3 May. Bistritz. —Left Munich at 8:35 P. M, on 1st May, arriving
at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but
train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from
the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could
walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station,
as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as
possible.
The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and
entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the
Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the
traditions of Turkish rule.
We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to
. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I
had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with
red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for
Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called “paprika
hendl,” and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to
get it anywhere along the Carpathians.
I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I
don’t know how I should be able to get on without it.
Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had
visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and
maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that
some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some
importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country.
I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the
country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania,
Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains;
one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe.
I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact
locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this
country as yet to compare with our own Ordnance Survey Maps; but I
found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a
fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as
they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with
Mina.
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct
nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the
Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the
West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the
latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This
may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the
eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it.
I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered
into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of
some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very
interesting. (Mem., I must ask the Count all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for
I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night
under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it
may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in
my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was
wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must
have been sleeping soundly then.
I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of
maize flour which they said was “mamaliga”, and egg-plant stuffed
with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call “impletata”.
(Mem.,get recipe for this also.)
I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before
eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the
station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour
before we began to move.
It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual
are the trains. What ought they to be in China?
All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was
full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or
castles on the top of steep hills such as we see in old missals;
sometimes we ran by rivers and streams which seemed from the wide
stony margin on each side of them to be subject of great floods. It
takes a lot of water, and running strong, to sweep the outside edge
of a river clear.
At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds,
and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the
peasants at home or those I saw coming through France and Germany,
with short jackets, and round hats, and home-made trousers; but
others were very picturesque.
The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they
were very clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves
of some kind or other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of
strips of something fluttering from them like the dresses in a
ballet, but of course there were petticoats under them.
The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more
barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy
dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy
leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass
nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them,
and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very
picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would
be set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They
are, however, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in
natural self-assertion.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz,
which is a very interesting old place. Being practically on the
frontier—for the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina—it has had
a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty
years ago a series of great fires took place, which made terrible
havoc on five separate occasions. At the very beginning of the
seventeenth century it underwent a siege of three weeks and lost
13,000 people, the casualties of war proper being assisted by
famine and disease.
Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel,
which I found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned,
for of course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the
country.
I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a
cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress—white
undergarment with a long double apron, front, and back, of coloured
stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty. When I came close she
bowed and said, “The Herr Englishman?”
“Yes,” I said, “Jonathan Harker.”
She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white
shirt-sleeves, who had followed her to the door.
He went, but immediately returned with a letter:
“My friend.—Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting
you. Sleep well tonight. At three tomorrow the will start
for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my
carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your
journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy
your stay in my beautiful land.—Your friend, Dracula.”
4 May—I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count,
directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on
making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and
pretended that he could not understand my German.
This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it
perfectly; at least, he answered my questions exactly as if he
did.
He and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at
each other in a frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the
money had been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I
asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of
his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying
that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. It
was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask anyone
else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means
comforting.
Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and
said in a hysterical way: “Must you go? Oh! Young Herr, must you
go?” She was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost
her grip of what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some
other language which I did not know at all. I was just able to
follow her by asking many questions. When I told her that I must go
at once, and that I was engaged on important business, she asked
again:
“Do you know what day it is?” I answered that it was the fourth
of May. She shook her head as she said again:
“Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it
is?”
On my saying that I did not understand, she went on:
“It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that
to-night, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in
the world will have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and
what you are going to?” She was in such evident distress that I
tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally, she went down on
her knees and implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two
before starting.
It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable.
However, there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing
to interfere with it.
I tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I
thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go.
She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her
neck offered it to me.
I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have
been taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous,
and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so
well and in such a state of mind.
She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary
round my neck and said, “For your mother’s sake,” and went out of
the room.
I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting for
the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still
round my neck.
Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the many ghostly
traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know,
but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual.
If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my
good-bye. Here comes the coach!
5 May. The Castle.—The gray of the morning has passed, and the
sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether
with trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big
things and little are mixed.
I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake,
naturally I write till sleep comes.
There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them
may fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put
down my dinner exactly.
I dined on what they called “robber steak”—bits of bacon, onion,
and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks, and
roasted over the fire, in simple style of the London cat’s
meat!
The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on
the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable.
