Bram Stoker's Dracula Page 5

  Harker got out his straight razor, honed the edge rhythmically on the short leather strop, and presently began to shave, humming lightly to himself a tune from Gilbert and Sullivan. Bright sunshine, chirping sparrows near his window, and the sense of having successfully concluded an unusual item of business, combined to drive away vague terrors and apprehensions.

  He told himself that last night many things—the strangeness of the journey, the wolves, the peculiarities of his eccentric client—had combined to have a strong effect upon his nerves. But this morning he felt that he had put all such dreams and vapors behind him.

  Small wonder, though, Harker mused to himself, that his predecessor, poor Renfield, had suffered seriously from his journey to these regions. Harker wasn't sure whether Renfield had actually stayed at Castle Dracula, or had even reached it—he would have to ask his host about that. But any man with the least tendency toward—well, toward instability—on being subjected to such strains—

  "Good morning."

  The words were spoken so close behind Harker, so distinctly uttered in the middle of a room shown by the shaving mirror to be completely devoid of other people, that the young man could not repress a start as he whirled around. The razor in his hand inevitably inflicted a small nick on his chin.

  Count Dracula, garbed as on the previous night, his face fixed in a faint smile, was standing little more than an arm's length behind him.

  Muttering some kind of response to the salutation, Harker involuntarily turned back, wondering, to the shaving glass. His eyes and brain confirmed the incredible fact that the mirror presented no image at all of his visitor, though every other object in the room was plainly reflected.

  Obviously his host was aware of his confusion. But it was equally obvious that no explanation was going to be offered.

  "Take care!" warned Dracula, demonstrating a sudden anger. "Take care how you cut yourself! In this country it is more dangerous than you think!"

  The count stepped forward, causing his young guest to recoil involuntarily.

  "And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief! It is a foul bauble of man's vanity. Away with it!" Harker, later trying to remember exactly what happened in the next moment, could never be quite sure. It seemed to him that Dracula had never actually touched the little mirror, but that the glass warped and distorted of itself, and in another instant broke, sending a spray of sharp bright fragments onto the carpet.

  While Harker stood stunned, the count, moving calmly and deliberately, plucked the razor from the young man's almost nerveless hand. Harker saw him turn his back and raise his hands toward his own face—and the count's red-sleeved arms and shoulder moved with a spasmodic shudder.

  Turning once more to face Harker, Dracula was still for a moment, poised in the pose of a barber—or an assassin—right hand still clutching the bright steel. Dimly Harker, who had momentarily ceased to breathe, noted that the blade had been wiped clean—somehow—of lather and of the trace of blood.

  Dracula licked his red lips. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, the old man demanded: "The letters I requested—have you written them?"

  The young man gasped. "Yes, sir—they are on the table."

  "Good."

  With a motion of his chin and hand Dracula indicated that Harker should remain still; then with a gentle motion of his left hand under Harker's chin, he tilted up his half-shaven face into the full light of the open window.

  The sharpness of the razor approached the cheek that was still lathered and unshaven; the steel edge caressed the skin there delicately and efficiently—a movement under exquisitely precise control.

  Meanwhile Harker remained in exactly the position where he had been posed; it seemed to him that his body knew it must not move a fraction of an inch, that it dared not even quiver with the fear that was making his heart pound.

  A razor, in the hand of a madman, of a monster…

  Another delicate stroke of steel, removing nothing but whiskers and lather. And yet another gentle stroke. Abstractedly, seeming to concentrate his entire attention on the job of shaving, the count spoke in a kind of monotone, as if he were only musing aloud.

  "Let me advise you, my dear young friend… nay, let me warn you, with all seriousness… should you leave these rooms, you will not by chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories… and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely…"

  The old man's voice trailed off. Harker could see that Dracula's burning eyes were fixed on his throat, or rather just below it—on the place where the Gypsy's rosary must now be visible under his collar, which was opened now for shaving.

  "I'm sure I understand," Harker heard himself whispering. "I have seen—strange things here already."

  But perhaps the count did not hear this remark, for he had already turned away, leaving the job of shaving still incomplete. The razor, this time unwiped, suddenly lay on the table where the three letters were no longer; and the room's thick door slammed shut with a heavy sound, which seemed to bear a burden of finality.

  4

  This evening the great hall at Hillingham was coming alive with conversation and subdued laughter—a harpist, having tuned up, was beginning to play tunes from the latest Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. One carriage after another was pulling in along the great curving drive, stopping to discharge elegantly dressed guests, then pulling away again to wait for their departure.

  Near the middle of the hall a frail, gray-haired woman, elegantly gowned, stood greeting the succession of arriving guests. This was Mrs. Westenra, Lucy's widowed mother and owner of the estate. Mrs. Westenra's health had been poor for a long time, and between arrivals she rested on a divan, fanning herself.

