Dracula (English Edition) 14-16

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />

chapter xiv.
mina harker's journal.

    23 september. - jonathan is better after a bad night. i am so glad that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible things; and oh, i am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new position. i knew he would be true to himself, and now how proud i am to see my jonathan rising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon him. he will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch at home. my household work is done, so i shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it...
    24 september. - i hadn't the heart to write last night; that terrible record of jonathan's upset me so. poor dear! how he must have suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. i wonder if there is any truth in it at all. did he get his brain fever, and then write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? i suppose i shall never know, for i dare not open the subject to him... and yet that man we saw yesterday! he seemed quite certain of him... poor fellow! i suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some train of thought... he believes it all himself. i remember how on our wedding-day he said: "unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane." there seems to be through it all some thread of continuity... that fearful count was coming to london... if it should be, and he came to london, with his teeming millions... there may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must not shrink from it... i shall be prepared. i shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. then we shall be ready for other eyes if required. and if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if i am ready, poor jonathan may not be upset, for i can speak for him and never let him be troubled or worried with it at all. if ever jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and i can ask him questions and find out things, and see how i may comfort him.

letter, van helsing to mrs. harker.

"24 september.
(confidence)

    "dear madam,
    "i pray you to pardon my writing, in that i am so far friend as that i sent to you sad news of miss lucy westenra's death. by the kindness of lord godalming, i am empowered to read her letters and papers, for i am deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. in them i find some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and how you love her. oh, madam mina, by that love, i implore you, help me. it is for others' good that i ask - to redress great wrong, and to lift much and terrible troubles - that may be more great than you can know. may it be that i see you? you can trust me. i am friend of dr. john seward and of lord godalming (that was arthur of miss lucy). i must keep it private for the present from all. i should come to exeter to see you at once if you tell me i am privilege to come, and where and when. i implore your pardon, madam. i have read your letters to poor lucy, and know how good you are and how your husband suffer; so i pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not, lest it may harm. again your pardon, and forgive me.

"van helsing."

telegram, mrs. harker to van helsing.

    "25 september. - come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch it. can see you any time you call.

"wilhelmina harker."

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />

mina harker's journal.

    25 september. - i cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time draws near for the visit of dr. van helsing, for somehow i expect that it will throw some light upon jonathan's sad experience: and as he attended poor dear lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about her. that is the reason of his coming, it is concerning lucy and her sleep-walking, and not about jonathan. then i shall never know the real truth now! how silly i am. that awful journal gets hold of my imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. of course it is about lucy. that habit came back to the poor dear, and that awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. i had almost forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. she must have told him of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that i knew all about it; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may understand. i hope i did right in not saying anything of it to mrs. westenra; i should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative one, brought harm on poor dear lucy. i hope, too, dr. van helsing will not blame me; i have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that i feel i cannot bear more just at present.
    i suppose a cry does us all good at times - clears the air as other rain does. perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and then jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. i do hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. it is two o'clock, and the doctor will be here soon now. i shall say nothing of jonathan's journal unless he asks me. i am so glad i have type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks about lucy, i can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.
    later. - he has come and gone. oh, what a strange meeting, and how it all makes my head whirl round! i feel like one in a dream. can it be all possible, or even a part of it? if i had not read jonathan's journal first, i should never have accepted even a possibility. poor, poor, dear jonathan! how he must have suffered. please the good god, all this may not upset him again. i shall try to save him from it; but it may be even a consolation and a help to him - terrible though it be and awful in its consequences - to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. it may be that it is the doubt which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter which - waking or dreaming - may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and better able to bear the shock. dr. van helsing must be a good man as well as a clever one if he is arthur's friend and dr. seward's, and if they brought him all the way from holland to look after lucy. i feel from having seen him that he is good and kind and of a noble nature. when he comes to-morrow i shall ask him about jonathan; and then, please god, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good end. i used to think i would like to practice interviewing; jonathan's friend on "the exeter news" told him that memory was everything in such work - that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. here was a rare interview; i shall try to record it verbatim.
    it was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. i took my courage a deux mains and waited. in a few minutes mary opened the door, and announced "dr. van helsing."
    i rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. the poise of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power, the head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. the face shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the mouth tightens. the forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart; such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides. big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man's moods. he said to me:
    "mrs. harker, is it not?" i bowed assent.
    "that was miss mina murray?" again i assented.
    "it is mina murray that i came to see that was friend of that poor dear child lucy westenra. madam mina, it is on account of the dead i come."
    "sir," i said, "you could have no better claim on me than that you were a friend and helper of lucy westenra." and i held out my hand. he took it and said tenderly:
    "oh, madam mina, i knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be good, but i had yet to learn -" he finished his speech with a courtly bow. i asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at once began:
    "i have read your letters to miss lucy. forgive me, but i had to begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. i know that you were with her at whitby. she sometimes kept a diary - you need not look, surprised madam mina; it was begun after you had left, and was made in imitation of you - and in that diary she traces by inference certain things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. in great perplexity then i come to you, and ask you out of your so much kindness to tell me all of it that you remember."
    "i can tell you, i think, dr. van helsing, all about it."
    "ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? it is not always so with young ladies."
    "no, doctor, but i wrote it all down at the time. i can show it to you if you like."
    "oh, madam mina, i will be grateful; you will do me much favour."
    i could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit - i suppose it is some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our mouths - so i handed him the shorthand diary. he took it with a grateful bow, and said:
    "may i read it?"
    "if you wish," i answered as demurely as i could. he opened it, and for an instant his face fell. then he stood up and bowed.   "oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "i long knew that mr. jonathan was a man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things. and will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me? alas! i know not the shorthand." by this time my little joke was over, and i was almost ashamed; so i took the type-written copy from my workbasket and handed it to him.
    "forgive me," i said: "i could not help it; but i had been thinking that it was of dear lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have to wait - not on my account, but because i know your time must be precious - i have written it out on the typewriter for you."
    he took it and his eyes glistened. "you are so good," he said. "and may i read it now? i may want to ask you some things when i have read."
    "by all means," i said, "read it over whilst i order lunch; and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat." he bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers, whilst i went to see after lunch, chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. when i came back i found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. he rushed up to me and took me by both hands.
    "oh, madam mina," he said, "how can i say what i owe to you? this paper is as sunshine. it opens the gate to me. i am daze, i am dazzle, with so much light; and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. but that you do not, cannot, comprehend. oh, but i am grateful to you, you so clever woman. madam" - he said this very solemnly - "if ever abraham van helsing can do anything for you or yours, i trust you will let me know. it will be pleasure and delight if i may serve you as a friend; as a friend, but all i have ever learned, all i can ever do, shall be for you and those you love. there are darknesses in life, and there are lights; you are one of the lights. you will have happy life and good life, and your husband will be blessed in you."
    "but, doctor, you praise me too much, and - and you do not know me."
    "not know you - i, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and women; i, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to him and all that follow from him! and i have read your diary that you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every line. i, who have read your so sweet letter to poor lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you! oh, madam mina, good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of angels' eyes. your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. and your husband - tell me of him. is he quite well? is all that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?" i saw here an opening to ask him about jonathan, so i said:
    "he was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by mr. hawkins's death." he interrupted:
    "oh yes, i know, i know. i have read your last two letters." i went on:
    "i suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on thursday last he had a sort of shock."
    "a shock, and after brain fever so soon! that was not good. what kind of shock was it?"
    "he thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something which led to his brain fever." and here the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. the pity for jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. i suppose i was hysterical, for i threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband well again. he took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:
    "my life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that i have not had much time for friendships; but since i have been summoned to here by my friend john seward i have known so many good people and seen such nobility that i feel more than ever - and it has grown with my advancing years - the loneliness of my life. believe me, then, that i come here full of respect for you, and you have given me hope - hope, not in what i am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life happy - good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for the children that are to be. i am glad, glad, that i may here be of some use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my study and xperience. i promise you that i will gladly do all for him that i can - all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy one. now you must eat. you are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious. husband jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not where he love, is not to his good. therefore for his sake you must eat and smile. you have told me all about lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress. i shall stay in exeter to-night, for i want to think much over what you have told me, and when i have thought i will ask you questions, if i may. and then, too, you will tell me of husband jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. you must eat now; afterwards you shall tell me all."
    after lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:
    "and now tell me all about him." when it came to speaking to this great, learned man, i began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and jonathan a madman - that journal is all so strange - and i hesitated to go on. but he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and i trusted him, so i said:
    "dr. van helsing, what i have to tell you is so queer that you must not laugh at me or at my husband. i have been since yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that i have even half believed some very strange things." he reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said:
    "oh, my dear, if you only knew how strange is the matter regarding which i am here, it is you who would laugh. i have learned not to think little of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. i have tried to keep an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane."
    "thank you, thank you, a thousand times! you have taken a weight off my mind. if you will let me, i shall give you a paper to read. it is long, but i have typewritten it out. it will tell you my trouble and jonathan's. it is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that happened. i happ dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and judge. and then when i see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell me what you think."
    "i promise," he said as i gave him the papers; "i shall in the morning, so soon as i can, come to see you and your husband, if i may."
    "jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3:34 train, which will leave you at paddington before eight." he was surprised at my knowledge of the trains off-hand, but he does not know that i have made up all the trains to and from exeter, so that i may help jonathan in case he is in a hurry.
    so he took the papers with him and went away, and i sit here thinking - thinking i don't know what.

