Captain Vampire

by Marie Nizet

  The Rumanian ladies were wearing dresses made in Paris, modified to suit the tastes of Bucharest–which is not the same thing as good taste. They were admirably beautiful, to be sure, these quasi-Oriental women, and the sight of them drew enthusiastic exclamations from the Russians, but how much lovelier they would have been if they had only been able to leave their family jewels–which sparkled in their hair, on their arms, in the pleats of their skirts, and even in the satin laces of their dancing-slippers–in their caskets!

  Even the men seemed enamoured of jewelry, and their breasts proudly bore the insignia of more-or-less fantastic orders. Rumanians love everything that glitters, whether it be gold or gilded brass.

  The ladies did the honors of their native land with perfect grace. They offered Turkish cigars to the foreigners with their dainty fingers, poured out Tokay such as Count Andrassy 20 never drank, and offered them rose jam made by nuns. Yuri Levine sighed with satisfaction; Boleslas, Stenka and Bogomil thought they had been transported into the Mohammedan paradise, and wanted to convert to Islam. Never had invaders been better received by the invaded. Everyone was speaking French, which is the aristocratic language of Rumania, and anyone who had had the untoward idea of pronouncing a few words in Rumanian would not have found a dancing-partner all night. Beneath the windows of the mansion, however, the people were speaking the forbidden tongue. What were they saying? No one cared.

  The principal Russian officers, among whose number was the sinister Liatoukine, surrounded the little Minister, who hopped about and gesticulated with a typically Southern vivacity. His speech was so rapid that the guests, who were listening with a perseverance bordering on indiscretion, could only catch such phrases as cross the Danube and Rumanian army.

  There was little dancing, much drinking and a great deal more talking. The gentlemen chatted about the issues of the Romanul 21 that they were reading in the window-bays; they commented on Rosetti’s latest editorial, and the widely-remarked absence of the English Ambassador, who had made his excuses. The ladies, thinking that they were being political, offered excited critiques of the costumes of Princess Elisabeth, and one old noblewoman claimed that the ex-Prince Cusa had an even grander air about him than Prince Charles. Malicious tongue suggested that she was in a better position to know that than anyone else.

  Domna Rosanda was triumphant. Her two daughters, covered with gemstones, sparkled like sunbeams on the arms of their dancing-partners, who gave the impression that they were not ignorant of the fact that they were dancing with millions. The Serbian had showered so much affection on the heads of Epistimia and Agapia that she had not enough to spare for her son, Relia, the sole male descendant of the illustrious family of Comanescu.22

  Relia–or, less familiarly, Aurelio–was little known in Bucharest. He was freshly-arrived from Paris, where he had shone but dimly in his studies. He was, all in all, a very gentle and timid boy, not Parisian at all, who professed a respect for his mother that was not far removed from dread. In the Latin Quarter, the way he had of lowering his gaze had earned him the nickname “Mademoiselle Aurélie.”

  Domna Agapia, who was scarcely 16, was already in search of a husband. Her brown hair, red lips, dazzlingly clear complexion–very rare in Rumanian cities–and little black eyes lively with malice made up a face that was attractive, despite the irregularity of its features, and had no lack of originality. Some thought her pretty, others thought her ugly; in truth, she was both at the same time. She had a way of chattering which might have passed for intelligence if the cheerfully plump girl had not posed as a sentimentalist. Furthermore, she was subject to caprices that were impossible to satisfy and fits of anger that made her rip her handkerchiefs and beat her chambermaids.

  Domna Epistimia, who was pale, thin and lanky, replicated her mother’s cold and correct beauty. She was a true Princess. There was no spontaneity in her. She had learned to think, to smile and to speak as she had learned to dance, to curtsey and to push back the train of her dress with a flick of her fan. Her voice, which she knew how to render sweet, was attractive; her gaze, intense and piercing, was off-putting. She was a creature of contrasts; beneath her satin skin and velvet skirts, she concealed a hard heart and a quarrelsome and calculating mind. She was not in the least stupid, in any respect, and knew how to conduct an intrigue.

