Complete Works of Bram Stoker (350 page)

The next day I took a course slightly more to the eastward.  I had no difficulty in keeping a straight path, for, once I had rowed across the creek, the old church of St. Sava rose before me in stately gloom.  This was the spot where many generations of the noblest of the Land of the Blue Mountains had from time immemorial been laid to rest, amongst them the Vissarions.  Again, I found the opposite cliffs pierced here and there with caves, some with wide openings,  —  others the openings of which were partly above and partly below water.  I could, however, find no means of climbing the cliff at this part, and had to make a long detour, following up the line of the creek till further on I found a piece of beach from which ascent was possible.  Here I ascended, and found that I was on a line between the Castle and the southern side of the mountains.  I saw the church of St. Sava away to my right, and not far from the edge of the cliff.  I made my way to it at once, for as yet I had never been near it.  Hitherto my excursions had been limited to the Castle and its many gardens and surroundings.  It was of a style with which I was not familiar  —  with four wings to the points of the compass.  The great doorway, set in a magnificent frontage of carved stone of manifestly ancient date, faced west, so that, when one entered, he went east.  To my surprise  —  for somehow I expected the contrary  —  I found the door open.  Not wide open, but what is called ajar  —  manifestly not locked or barred, but not sufficiently open for one to look in.  I entered, and after passing through a wide vestibule, more like a section of a corridor than an ostensible entrance, made my way through a spacious doorway into the body of the church.  The church itself was almost circular, the openings of the four naves being spacious enough to give the appearance of the interior as a whole, being a huge cross.  It was strangely dim, for the window openings were small and high-set, and were, moreover, filled with green or blue glass, each window having a colour to itself.  The glass was very old, being of the thirteenth or fourteenth century.  Such appointments as there were  —  for it had a general air of desolation  —  were of great beauty and richness,  —  especially so to be in a place  —  even a church  —  where the door lay open, and no one was to be seen.  It was strangely silent even for an old church on a lonesome headland.  There reigned a dismal solemnity which seemed to chill me, accustomed as I have been to strange and weird places.  It seemed abandoned, though it had not that air of having been neglected which is so often to be noticed in old churches.  There was none of the everlasting accumulation of dust which prevails in places of higher cultivation and larger and more strenuous work.

In the church itself or its appending chambers I could find no clue or suggestion which could guide me in any way in my search for the Lady of the Shroud.  Monuments there were in profusion  —  statues, tablets, and all the customary memorials of the dead.  The families and dates represented were simply bewildering.  Often the name of Vissarion was given, and the inscription which it held I read through carefully, looking to find some enlightenment of any kind.  But all in vain: there was nothing to see in the church itself.  So I determined to visit the crypt.  I had no lantern or candle with me, so had to go back to the Castle to secure one.

It was strange, coming in from the sunlight, here overwhelming to one so recently accustomed to northern skies, to note the slender gleam of the lantern which I carried, and which I had lit inside the door.  At my first entry to the church my mind had been so much taken up with the strangeness of the place, together with the intensity of wish for some sort of clue, that I had really no opportunity of examining detail.  But now detail became necessary, as I had to find the entrance to the crypt.  My puny light could not dissipate the semi-Cimmerian gloom of the vast edifice; I had to throw the feeble gleam into one after another of the dark corners.

At last I found, behind the great screen, a narrow stone staircase which seemed to wind down into the rock.  It was not in any way secret, but being in the narrow space behind the great screen, was not visible except when close to it.  I knew I was now close to my objective, and began to descend.  Accustomed though I have been to all sorts of mysteries and dangers, I felt awed and almost overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness and desolation as I descended the ancient winding steps.  These were many in number, roughly hewn of old in the solid rock on which the church was built.

I met a fresh surprise in finding that the door of the crypt was open.  After all, this was different from the church-door being open; for in many places it is a custom to allow all comers at all times to find rest and comfort in the sacred place.  But I did expect that at least the final resting-place of the historic dead would be held safe against casual intrusion.  Even I, on a quest which was very near my heart, paused with an almost overwhelming sense of decorum before passing through that open door.  The crypt was a huge place, strangely lofty for a vault.  From its formation, however, I soon came to the conclusion that it was originally a natural cavern altered to its present purpose by the hand of man.  I could hear somewhere near the sound of running water, but I could not locate it.  Now and again at irregular intervals there was a prolonged booming, which could only come from a wave breaking in a confined place.  The recollection then came to me of the proximity of the church to the top of the beetling cliff, and of the half-sunk cavern entrances which pierced it.

