II

by Wilkie Collins

June 15th. The chaos of their arrival has finally settled down. It’s been two days since the travelers returned, and that time has allowed us to adjust to the new rhythm of life at Blackwater Park. I can now return to my journal, hoping to write with the same clarity as before.

I think I should start by noting a curious observation I’ve had since Laura came back.

When two family members or close friends are apart—one traveling and the other staying home—the reunion often puts the one who stayed at a disadvantage. The clash of new experiences and habits gained by the traveler meets the old, familiar ways of the one who remained, creating an unexpected distance between them. After the initial joy of seeing Laura again, after we sat together, hand in hand, trying to catch our breath and calm our nerves, I felt that distance immediately, and I could tell she felt it too. It has lessened now that we’ve slipped back into many of our old routines, and it will likely fade completely soon. Still, it has influenced my first impressions of her now that we’re living together again, which is why I feel it’s worth mentioning.

She sees me as unchanged, but I see her differently.

She has changed in appearance and, in some ways, in character. I can’t say she’s less beautiful than she used to be; I can only say she feels less beautiful to me.

Others, who don’t see her through my eyes or memories, might think she looks better. There’s more color in her cheeks, and her features are more defined than before. Her figure seems more poised and graceful in movement than it did in her younger days. But when I look at her, I miss something—something that belonged to the joyful, innocent Laura Fairlie, which I can’t find in Lady Glyde. In the past, there was a freshness, a softness, a tender beauty in her face that is hard to put into words, or as poor Hartright used to say, even harder to capture in art. That charm is gone. I thought I caught a glimpse of it when she paled from the shock of our sudden reunion, but it hasn’t returned since. None of her letters hinted at any change in her appearance. In fact, they led me to believe her marriage had left her looking just as she always had. Perhaps I misread her letters then, and now I’m misreading her face? It doesn’t matter! Whether her beauty has improved or diminished in the past six months, the distance between us has made her dear self more precious to me than ever, and that’s one positive outcome of her marriage.

The second change I’ve noticed in her character doesn’t surprise me, as her letters had prepared me for it. Now that she’s home again, she’s just as reluctant to discuss her married life as she was during our time apart when we could only communicate through writing. When I first tried to broach the subject, she placed her hand over my lips with a look and gesture that painfully reminded me of her girlhood and the happy days when there were no secrets between us.

“Whenever we’re together, Marian,” she said, “we’ll both feel happier and more at ease if we accept my married life for what it is and try not to dwell on it too much. I would tell you everything about myself,” she continued, nervously fiddling with the ribbon around my waist, “if I could stop there. But I can’t—it would lead me to talk about my husband too. Now that I’m married, I think it’s best to avoid those topics, for his sake, for yours, and for mine. I’m not saying it would upset you or me—I wouldn’t want you to think that for anything. But I want to be so happy now that I have you back, and I want you to be happy too—”

She stopped abruptly and glanced around the room, my sitting room where we were talking. “Ah!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with a bright smile, “another old friend found already! Your bookcase, Marian—your dear little shabby old satin-wood bookcase—I’m so glad you brought it with you from Limmeridge! And that awful heavy man’s umbrella you always insisted on taking out when it rained! And most importantly, your own dear, dark, clever, gypsy face, looking at me just like always! It feels so much like home to be here. How can we make it feel even more like home? I’ll put my father’s portrait in your room instead of mine, and I’ll keep all my little treasures from Limmeridge here. We can spend hours every day surrounded by these four friendly walls. Oh, Marian!” she said, suddenly sitting on a footstool at my knees and looking up earnestly into my face, “promise me you’ll never marry and leave me. I know it’s selfish to say, but you’re so much better off as a single woman—unless—unless you’re really fond of your husband. But you won’t be very fond of anyone but me, will you?”

She paused again, crossed my hands in my lap, and rested her face on them. “Have you been writing or receiving many letters lately?” she asked in a low, suddenly serious tone. I understood what she meant, but I felt it was best not to encourage her by meeting her halfway.

“Have you heard from him?” she continued, coaxing me to forgive her more direct question by kissing my hands, which her face still rested on. “Is he well and happy? Is he doing well in his career? Has he moved on and forgotten me?”

She shouldn’t have asked those questions. She should have remembered her own resolution from the morning Sir Percival insisted on their marriage engagement, when she handed me Hartright’s drawings for good. But, oh, where is the perfect human being who can stick to a good resolution without sometimes faltering? Where is the woman who can truly erase from her heart the image of a love that once took root? Books tell us such extraordinary beings have existed—but what does our own experience say in response to those tales?

