The White Devil

ᗪ尺卂匚ㄩㄥ卂

temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very
massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair
that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so
far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed
and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth.
These protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness
showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the
rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed.
The chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though
thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.
Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay
on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather
white and fine. But seeing them now close to me, I could
not but notice that they were rather coarse, broad, with
squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre
of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp
point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched
me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his
breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over
me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal.
The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back. And with a
grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done
his protruberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own
side of the fireplace. We were both silent for a while, and
as I looked towards the window I saw the first dim streak
of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over
everything. But as I listened, I heard as if from down below
in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count’s eyes
gleamed, and he said.
‘Listen to them, the children of the night. What music
they make!’ Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face
strange to him, he added, ‘Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city
cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.’ Then he rose
and said.
‘But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and
tomorrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be
away till the afternoon, so sleep well and dream well!’ With
a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the
octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom.
I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt. I fear. I think strange
things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep
me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!
7 May.—It is again early morning, but I have rested and
enjoyed the last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day,
and awoke of my own accord. When I had dressed myself
I went into the room where we had supped, and found a
cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the pot be-
ing placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on
which was written—‘I have to be absent for a while. Do not
wait for me. D.’ I set to and enjoyed a hearty meal. When
I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I might let the ser-
vants know I had finished, but I could not find one. There
are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the
extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The
table service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it
must be of immense value. The curtains and upholstery of
the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are of the
costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of
fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries
old, though in excellent order. I saw something like them in
Hampton Court, but they were worn and frayed and moth-
eaten. But still in none of the rooms is there a mirror. There
is not even a toilet glass on my table, and I had to get the
little shaving glass from my bag before I could either shave
or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant anywhere, or
heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves.
Some time after I had finished my meal, I do not know
whether to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was between five
and six o’clock when I had it, I looked about for something
to read, for I did not like to go about the castle until I had
asked the Count’s permission. There was absolutely nothing
in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing materials, so
I opened another door in the room and found a sort of li-
brary. The door opposite mine I tried, but found locked.
In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast num-
ber of English books, whole shelves full of them, and bound
volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the cen-
tre was littered with English magazines and newspapers,
though none of them were of very recent date. The books
were of the most varied kind, history, geography, politics,
political economy, botany, geology, law, all relating to Eng-
land and English life and customs and manners. There were
even such books of reference as the London Directory, the
‘Red’ and ‘Blue’ books, Whitaker’s Almanac, the Army and
Navy Lists, and it somehow gladdened my heart to see it,
the Law List.
Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and
the Count entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and
hoped that I had had a good night’s rest. Then he went on.
‘I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there
is much that will interest you. These companions,’ and he
laid his hand on some of the books, ‘have been good friends
to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea
of going to London, have given me many, many hours of
pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great
England, and to know her is to love her. I long to go through
the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the
midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its
change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But alas!
As yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my
friend, I look that I know it to speak.’
‘But, Count,’ I said, ‘You know and speak English thor-
oughly!’ He bowed gravely.
‘I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering esti-
mate, but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the road I
would travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but
yet I know not how to speak them.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘You speak excellently.’
‘Not so,’ he answered. ‘Well, I know that, did I move and
speak in your London, none there are who would not know
me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am no-
ble. I am a Boyar. The common people know me, and I am
master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one. Men
know him not, and to know not is to care not for. I am con-
tent if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he sees me,
or pauses in his speaking if he hears my words, ‘Ha, ha! A