COUNTESS:
No. No, and don’t ask again. It is my home. Let Thurzó’s men come. I will show them nothing. I will let them see nothing.
DARVULIA:
It isn’t so simple, my sweet Erzsébet. Ferenc is gone, and without a husband to protect you . . . you must consider the greed of relatives who covet your estates, and consider, also, debts owed to you by a king who has no intention of ever settling them. Many have much to gain from your fall.
COUNTESS (stubbornly):
There will be no fall.
You sit up straight in your reclining theatre seat. You’ve needed to urinate for the last half hour, but you’re not about to miss however much of the film you’d miss during a quick trip to the restroom. You try not to think about it; you concentrate on the screen and not your aching bladder.
INT. COUNTESS’ BEDCHAMBER. NIGHT.
The Countess sits in her lion-footed chair, facing the open balcony doors. There are no candles burning, but we can see the silhouette of the gypsy girl outlined in the winter moonlight pouring into the room. She is all but naked. The wind blows loudly, howling about the walls of the castle.
COUNTESS (distressed):
No, you’re not mine. I can’t recall ever having seen you before. You are nothing of mine. You are some demon sent by the moon to harry me.
GIRL (calmly):
It is true I serve the moon, Mother, as do you. She is mistress to us both. We have both run naked while she watched on. We have both enjoyed her favors. We are each the moon’s bitch.
COUNTESS (turning away):
Lies. Every word you say is a wicked lie. And I’ll not hear any more of it. Begone, strigoi. Go back to whatever stinking hole was dug to cradle your filthy gypsy bones.
GIRL (suddenly near tears)
Please do no not say such things, Mother.
COUNTESS (through clenched teeth)
You are not my daughter! This is the price of my sins, to be visited by phantoms, to be haunted.
GIRL:
I only want to be held, Mother. I only want to be held, as any daughter would. I want to be kissed.
Slowly, the Countess looks back at the girl. Snow blows in through the draperies, swirling about the child. The girl’s eyes flash red-gold. She takes a step nearer the Countess.
GIRL (cont’d.):
I can protect you, Mother.
COUNTESS:
From what? From whom?
GIRL:
You know from what, and you know from whom. You would know, even if Anna hadn’t told you. You are not a stupid woman.
COUNTESS:
You do not come to protect me, but to damn me.
GIRL (kind):
I only want to be held, and sung to sleep.
COUNTESS (shuddering):
My damnation.
GIRL (smiling sadly):
No, Mother. You’ve tended well-enough to that on your own. You’ve no need of anyone to hurry you along to the pit.
CLOSE UP — THE COUNTESS
The Countess’ face is filled with a mixture of dread and defeat, exhaustion and horror. She shuts her eyes a moment, muttering silently, then opens them again.
COUNTESS (resigned):
Come, child.
MEDIUM SHOT — THE COUNTESS
The Countess sits in her chair, head bowed now, seemingly too exhausted to continue arguing with the girl. From the foreground, the gypsy girl approaches her. Strange shadows seem to loom behind the Countess’ chair. The child begins to sing in a sweet, sad, lilting voice, a song that might be a hymn or a dirge.
FADE TO BLACK.
This scene will stay with you. You will find yourself thinking, That’s where it should have ended. That would have made a better ending. The child’s song—only two lines of which are intelligible—will remain with you long after many of the grimmer, more graphic details are forgotten. Two eerie, poignant lines: Stay with me and together we will live forever. / Death is the road to awe. Later, you’ll come across an article in American Cinematographer (April 2006), and discover that the screenwriter originally intended this to be the final scene, but was overruled by the director, who insisted it was too anticlimactic.
