Diaries of the Family Dracul - The Covenant with the Vampire Part 4

No. No. It is merely an attack of nerves, brought on by Fathers death, and my terrible discovery.

A flash of movement appeared in the doorway; I glanced up quickly to see Laszlo, the coachman, removing his cap. I am not sure how long he had been standing there. He is not evil-looking-he appears a typical middle-aged Hungarian peasant, pale-haired and fair- complexioned, with round, bland features and a nose ruddy from drink-but he carries an aura of unpleasantness about him, the quintessence of whatever afflicts this castle.

Masika Ivanovna followed my gaze and turned to see our visitor. I do not think she could have been more terrified had the Devil Himself appeared. Wide-eyed and trembling, she gasped aloud guiltily and crossed herself at the sight of him, then rose and hurried out of the room, quite forgetting to take my leave.Laszlo watched her go with a faint, condescending smirk, as though he quite understood her reaction and found it altogether amusing. And then he addressed me, saying he had come only to introduce himself formally and to offer his services whenever they were needed. I was pleased to tell him that they were not, because of Uncle's gift of the caleche.

The confrontation with Masika Ivanovna left me vaguely troubled, but I dismissed it and worked on without incident until the late evening, when I met with Uncle. I brought him up to date on the business aspects and thanked him warmly for seeing to Father's grave, but later we came close to an argument over the issue of the rumini, the serfs.

I urged strongly that he abolish the feudal system entirely and pay the serfs a fair wage, which would benefit both him and them. For such an intelligent man, he was surprisingly narrow-minded; he would hear nothing of it. His generosity to the family and servants was a point of pride and tradition-and there was nothing more important, said he, than the Tsepesh family tradition.

"Then look at it another way," said I, thinking to appeal to that very generosity. "Feudalism is simply immoral. You own the servants' lives; they may not leave the village without your permission, and must come to work at the castle at your whim. As human beings, they have the right to be their own lord, their own master."

"Morality is not the issue here," he replied firmly, with a trace of smugness at my ignorance.

"It is our family tradition, and as such it must never be changed. Someday, when you are older and wiser, Arkady, you will understand."

I fear I lost my temper at that, and took on quite a heated tone. "Tsepesh tradition can never be as important as the rights of human beings!"

It was as if I had struck him full across the face. A cold lupine fury woke in his eyes, which for a fleeting instant gleamed red with reflected firelight from the drawing-room hearth. He made a swift, animal move towards me, one which he immediately suppressed; nonetheless, I was reduced instantly to the panicked, frightened child who cringed, helpless, while Shepherd leapt.

And then I blinked, and saw that his eyes were merely cold, but quite calm; that he sat quite still in his chair and had never moved. My mind whispered: It is your fevered imagination...

"You must not speak so about us Tsepesh," he uttered, in a low voice. "At times you take too much after your mother; she was too willful, too disrespectful of our ways. I fear you have inherited more than her eyes."

Perhaps he was right; I do not know, for I did not know Mother, but I have always been stubborn and impatient, unlike Father and Zsuzsanna. When threatened, I will fight; and so, despite Uncle's displeasure and my momentary unsettling vision, I did not concede the point.

"I mean no disrespect," said I, "and I love my family and its traditions. But feudalism is not a uniquely Tsepesh custom. It is practically slavery, and immoral."

His anger abated, but the light in his eyes remained, taking on an oddly feral quality which disturbed me even more than the imagined display of rage. He smiled, his full red lips parting to show surprisingly strong and intact teeth. "Ah, sweet Arkady! I have walked this earth so long that I have grown weary of it, but your youth and innocence make me feel young again. How refreshing it is to see someone so idealistic, so charmingly naive. Your father was thus when he came to me-full of pa.s.sion and principles!" His expression grew suddenly stern. "But you will soon come to understand the error of your thinking, as your father did, and his before him." I tried to redirect the conversation back to the rumini, but he refused to discuss that subject any further as well, and instead began to speak of plans to go to England by the end of next year, when Zsuzsanna would be well, and the baby old enough to travel. I promised to do what I could to contact some solicitors about the possible purchase of property.

