DRACULA
PART
19
CHAPTER
XIX
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
1
October, 5 a. m.—I went with the
party to the search with an easy mind, for I think I never saw Mina so
absolutely strong and well. I am so glad that she consented to hold back and
let us men do the work. Somehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this
fearful business at all; but now that her work is done, and that it is due to
her energy and brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in
such a way that every point tells, she may well feel that her part is finished,
and that she can henceforth leave the rest to us. We were, I think, all a
little upset by the scene with Mr. Renfield. When we came away from his room we
were silent till we got back to the study. Then Mr. Morris said to Dr. Seward:—
“Say,
Jack, if that man wasn’t attempting a bluff, he is about the sanest lunatic I
ever saw. I’m not sure, but I believe that he had some serious purpose, and if
he had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a chance.” Lord Godalming and I
were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added:—
“Friend
John, you know more of lunatics than I do, and I’m glad of it, for I fear that
if it had been to me to decide I would before that last hysterical outburst
have given him free. But we live and learn, and in our present task we must
take no chance, as my friend Quincey would say. All is best as they are.” Dr.
Seward seemed to answer them both in a dreamy kind of way:—
“I don’t
know but that I agree with you. If that man had been an ordinary lunatic I
would have taken my chance of trusting him; but he seems so mixed up with the
Count in an indexy kind of way that I am afraid of doing anything wrong by
helping his fads. I can’t forget how he prayed with almost equal fervour for a
cat, and then tried to tear my throat out with his teeth. Besides, he called
the Count ‘lord and master,’ and he may want to get out to help him in some
diabolical way. That horrid thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind
to help him, so I suppose he isn’t above trying to use a respectable lunatic.
He certainly did seem earnest, though. I only hope we have done what is best.
These things, in conjunction with the wild work we have in hand, help to
unnerve a man.” The Professor stepped over, and laying
his hand on his shoulder, said in his grave, kindly way:—
“Friend
John, have no fear. We are trying to do our duty in a very sad and terrible
case; we can only do as we deem best. What else have we to hope for, except the
pity of the good God?” Lord Godalming had slipped away for a few minutes, but
now he returned. He held up a little silver whistle, as he remarked:—
“That old
place may be full of rats, and if so, I’ve got an antidote on call.” Having
passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care to keep in the
shadows of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone out. When we got to
the porch the Professor opened his bag and took out a lot of things, which he
laid on the step, sorting them into four little groups, evidently one for each.
Then he spoke:—
“My
friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of many kinds.
Our enemy is not merely spiritual. Remember that he has the strength of twenty
men, and that, though our necks or our windpipes are of the common kind—and
therefore breakable or crushable—his are not amenable to mere strength. A
stronger man, or a body of men more strong in all than him, can at certain
times hold him; but they cannot hurt him as we can be hurt by him. We must,
therefore, guard ourselves from his touch. Keep this near your heart”—as he spoke
he lifted a little silver crucifix and held it out to me, I being nearest to
him—“put these flowers round your neck”—here he handed to me a wreath of
withered garlic blossoms—“for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and
this knife; and for aid in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can
fasten to your breast; and for all, and above all at the last, this, which we
must not desecrate needless.” This was a portion of Sacred Wafer, which he put
in an envelope and handed to me. Each of the others was similarly equipped.
“Now,” he said, “friend John, where are the skeleton keys? If so that we can
open the door, we need not break house by the window, as before at Miss
Lucy’s.”
Dr. Seward
tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as a surgeon standing
him in good stead. Presently he got one to suit; after a little play back and
forward the bolt yielded, and, with a rusty clang, shot back. We pressed on the
door, the rusty hinges creaked, and it slowly opened. It was startlingly like
the image conveyed to me in Dr. Seward’s diary of the opening of Miss
Westenra’s tomb; I fancy that the same idea seemed to
strike the others, for with one accord they shrank back. The Professor was the
first to move forward, and stepped into the open door.
“In
manus tuas, Domine!” he said, crossing himself as he passed over the
threshold. We closed the door behind us, lest when we should have lit our lamps
we should possibly attract attention from the road. The Professor carefully
tried the lock, lest we might not be able to open it from within should we be
in a hurry making our exit. Then we all lit our lamps and proceeded on our
search.
