The True Story of A Vampire and more

Vampire stories are generally located in Styria; mine is also. Styria
is by no means the romantic kind of place described by those who have
certainly never been there. It is a flat, uninteresting country, only
celebrated for its turkeys, its capons, and the stupidity of its
inhabitants. Vampires generally arrive at night, in carriages drawn by
two black horses.

Our Vampire arrived by the commonplace means of the railway train, and
in the afternoon.

You must think I am joking, or perhaps that by the word "Vampire" I
mean a financial vampire.

No, I am quite serious. The Vampire of whom I am speaking, who laid
waste our hearth and home, was a real vampire.

Vampires are generally described as dark, sinister-looking, and
singularly handsome. Our Vampire was, on the contrary, rather fair,
and certainly was not at first sight sinister-looking, and though
decidedly attractive in appearance, not what one would call singularly
handsome.

Yes, he desolated our home, killed my brother--the one object of my
adoration--also my dear father. Yet, at the same time, I must say that
I myself came under the spell of his fascination, and, in spite of
all, have no ill-will towards him now.

Doubtless you have read in the papers passim of "the Baroness and her
beasts." It is to tell how I came to spend most of my useless wealth
on an asylum for stray animals that I am writing this.

I am old now; what happened then was when I was a little girl of about
thirteen. I will begin by describing our household. We were Poles: our
name was Wronski: we lived in Styria, where we had a castle. Our
household was very limited. It consisted, with the exclusion of
domestics, of only my father, our governess--a worthy Belgian named
Mademoiselle Vonnaert--my brother, and myself. Let me begin with my
father: he was old and both my brother and I were children of his old
age. Of my mother I remember nothing: she died in giving birth to my
brother, who was only one year, or not as much, younger than in self.
Our father was studious, continually occupied in reading books,
chiefly on recondite subjects and in all kinds of unknown languages.

He had a long white beard, and wore habitually a black velvet skull-
cap.

How kind he was to us! It was more than I could tell. Still it was not
I who was the favourite.

His whole heart went out to Gabriel--Gabryel as we spelt it in Polish.
He was always called by the Russian abbreviation Gavril--I mean, of
course, my brother, who had a resemblance to the only portrait of my
mother, a slight chalk sketch which hung in my father's study. But I
was by no means jealous: my brother was and has been the only love of
my life. It is for his sake that I am now keeping in Westbourne Park a
home for stray cats and dogs.

I was at that time, as I said before, a little girl; my name was
Carmela. My long tangled hair was always all over the place, and never
would combed straight. I was not pretty--at least, looking at a
photograph of me at that time. I do not think I could describe myself
as such. Yet at the same time, when I look at the photograph, I think
my expression may have been pleasing to some people: irregular
features, large mouth, and large wild eyes.