"She left a note. It said: 'My prince is dead. All is lost without him. May God unite us in heaven.' "
"God? God!" It was a roaring challenge, hurled at the chapel ceiling. The people in the semicircle, who had tentatively begun to edge closer to their prince, now recoiled at once, as if they feared the lightning that might flash instantly to strike him down.
But then Dracula seemed, for a moment, to have forgotten God. Dropping his anguished gaze once more to the dead Elisabeth, he was struck by an oddity in her appearance.
"Why is she—like this? All wet, bloody… Why have her women not seen to it that she is decently prepared?"
Once more in the chapel the terrible silence reigned, now charged as with electricity.
Inevitably the burden of explanation fell to Chesare.
"My son, her women, in their misguided loyalty, were hoping to lay her to rest quickly, here in the chapel, before—" The monk stopped there, as if afraid or uncertain how to proceed.
"Yes? Yes? Before what?"
No answer. Chesare's face was pale.
"Damn you, priest, tell me!"
With great reluctance Father Chesare continued: "She has taken her own life, my son. And of course a suicide may not be buried here in consecrated ground. The women were hoping to conclude the burial in secret, before I, or any other representative of the Church—"
"The Church would refuse her sacred burial?"
"Prince, it is not my choice!" The priest was suddenly almost incoherent in his fear. "Her soul cannot be saved. She is damned. It is God's law…"
Again Prince Dracula cried out wordlessly, deadly rage blended with the scream of a dying animal. Bending his lean but powerful body, he grappled with a massive stone font of holy water that stood near the low stairs and, with the strength of fury, tipped the great weight over. A surge of clear liquid overwhelmed the small puddles of river water, and washed on, reddened by Elisabeth's fresh blood, across the floor of the chapel, splashing the sandaled feet of the hastily retreating monks.
But they were not to be allowed to leave in peace. The furious lord of the castle was advancing on them.
"God's law, you say? Is this to be my reward for defending Christ's holy church? For slaying ten thousand of his enemies? Then to hell with God's law!"
A long moan of fear went up from the onlookers. Father Chesare went stumbling backward in his long robes, emitting wordless whimpers in his terror, afraid even more of the blasphemy than of the man before him. In a trembling hand Chesare raised a small wooden cross, as he might have done to defend himself against Satan himself.
The prince reached out and seized, in a grip of iron, the wrist of the arm that seemed to threaten him with the crucifix.
"Sacrilege!" the monk screamed. "Do not turn your back on Christ! Do not—" The words dissolved in a shriek of pain. The monk's arm was being bent near breaking.
The voice of Dracula was loud and clear. "I renounce God—and all you hypocrites who feed off Him. If my beloved must burn in hell—then so shall I!"
In the next instant a bone in Father Chesare's arm snapped under the pressure of that terrible grip, and the priest collapsed to his knees, emitting a mortal cry of fear and agony, even as the small cross fell from his hand to splash and clatter on the puddled floor.
It seemed that Dracula had already forgotten him. The warrior shouted: "If God would not save her, then to avenge her I will give myself to the powers of darkness!" He spread his arms and roared out: "Let death be my life!"
Again a groan of terror went up from those who watched and listened. There was wild alarm in the chapel, people jamming the doorway in an effort to get out.
Drawing his sword, Dracula turned and charged straight at the great wooden cross atop the altar. With all his furious strength he thrust straight for its center. The wooden symbol shivered under the piercing impact; had any human figure been there, in the position of the Crucified, it would have been impaled near the heart.
First one voice, then another, and another, screamed out that the cross was bleeding from its wound.
The chapel was filled now with a howling mob. Candles and statues were being overturned by people struggling to escape. In the confusion some even stumbled on and trampled the body of the dead woman, and many were later to report that they had seen Christ's blood now mingled on the floor with hers.
