DRACULA
PART
11
CHAPTER XI
Lucy Westenra’s Diary.
12
September.—How good they all are to
me. I quite love that dear Dr. Van Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious
about these flowers. He positively frightened me, he was so fierce. And yet he
must have been right, for I feel comfort from them already. Somehow, I do not
dread being alone to-night, and I can go to sleep without fear. I shall not
mind any flapping outside the window. Oh, the terrible struggle that I have had
against sleep so often of late; the pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of
the fear of sleep, with such unknown horrors as it has for me! How blessed are
some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing
that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am
to-night, hoping for sleep, and lying like Ophelia in the play, with “virgin
crants and maiden strewments.” I never liked garlic before, but to-night it is
delightful! There is peace in its smell; I feel sleep coming already.
Good-night, everybody.
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
13
September.—Called at the Berkeley and
found Van Helsing, as usual, up to time. The carriage ordered from the hotel
was waiting. The Professor took his bag, which he always brings with him now.
Let all be
put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham at eight o’clock. It
was a lovely morning; the bright sunshine and all the fresh feeling of early
autumn seemed like the completion of nature’s annual work. The leaves were
turning to all kinds of beautiful colours, but had not yet begun to drop from
the trees. When we entered we met Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room.
She is always an early riser. She greeted us warmly and said:—
“You will
be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is still asleep. I looked
into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest I should disturb her.” The
Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He rubbed his hands together, and
said:—
“Aha! I
thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is working,” to which she
answered:—
“You must
not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy’s state this morning is due
in part to me.”
“How you
do mean, ma’am?” asked the Professor.
“Well, I
was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into her room. She was
sleeping soundly—so soundly that even my coming did not wake her. But the room
was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those horrible, strong-smelling flowers
about everywhere, and she had actually a bunch of them round her neck. I feared
that the heavy odour would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so
I took them all away and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh
air. You will be pleased with her, I am sure.”
She moved
off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. As she had spoken, I
watched the Professor’s face, and saw it turn ashen grey. He had been able to
retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he knew her state
and how mischievous a shock would be; he actually smiled on her as he held open
the door for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had disappeared he
pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining-room and closed the door.
Then, for
the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He raised his hands
over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms together in a
helpless way; finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands before his
face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come from the very
racking of his heart. Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the
whole universe. “God! God! God!” he said. “What have we done, what has this
poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst us still,
sent down from the pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such
way? This poor mother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does
such thing as lose her daughter body and soul; and we must not tell her, we
must not even warn her, or she die, and then both die. Oh, how we are beset!
How are all the powers of the devils against us!” Suddenly he jumped to his
feet. “Come,” he said, “come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or all
the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him all the same.” He went to the
hall-door for his bag; and together we went up to Lucy’s room.
Once again
I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed. This time he did
not start as he looked on the poor face with the same
awful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of stern sadness and infinite
pity.
“As I
expected,” he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which meant so
much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then began to set out on
the little table the instruments for yet another operation of transfusion of
blood. I had long ago recognised the necessity, and begun to take off my coat,
but he stopped me with a warning hand. “No!” he said. “To-day you must operate.
I shall provide. You are weakened already.” As he spoke he took off his coat
and rolled up his shirt-sleeve.
Again the
operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour to the ashy cheeks,
and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I watched whilst Van
Helsing recruited himself and rested.
Presently
he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must not remove
anything from Lucy’s room without consulting him; that the flowers were of
medicinal value, and that the breathing of their odour was a part of the system
of cure. Then he took over the care of the case himself, saying that he would watch
this night and the next and would send me word when to come.
After
another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and seemingly not much
the worse for her terrible ordeal.
What does
it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of life amongst the
insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.
Lucy Westenra’s Diary.
17
September.—Four days and nights of
peace. I am getting so strong again that I hardly know myself. It is as if I
had passed through some long nightmare, and had just awakened to see the
beautiful sunshine and feel the fresh air of the morning around me. I have a
dim half-remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing; darkness in
which there was not even the pain of hope to make present distress more poignant:
and then long spells of oblivion, and the rising back to life as a diver coming
up through a great press of water. Since, however, Dr. Van Helsing has been
with me, all this bad dreaming seems to have passed away; the noises that used
to frighten me out of my wits—the flapping against the windows, the distant
voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh sounds that came from I know not
where and commanded me to do I know not what—have all
ceased. I go to bed now without any fear of sleep. I do not even try to keep
awake. I have grown quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me every
day from Haarlem. To-night Dr. Van Helsing is going away, as he has to be for a
day in Amsterdam. But I need not be watched; I am well enough to be left alone.
