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.”