The prince, insane with grief and rage, had bounded across the sanctuary to the tabernacle that housed the Blessed Sacrament. Wrenching open the gold doors of the small chamber, he reached inside. His hand emerged gripping the golden communion chalice, whose sacred contents he dashed violently, brutally aside.
Then, springing once more to the side of Elisabeth, he bent to rake the golden goblet through the deepest puddle of bloody holy water. When he had scooped a mouthful into the cup, he raised it high.
" 'The blood is the life,' " he heard himself quoting, from sacred scripture. "And it shall be mine!"
Prince Dracula drank deep.
And with that draft it seemed to him that he was dying.
His was a terrible dying, that went unceasingly on and on.
1
On another sunny spring day more than four hundred years later, and a thousand miles from Castle Dracula, Mina Murray, just twenty years old, had arrived for a long visit at Hillingham House, an impressive estate in suburban London. Only a few hours had passed since the door of the guest room had closed behind the last servant helping the young guest to settle in.
A soft May breeze, laden with the scent of flowers, drifted in through Mina's opened windows, stirring her raven hair as she sat thoughtfully at a table. Her room was of a good size, in keeping with the rest of the house, and cheerfully decorated. It had been quiet until a few minutes ago, but now the peace of the afternoon was broken by the rough, staccato sound of a primitive typewriter, driven by the fingers of an energetic if not yet truly expert typist.
9 May, 1897. I arrived today, and shall be staying with Lucy for some weeks. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is somewhat trying, and I have longed to be with my friend, where we can talk together freely, and build our castles in the air.
Mina paused to consider. Then she typed on.
Lucy and I have told each other all our secrets since I first tutored her at Mrs. Whitehill's school. And now we dream of being married together.
Of course, when Jonathan and I are married, I shall be able to be useful to him, particularly if I can stenograph well enough to take down what he wants to say, and write it out for him on the typewriter at which I am also practicing very hard.
Having come this far with scarcely a hesitation, Mina allowed her energetic fingers to pause. Her smooth forehead creased in a slight frown, disturbing the classic beauty of her face.
"But," she murmured to herself. "It ought to be more—realistic—more businesslike—yes, if I am to be of much help as a solicitor's wife, I must strive to be businesslike!—if I type someone else's words rather than my own."
She considered a moment, looking about for suitable written or printed material, chewing her full red lower lip and frowning. Then, after a hasty and faintly guilty glance around the room, to assure herself that she was quite alone, she opened a drawer in her desk and took out a book: it was a special leatherbound edition of Sir Richard Burton's The Thousand and One Nights.
The edition was special in that it contained a number of illustrations of a kind not openly distributed to the public; and the picture that happened to lie on the page where the book fell open caught at Mina's attention forcibly enough to delay the resumption of typing practice.
Her dark eyes went wide, then narrowed. She was still holding the volume in her lap a minute later, and studying it with absorption, when she heard her name called behind her in a familiar voice.
Turning in startled confusion, Mina instinctively concealed the volume in her lap with a fold of her skirt. Then she relaxed slightly. "Lucy, you gave me a start!"
Lucy Westenra,
redheaded, attractive, and pert, only a few months younger than her friend and guest, briskly entered the sitting room, raising both hands in a gesture of mock horror at the sight of the typewriter.
"Mina, really! Is your ambitious Jon Harker forcing you to waste a beautiful spring day learning that ridiculous machine instead of… of…"
The girl's imagination flagged, but only momentarily. Impish humor suddenly appeared. "… when he could be, well, perhaps forcing you to perform unspeakable acts of desperate passion on the parlor floor."
"Lucy!" Mina was genuinely offended, if only for a moment. "Really, you shouldn't talk about my fiancé in such a way."
"Oh, nooo?"
"No! There's more to marriage than—carnal pleasures…"As Mina turned in her chair and gestured the book she had been holding in her lap slid to the floor.
Lucy was startled at first, then pounced on the volume. "So I see! Spiritual values!"
Both girls burst into laughter. In a moment they were sitting companionably together on the floor, skirts spread around them, investigating the strange book.
