The Husband: No indeed. My axe is sharpened and I shall have their heads off. It is swift and there is no screaming or struggling. As for blood, what of it? And what is death without a little blood?
The Wife: You are nothing but a fool, husband, and you love blood for its own sake.
The Husband: So I do. What of it? For blood doubles the joy of killing and the sound of sharp steel on flesh is a kind of music to me.
The Wife: And is it nothing to you that I have to clean up afterwards?
The Husband: Ho, ho! Have I not seen you dip your pretty finger in the little red pool after I have done my wicked work? Have I not seen you smear your lips with it to make cherries of them?
The Wife: (smiling) Well then, my master, go your own way, but cut quickly and keenly.
The Husband: I shall not fail you, my little marmoset. Indeed, I thrill to the thought of it.
That at any rate was the substance of their dialogue, though I have naturally omitted the terrible oaths and blasphemies with which they punctuated their awful colloquy. The excitement of the man indeed was manifested in a gross physical form. It was clear that, before making away with us, he intended to enjoy his spouse. And she seemed more than willing to acquiesce, for with no more ado she lifted up her skirts to reveal a great mass of creamy thigh. In all conscience she was well made for such a massive creature.
As she panted with anticipation he lifted her onto the table and, having lowered his breeches, he buried his huge member in those capacious feminine recesses without engaging in any of those little ministrations which, I am told, are customary preliminaries to the act.
The house seemed to shake with their terrible excitement as they rocked to and fro upon the table. I mention this only because it has a bearing on our story, for the place where they were thus occupied was directly below where we were watching. It was at the moment of their most violent activity that Razendoringer took a fearsome bolt from his quiver, fixed it to the breech of his drawn crossbow and fired it downwards into the entwined bodies of our loathsome hosts.
It struck the man at the base of his spine, but with such force that it travelled through him, into the woman and fixed its head in the table on which they had so lately been enjoying themselves.
Their grunts of pleasure were transformed on the instant into roars of agony. They managed to detach themselves from the table but not from each other. Indeed, the more the man tried to pull himself free the more the woman shrieked, for the point of the bolt had been cruelly barbed. So they staggered and crashed about the room, locked to each other like drunken dancers. It was the man who saw us first and the look of rage and hatred he gave us was almost palpable in its vehemence. Then they began to roar all the louder in their anguish.
The only person to have remained calm throughout these extraordinary events was Razendoringer, the dwarf. He, while this was going on, was fitting another bolt to his crossbow which he had once more laboriously wound back. Having done this he took careful aim and transfixed the man’s head with his second bolt. Now the woman was nailed to a dead man. She staggered and fell with the weight of him on top of her. For the first time I began to pity her as her screams had turned to a pathetic and exhausted moaning. We descended the stairs and Verney finished her off with the length of rope she had designed for us.
How silent it was then, because the rain had ceased and the wind had dropped. Verney walked across to the fire and idly stirred the stew pot with a stick. Then to our horror he lifted something out of the pot with that stick. The end of it had lodged itself in the eye socket of a human skull.
“We have not dined well tonight,” he said.
If at that moment I had vomited I would have been proud to record it, but I did not. None of us did. Razendoringer did not even register surprise.
“Did you suspect?” asked Verney.
“It was that first remark he made to her, indicating me. ‘He’ll make a tender little morsel.’ There was no way I could convey to you my suspicions without putting you in greater danger. Besides, I was hungry and there was nothing I could do to call back the dead.”
We took out the bodies and buried them. Then we removed all the useful items from the house and stored them in a small cleft of the overhanging rocks hoping that some future passer-by might discover and profit by them.
Then, having removed our pack animals to a safe distance, we set fire to the house, which held so many terrible secrets, so that the memory of its evil might be blotted out from the land.
V
It proved to be only a day’s journey from there to Prague which was, and, I believe, remains to this day, a mad city, full of crazed physicians and alchemists, and followers of all the sciences both permitted and forbidden. We lodged, according to our written instructions, at the White Stag, an inn of no great distinction but a meeting place for all the rogues and curious characters of the town. Verney found himself much at home and Razendoringer excited no insulting curiosity. We decided to rest here two nights after the adventures and hardships of the preceding days, and it was this which nearly ruined us again.
The inn was full so that all three of us were forced to lodge in the same room, which was stuffy and full of the scuttling of mice when it was dark. None of us slept well despite our exhaustion. On the second morning after our arrival I was dozing in front of a fire after a substantial breakfast of boiled beef and roast capons when Verney who, like Razendoringer, had recovered from the horrors of the journey much more quickly than myself, ushered in a stranger. I had just time to wake fully and pick up a book to show that I had been deep in study before the interruption. The man was tall and finely built, if a little prone to fat. He was richly dressed and his manner betrayed at once the courtier, a surface of deference over a mountain of self-importance. Despite its pretensions to courtesy his was not a manner intended to put you at your ease; and there was something else about him, a shift of the eyes, a shuffling, crack brained air which peeped out of his self-assurance at odd moments. I should have been warned by this impression because, as I later found out, it characterised the court which he represented. He might have been fifty and he had no eyebrows, but his hair was jet black. I suspected a wig.
