Dracula
by Bram Stoker · English · Gutenberg #45839 · 861,638 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dracula
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Dracula
Author: Bram Stoker
Release date: May 30, 2014 [eBook #45839]
Most recently updated: October 6, 2026
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45839
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Reiner Ruf, James Adcock
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRACULA ***
Transcriber’s Note
##################
This e-text is based on a reproduction of the original 1897 edition.
All modern material has been removed.
Italic text in the original version has been placed between underscores
(_text_); passages in small caps have been symbolised by forward
slashes (/small caps/). Subscript numerals have been placed between
curly braces ({2}).
Inconsistencies in hyphenation and spelling (to-morrow/tomorrow;
aerial/aërial, etc.), as well as incorrectly used phrases in Van
Helsing’s speech have been retained. A number of obvious errors in
punctuation and inconsistencies in single/double quotation have been
tacitly removed.
The following typographical errors, have been corrected:
# p. vi/vii: header word “Page” has been moved from page vii to
page vi.
# p. vii: “Chapter VXVII” → “Chapter XVIII”; “Chapter XXI” →
“Chapter XXVII”; “320” → “324”
# p. 16: “a long” → “along”
# p. 30: “Wœ” → “Woe”
# p. 44: “wondow” → “window”
# p. 43: “that” → “than”
# p. 58: “number One” → “number one”
# p. 63: “Hopwood” → “Holmwood”
# p. 82: “role of paper” → “roll of paper”
# p. 98: “dreadul” → “dreadful”
# p. 99: “pounts” → “pounds”
# p. 112: “Holmmood” → “Holmwood”
# p. 133: “pharmacopœœia” → “pharmacopœia”
# p. 147: “do do” → “to do”
# p. 157: “confortable” → “comfortable”; “everthing” → “everything”
# p. 186: “greatful” → “grateful”
# p. 212: “Arther” → “Arthur”
# p. 241: “next the Professor” → “next to the Professor”
# p. 257: “gloated with fresh blood” → “bloated with fresh blood”
# p. 286: “Rat, rats, rats!” → “Rats, rats, rats!”
# p. 339: “preceeded” → “preceded”
# p. 358: “the bit box” → “the big box”
# p. 380: “they mean fight” → “they mean to fight”
# p. 384: “respulsive” → “repulsive”
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
“Under the Sunset.”
“The Snake’s Pass.”
“The Watter’s Mou’.”
“The Shoulder of Shasta.”
DRACULA
BY
BRAM STOKER
Constable · London
First published by Archibald Constable and Company, 1897
TO
MY DEAR FRIEND
HOMMY-BEG
CONTENTS.
Page
/Chapter I./
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 1
/Chapter II./
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 15
/Chapter III./
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 28
/Chapter IV./
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 41
/Chapter V./
Letters--Lucy and Mina 55
/Chapter VI./
Mina Murray’s Journal 64
/Chapter VII./
Cutting from “The Dailygraph,” 8 August 77
/Chapter VIII./
Mina Murray’s Journal 91
/Chapter IX./
Mina Murray’s Journal 106
/Chapter X./
Mina Murray’s Journal 120
/Chapter XI./
Lucy Westenra’s Diary 135
/Chapter XII./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 148
/Chapter XIII./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 166
/Chapter XIV./
Mina Harker’s Journal 182
/Chapter XV./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 198
/Chapter XVI./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 212
/Chapter XVII./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 223
/Chapter XVIII./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 237
/Chapter XIX./
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 254
/Chapter XX./
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 267
/Chapter XXI./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 282
/Chapter XXII./
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 297
/Chapter XXIII./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 310
/Chapter XXIV./
Dr. Seward’s Phonograph Diary, spoken by Van Helsing 324
/Chapter XXV./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 339
/Chapter XXVI./
Dr. Seward’s Diary 354
/Chapter XXVII./
Mina Harker’s Journal 372
How these papers have been placed in sequence will be made manifest
in the reading of them. All needless matters have been eliminated, so
that a history almost at variance with the possibilities of later-day
belief may stand forth as simple fact. There is throughout no statement
of past things wherein memory may err, for all the records chosen are
exactly contemporary, given from the standpoints and within the range
of knowledge of those who made them.
DRACULA.
CHAPTER I.
/Jonathan Harker’s Journal./
(_Kept in shorthand._)
_3 May. Bistritz._--Left Munich at 8.35 p.m. on 1st May, arriving at
Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6.46, but train was
an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse
which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through
the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had
arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The
impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the
East; the most Western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is
here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish
rule.
We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh.
Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner,
or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which
was very good but thirsty. (_Mem._, get recipe for Mina.) I asked the
waiter, and he said it was called “paprika hendl,” and that, as it
was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the
Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed,
I don’t know how I should be able to get on without it.
Having some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the
British Museum, and made search among the books and maps of the library
regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of
the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with
a noble of that country. I find that the district he named is in the
extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states,
Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian
mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was
not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the
Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare
with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post
town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall
enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk
over my travels with Mina.
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct
nationalities: Saxons in the south, and mixed with them the Wallachs,
who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the west; and
Szekelys in the east and north. I am going among the latter, who claim
to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the
Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the
Huns settled in it. I read that every known superstition in the world
is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the
centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very
interesting. (_Mem._, I must ask the Count all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had
all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my
window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have
been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe,
and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the
continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping
soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge
of maize flour which they said was “mamaliga,” and egg-plant stuffed
with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call “impletata.”
(_Mem._, get recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for
the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have
done so, for after rushing to the station at 7.30 I had to sit in the
carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. It seems to me
that the further East you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What
ought they to be in China?
All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of
beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the
top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by
rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side
of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and
running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every
station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts
of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those
I saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets and round
hats and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The
women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very
clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or
other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something
fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course
petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks,
who are more barbarian than the rest, with their big cowboy hats, great
baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy
leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails.
They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and had
long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque,
but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at
once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am
told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is
a very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier--for
the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina--it has had a very stormy
existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a
series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five
separate occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century it
underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties
of war proper being assisted by famine and disease.
Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I
found, to my delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of course I
wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country. I was evidently
expected, for when I got near the door I faced a cheery-looking elderly
woman in the usual peasant dress--white undergarment with long double
apron, front and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too tight for
modesty. When I came close she bowed, and said: “The Herr Englishman?”
“Yes,” I said, “Jonathan Harker.” She smiled, and gave some message
to an elderly man in white shirt-sleeves, who had followed her to the
door. He went, but immediately returned with a letter:--
“/My Friend/,--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting
you. Sleep well to-night. At three to-morrow the diligence will start
for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my
carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your
journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your
stay in my beautiful land.
“Your friend,
“/Dracula./”
_4 May._--I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count,
directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on
making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and
pretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be
true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he
answered my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old
lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort
of way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and
that was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and
could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed
themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused
to speak further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no
time to ask any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any
means comforting.
Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in
a very hysterical way:
“Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?” She was in such an excited
state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew,
and mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at
all. I was just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I
told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important
business, she asked again:
“Do you know what day it is?” I answered that it was the fourth of May.
She shook her head as she said again:
“Oh, yes! I know that, I know that! but do you know what day it is?” On
my saying that I did not understand, she went on:
“It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that to-night, when
the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have
full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going
to?” She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but
without effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not
to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very
ridiculous, but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business
to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore
tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked
her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and
dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me.
I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been
taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet
it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in
such a state of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she
put the rosary round my neck, and said, “For your mother’s sake,” and
went out of the room. I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I
am waiting for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix
is still round my neck. Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the many
ghostly traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not
know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this
book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here
comes the coach!
_5 May. The Castle._--The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun
is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with
trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and
little are mixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till
I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things
to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well
before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on
what they call “robber steak”--bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned
with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the
simple style of the London cat’s-meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch,
which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not
disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I
saw him talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of
me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people
who were sitting on the bench outside the door--which they call by a
name meaning “word-bearer”--came and listened, and then they looked
at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often
repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the
crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked
them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them
were “Ordog”--Satan, “pokol”--hell, “stregoica”--witch, “vrolok” and
“vlkoslak”--both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and
the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire.
(_Mem._, I must ask the Count about these superstitions.)
When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this
time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross
and pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a
fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at
first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a
charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for
me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but
every one seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic
that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse
which I had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures,
all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with
its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green
tubs clustered in the centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide
linen drawers covered the whole front of the box-seat--“gotza” they
call them--cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran
abreast, and we set off on our journey.
I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of
the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or
rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might
not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green
sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep
hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable
end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit
blossom--apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the
green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out
amongst these green hills of what they call here the “Mittel Land” ran
the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut
out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down
the hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we
seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand
then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing
no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in
summer-time excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after
the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run
of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are
not to be kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair
them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing to bring
in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was always really at
loading point.
Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes
of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right
and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling upon them
and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep
blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where
grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and
pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where
the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in
the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and
again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched
my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty,
snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our
serpentine way, to be right before us:--
“Look! Isten szek!”--“God’s seat!”--and he crossed himself reverently.
As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower
behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This
was emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the
sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here and
there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I
noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many
crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here
and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did
not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender
of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There
were many things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees and
here and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white
stems shining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. Now
and again we passed a leiterwagon--the ordinary peasant’s cart, with
its long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of
the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming
peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their
coloured, sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long
staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell it began to get very cold,
and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the
gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which
ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the
Pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background
of late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine
woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great
masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced
a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts
and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling
sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst
the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes
the hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses
could only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do
at home, but the driver would not hear of it. “No, no,” he said; “you
must not walk here; the dogs are too fierce!” and then he added, with
what he evidently meant for grim pleasantry--for he looked round to
catch the approving smile of the rest--“and you may have enough of such
matters before you go to sleep.” The only stop he would make was a
moment’s pause to light his lamps.
When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the
passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as
though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully
with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on
to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of
patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the
hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach
rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a
stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared
to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each
side and to frown down upon us; we were entering the Borgo Pass. One by
one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed upon
me with earnestness which would take no denial; these were certainly of
an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good faith, with a
kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of fear-meaning
movements which I had seen outside the hotel at Bistritz--the sign of
the cross and the guard against the evil eye. Then, as we flew along,
the driver leaned forward, and on each side the passengers, craning
over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was
evident that something very exciting was either happening or expected,
but though I asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest
explanation. This state of excitement kept on for some little time;
and at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern
side. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the
heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain
range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into
the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance
which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the
glare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light
was the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which steam from our
hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could now see the sandy
road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle.
The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock
my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when
the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which
I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; I
thought it was, “An hour less than the time.” Then, turning to me, he
said in German worse than my own:--
“There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected, after all. He
will now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day;
better the next day.” Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh
and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up.
Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal
crossing of themselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind
us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the
flash of our lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were
coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a
long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face
from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes,
which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us. He said to the
driver:--
“You are early to-night, my friend.” The man stammered in reply:--
“The English Herr was in a hurry,” to which the stranger replied:--
“That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You
cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are
swift.” As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking
mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory.
One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s
“Lenore:”--
“Denn die Todten reiten schnell.”--
(“For the dead travel fast.”)
The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a
gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time
putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. “Give me the Herr’s
luggage,” said the driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were
handed out and put in the calèche. Then I descended from the side of
the coach, as the calèche was close alongside, the driver helping me
with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must
have been prodigious. Without a word he shook his reins, the horses
turned, and we swept into the darkness of the Pass. As I looked back I
saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps,
and projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing
themselves. Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses,
and off they swept on their way to Bukovina.
As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely
feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a
rug across my knees, and the driver said in excellent German:--
“The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take
all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz [the plum brandy of the
country] underneath the seat, if you should require it.” I did not take
any, but it was a comfort to know it was there, all the same. I felt a
little strange, and not a little frightened. I think had there been any
alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown
night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we
made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed
to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground again;
and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was so.
I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but
I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any
protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention
to delay. By and by, however, as I was curious to know how time was
passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch; it was
within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I
suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my
recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.
Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road--a
long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by
another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind
which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which
seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination
could grasp it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl
the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them
soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though
after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance,
from the mountains on each side of us began a louder and sharper
howling--that of wolves--which affected both the horses and myself in
the same way--for I was minded to jump from the calèche and run, whilst
they reared again and plunged madly, so that the driver had to use
all his great strength to keep them from bolting. In a few minutes,
however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far
became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before
them. He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their
ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary
effect, for under his caresses they became quite manageable again,
though they still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking
his reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to the
far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which
ran sharply to the right.
Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over
the roadway till we passed as through a tunnel; and again great
frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in
shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled
through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as
we swept along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine powdery snow
began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were covered with a
white blanket. The keen wind still carried the howling of the dogs,
though this grew fainter as we went on our way. The baying of the
wolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing round on
us from every side. I grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my
fear; but the driver was not in the least disturbed. He kept turning
his head to left and right, but I could not see anything through the
darkness.
Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The
driver saw it at the same moment; he at once checked the horses and,
jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know
what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but
while I wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word
took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen
asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated
endlessly, and now, looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare.
Once the flame appeared so near the road that even in the darkness
around us I could watch the driver’s motions. He went rapidly to where
the blue flame rose--it must have been very faint, for it did not seem
to illumine the place around it at all--and gathering a few stones,
formed them into some device. Once there appeared a strange optical
effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it,
for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me,
but as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived
me straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue
flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the
wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle.
At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he
had yet done, and during his absence the horses began to tremble worse
than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any
cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but
just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind
the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw
around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues,
with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times
more terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they
howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only
when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can
understand their true import.
All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had
some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and
looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see;
but the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side, and they
had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for
it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through
the ring and to aid his approach. I shouted and beat the side of the
calèche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as
to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know
not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and
looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept
his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the
wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed
across the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.
When I could see again the driver was climbing into the calèche, and
the wolves had disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that
a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move.
The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost
complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on
ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main
always ascending. Suddenly I became conscious of the fact that the
driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a
vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light,
and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit
sky.
CHAPTER II.
/Jonathan Harker’s Journal/--_continued._
_5 May._--I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully
awake I must have noticed the approach to such a remarkable place. In
the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several
dark ways led from it under great round arches it perhaps seemed
bigger than it really is. I have not yet been able to see it by
daylight.
When the calèche stopped the driver jumped down, and held out his hand
to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious
strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have
crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took out my traps, and placed
them on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old
and studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of
massive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone was
massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and
weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook
the reins; the horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared
down one of the dark openings.
I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell
or knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark
window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The
time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon
me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people?
What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this
a customary incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out to
explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s
clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor,--for just before leaving
London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a
full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see
if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I
expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with
the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again
felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the
pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake
and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to
wait the coming of the morning.
Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching
behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming
light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of
massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise
of long disuse, and the great door swung back.
Within, stood a tall old man, clean-shaven save for a long white
moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck
of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver
lamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of any kind,
throwing long, quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of
the open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with
a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange
intonation:--
“Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!” He made no
motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his
gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that
I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and
holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince,
an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as
ice--more like the hand of a dead than a living man. Again he said:--
“Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of
the happiness you bring!” The strength of the handshake was so much
akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not
seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to
whom I was speaking; so, to make sure, I said interrogatively:--
“Count Dracula?” He bowed in a courtly way as he replied:--
“I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in;
the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest.” As he was
speaking he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out,
took my luggage; he had carried it in before I could forestall him. I
protested but he insisted:--
“Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not
available. Let me see to your comfort myself.” He insisted on carrying
my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and
along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang
heavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced
to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper,
and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs flamed and flared.
The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing
the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room
lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort.
Passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter.
It was a welcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted and
warmed with another log fire, which sent a hollow roar up the wide
chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying,
before he closed the door:--
“You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your
toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready come
into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared.”
The light and warmth and the Count’s courteous welcome seemed to have
dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal
state, I discovered that I was half-famished with hunger; so making a
hasty toilet, I went into the other room.
I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the
great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of
his hand to the table, and said:--
“I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust,
excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do
not sup.”
I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to
me. He opened it and read it gravely; then, with a charming smile, he
handed it to me to read. One passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill
of pleasure:--
“I much regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a
constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for
some time to come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient
substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young
man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful
disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in
my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his
stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters.”
The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I
fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese
and a salad and a bottle of old Tokay, of which I had two glasses,
was my supper. During the time I was eating it the Count asked me
many questions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had
experienced.
By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host’s desire had
drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he
offered me, at the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke. I
had now an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very marked
physiognomy.
His face was a strong--a very strong--aquiline, with high bridge of the
thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead,
and hair growing scantily round the temples, but profusely elsewhere.
His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with
bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so
far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather
cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over
the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in
a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale and at the tops
extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm
though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.
Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees
in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing
them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather
coarse--broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs
in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to
a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me,
I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was
rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what
I would, I could not conceal. The Count, evidently noticing it, drew
back; and with a grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet
done his protuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of
the fireplace. We were both silent for a while; and as I looked towards
the window I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed
a strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard, as if
from down below in the valley, the howling of many wolves. The Count’s
eyes gleamed, and he said:--
“Listen to them--the children of the night. What music they make!”
Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he
added:--
“Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of
the hunter.” Then he rose and said:--
“But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you
shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon;
so sleep well and dream well!” and, with a courteous bow, he opened for
me himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom....
I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things
which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the
sake of those dear to me!