I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
When I got on the coach, the driver had not taken his seat, and
I saw him talking to the landlady.
They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they
looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench
outside the door—came and listened, and then looked at me, most of
them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer
words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd, so I quietly
got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out.
I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were
“Ordog”—Satan, “Pokol”—hell, “stregoica”—witch, “vrolok” and
“vlkoslak”—both mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other
Servian for something that is either werewolf or vampire. (Mem.,I
must ask the Count about these superstitions.)
When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this
time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross
and pointed two fingers towards me.
With some difficulty, I got a fellow passenger to tell me what
they meant. He would not answer at first, but on learning that I
was English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the
evil eye.
This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown
place to meet an unknown man. But everyone seemed so kind-hearted,
and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be
touched.
I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn
yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves,
as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich
foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the
centre of the yard.
Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole
front of the boxseat,—”gotza” they call them—cracked his big whip
over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on
our journey.
I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the
beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had I known the
language, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were
speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off so easily.
Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with
here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with
farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a
bewildering mass of fruit blossom—apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as
we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled
with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills of
what they call here the “Mittel Land” ran the road, losing itself
as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the
straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the
hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we
seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand
then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on
losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road
is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in
order after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from
the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old
tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of old
the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think
that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten
the war which was always really at loading point.
Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty
slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians
themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon
sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious
colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the
shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled,
and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till
these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks
rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains,
through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the
white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm
as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty,
snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our
serpentine way, to be right before us.
“Look! Isten szek!”—”God’s seat!”—and he crossed himself
reverently.
As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower
behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This
was emphasized by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held
the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here
and there we passed Cszeks and slovaks, all in picturesque attire,
but I noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside
were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed
themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling
before a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached, but
seemed in the self-surrender of devotion to have neither eyes nor
ears for the outer world. There were many things new to me. For
instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very beautiful
masses of weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver
through the delicate green of the leaves.
Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon—the ordinary peasants’s
cart—with its long, snakelike vertebra, calculated to suit the
inequalities of the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a
group of homecoming peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the
Slovaks with their coloured sheepskins, the latter carrying
lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end. As the evening
fell it began to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to
merge into one dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech,
and pine, though in the valleys which ran deep between the spurs of
the hills, as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out
here and there against the background of late lying snow. Sometimes,
as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the
darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness which
here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and
solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies
engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw
into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the
Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes
the hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the
horses could only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them,
as we do at home, but the driver would not hear of it. “No, no,” he
said. “You must not walk here. The dogs are too fierce.” And then
he added, with what he evidently meant for grim pleasantry—for he
looked round to catch the approving smile of the rest—”And you may
have enough of such matters before you go to sleep.” The only stop
he would make was a moment’s pause to light his lamps.
When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the
passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as
though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses
unmercifully with his long whip, and with wild cries of
encouragement urged them on to further exertions. Then through the
darkness I could see a sort of patch of grey light ahead of us, as
though there were a cleft in the hills. The excitement of the
passengers grew greater. The crazy coach rocked on its great
leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. I
had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared to fly
along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each side
and to frown down upon us. We were entering on the Borgo Pass. One
by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they
pressed upon me with an earnestness which would take no denial.
These were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given
in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that
same strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I had seen
outside the hotel at Bistritz— the sign of the cross and the guard
against the evil eye. Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned
forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the edge of
the coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was evident that
something very exciting was either happening or expected, but
though I asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest
explanation. This state of excitement kept on for some little time.
And at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern
side. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the
heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the
mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had
got into the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the
conveyance which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I
expected to see the glare of lamps through the blackness, but all
was dark. The only light was the flickering rays of our own lamps,
in which the steam from our hard-driven horses rose in a white
cloud. We could see now the sandy road lying white before us, but
there was on it no sign of a vehicle. The passengers drew back with
a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. I
was already thinking what I had best do, when the driver, looking
at his watch, said to the others something which I could hardly
hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone, I thought it
was “An hour less than the time.” Then turning to me, he spoke in
German worse than my own.
“There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all.