I didn’t try to argue with her; perhaps because I genuinely appreciated her fearless honesty, which revealed to me what other women in her position might have hidden even from their closest friends. Perhaps it was because I felt, deep down, that I would have asked the same questions and had the same thoughts if I were in her place. All I could honestly do was reply that I hadn’t written to him or heard from him recently, and then I shifted the conversation to safer topics.

There was much to sadden me during our meeting—my first private conversation with her since her return. The change her marriage had brought to our relationship, placing a forbidden subject between us for the first time; the painful realization of the lack of warmth and true connection between her and her husband, which her own reluctant words now forced into my mind; the distressing discovery that the remnants of that ill-fated attachment still lingered in her heart, no matter how innocently or harmlessly—all of these revelations would sadden anyone who loved her as dearly and felt for her as deeply as I did.

Yet there is one consolation to balance against them—a consolation that should comfort me, and does. All the grace and gentleness of her character, all the open affection of her nature, all the sweet, simple, womanly charms that once made her the darling of everyone around her have returned with her. Of my other impressions, I sometimes waver in my certainty. But of this last, best, and happiest impression, I grow more and more sure with each passing hour.

Now, let’s shift our focus from her to her traveling companions, starting with her husband. What have I noticed about Sir Percival since his return that might change my opinion of him?

Honestly, not much. Since coming back, he seems to be plagued by small irritations and annoyances, and no one is at their best under those circumstances. To me, he looks thinner than when he left England. His persistent cough and restless demeanor have definitely worsened. His manner—especially towards me—has become much more abrupt. When he returned that evening, he greeted me without the usual politeness and warmth. There were no welcoming speeches, no signs of joy at seeing me—just a brief handshake and a curt, “How do you do, Miss Halcombe? Glad to see you again.” It felt as though he regarded me as just another fixture of Blackwater Park, satisfied to find me in my usual spot, and then he moved on without a second thought.

Most people reveal aspects of their true selves in their own homes that they might hide elsewhere, and Sir Percival has shown a newfound obsession with order and cleanliness, which is a side of him I hadn’t seen before. If I take a book from the library and leave it on the table, he follows me to put it back. If I get up from a chair and leave it where I sat, he carefully returns it to its place against the wall. He picks up stray flower petals from the carpet, grumbling to himself as if they were hot coals burning holes in it, and he scolds the servants over a wrinkle in the tablecloth or a missing knife at dinner with the fury of someone who feels personally insulted.

I’ve mentioned the small annoyances that seem to have troubled him since his return. Much of the negative change I’ve noticed in him could stem from these. I try to convince myself of this because I don’t want to feel disheartened about the future just yet. It must be frustrating for any man to face annoyances the moment he steps back into his own home after a long absence, and I witnessed one such incident with Sir Percival.

On the evening they arrived, the housekeeper followed me into the hall to greet her master and mistress. The moment he saw her, Sir Percival asked if anyone had called while he was away. The housekeeper relayed what she had told me earlier about a strange gentleman who had inquired about his return. He immediately wanted to know the gentleman's name. No name had been left. What was the gentleman's business? No business had been mentioned. What did the gentleman look like? The housekeeper struggled to describe him, failing to provide any distinguishing features that might help Sir Percival recognize him. He frowned, stamped his foot in frustration, and walked into the house without acknowledging anyone. I can’t explain why such a trivial matter unsettled him so much, but it was clear he was genuinely disturbed.

Overall, it might be best if I hold off on forming a solid opinion about his behavior, speech, and actions in his own home until he has had time to shake off whatever anxieties are clearly weighing on him. I’ll turn the page and set aside my thoughts on Laura’s husband for now.

Next, I’ll address the two guests—the Count and Countess Fosco. I’ll start with the Countess so I can get her out of the way quickly.

Laura was right; I hardly recognized her aunt when we met. The transformation in Madame Fosco since her marriage is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in a woman.

Eleanor Fairlie, at thirty-seven, was a whirlwind of pretentious chatter, always burdening the unfortunate men around her with every trivial demand a vain and foolish woman could impose on long-suffering humanity. Now, as Madame Fosco at forty-three, she often sits in silence for hours, wrapped in a strange, self-imposed stillness. The ridiculous love-locks that once framed her face have been replaced by stiff, short curls reminiscent of outdated wigs. A plain, matronly cap covers her head, finally giving her the appearance of a respectable woman—a first in my memory of her.

No one, aside from her husband, sees in her what everyone once did—the delicate structure of her collarbones and shoulder blades. Dressed in modest black or gray gowns that rise high around her throat—dresses she would have scoffed at or screamed over in her youth—she now sits quietly in corners. Her dry, white hands, so parched that the pores of her skin appear chalky, are constantly busy with monotonous embroidery or rolling endless cigarettes for the Count’s personal use.