Thank God for mother’s sake, and dear Arthur’s, and for all our friends who
have been so kind! I shall not even feel the change, for last night Dr. Van
Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. I found him asleep twice when I
awoke; but I did not fear to go to sleep again, although the boughs or bats or
something napped almost angrily against the window-panes.
“The Pall Mall Gazette,” 18
September.
THE ESCAPED WOLF.
PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER.
PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER.
Interview with the Keeper in
the Zoölogical Gardens.
After many
inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using the words “Pall
Mall Gazette” as a sort of talisman, I managed to find the keeper of the
section of the Zoölogical Gardens in which the wolf department is included.
Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the
elephant-house, and was just sitting down to his tea when I found him. Thomas
and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the
specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives
must be pretty comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called
“business” until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the
table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said:—
“Now, sir,
you can go on and arsk me what you want. You’ll excoose me refoosin’ to talk of
perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the
hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk them questions.”
“How do
you mean, ask them questions?” I queried, wishful to get him into a talkative
humour.
“ ’Ittin’
of them over the ’ead with a pole is one way; scratchin’ of their hears is
another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I
don’t so much mind the fust—the ’ittin’ with a pole afore I chucks in their
dinner; but I waits till they’ve ’ad their sherry and kawffee, so to speak,
afore I tries on with the ear-scratchin’. Mind you,” he
added philosophically, “there’s a deal of the same nature in us as in them
theer animiles. Here’s you a-comin’ and arskin’ of me questions about my
business, and I that grumpy-like that only for your bloomin’ ’arf-quid I’d ’a’
seen you blowed fust ’fore I’d answer. Not even when you arsked me
sarcastic-like if I’d like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me
questions. Without offence did I tell yer to go to ’ell?”
“You did.”
“An’ when
you said you’d report me for usin’ of obscene language that was ’ittin’ me over
the ’ead; but the ’arf-quid made that all right. I weren’t a-goin’ to fight, so
I waited for the food, and did with my ’owl as the wolves, and lions, and
tigers does. But, Lor’ love yer ’art, now that the old ’ooman has stuck a chunk
of her tea-cake in me, an’ rinsed me out with her bloomin’ old teapot, and I’ve
lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you’re worth, and won’t git even a
growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin’ at,
that ’ere escaped wolf.”
“Exactly.
I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it happened; and when I
know the facts I’ll get you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and
how you think the whole affair will end.”
“All
right, guv’nor. This ’ere is about the ’ole story. That ’ere wolf what we
called Bersicker was one of three grey ones that came from Norway to Jamrach’s,
which we bought off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that
never gave no trouble to talk of. I’m more surprised at ’im for wantin’ to get
out nor any other animile in the place. But, there, you can’t trust wolves no
more nor women.”
“Don’t you
mind him, sir!” broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. “ ’E’s got mindin’
the animiles so long that blest if he ain’t like a old wolf ’isself! But there
ain’t no ’arm in ’im.”
“Well,
sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I first hear my
disturbance. I was makin’ up a litter in the monkey-house for a young puma
which is ill; but when I heard the yelpin’ and ’owlin’ I kem away straight.
There was Bersicker a-tearin’ like a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to
get out. There wasn’t much people about that day, and close at hand was only
one man, a tall, thin chap, with a ’ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few
white hairs runnin’ through it. He had a ’ard, cold look and red eyes, and I
took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was ’im as they was hirritated at. He ’ad white kid gloves on ’is ’ands, and he
pointed out the animiles to me and says: ‘Keeper, these wolves seem upset at
something.’
“ ‘Maybe
it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he give ’isself. He didn’t
git angry, as I ’oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a
mouth full of white, sharp teeth. ‘Oh no, they wouldn’t like me,’ ’e says.
“ ‘Ow
yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’ of him. ‘They always likes a bone or two
to clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you ’as a bagful.’
“Well, it
was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin’ they lay down, and when
I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man
kem over, and blessed but if he didn’t put in his hand and stroke the old
wolf’s ears too!
“ ‘Tyke
care,’ says I. ‘Bersicker is quick.’
“ ‘Never
mind,’ he says. ‘I’m used to ’em!’
“ ‘Are
you in the business yourself?’ I says, tyking off my ’at, for a man what trades
in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers.
“ ‘No’
says he, ‘not exactly in the business, but I ’ave made pets of several.’ And
with that he lifts his ’at as perlite as a lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker
kep’ a-lookin’ arter ’im till ’e was out of sight, and then went and lay down
in a corner and wouldn’t come hout the ’ole hevening. Well, larst night, so
soon as the moon was hup, the wolves here all began a-’owling. There warn’t
nothing for them to ’owl at. There warn’t no one near, except some one that was
evidently a-callin’ a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road.