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />

letter (by hand), van helsing to mrs. harker.

"25 september, 6 o'clock.

    "dear madam mina,
    "i have read your husband's so wonderful diary. you may sleep without doubt. strange and terrible as it is, it is true! i will pledge my life on it. it may be worse for others; but for him and you there is no dread. he is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of men, that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to that room - ay, and going a second time - is not one to be injured in permanence by a shock. his brain and his heart are all right; this i swear, before i have even seen him; so be at rest. i shall have much to ask him of other things. i am blessed that to-day i come to see you, for i have learn all at once so much that again i am dazzle - dazzle more than ever, and i must think.

"yours the most faithful,
"abraham van helsing."

letter, mrs. harker to van helsing.

"25 september, 6:30 p.m.

    "my dear dr. van helsing,
    "a thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight off my mind. and yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be really in london! i fear to think. i have this moment, whilst writing, had a wire from jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 to-night from launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that i shall have no fear to-night. will you, therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock, if this be not too early for you? you can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring you to paddington by 2:35. do not answer this, as i shall take it that if i do not hear, you will come to breakfast.

"believe me,
"your faithful and grateful friend,
"mina harker."

jonathan harker's journal.

    26 september. - i thought never to write in this diary again, but the time has come. when i got home last night mina had supper ready, and when we had supped she told me of van helsing's visit, and of her having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me. she showed me in the doctor's letter that all i wrote down was true. it seems to have made a new man of me. it was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. i felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. but, now that i know, i am not afraid, even of the count. he has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting to london, and it was he i saw. he has got younger, and how? van helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what mina says. we sat late, and talked it all over. mina is dressing, and i shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over...
    he was, i think, surprised to see me. when i came into the room where he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:
    "but madam mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock." it was so funny to hear my wife called "madam mina" by this kindly, strong-faced old man. i smiled, and said:
    "i was ill, i have had a shock; but you have cured me already."
    "and how?"
    "by your letter to mina last night. i was in doubt, and then everything took a hue of unreality, and i did not know what to trust, even the evidence of my own senses. not knowing what to trust, i did not know what to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. the groove ceased to avail me, and i mistrusted myself. doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt everything, even yourself. no, you don't; you couldn't with eyebrows like yours." he seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:
    "so! you are physiognomist. i learn more here with each hour. i am with so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife." i would listen to him go on praising mina for a day, so i simply nodded and stood silent.
    "she is one of god's women, fashioned by his own hand to show us men and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its light can be here on earth. so true, so sweet, so noble, so little an egoist - and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and selfish. and you, sir - i have read all the letters to poor miss lucy, and some of them speak of you, so i know you since some days from the knowing of others; but i have seen your true self since last night. you will give me your hand, will you not? and let us be friends for all our lives."
    we shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite choky.
    "and now." he said, "may i ask you for some more help? i have a great task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. you can help me here. can you tell me what went before your going to transylvania? later on i may ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do."
    "look here, sir," i said, "does what you have to do concern the count?"
    "it does," he said solemnly.
    "then i am with you heart and soul. as you go by the 10:30 train, you will not have time to read them; but i shall get the bundle of papers. you can take them with you and read them in the train."
    after breakfast i saw him to the station. when we were parting he said:
    "perhaps you will come to town if i send to you, and take madam mina too."
    "we shall both come when you will," i said.
    i had got him the morning papers and the london papers of the previous night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the train to start, he was turning them over. his eye suddenly seemed to catch something in one of them, "the westminster gazette" - i knew it by the colour - and he grew quite white. he read something intently, groaning to himself. "mein gott! mein gott! so soon! so soon!" i do not think he remembered me at the moment. just then the whistle blew, and the train moved off. this recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out: "love to madam mina; i shall write so soon as ever i can."

