10 JUNE

MY STAY HERE IS BECOMING INCREASINGLY OMINOUS. This evening the Count and I sat together discussing political news from the outside world, which had come with the arrival of fresh newspapers during the day (although I haven’t yet received any letters). The Count has a sound grasp of all events relating to politics, but I struggle to guess which political party he follows. In some aspects he seems to be very liberal, like a downright revolutionary man—but in other points his views are so very outdated that he may well be far more conservative than most other reactionary people. He spends much time thinking about socialists and anarchists, and he often expresses his peculiar views on both of these political movements.

“They are good people; capable people,” he said when we recently spoke about an anarchist-organized riot, one condemned and repudiated by the entire educated world.²⁵⁴ He rubbed his palms together and fire seemed to burn from his eyes.

“I don’t see what you are driving at, Sir Count,” I said. “The power of the mob could never be something you’d be pleased with.”

“The mob—those dull-witted common people—will never gain any power,” he said, “and will never be more than an instrument in the hands of the strong, who rule with the masses and over the masses. But only a very few understand the wisdom that lies in this truth. Oh, you Englishmen are so proud of your political freedom²⁵⁵ and progress—as you call it—but there are only two or three men among you who fully understand what progress is, and that this freedom for the masses is its worst enemy!”− − −

I have often heard him talk like this, and it has triggered quite a few thoughts in me; yet I have not been able to understand what the gist of the matter is, as whenever I’ve attempted to delve further into the question, he has always been evasive, giving me answers that make no sense, thus leaving me no wiser than before.

We sat together for a long time, and as he left he wished me a good night. I had a very difficult time sleeping and got up at the crack of dawn, opened the window, and started reading, hoping I would doze off.

The mornings are nebulous here in the mountains, obscuring my view into the valley below. Atop the castle the sun now reddened the towers, yet the fog lay like a thin veil on the walls underneath, becoming denser towards the bottom. I began to observe this phenomenon, when suddenly I saw the same scene I had witnessed the night the young girl must have been slain. But because of the brume, I could hardly discern this monstrous fellow, nor could I clearly see the ledge of the wall on which he was moving.

Soon I saw another person moving along the ledge. He was much smaller, and as he came closer I saw that he was finding his way along the ridge by gradually inching forward—with the gaping abyss right next to him.

I stepped back from the window, trying to watch him more carefully.

The man was wearing my travel clothes! He seemed so similar to me in size and height, and in all other aspects, that it was as if I was looking at my own ghost.²⁵⁶ Because he was looking downward I couldn’t clearly distinguish his face, but I could see he was young and dark-complected;²⁵⁷ I could tell that he was determined and possessed nerves of steel from the very fact that he traversed this narrow and dangerous path.

I watched him until he climbed through a window at the west tower of the castle.²⁵⁸

I now realized that whoever had stolen my clothes must have a specific purpose for them, and I wondered what that could be. It’s obvious they have been taken to prevent my escape, but surely there must be more behind it. This man, dressed in my suit, is probably going to appear in my place—or I in his place—in order to create the impression I was somewhere that I wasn’t at this or that time. The ridge—which is hardly two feet wide—must lead to an outside staircase, allowing one to descend the castle wall. That way, one could get in and out of the castle from the rear, even when all the doors are closed and the drawbridge is up.

Now I understand why the Count doesn’t wish the windows to be open after sundown. He doesn’t want to risk me detecting the truth about his goings-on. Had I listened to him, I wouldn’t have had the faintest idea about any of this.

What I have discovered thus far appears rather sinister—I don’t know what misdeed I may be accused of should someone have impersonated me.

If the Count suddenly decides to get rid of me—and I suspect that I have seen and heard far too much for him to let me out of here alive—then he already has a plan at hand to protect himself against any suspicion and prosecution.

Suppose that Hawkins or Wilma convinced the Foreign Office and the Ambassador in Vienna to look into the matter—and suppose that officials were sent here to investigate—what would be the outcome?

They would learn that a young Englishman, about six feet tall, of dark appearance and dressed in a greyish travelling suit, had been on a trip to Transylvania during the first days of May, and then took a carriage to the Borgo Pass, where the Count had sent a driver to pick him up. Letters sent by Thomas Harker would have arrived later, saying that he had reached the castle and had been welcomed there in a most friendly manner. The Count would confirm this, and some time later, Harker would have written that he’d decided to depart on a particular day. Finally he would write from Bistritz, saying he is on his way—and then nothing more will have been heard from him. The Count won’t know anything. Enquiries into the castle’s surrounding countryside will reveal that Harker had been spotted, but other than that, no one has a clue …

The only solution is for me to escape, but it’s unlikely I will manage it. – – –