by Hans De Roos
“I was just searching for it when this woman came into the library.”
The Count seemed oddly baffled by this, and I expected him to flare up again, but instead he just asked me to explain.
“The woman who was in the room when you arrived. You must have seen her,” I said. “You came in just after her.”
“No, I did not see her,” he said, seeming distracted. “I should have expected this—there are indeed things in this house which few people know about. You have experienced one of them. What did the girl look like? Was she blonde?”
“Yes.”
“… and dressed in pale colors, but in somewhat unusual fashion?”
I nodded.
“She had sparkling diamonds on her breast, with a ruby in the center?”
“Yes.”
“… and she must have been, let’s say—rather pretty?”
“Very pretty!”
“Very pretty? Ha ha ha! Ravishing! Radiant, like Venus, like Helen of Troy! A wonder of nature one might say. Have you ever seen a neck like that? Such a bosom, such arms, such lips—not to speak of all the rest. My poor boy, my poor, virtuous Englishman, you have probably never seen a woman like that in your whole life.” There was something indecent in his voice and laughter. “Excuse me for making fun of you,” he said. “You modern young people take everything so seriously, but we laughed about such things when I was a lad. I was really just laughing at your innocent expression, but the truth is that there is nothing to laugh about here.97 Did she speak to you by chance?”
“As I recall, she welcomed me. I thought that she was living here.”
“Yes, she lives here, and she is closely related to me—gorgeous as a goddess, but galloping mad.”98
My heart skipped a beat.
“That, however, does not mean one has to fear her. She believes she is her own great-grandmother. This is why she always wears the same kind of clothes as seen in her great-grandmother’s portrait. Some other evening I will show you the paintings of my relatives, and I am sure you will find that the women are remarkably similar. It is, of course, nothing but innocent folly. Normally one keeps a close eye on her, but every now and then she sneaks out at dusk, wandering through the corridors of the castle. You see, she has been unlucky in matters of love—the poor girl—and thus she is always searching for her suitor.99 I have now told you everything there is to know about her.”
He stared at me with a vacant look, as if thinking to himself. “Any more than that you will most certainly not find out.” I could have been mistaken, but I was quite certain he was not telling me the truth.
I’m not sure why, but the Count frightens me. It’s normal to feel uneasy about someone whom you don’t like, but I cannot help being afraid even though the Count is nothing but affable.
“The farmers here in the countryside tell many stories about the castle. One of them is about the white woman, who legend has it roams around the castle, appearing only to those who are in some kind of mortal danger. You must be familiar with tales of such white maidens in old European castles,100 but here, to a certain degree, the story is rooted in facts. Of course, there’s no need to tell everyone about that.”101
I bowed to show him that I agreed.
“I trust that I do not have to tell you not to believe all the rumors you have probably heard about me or my home. Here in the mountains people tend to be superstitious, as they say, and often old houses are linked to a host of frightening stories. You may think you have experienced some unusual incidents here in this castle, but I assure you everything stems from natural causes and that you need not have any fear.”
“Yes, please be assured that I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Perfect. I had figured as much,” he said. “England is a land of culture and practical pursuits. Eyes that have cherished the light of modern civilization102 never see phantoms.”
“Of course not,” I replied. “Those kinds of beliefs are now regarded as pathological, and as far as I can tell, they are caused by hallucinations and overexcited nerves—nothing more. Could anything be more absurd than imagining the spirits of dead people ghosting around, even dressed in the same clothes as they wore when they were alive—clothes which have rotted and fallen apart by now?”
“That’s right,” he said with—what seemed to me—a scoffing look on his face. “I like that. That is how young people are supposed to think. We old diehards may cling to our dogmas, but the future belongs to the younger generation. That is why I long for the whirlpool of young life in London. There, people have other things to think about than believing in spectres. Yes, but we should look into business matters now. Will you please get the documents?”
I went to fetch them and came right back. The Count thoroughly examined all of the papers and bombarded me with questions. I was greatly surprised at how familiar he was with the habits and customs of people in London.
“Yes, but as I have already told you, I have spent years studying the heart of England, which I soon hope to enjoy in person. Unfortunately, though, I’ve had to learn everything from books—including the language. I think I might be able to learn from you now, while we converse.”
“You speak English pretty well, Sir Count.”
“I still have a lot to learn,” he said. “I am familiar with the grammar and can speak so that people understand me, but when I come to London, I know that everyone will hear that I am a foreigner. I want to learn to speak the language like the local people do.”
We started looking through the documents.103 The house offered to the Count was located in the east side of the city;104 it was a large, old mansion, which no one had lived in for a long time.
The Count said that he was pleased with the property in every way. He loved that it was old and worn out, much like his own house, and he also found the nearby chapel to be an additional benefit. “Here, in this country, people like me cannot forget that we will, one day, be buried105 together with the crowd of common peasants—the worst earthworms, who have only lived a day’s life.”106
After looking over the documents, my host invited me to dinner. He told me that he had already eaten on the way home, which is why he had been delayed. He took a seat by the oven107 and we started chatting.
