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