When her cold blue eyes lift from her work, they often rest on her husband, reflecting a mute, submissive inquiry familiar to anyone who has seen a loyal dog. The only hint of warmth I’ve noticed beneath her icy exterior is a flicker of jealousy—sharp and tigerish—toward any woman in the house, including the maids, who receives the Count’s attention. Aside from this, she remains as cold as a statue, unyielding in her demeanor, whether it’s morning, noon, or night, rain or shine.

For the sake of social interaction, this remarkable transformation is undoubtedly an improvement; she has become a civil, silent, unobtrusive woman who is never in the way. But how much she has truly changed beneath the surface is another matter. I’ve caught glimpses of sudden shifts in her expression and tone that suggest her current state of suppression might have locked away something dangerous within her—a part of her that once expressed itself freely in her earlier life. Perhaps I’m mistaken in this belief, but my instinct tells me I’m right. Only time will reveal the truth.

And what of the man responsible for this extraordinary change—the Count, the foreign husband who has subdued this once wayward English woman to the point where even her own family hardly recognizes her?

In two words: he looks like a man who could tame anything. Had he married a tigress instead of a woman, he would have tamed the tigress. If he had married me, I would have rolled his cigarettes just like his wife does—I would have kept quiet when he looked at me, just as she does.

I hesitate to admit it, even in these private pages, but the man has intrigued me. He has drawn me in and compelled me to like him. In just two short days, he has made his way into my good graces, and how he accomplished this miracle is beyond my understanding.

It astonishes me, now that he occupies my thoughts, how clearly I see him—much more clearly than I see Sir Percival, Mr. Fairlie, Walter Hartright, or any other absent figure, with the sole exception of Laura herself. I can hear his voice as if he were speaking right now. I remember his conversation from yesterday as vividly as if it were happening in this moment.

How do I even begin to describe him? There are quirks in his appearance, habits, and interests that I would criticize or mock mercilessly if they belonged to another man. Yet, for some reason, I find myself unable to do so with him. What is it that makes me exempt from judgment when it comes to him?

He’s incredibly overweight. Until now, I’ve always had a strong dislike for people who are excessively fat. I’ve always argued that the common belief that being very large and being good-natured go hand in hand is absurd. It implies that only kind people get fat or that gaining weight somehow improves a person’s character. I’ve consistently refuted these ridiculous claims by pointing out examples of overweight individuals who are just as mean, cruel, and vicious as the thinnest, most unpleasant people around.

I’ve asked questions like: Was Henry the Eighth a nice guy? Was Pope Alexander the Sixth a good man? And what about Mr. and Mrs. Manning, both of whom were rather large and notorious for their crimes? Even the hired nurses, often known for their cruelty, tend to be quite hefty themselves. I could go on with countless examples, both historical and contemporary, from all walks of life.

Despite my firm beliefs, here I am, face to face with Count Fosco, as large as Henry the Eighth, and somehow, he has won me over in just a day, without any hindrance from his own unpleasant bulk. It’s truly remarkable!

Is it his face that draws me in?

Maybe it is. He bears a striking resemblance to Napoleon, with his perfectly shaped features and a calm, powerful expression that echoes the Great Soldier’s demeanor. This resemblance certainly caught my attention at first, but there’s something more about him that captivates me. I think it’s his eyes. They are the most mysterious grey eyes I’ve ever seen, sometimes sparkling with a cold, beautiful intensity that compels me to look at him, even though it stirs feelings I’d rather avoid.

Other aspects of his face and head are peculiar too. His complexion has an unusual pale-yellow tone that contrasts sharply with his dark brown hair, leading me to suspect that his hair might be a wig. His face is completely shaven, smooth, and free of any marks or wrinkles, even though he’s nearly sixty, according to Sir Percival. But what truly sets him apart from everyone else I’ve encountered is the extraordinary expression and power of his eyes.

His demeanor and command of our language also play a role in shaping my impression of him. He has a quiet respectfulness, an attentive interest when listening to a woman, and a gentle tone when he speaks to one—qualities that are hard to resist. His remarkable grasp of English certainly helps him here. I had heard about how well many Italians can master our harsh Northern language, but I never imagined a foreigner could speak English as fluently as he does. At times, it’s nearly impossible to tell he’s not a native speaker, and few Englishmen can converse with as few pauses and repetitions as he does. While he may structure his sentences in a slightly foreign way, I’ve never heard him misuse a word or hesitate in his speech.