With the gleam of my lamp to guide me, I went through and round the whole place.  There were many massive tombs, mostly rough-hewn from great slabs or blocks of stone.  Some of them were marble, and the cutting of all was ancient.  So large and heavy were some of them that it was a wonder to me how they could ever have been brought to this place, to which the only entrance was seemingly the narrow, tortuous stairway by which I had come.  At last I saw near one end of the crypt a great chain hanging.  Turning the light upward, I found that it depended from a ring set over a wide opening, evidently made artificially.  It must have been through this opening that the great sarcophagi had been lowered.

Directly underneath the hanging chain, which did not come closer to the ground than some eight or ten feet, was a huge tomb in the shape of a rectangular coffer or sarcophagus.  It was open, save for a huge sheet of thick glass which rested above it on two thick balks of dark oak, cut to exceeding smoothness, which lay across it, one at either end.  On the far side from where I stood each of these was joined to another oak plank, also cut smooth, which sloped gently to the rocky floor.  Should it be necessary to open the tomb, the glass could be made to slide along the supports and descend by the sloping planks.

Naturally curious to know what might be within such a strange receptacle, I raised the lantern, depressing its lens so that the light might fall within.

Then I started back with a cry, the lantern slipping from my nerveless hand and falling with a ringing sound on the great sheet of thick glass.

Within, pillowed on soft cushions, and covered with a mantle woven of white natural fleece sprigged with tiny sprays of pine wrought in gold, lay the body of a woman  —  none other than my beautiful visitor.  She was marble white, and her long black eyelashes lay on her white cheeks as though she slept.

Without a word or a sound, save the sounds made by my hurrying feet on the stone flooring, I fled up the steep steps, and through the dim expanse of the church, out into the bright sunlight.  I found that I had mechanically raised the fallen lamp, and had taken it with me in my flight.

My feet naturally turned towards home.  It was all instinctive.  The new horror had  —  for the time, at any rate  —  drowned my mind in its mystery, deeper than the deepest depths of thought or imagination.

BOOK IV: UNDER THE FLAGSTAFF

RUPERT’S JOURNAL  — 
Continued
.

May
1, 1907.

For some days after the last adventure I was in truth in a half-dazed condition, unable to think sensibly, hardly coherently.  Indeed, it was as much as I could do to preserve something of my habitual appearance and manner.  However, my first test happily came soon, and when I was once through it I reacquired sufficient self-confidence to go through with my purpose.  Gradually the original phase of stupefaction passed, and I was able to look the situation in the face.  I knew the worst now, at any rate; and when the lowest point has been reached things must begin to mend.  Still, I was wofully sensitive regarding anything which might affect my Lady of the Shroud, or even my opinion of her.  I even began to dread Aunt Janet’s Second-Sight visions or dreams.  These had a fatal habit of coming so near to fact that they always made for a danger of discovery.  I had to realise now that the Lady of the Shroud might indeed be a Vampire  —  one of that horrid race that survives death and carries on a life-in-death existence eternally and only for evil.  Indeed, I began to
expect
that Aunt Janet would ere long have some prophetic insight to the matter.  She had been so wonderfully correct in her prophetic surmises with regard to both the visits to my room that it was hardly possible that she could fail to take cognizance of this last development.

But my dread was not justified; at any rate, I had no reason to suspect that by any force or exercise of her occult gift she might cause me concern by the discovery of my secret.  Only once did I feel that actual danger in that respect was close to me.  That was when she came early one morning and rapped at my door.  When I called out, “Who is that?  What is it?” she said in an agitated way:

“Thank God, laddie, you are all right!  Go to sleep again.”

