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.
At that moment the child coughed, and I could make out Gorcha’s voice. “You are not asleep little one?”
“No, grandpapa,” replied the child, “and I would so like to talk with you.”
“So, you would like to talk with me, would you? And what would we talk about?”
“We would talk about how you fought the Turks. I would love to fight the Turks!”
“I thought you might, child, and I brought back a little yataghan for you. I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”
“Grandpapa, grandpapa, give it to me now.”
“But, little one, why didn’t you talk to me about this when it was daytime?”
“Because papa would not let me.”
“He is careful, your papa…So you really would like to have your little yataghan?”
“Oh yes, I would love that, but not here, for papa might wake up.”
“Where then?”
“If we go outside, I promise to be good and not to make any noise at all.”
I thought I could hear Gorcha chuckle as the child got out of bed. I didn’t believe in vampires, but the nightmare had preyed on my nerves, and just in case I should
have to reproach myself in the morning I got up and banged my fist against the partition. It was enough to wake up the “seven sleepers,” but there was no sign of life from the family. I threw myself against the door, determined to save the child—but it was locked from the outside and I couldn’t shift the bolts. While I was trying to force it open, I saw the old man pass by my window with the little child in his arms.
“Wake up! Wake up!” I cried at the top of my voice, as I shook the partition. Even then only Georges showed any sign of movement.
“Where is the old man?” he murmured blearily.
“Quick,” I yelled, “he’s just taken away your child.”
With one kick, Georges broke down the door of his room—which like mine had been locked from the outside—and he sprinted in the direction of the dark forest. At last I succeeded in waking Pierre, his sister-in-law, and Sdenka. We all assembled in front of the house and after a few minutes of anxious waiting we saw Georges return from the dark forest with his son. The child had apparently passed out on the highway, but he was soon revived and didn’t seem to be any more ill than before. After questioning him we discovered that his grandpapa had not, in fact, done him any harm; they had apparently gone out together to talk undisturbed, but once outside the child had lost consciousness without remembering why. Gorcha himself had disappeared.
As you can imagine, no one could sleep for the rest of that night. The next day, I learned that the river Danube, which cut across the highway about a quarter of a league from the village, had begun to freeze over; drift ice now blocked my route. This often happens in these parts some time between the end of autumn and the beginning of spring. Since the highway was expected to be blocked for some days, I could not think of leaving. In any case, even if I could have left, curiosity—as well as a more powerful emotion—would have held me back. The more I saw Sdenka, the more I felt I was falling in love with her.
I am not among those, mesdames, who believe in love at first sight of the kind which novelists so often write about; but I do believe that there are occasions when love develops more quickly than is usual. Sdenka’s strange beauty, her singular resemblance to the Duchesse de Gramont—the lady from whom I had fled in Paris, and who I saw again in this remote setting, dressed in a rustic costume and speaking in a musical foreign tongue—the fascinating line on her forehead, like that for which I had been prepared to kill myself at least twenty times in France: all this, combined with the incredible, mysterious situation in which I found myself…everything helped to nurture in me a passion which, in other circumstances, would perhaps have proved itself to be more vague and passing.
During the course of the day I overheard Sdenka talking to her younger brother. “What do you think of all this?” she asked. “Do you also suspect our father?”
“I dare not suspect him,” replied Pierre, “especially since the child insists that he came to no harm. And as for father’s disappearance, you know that he never used to explain his comings and goings.”
“I know,” said Sdenka. “All the more reason why we must think about saving him, for you know that Georges…”
“Yes, yes, I know. It would be useless to talk him out of it. We can at least hide the stake. He certainly won’t go out looking for another one, since there is not a single aspen tree this side of the mountains.”
“Yes, let’s hide the stake—but don’t mention it to the children, for they might chatter about it with Georges listening.”
“We must take care not to let that happen,” said Pierre. And they went their separate ways.
At nightfall we had still discovered nothing about old Gorcha. As on the previous night I was lying on my bed, and the moonlight again stopped me from going to sleep. When at last sleep began to confuse my thoughts, I again felt, as if by instinct, that the old man was coming towards me. I opened my eyes and saw his waxen face pressed against my window.
This time I wanted to get up but could not. All my limbs seemed to be paralysed. After taking a good long look at me, the old man disappeared. I heard him wandering around the house and tapping gently on the window of Georges’s room. The child turned over on his bed and moaned as he dreamed. After several minutes’ silence the tapping on the window resumed. Then the child groaned once again and woke up. “Is that you, grandpapa?” he asked.
“It is me,” replied a dead voice, “and I have brought you your little yataghan.”
“But I dare not go outside. Papa has forbidden it.”
“There is no need to go outside; just open the window and embrace me!”
The child got up and I could hear him opening the window. Then somehow finding the strength, I leaped to the foot of my bed and ran over to the partition. I struck it hard with my fist. In a few seconds Georges was on his feet. I heard him mutter an oath. His wife screamed. In no time at all the whole household had gathered around the lifeless child. Just as on the previous occasion, there was no sign of Gorcha. We tried carefully to revive the child, but he was very weak and breathed with difficulty. The poor little chap had no idea why he had passed out. His mother and Sdenka thought it was because of the shock of being caught talking with his grandpapa. I said nothing. However, by now the child seemed to be more calm and everybody except Georges went back to bed.
