Perhaps I should mention, even though I am a gentleman, that the lady was somewhat the worse for drink.
The man said something to her again, speaking in crude, peasantsounding Russian, and I caught the name of Kulakov. He seemed to be trying to explain to his companion that he had an appointment to meet Kulakov and have a talk with him.
Then suddenly the man broke off, having become aware of my presence where I sat pretending to be smoking in the shadows. At once he grew interested in me. Something about me–even in the dim light– caught his attention sharply.
Gently but firmly the peasant put his fair companion aside. As he released her, he made a gentle gesture with his broad hand, a wiping motion with the palm out. The hand did not touch the lady, but her eyelids sagged and she sat down on the edge of a big chair, then pitched softly forward to lie partially on a bearskin rug, in which position she fell asleep. Her fair breasts, almost escaping from her low-cut dress, seemed to be menaced by the dead fangs of the white bear.
My gaze lifted to the eyes of the man, who was standing motionless, regarding me. I was being challenged. Deliberately I crushed out my cigarette upon the marble floor. Perhaps this burly, impudent peasant was going to try to stare me down. A great many years had passed since anyone had seriously attempted that.
My eyesight, as you might suppose, is excellent even in dim light. I saw before me a powerfully built man, perhaps a little above the average height–he was not really tall, but he carried himself like a tsar and gave the impression of being tall. His age was in the early thirties. He had long dark hair parted in the middle, and a beard stained with the remains of several meals. His boots and clothing were cut in the peasant style but, as I have already remarked, made of richer materials than ordinary peasants ever saw.
However, all these matters were peripheral, as was his rancid, goatlike smell. It was the man’s eyes that really counted.
Taking a step or two toward me, he put out a broad, strong hand and said in his peasant Russian: “blessings, Little Father. I am Gregory Efimovich.”
Something was happening; I knew that, even as I got to my feet, but was not alarmed. I suppose I must have murmured something in reply. He accepted whatever I said as a fair greeting.
The hypnotic spell that had already begun to engulf me was very subtle, so subtle that I–I, Dracula–was scarcely aware of it at first. In my own defense, I can plead that I was already tired and that many days’ exposure to feeble northern sunlight had been a strain. At any rate, I must confess that I was well on my way to being overcome before I even realized that anything was wrong. To this day I am not sure whether I succumbed to a deliberate assault on the part of Gregory Efimovich, or whether it was only the way he was, part of his nature... for him, as automatic as drawing breath.
Suddenly, whatever the cause, at the suggestion that I might be tired, I was tired, and felt strangely content to sit back in my soft chair and stare into the fire. Have I said there was a fireplace nearby? I don’t remember for certain, but I think there was. The burly peasant’s eyes seemed to be there in the fire, too, as well as in his head, their burning images now woven of the flames...
Oh, it was all very pleasant. I was drifting, a ludicrous sense of safety assuring me that I remained securely in control of the situation, though actually I was in the greatest danger. Dimly, as from a distance, I could see the peasant leaning toward me, hear his saying in his rough Russian: “I see, thou art one of the lovers of blood, like Alexander Ilyich...” To me, a stranger in evening dress and speaking like a gentleman, the peasant used the intimate form of address with serene self-assurance.
“Like Kulakov? A lover of blood?” I chuckled, struck by the perfect appositeness of the phrase. To me, his Russian phrase seemed as oddly ambiguous as does the Neo-Latin, or the Greek: hemophiliac.
“Why yes,” I said. “Perhaps I am.” Gently I licked my lips. Vaguely I turned my gaze to where the dead bear’s fangs still menaced the woman lying on the rug.
But those great dark eyes irresistibly brought me back. “Why dost thou not tell me thy name?”
“Vlad Drakulya.”
“Thou art of the Romany? No? Art thou a friend of God?”
I shrugged, then frowned. This was a serious question. “He and I are old acquaintances, at least... I fear we do not always get along as well as we might.”
“Do not blaspheme.” It was a command, delivered not with anger, but with the serene confidence of spiritual authority.
Obedience was necessary, but still I shook my head. I had not thought I was blaspheming.
“It might be possible to cure thee, Vlad Drakulya.”
“I am not sick.”
“Thy body is in a strange and wonderful condition. I meant to cure thee of thy taste for blood. Dost thou want to be cured?”
Again I shook my head. “That would...”
“What?”
“That would cure me of my life altogether. And I wish to live. What is thy name?” Somehow only the intimate form seemed appropriate to use to this man, as I did not object when he used it to me. His arrogance did not offend, because it was so great that it transcended arrogance.
He shook his head; the deep-set eyes were amused. My responses were unsatisfactory, though perhaps not unexpected. He said: “I told thee my name: I am Gregory Efimovich Rasputin.”
As yet that last name meant nothing to me–nor to the world, not for a few more years. but I believe I smiled, because the Russian word rasputin carries strong connotations of sexual debauchery; rather as if an Englishman or American were to introduce himself as Gregory Porno, or Ephraim Smut.
“A starets,” I murmured. “One of Russia’s wandering, holy fools.” That began, at least, to explain his acceptance among some of the aristocracy. Such people were a tradition among them and perhaps still are. In 1903 ten thousand, perhaps a hundred thousand, of them were walking the highways and byways of the great country, from Poland to Siberia. Not one in a hundred thousand of them, though, the Holy Virgin of Kazan be thanked, more likely not one in a million, carried or now carries in his mind and soul anything like the power of Gregory Efimovich to blast or to heal–or felt or now feels as little responsibility toward his fellow humans.
Gently and irresistibly he was saying to me: “Come with me to the balcony, and we will watch the sunrise together.”
Some remote part of my consciousness assured me that the Christian name and patronymic I had just heard should have been familiar to me, and that it had a particular meaning of great importance, related to some matter on which I ought to be engaged. Yet at the moment it was not possible to pursue the thought...
...because it was absolutely necessary to comply with the suggestion that had just been made. It was one of those suggestions that simply left one no choice. In my time, I have made a few of them myself.
Willingly I got to my feet. Images danced before me, of the cheery, sunlit days (there were a few) of my own childhood and youth. “Yes... it is a long time, it is very long, since I have watched the dawn.”
I think there were stairs beneath my feet, and I remember vaguely that my new guide and mentor, whose commands were always to be heeded, brought me out onto a small balcony, one of several on the eastern face of the large house, and I remember placing my hands on the rail of cold wrought iron that guarded the small space at waist level. And then I was left standing on the balcony, serenely awaiting sunrise, while Rasputin went back indoors, where (as I now realize) he soon caught sight of Kulakov, whom he had been intending to meet and speak with.
The two men began to talk. I heard most of it, recording it without understanding at the time, while my thoughts remained serenely concentrated upon the coming dawn. Shortly it became apparent from their conversation that Kulakov, suffering from his long-term disability, had returned to St. Petersburg primarily, or largely, in search of the one person he knew who could give him relief.