  Mina had finished dressing for the party and had come out of her room, but she had not yet joined the small throng below. Instead she lingered reluctantly on the top landing of the main stair, observing below the gaiety so much out of tune with her own feelings.

  In the days since Jonathans departure Mina had spent much of her time worrying about her fiancé, far off in Eastern Europe, though she kept trying to tell herself that her worries were unreasonable. It did not help that more than a week had passed and she had received no communication from Jonathan except one brief letter, posted in Paris, and containing no real news.

  Lucy, in her new party dress, now came hurrying along the upstairs hall. "There you are! Mina, come on down. Someone simply has to help me entertain them all tonight. Mother enjoys parties as a rule, but she's not really up to them any longer."

  Mina said distantly: "I'll be down in a moment…"

  "Oh, come! It will be good for you, distract you from your worries about Jonathan."

  Catching her reflection in a wall mirror, Lucy primped at her red hair. "I'm so happy I don't know what to do with myself! I think I'm about to have three marriage proposals in one evening. Oh, Mina, I hope there is enough of me to share!"

  That was enough to distract Mina despite herself. "You certainly can't marry all three!"

  "Why not?" Lucy turned to her friend. Her question seemed almost serious; certainly it sounded like a plea for help. "Tell me, why can't a girl marry three men, or as many as want her?"

  Mina was saved from having to attempt an explanation when Lucy was distracted by the latest arrival in the hall below. She whispered excitedly: "Here comes one of my three now!"

  The newest guest at the party presented a striking figure indeed, that of a tall, dark-mustached young man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and boots belonging to the American west. All of his clothing looked expensive, but by London standards definitely unconventional. Occasionally visible under the skirt of his coat at his left side was a long leather sheath evidently depending from his belt.

  Mina was fascinated despite herself. "What is that?"

  Lucy said proudly: "That is a Texan. Quincey P. Morris. A friend of Arthur's, and also of Dr. Seward. The three of them have been adventuring all over
the world."

  "And Mr. Morris has proposed to you?"

  "Well—I expect him to do so at any moment. Isn't it wonderful, Mina? He's so young and fresh. I can imagine him as—as a wild stallion, between my legs."

  Mina blushed, and at the same time had to stifle an improper laugh. "You are positively indecent!"

  "I know—don't worry, dear, I only say those things to make you blush; you do it so prettily."

  "I really hope that is the only reason you say them.

  And what is that sheathed object Mr. Morris carries under his coat?"

  Lucy struggled with her own laughter. "Dear Quincey carries with him everywhere a very impressive—tool!"

  "Lucy!"

  "But he does, dear—he truly does. I'll show you!" And Lucy went skipping down the stair, only adopting a somewhat more sedate pace when she reached the floor below and moved to welcome Quincey.

  Mina watched from upstairs as Lucy took his arm, freely sidling up to the tall man in a way that brought a frosty glance of disapproval from her mother on the other side of the great hall.

  A moment later Lucy had actually reached under the Texan's coat and drawn an enormous bowie knife from its sheath, waving the footlong blade gaily in the direction of Mina, who was just beginning to descend the stairs.

  For half an hour Mina mingled dutifully with other guests. Then she again drifted to the fringe of the party. She was momentarily alone with her thoughts, struggling with her worries concerning Jonathan, when Lucy once more approached her.

  This time the red-haired girl was quietly ecstatic. "They're all here. I do think I'm about to have three marriage proposals in one day. What shall I do?"

  Mina scarcely knew whether to laugh or to worry seriously about her friend's romantic difficulties. "Then the Texan has proposed?"

  "Yes!"

  Mina looked for Mr. Quincey Morris and discovered him on the other side of the room, gazing soulfully in Lucy's direction. "I am almost afraid to ask what?'

  "Marriage!" Lucy, concentrating entirely on her own feelings, was oblivious to the dry humor in Mina's question.

  She gave the impression of hanging balanced between joy and panic. "I told him there's, another… I did not say two others, but actually they're all going to be here—look, that's Dr. Jack Seward coming in now."

  At the far end of the great hall an intense-looking man in his early thirties was just giving his hat and gloves into the custody of a servant.

  "He's brilliant," Lucy went on. "Still young enough to be interesting, but already has an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care. I thought he would just do for you, if you were not already engaged."

  "Lunatics! I see. And so naturally you thought of me."

  There was a touch of cruelty in Lucy's laughter. Then her face, as she gazed past Mina's shoulder, took on an expression Mina had not seen her wear before.

  Turning, Mina beheld a man she had heard of but not yet met entering the hall. A guest who could only be the Honorable Arthur Holmwood, the future Lord Godalming, had arrived close on the heels of Dr. Seward. Holmwood, wealthy, handsome, and imperious, was exchanging uneasy looks with the doctor.