Which isn’t to imply that the remaining twenty minutes are without merit, but only that they steer the film in a different and less subtle, less dreamlike direction. Like so many of the films you most admire—Bergman’s Det sjunde inseglet, Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York, Herzog’s Herz aus Glas, David Lynch’s Lost Highway—this one is speaking to you in the language of dreams, and after the child’s song, you have the distinct sense that the film has awakened, jolted from the subconscious to the conscious, the self aware. It’s ironic, therefore, that the next scene is a dream sequence. And it is a dream sequence that has left critics divided over the movie’s conclusion and what the director intended to convey. There is a disjointed, tumbling series of images, and it is usually assumed that this is simply a nightmare delivered to the Countess by the child. However, one critic, writing for Slovenska Kinoteka (June 2005), has proposed it represents a literal divergence of two timelines, dividing the historical Báthory’s fate from that of the fictional Báthory portrayed in the film. She notes the obvious, that the dream closely parallels the events of December 29, 1610, the day of the Countess’ arrest. A few have argued the series of scenes was never meant to be perceived as a dream (neither the director nor the screenwriter have revealed their intent). The sequence may be ordered as follows:
The Arrival: A retinue on horseback—Thurzó, Imre Megyery, the Countess’ sons-in-law, Counts Drugeth de Homonnay and Zrínyi, together with an armed escort. The party reaches the Csejte, and the iron gates swing open to admit them.
The Descent: The Palatine’s men following a narrow, spiraling stairwell into the depth of the castle. They cover their mouths and noses against some horrible stench.
The Discovery: A dungeon cell strewn with corpses, in various stages of dismemberment and decay. Two women, still living, though clearly mad, their bodies naked and beaten and streaked with filth, are manacled to the stone walls. They scream at the sight of the men.
The Trial: Theodosious Syrmiensis de Szulo of the Royal Supreme Court pronounces a sentence of perpetuis carceribus, sparing the Countess from execution, but condemning her to lifelong confinement at Csejte.
The Execution/Pardon of the Accomplices: Three women and one man. Two of the women, Jó Ilona and Dorottya Szentes, are found guilty, publicly tortured, and burned alive. The man, Ujváry János (portrayed as a deformed dwarf), is beheaded before being thrown onto the bonfire with Jó and Dorottya. The third woman, Katarína Beniezky, is spared (this is not explained, and none of the four are named in the film).
The Imprisonment: The Countess sits on her bed as stonemasons brick up the chamber’s windows and the door leading out onto the balcony. Then the door is sealed. Close ups of trowels, mortar, callused hands, Elizabeth’s eyes, a Bible in her lap. Last shot from Elizabeth’s POV, her head turned away from the camera, as the final few bricks are set in place. She is alone. Fade to black.
Anna Darvulia, “the Witch of the Forest,” appears nowhere in this sequence.
FADE IN:
EXT. CSETJE STABLES. DAY.
The Countess watches as Anna Darvulia climbs onto the back of a horse. Once in the saddle, her feet in the stirrups, she stares sorrowfully down at the Countess.
DARVULIA:
I beg you, Erzsébet. Come with me. We’ll be safe in the forest. There are places where no man knows to look.
COUNTESS:
This is my home. Please, don’t ask me again. I won’t run from them. I won’t.
DARVULIA (speaking French and Croatian):
Ma petite bête douce. Volim te, Erzsébet.
(pause)
Ne m’oublie pas.
COUNTESS (slapping the horse’s rump)
Go! Go now, love, before I lose my will.
CUT TO:
EXT. ČACHTICE CASTLE HILL. W
INTER. DAY.
Anna Darvulia racing away from the snowbound castle, while the Countess watches from her tower.
COUNTESS (off):
I command you, O King of the Cats, I pray you.
May you gather them together,
Give them thy orders and tell them,
Wherever they may be, to assemble together,
To come from the mountains,
From the waters, from the rivers,
From the rainwater on the roofs, and from the oceans.
Tell them to come to me.
FADE TO BLACK.
FADE IN:
INT. COUNTESS’ BEDCHAMBER. NIGHT.
The Countess in her enormous chair. The gypsy girl stands before her. As before, she is almost naked. There is candlelight and moonlight. Snow blows in from the open balcony doors.
GIRL:
She left you all alone.
COUNTESS:
No, child. I sent her away.
GIRL:
Back to the wood?
COUNTESS:
Back to the wood.
