At that, she paused and her expression became troubled, as though she was struggling
to make a difficult decision. Finally she lowered her dust-rag, went over to
the half-open door, and peered nervously down the gloomy corridor as if expecting
to find someone hiding in the shadows. She then repeated the process by peering
out the windows - ! When she felt reassured, she stepped so close our faces were
not a hand's width apart, and whispered: I must talk to you, young sir! But
you must swear that you will never reveal to anyone what I tell you, or it will
cost me and my son our lives!
Your lives? I asked, utterly taken aback by her strange behaviour. What
ever are you talking about?
I spoke in a normal tone of voice; this alarmed her, and with a distressed
expression, she raised a finger to her lips for silence. First, swear! Swear
before God!
I do not believe in God, I replied, somewhat coolly. But I can give you
my word as a gentleman that I will tell no one what you reveal to me.
She studied my face intently, her brow furrowed with anxiety. Whatever she
found there seemed to satisfy her, for at last she nodded, then said in a low
voice, You must leave at once, young sir!
Leave? I asked, indignant.
Yes! Leave and return to England! Today, before the sun sets!
Why ever should I want to do that?
She did not answer immediately, but seemed unable to find the proper words,
and so I took advantage of her silence to continue.
At any rate, I cannot. My wife is less than three months from giving birth;
I fear the recent trip has already distressed her.
The determination in my voice seemed to frighten her so that her eyes filled
with tears. Distraught, she sank to her knees in front of my chair, her hands
clasped in a beseeching gesture, Christ praying at Gethsemane. Please - for love
of your father, then! Go quickly!
Why? I demanded, catching her by the elbow and attempting to pull her to
her feet. Why must I leave?
Because if you do not, it will be too late; and you and your wife and child
will be in terrible danger. Because of the covenant
It made no sense; nevertheless, her words caused something in my memory to
flicker. Masika Ivanovna's countenance faded. Again I saw through the eyes of
a five-year-old, gazing up trustingly at my father as the knife came down in
a gleaming silver arc.
At once invisible steel fingers gripped my skull, blotting out the image. I
raised a hand to my temple and thought,
I am going mad
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 passion 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 oclock 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 ambassador
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 pocketwatch
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 snob. 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 superstitions -
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 superstitions 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 superstitions 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 superstitions, 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 assured 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 nobility.