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />

dr. seward's diary.

    26 september. - truly there is no such thing as finality. not a week since i said "finis," and yet here i am starting fresh again, or rather going on with the same record. until this afternoon i had no cause to think of what is done. renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. he was already well ahead with his fly business; and he had just started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any trouble to me. i had a letter from arthur, written on sunday, and from it i gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. quincey morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. quincey wrote me a line too, and from him i hear that arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to them all my mind is at rest. as for myself, i was settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which i used to have for it, so that i might fairly have said that the wound which poor lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised. everything is, however, now reopened; and what is to be the end god only knows. i have an idea that van helsing thinks he knows too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. he went to exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. to-day he came back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o'clock, and thrust last night's "westminister gazette" into my hand.
    "what do you think of that?" he asked as he stood back and folded his arms.
    i looked over the paper, for i really did not know what he meant; but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at hampstead. it did not convey much to me, until i reached a passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. an idea struck me, and i looked up. "well?" he said.
    "it is like poor lucy's."
    "and what do you make of it?"
    "simply that there is some cause in common. whatever it was that injured her has injured them." i did not quite understand his answer:
    "that is true indirectly, but not directly."
    "how do you mean, professor?" i asked. i was a little inclined to take his seriousness lightly - for, after all, four days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one's spirits - but when i saw his face, it sobered me. never, even in the midst of our despair about poor lucy, had he looked more stern.
    "tell me!" i said. "i can hazard no opinion. i do not know what to think, and i have no data on which to found a conjecture."
    "do you mean to tell me, friend john, that you have no suspicion as to what poor lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not only by events, but by me?"
    "of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood."
    "and how the blood lost or waste?" i shook my head. he stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on:
    "you are clever man, friend john; you reason well, and your wit is bold; but you are too prejudiced. you do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? but there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men's eyes, because they know - or think they know - some things which other men have told them. ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain. but yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new; and which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young - like the fine ladies at the opera. i suppose now you do not believe in corporeal transference. no? nor in materialisation. no? nor in astral bodies. no? nor in the reading of thought. no? nor in hypnotism -"
    "yes," i said. "charcot has proved that pretty well." he smiled as he went on: "then you are satisfied as to it. yes? and of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great charcot - alas that he is no more! - into the very soul of the patient that he influence. no? then, friend john, am i to take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a blank? no? then tell me - for i am student of the brain - how you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading. let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered electricity - who would themselves not so long before have been burned as wizards. there are always mysteries in life. why was it that methuselah lived nine hundred years, and 'old parr' one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that poor lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins, could not live even one day? for, had she live one more day, we could have save her. do you know all the mystery of life and death? do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy, and can say wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old spanish church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? can you tell me why in the pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their veins; how in some islands of the western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, that those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them, and then - and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even miss lucy was?"
    "good god, professor!" i said, starting up. "do you mean to tell me that lucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a thing is here in london in the nineteenth century?" he waved his hand for silence, and went on:
    "can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of men; why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint? can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are some few who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and women who cannot die? we all know - because science has vouched for the fact - that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of the world. can you tell me how the indian fakir make himself to die and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then men come and take away the unbroken seal, and that there lie the indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before?" here i interrupted him. i was getting bewildered; he so crowded on my mind his list of nature's eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my imagination was getting fired. i had a dim idea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at amsterdam; but he used then to tell me the thing, so that i could have the object of thought in mind all the time. but now i was without this help, yet i wanted to follow him, so i said:
    "professor, let me be your pet student again. tell me the thesis so that i may apply your knowledge as you go on. at present i am going in my mind from point to point as a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an idea. i feel like a novice blundering through a bog in a mist, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without knowing where i am going."
    "that is good image," he said. "well, i shall tell you my thesis is this: i want you to believe."
    "to believe what?"
    "to believe in things that you cannot. let me illustrate. i heard once of an american who so defined faith: 'that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.' for one, i follow that man. he meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway truck. we get the small truth first. good! we keep him, and we value him; but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in the universe."
    "then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. do i read your lesson aright?"
    "ah, you are my favourite pupil still. it is worth to teach you. now that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to understand. you think then that those so small holes in the children's throats were made by the same that made the hole in miss lucy?"
    "i suppose so" he stood up and said solemnly:
    "then you are wrong. oh, would it were so! but alas! no. it is worse, far, far worse."
    "in god's name, professor van helsing, what do you mean?" i cried.
    he threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke:
    "they were made by miss lucy!"