I told him about my travels and what had happened the previous night, on my way to the castle. He said that the driver had acted appropriately when he left the carriage, as the wolves might have attacked the horses but usually shy away from humans. When I asked him about the gleam of light that I had seen in the dark, he asked me whether I had ever heard of grave mound fires.108 He said it was believed that such fires could be seen on St. George’s Night—burning in places where money had been buried.
“There is no doubt,” he said, “that there are countless coins hidden in the ground around here. The Turks, Vlachs, Szeklers and Saxons fought in this area for many centuries, and it was customary to bury one’s treasures to shelter them from the enemy.”
“But how could this money have stayed hidden for so long, when it’s possible to find the places where it’s buried?”
“Because peasants are, and always will be, cowards. They are parasites, and while they will badger us whenever they can, they lack guts. It is also no easy task to find the money where such flames have been seen. In fact, you may find that there is no money at all, as old tales are not often reliable, but yes, it would be lovely to find a chest of glowing gold; gold—the only thing this world will be ruled by.”
It was as if the Count had fallen into some kind of trance as he stared blankly into the distance, scratching the chair with his fingers, like an animal with its claws. I began to believe that he was not entirely sane—at least, not like other men—so I will have to try to keep him in good spirits and make sure that everything is very well handled, as would be expected from a lawyer.
By now dawn was already starting to break. The Count awoke from his trance and apologized for having kept me up for so long. He then wished me
a good night and I went to my bedroom.
As before, once I was alone, sleep eluded me. I was overwhelmed by what had happened to me during the day and it made me restless. To ease my mind—and to lock as much as possible in my memory—I began to write. I wrote in shorthand so that my client wouldn’t be able to read it; even if he wanted to pry, shorthand strokes would be too difficult for the Count to crack, even with his wolf teeth.
Every time I think of the girl I found in the library, the memory is as fresh as ever. What the Count told me about her may be true, but it felt as if something didn’t add up. I am certain that here in this castle not everything is as it seems. But we lawyers tend to be skeptical—as mistrust is our shadow spirit.109
I would like to see her again though, preferably in broad daylight.
8 MAY, MIDNIGHT
COMING TO AN END
MUCH HAS HAPPENED SINCE MY LAST ENTRY—SOME OF which is rather suspicious. A large part of the day had already passed before I awoke. When I walked into the dining room food was on the table, but all the doors were locked as usual. There were also some foreign newspapers lying there—and a letter from my Wilma, which had come by mail. That was by far the best spice on the table.
I was ravenous, and I sat at the dining table for a long time—the more so as I couldn’t help but look through the newspapers. Later, I went to the library, but as usual the Count was nowhere to be found. Every day he is out and about, which does not surprise me, as he has a big estate to take care of and also happens to be an avid hunter. I sat reading the newspapers until sunset, and then I hurried to my bedroom to shut the window. There I realized that I had forgotten to shave, and as I had nothing better to do while I waited for the Count, I hung my shaving mirror in the window, took off my jacket and vest, then picked up the razor blade and put it to my skin.
I looked out the window, admiring the landscape, and thought about the letter from Wilma. I didn’t notice that anyone had come into the room until I heard the Count say, “Good evening, my dear young friend.”110
He is always so cordial.
I was so startled that I gave myself a nasty cut with my razor, but I ignored the blood running down my throat and turned to answer the Count’s greeting.
Never have I seen anyone’s appearance change so drastically. Suddenly the Count became as pale as a corpse; his eyes, turning red, bulged out of his head, and with his hair standing up like that of an angry dog, he looked like a raging beast. Before I knew what was happening, he seized me by the throat, tearing my shirt, and would probably have bitten my windpipe had my rosary not gotten in the way. He must have been momentarily possessed.
Soon his outburst subsided, and he asked that I forgive him for becoming so frenzied. “But I cannot bear to see human blood,” he explained.
Fjallkonan #8 | 2 March 1900
“THESE CUTS CAN BE DANGEROUS,” HE ADDED. “MORE dangerous than you can imagine, and it is all because of this instrument of vanity: this mirror—away with it!”
He flung the mirror towards the furnace, shattering it into countless pieces.111 Then he threw the shards into the coal basket and left for the dining room, saying, “I will wait for you there, my dear Harker.”112
I was uneasy about the Count, as he was clearly not of an entirely sound mind, and even though he was old and white-haired, I surmised that I would be no match for him, neither in strength nor agility, as he boasts of being a descendant of Attila, king of the Huns. It seems that in this castle anything can be expected. I have spotted no other servants here but the deaf and dumb old woman and the driver, whom I haven’t seen since I arrived. This manor is so large, however, that it could hide dozens of people and for hours they’d have no knowledge of one another. It’s as though the silence of death rules over this castle, and as I have no contact with anyone but the Count, he would quite easily be able to lock me up entirely if it so suited him. I wouldn’t even be able to get away through the windows, as the castle is built on a rocky mountaintop with steep cliffs on three of its sides. Looking down, all I can see is a deep ravine where tall trees grow, so unless I could fly like a bird, I cannot escape. In broad daylight, my self-control and lack of exaggerated imagination generally keep me from fearing what darkness may bring, but if the Count has inherited some nasty tribal character113 from the Huns, such as an urge to kill or some other sinister trait, it is best to be cautious.
