Powers of Darkness

by Hans De Roos

  “Then perhaps, my good fellow, it would be best if you stayed in police custody once you are there,” I thought to myself.

  Fjallkonan #10 | 14 March 1900

  WE WALKED DOWN THE HALL, THE COUNT LEADING the way with the light. Then we climbed the stone stairs and reached an iron-clad oak door. He opened it and we entered the portrait gallery. When the Count closed the door again, I thought I saw something dart across the other end of the hall—a big, hairy animal of some kind. I was quite startled, and my host noticed.

  “What is the matter?” he asked. “Have you suddenly taken ill? I did tell you that the air in these old rooms would be harmful.”

  “No, there is nothing wrong with me. But what is there at the far end of the gallery?”

  “There is nothing—or did you mean the large painting—?”

  Now I saw nothing either, but I somewhat sheepishly told him what I believed to have seen. He laughed at me and said,

  “I will not say it is just your imagination, dear Harker—no, that I will not say, because you claim it with such conviction. But if you did indeed see something, it must have been—a rat.124 There are plenty of them in these old houses.”

  “No, I dare say, what I saw was the size of a—”

  “A cat,” he said. “Many parts of the castle are barely more than ruins, and the cats have multiplied. It is their instinct to hunt rats and mice; natural laws are the same everywhere: the stronger and smarter creatures live off the weak and dumb.”

  The gallery was unusually large. At the far end hung a large portrait—which at first seemed to portray the unknown lady125 whom I have now seen twice in the library. It looked so much like her that it was impossible to distinguish: the same eyes and look, the same countenance in all respects, the same hairstyle and the same clothes. The likeness was executed life-size by one of the masters of the beginning of this century.

  The woman was reclining on a chair or some kind of divan, with flowery shrubs and trees behind her. The artist’s arrangement, although rather pretentious, had some effect. He had also allowed himself to make some changes to her garments, which the ladies of those times would no doubt have considered proper—although they probably would have fainted if they were to see the bicycle garments worn by women today.

  At first glance the picture surprised me greatly—she looked like an exact replica of the noble girl I had seen here in the house. But I soon collected my thoughts and recalled what the Count had told me; I knew that this was not her in the portrait but some female ancestor of hers. This had to be the reason why they appeared so much alike, especially as the portrait was full-scale. When I took a closer look, I saw that the lady in the portrait wore on her chest the same diamond jewelry with a ruby in the center. She also had a belt around her middle, displaying a brooch with dragon jewels.126

  I gazed at the portrait entranced, while the Count watched me with eager curiosity.

  “Ha, ha, my friend,” he said, “you do not have to be embarrassed. You are not the first person she has confused—and you will probably not be the last. But look at her now—watch closely,” he continued, raising the candelabra that, although it was very heavy, appeared weightless in his hands, as if it were just a wax candle. “These breasts, which poets would compare to alabaster—your language has no words to express it, you poor bloodless people, neither snow nor alabaster—and that skin, firm and soft as down feathers to the touch … and that unrivaled physique.”

  I looked at him and saw that his mask had now fallen. In that moment, I realized that he was an old libertine.

  “And these lips,” he said, pursing his own a little, as if he were swallowing up the painting.

  Then he shared more pictures with me, such as a portrait of a naked woman being sold by a slave trader, displayed at the last show.127 The Count introduced each painting with a very indecent description.

  “You are not saying anything,” he said.

  “No, Sir Count, you are so well spoken. I have nothing to add.”

  “It is the cold blood in you Englishmen; you do not know the power of love and beauty, and still, I have read that English women are among the most enchanting in the world.”

  “There are quite a lot of handsome girls there, yes,” I said.

  “Like her, up there?”128

  I answered truthfully that I had never seen anyone like her, but also that I was generally unfamiliar with women, and that I only knew the fine ladies pictured in magazines and newspapers—some of which are thought to outshine others when it comes to beauty.

  “I have seen these illustrations; they are captivating,” he said. “I have had some of them sent to me for my own enjoyment, but a picture is just a picture—not the same as flesh and blood.”

  “Whose portrait is this, then?” I asked.

  “A cousin of mine,” he said.129 “The family blood was pure in her veins, as her mother was also of our clan. It has been a custom in our family that the men do not marry outside of the clan, as it has usually ended badly when they do. The women have been short-lived and the children rarely reach adulthood.”

  I was horrified; it was as if there was something triumphant in his voice.130

  Fjallkonan #11 | 24 March 1900

  “BUT SOME OF OUR DAUGHTERS,” HE SAID, “HAVE MARRIED outside of the family, as they have not been able to find a match amongst their relatives. Because our daughters have always been the most beautiful women, distant kin from the noblest clans in Europe have joined our family, although they hardly possess the same rank as ours. She up there—” He arched his head towards the large portrait.131 “—even from childhood she was one of those women who hold the hearts of men at their fingertips, playing with them as a child plays with grapes before sucking out the liquid.”

  He slipped his arm through mine and began leading me back around the gallery, saying,

  “She married a young Austrian man, a nobleman—the name does not matter, but you can look it up in many books if you want, as she made it famous.”