You sit in your seat and breathe the musty theatre smells, the smells which may as well be ghosts as they are surely remnants of long ago moments come and gone. Your full bladder has been all but forgotten. Likewise, the muttering, laughing man and woman seated somewhere behind you. There is room for nothing now but the illusion of moving pictures splashed across the screen. Your eyes and your ears translate the interplay of light and sound into story. The old theatre is a temple, holy in its way, and you’ve come to worship, to find epiphany in truths captured by a camera’s lens. There’s no need of plaster saints and liturgies. No need of the intermediary services of a priest. Your god— and the analogy has occurred to you on many occasions—is speaking to you directly, calling down from that wide silk-and-silver window and from Dolby speakers mounted high on the walls. Your god speaks in many voices, and its angels are an orchestra, and every frame is a page of scripture. This mass is rapidly winding down towards benediction.
GIRL:
May I sit at your feet, Mother?
COUNTESS:
Wouldn’t you rather have my lap?
GIRL (smiling)
Yes, Mother. I would much rather have your lap.
The gypsy girl climbs into the Countess’ lap, her small brown body nestling in the voluminous folds of Elizabeth’s dress. The Countess puts her arms around the child, and holds her close. The girl rests her head on the Countess’ breast.
GIRL (whisper):
They will come, you know? The men. The soldiers.
COUNTESS:
I know. But let’s not think of that, not now. Let’s not think on
anything much at all.
GIRL:
But you recall the prayer, yes?
COUNTESS:
Yes, child. I recall the prayer. Anna taught me the prayer,
just as you taught it to her.
GIRL:
You are so clever, Mother.
CLOSE UP.
The Countess’ hand reaching into a fold of her dress, withdrawing a small silver dagger. The handle is black and polished wood, maybe jet or mahogany. There are occult symbols etched deeply into the metal, all down the length of the blade.
GIRL:
Will you say the prayer for me? No one ever prays for me.
COUNTESS:
I would rather hear you sing, dear. Please, sing for me.
The gypsy girl smiles and begins her song.
GIRL:
Stay with me, and together we will live forever.
Death is the road to awe—
The Countess clamps a hand over the girl’s mouth, and plunges the silver dagger into her throat. The girl’s eyes go very wide, as blood spurts from the wound. She falls backwards to the floor, and writhes there for a moment. The Countess gets to her feet, triumph in her eyes.
COUNTESS:
You think I didn’t know you? You think I did not see?
The girl’s eyes flash red-gold, and she hisses loudly, then begins to crawl across the floor towards the balcony. She pulls the knife from her throat and flings it away. It clatters loudly against the floor. The girl’s teeth are stained with blood.
GIRL (hoarsely)
You deny me. You dare deny me.
COUNTESS:
You are none of mine.
GIRL:
You send me to face the cold alone? To face the moon alone?
The Countess doesn’t reply, but begins to recite the Prayer of Ninety Cats. As she does, the girl stands, almost as if she hasn’t been wounded. She backs away, stepping through the balcony doors, out into snow and brilliant moonlight. The child climbs onto the balustrade, and it seems for a moment she might grow wings and fly away into the Carpathian night.
COUNTESS:
May these ninety cats appear to tear and destroy
The hearts of kings and princes,
And in the same way the hearts of teachers and judges,
And all who mean me harm,
That they shall harm me not.
(pause)
Holy Trinity, protect me.
And guard Erzsébet from all evil.
The girl turns her back on the Countess, gazing down at the snowy courtyard below.
GIRL:
I’m the one who guarded you, Mother. I’m the one who has kept you safe.
COUNTESS (raising her voice):
Tell them to come to me.
And to hasten them to bite the heart.
Let them rip to pieces and bite again and again . . .
GIRL:
There’s no love in you anywhere. There never was.
COUNTESS:
Do not say that! Don’t you dare say that! I have loved—
GIRL (sadly):
You have lusted and called it love. You tangle appetite and desire. Let me fall, and be done with you.
COUNTESS (suddenly confused)
No. No, child. Come back. No one falls this night.
INT./EXT. NIGHT.