  By the time midnight drew near, Epstimia had succeeded in taking possession of Colonel Liatoukine and was promenading him majestically through the dense crowd of guests. The Rumanian was not talking; the Russian did not breathe a word. They passed like shadows, and the gallery observed that they had a great deal of distinction.

  The Colonel’s distinction had a slight smack of the cemetery. His pallid face took on a greenish tinge in the light of the chandeliers; his eyes, deep-set in their orbits, gleamed like an owl’s, and the silver braid of his uniform, set in horizontal lines across his breast, gave him the false appearance, from a distance, of an ambulatory skeleton–which did not give the lie to the sinister rumors laid to his account.

  Such as he was, Captain Vampire attracted the gazes of women, ever avid for mystery and violent emotion; more than one pretty noblewoman was jealous of Domna Epistimia.

  Princess Agapia was monopolizing Igor Moïleff, whom she was bombarding with such questions as: “What flower do you like best? What’s your favorite color? Do you prefer Turkish tobacco to Latakian, or black horses to bays?”

  Igor replied, rather awkwardly, that his favorite plant was tobacco, that, as regards colors, he found bay enchanting, and that he never mounted any but Turkish horses. This did not prevent Agapia from finding him infinitely intelligent and his judgment very sound.

  “Personally, she said, “I love sunsets, Chinese furniture, the song of the nightingale and vanilla cream, but I adore poetry.” Putting on her best squint, she asked: “Do you like poetry, Monsieur?”

  Igor could only reply affirmatively, and God knows whether he lied.

  “Perhaps you are a poet?” the Princess suggested.

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “One is sometimes one without knowing it,” the plump Agapia sighed, lifting her eyes to the ceiling.

  But this was not the case with Igor and the Princess resumed her own enumeration. “I love...” she said–and might have ended up confessing that the objects which partook of her affections included gilded epaulettes and fine moustaches, if she had not suddenly been made to turn around by a quivering movement imparted to her dress.

  Boleslas Brzemirski was there, blushing with confusion, having caught his foot in the pink silk train that the Princess was dragging in her wake. He muttered a few unintelligible words. Agapia gave a slight nod of the head and gathered in her dress with dignity.

  “Who is that officer walking with my sister over there by the buffet?” she asked Igor. “The pale one with the strange eyes?”

  She was no longer paying attention to Boleslas, but the Pole came back from the buffet, where he had spent the entire evening. “Him?” he said, bowing more deeply than the young woman’s age and rank required. “That’s Captain Vampire!”

  Agapia and several other ladies released little cries of fright.

  “Yes, Mesdames,” the Pole repeated. “That’s Captain Vampire!”

  Igor studied Brzemirski’s luminous face and haggard eyes apprehensively. “Go back to the buffet,” he whispered in his ear–but the Pole was not listening.

  “As you can see, he’s died and been resurrected at least three times.”

  “What nonsense!” said an Ambassadress.

  A diabolical notion came into Boleslas’ head. “Would you like Captain Vampire to tell you the story of his successive resurrections himself?” he asked.

  “Certainly! That would be amusing!” cried Agapia–and before Igor could say a word to prevent him putting such a strange project into execution, Boleslas advanced upon Boris Liatoukine, in as straight a line as he could contrive, given the quantity of liquid he had absorbed.

 
Liatoukine saw him coming and smiled.

  Liatoukine’s smile was hideous, but what might have alarmed Count Brzemirski on an empty stomach scarcely intimidated the drunken Polish Hussar. Boleslas planted himself resolutely in front of his adversary, put his hands on is hips, and said, in a bantering tone: “Liatoukine, my good friend, they claim that you were frozen to death by your Cossacks at Sebastopol. Is that true?”

  These singular words had been pronounced so loudly that the greater number of the people present heard them. Individual conversations immediately ceased and all eyes focused on the group formed by the two officers and Princess Epistimia.

  The Pole, at the risk of losing his equilibrium, balanced himself on one leg and continued: “And that one day, you were found at the same time in company with Countess M*** and Princess S***. Is that true, eh?”

  Liatoukine did not move, but he was no longer smiling. The expectant crowd held its breath.

  The Pole went on again: “And that you’ve been married twice, that both your wives died within a month of marriage, and that they both had their necks wrung?”