“Good morning, learned doctor,” he said. “Do I disturb your studies? I have had the privilege of becoming acquainted with your companion, Matthew Verney. He tells me you are on your way to Transylvania.”
“Is that any of your business?” I said insolently, for this man was already annoying me. I felt my sleeve being tugged. Razendoringer was at my side, urging tact and caution in his characteristic way.
“I am Count Demetrius Cantemir,” he said, as if offering an explanation. “First Secretary to the Imperial Chamberlain.” Happily I had the wit to give a soothing reply.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I had no idea that we were graced with such a distinguished visitor.”
Cantemir made a very slight bow as if acknowledging what was no more than his due. He continued: “As you know, His Serene Highness, the Emperor Rudolph is — in Prague.” I nodded. I had neither known nor cared. “My master has heard of the celebrated Doctor Polymathus and would be happy to make your acquaintance.”
“I am most honoured by His Serene Highness’s interest, but, alas, we are bound on our journey to Transylvania, as you say. We are due to set off early tomorrow morning. It is not possible—”
“Nevertheless,” interrupted Cantemir, “my master will be pleased to see all three of you at ten tomorrow morning. A carriage will call.” He bowed and left.
I began to reproach Verney bitterly for letting out the secret of our journey. But he protested that ignorance and wine were to blame. I could not be too harsh on him. Besides, what could result from an audience with the Emperor but honour?
“Rulers are jealous of other rulers,” said Razendoringer. “This Rudolph may prevent us from going on to Xantho in Transylvania.”
“If we were to stay here,” said Verney, “our reward might be greater.�
� I cannot explain reasonably the dread that I felt at the thought of breaking my promise to a monarch I had never met, but there had been something about his spectral henchman Ragul that suggested untiring vengefulness against those who crossed him. In the discussion that followed, however, I was at pains to suggest that it was my own honour which was at issue and that it was not in my nature to go back on an undertaking.
“You stay here if you wish, Verney, and you, Razendoringer. I will hire another man and go on.”
“I stay with you, learned doctor,” said Razendoringer. Verney looked troubled.
The next morning the carriage called with an escort of six men on white chargers with white plumes in their helmets. We were then driven with much ceremony and courtesy to the palace of the Emperor Rudolph.
It must be remembered that in 1575, the year of which I speak, Rudolph, later known as the Mad Emperor, was still fresh to the imperial throne. As he was to play a crucial role in these times I shall describe our reception in some detail.
Rudolph’s palace at Prague was situated in the old citadel called the Hradschin. It was a castle which had spilled over its boundary walls into a welter of stables, outhouses, chapels and halls of reception. We drove into a cobbled courtyard. From there we were ushered through a maze of corridors and cloisters, up and down flights of steps, and sometimes into bright little gardens which, after the dimness of the interiors seemed ablaze with colour and bird song. Twice we crossed great halls lit by vast windows filled with coloured glass so that, in the noonday sun they seemed shot through with almost palpable shafts of red and green and amber.
The apartments where Rudolph had taken up residence had an unnatural luxury about them. The most astonishing of these was a suite of ten absolutely circular rooms with interconnecting passages.
The first was swathed in russet and green hangings. A glass roof let in light upon a number of living plants in earthenware pots, a wonder to see indoors.
The second was hung with purple damask, and on the walls were fixed silver discs representing the moon in its phases while the whole was lit by a silver lamp which swung from a blue dome studded with golden stars.
We took a passage to the left and went into a chamber which was painted the fiery colour of a Portugal orange. It was lit by an Eastward window, and in its centre stood a fountain with winged Mercury in bronze bearing aloft his caduceus.
Turning to the right via a long passage we came into a green room with many curtained recesses in which were represented lascivious scenes in coloured wax, so cunningly made, and with such an eye for detail that one half expected these lustful homunculi at any moment to quiver with life. In the centre on a pedestal was Venus in ivory, most exquisitely fashioned by an Italian master.
Then upwards and a little to the left and we came to a room sheathed in gold leaf. In the centre stood a most exquisite statue of the risen Christ in gold, standing upon the sun.
Left again and we came to a room hung with swags of crimson velvet and further decorated with gleaming trophies of arms. Every shield, helmet and weapon was made out of the most precious metals and studded with jewels.
A turn to the right and we entered a room lined with rich blue satins. In the centre stood a figure of Justice, not as some have represented as a blind woman, but as a princely man, bearded like Olympian Zeus, in ivory and silver with blue enamel for his robe, a great sword across his knees and the chalice of mercy in his right hand.
Then upwards again through a corridor hung with many veils and curtains until we came to a room draped entirely in black velvet. In the centre was an ebony statue of Isis, the Universal Mother, enthroned on a dark globe. She was surrounded by candles so that, if it were not for the dark Egyptian features of her face you might have believed it to be a statue of the Virgin Mother.
