Powers of Darkness
Page 6
“Dear Sir!
Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. At seven tomorrow evening the mail coach will leave from Bistritz for Bukovina, and I have booked you a fare on it.38 I will have my carriage wait in the Borgo Pass to bring you to my home. I hope that you have not strained yourself too much during the journey, and that you will enjoy your visit to our beautiful country as you are bound to stay here for both our benefits, and am your friend,39
Dracula.”40
All of this sounds fine. I am growing curious, as it’s not every day one meets a Hungarian—or rather, Transylvanian—nobleman41 who lives in an old castle in some deserted mountains at the end of the civilized world, yet writes letters in flawless English with all the urbanity of cultivated scholars, while negotiating with solicitors and real estate agents to buy a house in the heart of London.42 Such a man must be remarkable.
BISTRITZ, 4 MAY
I COULDN’T SLEEP LAST NIGHT, AS I WOULD HAVE NEEDED to after such a trip, because it was as if all the town’s dogs had agreed to meet under my window and howl, letting all hell break loose. Eventually I became so tired that sleep overcame me, but I awoke shortly thereafter when I heard something scratch at the window. I raised the curtain and saw that a bat had landed on the window sill, but it flew away just as I approached it.43 The barking and howling were no better than before, so I couldn’t peacefully sleep again before dawn.
When we sat down for breakfast, the hotel owner told me he had received a letter from the Count requesting he see to it that I get the best seat in the carriage. He had included money for the ticket, too. I tried to ask the owner and his wife about the Count, but they were more than reluctant to tell me anything about him, except that he was rich—or was said to be rich—and that they had only seen him in passing, but he rarely came into town, and so on. To be honest, I barely understood the poor German they spoke.
When I told them about the barking dogs and the bat, I noticed that they glanced at each other and crossed themselves furtively. Superstition is deeply rooted in this country and I regret not being able to learn more about these people and their way of thinking. It would be interesting to explore the simpleminded beliefs that are so alive around here, although modern people—like myself—would just call them old wives’ tales, as they are remnants of pagan thinking, attesting to the customs of a bygone era.
Later on I met a Saxon teacher who spent part of the day showing me the town. When I asked him about Count Dracula he was surprised to hear that I was going to meet the Count and stay with him for a fortnight, because—he told me—the Count was known to live in seclusion, avoiding all people, and never had he heard of the Count inviting anyone to his home. “There will certainly be many stories about him,” I said, “as men tend to taunt those who don’t tie their bundles the same way as their fellow travellers.”44 He said it was true that much was rumored about the Count, but no reasonable person would put trust in such blathering. Other than that, he had nothing to say about the Count, except that he was born of the greatest and oldest family in the country, of which—due to the innate qualities of their kin45—the men were the bravest and the women the most beautiful, throughout the centuries the subjects of poetic lore. He didn’t know whether the Count had children, but he had been married three times and had lost all of his wives.46
When I returned to the guesthouse to prepare for my departure, the landlady, who seemed very distressed, came to me and said,
“Are you seriously going?”
She was so upset that she completely forgot what little German she knew and jabbered away in another language of which I didn’t understand a single word. When I told her that I had to go because I had an important business deal to finalize, she stared at me before asking solemnly,
“Then you don’t know what day it is today?”
I said that it was the fourth of May—as it was—but she shook her head, saying,
“Yes, I know that, too, but do you know what kind of day it is?”
I had to tell her that I didn’t understand her point, at which she answered me with urgency, saying,
“But what part of the world are you from, you poor young man, that you don’t know it is the eve of St. George’s Day,47 when all the evil spirits are at large!”48—and now she crossed herself—“Do you know where you are going … and what could happen to you there? Believe an old lady who wishes you well. Don’t depart until morning; it’s a sin to tempt God and throw yourself into perdition.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and in an instant she was down on her knees, gesticulating before me and begging me in the name of the Holy Virgin Mary—and a number of other holy men whose saintly deeds I am actually not familiar with—not to leave within the next two days. To tell the truth, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable while she carried on like this, but I don’t believe in such prattle, of course. I got her to stand up, wiped her tears and then told her sternly that I had to go—it was my duty. When she got ahold of herself she took a rosary from her bosom and handed it to me. I didn’t know what to do; like any English Churchman,49 I have been taught disdain for such holy toys since childhood, but I didn’t want to offend this dear old woman. When she saw that I was wavering, she ended the discussion by putting the rosary around my neck, and with a quivering voice she said, “Do it for your mother’s sake.”
Having said this, she left.
Superstition is contagious like the plague. I do not feel well. I have now been writing this to compose myself while I wait for the mail coach, as it is delayed. It vexes me that the Count’s horses will have to wait, too. I will now write a letter to my Wilma,50 which will probably surprise her. − − −
CASTLE DRACULA, 5 MAY,
IN THE MORNING
IT’S BROAD DAYLIGHT OUTSIDE AND IT IS FOUR O’CLOCK in the morning.51 I haven’t gone to bed yet but am wide awake; I wouldn’t be able to sleep now, so I might as well write instead, as the Count has said that I can rest as long as I want after my travels.