_7 May._--It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the
last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my
own accord. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had
supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by
the pot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on
which was written:--
“I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.--D.” So I set to
and enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I looked for a bell, so
that I might let the servants know I had finished; but I could not find
one. There are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering
the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table
service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of
immense value. The curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and
the hangings of my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics,
and must have been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are
centuries old, though in excellent order. I saw something like them
in Hampton Court, but there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten.
But still in none of the rooms is there a mirror. There is not even a
toilet glass on my table, and I had to get the little shaving glass
from my bag before I could either shave or brush my hair. I have not
yet seen a servant anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except
for the howling of wolves. When I had finished my meal--I do not know
whether to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and
six o’clock when I had it--I looked about for something to read, for
I did not like to go about the castle until I had asked the Count’s
permission. There was absolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper,
or even writing materials; so I opened another door in the room and
found a sort of library. The door opposite mine I tried, but found it
locked.
In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English
books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and
newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines
and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books
were of the most varied kind--history, geography, politics, political
economy, botany, geology, law--all relating to England and English life
and customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the
London Directory, the “Red” and “Blue” books, Whitaker’s Almanack, the
Army and Navy Lists, and--it somehow gladdened my heart to see it--the
Law List.
Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count
entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good
night’s rest. Then he went on:--
“I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that
will interest you. These friends”--and he laid his hand on some of the
books--“have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever
since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours
of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and
to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets
of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of
humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes
it what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books.
To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak.”
“But, Count,” I said, “you know and speak English thoroughly!” He bowed
gravely.
“I thank you, my friend, for your all too flattering estimate, but yet
I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I
know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them.”
“Indeed,” I said, “you speak excellently.”
“Not so,” he answered. “Well I know that, did I move and speak in your
London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is
not enough for me. Here I am noble; I am _boyar_; the common people
know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no
one; men know him not--and to know not is to care not for. I am content
if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he sees me, or pause in
his speaking if he hear my words, to say, ‘Ha, ha! a stranger!’ I have
been so long master that I would be master still--or at least that none
other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my
friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in
London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while, so that by our
talking I may learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell
me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry
that I had to be away so long to-day; but you will, I know, forgive one
who has so many important affairs in hand.”
Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might
come into that room when I chose. He answered: “Yes, certainly,” and
added:--
“You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are
locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that
all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with
my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand.” I said I was sure
of this, and then he went on:--
“We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are
not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from
what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something
of what strange things here may be.”
This led to much conversation. And as it was evident that he wanted to
talk, if only for talking’s sake, I asked him many questions regarding
things that had already happened to me or come within my notice.
Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by
pretending not to understand; but generally he answered all I asked
most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I
asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as, for
instance, why the coachman went to the places where we had seen the
blue flames. Was it indeed true that they showed where gold was hidden?
He then explained to me that it was commonly believed that on a certain
night of the year--last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are
supposed to have unchecked sway--a blue flame is seen over any place
where treasure has been concealed. “That treasure has been hidden,” he
went on, “in the region through which you came last night, there can be
but little doubt; for it was the ground fought over for centuries by
the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of
soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men,
patriots or invaders. In old days there were stirring times, when the
Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out
to meet them--men and women, the aged and the children too--and waited
their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep
destruction on them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader
was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been
sheltered in the friendly soil.”
“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long undiscovered, when
there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?”
The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long,
sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely; he answered:--
“Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames
only appear on one night. And on that night no man of this land will,
if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he
did he would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell
me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in
daylight even for his own work. You would not, I dare be sworn, be able
to find these places again?”
“There you are right,” I said. “I know no more than the dead where even
to look for them.” Then we drifted into other matters.
“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you
have procured for me.” With an apology for my remissness, I went into
my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in
order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as
I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp
lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were also
lit in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the sofa,
reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw’s Guide. When
I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table; and with him
I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested
in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its
surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the
subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very
much more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered:--
“Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there
I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan--nay, pardon me,
I fall into my country’s habit of putting your patronymic first--my
friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He
will be in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law
with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!”
We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at
Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the
necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to
Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a
place. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and which
I inscribe here:--
“At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as seemed
to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that
the place was for sale. It is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient
structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large
number of years. The closed gates were of heavy old oak and iron, all
eaten with rust.
“The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old _Quatre
Face_, as the house is four-sided, agreeing with the cardinal points
of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded
by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it,
which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond
or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear
and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of
all periods back, I should say, to mediæval times, for one part is of
stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily
barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old
chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the
door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my Kodak views
of it from various points. The house has been added to, but in a very
straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers,
which must be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one
being a very large house only recently added to and formed into a
private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds.”
When I had finished, he said:--
“I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and
to live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable
in a day; and, after all, how few days go to make up a century. I
rejoice that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles
love not to think that our bones may be amongst the common dead. I seek
not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine
and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer
young; and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead,
is not attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken;
the shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken
battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would
be alone with my thoughts when I may.”
Somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or else it was
that his cast of face made his smile look malignant and saturnine.
Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers
together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of
the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally
at England, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I
found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining these I
noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his
new estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the
Yorkshire coast.
It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. “Aha!”
he said; “still at your books? Good! But you must not work always.
Come; I am informed that your supper is ready.” He took my arm, and
we went into the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready
on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on
his being away from home. But he sat as on the previous night, and
chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last evening,
and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every
conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt that it was getting very
late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation to
meet my host’s wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep
yesterday had fortified me; but I could not help experiencing that
chill which comes over one at the coming of dawn, which is like, in its
way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are near death die
generally at the change to the dawn or at the turn of the tide; any
one who has, when tired, and tied as it were to his post, experienced
this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at once we heard
the crow of a cock coming up with preternatural shrillness through the
clear morning air; Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said:--
“Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so
long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of
England less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by
us,” and, with a courtly bow, he left me.
I went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little
to notice; my window opened into the courtyard; all I could see was
the warm grey quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have
written of this day.
_8 May._--I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting
too diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from the first,
for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that
I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had
never come. It may be that this strange night-existence is telling on
me; but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I
could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak
with, and he!--I fear I am myself the only living soul within the
place. Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to
bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am
lost. Let me say at once how I stand--or seem to.
I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could
not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window,
and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder,
and heard the Count’s voice saying to me, “Good morning.” I started,
for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the
glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself
slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the
Count’s salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been
mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to
me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection
of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed; but there
was no sign of a man in it, except myself. This was startling, and,
coming on the top of so many strange things, was beginning to increase
that vague feeling of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is
near; but at that instant I saw that the cut had bled a little, and the
blood was trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I
did so half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw
my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly
made a grab at my throat. I drew away, and his hand touched the string
of beads which held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for
the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever
there.
“Take care,” he said, “take care how you cut yourself. It is more
dangerous than you think in this country.” Then seizing the shaving
glass, he went on: “And this is the wretched thing that has done the
mischief. It is a foul bauble of man’s vanity. Away with it!” and
opening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung
out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones
of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very
annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case
or the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.
When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could
not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange
that as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very
peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle.
I went out on the stairs and found a room looking towards the south.
The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every
opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrible
precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet
without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of
green tree-tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm.
Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges
through the forests.
But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view
I explored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and
bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there
an available exit.
The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!
CHAPTER III.
/Jonathan Harker’s Journal/ (_continued_).
When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over
me. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out
of every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my
helplessness overpowered all other things. When I look back after a
few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much
as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me
that I was helpless I sat down quietly--as quietly as I have ever done
anything in my life--and began to think over what was best to be done.
I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of
one thing only am I certain: that it is no use making my ideas known
to the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done
it himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only
deceive me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see,
my only plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and
my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my
own fears, or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so,
I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through. I had hardly come
to this conclusion when I heard the great door below shut, and knew
that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into the library,
so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed.
This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along thought--that
there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him through the
chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the dining-room,
I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these menial offices,
surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them. This gave me
a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it must have been
the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that brought me here.
This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it mean that he could
control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand in silence.
How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the coach had some
terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the crucifix, of the
garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless that good, good
woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a comfort and a
strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing which I have
been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time
of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in
the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible
help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it
may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about
it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count Dracula, as
it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of himself, if I
turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to
awake his suspicion.
_Midnight._--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few
questions on Transylvanian history, and he warmed up to the subject
wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially
of battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he
afterwards explained by saying that to a _boyar_ the pride of his house
and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their
fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we,”
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could
put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most
fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He
grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great
white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as
though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I
shall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the story of
his race:--
“We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood
of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here,
in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from
Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their
Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe,
ay, and of Asia and Africa, too, till the peoples thought that the
were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found
the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame,
till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those
old witches, who, expelled from Scythia, had mated with the devils in
the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great
as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?” He held up his arms. “Is
it a wonder that we were a conquering race; that we were proud; that
when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured
his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that
when Arpad and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he
found us here when he reached the frontier; that the Honfoglalas was
completed there? And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the
Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us
for centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkey-land;
ay, and more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as
the Turks say, ‘water sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.’ Who more gladly
than we throughout the Four Nations received the ‘bloody sword,’ or at
its warlike call flocked quicker to the standard of the King? When was
redeemed that great shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the
flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent;
who was it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube
and beat the Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe
was it that his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his
people to the Turk and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it
not this Dracula, indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in
a later age again and again brought his forces over the great river
into Turkey-land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again,
and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where
his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could
ultimately triumph? They said that he thought only of himself. Bah!
what good are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without
a brain and heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of
Mohacs, we threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were
amongst their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not
free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys--and the Dracula as their heart’s
blood, their brains, and their swords--can boast a record that mushroom
growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The
warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a thing in these days of
dishonourable peace; and the glories of the great races are as a tale
that is told.”
