Evening Reflections

From the Diary of Eduardo Cavalieri

19 November

I am ashamed, grossly ashamed! It is well I was not accompanying Giovanni on his trip; I would have certainly been responsible for any mishap along the way. As it is, I am no great help in recovering him, either. I had not meant to tarry so long in the curate�s house, but it felt so comfortable, so familiar to spend the afternoon in conversation, not pacing back and forth in my room, idling by the window and turning to my own troubled thoughts for solace. He was such a pleasant man too, that curate�much more so than I would have expected here in this frozen territory. He simply insisted on my staying to dine, though regrettably, my memories of that afternoon are dim, as I largely exceeded my usual one glass of wine. I scarcely remember anything of leaving the house or the town, but I starkly recall the countess�s hand on my shoulder, the cold gaze of her eyes, and the expression on my host�s face as he led me back to the castle. It was curiously inscrutable, but he spoke to me in tones ever calm.

I remember approaching the wash basin in my chamber, awkwardly splashing the cold water over my face, trying desperately to regain even the tiniest ounce of propriety, but the dull pressure in my head only throbbed more. I was not alone in the room, either�my host was still there, surveying the grand mess I had made of the bed and its contents (shameful!  At the very least, I ought to have straightened the sheets). Almost compulsively he reached out and picked up the bed cushions that had been strewn about, returning each to its proper place and lightly patting every one around the edges, so that they appeared full and unused. I realize now I must have been staring quite rudely, but I was oddly fascinated with the strange sight of my illustrious host arranging the bed with the dexterity of a chambermaid. He seemed to find it not unusual, for when he turned and saw me watching him, he merely folded the sheet and told me I ought to retire. I complied instantly, feeling as if not even force could drag me from the bed, and without much thought, turned my face into the pillow.

I had hoped my host would then leave me, but as the seconds ticked by and I heard no sound of the door closing, I realized he was sitting amicably in a chair beside me. At once he commenced speaking to me, expressing great interest in what precisely the curate had told me, how I had stumbled into the gypsy camp (that I do not remember; but if there were gypsies in the forest, I am glad I escaped them somehow), and, finally, if I had received word of my brother. I could answer that much, at least. The curate himself had told me a personage matching my brother exactly in appearance (he did not tell me that, but so I concluded, for the old coat, worn valise, and quiet demeanor clearly belonged to Giovanni) had arrived in Bistritz and boarded a carriage originally intended for a specific visitor. (It must have cost him an exorbitant amount to do so.) When I inquired when the carriage returned to the town, the curate answered that it never did. Apparently it was due far northward. To all this, the count said nothing, but gazed at me with that expressionless look, his hands folded before him. At length he asked if I had been told when this carriage had conveyed the travelers from Bistritz, and I had, thankfully. It was in May, after my brother�s ship had landed. I told him so, and expected no great response.

Now, finally, concern etched itself on his countenance. He told me nothing definitive, but explained shortly that there had been an accident involving a carriage on the Borgo Pass that very month. It was nothing to worry about, the count assured me, there was no use making dreadful assumptions without facts. At this point, I was impossibly exhausted, and his words did not take effect. I only noticed that (at last) he stood up from the chair and spoke a few parting phrases. When he took the candle and closed the door behind him, I felt only relief at finally being able to allow sleep to overcome me.

When I awoke the following morning, it was gone!

It must have been urgency alone that roused me, for I woke with a start and immediately noticed its loss. I had kept it with me at all times, and its absence weighed far more heavily than its presence. Its purpose was incomprehensible to me, but I was given strict instructions: were I to find Giovanni, I was to give it to him without question. He knew its worth. To my untrained eyes, it seemed only a cumbersome, very sharp piece of silver. (I know Giovanni�s bank is successful, but it hardly seems a monetary token.)

That began the longest day I spent within the castle. I had not adapted well to the utter stillness of the household during my days there, but this one was particularly memorable. No amount of pacing or window idling could soothe me�now that I knew it was gone, I was taken with the notion that I had dropped it somewhere in the town, or perhaps along the Pass during my return trip. Still, my complete unfamiliarity with the area rendered me useless; and as I could locate neither my host nor my hostess, I was forced to pass the time in abandon and anxiety. Many a fortnight has seemed shorter.

Nearly a week has passed in this fashion, with little communication with the count. I dare not speak of that which I lost, and he is very often out during the afternoons. In the evening, when he is frequently in the library or the sitting room, I feel I have not the heart to stir past the doorway of my chamber. Nighttime marks the few precious hours I may lose my fears in sleep, and as I have caught no glimmer of hope for Giovanni�s whereabouts, these hours are invaluable.

Yet even in sleep I find no peace, for when I dream, I am beset by haunting visions that plague my rest. It is my own disappointment and uncertainty, I am sure, but I still feel there is something not right. The hostility in the town alone would be remarkable, but something else troubles me further. The coldness with which the countess looked at me that night in the forest�it was as if I were a thing, not a person. She appears to look through me. 

The candles are waxing low; I must complete this before the wick drops out completely.  I end this to sleep again, and to dream of I know not what. 

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