Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories (19 page)

T
HE NEXT DAY THE
family had gathered in front of the house, around a table laden with jugs of milk and cakes.

“Where is the child?” said Georges.

“In the courtyard,” replied his wife. “He is playing his favourite game, imagining that he is fighting the Turks single-handed.”

No sooner had she said these words, than to our amazement we saw the tall figure of Gorcha walking slowly towards us from out of the dark forest. He sat at the table just as he had done the day I arrived.

“Father, we welcome you,” murmured Georges’s wife in a hoarse voice.

“We welcome you, father,” whispered Sdenka and Pierre in unison.

“My father,” said Georges firmly, turning pale, “we are waiting for you to say Grace!”

The old man glared at him and turned away.

“Yes…Grace—say it now!” repeated Georges, crossing himself. “Say it this instant, or by St. George…”

Sdenka and her sister-in-law threw themselves at the old man’s feet and begged him to say Grace.

“No, no, no,” said the old man. “He has no right to speak to me in that way, and if he continues, I will curse him!”

Georges got up and rushed into the house. He returned almost immediately, looking furious. “Where is that stake?” he yelled. “Where have you hidden it?”

Sdenka and Pierre looked at each other.

“Corpse!” Georges shouted at the old man. “What have you done with my elder boy? Why have you killed my little child? Give me back my son, you creature of the grave!”

As he said this, he became more and more pale and his eyes began to burn with fury. The old man simply glared at him.

“The stake, the stake,” yelled Georges. “Whoever has hidden it must answer for all the evils which will befall us!”

At this moment we heard the excited laughter of the younger child. We saw him galloping towards us on a wooden horse, or rather on a long aspen stake, shrieking the Serbian battle cry at the top of his voice. Georges’s eyes lit up as he realized what was happening. He grabbed the stake from the child and threw himself at his father. The old man let out a fearful groan and began to sprint towards the dark forest as if possessed by demons. Georges raced after him across the fields, and soon they were both out of sight.

It was after sunset when Georges returned to the house. He was as pale as death; his hair stood on end. He sat down by the fireside, and I could hear his teeth chattering. No one could pluck up the courage to question him. By about the time the family normally went to bed he seemed to be more his usual self and, taking me to one side, said to me quite calmly: “My dear guest, I have been to the river. The ice has gone, the road is clear—nothing now prevents you from leaving. There is no need,” he added, glancing at Sdenka, “to take your leave of my family. Through me, the family wishes you all the happiness you could desire and I hope that you will have some happy memories of the time you have spent with us. Tomorrow at daybreak, you will find your horse saddled and your guide ready to escort you. Farewell. Think about your host from time to time, and forgive him if your stay here has not been as carefree as he would have liked.”

As he said this, even Georges’s rough features looked almost friendly. He led me to my room and shook my hand for one last time. Then he began to tremble and his teeth chattered as if he were suffering from the cold.

Now I was alone, I had no thoughts of going to sleep—as you can imagine. Other things were on my mind. I had loved many times in my life, and had experienced the whole range of passions—tenderness, jealousy, fury—but never, not even when I left the Duchesse de Gramont, had I felt anything like the sadness that I felt in my heart at that moment. Before sunrise, I changed into my travelling clothes, hoping to have a few words with Sdenka before I departed. But Georges was waiting for me in the hall. There was no chance of my seeing her again.

I leaped into the saddle and spurred on my horse. I made a resolution to return from Jassy via this village, and although that might be some time hence, the thought made me feel easier in my mind. It was some consolation for me to imagine in advance all the details of my return. But this pleasant reverie was soon shattered. My horse shied away from something and nearly had me out of the saddle. The animal stopped dead, dug in its forelegs and began to snort wildly, as if some danger was nearby. I looked around anxiously and saw something moving about a hundred paces away. It was a wolf digging in the ground. Sensing my presence, the wolf ran away; digging my spurs into the horse’s flanks, I managed with difficulty to get him to move forward. It was then that I realized that on the spot where the wolf had been standing, there was a freshly dug grave. I seem to remember also that the end of a stake protruded a few inches out of the ground where the wolf had been digging. However, I do not swear to this, for I rode away from that place as fast as I could.

A
T THIS POINT THE
Marquis paused and took a pinch of snuff.

“Is that the end of the story?” the ladies asked.

“I’m afraid not,” replied M. d’Urfé. “What remains to be told is a very unhappy memory for me, and I would give much to cast it from my mind.”

M
Y REASONS FOR GOING
to Jassy (he continued) kept me there for much longer than I had expected—well over six months, in fact. What can I say to justify my conduct during that time? It is a sad fact, but a fact nonetheless, that there are very few emotions in this life which can stand the test of time. The success of my negotiations, which were very well received in Versailles—politics, in a word, vile politics, a subject which has become so boring to us in recent times—preoccupied my thoughts and dimmed the memory of Sdenka. In addition, from the moment I arrived, the wife of the hospodar, a very beautiful lady who spoke fluent French, did me the honour of receiving my attentions, singling me out from among all the other young foreigners who were staying in Jassy. Like me, she had been brought up to believe in the principles of French
galanterie
; the mere thought that I should rebuff the advances of such a beautiful lady stirred up my Gallic blood. So I received her advances with courtesy, and since I was there to represent the interests and rights of France, I made a start by representing those of her husband the hospodar as well.