The light
from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the rays crossed each
other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great shadows. I could not for my
life get away from the feeling that there was some one else amongst us. I
suppose it was the recollection, so powerfully brought home to me by the grim
surroundings, of that terrible experience in Transylvania. I think the feeling
was common to us all, for I noticed that the others kept looking over their
shoulders at every sound and every new shadow, just as I felt myself doing.
The whole
place was thick with dust. The floor was seemingly inches deep, except where
there were recent footsteps, in which on holding down my lamp I could see marks
of hobnails where the dust was cracked. The walls were fluffy and heavy with
dust, and in the corners were masses of spider’s webs, whereon the dust had
gathered till they looked like old tattered rags as the weight had torn them
partly down. On a table in the hall was a great bunch of keys, with a
time-yellowed label on each. They had been used several times, for on the table
were several similar rents in the blanket of dust, similar to that exposed when
the Professor lifted them. He turned to me and said:—
“You know
this place, Jonathan. You have copied maps of it, and you know it at least more
than we do. Which is the way to the chapel?” I had an idea of its direction,
though on my former visit I had not been able to get admission to it; so I led
the way, and after a few wrong turnings found myself opposite a low, arched
oaken door, ribbed with iron bands. “This is the spot,” said the Professor as
he turned his lamp on a small map of the house, copied from the file of my
original correspondence regarding the purchase. With a little trouble we found
the key on the bunch and opened the door. We were prepared for some
unpleasantness, for as we were opening the door a faint, malodorous air seemed
to exhale through the gaps, but none of us ever expected such an odour as we
encountered. None of the others had met the Count at all
at close quarters, and when I had seen him he was either in the fasting stage
of his existence in his rooms or, when he was gloated with fresh blood, in a
ruined building open to the air; but here the place was small and close, and
the long disuse had made the air stagnant and foul. There was an earthy smell,
as of some dry miasma, which came through the fouler air. But as to the odour
itself, how shall I describe it? It was not alone that it was composed of all
the ills of mortality and with the pungent, acrid smell of blood, but it seemed
as though corruption had become itself corrupt. Faugh! it sickens me to think
of it. Every breath exhaled by that monster seemed to have clung to the place
and intensified its loathsomeness.
Under
ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our enterprise to an
end; but this was no ordinary case, and the high and terrible purpose in which
we were involved gave us a strength which rose above merely physical
considerations. After the involuntary shrinking consequent on the first
nauseous whiff, we one and all set about our work as though that loathsome place
were a garden of roses.
We made an
accurate examination of the place, the Professor saying as we began:—
“The first
thing is to see how many of the boxes are left; we must then examine every hole
and corner and cranny and see if we cannot get some clue as to what has become
of the rest.” A glance was sufficient to show how many remained, for the great
earth chests were bulky, and there was no mistaking them.
There were
only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! Once I got a fright, for, seeing Lord
Godalming suddenly turn and look out of the vaulted door into the dark passage
beyond, I looked too, and for an instant my heart stood still. Somewhere,
looking out from the shadow, I seemed to see the high lights of the Count’s
evil face, the ridge of the nose, the red eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor.
It was only for a moment, for, as Lord Godalming said, “I thought I saw a face,
but it was only the shadows,” and resumed his inquiry, I turned my lamp in the
direction, and stepped into the passage. There was no sign of any one; and as
there were no corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind, but only the solid
walls of the passage, there could be no hiding-place even for him. I
took it that fear had helped imagination, and said nothing.
A few
minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a corner, which he was
examining. We all followed his movements with our eyes,
for undoubtedly some nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass of
phosphorescence, which twinkled like stars. We all instinctively drew back. The
whole place was becoming alive with rats.
For a
moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord Godalming, who was seemingly
prepared for such an emergency. Rushing over to the great iron-bound oaken
door, which Dr. Seward had described from the outside, and which I had seen
myself, he turned the key in the lock, drew the huge bolts, and swung the door
open. Then, taking his little silver whistle from his pocket, he blew a low,
shrill call. It was answered from behind Dr. Seward’s house by the yelping of
dogs, and after about a minute three terriers came dashing round the corner of
the house. Unconsciously we had all moved towards the door, and as we moved I
noticed that the dust had been much disturbed: the boxes which had been taken
out had been brought this way. But even in the minute that had elapsed the
number of the rats had vastly increased. They seemed to swarm over the place
all at once, till the lamplight, shining on their moving dark bodies and
glittering, baleful eyes, made the place look like a bank of earth set with
fireflies. The dogs dashed on, but at the threshold suddenly stopped and
snarled, and then, simultaneously lifting their noses, began to howl in most
lugubrious fashion. The rats were multiplying in thousands, and we moved out.