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />

chapter xv.
dr. seward's diary.

    for a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had during her life struck lucy on the face. i smote the table hard and rose up as i said to him:
    "dr. van helsing, are you mad?" he raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once. "would i were!" he said. "madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this. oh, my friend, why, think you, did i go so far round, why take so long to tell you so simple a thing? was it because i hate you and have hated you all my life? was it because i wished to give you pain? was it that i wanted, now so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a fearful death? ah no!"
    "forgive me," said i. he went on:
    "my friend, it was because i wished to be gentle in the breaking to you, for i know you have loved that so sweet lady. but even yet i do not expect you to believe. it is so hard to accept at once any abstract truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always believed the 'no' of it; it is more hard still to accept so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as miss lucy. to-night i go to prove it. dare you come with me?"
    this staggered me. a man does not like to prove such a truth; byron excepted from the category, jealousy.

"and prove the very truth he most abhorred."

    he saw my hesitation, and spoke:
    "the logic is simple, no madman's logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock in a misty bog. if it be not true, then proof will be relief, at worst it will not harm. if it be true! ah, there is the dread; yet very dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief. come, i tell you what i propose: first, that we go off now and see that child in the hospital. dr. vincent, of the north hospital, where the papers say the child is, is friend of mine, and i think of yours since you were in class at amsterdam. he will let two scientists see his case, if he will not let two friends. we shall tell him nothing, but only that we wish to learn. and then -"
    "and then?" he took a key from his pocket and held it up. "and then we spend the night, you and i, in the church-yard where lucy lies. this is the key that lock the tomb. i had it from the coffin-man to give to arthur." my heart sank within me, for i felt that there was some fearful ordeal before us. i could do nothing, however, so i plucked up what heart i could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was passing.
    we found the child awake. it had had a sleep and taken some food, and altogether was going on well. dr. vincent took the bandage from its throat, and showed us the punctures. there was no mistaking the similarity to those which had been on lucy's throat. they were smaller, and the edges looked fresher; that was all. we asked vincent to what he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of some animal, perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he was inclined to think that it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the northern heights of london. "out of so many harmless ones," he said, "there may be sonic wild specimen from the south of a more malignant species. some sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to escape; or even from the zoological gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred there from a vampire. these things do occur, you know. only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, i believe, traced up in this direction. for a week after, the children were playing nothing but red riding hood on the heath and in every alley in the place until this 'bloofer lady' scare came along, since when it has been quite a gala-time with them. even this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked the nurse if he might go away. when she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted to play with the 'bloofer lady.'"
    "i hope," said van helsing, "that when you are sending the child home you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. these fancies to stray are most dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another night, it would probably be fatal. but in any case i suppose you will not let it away for some days?"
    "certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound is not healed."
    our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and the sun had dipped before we came out. when van helsing saw how dark it was, he said:
    "there is no hurry. it is more late than i thought. come, let us seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way."
    we dined at "jack straw's castle" along with a little crowd of bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. about ten o'clock we started from the inn. it was then very dark, and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual radius. the professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he went on unhesitatingly; but, as for me, i was in quite a mix-up as to locality. as we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse police going their usual suburban round. at last we reached the wall of the church-yard, which we climbed over. with some little difficulty - for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us - we found the westenra tomb. the professor took the key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to precede him. there was a delicious irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. my companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring, one. in the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a match-box and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light. the tomb in the day-time, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been imagined it conveyed irresistibly the idea that life - animal life - was not the only thing which could pass away.
    van helsing went about his work systematically. holding his candle so that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he made assurance of lucy's coffin. another search in his bag, and he took out a turnscrew.
    "what are you going to do?" i asked.
    "to open the coffin. you shall yet be convinced." straightway he began taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the casing of lead beneath. the sight was almost too much for me. it seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; i actually took hold of his hand to stop him. he only said: "you shall see," and again fumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fret-saw. striking the turnscrew through the lead with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point of the saw. i had expected a rush of gas from the week-old corpse. we doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed to such things, and i drew back towards the door. but the professor never stopped for a moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side. taking the edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the coffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to look.
    i drew near and looked. the coffin was empty.
    it was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but van helsing was unmoved. he was now more sure than ever of his ground, and so emboldened to proceed in his task. "are you satisfied now, friend john?" he asked.
    i felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as i answered him:
    "i am satisfied that lucy's body is not in that coffin; but that only proves one thing."
    "and what is that, friend john?"
    "that it is not there."
    "that is good logic," he said, "so far as it goes. but how do you - how can you - account for it not being there?"
    "perhaps a body-snatcher," i suggested. "some of the undertaker's people may have stolen it." i felt that i was speaking folly, and yet it was the only real cause which i could suggest. the professor sighed. "ah well!" he said, "we must have more proof. come with me."
    he put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things and placed them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the bag. we opened the door, and went out. behind us he closed the door and locked it. he handed me the key, saying: "will you keep it? you had better be assured." i laughed - it was not a very cheerful laugh, i am bound to say - as i motioned him to keep it. "a key is nothing," i said; "there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of that kind." he said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. then he told me to watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the other. i took up my place behind a yew-tree, and i saw his dark figure move until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my sight.
    it was a lonely vigil. just after i had taken my place i heard a distant clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. i was chilled and unnerved, and angry with the professor for taking me on such an errand and with myself for coming. i was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust; so altogether i had a dreary, miserable time.
    suddenly, as i turned round, i thought i saw something like a white streak, moving between two dark yew-trees at the side of the churchyard farthest from the tomb; at the same time a dark mass moved from the professor's side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. then i too moved; but i had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and i stumbled over graves. the sky was overcast, and somewhere far off an early cock crew. a little way off, beyond a line of scattered juniper-trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white, dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. the tomb itself was hidden by trees, and i could not see where the figure disappeared. i heard the rustle of actual movement where i had first seen the white figure, and coming over, found the professor holding in his arms a tiny child. when he saw me he held it out to me, and said:
    "are you satisfied now?"
    "no," i said, in a way that i felt was aggressive.
    "do you not see the child?"
    "yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? and is it wounded?" i asked.
    "we shall see," said the professor, and with one impulse we took our way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.
    when we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child's throat. it was without a scratch or scar of any kind.
    "was i right?" i asked triumphantly.
    "we were just in time," said the professor thankfully.
    we had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted about it. if we were to take it to a police-station we should have to give some account of our movements during the night; at least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we had come to find the child. so finally we decided that we would take it to the heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would leave it where he could not fail to find it; we would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. all fell out well. at the edge of hampstead heath we heard a policeman's heavy tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. we heard his exclamation of astonishment, and then we went away silently. by good chance we got a cab near the "spaniards," and drove to town.
    i cannot sleep, so i make this entry. but i must try to get a few hours' sleep, as van helsing is to call for me at noon. he insists that i shall go with him on another expedition.

