A masterful tale of the Balkan folk vampire written a century after the era of the greater, cosmopolitan European discovery and fascination with that folk figure, given a wonderful counterpoint by Tolstoy (no, not that Tolstoy) with a frame narrative of a cultured French roue diplomat/soldier who tells the tale at an Austrian dinner party as part of an old man's extended flirtation with group of very young ladies. So many great elements at work here. First of all, the family dynamic of the peasants and the building horror of uncertainty and their seduction, if you will, by their perhaps infected patriarch would have been a great tale on its own. The frame, in its beginning, makes a first-person eyewitness truth claim which functions, in light of an old man's tale out of his distant past, to both estrange and make the tale feel more real. Then, as the first part of the tale leads into a kind of pause and a more pointed final conflation of the vampiric infection with the seducer's art, the fantastic and absurd (and the horrific!) merge in the denouement, which the narrator finally undercuts with a nod to his own false, self-serving chivalry at the end. So much more subtle than Dracula, I think this is perhaps the folk figure of the vampire's greatest literary appearance.