Every little quirk of this strange man is strikingly original and perplexingly contradictory. Despite his size and age, he moves with surprising lightness and grace. He’s as quiet in a room as any woman, and despite his obvious mental strength and authority, he’s as jumpy as the most delicate among us. He flinches at sudden noises just like Laura does. Just yesterday, he winced when Sir Percival scolded one of the spaniels, making me feel ashamed of my own lack of compassion compared to the Count.

This last incident reminds me of one of his most curious traits that I haven’t mentioned yet—his extraordinary fondness for pets.

Some of his pets were left back in Europe, but he brought a cockatoo, two canaries, and a whole family of white mice to this house. He takes care of all their needs himself, and somehow, he’s managed to make them surprisingly affectionate and comfortable around him. The cockatoo, a bird known for its viciousness toward everyone else, seems to genuinely love him. When he releases it from its cage, it hops onto his knee, climbs up his large frame, and rubs its feathery crest against his pale double chin in the most affectionate way.

He only needs to open the canaries’ cages and call them, and these clever little birds fearlessly perch on his hand, one by one climbing up his outstretched fingers when he tells them to “go upstairs.” They sing together, their joy so intense it seems they might burst with delight when they reach the tip of his finger. His white mice live in a colorful little pagoda made of wire, a creation of his own design. They’re almost as tame as the canaries and are often let out to roam freely. They scurry all over him, popping in and out of his waistcoat, and sitting in pairs, pure white against his broad shoulders. He seems to have a special fondness for his mice, smiling at them, kissing them, and calling them all sorts of endearing names.

If you could imagine an Englishman with a taste for such childish interests, he might feel embarrassed and want to apologize for them in front of adults. But the Count, it seems, sees nothing ridiculous about the stark contrast between his large self and his delicate pets. He would happily kiss his white mice and chirp to his canaries even in the company of serious English fox-hunters, pitying them as uncivilized when they laughed at him.

It’s hard to believe as I write this, but it’s true: this man, who dotes on his cockatoo and skillfully manages his white mice, can also engage in daring conversations filled with independent thought. He possesses a wealth of knowledge from books in every language and experiences from half the capitals of Europe, making him a standout figure in any civilized gathering. This trainer of canaries and architect of a mouse pagoda is, as Sir Percival has told me, one of the leading experimental chemists alive today. He has even discovered a method for preserving bodies after death, turning them as hard as marble for eternity.

This plump, lazy, elderly man, whose nerves are so finely tuned that he jumps at sudden sounds and flinches at the sight of a dog being scolded, walked into the stable yard the morning after his arrival. He approached a chained bloodhound, a beast so fierce that even the groom who feeds it keeps his distance. My wife and I were there, and I’ll never forget the brief scene that unfolded.

“Be careful with that dog, sir,” warned the groom. “He attacks everyone!”

“He does that, my friend,” the Count replied calmly, “because everyone is afraid of him. Let’s see if he’ll attack me.”

He placed his plump, pale fingers—where the canaries had just been perched—on the fierce dog’s head and looked it straight in the eyes. “You big dogs are all cowards,” he said, his face inches from the dog’s. “You’d attack a poor cat, you miserable coward. You’d go after a starving beggar, you pathetic bully. You only pick on things that are scared of your size, your sharp teeth, and your slobbering mouth. You could take me down right now, but you won’t even look me in the eye because I’m not afraid of you. Are you reconsidering? Want to try your teeth on my fat neck? Bah! Not a chance!”

He turned away, chuckling at the astonished expressions of the men in the yard, while the dog slinked back to its kennel. “Ah, my lovely waistcoat!” he lamented. “I’m sorry I came here. Some of that beast’s slobber got on my clean waistcoat.”

Those words reveal another of his peculiarities. He loves fine clothes as much as the most foolish person you can imagine, and in just two days at Blackwater Park, he’s already worn four magnificent waistcoats—all in bright, garish colors and all incredibly large for him.

His skill and cleverness in small matters are just as striking as the odd contradictions in his character and the childish triviality of his everyday interests.

I can already tell that he intends to get along well with all of us during his stay here. He’s clearly figured out that Laura secretly dislikes him—she admitted it to me when I pressed her about it—but he’s also discovered that she has a deep love for flowers. Whenever she wants a bouquet, he’s ready with one he’s picked and arranged himself. To my amusement, he always has a duplicate bouquet, made up of the same flowers and arranged in the same way, to placate his icy jealous wife before she can even think of being upset.

The way he manages the Countess in public is quite a sight. He bows to her, calls her “my angel,” and brings his canaries to visit her, letting them sing on his fingers. He kisses her hand when she hands him his cigarettes and playfully offers her sugar candies from a box in his pocket, putting them into her mouth like a child. The iron grip with which he controls her never shows in public—it’s a private matter, kept hidden away upstairs.