When I stepped into the mail coach that was to take me to the Borgo Pass, the driver had not yet come to his seat, as he was palavering with the landlady and some of the other villagers. It seemed as though the people were talking about me, and they were looking at me with expressions of surprise and compassion. As I only caught a few scattered words, I took my dictionary out of my pocket and looked up the ones I could make out best. They were not very pleasant: words such as devil, hell, monster and other such “nice” expressions were thrown around, and I suspected they related to my prospective host, the Count. When we departed, a crowd of people had gathered at the guesthouse, making the sign of the cross with two outstretched fingers and pointing to me, me who—innocent as a child—had done nothing wrong. I asked one of my fellow travellers who spoke German the reason for this, and he said that the people meant me no harm. Quite the contrary: they meant me well and were praying for me! Then the coachman struck the horses and I soon forgot all their blessings and ill-forebodings as I began to watch the scenery. The hills spread out before us, everywhere grassy and wooded, and on the slopes we saw farms with their windowless gables facing the road. Along the coach route, which lay in countless curves between the hillocks, I noticed an apple tree in bloom and many other fruit trees. The driver maneuvered the horses as if his life depended on it, over rocks and through potholes; road repairs, which are always to be done in spring, hadn’t yet been made, leaving the track in bad condition.52
Beyond the hills the rocky peaks of the Carpathians towered over the dark woods.53 They were soon surrounding us, glowing in the sunlight with the richest of colors, while in the distance we could discern blue-white glaciers. We came across farmers in motley attire, and I witnessed many sights I had never seen before, such as haystacks being put up in the treetops to dry.
With darkness drawing near it was getting much colder. We even caught glimpses of snow in the ravines and passes. Sometimes the road was so steep that I wanted to get out and walk, as we would in Engl
and, but the driver flatly refused, saying, “No, by all means, do not step out of the carriage, it’s not safe here—wild dogs,” and so, except for when he turned on the carriage lights, he didn’t stop once. The darker it became, the greater the apprehension that seemed to engulf my travel companions as they spoke to the coachman, and from what I understood, they were asking him to make haste—which he did, brutally snapping his whip at the horses like the worst butcher and whistling very high from time to time, hurrying them on even more.
Fjallkonan #7 | 21 February 1900
SUDDENLY THE SKY CLEARED AHEAD OF US, AS IF THE mountains had opened up, and yet they became even steeper on both sides. My fellow travellers now became even more tense than they already were. The road was better here and the ride continued at an even more tearing pace than before, such that I had to hold myself in order not to be thrown around in the carriage. I am no coward, but it seemed crazy to rush on like this in the dark. I was then told that we were galloping up the Borgo Pass, and as if to make this event more ceremonious, my travel companions started giving me odd gifts, such as rose tree branches, rowan twigs, white flowers, crucifixes, and other small trinkets. I didn’t have the heart to refuse them, but little by little I tried to get rid of most of them, as I could not see how they would be of any use to me. I did, however, understand that they were meant to protect me against the attacks and cunning tricks of the Evil One. The carriage rushed forward with the same breakneck speed as before, and all the while my companions wriggled in their seats as if sitting on hot coals, looking around us in all directions, which eventually made me nervous as well. I asked them if there was anything to fear, but they answered me with some balderdash, or muttered phrases I didn’t understand. As the road began to descend from the pass, the driver pulled on the reins and we stopped. Although it was still behind the mountains, the moon had risen, illuminating our surroundings.
I started to worry whether or not the Count had even sent his carriage for me, as the coachman insisted that no one would come. He advised me to go back to the village with him and to return tomorrow or some other day.
While we were discussing this, the horses became skittish and began to prick their ears, whinnying and rearing, and the coachman struggled to keep hold of them. My companions shouted, called for the saints, crossed themselves and grabbed their crucifixes.
In the midst of this chaos, an antiquated calèche, drawn by four splendid pitch black stallions, drove up to us.54 Their harnesses were adorned with silver and seemed as though they belonged in a history museum rather than on those magnificent animals. The driver was tall and had a large black beard. He was not in uniform, but in some sort of national dress, and wore a wide-brimmed felt hat on his head, so that only the lower part of his face was visible. I noticed, however, that his eyes seemed red in the lamplight. I have seen such eyes on other people, but it always makes an eerie impression. As I already felt rather beat up after the tiresome journey and conversation with my companions, I would have preferred this new escort of mine to be less peculiar.
“You have been travelling fast this evening, my friend,” the stranger said to our driver in German.55
“The English gentleman was in a hurry.”
“And so you have advised him to return with you; I hear well and am not easily fooled. Besides, I have swift horses.”56
He laughed out loud, so that his teeth shone white as snow.