It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (_Mem._ this
diary seems horribly like the beginning of the “Arabian Nights,” for
everything has to break off at cock-crow--or like the ghost of Hamlet’s
father.)
_12 May._--Let me begin with facts--bare, meagre facts, verified
by books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must
not confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own
observation or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came from
his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the
doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over
books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of the
matters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn. There was a certain
method in the Count’s inquires, so I shall try to put them down in
sequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.
First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors, or more.
I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not
be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as
only one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to
militate against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand, and
went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having one
man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, in
case local help were needed in a place far from the home of the banking
solicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so that I might not by
any chance mislead him, so he said:--
“I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from
under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far
from London, buys for me through your good self my place at London.
Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange
that I have sought the services of one so far off from London instead
of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest
might be served save my wish only; and as one of London resident might,
perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve I went thus
afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest.
Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to
Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it
could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?” I
answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors
had a system of agency one for the other, so that local work could be
done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so that the client,
simply placing himself in the hands of one man, could have his wishes
carried out by him without further trouble.
“But,” said he, “I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?”
“Of course,” I replied; “and such is often done by men of business, who
do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person.”
“Good!” he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making
consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of
difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded
against. I explained all these things to him to the best of my ability,
and he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made
a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of
or foresee. For a man who was never in the country, and who did not
evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen
were wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on these points of which
he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books
available, he suddenly stood up and said:--
“Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter
Hawkins, or to any other?” It was with some bitterness in my heart that
I answered that I had not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity
of sending letters to anybody.
“Then write now, my young friend,” he said, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder; “write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will
please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now.”
“Do you wish me to stay so long?” I asked, for my heart grew cold at
the thought.
“I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master,
employer, what you will, engaged that some one should come on his
behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I
have not stinted. Is it not so?”
What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins’s interest, not
mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count
Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing
which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it
I could have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his
mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them,
but in his own smooth, resistless way:--
“I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of
things other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please
your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to
getting home to them. Is it not so?” As he spoke he handed me three
sheets of notepaper and three envelopes. They were all of the thinnest
foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet
smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red under-lip, I
understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I
wrote, for he would be able to read it. So I determined to write only
formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also
to Mina, for to her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle
the Count, if he did see it. When I had written my two letters I sat
quiet, reading a book whilst the Count wrote several notes, referring
as he wrote them to some books on his table. Then he took up my two
and placed them with his own, and put by his writing materials, after
which, the instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over and
looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. I felt no
compunction in doing so, for under the circumstances I felt that I
should protect myself in every way I could.
One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The
Crescent, Whitby; another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to
Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth,
bankers, Buda-Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just
about to look at them when I saw the door-handle move. I sank back in
my seat, having just had time to replace the letters as they had been
and to resume my book before the Count, holding still another letter
in his hand, entered the room. He took up the letters on the table and
stamped them carefully, and then, turning to me, said:--
“I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private
this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish.” At the
door he turned, and after a moment’s pause said:--
“Let me advise you, my dear young friend--nay, let me warn you with
all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any
chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has
many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely.
Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do,
then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will
then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then”----He
finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands
as if he were washing them. I quite understood; my only doubt was as to
whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible
net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing round me.
_Later._--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no
doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is
not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed--I imagine that
my rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.
When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing
any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look
out towards the south. There was some sense of freedom in the vast
expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the narrow
darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was
indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though
it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence
tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and
am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is
ground for any terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over
the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was
almost as light as day. In the soft light the distant hills became
melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness.
The mere beauty seemed to cheer me; there was peace and comfort in
every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window my eye was caught by
something moving a storey below me, and somewhat to my left, where I
imagined, from the lie of the rooms, that the windows of the Count’s
own room would look out. The window at which I stood was tall and deep,
stone-mullioned, and though weather-worn, was still complete; but it
was evidently many a day since the case had been there. I drew back
behind the stonework, and looked carefully out.
What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window. I did not
see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his
back and arms. In any case, I could not mistake the hands which I had
had so many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and
somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest
and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed
to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from
the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful
abyss, _face down_, with his cloak spreading out around him like
great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was
some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept
looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp
the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of
years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards
with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.
What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering
me; I am in fear--in awful fear--and there is no escape for me; I am
encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of....
_15 May._--Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard
fashion. He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down,
and a good deal to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When
his head had disappeared I leaned out to try and see more, but without
avail--the distance was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. I
knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the opportunity
to explore more than I had dared to do as yet. I went back to the
room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were all locked
as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively new; but I went
down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I
found I could pull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great
chains; but the door was locked, and the key was gone! That key must
be in the Count’s room; I must watch should his door be unlocked, so
that I may get it and escape. I went on to make a thorough examination
of the various stairs and passages, and to try the doors that opened
from them. One or two small rooms near the hall were open, but there
was nothing to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and
moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at the top of a stairway
which, though it seemed to be locked, gave a little under pressure.
I tried it harder, and found that it was not really locked, but that
the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat,
and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which
I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and with many efforts
forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle
further to the right than the rooms I knew and a story lower down. From
the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south
of the castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and
south. On the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great
precipice. The castle was built on the corner of a great rock, so that
on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great windows were placed
here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently
light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be guarded,
were secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far
away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer
rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks
and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion
of the castle occupied in bygone days, for the furniture had more air
of comfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless, and the
yellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to
see even colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over
all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and the moth. My
lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I
was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the
place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was
better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the
presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I
found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak
table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much
thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my
diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It
is nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my
senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have powers of their own
which mere “modernity” cannot kill.
_Later: the Morning of 16 May._--God preserve my sanity, for to this I
am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past.
Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for: that I may
not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely
it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this
hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone
I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his
purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way
lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain things which
have puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant
when he made Hamlet say:--
“My tablets! quick, my tablets!
’Tis meet that I put it down,” etc.,
for now, feeling as though my own brain was unhinged or as if the shock
had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose.
The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.
The Count’s mysterious warning frightened me at the time; it frightens
me more now when I think of it, for in future he has a fearful hold
upon me. I shall fear to doubt what he may say!
When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book
and pen in my pocket, I felt sleepy. The Count’s warning came into my
mind, but I took a pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was
upon me, and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The
soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of
freedom which refreshed me. I determined not to return to-night to the
gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where of old ladies had sat and
sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for
their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a great
couch out of its place near the corner, so that, as I lay, I could look
at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring
for the dust, composed myself for sleep.
I suppose I must have fallen asleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all
that followed was startlingly real--so real that now, sitting here in
the broad, full sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe
that it was all sleep.
I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I
came into it; I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight,
my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of
dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by
their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming
when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw
no shadow on the floor. They came close to me and looked at me for some
time and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline
noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to
be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was
fair, as fair as can be, with great, wavy masses of golden hair and
eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to
know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect
at the moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth, that
shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was
something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same
time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that
they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this
down, lest some day it should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain;
but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all three
laughed--such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound
never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like
the intolerable, tingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on
by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the
other two urged her on. One said:--
“Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to
begin.” The other added:--
“He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.” I lay quiet,
looking out under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation.
The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement
of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent
the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter
underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly
under the lashes. The fair girl went on her knees and bent over me,
fairly gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both
thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually
licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the
moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped
the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went
below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my
throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her
tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath
on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh
does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer--nearer. I
could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the supersensitive
skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching
and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and
waited--waited with beating heart.
But at that instant another sensation swept through me as quick as
lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his
being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily
I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with
giant’s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the
white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with
passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even
in the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red
light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind
them. His face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like
drawn wires; the thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like
a heaving bar of white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he
hurled the woman from him, and then motioned to the others, as though
he were beating them back; it was the same imperious gesture that I
had seen used to the wolves. In a voice which, though low and almost a
whisper, seemed to cut through the air and then ring round the room, as
he said:--
“How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him
when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me!
Beware how you meddle with him, or you’ll have to deal with me.” The
fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:--
“You yourself never loved; you never love!” On this the other women
joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the
room that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure
of fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively,
and said in a soft whisper:--
“Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it
not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him, you shall
kiss him at your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work
to be done.”