His approach to winning me over is entirely different. He flatters my vanity by speaking to me as if I were a man, with seriousness and intelligence. I can see through it when I’m alone in my room—I know he’s flattering me. Yet, when I go downstairs and join him again, he manages to blind me once more, and I find myself flattered all over again, as if I hadn’t seen through him at all. He knows how to handle me just like he handles his wife and Laura, like he managed the bloodhound in the yard, and even Sir Percival himself, every hour of the day. “My good Percival! How I enjoy your rough English humor!”—“My good Percival! How I appreciate your solid English sense!” He deftly brushes aside the rudest comments Sir Percival makes about his own tastes and hobbies, always addressing him by his first name, smiling with calm superiority, patting him on the shoulder, and tolerating him like a good-natured father would a rebellious son.

My curiosity about this strangely original man has led me to ask Sir Percival about his past.

Sir Percival either knows little or is unwilling to share much. He and the Count first met many years ago in Rome, under the perilous circumstances I’ve mentioned before. Since then, they’ve been inseparable in London, Paris, and Vienna—but never again in Italy, which is odd since the Count hasn’t set foot outside his native country in years. Perhaps he’s a victim of some political persecution? Regardless, he seems determined not to lose track of any of his fellow countrymen in England. On the evening he arrived, he asked how far we were from the nearest town and if we knew of any Italian gentlemen who might be living there. He’s definitely in touch with people on the continent; his letters have all sorts of unusual stamps, and I noticed one waiting for him at breakfast this morning, sealed with an official-looking emblem. Maybe he’s corresponding with his government? Yet, that doesn’t quite fit with my other theory that he might be a political exile.

I’ve written quite a bit about Count Fosco! But what does it all add up to?—as dear Mr. Gilmore would say in his typically business-like manner. I can only say that, even after this short acquaintance, I feel a strange mix of reluctant affection for the Count. He seems to have gained the same kind of influence over me that he clearly has over Sir Percival. Free and even rude as he can be with his hefty friend, Sir Percival is obviously wary of offending the Count. I wonder if I feel that way too? I’ve never encountered anyone I’d be more reluctant to have as an enemy. Is it because I like him, or because I fear him? Who knows?—as Count Fosco might say in his own language.

June 16th.—Today brings something to note beyond my own thoughts and feelings. A visitor has arrived—someone completely unknown to Laura and me, and apparently unexpected by Sir Percival.

We were all at lunch in the room with the new French windows that open onto the verandah. The Count, who devours pastries like I’ve only seen girls at boarding schools do, had just humorously asked for his fourth tart when the servant entered to announce the visitor.

“Mr. Merriman has just arrived, Sir Percival, and wishes to see you immediately.”

Sir Percival jumped, looking at the servant with a mix of anger and alarm.

“Mr. Merriman!” he said again, as if he couldn’t believe his own ears.

“Yes, Sir Percival—Mr. Merriman from London,” came the reply.

“Where is he?”

“In the library, Sir Percival.”

Without another word, he left the table and rushed out of the room.

“Who is Mr. Merriman?” Laura asked, looking at me with curiosity.

“I have no idea,” I admitted.

The Count had just finished his fourth tart and had moved to a side table to tend to his mischievous cockatoo. He turned to us, the bird perched on his shoulder.

“Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival’s solicitor,” he said calmly.

Sir Percival’s solicitor. It was a straightforward answer to Laura’s question, yet it left us feeling unsettled. If Mr. Merriman had been summoned by his client, it wouldn’t have been surprising for him to leave London. But when a lawyer travels from London to Hampshire uninvited, and his arrival visibly shocks the gentleman he’s visiting, it’s safe to assume that he brings news—news that could be either very good or very bad, but certainly not ordinary.

Laura and I sat in silence at the table for what felt like ages, anxiously wondering what had transpired and hoping for Sir Percival’s quick return. But there was still no sign of him, and we finally decided to leave the room.

The Count, ever attentive, stepped forward from the corner where he had been feeding his cockatoo, the bird still on his shoulder, and opened the door for us. Laura and Madame Fosco exited first. Just as I was about to follow, he gestured for me to wait and spoke to me in a way that felt oddly personal.

“Yes,” he said, as if he had read my mind, “something HAS happened.”

I almost replied, “I never said that,” but the cockatoo suddenly ruffled its feathers and screeched, sending a jolt of nerves through me. I was grateful to escape the room.

I joined Laura at the bottom of the stairs. We both shared the same worry that the Count had sensed, and when she spoke, her words mirrored his. She quietly admitted to me that she was afraid something was wrong.