  "Number three?" Mina inquired softly.

  She received no verbal reply, but there was really no need for one. The answer was plain in Lucy's face, and reflected in the joy demonstrated in turn by the latest arrival, as she hurried across the crowded floor to meet him.

  5

  On that same night, in the remote Carpathians, the young solicitor Jonathan Harker was entering the library of Castle Dracula. There he found the count lying on the sofa, reading ("of all things," as Harker later commented in his journal) an English Bradshaw's guide, a compendium of schedules for the railway system and other means of transportation.

  Harker stopped in his tracks upon thus encountering his host. But the count, his manner as cheerful and pleasant as if there had never been any such difficulties as mirrors and razors between them, sat up and greeted his young guest in a hearty way.

  "I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will interest you. These friends"—and here Dracula laid his long-nailed hand on some of the books—"have been good friends to me, and for some years past have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to know her is to love her. But alas, as yet I know your tongue only through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak."

  "But, Count," Harker assured him, "you know and speak English thoroughly!"

  Dracula, still sitting on the sofa, nodded gravely. "I thank you, my friend, for your all-too-flattering estimate, but yet I fear I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them."

  "Indeed," the young Englishman persisted, "you speak excellently."

  "Not so," the old man answered. "Well I know that did I move and speak in your London, none there are among your countrymen who would not know me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble; I am boyar; the common people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men know him not—and to know not is to care not for.

  "I have been so long master that I would be master still—or at least that none other should be master of me."

  Harker could only agree with this view, which he considered quite reasonable; and for some time the conversation proceeded, as between two rational and intelligent men, touching on many subjects.

  Only when the young man raised the subject of his possible departure from the castle was he brusquely dismissed.

  The days passed for Harker largely in slumber, and the nights in reading or wandering, or long rambling conversations with the count. To Harker time seemed to perish, in a kind of eerie monotony of existence, until he could no longer feel absolutely certain of the dates he wrote down in his journal.

  The hardest thing to bear was his concern for Mina—the pride she had felt in his achievement must long ago have turned to worry, and then to fear—not only for his safety, but that the lack of any word from him might mean his love had cooled, even that he had been unfaithful.

  Eventually a night came when the young man left his rooms determined to dare a bolder exploration of the castle than any he had yet attempted in his weeks of involuntary confinement.

  Gradually he had become convinced that his condition in this place could only be described as confinement. As his time as an increasingly unwilling guest had lengthened into weeks, his methodical explorations, first tentative, then carried on with increasing urgency, had brought him to a dread discovery; there were doors, doors, doors everywhere, but almost all of them the doors of a fortress, locked and bolted! In no place save from the high windows was there an available exit.

  The castle was a veritable prison, and he was indeed a prisoner!

  When Harker reached that conclusion, a wild feeling came over him. he rushed up and down stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window he could find. But the conviction of helplessness soon overpowered all other feelings.

  At that point he sat down quietly—as quietly as he had ever done anything in his life—and began to think.

  Of one thing only was he immediately certain—that it was no use making his ideas or fears on the subject known to the count. If he, Harker, was indeed a prisoner, the count was well aware of the fact, being himself responsible.

  This night, having as he thought already explored every available downward path that might logically have led him to some opportunity for escape, Harker tried a new tactic and went up. An ascending stone stair he had not tried before brought him to a vantage points from which he could look out of the castle toward the south, over miles of the surrounding countryside. Straight below him lay nothing but a terrible precipice, of castle wall atop sheer cliff, and at last a river, perhaps a thousand feet below. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it was, as compared with the na
rrow darkness of the courtyard, all that was visible from the windows of his apartment.

  Rejoicing in the momentary sense of freedom, he gazed out over the beautiful countryside, bathed in soft yellow moonlight, so that there was an illusion of almost daylight visibility. In the soft radiance the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges were of velvety blackness.

  Here, Harker, despite the increasing certainty that he was indeed a captive, found a measure of peace and comfort in every breath he drew. But presently, as the young Englishman leaned from the window, his eye was caught by some object moving on the castle wall a level below him and somewhat to his left. It was there he imagined, from what he knew of the interior order of the rooms, that the windows of the count's own chamber must probably lie.

  The window at which Harker had found his observation post was tall and deep. He drew back behind the stonework at its side and looked out carefully.

  In a moment Harker saw the count's head emerging from the lower window. He did not see the face, but, even at a little distance and by moonlight, knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case, Harker thought, he could not ever possibly mistake those hands.

  Harker's feelings of curiosity changed to repulsion and terror when he observed the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, facedown, with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings.

  At first the young man watching could not believe his eyes. He thought what he was seeing must be some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow. But soon he was forced to admit his conviction that it could be no delusion.

  What manner of man was this, or what manner of creature in the semblance of a man?