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