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />(-continued)
    27 september - it was two o'clock before we found a suitable opportunity for our attempt. the funeral held at noon was all completed, and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of alder-trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him. we knew then that we were safe till morning did we desire it; but the professor told me that we should not want more than an hour at most. again i felt that horrid sense of the reality of things, in which any effort of imagination seemed out of place; and i realised distinctly the perils of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. besides, i felt it was all so useless. outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty. i shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for van helsing had a way of going on his own road, no matter who remonstrated. he took the key, opened the vault, and again courteously motioned me to precede. the place was not so gruesome as last night, but oh, how unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine streamed in. van helsing walked over to lucy's coffin, and i followed. he bent over and again forced back the leaden flange; and then a shock of surprise and dismay shot through me.
    there lay lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her funeral. she was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and i could not believe that she was dead. the lips were red, nay redder than before; and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.
    "is this a juggle?" i said to him.
    "are you convinced now?" said the professor in response, and as he spoke he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the dead lips and showed the white teeth.
    "see," he went on, "see, they are even sharper than before. with this and this" - and he touched one of the canine teeth and that below it - "the little children can be bitten. are you of belief now, friend john?" once more, argumentative hostility woke within me. i could not accept such an overwhelming idea as he suggested; so, with an attempt to argue of which i was even at the moment ashamed, i said:
    "she may have been placed here since last night."
    "indeed? that is so, and by whom?"
    "i do not know. some one has done it."
    "and yet she has been dead one week. most peoples in that time would not look so." i had no answer for this, so was silent. van helsing did not seem to notice my silence; at any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor triumph. he was looking intently at the face of the dead woman, raising the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and examining the teeth. then he turned to me and said:
    "here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded; here is some dual life that is not as the common. she was bitten by the vampire when she was in a trance, sleep-walking - oh, you start; you do not know that, friend john, but you shall know it all later - and in trance could he best come to take more blood. in trance she died, and in trance she is un-dead, too. so it is that she differ from all other. usually when the un-dead sleep at home" - as he spoke he made a comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was "home" - "their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was when she not un-dead she go back to the nothings of the common dead. there is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that i must kill her in her sleep." this turned my blood cold, and it began to dawn upon me that i was accepting van helsing's theories; but if she were really dead, what was there of terror in the idea of killing her? he looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he said almost joyously:
    "ah, you believe now?"
    i answered; "do not press me too hard all at once. i am willing to accept. how will you do this bloody work?"
    "i shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and i shall drive a stake through her body." it made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the woman whom i had loved. and yet the feeling was not so strong as i had expected. i was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of this being, this un-dead, as van helsing called it, and to loathe it. is it possible that love is all subjective, or all objective?
    i waited a considerable time for van helsing to begin, but he stood as if wrapped in thought. presently he closed the catch of his bag with a snap, and said:
    "i have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. if i did simply follow my inclining i would do now, at this moment, what is to be done; but there are other things to follow, and things that are thousand times more difficult in that them we do not know. this is simple. she have yet no life taken, though that is of time; and to act now would be to take danger from her for ever. but then we may have to want arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? if you, who saw the wounds on lucy's throat, and saw the wounds so similar on the child's at the hospital; if you, who saw the coffin empty last night and full to-day with a woman who have not change only to be more rose and more beautiful in a whole week, after she die - if you know of this and know of the white figure last night that brought the child to the churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can i expect arthur, who know none of those things, to believe? he doubted me when i took him from her kiss when she was dying. i know he has forgiven me because in some mistaken idea i have done things that prevent him say good-bye as he ought; and he may think that in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive; and that in most mistake of all we have killed her. he will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that have killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy always. yet he never can be sure; and that is the worst of all. and he will sometimes think that she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she must have suffered; and again, he will think that we may be right, and that his so beloved was, after all, an un-dead. no! i told him once, and since then i learn much. now, since i know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do i know that he must pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. he, poor fellow, must have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him; then we can act for good all round and send him peace. my mind is made up. let us go. you return home for to-night to your asylum, and see that all be well. as for me, i shall spend the night here in this churchyard in my own way. to-morrow night you will come to me to the berkeley hotel at ten of the clock. i shall send for arthur to come too, and also that so fine young man of america that gave his blood. later we shall all have work to do. i come with you so far as piccadilly and there dine, for i must be back here before the sun set."
    so we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to piccadilly.

note left by van helsing in his portmanteau, berkeley hotel, directed to john seward, m.d. (not delivered.)

"27 september.

    "friend john,
    "i write this in case anything should happen. i go alone to watch in that churchyard. it pleases me that the un-dead, miss lucy, shall not leave to-night, that so on the morrow night she may be more eager. therefore i shall fix some things she like not - garlic and a crucifix - and so seal up the door of the tomb. she is young as un-dead, and will heed. moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out; they may not prevail on her wanting to get in; for then the un-dead is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance, whatsoever it may be. i shall be at hand all the night from sunset till after the sunrise, and if there be aught that may be learned i shall learn it. for miss lucy, or from her, i have no fear; but that other to whom is there that she is un-dead, he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter. he is cunning, as i know from mr. jonathan and from the way that all along he have fooled us when he played with us for miss lucy's life, and we lost; and in many ways the un-dead are strong. he have always the strength in his hand of twenty men; even we four who gave our strength to miss lucy it also is all to him. besides, he can summon his wolf and i know not what. so if it be that he come thither on this night he shall find me; but none other shall - until it be too late. but it may be that he will not attempt the place. there is no reason why he should; his hunting ground is more full of game than the churchyard where the un-dead woman sleep, and one old man watch.
    "therefore i write this in case... take the papers that are with this, the diaries of harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this great un-dead, and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the world may rest from him.
    "if it be so, farewell.

