Christopher Fowler: Dracula’s Library

Jonathan Harker stays on at Dracula’ s Castle, but at what cost to hisimmortal soul . . . ?

BEING A DIARY chronicle of the true and hitherto unrevealed fate of Jonathan Harker, discovered within the pages of an ancient book.

From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 2 July
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I have always believed that a building can be imbued with thepersonality of its owner, but never have I felt such a dread ache of melancholy as I experienced upon entering that terrible, desolateplace. The castle itself – less a chateau than a fortress, much like theone that dominates the skyline of Salzburg –
is very old, thirteenthcentury by my reckoning, and a veritable masterpiece of unadorned ugliness. Little has been added across the years to make the interiormore bearable for human habitation. There is now glass in manyof the windows and mouldering tapestries adorn the walls, but atnight the noise of their flapping reveals the structure’s inadequateprotection from the elements. The ramparts are unchanged fromtimes when hot oil was poured on disgruntled villagers who came tocomplain about their murderous taxes. There is one entrance only,sealed by a portcullis and a pair of enormous studded doors. Water isdrawn up from a great central well by a complicated wooden pump-contraption. Gargoyles sprout like toadstools in every exposedcorner. The battlements turn back the bitter gales that forever sweepthe Carpathian mountains, creating a chill oasis within, so that onemay cross the bailey – that is, the central courtyard of the castle –  without being blasted away into the sky.

     But it is the character of the Count himself that provides thecastle with its most singular feature, a pervading sense of loss andloneliness that would penetrate the bravest heart and break it if admitted. The wind moans like a dying child, and even the weak sunlight that passes into the great hall is drained of life and hope bythe cyanic stained glass through which it is filtered.

     I was advised not to become too well acquainted with my client.Those in London who have had dealings with him remark that heis “too European” for English tastes. They appreciate the extremenobility of his family heritage, his superior manners and cultivation,but they cannot understand his motives, and I fear his lack of sociability will stand him in poor stead in London, where men preferto discuss fluctuations of stock and the nature of horses above theirown feelings. For his part, the Count certainly does not encouragesocial intercourse. Why, he has not even shaken my hand, and on thefew occasions that we have eaten together he has left me alone at thetable before ten minutes have passed. It is almost as if he cannot bearthe presence of a stranger such as myself.

     I have been here for over a month now. My host departed in themiddle of June, complaining that the summer air was “too thinand bright” for him. He has promised to return by the first week of September, when he will release me from my task, and I am toreturn home to Mina before the mountain paths become impassablefor the winter. This would be an unbearable place to spend evenone night were it not for the library. The castle is either cold or hot;most of it is bitter even at noon, but the library has the grandest fireplace I have ever seen. True, it is smaller than the one in the Great Hall, where hams were smoked and cauldrons of soup were boiled inhappier times, and which now stands cold and lifeless as a tomb, butit carries the family crest of Vlad Drakul at its mantel, and the fireis kept stoked so high by day that it never entirely dies through thenight. It is here that I feel safest.

     Of course, such heat is bad for the books and would dry outtheir pages if continued through the years, but as I labour withinthis chamber six days out of every seven, it has proven necessaryto provide a habitable temperature for me. The servant brings mymeals to the Great Hall at seven, twelve and eight, thus I am able tokeep “civilized” hours. Although I came here to arrange the Count’s estate, it is the library that has provided me with the greatest challengeof my life, and I often work late into the night, there being little elseto do inside the castle, and certainly no one to do it with. I travelledhere with only two books in my possession; the leather-bound Bible Ikeep on my bedside table, and the Baedeker provided for my journeyby Mina, so for me the library is an enchanted place. Never before,I’ll wager, has such a collection of volumes been assembled beyondLondon. Indeed, not even that great city can boast such esoterictastes as those displayed by the Count and his forefathers, forhere are books that exist in but a single copy, histories of forgottenbattles, biographies of disgraced warriors, scandalous romances of distant civilizations, accounts of deeds too shameful to be recordedelsewhere, books of magic, books of mystery, books that detail theevents of impossible pasts and many possible futures!

