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. − − −