"van helsing."

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />

dr. seward's diary.

    28 september. - it is wonderful what a good night's sleep will do for one. yesterday i was almost willing to accept van helsing's monstrous ideas; but now they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on common sense. i have no doubt that he believes it all. i wonder if his mind can have become in any way unhinged. surely there must be some rational explanation of all these mysterious things. is it possible that the professor can have done it himself? he is so abnormally clever that if he went off his head he would carry out his intent with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful way. i am loath to think it, and indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the other to find that van helsing was mad; but anyhow i shall watch him carefully. i may get some light on the mystery.
    29 september, morning... last night, at a little before ten o'clock, arthur and quincey came into van helsing's room; he told us all that he wanted us to do, but especially addressing himself to arthur, as if all our wills were centered in his. he began by saying that he hoped we would all come with him too, "for," he said, "there is a grave duty to be done there. you were doubtless surprised at my letter?" this query was directly addressed to lord godalming.
    "i was. it rather upset me for a bit. there has been so much trouble around my house of late that i could do without any more. i have been curious, too, as to what you mean. quincey and i talked it over; but the more we talked, the more puzzled we got, till now i can say for myself that i'm about up a tree as to any meaning about anything."
    "me, too," said quincey morris laconically.
    "oh," said the professor, "then you are nearer the beginning, both of you, than friend john here, who has to go a long way back before he can even get so far as to begin."
    it was evident that he recognised my return to my old doubting frame of mind without my saying a word. then, turning to the other two, he said with intense gravity:
    "i want your permission to do what i think good this night. it is, i know, much to ask; and when you know what it is i propose to do you will know, and only then, how much. therefore may i ask that you promise me in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a time - i must not disguise from myself the possibility that such may be - you shall not blame yourselves for anything."
    "that's frank anyhow," broke in quincey. "i'll answer for the professor. i don't quite see his drift, but i swear he's honest; and that's good enough for me."
    "i thank you, sir," said van helsing proudly. "i have done myself the honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear to me." he held out a hand, which quincey took.
    then arthur spoke out:
    "dr. van helsing, i don't quite like to 'buy a pig in a poke,' as they say in scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a gentleman or my faith as a christian is concerned, i cannot make such a promise. if you can assure me that what you intend does not violate either of these two, then i give my consent at once; though, for the life of me, i cannot understand what you are driving at."
    "i accept your limitation," said van helsing, "and all i ask of you is that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first consider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your reservations."
    "agreed!" said arthur; "that is only fair. and now that the pourparlers are over, may i ask what it is we are to do?"
    "i want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard at kingstead."
    arthur's face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way:
    "where poor lucy is buried?" the professor bowed. arthur went on: "and when there?"
    "to enter the tomb!" arthur stood up.
    "professor, are you in earnest; or it is some monstrous joke? pardon me, i see that you are in earnest." he sat down again, but i could see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. there was silence until he asked again:
    "and when in the tomb?"
    "to open the coffin."
    "this is too much!" he said, angrily rising again. "i am willing to be patient in all things that are reasonable; but in this - this desecration of the grave - of one who -" he fairly choked with indignation. the professor looked pityingly at him.
    "if i could spare you one pang, my poor friend," he said, "god knows i would. but this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame!"
    arthur looked up with set, white face and said:
    "take care, sir, take care!"
    "would it not be well to hear what i have to say?" said van helsing. "and then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. shall i go on?"
    "that's fair enough," broke in morris.
    after a pause van helsing went on, evidently with an effort:
    "miss lucy is dead; is it not so? yes! then there can be no wrong to her. but if she be not dead -"
    arthur jumped to his feet.
    "good god!" he cried. "what do you mean? has there been any mistake; has she been buried alive?" he groaned in anguish that not even hope could soften.
    "i did not say she was alive, my child; i did not think it. i go no further than to say that she might be un-dead."
    "un-dead! not alive! what do you mean? is this all a nightmare, or what is it?"
    "there are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may solve only in part. believe me, we are now on the verge of one. but i have not done. may i cut off the head of dead miss lucy?"
    "heavens and earth, no!" cried arthur in a storm of passion. "not for the wide world will i consent to any mutilation of her dead body. dr. van helsing, you try me too far. what have i done to you that you should torture me so? what did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to cast such dishonour on her grave? are you mad that speak such things, or am i mad that listen to them? don't dare to think more of such a desecration; i shall not give my consent to anything you do. i have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage; and, by god, i shall do it!"
    van helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and said, gravely and sternly:
    "my lord godalming, i, too, have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead; and, by god, i shall do it! all i ask you now is that you come with me, that you look and listen; and if when later i make the same request you do not be more eager for its fulfilment even than i am, then - then i shall do my duty, whatever it may seem to me. and then, to follow of your lordship's wishes, i shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account to you, when and where you will." his voice broke a little, and he went on with a voice full of pity:
    "but, i beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. in a long life of acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did wring my heart, i have never had so heavy a task as now. believe me that if the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one look from you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for i would do what a man can to save you from sorrow. just think. for why should i give myself so much of labour and so much of sorrow? i have come here from my own land to do what i can of good; at the first to please my friend john, and then to help a sweet young lady, whom, too, i came to love. for her - i am ashamed to say so much, but i say it in kindness - i gave what you gave; the blood of my veins; i gave it, i, who was not, like you, her lover, but only her physician and her friend. i gave to her my nights and days - before death, after death; and if my death can do her good even now, when she is the dead un-dead, she shall have it freely." he said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and arthur was much affected by it. he took the old man's hand and said in a broken voice:
    "oh, it is hard to think of it, and i cannot understand; but at least i shall go with you and wait."