     Oh, this is no ordinary library.

     In truth, I must confess I am surprised that he has allowed me suchfree access to a collection that I feel provides a very private insightinto the life and tastes of its owner. Tall iron ladders, their base rungsconnected to a central rail, shift along the book-clad walls. Certainshelves nearest the great vaulted ceiling have gold-leafed bars lockedover them to keep their contents away from prying eyes, but theCount has provided me with keys to them all. When I asked himif, for the sake of privacy, he would care to sort the books before Icast my gaze upon them (after all, he is a member of the Carpathianaristocracy, and who knows what family secrets hide here) hedemurred, insisting that I should have full run of the place. He is acharming man, strange and distant in his thoughts, and altogethertoo much of an Easterner for me to ever fully gain his con fidence,for I act as the representative of an Empire far too domesticated forhis tastes, and I suspect, too diminished in his mind. Yes, diminished,

 for there is little doubt he regards the British intellect as soft andsated, even though there is much in it that he admires. He comesfrom a long line of bloodletting lords, who ruled with the sword-blade and despised any show of compassion, dismissing it as frailty.He is proud of his heritage, of course, yet learning to be ashamed,contrition being the only civilized response to the sins of the past.

     I think perhaps he regards this vast library, with its impossiblemythologies and ghastly depictions of events that may never happen,as part of that bloody legacy he is keen to put behind him. He is,after all, the last of his line. I suspect he is allowing me to cataloguethese books with a view to placing the contents up for auction. Theproblem, though, is that it is almost impossible for me to judge how Ishould place a price on such objects. Regardless of what is containedwithin, the bindings themselves are frequently studded with preciousand semi-precious jewels, bound in gold-leaf and green leather, andin one case what suspiciously appears to be human skin. There is noprecedent to them, and therefore there can be no accurate estimateof value.

     How, then, am I to proceed?

From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 15 July

Regarding the library: I have devised a system that allows me tocreate a table of approximate values, and that for now must suffice.First, I examine the binding of the book, noting the use of valuableornamentation and pigments. Then I make note of the author and thesubject, gauging their popularity and stature; how many copies havebeen printed (if indicated) and where; how many editions; the ageof the work and its length; and finally, content, whether scandalousand likely to cause offence, whether of general interest, usefulnessand the like. To this end I find myself making odd decisions, puttinga history of Romanian road-mapping before the Life and Times of Vladimir the Terrible because the former may be of more utility incharting this neglected territory. Thus the banal triumphs over thelurid, the ordinary over the outrageous, the obvious over the obscure.A fanciful mind might imagine that I was somehow robbing thelibrary of its power by reclassifying these tomes in such a manner,that by quantifying them I am reducing the spell they cast. Fanciesgrow within these walls. The castle is conducive to them.

     In my tenth week I started upon the high barred shelves, and what I find there surprises, delights and occasionally revolts me. Little histories, human fables set in years yet to be, that reveal how littleour basest nature changes with the passing decades. These booksinterest me the most.

     I had not intended to begin reading any of the volumes, youunderstand, for the simple reason that it would slow my rate of progress to a crawl, and there are still so many shelves to document.Many books require handling with the utmost care, for theircondition is so delicate that their gossamer pages crumble in theheat of a human hand. However, I now permit myself to read in theevenings, in order that I might put from my mind the worseningweather and my poor, pining Mina.

     The light in the library is good, there being a proliferation of candles lit for me, and the great brocaded armchair I had broughtdown from my bedroom is pulled as close to the fire as I dare, deepand comfortable. Klove leaves his master’s guest a nightly brandy,setting down a crystal bowl before me in the white kid gloves healways wears for duties in this room. Outside I hear the wind lopingaround the battlements like a wounded wolf, and in the distant hillsI hear some of those very creatures lifting their heads to the sky. The fire shifts, popping and crackling. I open the book I have chosen forthe evening and begin to read.