“Give me the luggage of the gracious lord,” he said, and with the help of all my travel companions, my baggage was transferred to the other carriage in the wink of an eye. Then I stepped out of the mail coach and the driver lifted me up into the calèche, rather forcefully. In an instant, the man got in his seat and grabbed hold of the reins, and we dashed off. I looked back and saw that my fellow travellers had stepped out of the carriage to see us better—still crossing themselves.
When they were out of sight, some sort of horror struck me, and I felt all alone—as if I had left the civilized world and entered a realm of darkness, where anything could happen. The superstitions of my companions had unduly impacted me, and I had to employ all my common sense and self-control to pull myself together. I kept telling myself that I was no adventurer wrestling with ghosts and demons but the steady Thomas Harker—a candidate for the bar with good testimony, currently an assistant at the law firm of Peter Hawkins, Esq.,57 who had sent me to Count Dracula in Transylvania to finalize his real estate purchase in London. I was also thinking about my fiancée, Wilma; I had just written her a letter, and as I brought her and our home life to mind my mood improved and I became composed once more. I began to look forward to exploring unknown paths at the Count’s place. As I lit a cigar, the calèche suddenly stopped. The driver left his seat, came over to me, and spread a fur over my feet and knees. He also wrapped me in a pelt coat above the waist and said in good German:
“It’s chilly in the mountains tonight, and the gracious Count told me that I should make sure you would not be cold. There is a bottle of plum liqueur under the seat, if you need to warm yourself.”
I thanked him, and he went back to his seat to steer the horses.
I was about to doze off when it felt as though the carriage suddenly turned around. This was probably just my imagination, but it felt very real to me. A short while later I lit a match and looked at my watch—it was a few minutes to twelve. I began to remember some of the things the landlady at the inn had told me, but I laughed it off, tightened the mantle around me, and tried to sleep.
But as soon as I closed my eyes I heard dogs barking from a farm nearby, and some time later from another direction, and then again from the distance, until the whole air, near and far, resounded with whining and barking, growing louder as the winds grew stronger. I could not sleep now, the more so as the horses were beginning to stir. The driver calmed them by speaking to them in a soothing voice, saying something to them that I didn’t understand. The wind was growing more violent, and nothing could be heard but the rushing of the forest and the occasional hooting of owls in the treetops. Then the barking came again, followed by a ferocious howling that instantly terrified me.
“What is that?” I asked the driver.
“It’s wolves, sir; wolves here in the mountains,” he said. “They are out tonight, but you can rest easy. To us— they do nothing.”
The horses, however, seemed to be of a different opinion, as they were now becoming unruly, kicking back as if they were afraid. I saw that the driver had to muster all of his tremendous strength in order to keep them under control. The calèche nearly tipped over, which would have thrown me out into the gorge that I suspected was beside the road. I was prepared to jump out to safety, but the driver finally managed to settle the horses so that he could dismount the calèche and get to them. He stroked them and whispered to them, like horse tamers do, and soon they were meek as lambs. The driver took his seat again and we continued.
Not much later we came out of the woods and were moving alongside enormously high cliffs. There we were sheltered from the gale, but I noticed that the storm was still building up, and it was not long before the weather became murderous.58 The barking from the valley we had crossed was faint now, but the sound of wolves was much louder than before and could be heard all around us.
I was not scared, but I was not at ease either. I wished I had some rifles with me, as I would have liked to give my Wilma two or three wolf furs as a wedding present. I had to laugh to myself when I thought of the hunters I knew, who would have been grateful to be granted a month’s stay in this area.59
Suddenly I noticed that the driver was scanning the forest in all directions, and as I watched more closely I saw something like a bluish flame flicker not far from us in the woods. The driver had obviously noticed it too. He jumped from the carriage and took off into the forest. It seemed that this glimmer was close to the road, and I could clearly see what the driver was doing: he was building a cairn.60 – – –
It felt as if I had fallen asleep
for a moment when I realized that the calèche had halted.61 The driver was away, longer than he had been before, and after a few moments the horses became restless. This puzzled me, especially as there was nothing to be heard from the wolves. Soon the horses were so unruly that I took hold of the reins myself and was about to leave the carriage to better handle them—but then the moon came out, and all of a sudden I saw four, five, six large wolves sneaking down the road with gaping snouts and sagging tongues. In a flurry, I reached into my pocket for my revolver, but I had put it into my carpetbag that morning.62 I had nothing to defend myself with but the whip, which I could hardly use, as I was having enough trouble handling the horses. Unwilling to sit idle, I yelled “Hello” as loud as I could, so that it echoed through the forest; the wolves didn’t seem to like it. Then I heard the driver saying something I didn’t understand, and when I looked to the side I saw him gesture to them, at which they shamefully crept away with drooping tails.
“How could you leave the carriage in a situation like this?” I shouted to the driver. “We nearly had an accident. I could hardly cope with the horses much longer.”
“I told you there was nothing to fear, even if the horses are young and inexperienced—I am an old hunter. The wolves will do us no harm. You saw how I drove them away. I know how to deal with them, they do not dare attack me. There are, however, much worse things in the woods when it’s dark like this. Try to sleep; we will soon be at the castle.”63