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />

chapter xvi.
dr. seward's diary.

    it was just a quarter before twelve o'clock when we got into the churchyard over the low wall. the night was dark, with occasional gleams of moonlight between the rents of the heavy clouds that scudded across the sky. we all kept somehow close together, with van helsing slightly in front as he led the way. when we had come close to the tomb i looked well at arthur, for i feared that the proximity to a place laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him; but he bore himself well. i took it that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some way a counteractant to his grief. the professor unlocked the door, and seeing a natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the difficulty by entering first himself. the rest of us followed, and he closed the door. he then lit a dark lantern and pointed to the coffin. arthur stepped forward hesitatingly; van helsing said to me:
    "you were with me here yesterday. was the body of miss lucy in that coffin?"
    "it was." the professor turned to the rest saying:
    "you hear; and yet there is no one who does not believe with me." he took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin. arthur looked on, very pale but silent; when the lid was removed he stepped forward. he evidently did not know that there was a leaden coffin, or, at any rate, had not thought of it. when he saw the rent in the lead, the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness; he was still silent. van helsing forced back the leaden flange, and we all looked in and recoiled.
    the coffin was empty!
    for several minutes no one spoke a word. the silence was broken by quincey morris:
    "professor, i answered for you. your word is all i want. i wouldn't ask such a thing ordinarily - i wouldn't so dishonour you as to imply a doubt; but this is a mystery that goes beyond any honour or dishonour. is this your doing?"
    "i swear to you by all that i hold sacred that i have not removed nor touched her. what happened was this: two nights ago my friend seward and i came here - with good purpose, believe me. i opened that coffin, which was then sealed up, and we found it, as now empty. we then waited, and saw something white come through the trees. the next day we came here in day-time, and she lay there. did she not, friend john?"
    "yes."
    "that night we were just in time. one more so small child was missing, and we find it, thank god, unharmed amongst the graves. yesterday i came here before sundown, for at sundown the un-dead can move. i waited here all the night till the sun rose, but i saw nothing. it was most probable that it was because i had laid over the clamps of those doors garlic, which the un-dead cannot bear, and other things which they shun. last night there was no exodus, so to-night before the sundown i took away my garlic and other things. and so it is we find this coffin empty. but bear with me. so far there is much that is strange. wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be. so" - here he shut the dark slide of his lantern - "now to the outside." he opened the door, and we filed out, he coming last and locking the door behind him.
    oh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of that vault. how sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and passing - like the gladness and sorrow of a man's life; how sweet it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how humanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city. each in his own way was solemn and overcome. arthur was silent, and was, i could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the mystery. i was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to throw aside doubt and to accept van helsing's conclusions. quincey morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery, with hazard of all he has to stake. not being able to smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew. as to van helsing, he was employed in a definite way. first he took from his bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white napkin; next he took out a double-handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. he crumbled the wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his hands. this he then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb. i was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close, asked him what it was that he was doing. arthur and quincey drew near also, as they too were curious. he answered:
    "i am closing the tomb, so that the un-dead may not enter."
    "and is that stuff you have put there going to do it?" asked quincey. "great scott! is this a game?"
    "it is."
    "what is that which you are using?" this time the question was by arthur. van helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered:
    "the host. i brought it from amsterdam. i have an indulgence." it was an answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the professor's, a purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was impossible to distrust. in respectful silence we took the places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any one approaching. i pitied the others, especially arthur. i had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching horror; and yet i, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink within me. never did tombs look so ghastly white; never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funeral gloom; never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously; never did bough creak so mysteriously; and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.
    there was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and then from the professor a keen "s-s-s-s!" he pointed; and far down the avenue of yews we saw a white figure advance - a dim white figure, which held something dark at its breast. the figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds and showed in startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of the grave. we could not see the face, for it was bent down over what we saw to be a fair-haired child. there was a pause and a sharp little cry, such as a child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before the fire and dreams. we were starting forward, but the professor's warning hand, seen by us as he stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back; and then as we looked the white figure moved forwards again. it was now near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still held. my own heart grew cold as ice, and i could hear the gasp of arthur, as we recognised the features of lucy westenra. lucy westenra, but yet how changed. the sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness. van helsing stepped out, and, obedient to his gesture, we all advanced too; the four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. van helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide; by the concentrated light that fell on lucy's face we could see that the lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her chin and stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.
    we shuddered with horror. i could see by the tremulous light that even van helsing's iron nerve had failed. arthur was next to me, and if i had not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.
    when lucy - i call the thing that was before us lucy because it bore her shape - saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken unawares; then her eyes ranged over us. lucy's eyes in form and colour; but lucy's eyes unclean and full of hell-fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. at that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing; had she then to be killed, i could have done it with savage delight. as she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. oh, god, how it made me shudder to see it! with a careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls over a bone. the child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. there was a cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from arthur; when she advanced to him with outstreched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in his hands.
    she still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace, said:
    "come to me arthur. leave these others and come to me. my arms are hungry for you. come, and we can rest together. come, my husband, come!"
    there was something diabolically sweet in her tones - something of the tingling of glass when struck - which rang through the brains even of us who heard the words addressed to another. as for arthur, he seemed under a spell; moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his arms. she was leaping for them, when van helsing sprang forward and held between them his little golden crucifix. she recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb.
    when within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped as if arrested by some irresistible force. then she turned, and her face was shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no quiver from van helsing's iron nerves. never did i see such baffled malice on a face; and never, i trust, shall such ever be seen again by mortal eyes. the beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw out sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the folds of the flesh were the coils of medusa's snakes, and the lovely, blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of the greeks and japanese. if ever a face meant death - if looks could kill - we saw it at that moment.
    and so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of entry: van helsing broke the silence by asking arthur:
    "answer me, oh my friend! am i to proceed in my work?"
    arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he answered:
    "do as you will, friend; do as you will. there can be no horror like this ever any more;" and he groaned in spirit. quincey and i simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. we could hear the click of the closing lantern as van helsing held it down; coming close to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred emblem which he had placed there. we all looked on in horrified amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our own, pass in through the interstice where scarce a knife-blade could have gone. we all felt a glad sense of relief when we saw the professor calmly restoring the strings of putty to the edges of the door.
    when this was done, he lifted the child and said:
    "come now, my friends; we can do no more till to-morrow. there is a funeral at noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. the friends of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton lock the gate we shall remain. then there is more to do; but not like this of to-night. as for this little one, he is not much harm, and by to-morrow night he shall be well. we shall leave him where the police will find him, as on the other night; and then to home." coming close to arthur, he said:
    "my friend arthur, you have had sore trial; but after, when you will look back, you will see how it was necessary. you are now in the bitter waters, my child. by this time tomorrow you will, please god, have passed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters; so do not mourn overmuch. till then i shall not ask you to forgive me."
    arthur and quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other on the way. we had left the child in safety, and were tired; so we all slept with more or less reality of sleep.