Lord
Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him on the floor.
The instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to recover his courage, and
rushed at his natural enemies. They fled before him so fast that before he had
shaken the life out of a score, the other dogs, who had by now been lifted in
the same manner, had but small prey ere the whole mass had vanished.
With their
going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for the dogs frisked
about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at their prostrate foes, and
turned them over and over and tossed them in the air with vicious shakes. We
all seemed to find our spirits rise. Whether it was the purifying of the deadly
atmosphere by the opening of the chapel door, or the relief which we
experienced by finding ourselves in the open I know not; but most certainly the
shadow of dread seemed to slip from us like a robe, and the occasion of our
coming lost something of its grim significance, though we did not slacken a
whit in our resolution. We closed the outer door and
barred and locked it, and bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the
house. We found nothing throughout except dust in extraordinary proportions,
and all untouched save for my own footsteps when I had made my first visit.
Never once did the dogs exhibit any symptom of uneasiness, and even when we
returned to the chapel they frisked about as though they had been
rabbit-hunting in a summer wood.
The
morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front. Dr. Van
Helsing had taken the key of the hall-door from the bunch, and locked the door
in orthodox fashion, putting the key into his pocket when he had done.
“So far,”
he said, “our night has been eminently successful. No harm has come to us such
as I feared might be and yet we have ascertained how many boxes are missing.
More than all do I rejoice that this, our first—and perhaps our most difficult
and dangerous—step has been accomplished without the bringing thereinto our
most sweet Madam Mina or troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts with sights
and sounds and smells of horror which she might never forget. One lesson, too,
we have learned, if it be allowable to argue a particulari: that the
brute beasts which are to the Count’s command are yet themselves not amenable
to his spiritual power; for look, these rats that would come to his call, just
as from his castle top he summon the wolves to your going and to that poor
mother’s cry, though they come to him, they run pell-mell from the so little
dogs of my friend Arthur. We have other matters before us, other dangers, other
fears; and that monster—he has not used his power over the brute world for the
only or the last time to-night. So be it that he has gone elsewhere. Good! It
has given us opportunity to cry ‘check’ in some ways in this chess game, which
we play for the stake of human souls. And now let us go home. The dawn is close
at hand, and we have reason to be content with our first night’s work. It may
be ordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if full of peril; but
we must go on, and from no danger shall we shrink.”
The house
was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who was screaming away
in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning sound from Renfield’s room. The
poor wretch was doubtless torturing himself, after the manner of the insane,
with needless thoughts of pain.
I came
tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep, breathing so softly that I had
to put my ear down to hear it. She looks paler than usual. I hope the meeting
to-night has not upset her. I am truly thankful that she
is to be left out of our future work, and even of our deliberations. It is too
great a strain for a woman to bear. I did not think so at first, but I know
better now. Therefore I am glad that it is settled. There may be things which
would frighten her to hear; and yet to conceal them from her might be worse
than to tell her if once she suspected that there was any concealment.
Henceforth our work is to be a sealed book to her, till at least such time as
we can tell her that all is finished, and the earth free from a monster of the
nether world. I daresay it will be difficult to begin to keep silence after
such confidence as ours; but I must be resolute, and to-morrow I shall keep
dark over to-night’s doings, and shall refuse to speak of anything that has
happened. I rest on the sofa, so as not to disturb her.
1
October, later.—I suppose it was
natural that we should have all overslept ourselves, for the day was a busy
one, and the night had no rest at all. Even Mina must have felt its exhaustion,
for though I slept till the sun was high, I was awake before her, and had to
call two or three times before she awoke. Indeed, she was so sound asleep that
for a few seconds she did not recognize me, but looked at me with a sort of
blank terror, as one looks who has been waked out of a bad dream. She
complained a little of being tired, and I let her rest till later in the day.
We now know of twenty-one boxes having been removed, and if it be that several
were taken in any of these removals we may be able to trace them all. Such
will, of course, immensely simplify our labour, and the sooner the matter is
attended to the better. I shall look up Thomas Snelling to-day.