“Are we to have nothing to-night?” said one of them, with a low laugh,
as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which
moved as though there were some living thing within it. For answer he
nodded his head. One of the women jumped forward and opened it. If
my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a
half-smothered child. The women closed round, whilst I was aghast with
horror; but as I looked they disappeared, and with them the dreadful
bag. There was no door near them, and they could not have passed me
without my noticing. They simply seemed to fade into the rays of the
moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could see outside the
dim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely faded away.
Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.
CHAPTER IV.
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL--_continued._
I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must
have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but
could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were
certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid
by in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound, and
I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to
bed, and many such details. But these things are no proof, for they may
have been evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause
or another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof.
Of one thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and
undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are
intact. I am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he
would not have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look
round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now
a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful
women, who were--who _are_--waiting to suck my blood.
_18 May._--I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for
I _must_ know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the
stairs, I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the
jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the
bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the
inside. I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.
_19 May._--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me
in the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work
here was nearly done and that I should start for home within a few
days, another that I was starting on the next morning from the time
of the letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived
at Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present
state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count
whilst I am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to
excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know
too much, and that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him; my
only chance is to prolong my opportunities. Something may occur which
will give me a chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that
gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from
him. He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my
writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends; and he assured
me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the later
letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in case
chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would
have been to create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in
with his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the letters.
He calculated a minute, and then said:--
“The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June
29.”
I know now the span of my life. God help me!
_28 May._--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able
to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are
encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of
them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though
allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands
of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law.
They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or _boyar_, and
call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion,
save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany
tongue.
I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them
posted. I have already spoken to them through my window to begin an
acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many
signs, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could
their spoken language....
I have written the letters. Mina’s is in shorthand, and I simply
ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my
situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would
shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her.
Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my
secret or the extent of my knowledge....
I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window
with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted.
The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then
put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study and
began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....
The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest
voice as he opened two letters:--
“The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they
come, I shall, of course, take care. See!”--he must have looked at
it--“one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other”--here
he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and
the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly--“the
other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It
is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us.” And he calmly held
letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.
Then he went on:--
“The letter to Hawkins--that I shall, of course, send on, since it is
yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that
unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?” He
held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean
envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When
he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute
later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.
When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his
coming wakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very
courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been
sleeping, he said:
“So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest.
I may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many
labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray.” I passed to my room and
went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has
its own calms.
_31 May._--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself
with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket,
so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity; but again a
surprise, again a shock!
Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact, all
that might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and
pondered a while, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made
search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my
clothes.
The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and
rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new
scheme of villainy....
_17 June._--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed
cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding
and scraping of horses’ feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard.
With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great
leiter-waggons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of
each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great, nail-studded belt, dirty
sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I
ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through
the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a
shock: my door was fastened on the outside.
Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me
stupidly and pointed, but just then the “hetman” of the Szgany came
out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which
they laughed. Henceforth, no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised
entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.
The leiter-waggons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick
rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks
handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When
they were all unloaded and backed in a great heap in one corner of the
yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on
it for luck, lazily went each to his horse’s head. Shortly afterwards I
heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.
_24 June, before morning._--Last night the Count left me early, and
locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared, I ran up the
winding stair, and looked out of the window which opened south. I
thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on.
The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle, and are doing work of
some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away, muffled sound
as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be to the end of
some ruthless villainy.
I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw
something coming out of the Count’s window. I drew back and watched
carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me
to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst
travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I
had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest,
and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he
will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave
evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own
letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local
people be attributed to me.
It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut
up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law
which is even a criminal’s right and consolation.
I thought I would watch for the Count’s return, and for a long time sat
doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some
quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were
like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered
in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense
of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the
embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more
fully the aerial gambolling.
Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere
far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it
seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new
shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself
struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul
was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to
answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced
the dust, and the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into
the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed
to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full
possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom
shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams,
were those of the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and
felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and
where the lamp was burning brightly.
When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the
Count’s room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and
then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With
a beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and
could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.
As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without--the agonised cry of
a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between
the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her
hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning
against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she
threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:--
“Monster, give me my child!”
She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the
same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair
and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of
extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I
could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against
the door.
Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of
the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to
be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many
minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when
liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.
There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but
short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.
I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and
she was better dead.
What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful
thrall of night and gloom and fear?
_25 June, morning._--No man knows till he has suffered from the night
how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When
the sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great
gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to
me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me
as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I
must take action of some sort while the courage of the day is upon me.
Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that
fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from
the earth.
Let me not think of it. Action!
It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or
threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen
the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake,
that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his
room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way
for me.
Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone
why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his
window; why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The
chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall
risk it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man’s death is not a
calf’s, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me
in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and
second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!
_Same day, later._--I have made the effort, and, God helping me, have
come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order.
I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south
side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs
round the building on this side. The stones were big and roughly cut,
and the mortar had by process of time been washed away between them.
I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked
down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth
would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I
knew pretty well the direction and distance of the Count’s window, and
made for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities
available. I did not feel dizzy--I suppose I was too excited--and
the time seemed ridiculously short till I found myself standing on
the windowsill and trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with
agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet foremost in through
the window. Then I looked round for the Count, but, with surprise and
gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely furnished
with odd things, which seemed to have never been used; the furniture
was something the same style as that in the south rooms, and was
covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in the lock,
and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found was a great
heap of gold in one corner--gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and
Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a
film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that
I noticed was less than three hundred years old. There were also chains
and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and stained.
At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I
could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which
was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or
all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone
passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended,
minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only
lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark,
tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the
odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the
smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door
which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had
evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two
places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been
dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those
which had been brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I
made search for any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went
over every inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down
even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so
was dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing
except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third,
however, I made a discovery.
There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on
a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep,
I could not say which--for the eyes were open and stony, but without
the glassiness of death--and the cheeks had the warmth of life through
all their pallor, and the lips were as red as ever. But there was no
sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent
over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not
have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in
a few hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes
here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I
went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were,
such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that
I fled from the place, and leaving the Count’s room by the window,
crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my own chamber, I threw
myself panting upon the bed and tried to think....
_29 June._--To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has
taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave
the castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the
wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that
I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man’s
hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return,
for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library,
and read there till I fell asleep.
I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can
look as he said:--
“To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful
England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never
meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be
here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come
the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come
some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and
shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina
to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle
Dracula.” I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.
Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in
connection with such a monster, so I asked him point-blank:--
“Why may I not go to-night?”
“Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission.”
“But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once.” He
smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was
some trick behind his smoothness. He said:--
“And your baggage?”
“I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time.”
The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub
my eyes, it seemed so real:--
“You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit
is that which rules our _boyars_: ‘Welcome the coming, speed the
parting guest.’ Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall
you wait in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going,
and that you so suddenly desire it. Come!” With a stately gravity, he,
with the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly
he stopped.
“Hark!”
Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the
sound sprang up at the raising of his hand, just as the music of a
great orchestra seems to leap under the baton of the conductor. After a
pause of a moment, he proceeded in his stately way, to the door, drew
back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw
it open.
To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously I
looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.
As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew
louder and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their
blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I
knew that to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With
such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the
door continued slowly to open, and only the Count’s body stood in the
gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and the means
of my doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation.
There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the
Count, and as a last chance I cried out:--
“Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!” and covered my face with
my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of
his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts
clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their
places.
In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went
to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his
hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile
that Judas in hell might be proud of.
When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a
whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears
deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:--
“Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait. Have
patience. To-morrow night, to-morrow night, is yours!” There was a low,
sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw
without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they
all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.
I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. Is it then so near
the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am
dear!
_30 June, morning._--These may be the last words I ever write in this
diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself
on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me
ready.
At last I felt that subtle change in the air and knew that the morning
had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe.
With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down the hall. I had seen
that the door was unlocked and now escape was before me. With hands
that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the
massive bolts.
But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled and pulled
at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its
casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left
the Count.
Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I
determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count’s
room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of
evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window and scrambled
down the wall, as before, into the Count’s room. It was empty, but
that was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap
of gold remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the
winding stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now
well enough where to find the monster I sought.
The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the
lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in
their places to be hammered home. I knew I must search the body for
the key, so I raised the lid and laid it back against the wall; and
then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay
the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half-renewed, for the
white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks
were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth
was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which
trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck.
Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the
lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole
awful creature were simply gorged with blood; he lay like a filthy
leech, exhausted with his repletion. I shuddered as I bent over to
touch him, and every sense in me revolted at the contact; but I had
to search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own body a
banquet in a similar way to those horrid three. I felt all over the
body, but no sign could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked
at the Count. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which
seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer
to London, where, perhaps for centuries to come, he might, amongst its
teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever
widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. The very
thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world
of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a
shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting
it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I
did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their
blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse me, and the
shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a
deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the
box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge
of the lid, which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my
sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained
and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the
nethermost hell.