Impressed I may be by his generosity, but privately, I was quite put off by his condescension toward Mother, and toward my "naivete"; I suppose the aristocracy have no better defense than to insult those with progressive egalitarian views. From now on I shall keep my opinions to myself-after all, Uncle is my elder, and a prince, no less-but when the estate falls into my hands, as it must surely do within a few years, I shall see to it that things are run differently.

And so I held my tongue, and Uncle and I quickly finished the evening's business. I arrived back home at nine o'clock to find Mary had already retired. I joined her, and spent a restless night filled with evil dreams.

The next day, 9 April (today), was much more agreeable. I returned in the afternoon to the castle to find Laszlo had brought a visitor: a Mister Jeffries, the young Englishman who was touring the countryside. Apparently the tavern-keeper in Bistritz is a distant relative of ours who routinely refers foreign travelers to the castle as a point of historical interest, and Uncle provides lodging and hospitality at no charge whatsoever. It was Father's role to serve as amba.s.sador and tour-guide to these visitors, and to handle correspondence with them.

I could not help but think it odd for a man who was reluctant to be seen by his own servants or anyone else outside his family to be willing to open his home to complete strangers. At the same time, I was glad that the traveler had come, for I was already eager to hear news of England, the country I had not so long ago thought of as home.

I called on Mister Jeffries in the guest chambers in the north wing. He is a tall, spindly man, with a shock of white-blond hair, a milky complexion that flushes easily, and a cheerful, outgoing demeanour. He was quite happy and relieved to find someone in the castle who could speak English, as he had been forced to rely on his halting German to communicate with Helga; none of the other servants speak either English or German, and he had fallen into that dispirited state of anomie experienced by those unable to express themselves in a foreign land. (It reminded me of my early days in London.) He was disappointed to learn that Uncle does not speak English, but that I (and Father before me) had translated all of his letters, as he had intended to conduct an interview with him, and would be forced to do so in German. It cheered him greatly when I offered to serve as translator.

Although he is a journalist by trade, he comes from a family of merchants. Apparently they are quite well-off, for he sported a very fine gold pocket.w.a.tch with a silver or white-gold inlaid "J," and a gold ring with the same motif on his little finger. I could not help being secretly amused by a display of such family finery by a commoner -what is the source of such pride?

Listen to me! Only one day after my argument with Uncle, and already I am sounding like an aristocratic sn.o.b. A commoner Mister Jeffries may be, but he is nevertheless quite educated and intelligent, and he has quick, roving eyes that catch everything and an incessant curiosity-good qualities for a newspaperman.

I found his company so agreeable that I escorted him myself on a tour of the castle, though of course Uncle's private chambers were off-limits. As we climbed the spiraling stone staircase, I said, "I translated the letter which my uncle Vlad posted to you in Bistritz; so you are writing some sort of newspaper article, then, for the London Times? And you wish to interview Uncle? What precisely is the article about? Transylvanian history? Travel?" Mister Jeffries brightened at this; his face is elastic, wonderfully mobile. "Not precisely.

More about your country's folklore. Your uncle knows a great deal about the fascinating superst.i.tions-"

"Yes," I replied stiffly. "We have all heard what the peasants say."

I suppose there was a hint of anger in my tone, for Jeffries caught it immediately and his own tone became mollifying. "Of course, the superst.i.tions are all quite ridiculous. I am sure your family finds them both vexing and amusing. I am a rational man, of course, and it is my intent to show these superst.i.tions for the foolishness that they are, to show that no truth lies behind them. Your uncle's letters reveal him to be a most kindly and gracious man."

"He is," I said, relieved. "He is most generous with his family-if a bit of a recluse."

"Well, that is only normal. Why should he want to go amongst people who believe him a monster?"