From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 30 August
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I have the strangest feeling that I am not alone.Oh, I know there are servants, four, I think; a raw-looking womanwho cooks and cleans, her husband the groom, an addle-pate under-servant born without wits who is only fit for washing and sweeping(he might be the son of the cook; there is a resemblance), andKlove, an unsmiling German butler whom I take to be the Count’s manservant. I mean to say that there is someone else here. I sense hispresence late at night, when the fire has banked down to an amberglow and the library is at its gloomiest. I can feel him standing silentlyat the windows (an impossibility, since they overlook a sheer dropof several hundred yards) but when I turn to catch a glimpse of thisimagined figure it is gone.

     Last night the feeling came again. I had just finished cataloguingthe top shelves of the library’s west wall, and was setting the ironladders back in their place when I became aware of someone staringat my back. A sensation of panic seized me as the hairs stood on myneck, prickling as though charged with electricity, but I forced myself  to continue with my task, finally turning in the natural course of myduty and raising my gaze to where I felt this mysterious watcher tobe standing.

     Of course, there was nothing corporeal to see – yet this time thefeeling persisted. Slowly, I made my way across the great room,passing the glowing red escarpment of the fire, until I reached thebank of mullioned windows set in the room’s north side. Throughthe rain that was tickering against the glass I looked out on the mostforsaken landscape imaginable, grey pines and burned black rock.I could still feel him, somewhere outside the windows, as if he hadpassed by on the wall itself, and yet how was this possible? I ama man who prides himself on his sensitivity, and fancied that thisbaleful presence belonged to none other than my host. Yet the Countwas still away and was not due to return for a further fourteen days, (I had been informed by Klove) having extended his trip to concludecertain business affairs.

     This presents me with a new problem, for I am told that winterquickly settles in the mountains, and is slow to release the provincefrom its numbing grip. Once the blizzards begin the roads willquickly become inundated, making it virtually impossible for me toleave the castle until the end of spring, a full seven months away. Iwould truly be a prisoner here in Castle Dracula. With that thoughtweighing heavily on my mind I returned to my seat beside the fire,fought down the urge to panic, opened a book and once more beganto read.

     I must have dozed, for I can only think what I saw next was ahallucination resulting from a poorly digested piece of mutton.The Count was standing in the corner of the library, still dressed inhis heavy-weather oilskin. He seemed agitated and ill-at-ease, as if conducting an argument with himself on some point. At length hereached a decision and approached me, gliding across the room likea tall ship in still seas. Flowing behind him was a rippling wave of fur, as hundreds of rats poured over the chairs and tables in a fannedbrown shadow. The rodents watched me with eyes like ebony beads.They cascaded over the Count’s shoes and formed a great circlearound my chair, as if awaiting a signal. But the signal did not come,so they fell upon one another, the strongest tearing into the soft fatbellies of the weakest, and the library carpet turned black with bloodas the chamber filled with screams . . .

     I awoke to find my shirt as wet as if it had been dropped into alake. The book I had been reading lay on the floor at my feet, its spine split. The gold crucifix I always wear at my neck was hung onthe arm of my chair, its clasp broken beyond repair. I resolved to eatearlier from that night on.

From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 22 September
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The weather has begun to worsen, and there is still no sign of theCount. Klove has heard nothing of his master, and as the days growshorter a forlorn darkness descends upon the castle. The skies aretroubled, the clouds heavier now, ebbing to the west with their belliesfull of rain. The library occupies my waking hours. It is like an origamimodel of Chinese paper, ever-unfolding into new con
figurations.Just when I think I have its measure, new delights and degradationspresent themselves. Yesterday, I started on a further set of shelveshousing nautical chart-books and maps, and while reaching acrossthe ladder to pull one stubborn tome free, triggered the opening of a mahogany
flap built in the rear of the shelf that folded down toreveal a hundred further volumes.

     I carefully cleared a space and set these books in stacks accordingto their coordinated bindings, and only once they all stood free of their secret home did I start to examine them.