I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed
on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As
I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices
coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and
the cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count
had spoken were coming. With a last look round and at the box which
contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count’s
room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened.
With strained ears I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of
the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.
There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key
for one of the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet
tramping and dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo.
I turned to run down again towards the vault, where I might find the
new entrance; but at that moment there seemed to come a violent puff of
wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set
the dust from the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found
that it was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of
doom was closing round me more closely.
As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet
and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes,
with their freight of earth. There is a sound of hammering; it is the
box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again
along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.
The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key
in the lock; I can hear the key withdrawn; then another door opens and
shuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.
Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels,
the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the
distance.
I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a
woman, and there is naught in common. They are devils of the Pit!
I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle
wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold
with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful
place.
And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away
from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his
children still walk with earthly feet!
At least God’s mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep--as a man.
Good-bye, all! Mina!
CHAPTER V.
_Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra._
“_9 May._
“My dearest Lucy,--
“Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed
with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes
trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can
walk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have been
working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan’s
studies, and I have been practising shorthand very assiduously. When
we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can
stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this
way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which I am also
practising very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand,
and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I
am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don’t mean one of
those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries,
but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I
do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it
is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there
is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book.
I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and
writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told
that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that
one hears said during a day. However, we shall see. I shall tell you
all my little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines
from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in
about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to
see strange countries, I wonder if we--I mean Jonathan and I--shall
ever see them together. There is the ten o’clock bell ringing. Goodbye.
“Your loving
“/Mina./
“Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything
for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome,
curly-haired man???”
_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray._
“_17, Chatham Street,
“Wednesday._
“My dearest Mina,--
“I must say you tax me _very_ unfairly with being a bad correspondent.
I wrote to you _twice_ since we parted, and your last letter was only
your _second_. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really
nothing to interest you. Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a
good deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park.
As to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was
with me at the last Pop. Some one has evidently been telling tales.
That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma
get on very well together; they have so many things to talk about in
common. We met some time ago a man that would just _do for you_, if
you were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent _parti_,
being handsome, well off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really
clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense
lunatic asylum all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to
me, and he called here to see us, and often comes now. I think he is
one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He
seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what a wonderful power he
must have over his patients. He has a curious habit of looking one
straight in the face, as if trying to read one’s thoughts. He tries
this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough
nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do you ever try to read your
own face? _I do_, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives
you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it.
He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly
think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to
be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang
again, but never mind; Arthur says that every day. There, it is all
out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we were
_children_; we have slept together and eaten together; and laughed
and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like to
speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn’t you guess? I love him. I am blushing
as I write, for although I _think_ he loves me, he has not told me so
in words. But, oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There,
that does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire
undressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel.
I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop,
or I should tear up the letter, and I don’t want to stop, for I _do so_
want to tell you all. Let me hear from you _at once_, and tell me all
that you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in
your prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.
“/Lucy./
“P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.
“L.”
_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray._
“24 _May._
“My dearest Mina,--
“Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter! It was so
nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.
“My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are.
Here am I, who will be twenty in September, and yet I never had a
proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three.
Just fancy! /Three/ proposals in one day! Isn’t it awful! I feel sorry,
really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so
happy that I don’t know what to do with myself. And three proposals!
But, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the girls, or they would be
getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured
and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at
least. Some girls are so vain. You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged
and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can
despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must
keep it a secret, dear, from _every one_, except, of course, Jonathan.
You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly
tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything--don’t you
think so, dear?--and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their
wives, to be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are
not always quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number
one came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the
lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was
very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently
been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered
them; but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men
don’t generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to
appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me
nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told
me how dear I was to him, though he had known me so little, and what
his life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was going to tell
me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw
me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my present
trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time; and
when I shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation
he asked me if I cared already for any one else. He put it very nicely,
saying that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to
know, because if a woman’s heart was free a man might have hope. And
then, Mina, I felt it a sort of duty to tell him that there was some
one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked
very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he
hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever wanted a friend I must count
him one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can’t help crying; and you must
excuse this letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very
nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn’t at all a happy thing when
you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going
away and looking all broken-hearted, and to know that, no matter what
he may say at the moment, you are passing quite out of his life. My
dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am so
happy.
“_Evening._
“Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left
off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number
two came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas,
and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that
he has been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise
with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her
ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards
that we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know
now what I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love
me. No, I don’t, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and
Arthur never told any, and yet----My dear, I am somewhat previous.
Mr. Quincey P. Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does
find a girl alone. No, he doesn’t, for Arthur tried twice to _make_
a chance, and I helping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it
now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn’t always speak
slang--that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them,
for he is really well educated and has exquisite manners--but he found
out that it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I
was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny
things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits
exactly into whatever else he has to say. But this is a way slang has.
I do not know myself if I shall ever speak slang; I do not know if
Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr.
Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he could,
but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He took my hand
in his, and said ever so sweetly:--
“‘Miss Lucy, I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the fixin’s of your
little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you
will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won’t
you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road
together driving in double harness?’
“Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn’t seem
half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward, so I said, as
lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that
I wasn’t broken to harness at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken
in a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing
so on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive him.
He really did look serious when he was saying it, and I couldn’t help
feeling a bit serious, too--I know, Mina, you will think me a horrid
flirt--though I couldn’t help feeling a sort of exultation that he was
number two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word he
began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very
heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall
never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest,
because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face
which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of
manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:--
“‘Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here
speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right
through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow
to another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is,
I’ll never trouble you a hair’s breadth again, but will be, if you will
let me, a very faithful friend.’
“My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy
of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true
gentleman. I burst into tears--I am afraid, my dear, you will think
this is a very sloppy letter in more ways than one--and I really felt
very badly. Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as
want her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not
say it. I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to look
into Mr. Morris’s brave eyes, and I told him out straight:--
“‘Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that
he even loves me.’ I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite
a light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took
mine--I think I put them into his--and said in a hearty way:--
“‘That’s my brave girl. It’s better worth being late for a chance of
winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don’t
cry, my dear. If it’s for me, I’m a hard nut to crack; and I take it
standing up. If that other fellow doesn’t know his happiness, well,
he’d better look for it soon, or he’ll have to deal with me. Little
girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that’s rarer
than a lover; it’s more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I’m going to have
a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won’t you give me
one kiss? It’ll be something to keep off the darkness now and then.
You can, you know, if you like, for that other good fellow--he must
be a good fellow, my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love
him--hasn’t spoken yet.’ That quite won me, Mina, for it _was_ brave
and sweet of him, and noble, too, to a rival--wasn’t it?--and he so
sad; so I leant over and kissed him. He stood up with my two hands in
his, and as he looked down into my face--I am afraid I was blushing
very much--he said:--
“‘Little girl, I hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if these
things don’t make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your
sweet honesty to me, and good-bye.’ He wrung my hand, and taking up
his hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a
tear or a quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must
a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who
would worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were
free--only I don’t want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I
feel I cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it;
and I don’t wish to tell of the number three till it can all be happy.
“Ever your loving
“/Lucy./
“P.S.--Oh, about number three--I needn’t tell you of number three,
need I? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from
his coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was
kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don’t know what I have done
to deserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not
ungrateful for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a lover,
such a husband, and such a friend.
“Good-bye.”
_Dr. Seward’s Diary._
(Kept in phonograph.)
_25 May._--Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so
diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty
feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be
worth the doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing
was work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has
afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint in his ideas, and
so unlike the normal lunatic, that I have determined to understand him
as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get nearer than ever before to the
heart of his mystery.
I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to
making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner
of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to
wish to keep him to the point of his madness--a thing which I avoid
with the patients as I would the mouth of hell. (_Mem._, under what
circumstances would I _not_ avoid the pit of hell?) _Omnia Romae
vernalia sunt._ Hell has its price! _verb. sap._ If there be anything
behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards
_accurately_, so I had better commence to do so, therefore--
R. M. Renfield, ætat 59.--Sanguine temperament; great physical
strength; morbidly excitable; periods of gloom ending in some fixed
idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament
itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished
finish; a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish.
In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for
themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed
point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal: when
duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount,
and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.
_Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._
“_25 May._
“My dear Art,--
“We’ve told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one
another’s wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk
healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and
other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won’t you let
this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking
you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and
that you are free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the
Korea, Jack Seward. He’s coming, too, and we both want to mingle our
weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to
the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart
that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty
welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right
hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to
a certain pair of eyes. Come!
“Yours, as ever and always,
“/Quincey P. Morris./”
_Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris._
“_26 May._
“Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears
tingle.
“/Art./”
CHAPTER VI.