The instant Jeffries stated this, I knew at once that he had a great deal of insight. Of course he was right; it perfectly explained why V. was willing to see his family and Laszlo, yet reluctant to see the servants. The dark uncertainty aroused by Masika Ivanovna's dire warning and V."s rigidity about the rumini vanished in the light of Jeffries' sunny, logical disposition.

I confided in him, then, about Uncle's desire to go to England, and the more I spoke with him about it and thought about being free of the dreary surroundings and the peasants'

superst.i.tions, the more cheering the prospect became. We discussed how backward Transylvania was compared to the rest of the changing world. He asked bluntly whether my family felt lonely here, and I admitted the village was dying and that one of my greatest concerns was our isolation.

The conversation turned to a more cheerful topic and we chatted about England as I led him to the sitting-room in the north wing, where a large window looks out onto an awe-inspiring view: some thousand feet beneath the great precipice on which the castle sits, a vast expanse of dark green forest stretches to the horizon.

"Good lord," Jeffries breathed, taking it all in. "It must be a mile straight down." Apparently he has some apprehension of heights, for he removed a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his perspiring brow with it. (I confess, I repressed a condescending smile when I saw the large "J" monogrammed on the kerchief.) I a.s.sured him it was not quite a mile, and explained how the castle had been built on a three-sided precipice (on east, north, and west) so as to be more easily defensible from invaders-most notably the Turks from the south. He listened with keen interest and even began jotting notes on a small pad, but as the vertiginous view clearly made him uncomfortable, I led him down to the main floor in the central wing, to the cavernous living- room where, in earlier centuries, my ancestors had entertained other n.o.bility.

He was quite taken by the excellent condition of the antique furniture, and the splendour of the brocade tapestries, some of them threaded with gold. As we turned to the larger-than- life-sized portrait that dominated the vast wall above the fire-place, he drew in a breath and turned to me in surprise. "Why-it is you!"

I smiled thinly as his words echoed against the high vaulted ceiling. "Hardly. This was painted in the fifteenth century."

"But look," Jeffries insisted with enthusiasm. "He has your nose"-and here he pointed to the subject's long, aquiline feature-"your moustache, your lips"- here he indicated the drooping black moustache (in all fairness, much fuller than mine) above a generous ruby lower lip-"your dark hair..." Here he trailed off, for he had come to the eyes.

"As you can see," said I, still smiling, "his hair was curled and shoulder length, whereas mine is cut quite short, in the modern style."

He laughed. "Yes, but with a proper haircut-"

"And there is the matter of the eyes. His are dark green; mine, hazel."

He glanced at me to verify this, and agreed: "Yes, you're right. The eyes are quite different; his are rather vengeful and cold, don't you think? But as to colour, yours do have quite a bit of green in them. And the resemblance is still remarkable."

"It is nothing compared to his resemblance to Uncle. Of course, Uncle's eyes are kind."

"Then I shall memorise every aspect of his face!" Jeffries exclaimed. "And when I meet your uncle, I shall recall it from memory and compare the two!" He lifted his pen above his notepad and squinted at the bra.s.s plaque beneath the portrait. "Vlad Tepes?" He p.r.o.nounced it "Teh-pehs."

"Tsepesh," I corrected him. "Do you not see the fittfe hook, the cedilla there beneath the't and the's? It changes the p.r.o.nunciation."

"Tsepesh," Jeffries repeated, writing upon the notepad. "He seems an important fellow."

I straightened with pride. "Prince Vlad Tsepesh. Born December 1431, first seized power in 1456, died 1476. My uncle's namesake."

"Namesake?" The furious writing ceased; the pen froze above the paper. Jeffries blinked up at me in confusion. "Perhaps... perhaps there is something I misunderstand about Roumanian names."

"What is it that presents difficulty for you? The spelling-?"

"No, no, I understand that all right. But..." And he retrieved another piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to me. "Which name shall I properly call him by?"

