And finally there is the matter of that name—Dracula!
Had Bram Stoker not come across a copy of William Wilkinson’s An
Account of the Principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia, in which he
learned of a 15th-century Romanian prince named Dracula who fought
the Ottoman Turks, we might today have a forgotten 19th-century novel
about a Count Wampyr—the author’s original choice for his main
character’s name. Happily for literary posterity, however, Stoker
responded positively to the name Dracula: Drakul is Romanian for
“dragon,” but it also means “devil,” as in those distinctive
Romanian landscape features Gregynia Drakuluj (Devil’s Garden) and
Gania Drakuluj (Devil’s Mountain).
That may be all there is to it. Stoker might never have known
about Dracula’s other Romanian sobriquet, Vlad Tepes, or “Vlad
the Impaler.”
A portrait of Vlad Tepes hangs in Ambras Castle, Austria,
alongside one of a man so hirsute he resembles a were-wolf and
another of a person who lived with a lance sticking through his head.
Vlad won a place in this notorious “Chamber of Curiosities”
because he was considered the archetype of the bloodthirsty ruler.
This reputation had been fostered by a series of best-selling German
pamphlets that depicted him, in one case, dining serenely while
severed limbs covered the ground and all around him bodies hung from
sharpened stakes.
Over the past several decades, a fierce debate has erupted about
whether Stoker knew of Vlad’s bloodthirsty reputation. If so, did
he model his Dracula directly on that historical figure? The debate
is not merely academic; many, if not most, tourists visiting Romania
today equate Count Dracula with Vlad the Impaler. And many, if not
most, Romanians object to this misconception, for Vlad is a national
hero as the defender of their country. Celebrated in poems and
ballads, his statue gazes over Romanian towns, and his visage has
appeared on commemorative stamps. Under no circumstances, therefore,
should Vlad be associated with the world’s most famous vampire.
Some locals, perceiving a business opportunity, shrug their shoulders
and opt not to sweat the distinction; others justifiably resent the
Vlad-vampire conflation as a myth imposed on them from outside.
No doubt both camps are correct. Whatever sins may be attributed
to Vlad, however, vampirism cannot be counted among them. True, Vlad
was accused in the old German pamphlets of dipping his bread in the
blood of his victims. But it’s unlikely that Bram Stoker knew much
about him. The general traits of Stoker’s vampire seem to have been
settled when he was still known as Count Wampyr; from Vlad, Stoker
borrowed only the more dramatic name—and perhaps the hint of a
proud military past. Otherwise, the fictional Count Dracula owes more
to the traditional villain of Gothic romance than he does to the
historical prince of Wallachia.
That prince—he was actually a voivode, generally translated as
“prince” or “duke”—was born in Transylvania in 1431. That
was the year when Vlad’s father, in charge of guarding the
Carpathian passes against the Ottomans, was summoned to Nuremberg,
Germany. There, the Holy Roman Emperor inducted Vlad’s father into
the Order of the Dragon, a military fraternity dedicated to defending
Christendom against the Muslim Turks. As voivode of Wallachia, he
became known as Vlad II Dracul, or “Vlad the Dragon.” When his
son eventually succeeded him as voivode, he naturally became Vlad III
Dracula — “the Dragon’s Son.”
Part of southern Romania today, Wallachia is a grassy plain
bordered on the east and south by the Danube River and on the north
and west by the Carpathians. As the gateway to further Ottoman
expansion in Europe, it lay fully exposed to the Turkish forces
patrolling the river’s south bank. Therefore, Vlad II, despite his
oath to the Order of the Dragon, bought a tenuous security by paying
annual tribute to the sultan. He also surrendered his two younger
sons as hostages for good behavior.
By the time Vlad III Dracula became voivode in 1456, he was
nursing two long-standing grievances: His years of captivity had
imbued in him a deep hatred for the Turks, and the murder of his
father and older brother (the brother had been buried alive) had
induced a lasting enmity toward their killers, the Wallachian boyars,
or nobles.
This is where the stories of Vlad’s barbarism begin. In 1457, he
invited the boyars to Tirgoviste, the Wallachian capital, for an
Easter feast. There, Vlad sprang a trap: He impaled those complicit
in the murders of his father and brother. The others he marched off
to the mountains to build his castle, where he worked them until
their clothes fell from their bodies in tatters and they were forced
to slave away naked.
Emboldened by his coup, Vlad terrorized the Transylvanians between
1459 and 1460, impaling 10,000 in the city of Sibiu, and 30,000
boyars and merchants in Brasov—allegedly in a single day. In the
midst of these killing fields, a table was laid so that boyars who
escaped punishment might join Dracula for an alfresco feast.
Unfortunately, one of his guests could not stomach the spectacle; the
nauseating odors of the rotting corpses, the Impaler noticed, seemed
to overcome the man. The sensitive noble was therefore impaled on a
stake higher than all the rest, thus permitting him to die above the
stench.
Two monks passing through Wallachia were accosted by Dracula, who
asked them if his actions might be justified in the eyes of God. The
first monk more or less told him what he wanted to hear. The second
one, however, condemned his actions as reprehensible. In most German
pamphlets depicting this episode, the honest monk is hoisted aloft
while the cowardly one is rewarded. In most Russian pamphlets, by
contrast, the honest monk is spared.
In another tale of savagery, two ambassadors arrive from a foreign
court and decline to remove their hats in the presence of Dracula.
Vlad thereupon orders that their hats be nailed to their heads.
There are dozens of such stories, and most of them are clearly
exaggerated. This is not to suggest that executions did not take
place—death by impalement was a custom in eastern Europe and among
the Turks—but the numbers and incidents are almost certainly
inflated. A typical impalement seems to have involved hitching a
horse to each of a victim’s legs and by those means pulling him
slowly onto the point of a horizontal greased stake, driving it
through the rectum and running it up through the bowels. The stake
with its gory burden was then hoisted into a vertical position. Done
correctly—if that is the word for it—the agony of death might be
prolonged for hours. Whatever method was employed, impalement was
unquestionably labor- and resource-intensive: It demanded time, men,
horses, and wood. Vlad’s forces were never very large, and although
he had access to abundant timber in the Carpathians, most of
Wallachia was steppe.