Metalheads who Read: The Countess by Rebecca Johns

In 2010, Rebecca Johns (author of Icebergs) wrote a fictionalized account of the life of Countess Bathory (whom I’ve profiled in my Metal history column – see Metal History: Countess Bathory), the hungarian noblewomen accused of torturing and murdering hundreds of servant girls and bathing in their blood. Although many fiction books (and oodles of metal songs) have been written about Countess Bathory, most portray her as a vampire or other such demon, beautiful, calculating, deadly. But John’s book seeks to present a more human angle, an almost psychological study explaining how a women in medieval Hungary could come to the point where she was accused of such crimes. Part policial thrille, part horror, part Medieval Miss Manners, The Countess is a great read for anyone interested in the life of the world’s first female serial killer.

Port O Call: The Countess, by Rebecca Johns

Premise: Was the “Blood Countess” history’s first female serial killer? Or did her accusers create a violent fiction in order to remove this beautiful, intelligent, ambitious foe from the male-dominated world of Hungarian politics?

In 1611, Countess Erzsébet Báthory, a powerful Hungarian noblewoman, stood helpless as masons walled her inside her castle tower, dooming her to spend her final years in solitary confinement. Her crime – the gruesome murders of dozens of female servants, mostly young girls tortured to death for displeasing their ruthless mistress. Her opponents painted her as a bloodthirsty škrata – a witch – a portrayal that would expand to grotesque proportions through the centuries.

In The Countess, Erzsébet Báthory tells her story in her own words, describing her upbringing in one of the most powerful noble houses in Hungary, recounting in loving detail her devotion to her parents and siblings as well as the heartbreak of losing her father at a young age. She soon discovers the price of being a woman in sixteenth-century Hungary as her mother arranges her marriage to Ferenc Nádasdy, a union made with the cold calculation of a financial transaction. Young Erzsébet knows she has no choice but to accept this marriage even as she laments its loveless nature and ultimately turns to the illicit affections of another man.

Resigned to a marriage of convenience and a life of surreptitious pleasure, the countess surprises even herself as she ignites a marital spark with Ferenc through the most unromantic of acts: the violent punishment of an insolent female servant. The event shows Ferenc that his wife is no trophy but a strong, determined woman more than capable of managing their vast estates during Ferenc’s extensive military campaigns against the Turks. Her naked assertion of power accomplishes what her famed beauty could not: capturing the love of her husband.

The countess embraces this new role of loving wife and mother, doing everything she can to expand her husband’s power and secure her family’s future. But a darker side surfaces as Countess Báthory’s demand for virtue, obedience, and, above all, respect from her servants takes a sinister turn.

Why it’s Krieg: The major problem with writing historical fiction is that the reader knows how the story is going to end. (This is why I write alternative history). The author needs to provide a compelling reason to keep reading, because the reader doesn’t need to know what happens next. We know Countess Bathory would be found guilty of atrocious crimes and be walled up inside her own castle for the remainder of her life. Right from the very beginning, we’re fighting against loving her, because we know her crimes, and we know she is doomed.

Given this context, I think Rebecca John’s effort deserves even more credit. Although I found the book quite slow to start, I was drawn in to the detailed historical setting she’d created. With every turn of the page a fascinating world of courtly affairs, politics, war, love, lonliness, and everyday life in medieval Hungary unfolded. I fell into the trap Johns had set for me, so fascinated with the everyday life of Erzsébet, her longing for a husband who showed her affection, and the running of her estates that I barely noticed her descent into depravity until it was too late.

Erzsébet takes such pride in the running of her home and her husband’s estates that any signs of sloth, dishonesty or lasciviousness amongst her servents are met with increasingly brutal punishments.

The reader barely notices Erzebet’s darker nature worming its way to the surface. Sure, there are clues early on, such as her fascination with a gypsy given a cruel punishment for selling his own daughter to the Turks. But she is human, struggling to impress a difficult mother-in-law and win the affections of a cold husband.

Though her thoughts and statements display intelligence and rationality, Erzsébet’s actions bely the reality of her arrogance, her jealousy, her desire for control. It is always the prettiest maids, the ones who command the attention of the men, especially the Count, whom Erzsébet singles out for punishment. Erzsébet sees insolence where perhaps there is only good humour, girls attempting to overstep their station, where perhaps there is only natural beauty.

Erzsébet’s cruely creeps up on you, so much so that thinking back through the book once you’ve finished it reveals the layers of thought and action, of words and deeds. John’s subtle narrative shows you the possible reality of a woman who could commit such murders.

Why it’s Emo: I have very few complaints about this book, apart from the slow start and the letter format, which I don’t feel was necessary to create the book, and perhaps, on occasions, detracted from the plot. I think Johns made the right choice making this a first person account – and pulls off the unreliable narrator with impeccable grace. I’m putting research material together for my next novel, and I’m struggling with the same problems of creating sympathetic characters from unquestionable cruelty, so I applaud John’s rendition of this tale.

A lot of the time, the disciplining of the servents seemed to be an afterthought to the author. I think this was done intentionally, to heighten the suspense leading up to her downfall at the end. The Countess’ emotional undoing mirrors the increasing torture of the servents, till they come together in the climax.

Again, this book suffers from the problem that plagues most historical fiction – I know what happens at the end, so the climax was meh. But if you don’t know much about Countess Bathory, or you’re happy to stellar writing to carry you through a book, I highly recommend The Countess.

Rating: \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ Four horns for not having nearly as much torture and debauchery as I was expecting. An enjoyable read, nevertheless.