  “She understood that each gift of nature bestowed upon man to its fullest extent is essentially the gift of power. Artistry, prowess, wisdom and beauty—all that is power! It is passed on from one generation to the next, my good friend; nature is always working, it is constantly trying to produce something more refined; squandering much material selecting and rejecting. That which is inferior contributes its part, and then it is discarded—like trash.” He waved his hand, as if he were throwing something away, and his face turned cruel; I could not discern the slightest trace of human feeling.

  “But then,” he said, “perhaps once or twice in a generation, the hard work pays off and the family flourishes; the elite among them are revealed.” Although the Count has a remarkable number of English words at the ready, he had a hard time coming up with these last ones. He always tends to be at a loss for words when enthusiasm seizes him. “She up there,” he said. “She had the power, and that is why she had the right to rule. She was blessed with everything: beauty, as you can see, intellect and eloquence, nobility and willpower and strength. She held the destinies of whole nations in her hands, though few suspected it. Heads of state, kings and emperors, lay at her feet—or in her arms.132 She knew very well that such a woman, possessing all these qualities, could not be bought for all the gold in the world, and thus, she could make everyone her slave—the most humble slaves, whom she could wrap around her finger because they imagined that they possessed her, when in fact she was the one holding the reins in her beautiful hands.133 Everyone danced like a puppet beneath her fingers. She knew how to rule, and she knew that such is the supreme goal of life.

  “She became a widow early,” he said. “Her husband withered up. The poor devil had been a weakling since childhood, although he was from a noble line.” He laughed contemptuously. “It was said that she cared for him—he was a good-looking lad, his portrait is there—but the love of our women is like a consuming flame, and he … he melted from it, like a wax candle
thrown into a blazing bonfire. We of the genus Dracula, a primary line of the Szeklers134—we believe that our kin descends from the ancient Huns, who once swept across Europe like wildfire, destroying nations and their people. As the story goes, the Huns were descendants of the Scythian witches,135 who had been banished to the woods, where they commingled with the demons. These tales, of course, are like any other of their sort, but it is known that no demon or wizard has ever been greater or more powerful than Attila—our ancestor.136 Therefore it is not surprising that we, his descendants, hate and love more passionately than other mortals. But I have now come a long way from our story.

  “She became a widow, but as you might guess, such a trivial incident did not matter to such a woman. No historian has ever suspected how much power she held, and that is why some things will never be fully explained. The few who know—I could mention names, but it is not necessary—can prove that there was hardly a political event at that time in which she did not have her pretty finger in the pie. In fact, for most of these occurrences, some sort of planning can be traced right back to her bed chamber—for there she was a queen, and it is from there that she reigned in secret.137 What a grand life! No law but love and free will! This picture was painted in Paris, two years before Napoleon was crowned.138 It was a few years later that she met a man in Vienna, who, like her, was of the Dracula family. He was younger than her in years, but women like her never age. She was more beautiful than ever, and he was unlike anyone she had ever fallen for, a man cut from the same wood as her.139 It was as if two fires had met. Oh, you cold, rational children of the West—you do not know this kind of love. A love as biting as the bitterest hatred, with kisses that burn like glowing iron, and embraces… but no more of that! She married him and moved here with him, to the ancient family estate—which was, of course, not as decrepit as it is today—and here they lived together as one fire, both created to rule. If these old walls could talk, they would tell many stories that your cool English virtue could never dream of—although even I can appreciate that virtue, as it is also a form of power. Yet we, Attila’s children, have a nature truly different from yours. Oh, you are going to hate the ending of this story.

  “I have read about eternal love from your English books, but perhaps I will come to understand its meaning when I arrive in London, as I do not yet fully know what it means—or rather, I do not understand the meaning you attach to it. Love has its lifespan, like the flower in the field: once in full bloom, it quickly withers away.140 Then spring returns, but not the same flower, nor one of the same root. This is a law of nature. Once passion has blazed at its peak, it is more likely to be extinguished. This love of theirs eventually burned out, as love usually does—or hers at least … she was one of those women.” He lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper. “I will tell you, my friend. She was one of those women whose life is too rich to have just one man. Yes, such creatures do exist—but no more of that! She got herself a lover, a pretty boy from the mountains here; a country bumpkin, as you would call him, although we Szeklers are all aristocrats. For her it was no disgrace, and her husband should have understood that and let her live her life the way she needed to, but he did not, and that was a major mistake on his part. She was his dutiful wife, nevertheless, and she managed the castle’s household as was expected of a noble lady. Simply put: as his spouse, she paid him proper respect and performed her duties to him. Her personal affairs were none of his business.”141

  “None of his business?” I blurted out, unintended.