     I find delicacy escapes me at this point; they were lexicons of erotica, frankly illustrated, alarmingly detailed, outlining practicesabove, below and altogether beyond the boundaries of human naturein such an overt and lascivious manner that I was forced to returnthem to their hiding place before Klove brought me my nightlybrandy, for no gentleman would wish such volumes to fall into thehands of servants.

     After he had departed the room I took time to examine the singleedition I had left out. It was much like the others, designed more toarouse the senses than to provide practical advice concerning thephysical side of matrimony. The room grew hot about me as I turnedthe pages, and I was forced to move back from the fireplace. Thedrawings were shameless, representing actions one would scarcelycountenance in the darkest woods, here presented in brightestdaylight. Still more shocking was my discovery that the book wasEnglish, produced in London, presumably for foreign purchasers.

     While I was examining this, I began to sense the presence oncemore, and this time as it grew I became aware of a smell, a sweetperfume akin to Atar of Roses – a scented water my own Minawould often dab at her swan-pale neck. The perfume, filled as it was with memories of home, quite overpowered me and I grew faint,for I fancied I saw a lady – no, a woman – standing on the staircasenearest the windows.

     She was tall and handsome rather than beautiful, with a knowinglook, her auburn hair swept back and down across a dress of sheergreen gossamer, with jewels at her throat, and nothing at all on herfeet. She stood with her left side turned to me, so that I could nothelp but notice the exaggerated posture of her breasts. It was asthough she intended them to incite my admiration. The effect wasindecent, but nothing to the effect produced when she turned to faceme directly, for the front panel of the dress was cut away below herwaist to reveal - well, her entire personal anatomy. Stupi
fied by herbrazenness, wondering if she was perhaps ill, I found myself unableto move as she approached. Upon reaching my chair she slid theoutstretched fingers of her right hand inside my shirt, shearing off each of the buttons with her nails. I was acutely aware that the nakedpart of her was very close to me. Then, reaching inside the waistbandof my trousers, she grasped at the very root of my reluctantlyextended manhood and brought it forward, bursting through thegarment’s fly-buttons. When I saw that she intended to lower her lipsto this core of my being, every fibre of my body strained to resist herbrazen advances.

     Here, though, my mind clouds with indistinct but disagreeableimpressions. A distant cry of anger is heard, the woman retreatsin fear and fury, and I awake, ashamed to discover my clothing inconsiderable disarray, the victim of some delirious carphology.

From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 7 October

The snow has started falling. During these increasingly frequentsqualls, all sights and sounds are obscured by a deadening white veilthat seals us in the sky. From my bedroom window I can see thatthe road to the castle is becoming obscured. If the Count does notreturn soon, I really do not see how I shall be able to leave. I supposeI could demand that a carriage be fetched from the nearest village,but I fear such an action would offend my absent host, who mustsurely reappear any day now.I am worried about my Mina. I have not heard from her inside amonth, and yet if I am truthful part of me is glad to be imprisonedhere within the castle, for the library continues to reveal paths I feelno Englishman has ever explored.

     I do not mean to sound so mysterious, but truly something weighsupon my mind. It is this; by day I follow the same routine, loggingthe books and entering them into the great ledgers my host providedfor the purpose, but each night, after I have supped and read mycustomary pages before the fire, I allow myself to fall into a lightsleep, and then – 

     – then my freedom begins as I either dream or awaken to suchunholy horrors and delights I can barely bring myself to describethem.Some nights bring swarms of bats, musty-smelling airbornerodents with leathery wings, needle teeth and blind eyes. 

     Sometimesthe ancestors of Vlad Drakul appear at the windows in bloodytableaux, frozen in the act of hacking off the howling heads of their enemies. Men appear skewered on tempered spikes, thrustingthemselves deeper onto the razor-poles in the throes of an obscenepleasure. Even the Count himself pays his respects, his bonyalabaster face peering at me through a wintry mist as though tryingto bridge the chasm between our two civilizations. And sometimesthe women come.

     Ah, the women.

