

  “But I want you to watch over them for me. Will you do that?” She smiled at me and tried to exude a sort of wintry charm. For my part, I was so disgusted by her performance that my face remained as dumb and blank as an egg. After all, what had I been doing all these months but trying to watch over them? I nodded assent.

  “Thank you. You have taken a great weight off my mind.” She smiled again, and this time my heart did warm a little to her obvious sadness. She looked at me and was gratified by my look of sympathy. There was a moment of indecision, then she took a parchment, tied and sealed, from her bosom.

  “When I die — and it cannot be long now —” she said, “I want you to promise to give my son Vladimir this parchment. Unopened, of course!” She must have noticed my look of indignation, for she smiled and said. “I need not have said that.” I took the parchment, bowed and left

  It did occur to me that she might have been less confiding had she known of my ignominious hiding place under the Old Queen’s bed. Other thoughts about her troubled me; like her escape into the valley of illusion, and the way in which, before I had even left, she had turned her attention towards the statue of the Transylvanian Madonna and the scourge lying in the little box below it.

  I went to the library and hid the parchment in a secret place, behind the dullest volume in the whole library, the “De Nup
tiis Philologiae et Mercurii” of Martianus Capella. I only wish now that I had been indolent enough to forget it, or unscrupulous enough to read and then destroy it. I might then have saved my charge from a slow damnation, and thousands from undeserved agony and death.

  XIX

  Ragul had been with his armies for some days when Mircea, Vlad, Razendoringer and I left the Castle to join him. We were accompanied by an escort of no more than fifty mounted palace guards. Xantho had wanted to send us with less, but the Queen’s pleas had for once prevailed. I think there was a mixture of relief and pain in all of us on leaving the Castle. There was a lightness in the spring air as we trotted down the mountainside away from Castle Dracula so that for a moment we quite forgot our anxiety about the coming conflict. The truth is, none of us knew what war was; we were fearless from inexperience and lack of imagination.

  Stanislaus captained the escort and we were glad of his knowledge. He moved us on towards Ragul’s camp with a seemingly unnecessary caution, but from what we later learnt about the Sultan’s army this circumspection was warranted. Of all the armies in the world that of the Grand Turk is the best supplied with intelligence and its movements, though slow, are finely calculated.

  For some days we wound down the Borgo Pass and through the foothills of the Carpathians. They were to be our last days of innocence as far as war was concerned. As soon as we came into the fertile plains around Bistritsa we began to see its effects.

  Fortunately we carried food with us and did not need to forage, because it seemed unlikely that the inhabitants would have shown us much hospitality. Those we saw, usually either very old or very young, looked pitifully starved. In their pinched faces you could see a deep resentment against their defenders who had raped the countryside of men for their battles and of supplies for their armies.