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
1
October.—It was towards noon when I
was awakened by the Professor walking into my room. He was more jolly and
cheerful than usual, and it is quite evident that last night’s work has helped
to take some of the brooding weight off his mind. After going over the adventure
of the night he suddenly said:—
“Your
patient interests me much. May it be that with you I visit him this morning? Or
if that you are too occupy, I can go alone if it may be. It is a new experience
to me to find a lunatic who talk philosophy, and reason so sound.” I had some
work to do which pressed, so I told him that if he would go alone I would be
glad, as then I should not have to keep him waiting; so I called an attendant
and gave him the necessary instructions. Before the Professor left the room I
cautioned him against getting any false impression from my patient. “But,” he
answered, “I want him to talk of himself and of his delusion as to consuming
live things. He said to Madam Mina, as I see in your diary of yesterday, that
he had once had such a belief. Why do you smile, friend John?”
“Excuse
me,” I said, “but the answer is here.” I laid my hand on the type-written
matter. “When our sane and learned lunatic made that very statement of how he used
to consume life, his mouth was actually nauseous with the flies and spiders
which he had eaten just before Mrs. Harker entered the room.” Van Helsing
smiled in turn. “Good!” he said. “Your memory is true, friend John. I should
have remembered. And yet it is this very obliquity of thought and memory which
makes mental disease such a fascinating study. Perhaps I may gain more
knowledge out of the folly of this madman than I shall from the teaching of the
most wise. Who knows?” I went on with my work, and before long was through that
in hand. It seemed that the time had been very short indeed, but there was Van
Helsing back in the study. “Do I interrupt?” he asked politely as he stood at
the door.
“Not at
all,” I answered. “Come in. My work is finished, and I am free. I can go with
you now, if you like.
“It is
needless; I have seen him!”
“Well?”
“I fear
that he does not appraise me at much. Our interview was short. When I entered
his room he was sitting on a stool in the centre, with his elbows on his knees,
and his face was the picture of sullen discontent. I spoke to him as cheerfully
as I could, and with such a measure of respect as I could assume. He made no
reply whatever. “Don’t you know me?” I asked. His answer was not reassuring: “I
know you well enough; you are the old fool Van Helsing. I wish you would take
yourself and your idiotic brain theories somewhere else. Damn all thick-headed
Dutchmen!” Not a word more would he say, but sat in his implacable sullenness
as indifferent to me as though I had not been in the room at all. Thus departed
for this time my chance of much learning from this so clever lunatic; so I
shall go, if I may, and cheer myself with a few happy words with that sweet
soul Madam Mina. Friend John, it does rejoice me unspeakable that she is no
more to be pained, no more to be worried with our terrible things. Though we
shall much miss her help, it is better so.”
“I agree
with you with all my heart,” I answered earnestly, for I did not want him to
weaken in this matter. “Mrs. Harker is better out of it. Things are quite bad
enough for us, all men of the world, and who have been in many tight places in
our time; but it is no place for a woman, and if she had remained in touch with
the affair, it would in time infallibly have wrecked her.”
So Van
Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and Harker; Quincey and Art are all
out following up the clues as to the earth-boxes. I shall finish my round of
work and we shall meet to-night.
Mina Harker’s Journal.
1
October.—It is strange to me to be
kept in the dark as I am to-day; after Jonathan’s full confidence for so many
years, to see him manifestly avoid certain matters, and those the most vital of
all. This morning I slept late after the fatigues of yesterday, and though
Jonathan was late too, he was the earlier. He spoke to me before he went out,
never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of what had
happened in the visit to the Count’s house. And yet he must have known how
terribly anxious I was. Poor dear fellow! I suppose it must have distressed him
even more than it did me. They all agreed that it was best that I should not be
drawn further into this awful work, and I acquiesced. But to think that he
keeps anything from me! And now I am crying like a silly fool, when I know
it comes from my husband’s great love and from the good, good wishes of those
other strong men.
That has
done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all; and lest it should ever
be that he should think for a moment that I kept anything from him, I still
keep my journal as usual. Then if he has feared of my trust I shall show it to
him, with every thought of my heart put down for his dear eyes to read. I feel
strangely sad and low-spirited to-day. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible
excitement.