Once or twice I went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the
’owling stopped. Just before twelve o’clock I just took a look round afore
turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker’s cage I see
the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And that’s all I know
for certing.”
“Did any
one else see anything?”
“One of
our gard’ners was a-comin’ ’ome about that time from a ’armony, when he sees a
big grey dog comin’ out through the garding ’edges. At least, so he says, but I
don’t give much for it myself, for if he did ’e never said a word about it to
his missis when ’e got ’ome, and it was only after the escape of the wolf was
made known, and we had been up all night-a-huntin’ of the Park for Bersicker,
that he remembered seein’ anything. My own belief was that the ’armony ’ad got
into his ’ead.”
“Now, Mr.
Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the wolf?”
“Well,
sir,” he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, “I think I can; but I don’t
know as ’ow you’d be satisfied with the theory.”
“Certainly
I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from experience, can’t hazard
a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?”
“Well
then, sir, I accounts for it this way; it seems to me that ’ere wolf
escaped—simply because he wanted to get out.”
From the
hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the joke I could see that
it had done service before, and that the whole explanation was simply an
elaborate sell. I couldn’t cope in badinage with the worthy Thomas, but I
thought I knew a surer way to his heart, so I said:—
“Now, Mr.
Bilder, we’ll consider that first half-sovereign worked off, and this brother
of his is waiting to be claimed when you’ve told me what you think will
happen.”
“Right
y’are, sir,” he said briskly. “Ye’ll excoose me, I know, for a-chaffin’ of ye,
but the old woman here winked at me, which was as much as telling me to go on.”
“Well, I
never!” said the old lady.
“My
opinion is this: that ’ere wolf is a-’idin’ of, somewheres. The gard’ner wot
didn’t remember said he was a-gallopin’ northward faster than a horse could go;
but I don’t believe him, for, yer see, sir, wolves don’t gallop no more nor
dogs does, they not bein’ built that way. Wolves is fine things in a storybook,
and I dessay when they gets in packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s more
afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever
it is. But, Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not
half so clever or bold as a good dog; and not half a quarter so much fight in
’im. This one ain’t been used to fightin’ or even to providin’ for hisself, and
more like he’s somewhere round the Park a-’idin’ an’ a-shiverin’ of, and, if he
thinks at all, wonderin’ where he is to get his breakfast from; or maybe he’s
got down some area and is in a coal-cellar. My eye, won’t some cook get a rum
start when she sees his green eyes a-shining at her out of the dark! If he
can’t get food he’s bound to look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on
a butcher’s shop in time. If he doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes a-walkin’ orf
with a soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator—well, then I
shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the less. That’s all.”
I was
handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up against the
window, and Mr. Bilder’s face doubled its natural length with surprise.
“God bless
me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Bersicker come back by ’isself!”
He went to
the door and opened it; a most unnecessary proceeding it seemed to me. I have
always thought that a wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of
pronounced durability is between us; a personal experience has intensified
rather than diminished that idea.
After all,
however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder nor his wife thought
any more of the wolf than I should of a dog. The animal itself was as peaceful
and well-behaved as that father of all picture-wolves—Red Riding Hood’s quondam
friend, whilst moving her confidence in masquerade.
The whole
scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The wicked wolf that for
half a day had paralysed London and set all the children in the town shivering
in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and was received and
petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over
with most tender solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said:—
“There, I
knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble; didn’t I say it all
along? Here’s his head all cut and full of broken glass. ’E’s been a-gettin’
over some bloomin’ wall or other. It’s a shyme that people are allowed to top
their walls with broken bottles. This ’ere’s what comes of it. Come along,
Bersicker.”
He took
the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that satisfied, in
quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the fatted calf, and went
off to report.
I came
off, too, to report the only exclusive information that is given to-day
regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
17
September.—I was engaged after dinner
in my study posting up my books, which, through press of other work and the
many visits to Lucy, had fallen sadly into arrear. Suddenly the door was burst
open, and in rushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion. I was
thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord into the
Superintendent’s study is almost unknown. Without an instant’s pause he made straight at me. He had a dinner-knife in his hand, and, as
I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the table between us. He was too quick
and too strong for me, however; for before I could get my balance he had struck
at me and cut my left wrist rather severely. Before he could strike again,
however, I got in my right and he was sprawling on his back on the floor. My
wrist bled freely, and quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw
that my friend was not intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up
my wrist, keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. When the
attendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his employment
positively sickened me. He was lying on his belly on the floor licking up, like
a dog, the blood which had fallen from my wounded wrist. He was easily secured,
and, to my surprise, went with the attendants quite placidly, simply repeating
over and over again: “The blood is the life! The blood is the life!”
