Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories (17 page)

This was a good and honest family. Georges, the older of the two sons, was rugged and weather-beaten. He seemed to me a serious and decisive man. He was married with two children. His brother Pierre, a handsome youth of about eighteen, looked rather less tough and appeared to be the favourite of a younger sister called Sdenka, who was a genuine Slavic beauty. In addition to the striking beauty of her features, a distant resemblance to the Duchesse de Gramont struck me especially. She had a distinctive line on her forehead which in all my experience I have found only on these two people. This line did not seem particularly attractive at first glance, but became irresistible when you had seen it a few times.

Perhaps I was still very naïve. Perhaps this resemblance, combined with a lively and charmingly simple disposition, was really irresistible. I do not know. But I had not been talking with Sdenka for more than two minutes when I already felt for her an affection so tender that it threatened to become something deeper still if I stayed in the village much longer.

We were all sitting together in front of the house, around a table laden with cheeses and dishes of milk. Sdenka was sewing; her sister-in-law was preparing supper for her children, who were playing in the sand; Pierre, who was doing his best to appear at ease, was whistling as he cleaned a yataghan, or long Turkish knife. Georges was leaning on the table with his head in his hands and looking for signs of movement on the great highway. He was silent.

For my part, I was profoundly affected by the general atmosphere of sadness and, in a fit of melancholy, looked up at the evening clouds which shrouded the dying sun and at the silhouette of a monastery, which was half hidden from my view by a black pine forest.

This monastery, as I subsequently discovered, had been very famous in former times on account of a miraculous icon of the Virgin Mary which, according to legend, had been carried away by the angels and set down on an old oak tree. But at the beginning of the previous century the Turks had invaded this part of the country; they had butchered the monks and pillaged the monastery. Only the walls and a small chapel had survived; an old hermit continued to say Mass there. This hermit showed travellers around the ruins and gave hospitality to pilgrims who, as they walked from one place of devotion to another, liked to rest a while at the Monastery of Our Lady of the Oak. As I have said, I didn’t learn all this until much later, for on this particular evening my thoughts were very far from the archaeology of Serbia. As often happens when one allows one’s imagination free rein, I was musing on past times—on the good old days of my childhood; on the beauties of France that I had left for a wild and faraway country. I was thinking about the Duchesse de Gramont and—why not admit it?—I was also thinking about several other ladies who lived at the same time as your grandmothers, the memory of whose beauty had quietly entered my thoughts in the train of the beautiful Duchesse. I had soon forgotten all about my hosts and their terrible anxiety.

Suddenly Georges broke the silence. “Wife,” he said, “at exactly what time did the old man set out?”

“At eight o’clock. I can clearly remember hearing the monastery bell.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” said Georges. “It cannot be more than half past seven.” And he again looked for signs of movement on the great highway which led to the dark forest.

I have forgotten to tell you, mesdames, that when the Serbians suspect that someone has become a vampire, they avoid mentioning him by name or speaking of him directly, for they think that this would be an invitation for him to leave his tomb. So Georges, when he spoke of his father, now referred to him simply as “the old man.”

There was a brief silence. Suddenly one of the children started tugging at Sdenka’s apron and crying, “Auntie, when will grandpapa be coming back?”

The only reply he got to this untimely question was a hard slap from Georges. The child began to cry, but his little brother, who by now was surprised and frightened, wanted to know more. “Father, why are we not allowed to talk about grandpapa?”

Another slap shut him up firmly. Both children now began to howl and the whole family made a sign of the cross. Just at that moment, I heard the sound of the monastery bell. As the first chime of eight was ringing in our ears, we saw a human figure coming out of the darkness of the forest and approaching us.

“It is he, God be praised,” cried Sdenka, her sister-in-law, and Pierre all at once.

“May the good God protect us,” said Georges solemnly. “How are we to know if the ten days have passed or not?”

Everyone looked at him, terror-struck. But the human form came closer and closer. It was a tall old man with a silver moustache and a pale, stern face; he was dragging himself along with the aid of a stick. The closer he got, the more shocked Georges looked. When the new arrival was a short distance from us, he stopped and stared at his family with eyes that seemed not to see—they were dull, glazed, deep sunk in their sockets.

“Well, well,” he said in a dead voice, “will no one get up to welcome me? What is the meaning of this silence, can’t you see I am wounded?”

I saw that the old man’s left side was dripping with blood.

“Go and help your father,” I said to Georges. “And you, Sdenka, offer him some refreshment. Look at him—he is almost collapsing from exhaustion!”

“Father,” said Georges, going up to Gorcha, “show me your wound. I know all about such things and I can take care of it…”

He was just about to take off the old man’s coat when Gorcha pushed his son aside roughly and clutched at his body with both hands. “You are too clumsy,” he said, “leave me alone…Now you have hurt me.”

“You must be wounded in the heart,” cried Georges, turning pale. “Take off your coat, take it off. You must, I insist.”

The old man pulled himself up to his full height. “Take care,” he said in a sepulchral voice. “If you so much as touch me, I shall curse you.”

Pierre rushed between Georges and his father. “Leave him alone,” he said. “Can’t you see that he’s suffering?”

“Do not cross him,” Georges’s wife added. “You know he has never tolerated that.”

At that precise moment we saw a flock of sheep returning from pasture raising a cloud of dust as it made its way towards the house. Whether the dog which was escorting the flock did not recognize its own master, or whether it had some other reason for acting as it did, as soon as it caught sight of Gorcha it stopped dead, hackles raised, and began to howl as if it had seen a ghost.