To the right was the ninth room, pale grey in colour, and on the walls the twelve signs of the Zodiac in silver. On its domed ceiling there was a map of the heavens with the stars and planets marked in precious stones. In the centre was a fountain, with a single jet of water ascending to the roof, so lit that you would think that each drop of water as it fell again into the basin was a shooting star.
Finally we took a doorway a little to our left and walked up ten steps into a chamber that was entirely bare and white, lit from a glass roof. At the apex of its dome was suspended a crown of pure crystal. The walls were smooth white marble, unveined and sparkling, such as only comes from Paros and other isles of Greece. The only sign of luxury was the floor which was thickly covered with the whitest and most pristine of fleeces.
On a chair draped in white velvet sat a young man, very plainly dressed, thin and melancholy looking, absorbed in thought. His skin and hair were almost the same pale colour and his features were long and narrow. He had barely noticed our entry, but looked up when Verney murmured to me — quite superfluously for I knew it already — that we had just passed through a suite of rooms modelled on the design of the ten spheres in the Hebrew Quabalah and were arrived at Kether (the crown), the highest and most absolute of spheres.
The seated man was none other than Rudolph, recently proclaimed and anointed Holy Roman Emperor. The chamberlain by whom we had been escorted introduced us. Rudolph scrutinised us with interest, in particular Razendoringer the dwarf who was looking about him with the greatest wonder.
“It is not often that I receive guests in here,” he said, speaking in the most excellent Ciceronian Latin, “but I thought that you, Doctor Bellorius, and your learned companions would appreciate the wonders of this place.”
“The sacred mysteries of the Quabalah,” said Verney, “are not for everyone. This is indeed an honour, Your Most Serene Highness.” It did not please me that Verney had appointed himself as our spokesman.
“As often as I can,” said the Emperor, “I retire into these chambers and meditate on the states of being which they represent. Sometimes I travel from room to room, but most often you will find me meditating on one of them alone, silently, for many hours together.” There was a good deal of self-satisfaction in his voice.
Then he asked us many questions, most of which were answered by Verney. He was much entertained by the account of our meeting with the giant and giantess in the Bohemian Hills. We were careful, however, to strip the story of any improper elements. But what most intrigued him was my encounter with the Wandering Jew. I noticed that throughout this narration Verney was looking at me reproachfully. I realised that till now I had told the story to no-one. Verney was like a woman in this, that he hated to be left out of any excitement.
So enthralled was Rudolph by the story that he got up and escorted us through the ten rooms, taking us back by the same route that we had come, though, as with the tree of the ten Sephiroth on the plan of which the suite of ten rooms was designed, there were many other routes back to the first chamber, each one of them having three, five or eight entrances leading from them. On his way through the rooms Rudolph gave instructions that men should be sent out into his empire in all directions to find Issachar the Jew and bring him before the Emperor.
He asked us where we were staying and we answered that it was “The White Stag”. He nodded as if he knew the place and then commanded that our baggage be brought to the Palace where we would now be sleeping and dining. I stifled my objections, for he seemed to be a most wilful young man who would not take kindly to being crossed.
That evening we dined at the Palace and it was a most curious affair. The great tables were set with many places, not all of which were filled. Those who came to occupy them were a curious mixture of courtiers, fine women, and oddly dressed persons who, I was told, were the Emperor’s astrologers and alchemists. Some of them seemed half crazed: Issachar the Jew would not have looked out of place in such a gathering. Razendoringer dined at a separate table which was reserved for dwarfs. Furniture and plates and knives were all perfect miniature representations of those which graced our table.
Verney and I were sat very near to the
Emperor as guests of honour and I was aware of envious glances being cast in our direction. Verney talked a great deal and showed off his learning in Cornelius Agrippa, Trithemius, Hermes Trismegistus and the rest. At first the Emperor listened attentively, much as a young pupil might listen to his master, but I increasingly detected signs of impatience and growing irritation at being treated as a mere equal. Men of power may play at being on a level with you but they soon tire of the game. I tried to dilute the effect of Verney’s errors and set him an example by showing, for my part, an excessive deference towards His Serene Highness. In retrospect, I fancy my efforts were misplaced, even dangerous in their consequences, for after dinner the Emperor drew me aside. He hurried me along a vaulted corridor hung with lanterns. I had to trot beside him to keep up with his long strides. It was his habit to walk thus when he was thinking hard.
“This man Issachar,” he said, “this Wandering Jew; you say that he found his continuing life a burden?”
“That is so, noble sovereign.”
“But he had not known great wealth or power, surely, for if he had, he would surely have enjoyed them.”
“I understand that in his time he had been rich.”
“And powerful?”
“With all the power that goes with wealth.”
“But doubtless he did not possess the temperament to enjoy such things.”
“That may be so, Your Highness.”
“Yes. That is the truth of the matter, but I shall question him and find out more. Do you think your companion Verney has found the secret of living for ever?”
“I doubt it, Your Highness.”
“Why?”
“Because such things are found, if at all, only after years of patient research.”
“But he might find it, mightn’t he? He is a man who could, with your help?”
The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale Page 6