The note I had translated had been signed in Uncle's cautious, delicate hand; when I saw the signature, I was struck speechless. I do not know whether Jeffries noted my shock, for I recovered quickly and handed the note back to him with a forced smile. "Uncle has a propensity for practical jokes," I lied, "and so he tongue-in-cheek used this nickname given him by the peasants."

In truth, it was a nickname, though not Uncle's. It had been bestowed by fearful rumini upon the man in the portrait. "If this nickname pleases my generous host," said Jeffries, "then that is what I shall call him. But pray explain..."

"Dracula." I p.r.o.nounced the hated name with distaste, then pointed. "Do you see, at the bottom right of the portrait, the dragon?"

Jeffries peered nearsightedly at Vlad's shield, whereupon rested a winged dragon, its forked tail curling about the emblem of a double cross.

"Vlad's father, Vlad the Second, was a ruler inducted by the Hungarian emperor into a secret chivalrous fraternity known as the Order of the Dragon," I continued. "He used this emblem on his shields and coins. Because of this, the boiers-the n.o.bles-began to refer to him as dracul, the dragon, though Vlad the Second never so referred to himself, except in jest. Unfortunately, in Roumanian, the word dracul also has the meaning "the Devil'; hearing that name, the superst.i.tious peasants believed that Vlad, who was known as a fearsomely cruel tyrant, came to power because he allied himself with Satan, and that the Order of the Dragon was in fact a society devoted to mastery of the black arts. His son, Vlad the Third-whose portrait you see before you-was even more bloodthirsty, even more feared. The common folk referred to him as Dracula, the son of the Devil, as the suffix -a means "son of." To this day, the peasants fear our family for this reason, and persist in calling us Dracul. They mean it as an insult, not an honor."

"My deepest apologies if I have offended you," Jeffries said, his tone somberly sincere; but still he took it all down. "I can see that this att.i.tude has caused your family no small amount of grief. Yet your uncle clearly has maintained an admirable sense of humour about it, to be able to jokingly sign this name because of the nature of the article I am writing."

His manner was so kind that I managed a small, rueful smile. "I fear I do not share Uncle's sense of humour about such matters." I did not tell him the entire truth: that the surname used for the rest of the family was Dracul, without the -a. By the peasants' logic, then, Uncle should have jokingly signed his name Vlad Dracul. For only the son of the Devil-only the man in the portrait, born four centuries before-could claim the right to the name "Dracula."

"Might I inquire as to the other symbol-there, on the bottom left, opposite the dragon's shield?" He gestured at the wolf's head atop the body of a coiled serpent.

"That is our family crest. It is very ancient. The dragon was the symbol of Vlad's reign, but the wolf represents our bloodline. The Dacians, who inhabited this country before the Romans conquered it, referred to themselves as "wolf-men'."

"Ah, yes..." His pale eyes lit up with interest as he continued scribbling. "The old Dacians.

And there were legends, were there not, of their having the ability to actually transform themselves into other creatures, such as the wolf... ?"

"All ridiculous superst.i.tion, of course."

"Of course." Jeffries' smile was bright. "It is all superst.i.tion. But it is fascinating, is it not, to see how the legends developed from the truth... ?"

I had to allow the point.

"And the serpent... ?" he prompted. "Do you think that perhaps the peasants saw this and were provoked to think once again of the Devil?"

"Perhaps. But only an ignorant person would do so. In pre-Christian times, snakes were revered as creatures who possessed the secret of immortality, for when they shed their old skins, they 'die' and are 'born' anew. I have always taken this to symbolise the fervent desire that the family line continue unbroken forever."

The tour continued, and our conversation turned to other topics. I told him of our family's history, and of the original Vlad Tsepesh's reign and victories over the Turks, and of the many notable Tsepesh family members scattered throughout eastern Europe. He was quite impressed and took careful note of all details. I feel hopeful that the article will be both accurate and intriguing, and asked whether he would be so kind as to send me a copy of the finished product, that I might translate it into Roumanian and educate my fellow Transylvanians-though, unfortunately, those who most need to see the article are those who cannot read. He agreed to do so.