“What is wrong with that dog?” said the old man, looking more and more furious. “What is going on here? Have I become a stranger in my own house? Have ten days spent in the mountains changed me so much that even my own dogs do not recognize me?”

“Did you hear that?” said Georges to his wife.

“What of it?”

“He admits that the ten days
have been spent.
”

“Surely not, for he has come back to us within the appointed time.”

“I know what has to be done.”

The dog continued to howl. “I want that dog destroyed!” cried Gorcha. “Well, did you hear me?”

Georges made no move, but Pierre got up with tears in his eyes, and grabbed his father’s arquebus; he aimed at the dog, fired, and the creature rolled over in the dust.

“That was my favourite dog,” he said sulkily. “I don’t know why father wanted it to be destroyed.”

“Because it deserved to be,” bellowed Gorcha. “Come on now, it’s cold and I want to go inside.”

While all this was going on outside, Sdenka had been preparing a cordial for the old man consisting of pears, honey, and raisins, laced with eau-de-vie, but her father pushed it aside with disgust. He seemed equally disgusted by the plate of mutton with rice that Georges offered him. Gorcha shuffled over to the fireplace, muttering gibberish from behind clenched teeth.

A pine-log fire crackled in the grate and its flickering light seemed to give life to the pale, emaciated features of the old man. Without the fire’s glow, his features could have been taken for those of a corpse.

Sdenka sat down beside him. “Father,” she said, “you do not wish to eat anything, you do not wish to rest; perhaps you feel up to telling us about your adventures in the mountains.”

By suggesting that, the young girl knew that she was touching her father’s most sensitive spot, for the old man loved to talk of wars and adventures. The trace of a smile creased his colourless lips, although his eyes showed no animation, and as he began to stroke his daughter’s beautiful blonde hair, he said: ‘Yes, my daughter, yes, Sdenka, I would like to tell you all about my adventures in the mountains—but that must wait for another time, for I am too tired today. I can tell you, though, that Ali Bek is dead and that he perished by my hand. If anyone doubts my word,” continued the old man, looking hard at his two sons, “here is the proof.”

He undid a kind of sack which was slung behind his back, and pulled out a foul, bloody head which looked about as pale as his own! We all recoiled in horror, but Gorcha gave it to Pierre.

“Take it,” he said, “and nail it above the door, to show all who pass by that Ali Bek is dead and that the roads are free of brigands—except, of course, for the Sultan’s janissaries!”

Pierre was disgusted. But he obeyed. “Now I understand why that poor dog was howling,” he said. “He could smell dead flesh!”

“Yes, he could smell dead flesh,” murmured Georges; he had gone out of the room without anyone noticing him and had returned at that moment with something in his hand which he placed carefully against a wall. It looked to me like a sharpened stake.

“Georges,” said his wife, almost in a whisper, “I hope you do not intend to…”

“My brother,” Sdenka added anxiously, “what do you mean to do? No, no—surely you’re not going to…”

“Leave me alone,” replied Georges, “I know what I have to do and I will only do what is absolutely necessary.”

While all this had been going on, night had fallen, and the family went to bed in a part of the house which was separated from my room only by a narrow partition. I must admit that what I had seen that evening had made an impression on my imagination. My candle was out; the moonlight shone through a little window near my bed and cast blurred shadows on the floor and walls, rather like those we see now, mesdames, in this room. I wanted to go to sleep but I could not. I thought this was because the moonlight was so clear; but when I looked for something to curtain the window, I could find nothing suitable. Then I overheard confused voices from the other side of the partition. I tried to make out what was being said.

“Go to sleep, wife,” said Georges. “And you, Pierre, and you, Sdenka. Do not worry, I will watch over you.”

“But, Georges,” replied his wife, “it is I who should keep watch over you—you worked all last night and you must be tired. In any case, I ought to be staying awake to watch over our eldest boy. You know he has not been well since yesterday!”

“Be quiet and go to sleep,” said Georges. “I will keep watch for both of us.”

“Brother,” put in Sdenka in her sweetest voice, “there is no need to keep watch at all. Father is already asleep—he seems calm and peaceful enough.”

“Neither of you understands what is going on,” said Georges in a voice which allowed for no argument. “Go to sleep, I tell you, and let me keep watch.”

There followed a long silence. Soon my eyelids grew heavy and sleep began to take possession of my senses.

I
THOUGHT
I
SAW
the door of my room opening slowly, and old Gorcha standing in the doorway. Actually, I did not so much see as
feel
his presence, as there was only darkness behind him. I felt his dead eyes trying to penetrate my deepest thoughts as they watched the movement of my breathing. One step forward, then another. Then, with extreme care, he began to walk towards me, with a wolf-like motion. Finally he leapt forward. Now he was right beside my bed. I was absolutely terrified, but somehow managed not to move. The old man leaned over me and his waxen face was so close to mine that I could feel his corpse-like breath. Then, with a superhuman effort, I managed to wake up, soaked in perspiration.

There was nobody in my room, but as I looked towards the window I could distinctly see old Gorcha’s face pressed against the glass from outside, staring at me with his sunken eyes. By sheer willpower I stopped myself from crying out and I had the presence of mind to stay lying down, just as if I had seen nothing out of the ordinary. Luckily, the old man was only making sure that I was asleep, for he made no attempt to come in, and after staring at me long enough to satisfy himself, he moved away from the window and I could hear his footsteps in the neighbouring room. Georges was sound asleep and snoring loudly enough to wake the dead.