"Wherever did you find this, dear?" Lucy demanded.
"In the study, where you suggested I pass an hour—it was on a shelf behind some other books. It caught my interest."
"Something of my late father's, I have no doubt, or my uncle's. What rogues they were. Well, I should think it might catch your interest—look!"
Lucy was pointing at another illustration. This one Mina had not had time to discover in her private reading, and it shocked her now.
"Lucy! Do you suppose that men and women—ever—really do—that?" The question was a serious one, though asked in a light tone.
Lucy shook her red curls pertly. "I did—only last night!"
"Fibber! You didn't!"
"Yes, I did—in my dreams."
Both girls laughed, though Mina did so only after a moment's hesitation, and her expression quickly became thoughtful again.
Her companion took her by the hand, then questioned her in half-playful entreaty. "Jonathan—measures up, as a man, doesn't he? Come on, you can tell Lucy."
Mina's eyes turned dreamy. "We've kissed, that's all, Jonathan and I. Sometimes I… press up to him, and he suddenly grows shy and says good night."
She smiled at her sympathetic listener. "He thinks he's too poor to marry me. He wants to buy me an expensive ring, and I try to tell him it doesn't matter."
Lucy had given up teasing for the moment and was full of sincere admiration. "Mina, you're the most splendid girl in all the world… Anyone would love you."
Mina reached to squeeze her companion's hand. "And you are the one with regiments of men all falling at your feet."
"But not even one marriage proposal. And here I am almost twenty—practically a hag!"
The sound of a reserved masculine throat clearing, professionally discreet, made both girls look around. While Mina hastily closed the book Lucy got to her feet. "What is it, Hobbs?"
The butler's face was imperturbable, that of a man who could not conceivably have any interest in what forbidden pictures young ladies might be looking at, or what they were discussing. Balanced on the fingers of one hand he presented a silver salver bearing a visiting card.
Hobbs announced: "A young gentleman, miss. A Mr. Harker, to see Miss Murray. He is waiting in the garden."
Mina was astonished, pleased, and concerned all at once.
"Jonathan, here?" Murmuring something incoherent in the nature of an excuse, she hurried from the room.
From the wide side terrace of Hillingham an enormous stretch of lawn rolled in a gradual decline toward the broad Thames. The calm expanse of river today was marked with the distant sails of a few small pleasure boats. Much nearer at hand, a pair of peacocks stalked majestically upon the well-kept grass. A garden maze, contrived of tall yew hedges a century old and more, occupied a half acre below the terrace. Adjoining the maze, the family cemetery formed a pleasant and unobtrusive part of the view encompassing the entire parklike grounds.
A nervously energetic young man only a few years older than Mina, fashionably dressed as if for business in the City, was standing in the formal garden, attempting with much good humor but little success to catch a butterfly in his tall top hat. He turned expectantly at the sound of Mina's footsteps hurrying toward him, and his handsome face lit up at the sight of her.
"Jonathan, what are you doing here?" she demanded in surprise, even as she ran into his waiting arms.
Upon being greeted with a proper kiss, she recoiled, though only slightly.
'You've been drinking, in the middle of the day?" Mina knew that was not at all her fiancé's habit.
Jonathan Harker threw his arms wide again, almost losing control of his tall hat in the process.
"Quite drunk, my love, but only with success! And that's fine talk from a man's wife-to-be. You're in the company of a future partner in the firm of Hawkins and Thompkins." With darting gestures he sketched an imaginary signboard in the air. "Hawkins, Thompkins, and Harker—that has a fine sound to it, don't you think?"
"Jonathan! A partnership?" Mina's red lips went round and wide. "How marvelous!"
Harker sobered a trifle. "The truth is that my erstwhile superior and rival for promotion, Mr. Renfield, has finally lost his greedy mind—and I've been promoted in his place."
Only the fact of the promotion, and not the unhappy circumstance that had made it possible, really registered in the young woman's thought. Again she flung herself into her fiancé's arms.