/Mina Murray’s Journal./
_24 July. Whitby._--Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the
Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near
the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through
which the view seems, somehow, farther away than it really is. The
valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on
the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you are
near enough to see down. The houses of the old town--the side away from
us--are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow,
like the pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin
of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene
of part of “Marmion,” where the girl was built up in the wall. It is a
most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic
bits; there is a legend that a white lady is seen in one of the
windows. Between it and the town there is another church, the parish
one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is,
to my mind, the nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over the
town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to where
the headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It descends
so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away,
and some of the graves have been destroyed. In one place part of the
stonework of the graves stretches out over the sandy pathway far below.
There are walks, with seats beside them, through the churchyard; and
people go and sit there all day long looking at the beautiful view and
enjoying the breeze. I shall come and sit here very often myself and
work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening
to the talk of three old men who are sitting beside me. They seem to
do nothing all day but sit up here and talk.
The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall
stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it,
in the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs along
outside of it. On the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow crooked
inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two piers
there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens.
It is nice at high tide; but when the tide is out it shoals away to
nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between
banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this
side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp edge of
which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of
it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a
mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is
lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this; he
is coming this way....
He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all
gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is
nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing
fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical
person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady
at the abbey he said very brusquely:--
“I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss. Them things be all wore out.
Mind, I don’t say they never was, but I do say that they wasn’t in
my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers an’ the like,
but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York
and Leeds that be always eatin’ cured herrin’s an’ drinkin’ tea an’
lookin’ out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel’ who’d
be bothered tellin’ lies to them--even the newspapers, which is full of
fool-talk.” I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting
things from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something
about whale-fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to
begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and
said:--
“I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My granddaughter doesn’t like
to be kept waitin’ when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to
crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of ’em; an’, miss, I lack
belly-timber sairly by the clock.”
He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could,
down the steps. The steps are a great feature of the place. They lead
from the town up to the church; there are hundreds of them--I do not
know how many--and they wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so
gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they
must originally have had something to do with the Abbey. I shall go
home too. Lucy went out visiting with her mother, and as they were only
duty calls, I did not go. They will be home by this.
_1 August._--I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come
and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should
think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not
admit anything, and downfaces everybody. If he can’t out-argue them
he bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement with his
views. Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has
got a beautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old
men did not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat
down. She is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love
with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict
her, but gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the
legends, and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to
remember it and put it down:--
“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be, an’
nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ bar-guests and
bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women
a-belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs! They, an’ all grims an’ signs
an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome beuk-bodies an’
railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to
do somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful to
think o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content with printin’ lies on
paper an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them
on the tombsteans. Look here all round you in what airt ye will; all
them steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out of their
pride, is acant--simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote
on them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all
of them, an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all;
an’ the memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less
sacred. Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or another! My
gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment, when they
come tumblin’ up here in their death-sarks, all jouped together an’
tryin’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was;
some of them trimmlin’ and ditherin’, with their hands that dozzened
an’ slippy from lyin’ in the sea that they can’t even keep their grup
o’ them.”
I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in
which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was
“showing off,” so I put in a word to keep him going:--
“Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not
all wrong?”
“Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make
out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl
be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only
lies. Now look you here; you come here a stranger, an’ you see this
kirk-garth.” I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did
not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with
the church. He went on: “And you consate that all these steans be aboon
folk that be happed here, snod an’ snog?” I assented again. “Then that
be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds
that be toom as old Dun’s ’bacca-box on Friday night.” He nudged one of
his companions, and they all laughed. “And my gog! how could they be
otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank; read it!”
I went over and read:--
“Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast
of Andres, April, 1854, æt. 30.” When I came back Mr. Swales went
on:--
“Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the
coast of Andres! an’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name
ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above”--he pointed
northwards--“or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the
steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of
the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey--I knew his father, lost
in the _Lively_ off Greenland in ’20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in
the same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year
later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned
in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men will have
to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums
aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ an’
jostlin’ one another that way that it ’ud be like a fight up on the ice
in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’
tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.” This
was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and
his cronies joined in with gusto.
“But,” I said, “surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the
assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to
take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think
that will be really necessary?”
“Well, what else be they tombsteans for? Answer me that, miss!”
“To please their relatives, I suppose.”
“To please their relatives, you suppose!” This he said with intense
scorn. “How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote
over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?” He
pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on
which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. “Read the
lines on that thruffstean,” he said. The letters were upside down to me
from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over
and read:--
“Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a
glorious resurrection, on July 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at
Kettleness. This tomb is erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly
beloved son. ‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’
Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!” She spoke
her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
“Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that’s because ye don’t gawm
the sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was
acrewk’d--a regular lamiter he was--an’ he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she put
on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket
that they had for scarin’ the crows with. ’Twarn’t for crows then, for
it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off
the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often
heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was
so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to
addle where she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate”--he hammered it
with his stick as he spoke--“a pack of lies? and won’t it make Gabriel
keckle when Geordie comes pantin’ up the grees with the tombstean
balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!”
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she
said, rising up:--
“Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot
leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a
suicide.”
“That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome
to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why,
I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t
done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that
doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when
ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a
stubble-field. There’s the clock, an’ I must gang. My service to ye,
ladies!” And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we
took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and
their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I
haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.
* * * * *
_The same day._--I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no
letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan.
The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the
town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly;
they run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my
left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next
the Abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind
me, and there is a clatter of a donkey’s hoofs up the paved road below.
The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and farther
along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street.
Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them
both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he
were here.
_Dr. Seward’s Diary._
_5 June._--The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get
to understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed:
selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at what is the
object of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme of his
own, but what it is I do not yet know. His redeeming quality is a
love of animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that
I sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd
sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a
quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he
did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in
simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: “May I have
three days? I shall clear them away.” Of course, I said that would do. I
must watch him.
_18 June._--He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several
very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and the
number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has
used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room.
_1 July._--His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked
very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at
all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same
time as before for reduction. He disgusted me much while with him, for
when a horrid blowfly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the
room, he caught it, held it exultingly for a few moments between his
finger and thumb, and, before I knew what he was going to do, put it in
his mouth and ate it. I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that
it was very good and very wholesome; that it was life, strong life,
and gave life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I
must watch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep
problem in his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he is
always jotting down something. Whole pages of it are filled with masses
of figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then the
totals added in batches again, as though he was “focusing” some account,
as the auditors put it.
_8 July._--There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary
idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then,
oh, unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your
conscious brother. I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that
I might notice if there were any change. Things remained as they were
except that he has parted with some of his pets and got a new one. He
has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His
means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminished.
Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the
flies by tempting them with his food.
_19 July._--We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of
sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I came
in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour--a very,
very great favour; and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. I asked
him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and
bearing:--
“A kitten, a nice little, sleek, playful kitten, that I can play with,
and teach, and feed--and feed--and feed!” I was not unprepared for this
request, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and
vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows
should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so
I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a
cat than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:--
“Oh, yes I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should
refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?” I shook
my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible, but
that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of
danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant
killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him
with his present craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know
more.
_10 p.m._--I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner
brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and
implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it.
I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon
he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner
where I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.
_20 July._--Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant went his
rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his sugar,
which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his
fly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. I
looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they
were. He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away.
There were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of
blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if
there were anything odd about him during the day.
_11 a.m._--The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has
been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. “My belief is,
doctor,” he said, “that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took
and ate them raw!”
_11 p.m._--I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night; enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The
thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and
the theory proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall
have to invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous
(life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he
can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He
gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then
wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later
steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It
might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why not advance science
in its most difficult and vital aspect--the knowledge of the brain? Had
I even the secret of one such mind--did I hold the key to the fancy of
even one lunatic--I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch
compared with which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s brain
knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause! I
must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good cause might
turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain,
congenitally?
How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope.
I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has
closed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How
many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope,
and that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great
Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to
profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be
angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on
hopeless and work. Work! work!
If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a
good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness.
/Mina Murray’s Journal./
_26 July._--I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here;
it is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same time.
And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it
different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I
had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but
yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter
from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the
enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle
Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like
Jonathan; I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too,
Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of
walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we
have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs.
Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of
houses and along the edges of cliffs, and then get suddenly awakened
and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place.
Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that
her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same habit; that he would get up in
the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy
is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out her
dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for
I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple
way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood--he is
the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming--is coming up here
very shortly--as soon as he can leave town, for his father is not very
well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes. She
wants to take him up to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him
the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her;
she will be all right when he arrives.
_27 July._--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about
him, though why I should I do not know; but I _do_ wish that he would
write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and
each night I am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the
weather is so hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and
the perpetually being awakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am
getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up.
Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has
been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him,
but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks
are a lovely rose pink. She has lost that anæmic look which she had. I
pray it will all last.
_3 August._--Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even
to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill.
He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it
is his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked much
in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about her
which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching
me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room
searching for the key.
_6 August._--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should
feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last
letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable
than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and
learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is
hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey--except
the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock;
grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The
sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,
muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey
mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and
there is a “brool” over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom.
Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded
in the mist, and seem “men like trees walking.” The fishing-boats are
racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into
the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is
making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that
he wants to talk....