Later on, when we met at breakfast, she explained that she had had a nightmare in the grey of the morning.  She thought she had seen me in the crypt of a great church close beside a stone coffin; and, knowing that such was an ominous subject to dream about, came as soon as she dared to see if I was all right.  Her mind was evidently set on death and burial, for she went on:

“By the way, Rupert, I am told that the great church on time top of the cliff across the creek is St. Sava’s, where the great people of the country used to be buried.  I want you to take me there some day.  We shall go over it, and look at the tombs and monuments together.  I really think I should be afraid to go alone, but it will be all right if you are with me.”  This was getting really dangerous, so I turned it aside:

“Really, Aunt Janet, I’m afraid it won’t do.  If you go off to weird old churches, and fill yourself up with a fresh supply of horrors, I don’t know what will happen.  You’ll be dreaming dreadful things about me every night and neither you nor I shall get any sleep.”  It went to my heart to oppose her in any wish; and also this kind of chaffy opposition might pain her.  But I had no alternative; the matter was too serious to be allowed to proceed.  Should Aunt Janet go to the church, she would surely want to visit the crypt.  Should she do so, and there notice the glass-covered tomb  —  as she could not help doing  —  the Lord only knew what would happen.  She had already Second-Sighted a woman being married to me, and before I myself knew that I had such a hope.  What might she not reveal did she know where the woman came from?  It may have been that her power of Second Sight had to rest on some basis of knowledge or belief, and that her vision was but some intuitive perception of my own subjective thought.  But whatever it was it should be stopped  —  at all hazards.

This whole episode set me thinking introspectively, and led me gradually but imperatively to self-analysis  —  not of powers, but of motives.  I found myself before long examining myself as to what were my real intentions.  I thought at first that this intellectual process was an exercise of pure reason; but soon discarded this as inadequate  —  even impossible.  Reason is a cold manifestation; this feeling which swayed and dominated me is none other than passion, which is quick, hot, and insistent.

As for myself, the self-analysis could lead to but one result  —  the expression to myself of the reality and definiteness of an already-formed though unconscious intention.  I wished to do the woman good  —  to serve her in some way  —  to secure her some benefit by any means, no matter how difficult, which might be within my power.  I knew that I loved her  —  loved her most truly and fervently; there was no need for self-analysis to tell me that.  And, moreover, no self-analysis, or any other mental process that I knew of, could help my one doubt: whether she was an ordinary woman (or an extraordinary woman, for the matter of that) in some sore and terrible straits; or else one who lay under some dreadful condition, only partially alive, and not mistress of herself or her acts.  Whichever her condition might be, there was in my own feeling a superfluity of affection for her.  The self-analysis taught me one thing, at any rate  —  that I had for her, to start with, an infinite pity which had softened towards her my whole being, and had already mastered merely selfish desire.  Out of it I began to find excuses for her every act.  In the doing so I knew now, though perhaps I did not at the time the process was going on, that my view in its true inwardness was of her as a living woman  —  the woman I loved.

In the forming of our ideas there are different methods of work, as though the analogy with material life holds good.  In the building of a house, for instance, there are many persons employed; men of different trades and occupations  —  architect, builder, masons, carpenters, plumbers, and a host of others  —  and all these with the officials of each guild or trade.  So in the world of thought and feelings: knowledge and understanding come through various agents, each competent to its task.

How far pity reacted with love I knew not; I only knew that whatever her state might be, were she living or dead, I could find in my heart no blame for the Lady of the Shroud.  It could not be that she was dead in the real conventional way; for, after all, the Dead do not walk the earth in corporal substance, even if there be spirits which take the corporal form.  This woman was of actual form and weight.  How could I doubt that, at all events  —  I, who had held her in my arms?  Might it not be that she was not quite dead, and that it had been given to me to restore her to life again?  Ah! that would be, indeed, a privilege well worth the giving my life to accomplish.  That such a thing may be is possible.  Surely the old myths were not absolute inventions; they must have had a basis somewhere in fact.  May not the world-old story of Orpheus and Eurydice have been based on some deep-lying principle or power of human nature?  There is not one of us but has wished at some time to bring back the dead.  Ay, and who has not felt that in himself or herself was power in the deep love for our dead to make them quick again, did we but know the secret of how it was to be done?