  Boris felt Epistimia’s arm trembling upon his own. He, however, remained calm, and said in a clear and firm voice: “This man is drunk! Come away, Madame.” He took a step to remove himself.

  The Pole, with a single bound, pounced upon him.

  “Ah! It must be true, Boris Liatoukine!” he cried, in a voice choked with anger. “There! There! Look, everyone!” His fingers brushed the Colonel’s sleeve. “There’s blood there!” He howled in exasperation: “Get away! You reek of murder and the tomb!”

  Liatoukine did not even glance at his sleeve, and the large red stains there that had just been pointed out, with more astonishment than horror. He drew himself up to the full height of his tall frame in front of Brzemirski and his eyes stared into the enraged eyes of the Pole. The latter tried to speak, extended his clenched fists, and fell stiffly to the floor.

  Then there was a general, every-man-for-himself panic.

  Agapia screeched like a peacock and buried her head in Igor’s epaulette. Epistimia let herself fall gracefully into Liatoukine’s arms. Her example was followed by a great many ladies, who fell, according to their preference, upon the breasts of Russians and high dignitaries. A pretty Ambassadress ran partially aground upon an old Senator, while chance brought together two divorced spouses, who let chance have its way. Androcles Comanescu, who did not want to put himself at risk, stood aside and suggested separating the combatants. A Hungarian Countess demanded the police; Domna Rosanda, with greater foresight, sent for a doctor.

  A few ladies, bolder than the rest, went to Brzemirski, who was lying unconscious on the floor, but as he was neither handsome nor interesting, they did not stay long. Relia went from one group to another, murmuring excuses, but it was hardly worth the trouble; the mothers did not want to hear and drew their daughters away.

  The doorways were too narrow to allow the passage of everyone trying to leave; people pushed and jostled. The servants ran around agitatedly and the rumble of carriages carrying guests away was heard outside.

  Prince G***, who had claims to intelligence, put it about that it was a lot of fuss over a drunken Pole. The suggestion was not a success; the Prince seemed vexed and followed the crowd.

  No one stayed in the immense and resplendent room except for Brzemirski’s four friends and Domna Rosanda–who, still dressed in her ball-gown, was wasting her smelling-salts on Boleslas. The Oriental essences could do nothing, though. The Pole was dead.

  Liatoukine had disappeared.

  The officers looked at one another. They were all very pale.

  “Apoplexy!” said Igor, to break the silence.

  “No,” said Sokolich. “It’s something else.”

  “What, then?”

  “Who can tell, damn it?”

  Bogomil, the most strong-minded of the group, shrugged his shoulders. “He owed me 500 rubles,” he moaned, mournfully.

  Meanwhile, Domna Agapia was writhing in her bed like one possessed. “Dobry, Dobry! Light! Do you think I can remain in darkness when there’s a dead man downstairs?”

  The serving-woman withdrew, after bringing a perfumed candle, and Domna Agapia continued her lamentations. “That Pole,” she sobbed, “has just died, in the middle of a ball, right in front of me, at my very feet! It’ll make me ill, that’s for sure! The other officer was very pleasant–yes, very pleasant! He reeked of wine–he was drunk, the lout! The other one had nice eyes... yes, blue eyes! Aren’t they dirty, these Poles–ugly and ill-educated? Oh, I hate them; I curse them... yes! The other...”

  “Shut up, Agapitza,” said a muffled voice emanating from the next room. “One prays for the dead; one doesn’t insult them!”

  Agapitza, who had recognized her mother’s voice, hastened to obey and went to sleep, still waving her closed fist threateningly at poor Brzemirski–who had not, however, done it on purpose.

  Domna Rosanda, sitting next to her elder daughter’s bed, said: “He has more than two million rubles.”

  Epistimia, who was propped up on her pillow smoking a cigarette, repeated “Two million rubles!” distractedly. Her eyes followed the smoke that was forming a sort of cloud above her brunette head.

  In a room on the floor below, the four Russians watched over their friend’s corpse.