At daybreak, I overheard Georges waking his wife and whispering with her. Sdenka joined them and I could hear both the women sobbing. The child was dead.
Of the family’s despair, the less said the better. Strangely enough no one blamed the child’s death on old Gorcha—at least, not openly. Georges sat in silence, but his expression, always gloomy, now became terrible to behold. Two days passed and there was still no sign of the old man. On the night of the third day (the day of the child’s burial) I thought I heard footsteps all around the house and an old man’s voice which called out the name of the dead child’s brother. For a split second I also thought I saw Gorcha’s face pressed against my window, but I couldn’t be sure if I was imagining it or not, for the moon was veiled by cloud that night. Nevertheless I considered it my duty to mention this apparition to Georges. He questioned the child, who replied that he had in fact heard grandpapa calling and had also seen him looking in through the window. Georges strictly charged his son to wake him up if the old man should appear again.
All these happenings did not prevent my passion for Sdenka from developing more and more each day. In the daytime, I couldn’t talk to her alone. At night, the mere thought that I would shortly have to leave broke my heart. Sdenka’s room was separated from mine only by a kind of corridor which led to the road on one side and a courtyard on the other. When the whole family had gone to bed, I decided to go for a short walk in the fields to ease my mind. As I walked along the corridor I saw that Sdenka’s door was slightly open. Instinctively, I stopped and listened. The rustling of her dress, a sound I knew well, made my heart pound against my chest. Then I heard her singing softly. She was singing about a Serbian king who was saying farewell to his lady before going to war.
“Oh my young Poplar,” said the old king, “I am going to the war and you will forget me.
“The trees which grow beneath the mountain are slender and pliant, but they are nothing beside your young body!
“The berries of the rowan tree which sway in the wind are red, but your lips are more red than the berries of the rowan tree!
“And I am like an old oak stripped of leaves, and my beard is whiter than the foam of the Danube!
“And you will forget me, oh my soul, and I will die of grief, for the enemy will not dare to kill the old King!”
The beautiful lady replied: “I swear to be faithful to you and never to forget you. If I should break my oath, come to me after your death and drink all my heart’s blood!”
And the old king said: “So be it!”
And he set off for the war. Soon the beautiful lady forgot him…!
At this point Sdenka paused, as if she was frightened to finish the ballad. I could restrain my
self no longer. That voice—so sweet, so expressive—was the voice of the Duchesse de Gramont…Without pausing to think, I pushed open the door and went in. Sdenka had just taken off her knitted jacket (of a kind often worn by women in those regions). All she was wearing was a nightgown of red silk, embroidered with gold, held tight against her body by a simple, brightly coloured belt. Her fine blonde hair hung loose over her shoulders. She looked more beautiful than ever. She did not seem upset by my sudden entry, but she was confused and blushed slightly.
“Oh,” she said, “why have you come? What will the family think of me if we are discovered?”
“Sdenka, my soul, do not be frightened! Everyone is asleep. Only the cricket in the grass and the mayfly in the air can hear what I have to say to you.”
“Oh, my friend, leave me, leave me! If my brother should discover us I am lost!”
“Sdenka, I will not leave you until you have promised to love me for ever, as the beautiful lady promised the king in your ballad. Soon I will have to leave…Who knows when we will see each other again? Sdenka, I love you more than my soul, more than my salvation…my life’s blood is yours…may I not be granted one hour with you in return?”
“Many things can happen in an hour,” said Sdenka calmly. But she did let her hand slip into mine.
“You do not know my brother,” she continued, beginning to tremble. “I fear he will discover us.”
“Calm yourself, my darling Sdenka. Your brother is exhausted from watching late into the night; he has been lulled to sleep by the wind rustling in the trees; heavy is his sleep, long is the night, and I only ask to be granted one hour—then, farewell, perhaps for ever!”
“Oh no, no, not for ever!” cried Sdenka; then she recoiled, as if frightened by the sound of her own voice.
“Oh, Sdenka, I see only you, I hear only you; I am no longer master of my own destiny; a superior strength commands my obedience. Forgive me, Sdenka!” Like a madman I clutched her to my heart.
“You are no friend to me,” she cried, tearing herself from my embrace and rushing to another part of the room. I do not know what I said to her then, for I was as alarmed as she was by my own forwardness, not because such boldness had failed me in the past—far from it—but because in spite of my passion, I could not help having a sincere respect for Sdenka’s innocence. It is true that I had used the language of galanterie with this girl at first (a language which did not seem to displease the society ladies of the time), but I was now ashamed of these empty phrases and renounced them when I saw that the young girl was too naïve to comprehend fully what I meant by them—what you, mesdames, to judge by your suggestive smiles, have understood immediately. I stood before her, at a loss as to what to say, when suddenly she began to tremble and look towards the window, terror-struck. I followed her gaze and clearly saw the corpse-like face of Gorcha, staring at us from outside.
Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories Page 15