     These females are like none we have in England. They do notaccompany themselves on the pianoforte, they do not sew demurelyby the fire. Their prowess is focused in an entirely different area. Theykneel and disrobe each other before me, and caress themselves, andturn their rumps toward me in expectation. I would like to tell youthat I resist, that I think of my fiancée waiting patiently at home, andrecite psalms from my Bible to strengthen my will, but I do not, andso am damned by the actions taken to slake my venomous desires.

     Who are these people who come to me in nightly fever-dreams?Why do they suit my every morbid mood so? It is as if the Countknows my innermost thoughts and caters for them accordingly. YetI know for a fact that he has not returned to the castle. When I look from the window I can see that there are no cart-tracks on the roadoutside. The snow remains entirely unbroken.

     There are times now when I do not wish to leave this terrible place,for to do so would mean forsaking the library. And yet, presumably,it is to be packed up and shipped to London, and this gives me hope,that I might travel with the volumes and protect them from division.For the strength of a library exists in the sum of its books. Only bystudying it – indeed, only by reading every single edition containedwithin –  can one hope to divine the true nature of its owner.

 From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 15 November
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Somewhere between dreams and wakefulness, I now know thatthere is another state. A limbo-life more imagined than real. Aland of phantoms and sensations. It is a place I visit each nightafter darkness falls. Sometimes it is sensuous, sometimes painful,sometimes exhilarating, sometimes foul beyond redemption. Itextends only to the borders of the library, and its inhabitants, mostlyin states of undressed arousal, are perfumed with excrement. Theseloathsome creatures insult, entice, distract, disgrace, shame andseduce me, clutching at my clothes until I am drawn amongst them,indistinguishable from them, enthralled by their touch, degraded bymy own eagerness.

     I think I am ill.

     By day, my high stone world is once more quiet and rational.Would that it were not, for there is no comfort to be had from thenews it brings me. The road leading to and from the castle is nowquite impassable. It would take a team of mountaineers to scale thesharp gradient of the rock face beneath us. The Count has failed toreturn, and of his impending plans there is no word. My task in thelibrary is nearly over. The books – all save one single final shelf –  have been quanti fied and, in many cases, explored.

     I begin to understand the strangely parasitic nature of my host.His thirst for knowledge and his choice of literature betray his truedesires. There are volumes in many languages here, but of the ones Ican read, first editions of Nodier’s Infernalia, d’ Argen’s Lettres Juives and Viatte’s Sources Occultes du Romantisme are most familiar. Certainmedical periodicals and pertinent copies of The London Journal add subtler shades to my mental portrait of the Count. Of courseI knew the folk-tales about his ancestry. They are bound within thehistory of his people. How could one travel through this countryand not hear them? In their native language they do not seem sofanciful, and here in the castle, confabulations take on substantiality.I have heard and read how the Count’s forefathers slaughtered theoffspring of their enemies and drank their blood for strength – whohas not? Why, tales of Eastern barbarism have reached the heart of London society. But I had not considered the more lurid legends; how the royal descendants lived on beyond death, how they neededno earthly sustainance, how their senses were so finely attuned thatthey could divine bad fortune in advance. Nor had I considered theconsequence of such fables; that, should their veracity be proven, they might in the Count’s case suggest an inherited illness of thekind suffered by royal albinos, a dropsical disease of the blood thatkeeps him from the light, an anaemia that blanches his eyes anddries his veins, that causes meat to stick in his throat, that driveshim from the noisy heat of humanity to the cool dark sanctum of hissick-chamber.

     But if it is merely a medical condition, why am I beset with bestialfantasies? What power could the Count possess to hold me in histhrall? I find it harder each day to recall his appearance, for theforbidden revelations of the night have all but overpowered my senseof reality. And yet his essence is here in the library, imbued withineach page of his collection. Perhaps I am not ill, but mad. I fear mysenses have awoken too sharply, and my rational mind is reeling withtheir weight.

