Reading Help DRACULA by Bram Stoker Ch.1-12
I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has `
` closed the account most accurately, and today begun a new record. How `
` many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives? `
` `
` To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new `
` hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until the `
` Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance `
` to profit or loss. `
` `
` Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my `
` friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and `
` work. Work! Work! `
` `
` If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good, `
` unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness. `
` `
` `
` `
` MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL `
` `
` 26 July.--I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here. It `
` is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And `
` there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it `
` different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. `
` I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned, `
` but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a `
` letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he `
` said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated `
` from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That `
` is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. `
` `
` Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old `
` habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, `
` and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every `
` night. `
` `
` Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on `
` roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly `
` wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the `
` place. `
` `
` Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that `
` her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would get up `
` in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. `
` `
` Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out `
` her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with `
` her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a `
` very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. `
` `
` Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord `
` Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave `
` town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is `
` counting the moments till he comes. `
` `
` She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and show `
` him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs `
` her. She will be all right when he arrives. `
` `
` `
` 27 July.--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him, `
` though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would write, `
` if it were only a single line. `
` `
` Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving `
` about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot `
` get cold. But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being awakened `
` is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful `
` myself. Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been `
` suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken `
` seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it `
` does not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are `
` a lovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which she had. I `
` pray it will all last. `
` `
` `
` 3 August.--Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not even `
` to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. `
` He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but `
` somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it `
` is his writing. There is no mistake of that. `
` `
` Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an `
` odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even in her `
` sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it `
` locked, goes about the room searching for the key. `
` `
` `
` 6 August.--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting `
` dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I `
` should feel easier. But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since `
` that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience. `
` `
` Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night `
` was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a `
` storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. `
` `
` Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, `
` high over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass, `
` which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, `
` tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into `
` which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The sea is tumbling `
` in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the `
` sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a gray mist. All `
` vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a `
` 'brool' over the sea that sounds like some passage of doom. Dark `
` figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in `
` the mist, and seem 'men like trees walking'. The fishing boats are `
` racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep `
` into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. `
` He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his `
` hat, that he wants to talk. `
` `
` I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he `
` sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say `
` something to you, miss." `
` `
` I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in `
` mine and asked him to speak fully. `
` `
` So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I `
` must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about `
` the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them, and I `
` want ye to remember that when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled, `
` and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think `
` of it, and we don't want to feel scart of it, and that's why I've took `
` to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my own heart a bit. But, `
` Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't `
` want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I `
` be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And `
` I'm so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye `
` see, I can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once. `
` The chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of `
` Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my `
` deary!"--for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this very `
` night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only `
` a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin', and death be all `
` that we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to `
` me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin' `
` and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's `
` bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. `
` Look! Look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and `
` in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells `
` like death. It's in the air. I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer `
` cheerful, when my call comes!" He held up his arms devoutly, and `
` raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a `
` few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, `
` and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me `
` very much. `
` `
` I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his `
` arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time `
` kept looking at a strange ship. `
` `
` "I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look of `
` her. But she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know `
` her mind a bit. She seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide `
` whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there `
` again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand `
` on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear more `
` of her before this time tomorrow." `
` `
` `
` `
` `
` CHAPTER 7 `
` `
` `
` CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH", 8 AUGUST `
` `
` `
` (PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL) `
` `
` `
` From a correspondent. `
` `
` Whitby. `
` `
` One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been `
` experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather `
` had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the `
` month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, `
` and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits `
` to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, `
` and the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The steamers `
` Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there was `
` an unusual amount of 'tripping' both to and from Whitby. The day `
` was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who `
` frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence `
` watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called `
` attention to a sudden show of 'mares tails' high in the sky to the `
` northwest. The wind was then blowing from the south-west in the `
` mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked 'No. 2, light `
` breeze.' `
` `
` The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old fisherman, `
` who for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs `
` from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a `
` sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so `
` grand in its masses of splendidly coloured clouds, that there was `
` quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old `
`
` closed the account most accurately, and today begun a new record. How `
` many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives? `
` `
` To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new `
` hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until the `
` Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance `
` to profit or loss. `
` `
` Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my `
` friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and `
` work. Work! Work! `
` `
` If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good, `
` unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness. `
` `
` `
` `
` MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL `
` `
` 26 July.--I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here. It `
` is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And `
` there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it `
` different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. `
` I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned, `
` but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a `
` letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he `
` said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated `
` from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That `
` is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. `
` `
` Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old `
` habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, `
` and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every `
` night. `
` `
` Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on `
` roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly `
` wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the `
` place. `
` `
` Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that `
` her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would get up `
` in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. `
` `
` Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out `
` her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with `
` her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a `
` very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. `
` `
` Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord `
` Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave `
` town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is `
` counting the moments till he comes. `
` `
` She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and show `
` him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs `
` her. She will be all right when he arrives. `
` `
` `
` 27 July.--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him, `
` though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would write, `
` if it were only a single line. `
` `
` Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving `
` about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot `
` get cold. But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being awakened `
` is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful `
` myself. Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been `
` suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken `
` seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it `
` does not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are `
` a lovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which she had. I `
` pray it will all last. `
` `
` `
` 3 August.--Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not even `
` to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. `
` He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but `
` somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it `
` is his writing. There is no mistake of that. `
` `
` Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an `
` odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even in her `
` sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it `
` locked, goes about the room searching for the key. `
` `
` `
` 6 August.--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting `
` dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I `
` should feel easier. But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since `
` that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience. `
` `
` Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night `
` was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a `
` storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. `
` `
` Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, `
` high over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass, `
` which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, `
` tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into `
` which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The sea is tumbling `
` in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the `
` sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a gray mist. All `
` vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a `
` 'brool' over the sea that sounds like some passage of doom. Dark `
` figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in `
` the mist, and seem 'men like trees walking'. The fishing boats are `
` racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep `
` into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. `
` He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his `
` hat, that he wants to talk. `
` `
` I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he `
` sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say `
` something to you, miss." `
` `
` I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in `
` mine and asked him to speak fully. `
` `
` So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I `
` must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about `
` the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them, and I `
` want ye to remember that when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled, `
` and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think `
` of it, and we don't want to feel scart of it, and that's why I've took `
` to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my own heart a bit. But, `
` Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't `
` want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I `
` be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And `
` I'm so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye `
` see, I can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once. `
` The chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of `
` Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my `
` deary!"--for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this very `
` night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only `
` a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin', and death be all `
` that we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to `
` me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin' `
` and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's `
` bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. `
` Look! Look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and `
` in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells `
` like death. It's in the air. I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer `
` cheerful, when my call comes!" He held up his arms devoutly, and `
` raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a `
` few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, `
` and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me `
` very much. `
` `
` I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his `
` arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time `
` kept looking at a strange ship. `
` `
` "I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look of `
` her. But she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know `
` her mind a bit. She seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide `
` whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there `
` again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand `
` on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear more `
` of her before this time tomorrow." `
` `
` `
` `
` `
` CHAPTER 7 `
` `
` `
` CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH", 8 AUGUST `
` `
` `
` (PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL) `
` `
` `
` From a correspondent. `
` `
` Whitby. `
` `
` One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been `
` experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather `
` had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the `
` month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, `
` and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits `
` to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, `
` and the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The steamers `
` Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there was `
` an unusual amount of 'tripping' both to and from Whitby. The day `
` was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who `
` frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence `
` watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called `
` attention to a sudden show of 'mares tails' high in the sky to the `
` northwest. The wind was then blowing from the south-west in the `
` mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked 'No. 2, light `
` breeze.' `
` `
` The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old fisherman, `
` who for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs `
` from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a `
` sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so `
` grand in its masses of splendidly coloured clouds, that there was `
` quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old `
`