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat
down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:--
“I want to say something to you, miss.” I could see he was not at ease,
so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak
fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:--
“I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked
things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such-like, for weeks past;
but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I’ve gone.
We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal,
don’t altogether like to think of it, and we don’t want to feel scart of
it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up
my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’,
not a bit; only I don’t want to die if I can help it. My time must be
nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any
man to expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’
his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it
all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the
Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’
greet, my deary!”--for he saw that I was crying--“if he should come this
very night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all,
only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be
all that we can rightly depend on. But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to
me, my deary, and comin’ quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’
and wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’
with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!”
he cried suddenly. “There’s something in that wind and in the hoast
beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s
in the air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call
comes!” He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth
moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes’ silence, he got
up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled
off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.
“I can’t make her out,” he said; “she’s a Russian, by the look of her;
but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t know her mind
a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t decide whether to
run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is
steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind the hand on the wheel;
changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll hear more of her before
this time to-morrow.”
CHAPTER VII.
/Cutting from “The Dailygraph,” 8 August./
(_Pasted in Mina Murray’s Journal._)
From a Correspondent.
_Whitby._
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had
been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of
August. Saturday evening was as fine as ever was known, and the great
body of holiday-makers set out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods,
Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips
in the neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers _Emma_ and _Scarborough_
made excursions along the coast, and there was an unusual amount of
“tripping” both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till
the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff
churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of
sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show
of “mares’-tails” high in the sky to the north-west. The wind was then
blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked “No. 2: light breeze.” The coastguard on duty at once
made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century
has kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an
emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was
so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds,
that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the
old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the
black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour--flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here
and there masses not large, but seemingly of absolute blackness, in
all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The
experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the
sketches of the “Prelude to the Great Storm” will grace the R.A. and
R.I. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then
and there that his “cobble” or his “mule,” as they term the different
classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.
The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there
was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on
the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There
were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,
which usually “hug” the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but
few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign
schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The
foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for
comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal
her to reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she
was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating
swell of the sea,
“As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”
Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep
inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and
the band on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a discord
in the great harmony of nature’s silence. A little after midnight came
a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to
carry a strange, faint hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the
time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realise,
the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in
growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes
the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster.
White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the
shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume
swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of
either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew
with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept
their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was
found necessary to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers,
or else the fatalities of the night would have been increased manifold.
To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog
came drifting inland--white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly
fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort
of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were
touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and
many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times
the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the
glare of the lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such
sudden peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling
under the shock of the footsteps of the storm. Some of the scenes thus
revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of absorbing interest--the
sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty
masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl
away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with a rag of sail,
running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again the white
wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East Cliff the
new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried.
The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the
pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once
or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat, with
gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of
the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers.
As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy
from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to
cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush. Before long the
searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner with all sails
set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in the
evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realised the terrible
danger in which she now was. Between her and the port lay the great
flat reef on which so many good ships have from time to time suffered,
and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite
impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the harbour. It was
now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in
their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible, and the
schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the
words of one old salt, “she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in
hell.” Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto--a
mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like a grey
pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing, for the roar
of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the booming of the
mighty bellows came through the damp oblivion even louder than before.
The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across
the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the
sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, _mirabile dictu_, between the
piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept
the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained
the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder
ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with
drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the
ship. No other form could be seen on deck at all. A great awe came on
all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the
harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However, all took
place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner
paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that
accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms
into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East Cliff,
known locally as Tate Hill Pier.
There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up
on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of
the “top-hamper” came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very
instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from
below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from
the bow on to the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the
churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some
of the flat tombstones--“thruff-steans” or “through-stones,” as they
call them in the Whitby vernacular--actually project over where the
sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which
seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.
It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier,
as all those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed
or were out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the
eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier,
was the first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after
scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then
turned the light on the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran
aft, and when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it and
recoiled at once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to
pique the general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run.
It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate
Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well
ahead of the crowd. When I arrived, however, I found already assembled
on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to
come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boat-man, I was, as your
correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small group
who saw that dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for
not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened
by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between
the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which
it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast
by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one
time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through
the rudder of the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords
with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was
made of the state of things, and a doctor--Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of
33, East Elliot Place--who came immediately after me, declared, after
making examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two
days. In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a
little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The
coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the
knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board
may save some complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for the
coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first
civilian entering on a derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are
wagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the rights
of the owner are already completely sacrificed, his property being held
in contravention of the statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as
emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a _dead
hand_. It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently
removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till
death--a steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca--and
placed in the mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating; the
crowds are scattering homewards, and the sky is beginning to redden over
the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further
details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into
harbour in the storm.
_Whitby._
_9 August._--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the
storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It
turns out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called
the _Demeter_. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with
only a small amount of cargo--a number of great wooden boxes filled
with mould. This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.
F. Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and
formally took possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian
consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of
the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here
to-day except the strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of
Trade have been most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been
made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a “nine days’
wonder,” they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of
after complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog
which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members
of the S.P.C.A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend
the animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be
found; it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be
that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is
still hiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a
possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it
is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred
mastiff, belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found
dead in the roadway opposite its master’s yard. It had been fighting,
and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,
and its belly slit open as if with a savage claw.
_Later._--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been
permitted to look over the log-book of the _Demeter_, which was in order
up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest
except as to facts of missing men. The greater interest, however, is
with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced
at the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them
unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive
for concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send
you a rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and
supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this
had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement
must be taken _cum grano_, since I am writing from the dictation of a
clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being
short.
/Log of the “Demeter.”/
_Varna to Whitby._
_Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep
accurate note henceforth till we land._
On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth.
At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands, ... two mates,
cook, and myself (captain).
On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs
officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p.m.
On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of
guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but
quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.
On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something.
Seemed scared, but would not speak out.
On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who
sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only
told him there was _something_, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper
with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but
all was quiet.
On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky,
was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells
last night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but
would not say more than that there was _something_ aboard. Mate getting
very impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.
On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in
an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man
aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind
the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man,
who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way, and go
along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when
he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was
in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread.
To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from stem to
stern.
Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they
evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we should search from
stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such
foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep
them out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while
the rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns;
we left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes,
there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when
search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but
said nothing.
_22 July._--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with
sails--no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread.
Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad
weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.
_24 July._--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short,
and entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last
night another man lost--disappeared. Like the first, he came off his
watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round
robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate
violent. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will
do some violence.
_28 July._--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom,
and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out.
Hardly know how to set a watch since no one fit to go on. Second mate
volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours’ sleep.
Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is
steadier.
_29 July._--Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too
tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one
except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search,
but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate
and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.
_30 July._--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine,
all sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling
me that both men on watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and
two hands left to work ship.
_1 August._--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in
the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere.
Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower,
as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible
doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of them. His stronger
nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond
fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They
are Russian, he Roumanian.
_2 August, midnight._--Woke up from few minutes’ sleep by hearing a cry,
seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck,
and ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on
watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits
of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as
he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and
only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God
seems to have deserted us.
_3 August._--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, but
when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran
before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for
the mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given
way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my
ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: “_It_ is here; I know
it, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin,
and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the
air.” And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into
space. Then he went on: “But It is here, and I’ll find it. It is in the
hold, perhaps, in one of those boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one and
see. You work the helm.” And, with a warning look and his finger on his
lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could
not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest
and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark,
raving mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt those
big boxes: they are invoiced as “clay,” and to pull them about is as
harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and
write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears.
Then, if I can’t steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut
down sails and lie by, and signal for help....
It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate
would come out calmer--for I heard him knocking away at something in the
hold, and work is good for him--there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he
came as if shot from a gun--a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and
his face convulsed with fear. “Save me! save me!” he cried, and then
looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and
in a steady voice he said: “You had better come too, captain, before it
is too late. _He_ is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me
from Him, and it is all that is left!” Before I could say a word, or
move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately
threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It
was this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has
followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these
horrors when I get to port? _When_ I get to port! Will that ever be?
_4 August._--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there
is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go
below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in
the dimness of the night I saw It--Him! God forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It is better to die like a man; to die like a
sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not
leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall
tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along
with them I shall tie that which He--It!--dare not touch; and then, come
good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I
am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the
face again, I may not have time to act.... If we are wrecked, mayhap
this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not,
... well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God
and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying
to do his duty....
Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;
and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now
none to say. The folk hold almost universally here that the captain
is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it
is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the
Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the
Abbey steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The
owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as
wishing to follow him to the grave.
No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much
mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I
believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so
will end this one more “mystery of the sea.”
/Mina Murray’s Journal./
_8 August._--Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could
not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to
be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got
up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time,
and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed.
It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her
will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,
disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her
life.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see
if anything had happened in the night
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/45839