He will now come on to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or the next
day, better the next day.” Whilst he was speaking the horses began
to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to
hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants
and a universal crossing of themselves, a caleche, with four
horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the
coach. I could see from the flash of our lamps as the rays fell on
them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They
were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great
black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could only see
the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the
lamplight, as he turned to us.
He said to the driver, “You are early tonight, my friend.”
The man stammered in reply, “The English Herr was in a
hurry.”
To which the stranger replied, “That is why, I suppose, you
wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend.
I know too much, and my horses are swift.”
As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hardlooking
mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as
ivory. One of my companions whispered to another the line from
Burger’s “Lenore”.
“Denn die Todten reiten Schnell.” (“For the dead travel
fast.”)
The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up
with a gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the
same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. “Give
me the Herr’s luggage,” said the driver, and with exceeding
alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the caleche. Then I
descended from the side of the coach, as the caleche was close
alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught my arm in
a grip of steel. His strength must have been prodigious.
Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we
swept into the darkness of the pass. As I looked back I saw the
steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and
projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing
themselves. Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his
horses, and off they swept on their way to Bukovina. As they sank
into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling come
over me. But a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across
my knees, and the driver said in excellent German—
“The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me
take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum
brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you should require
it.”
I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there
all the same. I felt a little strangely, and not a little
frightened. I think had there been any alternative I should have
taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night journey. The
carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we made a
complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed to me
that we were simply going over and over the same ground again, and
so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was so. I
would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but
I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any
protest would have had no effect in case there had been an
intention to delay.
By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was
passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch. It
was within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock,
for I suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased
by my recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of
suspense.
Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the
road, a long, agonized wailing, as if from fear. The sound was
taken up by another dog, and then another and another, till, borne
on the wind which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild
howling began, which seemed to come from all over the country, as
far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the
night.
At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the
driver spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but
shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright.
Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each side of
us began a louder and a sharper howling, that of wolves, which
affected both the horses and myself in the same way. For I was
minded to jump from the caleche and run, whilst they reared again
and plunged madly, so that the driver had to use all his great
strength to keep them from bolting. In a few minutes, however, my
own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became
quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before
them.
He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their
ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary
effect, for under his caresses they became quite manageable again,
though they still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and
shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after
going to the far side or the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow
roadway which ran sharply to the right.
Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right
over the roadway till we passed as through a tunnel. And again
great frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we
were in shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and
whistled through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed
together as we swept along. It grew colder and colder still, and
fine, powdery snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us
were covered with a white blanket. The keen wind still carried the
howling of the dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on our
way. The baying of the wolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though
they were closing round on us from every side. I grew dreadfully
afraid, and the horses shared my fear. The driver, however, was not
in the least disturbed. He kept turning his head to left and right,
but I could not see anything through the darkness.
Suddenly, away on our left I saw a fain flickering blue flame.
The driver saw it at the same moment. He at once checked the
horses, and, jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness.
I did not know what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves
grew closer. But while I wondered, the driver suddenly appeared
again, and without a word took his seat, and we resumed our
journey. I think I must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the
incident, for it seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking
back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame appeared
so near the road, that even in the darkness around us I could watch
the driver’s motions. He went rapidly to where the blue flame
arose, it must have been very faint, for it did not seem to
illumine the place around it at all, and gathering a few stones,
formed them into some device.
Once there appeared a strange optical effect. When he stood
between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see
its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but as the
effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me
straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue
flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of
the wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving
circle.
At last there came a time when the driver went further afield
than he had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to
tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I
could not see any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had
ceased altogether. But just then the moon, sailing through the
black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling,
pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves,
with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs
and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more terrible in the
grim silence which held them than even when they howled. For
myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man
feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand
their true import.
All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had
had some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and
reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way
painful to see. But the living ring of terror encompassed them on
every side, and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to
the coachman to come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was
to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach, I
shouted and beat the side of the caleche, hoping by the noise to
scare the wolves from the side, so as to give him a chance of
reaching the trap. How he came there, I know not, but I heard his
voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards
the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms,
as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell
back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across
the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.
When I could see again the driver was climbing into the caleche,
and the wolves disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny
that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or
move. The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in
almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the
moon.
We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent,
but in the main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of
the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in
the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black
windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a
jagged line against the sky.