"Oh, Jonathan, I'm so happy for you! Why, this means that we don't have to wait. Doesn't it? Doesn't it? We can be married right away—I must tell Lucy—when shall we be married? When?"
Harker put on his hat, that he might have both hands free to hold her fondly by arms and shoulders. "As soon as I return."
"Return?" Mina was startled anew. "From where?"
"I'm off, this very day, to exotic Eastern Europe. Some business Mr. Renfield's illness prevented his concluding. "
"Tell me all about it."
Linking arms with Mina, Harker began to stroll with her about the garden. Their feet kept more or less automatically to the manicured paths, and from time to time he patted her small hand resting on his forearm. Peacocks screamed out eerie cries before them.
Harker said: "Some nobleman in the exotic wilds of Transylvania is acquiring property—a number of properties—around London, and I am being sent to close the transactions. Money is no object, and our legal fees will be substantial, to say the least. Extraordinary. Can you imagine the power that sort of wealth commands? Think of it, Mina!"
"I'm thinking of our wedding, Jon."
"As I say, we shall be able to be married as soon as I return—now we can make it a grand, expensive affair, that Lucy and all her aristocratic friends will talk about."
Their stroll had brought them near the entrance to the maze of tall yew hedge. Mina stopped, staring into the beginning of the shaded pathway. She said: "I don't really care about them—how they talk. I just want us to be happy—don't you see?"
Her companion was gazing at her fondly. "And we shall be happy, my little nightingale—I know what's best, for both of us."
"Of course. " A small cloud seemed to have come over the sun. "We've waited so long—haven't we?"
This raising, however obliquely, of the subject of time, caused Harker to drop Mina's arm and dig into his waistcoat pocket for his watch. His eyebrows went up.
"I hadn't realized… Darling, I must dash. You aren't to worry, now. I'll write faithfully—"
"Jonathan, I love you!" And Mina surprised them both with the ferocity of her kiss.
2
It was a kiss that Harker looked back on with fond longing a week later. During the seven days since his departure from London the young solicitor had been almost continually aboard one train or another, and by this time had put many weary railway miles behind him, inhaling a great deal of coal smoke in the process.
&nbs
p; His current transportation was a section of the famed Orient Express, which he had ridden from Paris east through Budapest, and which was now bearing him even farther toward the rising sun. The final destination of this train—though Harker did not intend to stay with it that far—was the Bulgarian Black Sea port of Varna.
So far Harker had found the journey tiring, but far from boring. The alterations in customs, language, and scenery that he had encountered had already been more than enough to convince him that he had definitely left the more or less familiar peoples and places of Western Europe far behind.
Harker had foresightedly equipped himself for his trip with several maps, as well as guidebooks and railroad timetables, and had found them very useful. Though for days now his maps had remained almost continually folded in his pockets, he had already studied them sufficiently that in his mind's eye he could visualize in satisfactory detail what they had to say regarding the region he was about to enter.
The district in which his rather mysterious client resided was in the extreme east of the territory known as Transylvania—which meant, of course, "The Land Beyond the Forest." One of the guidebooks consulted by the young solicitor had assured him that every known supersitition in the world was gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the center of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; Harker had an idea that this might make his stay interesting, and planned to ask Count Dracula about some of the more exotic local beliefs.
All during the seventh day of his journey the train seemed to dawdle through a country that impressed the traveler as being full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes little towns or castles appeared on the top of steep hills; sometimes the rails closely followed the course of rivers and streams, which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side to be subject to great floods. At every station, large and small, were groups of people, sometimes crowds, in all sorts of attire. Some reminded Harker of the peasants of France or Germany, with short jackets and round hats and homemade trousers; others he considered very picturesque. He considered the strangest to be the Slovaks, who struck the English visitor as more barbarian than the rest, with big cowboy hats, baggy trousers of dirty white, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, and all studded over with brass nails.
Bram Stoker's Dracula Page 2