I found the Count in the library skimming through magazines and newspapers. He was composed and courteous, as if nothing had happened in my bedroom. He greeted me kindly and asked how I was, as if he hadn’t spoken to me earlier that day. I realized he must not have been fully aware of what had occurred. He then stood up, saying,
“It is not late yet, and I wondered if you would like to see the family portraits upstairs.”
I said that I would love to.
“It may not be ideal to look at the portraits by candlelight, but as I have so much to do during the day I am unable to show them to you at a more appropriate time. Later, you can view them again in daylight. If you don’t mind waiting for a moment, I will go take care of the light, so that it will be bright enough.”
He walked away and I heard his footsteps as he went down the corridor and up the stairs. It seemed to be a long way to the portrait gallery.
Suddenly I grew frightened, so I ran to my room and grabbed my revolver, which had remained in my travel bag, untouched since I’d embarked on my journey.
When I returned to the library I was struck with yet another shock that left me lightheaded. It was getting dark, and before leaving the library the Count had lit all the silver candlesticks. There, in the chair by the fireplace, sat the Count’s “niece,”114 her ivory arms adorning the arm rests.115 She had opened up her shawl, revealing her breast, which was bare down to her bosom and shining with diamonds, just like the first time I saw her. She turned her head slightly, like a flower on a stem, her bright blonde hair coiled upon her head in a Greek style. I had hoped that I would see her again but was greatly surprised at the effect I allowed her to have on me, for I had promised myself that it would be different next time—especially because the Count had briefed me about her.116 Nevertheless, everything happened the same way as before. I experienced the same sensations again, a kind of dull and deadly dread, but also a sort of bittersweet pain.117 I tried to pull myself together to guard against the effect she had on me, and I more or less succeeded, but the moment she turned towards me and locked her incomparable eyes with mine, it felt as though an electric current surged throughout my body. I grabbed a nearby chair and held onto its backrest. She looked steadily into my eyes, and it didn’t even occur to me that I should have greeted her, or that my behavior was doltish. But evidently neither did she see a need for salutations. It felt as though we had already known each other for a long time and therefore didn’t need to explain ourselves.118
“Why do you never come up?” she asked, with the same astonishing voice as last time. I have never heard such a voice before. “I thought that you would come up and visit us. There is so much I would like to discuss with you.” I tried to pardon myself and explained that I didn’t know what she was referring to. “That’s right,” she said, not taking her eyes off me. “You will come, you will come. You are expected.” Without shifting her gaze away from me, she smiled, almost imperceptibly. The blue glow in her eyes was so striking that it felt as though one of its rays had pierced right into my brain and I could feel it burn.119
Then I heard the Count’s footsteps in the hallway.
“He’s coming,” she whispered. “I must go, but remember—” she got up and for a moment stood before me, bathed in candlelight. She was a sight more striking than any other I had ever seen. She then proceeded to tiptoe past me so quietly that I hardly noticed, and without taking her eyes off me, she put her white hand, glittering with rings, on top of mine and whispered, “—tell him nothing, but come! And beware, beware, beware.”120
Then she disappeared, but just
as before, I didn’t see what had become of her. I may, however, have heard a tiny spring click in one corner of the room, where I had never seen a door before.
With much effort, I tried to get ahold of myself again before the Count came in, and I somehow managed to do so, pretending to be absorbed in the map of England that was lying on the table in front of me.121
“Come on, my dear friend,” he said, “everything is ready upstairs. You must excuse us that everything is so primitive in this place—we do not have electric light here in the Carpathians.”
“But you don’t have any of the London fog here in the clean mountain air, either,” I said.
“Yes, these fog banks,” he said with excitement. “I have also read about them in my books. I think they only increase my longing for London. This fog, which turns day into night and lies like a thick blanket over the streets and squares—all over, more obscure than darkness itself—I want to see it.”
“I am afraid that you would soon tire of it. Fog is the main drawback of London. It smothers the town like a vampire sucking the blood and bone marrow of its citizens, poisoning the blood and lungs of the children, and resulting in countless diseases. Not to mention all the pernicious crimes committed under its cloak—crimes that would otherwise be quite impossible to perpetrate.”122
“Yes,” the Count said, breathless with excitement, while fire seemed to spark from his eyes.123 “Yes, these crimes, these horrible murders; those slaughtered women found in sacks, drifting in the Thames; this blood that runs—runs and flows—with no killer to be found.” I don’t think I wrongly accuse him when I say that he seemed to be licking his lips with lust when I mentioned the murders. “Yes, it is a tragedy,” he said, “and these murders will never be solved—ever. Your writer, Conan Doyle, has written many good books about London, and I read your newspapers. According to them, barely two or three percent of all homicide cases are solved. Yes, London is indeed a remarkable city.”