When I was recalled home, I left by the same road I had ridden to Jassy. I no longer even thought about Sdenka or her family, but one evening when I was riding in the countryside, I heard a bell ringing the eight o’clock chime. I seemed to recognize that sound and my guide told me that it came from a nearby monastery. I asked him the name: it was the monastery of Our Lady of the Oak. I galloped ahead and in no time at all we had reached the monastery gate. The old hermit welcomed us and led us to his hostel.

The number of pilgrims staying there put me off the idea of spending the night at the hostel, and I asked if there was any accommodation available in the village.

“You can stay where you like in the village,” replied the old hermit with a gloomy sigh. “Thanks to that devil Gorcha, there are plenty of empty houses!”

“What on earth do you mean?” I asked. “Is old Gorcha still alive?”

“Oh no, he’s well and truly buried with a stake through his heart! But he rose from the grave to suck the blood of Georges’s little son. The child returned one night and knocked on the door, crying that he was cold and wanted to come home. His foolish mother, although she herself had been present at his burial, did not have the strength of mind to send him back to the cemetery, so she opened the door. He threw himself at her throat and sucked away her life’s blood. After she had been buried, she in turn rose from the grave to suck the blood of her second son, then the blood of her husband, then the blood of her brother-in-law. They all went the same way.”

“And Sdenka?”

“Oh, she went mad with grief; poor, poor child, do not speak to me of her!”

The old hermit had not really answered my question, but I did not have the heart to repeat it. He crossed himself. “Vampirism is contagious,” he said after a pause. “Many families in the village have been afflicted by it, many families have been completely destroyed, and if you take my advice you will stay in my hostel tonight; for even if the
vourdalaks
of the village do not attack you, they will terrify you so much that your hair will have turned white before I ring the bells for morning mass.

“I am only a poor and simple monk,” he continued, “but the generosity of passing travellers gives me enough to provide for their needs. I can offer you fresh country cheese and sweet plums which will make your mouth water; I also have some flagons of Tokay wine which are every bit as good as those which grace the cellars of His Holiness the Patriarch!”

The old hermit seemed to be behaving more like an inn-keeper than a poor and simple monk. I reckoned he had told me some old wives’ tales about the village in order to make me feel grateful enough for his hospitality to show my appreciation in the usual way, by giving the holy man enough to provide for the needs of passing travellers. In any case, the word
terror
has always had the effect on me that a battle cry has on a war horse. I would have been thoroughly ashamed of myself if I had not set out immediately to see for myself. But my guide, who was less enthusiastic about the idea, asked my permission to stay in the hostel. This I willingly granted.

It took me about half an hour to reach the village. Deserted. No lights shone through the windows, no songs were being sung. I rode past many houses that I knew, all as silent as the grave. Finally I reached Georges’s. Whether I was being sentimental or just rash, I don’t know, but it was there I decided to spend the night. I got off my horse, and banged on the gate. Still no sign of life. I pushed the gate and the hinges creaked eerily as it slowly opened. Then I crept into the courtyard. In one of the outhouses I found enough oats to last the night, so I left my horse tethered there, still saddled, and strode towards the main house. Although all the rooms were deserted, no doors were locked. Sdenka’s room had been occupied only a few hours before. Some of her clothes were draped carelessly over the bed. A few pieces of jewellery that I had given her, including a small enamel cross from Budapest, lay on her table sparkling in the moonlight. Even though my love for her was a thing of the past, I must admit that my heart was heavy. Nevertheless, I wrapped myself up in my cloak and stretched out on her bed. Soon I was asleep. I cannot recall everything, but I do remember that I dreamed of Sdenka, as beautiful, as simple, and as loving as she had been when first I met her. I remember also feeling ashamed of my selfishness and my inconstancy. How could I have abandoned that poor child who loved me; how could I have forgotten her? Then her image became confused with that of the Duchesse de Gramont and I saw only one person. I threw myself at Sdenka’s feet and begged her forgiveness. From the depths of my being, from the depths of my soul came an indescribable feeling of melancholy and of joy.

I lay there dreaming, until I was almost awakened by a gentle musical sound, like the rustling of a cornfield in a light breeze. I heard the sweet rustling of the corn and the music of singing birds, the rushing of a waterfall and the whispering of trees. Then I realized that all these sounds were merely the swishing of a woman’s dress and I opened my eyes. There was Sdenka standing beside my bed. The moon was shining so brightly that I could distinguish every single feature which had been so dear to me and which my dream made me love again as if for the first time. Sdenka seemed more beautiful, and somehow more mature. She was dressed as she had been when last I saw her alone: a simple nightgown of red silk, gold embroidered, and a coloured belt, clinging tightly above her hips.

“Sdenka!” I cried, sitting up. “Is it really you, Sdenka?”

“Yes, it is me,” she replied in a sweet, sad voice. “It is that same Sdenka you have forgotten. Why did you not return sooner? Everything is finished now; you must leave; a moment longer and you are lost! Farewell my friend, farewell for ever!”

“Sdenka, you have seen so much unhappiness they say! Come, let us talk, let us ease your pain!”

“Oh, my friend, you must not believe everything they say about us; but leave me, leave me now, for if you stay a moment longer you are doomed.”

“Sdenka, what are you afraid of? Can you not grant me an hour, just one hour to talk with you?”

Sdenka began to tremble and her whole being seemed to undergo a strange transformation. “Yes,” she said, “one hour, just one hour, the same hour you begged of me when you came into this room and heard me singing the ballad of the old king. Is that what you mean? So be it, I will grant you one hour! But no, no!” she cried, as if fighting her inclinations. “Leave me, go away!—leave now, I tell you, fly! Fly, while you still have the chance!”