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />(-continued)<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; 29 september, night. - a little before twelve o'clock we three - arthur, quincey morris, and myself - called for the professor. it was odd to notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. of course, arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct. we got to the churchyard by half-past one, and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton, under the belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to ourselves. van helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of fair weight.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; when we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the professor to the tomb. he unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us. then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient to work by. when he again lifted the lid off lucy's coffin we all looked - arthur trembling like an aspen - and saw that the body lay there in all its death-beauty. but there was no love in my own heart, nothing but loathing for the foul thing which had taken lucy's shape without her soul. i could see even arthur's face grow hard as he looked. presently he said to van helsing:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;is this really lucy's body, or only a demon in her shape?&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;it is her body, and yet not it. but wait a while, and you shall see her as she was, and is.&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; she seemed like a nightmare of lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth, the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth - which it made one shudder to see - the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of lucy's sweet purity. van helsing, with his usual methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and placing them ready for use. first he took out a soldering iron and some plumbing solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue flame; then his operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about three feet long. one end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point. with this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households is used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. to me, a doctor's preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on both arthur and quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation. they both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; when all was ready, van helsing said:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and experience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers of the un-dead. when they become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that die from the preying of the un-dead become themselves un-dead, and prey on their kind. and so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown in the water. friend arthur, if you had met that kiss which you know of before poor lucy die; or again, last night when you open your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died, have become nosferatu, as they call it in eastern europe, and would all time make more of those un-deads that so have fill us with horror. the career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. those children whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if she live on, un-dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power over them they come to her; and so she draw their blood with that so wicked mouth. but if she die in truth, then all cease; the tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their plays unknowing ever of what has been. but of the most blessed of all, when this now un-dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we love shall again be free. instead of working wickedness by night and growing more debased in the assimilation of it by day, she shall take her place with the other angels. so that, my friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free. to this i am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better right? will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the night when sleep is not: 'it was my hand that sent her to the stars; it was the hand of him that loved her best; the hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?' tell me if there be such a one amongst us?&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; we all looked at arthur. he saw, too, what we all did, the infinite kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as snow:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;my true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart i thank you. tell me what i am to do, and i shall not falter!&quot; van helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;brave lad! a moment's courage, and it is done. this stake must be driven through her. it will be a fearful ordeal - be not deceived in that - but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great; from this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air. but you must not falter when once you have begun. only think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for you all the time.&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;go on,&quot; said arthur hoarsely. &quot;tell me what i am to do.&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the heart, and the hammer in your right. then when we begin our prayer for the dead - i shall read him, i have here the book, and the others shall follow - strike in god's name, that so all may be well with the dead that we love and that the un-dead pass away.&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. van helsing opened his missal and began to read, and quincey and i followed as well as we could. arthur placed the point over the heart, and as i looked i could see its dint in the white flesh. then he struck with all his might.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; the thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, blood-curdling screech came from the opened red lips. the body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. but arthur never faltered. he looked like a figure of thor as his untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. his face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it gave us courage, so that our voices seemed to ring through the little vault.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; and then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. finally it lay still. the terrible task was over.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; the hammer fell from arthur's hand. he reeled and would have fallen had we not caught him. the great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead, and his breath came in broken gasps. it had indeed been an awful strain on him; and had he not been forced to his task by more than human considerations he could never have gone through with it. for a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the coffin. when we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one to the other of us, we gazed so eagerly that arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad, strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of horror that lay upon it.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; there, in the coffin lay no longer the foul thing that we had so dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but lucy as we had seen her in her life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. true that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth to what we knew. one and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign forever.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; van helsing came and laid his hand on arthur's shoulder, and said to him:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;and now, arthur, my friend, dear lad, am i not forgiven?&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; the reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man's hand in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;forgiven! god bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me peace.&quot; he put his hands on the professor's shoulder, and laying his head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood unmoving. when he raised his head van helsing said to him:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;and now, my child, you may kiss her. kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would have you to, if for her to choose. for she is not a grinning devil now - not any more a foul thing for all eternity. no longer she is the devil's un-dead. she is god's true dead, whose soul is with him!&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and quincey out of the tomb; the professor and i sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body. then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. we soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away. when the professor locked the door he gave the key to arthur.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. there was gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; before we moved away van helsing said:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves. but there remains a greater task: to find out the author of all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. i have clues which we can follow; but it is a long task, and a difficult, and there is danger in it, and pain. shall you not all help me? we have learned to believe, all of us - is it not so? and since so, do we not see our duty? yes! and do we not promise to go on to the better end?&quot;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. then said the professor as we moved off:<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &quot;two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine together at seven of the clock with friend john. i shall entreat two others, two that you know not as yet; and i shall be ready to all our work show and our plans unfold. friend john, you come with me home, for i have much to consult about, and you can help me. to-night i leave for amsterdam, but shall return to-morrow night. and then begins our great quest. but first i shall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread. then our promise shall be made to each other anew; for there is a terrible task before us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare, we must not draw back.&quot;

Count

2016-8-8 18:13 编辑 <br /><br />to be continued...