  “Certainly not, dear friend; love is free. It is detached from all other commitments and circumstances. In our clan this has always been the applicable law. His refusal to accept this, as I said, was a great and punishable mistake. Perhaps the fire of love had not yet been extinguished in him, as it had been in her. It could be that a few glowing embers still survived within him—which would explain his actions, but not excuse them, for he certainly did not act in the honorable way of a nobleman. Instead, he acted like a lowly commoner. He belittled himself by spying on her and her lover. One evening he burst in on them and, without even realizing how ridiculous it was, began to play the role of the betrayed husband, which was far beneath his dignity.142 Then he let himself have his revenge. And how do you think he accomplished this, my dear friend? Plain and simple, and undeniably funny as it was, he had the door to the Countess’s chambers nailed shut, letting them stay in there by themselves. But it was not his intention that they should starve to death, for they lacked neither food nor drink; it is said that he saw to that himself. All the servants were dismissed, except for the most loyal and reliable one. The castle, then, was as quiet as a dead man’s grave. Can you imagine, with your mind’s eye, the lovers living there in that room? In the beginning, I would imagine, they lived as if they were in paradise: she was too proud to know the meaning of fear, and he, the poor boy, must have considered himself richer than the king, having her all to himself. The Count, however, knew very well how he would have his requital. Knowing the Countess and the devouring flame of her emotions, he sensed that her lover, being one of life’s wax candles, would melt at such heat, as her first husband had done. Some people die, others go mad—poor useless devils—and so the Count just bided his time. It took several months, until one evening, when the moon was waxing, the window of the locked room—that little tower room in the southeast—was opened. It was said that the terrible sound of insane, anguished cries could be heard: ‘Help me! Help me! She is killing me!’ The next moment, it seemed as if someone had stepped onto the window sill and plunged out, head first. Have you not seen the abyss out there? You can see it outside your window, but here, at the top of the tower, the drop is several hundred feet. When he was found down there among the cliffs, there was not much left of him for her soft arms to embrace.”

  Fjallkonan #14 | 11 April 1900

  I CANNOT DESCRIBE THE IMPACT THAT HIS STORY HAD ON me, as it seemed to be absolutely free of any human sentiment. He lowered his voice, as if noticing my reaction to what he was saying.

  “No one knows what she had been up to, but the window was shut again and all was quiet once more. The Count waited a few days before he went to her, after her lover had leapt to Heaven—or Hell.143 Nobody knows what came to pass between them, but it is said that he kept going to her every night, at the same hour. This probably was a joyful time for him, though perhaps not quite so much for her—but who knows! No one saw or heard anything more, but a few months later he had women picked up from the village to provide the death service.144 She was lying dead in her bed; any more than that, people did not know. She was dressed in a garment similar to the one shown here in the portrait and placed in her coffin by command of the castle’s master. She rests here in the chapel, along with her family members. But as you see, my friend, she is still as beautiful as ever.”

  “How awful to hear this,” I said, trembling with such distress that I could barely manage to shake it off. Had I been a woman, I would have believed I was going hysterical.145 I had never felt like this. Had I suddenly caught a glimpse into the bowels of the earth, with all its demons and blazing brimstone down below—as medieval people believed—I would not have reacted worse.

  “Yes,” he said, “it was a major mistake on his part. The people in the region—Czechs, Tatars, Vlachs, and all the ragtag and bobtail who have swarmed to this country that we Szeklers are born to rule—have always feared and held a grudge against us, particularly us members of the Dracula family. Now they had found new gossip to enrich their chatter. And though we ignore the serpent that creeps on the ground, it will bite nonetheless.146 I have learned this the hard way. That is why I now live like a recluse, with owls and crows nesting in the towers of my forefathers’ castle. Perhaps people have also tried to smear my name while talking to you, dear friend. Come out with the truth now, what have they told you about Dracula before you came here?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning,” I said candidly, “but—”

 
; “But they insinuated all the more,” he said. “Oh, these slaves! These vagabonds! They fear Dracula, and for good reason! Vengeance and curses shall bite them long after he has found himself a new homeland!147 Come on, my dear friend,” he said, slowing down and changing his tone, “on another occasion, let us look at this picture again in daylight.”

  He held up the candlestick, illuminating the portrait one last time, and then he showed me more paintings, telling me something about each of them.

  It was a strange collection of family portraits, spanning over centuries. Many of the paintings were amateurishly executed and some poorly made, though others were masterpieces. What intrigued me most was the unbroken perpetuation and gradual perfection of the two or three human likenesses that consistently emerged, generation after generation. It seemed as though the clan had reached its greatest bloom with the Count and the ravishing noble lady in the magnificent portrait he had described. The same facial features as possessed by the Count could be seen in paintings from different eras, three or four of which looked so much like him that I was taken aback.148

  “It is exactly as you say,” said the Count. “I am a true Dracula.”

  The reoccurring features—big head with black hair, short neck, unusually broad chest, low forehead, and brown, wrinkly skin (even in the young men)—looked very different from modern, civilized people. Not even pictures I’d seen of savages had looked less appealing to me.

  I praised the Count’s family for its continuously heightening beauty. Although he clearly appreciated the compliment, he changed the subject all the same.149

  “Yes, my friend,” he said, “that is just more proof of what I always say—that the strongest must prevail and conquer the world. Those who are weak are only created to satisfy the needs of others more powerful. The person who knows how to exert his strength will gain supremacy and have everything at his command—beauty, prudence and knowledge—in the same way that the small seedling, growing in the graveyard, will gradually become a tall tree with the life force of a thousand generations, all contributing their strength, comeliness and other good qualities.”150