Last night
I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told me to. I didn’t
feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. I kept thinking over
everything that has been ever since Jonathan came to see me in London, and it
all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate pressing on relentlessly to some
destined end. Everything that one does seems, no matter how right it may be, to
bring on the very thing which is most to be deplored. If I hadn’t gone to
Whitby, perhaps poor dear Lucy would be with us now. She
hadn’t taken to visiting the churchyard till I came, and if she hadn’t come
there in the day-time with me she wouldn’t have walked there in her sleep; and
if she hadn’t gone there at night and asleep, that monster couldn’t have
destroyed her as he did. Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying
again! I wonder what has come over me to-day. I must hide it from Jonathan, for
if he knew that I had been crying twice in one morning—I, who never cried on my
own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear—the dear fellow would
fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on, and if I do feel weepy, he
shall never see it. I suppose it is one of the lessons that we poor women have
to learn....
I can’t
quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember hearing the sudden
barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying on a very
tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield’s room, which is somewhere under this. And
then there was silence over everything, silence so profound that it startled
me, and I got up and looked out of the window. All was dark and silent, the
black shadows thrown by the moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of their
own. Not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death
or fate; so that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost
imperceptible slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a
sentience and a vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts
must have done me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy creeping
over me. I lay a while, but could not quite sleep, so I got out and looked out
of the window again. The mist was spreading, and was now close up to the house,
so that I could see it lying thick against the wall, as though it were stealing
up to the windows. The poor man was more loud than ever, and though I could not
distinguish a word he said, I could in some way recognise in his tones some
passionate entreaty on his part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I
knew that the attendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I
crept into bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my
ears. I was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought; but I must have fallen
asleep, for, except dreams, I do not remember anything until the morning, when
Jonathan woke me. I think that it took me an effort and a little time to
realise where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was bending over me. My dream
was very peculiar, and was almost typical of the way that waking thoughts
become merged in, or continued in, dreams.
I thought
that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I was very anxious
about him, and I was powerless to act; my feet, and my hands, and my brain were
weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the usual pace. And so I slept
uneasily and thought. Then it began to dawn upon me that the air was heavy, and
dank, and cold. I put back the clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise,
that all was dim around. The gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but
turned down, came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had
evidently grown thicker and poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I
had shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out to make
certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my limbs and
even my will. I lay still and endured; that was all. I closed my eyes, but
could still see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what tricks our dreams
play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.) The mist grew thicker and
thicker and I could see now how it came in, for I could see it like smoke—or
with the white energy of boiling water—pouring in, not through the window, but
through the joinings of the door. It got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as
if it became concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through
the top of which I could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye.
Things began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now
whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words “a pillar of
cloud by day and of fire by night.” Was it indeed some such spiritual guidance
that was coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was composed of both the day
and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the red eye, which at the thought
got a new fascination for me; till, as I looked, the fire divided, and seemed
to shine on me through the fog like two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in
her momentary mental wandering when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck
the windows of St. Mary’s Church. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was
thus that Jonathan had seen those awful women growing into reality through the
whirling mist in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all
became black darkness. The last conscious effort which imagination made was to
show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist. I must be careful
of such dreams, for they would unseat one’s reason if there were too much of
them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe something for me
which would make me sleep, only that I fear to alarm them. Such a dream at the
present time would become woven into their fears for me.
To-night I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If I do not, I shall to-morrow
night get them to give me a dose of chloral; that cannot hurt me for once, and
it will give me a good night’s sleep. Last night tired me more than if I had
not slept at all.
2
October 10 p. m.—Last night I slept,
but did not dream. I must have slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming
to bed; but the sleep has not refreshed me, for to-day I feel terribly weak and
spiritless. I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing. In the
afternoon Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was very gentle,
and when I came away he kissed my hand and bade God bless me. Some way it
affected me much; I am crying when I think of him. This is a new weakness, of
which I must be careful. Jonathan would be miserable if he knew I had been
crying. He and the others were out till dinner-time, and they all came in
tired. I did what I could to brighten them up, and I suppose that the effort
did me good, for I forgot how tired I was. After dinner they sent me to bed,
and all went off to smoke together, as they said, but I knew that they wanted
to tell each other of what had occurred to each during the day; I could see
from Jonathan’s manner that he had something important to communicate. I was
not so sleepy as I should have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to
give me a little opiate of some kind, as I had not slept well the night before.
He very kindly made me up a sleeping draught, which he gave to me, telling me
that it would do me no harm, as it was very mild.... I have taken it, and am
waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope I have not done wrong, for
as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear comes: that I may have been
foolish in thus depriving myself of the power of waking. I might want it. Here
comes sleep. Good-night.
To be
continued