As the Countess moves towards the balcony, the gypsy girl steps off the balustrade and tumbles to the courtyard below. The Countess cries out in horror and rushes out onto the balcony.
EXT. NIGHT.
The broken body of the girl on the snow-covered flagstones of the courtyard. Blood still oozes from the wound in her throat, but also from her open mouth and her nostrils. Her eyes are open. Her blood steams in the cold air. A large crow lands near her body. The camera pans upwards, and we see the Countess gazing down in horror at the broken body of the dead girl. In the distance, wolves begin to howl.
EXT. BALCONY. NIGHT.
The Countess is sitting now, her back pressed to the stone columns of the balustrade. She’s sobbing, her hands tearing at her hair. She is the very portrait here of loss and madness.
COUNTESS (weeping):
I didn’t know. God help me, I did not know.
FADE UP TO WHITE.
EXT. CSEJTE. MORNING.
A small cemetery near the castle’s chapel. Heavy snow covers everything. The dwarf Ujváry János has managed to hack a shallow grave into the frozen earth. The Countess watches as the gypsy girl’s small body, wrapped in a makeshift burial shroud, is lowered into the hole. The Countess turns and hurries away across the bailey, and János begins filling the grave in again. Shovelful after shovelful of dirt and frost and snow falls on the body, and slowly it disappears from view. Perched on a nearby headstone, an owl watches. It blinks, and rotates its head and neck 180 degrees, so it appears to be watching the burial upside down.
In a week, you’ll write your review of the film, the review you’re being paid to write, and you’ll note that the genus and species of owl watching János as he buries the dead girl is Bubo virginianus, the Great Horned Owl. You’ll also note the bird is native to North America, and not naturally found in Europe, but that to fret over these sorts of inaccuracies is, at best, pedantic. At worst, you’ll write, it means that one has entirely missed th
e point and would have been better off staying at home and not wasting the price of a movie ticket.
This is not the life of Erzsébet Báthory.
No one has ever lived this exact life.
Beyond the establishing shot of the ruins at the beginning of the film, the castle is not Csejte. Likewise, the forest that surrounds it is the forest that this story requires it to be, and whether or not it’s an accurate depiction of the forests of the Piešťany region of Slovakia is irrelevant.
The Countess may or may not have been Anna Darvulia’s lover. Erzsébet Báthory may have been a lesbian. Or she may not. Anna Darvulia may or may not have existed.
There is no evidence whatsoever that Erzsébet was repeatedly visited in the dead of night by a strange gypsy child.
Or that the Countess’ fixation with blood began when she struck a servant who’d accidentally pulled her hair.
Or that Erzsébet was ever led naked through those inaccurate forests while lustful wolves sniffed at her sex.
Pedantry and nitpicking is fatal to all fairy tales. You will write that there are people who would argue a wolf lacks the lung capacity to blow down a house of straw and that any beanstalk tall enough to reach the clouds would collapse under its own weight. They are, you’ll say, the same lot who’d dismiss Shakespeare for mixing Greek and Celtic mythology, or on the grounds that there was never a prince of Verona named Escalus. “The facts are neither here nor there,” you will write. “We have entered a realm where facts may not even exist.” You’ll be paid a pittance for the review, which virtually no one will read.
There will be one letter to the editor, complaining that your review was “too defensive” and that you are “an apologist for shoddy, prurient filmmaking.” You’ll remember this letter (though not the name of its author), many years after the paltry check has been spent.
The facts are neither here nor there.
Sitting in your theatre seat, these words have not yet happened, the words you’ll write. At best, they’re thoughts at the outermost edges of conception. Sitting here, there is nothing but the film, another’s fever dreams you have been permitted to share. And you are keenly aware how little remains of the fifth reel, that the fever will break very soon.
EXT. FOREST. NIGHT.
MEDIUM SHOT.
Anna Darvulia sits before a small campfire, her horse’s reins tied to a tree behind her. A hare is roasting on a spit above the fire. There’s a sudden gust of wind, and, briefly, the flames burn a ghostly blue. She narrows her eyes, trying to see something beyond the firelight.
The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, 2014 Edition Page 25