  By noon on the following day, all Bucharest had heard what had happened during the night. People started out by recounting the thing as it had occurred. Then, they said that the Pole was a rejected suitor who, in order to avenge himself, had committed suicide before the eyes of the insensible Epistimia. They finished up swearing that Brzemirski had been murdered by a Russian Colonel who was the Princess’s fiancé. The last version, being the most exciting, was considered the only true one.

  The Pole, who no longer had any family, was buried without ceremony in the Catholic cemetery on the Serban-Voda Road. With every day that passed, talk of his tragic end diminished, and the worthy tongues of Bucharest soon forgot his name.

  V. The Baniassa Woods

  Independence! Boom! Boom! From the Ister to the Carpathians, Rumania was free! Cannon salvoes, fireworks, a speech by the Prince: the festivities lacked nothing–not even, this time, the enthusiasm of the people, for whom the government had sugared the pill, and who swallowed it with a very good grace.

  The raki ran in torrents; in every country inn, the babuta and the piper–which was merely a frenzied cancan–ran their course, and–may God pardon me!–the Rumanians, in their gaiety, taught the Russians to dance the hora to the accompaniment of infernal gypsy music. Enormous seesaws, which bore no resemblance to those made for children, delighted the young women, lifting 20 people at a time and howling on their pivots. The streets were reminiscent of the galleries of an ant-hive. Along the Chaussée, the hubbub was indescribable. The Chaussée was a huge thoroughfare planted with lime-trees, which began in the fashion of the Champs-Elysée and ended in the manner of the Bois de Boulogne–except that, here, the Bois de Boulogne was called Baniassa. Elegant folk rarely went as far as Baniassa, whose promenade had fallen from grace and had been abandoned; they preferred the blinding dust of the interminable Chaussée to the outmoded shade of the woods.

  This evening, the plebeian element had invaded the aristocratic domain, and the beautiful ladies, indolently extended in their Viennese carriages, made progress, less by virtue of being pulled by their horses as being pushed by the vulgar folk crowded into the interstices between the vehicles.

  The Comanescus’ emblazoned calèche proudly carried the Princesses Epistimia and Agapia, accompanied by their mother, who distributed charitable advice to them from time to time.

  “Agapitza, my child, sit up straight–Decebale Privighetoriano is looking at you. Eight thousand hectares of agricultural land and property in Hungary.”

  Agapitza sat up, and put on a majestic air.

  “Epistimia, my dear,” the noble lady continued, “straighten your hair–what if
the Colonel comes?”

  Epistimia passed her white hand over her temples and darted a haughty glance at the surrounding crowd.

  Meanwhile, Decebale Privighetoriano–pearl-grey gloves, pince-nez, Mexican trousers–sniggered in a friend’s ear. “Look at that fat Agapia–built like a tavern-keeper! I’m told she weighs more than 80 kilos. I know a little actress at the Bossel theater who looks more like a Princess than that lumpen girl!”

  No Colonel being on the horizon, Epistimia became impatient, and dug her pointed heels into her sister’s feet; the latter had been too well brought-up to make the least grimace under the eyes of a boyar who owned 8,000 hectares of agricultural land. None of these three worldly souls spared a thought for Relia, whose fate–scarcely respectable–was to become a simple dorobantz, and who was leaving for Giurgiu within the hour.

  Lost in the multitude, on foot, were Mariora and Ioan Isacescu, Zamfira and Mitica Slobozianu.

  Zamfira had been weeping. Mitica wore the uniform of the dorobantzi, and his cheerfulness appeared to have stayed behind in Baniassa. Ioan was distraught. Mariora was the only one chattering in her usual fashion, not without an occasional sideways glance of annoyance at Mitica and the gypsy girl, who were speaking in hushed voices. Mariora could not hear what they were saying, which was a great pity.

  “Giurgiu!” she said, laughing. “What an odd notion, their sending you to Giurgiu! Myself, I thought the dorobantzi never garrisoned any towns except those where they live.”

  “Not always,” Ioan replied, fearful of saying too much.

  “Will you be in Giurgiu for long?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, fiddling with his belt-buckle.

  Mariora clapped her hands. “So much the better,” she cried–but added, sadly: “I’ll be very bored while you’re away.”

  “Do you think so?” he said, with a half-smile.

  Mariora released a deep sigh and lifted her eyes heavenwards.