Downstairs, I found the parlour door shut, locked fast. I called repeatedly, but no one came, nor was there at first the least sound; I had the sense that I was alone in the castle. Then, faint but insistent, there came to my ears an irregular banging or slamming sound, as of an unfastened shutter caught by the wind, indescribably desolate. I found the cause soon enough, in fact a long glass door giving on to a small terrace at the side of the building. In the grip of the acutest dread, yet not knowing what it was that so afflicted me, I advanced through the doorway. The air was already warm; I could hear insect noises and the song of birds. A statue of a naked nymph or girl holding a lamb in her arms, no doubt a copy of a Hellenistic original, stood off to one side. I moved out of the shadow cast by the house and into the full light of the sun; it was very strong. A fitful breeze was stirring the dust on the flagstones. My eye fell on what might have been a thin wisp of dark hair, no more than four or five strands, but it had disintegrated before I could reach it. A thought too terrible to think was beating at the inside of my head. I remembered the envelope I had picked up and tore it open; there was a single sheet of writing inside. This is what it said.
My only dear love,
‘I have to go away and you will never see me again in this life. Anything that could drive me from you must be very powerful, very strong, and it is, so strong that I must not tell you what it is. But I am allowed to tell you what it is not. It is not your fault, neither in yourself nor in any deed or word of yours. It is no shortcoming in the love we feel for each other. That love has been the only true thing in my life and the means of deliverance from all my sorrows. It, and you, have made me happy in such a way that what other happiness I have known seems to me trivial and dull. And that means that the shortness of our time together matters much less to me; I hope, I know, that this will be a consolation to you.
Now I must go. Don’t try to find me; I cannot be found. Don’t try to learn more about me; think of me as you knew me. We may meet after all in a million years from now; I think perhaps God intends that. Goodbye, heart of my heart.
Your Lukretia
Remember your promise. Duminu wobisku.
And with the last two words the unbearable thought declared itself. I reached into my pocket again and brought out the tracing I had made of the first phrases of the document Macneil had shown me in the library. There was no question about it; the hands were the same. I knew now what had troubled me at the time: my unwitting perception that the writing was feminine had been up against my conscious assumption that what was in front of me was the work of a man. And I knew much more besides.
I won’t try to describe my feelings. I went back indoors and knelt down and prayed for Lukretia’s soul, as I have done on retiring and rising ever since and will continue to do for the rest of my life. Then I found Magda, or she me. She asked me my pleasure. I told her I wanted to be packed up and out of the place in the shortest possible time, and she set about it as if she was no less interested in my early departure than I was. How much had she seen and heard over the years? In the last thirty-six hours? I didn’t want to find out. After our first question and answer neither of us had anything to say till we were standing outside the great front door and a grim-faced fellow in an overall was loading my bags into a sort of wagonette. Even then Magda and I exchanged only a word of thanks as I tipped her and a word of farewell, but right at the last she gave me a look saying as plainly as words that we were united by our loss, and I hope I returned it adequately. Before the driver had whipped up his horses the door of the castle shut with a crash. Macneil didn’t appear, which suited my book all right.
I’m sorry to bother you with all this, old boy, but perhaps you see now why I had to tell you, or felt I had to tell you, and why I don’t feel like coming home just yet. I’ll probably see you about the 18th or the 20th. Thanks for listening!
Yours,
Stephen
PS: I wonder if I could ask you to keep this and my last under lock and key. Matt’s is a jolly decent place, I know, but one can’t be too careful.
IX — Stephen Hillier to Constance Hillier
Hotel Astoria,
Budapest,
Hungary
7 September 1925
Dearest Connie,
It must be a week since I wrote. As you can see, I’ve been on the move. I didn’t stay long at that Castle Valvazor place, which I soon found was a thorough wash-out. In my last letter I wasted your time (and a lot more of mine) with all those stories about Tristan the Wolf and Red Mathias and eye-witness accounts. Then when I went through the archives the next morning there was nothing there at all, just the dullest and most conventional family documents you can imagine. I complained about it at luncheon, or rather said I thought I must have been looking in the wrong place, and the countess said no, I’d seen all there was, and more or less admitted she’d spun me a yarn to induce me to stay on for a bit and cheer up the company. Well, I saw her point about the company, but I ask you! I hung on another night out of politeness and invented an engagement in Budapest. I want you to promise never to mention Countess Valvazor. Seriously. If you do I won’t reply. I mean it was such a sell and such a bore.
In a way, though, my visit wasn’t wasted. It set me thinking about this whole vampire business, made me take a second look at it, if you know what I mean. And, well, I’ve come to the very reluctant conclusion that you were right about it and I was wrong. It’s nothing but a string of peasant superstitions that don’t hang together and haven’t even got the merit of being charming. What on earth possessed me to imagine there was a book, a serious book, to be written on the subject? I’m afraid it’ll annoy old Charles Winterbourne, but I’m going to wind up my research. Something on, say, early Hungarian literature would be far more the sort of thing. I’ve been looking round the museums here and already have something to go on.
This is a fascinating city. I expect you knew it was originally two cities, Buda and Pest. The royal palace at Buda is very fine, with over eight hundred rooms (not that I’ve been in them all!). Near by stands the church of
I’m sorry, dear, I’ll have to break this off if I want to catch the post. I’ll be off again in a day or two. Will drop you a line as soon as I can.
In haste, with love,
Stephen
AFFAIRS OF DEATH
To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death. .