     I have lost much of my girth in the last six weeks. I have always been thin, but the gaunt image that glares back at me in the glassmust surely belong to a sickly, aged relation. I appear as a bundleof blanched sticks by day. I have no strength. I live only for thenights. Beneath the welcoming winter moon my flesh fills, my spiritbecomes engorged with an unwholesome strength, and I am soundonce more.

     I really must try to get away from here.

From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 18 December
The Count has finally returned, paradoxically bringing fresh spiritsinto the castle. For the life of me I cannot see how he arrived here,as one section of the pathway below has clearly fallen away intothe valley. Last night he came down to dinner, and was in mostexcellent health. His melancholy mood had lifted, and he was eagerto converse. He seemed physically taller, his posture more erect. Histravels had taken him on many adventures, so he informed me as hepoured himself a goblet of heavy claret, but now he was properlyrestored to his ancestral home, and would be in attendance for theconclusion of my work.

     I had not told him I was almost done, although I supposed hemight have intuited as much from a visit to the library. He asked thatwe might finish the work together, before the next sunrise. I was verytired – indeed, at the end of the meal I required Klove’s helping handto rise from my chair–
but agreed to his demand, knowing that therewere but a handful of books left for me to classify.
     Soon we were seated in the great library, warming ourselves beforethe fire, where Klove had set bowls of brandy out for us.

     It was when I studied his travelling clothes that I realized the truth.His boots and oil-cloth cape lay across the back of the chair where hehad supposedly deposited them on his return. As soon as I saw thatthe boots were new, the soles polished and unworn, I instinctivelyintuited that the Count had not been away, and that he had spent thelast six months here in the castle with me. I knew I had not imaginedwhat I had seen and done. We sat across from each other in two greatarmchairs, cradling our brandies, and I nervously pondered my nextmove, for it was clear to me that the Count could sense my unease.
     “I could not approach you, Jonathan,” he explained, divining mythoughts as precisely as an entymologist skewers a wasp. “You weresimply too English, too Christian, too filled with pious platitudes.The reek of your pride was quite overpowering. I saw the prayerbook by your bed, the cross around your neck, the dowdy little virgin inyour locket. I knew it would be simpler to sacrifice you upon thecompletion of your task.” His eyes watched mine intently. “ To suck your blood and throw your drained carcass over the battlements tothe wolves.” I stared back, refusing to flinch, not daring to move asingle nerve-end.
     “But,” he continued with a heartfelt sigh, “I did so need a goodman to tend my library. In London I will easily find loyal emissariesto do my bidding and manage my affairs, but the library needs akeeper. Klove has no feeling for language. To be the custodian of such a rare repository of ideas requires tact and intellect. I decidedinstead to let you discover me, and in doing so, discover yourself.That was the purpose of the library.” He raised his arm, fanning itover the shelves. “The library made you understand. You see, thepages of the books are poisoned. They just need warm hands toactivate them, the hands of the living. The inks leaked into your skinand brought your inner self to life. That is why Klove always wearsgloves in this room. You are the only other living person here.”

     I looked down at my stained and fragrant fingers, noticing for the first time how their skin had withered into purple blotches.
     “The books are dangerous to the Christian soul, malignant in theirprint and in their ideas. Now you have read my various histories,shared my experiences, and know I am corrupt, yet incorruptible. Perhaps you see that we are not so far apart. There is but one barrierleft to fall between us.” He had risen from his chair without mynoticing, and circled behind me. His icy tapered fingers came to rest on my neck, loosening the stiff white collar of my shirt. I heard acollar stud rattle onto the floor beneath my chair.
     “After tonight you will no longer need to use my library forthe ful filment of your fantasies,” he said, his steel-cold mouthdescending to my throat, “for your fantasies are to be made flesh,just as the nights will replace your days.” I felt the first hot stab of pain as his teeth met in my skin. Through a haze I saw the Countwipe his lips with the back of a crimson hand. “You will make a veryloyal custodian, little Englishman,” he said, descending again.
     Here the account ends. The library did not accompany Count Draculaon his voyage to England, but remained behind in his castle, where it continued to be tended by Mr Harker until his eventual demise many,many years later.