Замок Дракулы в Румынии 7 страница

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 zooephagous

(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 wakened 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 wakened 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 anaemic 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'm 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 was ever known, and the great

body of holiday-makers laid 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

trips up and down 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 of seemingly 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 realize,

the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in

growing fury, each overtopping 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

realized 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 billows 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-hammer" 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 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 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 boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted

to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the 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 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;

crowds are scattering homeward, 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