We fell then to talking about the peasants and their superst.i.tions once again. Jeffries confessed to me that, immediately after his arrival, one of the chambermaids -"a blond, stocky, middle-aged woman," so I knew he meant Masika Ivanovna-had taken the crucifix from around her own neck and given it to him, pleading for him to wear it. He had humoured her by putting it on, but once she had left his chambers, he removed it. "I am Church of England, and this would never do," he said, though he made it clear that he followed the practice only out of custom and deference to family, not belief. We ended the discussion about the locals by agreeing that public education was the only solution.

His company was so delightful that I insisted he return with me to the manor for an early dinner (luring him with promises of a tour of the family chapel and tomb). I left a note in Uncle's drawing-room to that effect, and promised to return his guest by nine o'clock.

And so he came with me to the manor, and Mary and I spent an enjoyable evening in his company, with the result that I did not take him back to the castle until very late.

But it is nearly dawn, and I have been writing for hours, and am exhausted. To bed now.

More to follow.

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh 9 April.

I write this, having retired early while Arkady enjoys the charming company of our visitor, Mister Matthew Jeffries. I left them laughing in the dining-room to enjoy after-dinner cordials and cigars. I am glad Arkady has found some small joy in the man's companionship; he needs it, poor dear, just as I need the opportunity to privately unburden my heart by writing.

After witnessing the tryst between Zsuzsanna and Vlad yesterday night, I have been most troubled; but I have said nothing to Arkady yet, for he has seemed more troubled than I. I decided to delicately broach the subject with Zsuzsanna first, for I feared that, being an innocent, she has been led astray by her more worldly great-uncle and perhaps does not even realise that what she is doing is improper. Vlad is older and wiser and therefore to blame.

But Zsuzsanna did not present herself for breakfast or luncheon. Arkady was so distracted by some unspoken concern that he did not even remark upon it, but after what I had seen, I grew worried, and so I knocked upon her bedroom door in the early afternoon.

She called out feebly for me to enter, and I opened the door to find her still in her nightgown in bed, propped up with her long, dark hair fanned against the pillows. Her eyes are large, like Arkady's, but unlike his, very dark, and today they were underscored by shadow that emphasised her pallour. Indeed, she seemed distressingly pale and drawn; her lips and cheeks had lost their former hint of rosiness.

"Zsuzsanna, dear," I said, and hurried to her side. "I missed your company today and came to see how you were doing. Are you unwell?"

"Sweet Mary! Only tired. I did not sleep well last night."

Her answer made me blush, but I do not think she noticed. She smiled at the sight of me, and clasped my hand; hers was cold. I a.s.sume her wanness was caused by some feminine complaint and so did not press to know its cause, but I fear it is also at least partly due to lovesickness and guilt. She looked so small and frail there against the pillows that it was impossible to think of her as a responsible adult; even her voice and expression were those of a child."Have you eaten?" I asked. "May I bring you anything?"

"Oh, yes! I have been ravenous. Dunya brought me two trays, and I ate everything." She nudged the dog, who lay contented across the foot of her bed and thumped his tail at the sound of his name. "It is all Brutus' fault! He has been barking at night and won't let me sleep. I had to put him in the kitchen, and he will stay there again tonight!"

"Perhaps it is wisest to let him stay." I watched her keenly for a reaction. "He only barks in order to protect you.

She laughed; her eyes were wide and innocent. "Protect me? From what? Field mice?"

"From wolves," I said darkly. "I thought I saw one near your window last night. You must take care."

There followed an awkward pause; her eyes narrowed, and she shot a swift, telling glance at me before turning away and pretending to focus her attention on the dog at her feet. She stroked him for several seconds in silence.

All of a sudden she burst into tears, and raised her contorted face to mine as she clutched my arm with both hands. "Please-you must not return to England! Tell him-please! If all of you leave me, I shall die! You must none of you leave me-!" She wept with the single- minded desperation of a child.