I cannot
afford to lose blood just at present; I have lost too much of late for my
physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy’s illness and its horrible
phases is telling on me. I am over-excited and weary, and I need rest, rest,
rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned me, so I need not forego my sleep;
to-night I could not well do without it.
Telegram, Van Helsing,
Antwerp, to Seward, Carfax.
(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no
county given; delivered late by twenty-two hours.)
“17
September.—Do not fail to be at Hillingham to-night. If not watching all
the time frequently, visit and see that flowers are as placed; very important;
do not fail. Shall be with you as soon as possible after arrival.”
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
18
September.—Just off for train to
London. The arrival of Van Helsing’s telegram filled me with dismay. A whole
night lost, and I know by bitter experience what may happen in a night. Of
course it is possible that all may be well, but what may have happened?
Surely there is some horrible doom hanging over us that every possible accident
should thwart us in all we try to do. I shall take this cylinder with me, and
then I can complete my entry on Lucy’s phonograph.
Memorandum left by Lucy
Westenra.
17
September. Night.—I write this and
leave it to be seen, so that no one may by any chance get into trouble through
me. This is an exact record of what took place to-night. I feel I am dying of
weakness, and have barely strength to write, but it must be done if I die in
the doing.
I went to
bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as Dr. Van Helsing
directed, and soon fell asleep.
I was
waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun after that sleep-walking
on the cliff at Whitby when Mina saved me, and which now I know so well. I was
not afraid, but I did wish that Dr. Seward was in the next room—as Dr. Van
Helsing said he would be—so that I might have called him. I tried to go to
sleep, but could not. Then there came to me the old fear of sleep, and I
determined to keep awake. Perversely sleep would try to come then when I did
not want it; so, as I feared to be alone, I opened my door and called out: “Is
there anybody there?” There was no answer. I was afraid to wake mother, and so
closed my door again. Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like
a dog’s, but more fierce and deeper. I went to the window and looked out, but
could see nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its
wings against the window. So I went back to bed again, but determined not to go
to sleep. Presently the door opened, and mother looked in; seeing by my moving
that I was not asleep, came in, and sat by me. She said to me even more sweetly
and softly than her wont:—
“I was
uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you were all right.”
I feared
she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to come in and sleep with me,
so she came into bed, and lay down beside me; she did not take off her dressing
gown, for she said she would only stay a while and then go back to her own bed.
As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers, the flapping and buffeting came to
the window again. She was startled and a little frightened, and cried out: “What
is that?” I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet; but
I could hear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. After a while there
was the low howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a
crash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor. The
window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the aperture of the
broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey
wolf. Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting posture,
and clutched wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst other things, she
clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing
round my neck, and tore it away from me. For a second or two she sat up,
pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and horrible gurgling in her
throat; then she fell over—as if struck with lightning, and her head hit my
forehead and made me dizzy for a moment or two. The room and all round seemed
to spin round. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head
back, and a whole myriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in through the
broken window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that
travellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to stir, but
there was some spell upon me, and dear mother’s poor body, which seemed to grow
cold already—for her dear heart had ceased to beat—weighed me down; and I
remembered no more for a while.
The time
did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered consciousness again.
Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the dogs all round the
neighbourhood were howling; and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a
nightingale was singing. I was dazed and stupid with pain and terror and weakness,
but the sound of the nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come
back to comfort me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I
could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to them, and
they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay
over me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the broken
window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my dear mother,
and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I had got up. They were
all so frightened and nervous that I directed them to go to the dining-room and
have each a glass of wine. The door flew open for an instant and closed again.
The maids shrieked, and then went in a body to the dining-room; and I laid what
flowers I had on my dear mother’s breast. When they were there I remembered
what Dr. Van Helsing had told me, but I didn’t like to remove them, and,
besides, I would have some of the servants to sit up with me now. I was
surprised that the maids did not come back. I called them, but got no answer,
so I went to the dining-room to look for them.
My heart
sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay
helpless on the floor, breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was on the
table half full, but there was a queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious,
and examined the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the sideboard,
I found that the bottle which mother’s doctor uses for her—oh! did use—was
empty. What am I to do? what am I to do? I am back in the room with mother. I
cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for the sleeping servants, whom some one
has drugged. Alone with the dead! I dare not go out, for I can hear the low
howl of the wolf through the broken window.
The air
seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from the window, and
the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God shield me from harm this
night! I shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find it when they
come to lay me out. My dear mother gone! It is time that I go too. Good-bye,
dear Arthur, if I should not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God
help me!