I was taken aback more than I can say by the unexpected and emotional reaction, but I took it as a clear admission of guilt and a confession of love. It does not matter to her so much if Arkady and I were to leave; but it would kill her should her great-uncle do so.

"But, my darling," I soothed, "we would never leave you. You must not even think such things."

"Tell him. Tell him!" she repeated in a choked voice, clutching my arm so desperately that I had to promise at once: yes, yes, I would tell him, and quite soon.

I know she did not refer to her brother. I know who "he" is, all too well.

From her reaction, I fear her guilt has driven her to nervous exhaustion. I sat with her awhile and calmed her -saying nothing more of what I had seen, lest I provoke her to another outburst. She has suffered enough, poor dear, and there is nothing I can do now except take the matter up with my husband-or Vlad himself.

But I am a newcomer to the family; it is hardly my place to take the patriarch to task. I know I must speak to Arkady, and soon. Yet, although my husband did not depart for the castle until mid-afternoon, I could not bring myself to speak to him, could not find the words.

At the same time, I cannot bear to see poor confused Zsuzsanna further taken advantage of.

And so I determined that I would wait for Arkady to return home later that evening and speak to him, and I spent the afternoon hours carefully choosing the phrases that would surely break his heart.

To my dismay and relief, my husband returned home only a few hours later, with an Englishman who was visiting the castle, a Mister Jeffries. Arkady was so cheered by having a visitor-and I must admit, despite my misery, I too enjoyed his company, and found it a pleasant distraction from my worries-that I could not consider spoiling his good mood. We had an early dinner with our guest. As I expected, Zsuzsanna did not come down for it and sent a message via Dunya that she was still indisposed.Mister Jeffries, it seems, is a journalist who recently returned to the Continent after a news-gathering trip to America. Over dinner he spoke animatedly of the situation in that country; they have elected a new president, James Polk, and may soon annex a new state with the exotic name of Texas. Slavery is permitted in Texas, which has generated a good deal of controversy over there. Not only are the northern abolitionists and southern plantation owners arguing over this, but a neighbouring country disputes ownership of the territory altogether; according to Mister Jeffries, war between the United States and Mexico is imminent. The Americans are also involved in a disagreement with England as to where the northwestern Canadian border lies. All in all, they seem a very quarrelsome, bullying lot, and I was glad to be in peaceful Transylvania. Mr. Jeffries made us laugh with his nasal imitation of an American accent; after all the stress Arkady has been under, I know it did him good.

After dinner. Mister Jeffries reminded Arkady of his promise to take him on a tour of the chapel, and i said I wanted to go, too, for I had never seen it myself. The two men looked at me with concern, and Arkady mumbled something about it being late (it was no more than eight o'clock) and my needing rest in my condition. i abruptly dismissed this as nonsense, and asked only for a moment to go get my shawl; at which Mister Jeffries smiled and said slyly that i would have no trouble holding my own with Americans, and again we laughed.

In truth, I did not want to be left alone to worry over what I would say to Arkady when our guest departed; nor did i want to sit alone in the bedroom, peering through the window worrying over Zsuzsanna.

The chapel was unlike any I had ever seen in England, and more than anything else I have seen in this country revealed the Turkish influence; its interior walls were covered with paintings and mosaics of saints-literally thousands of them-in the Byzantine manner.

Near the altar was a high cupola, from which hung a heavy candelabra, and at the back of the large sanctuary, against the wall, were great crypts with names engraved on gold plates.

Although the beautiful tiled walls stole my breath, Mister Jeffries seemed most taken with the crypts, which were actually compartments built into the wall like a honeycomb, then mortared off and sealed with stone, and adorned with the plaques. As we stood reading the names of Arkady's ancestors, awed to silence by the sanctuary's beauty and reverent atmosphere, Mister Jeffries took a small notebook from his waistcoat and began writing.

After a moment he turned to Arkady and said, in a hushed voice that echoed faintly off the high ceiling, "I forgot to ask... When we stood in front of the portrait of Vlad Dracula-"