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The Burial of the Rats - Part 1 · Dracula's Guest & Other Weird Tales

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The Burial of the Rats Part one. This is a LibriVox recording. All
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LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,
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please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by Hailey Flag The Burial of the Rats
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by Bram Stoker. Leave in Paris by the Orleans Road, cross the Incent
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and turn to the right. You find yourself in a somewhat wild and not
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at all savory district. Right and left before you, and behind and on
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every side rise great heaps of dust and waste, accumulated by the process of
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time. Paris has its night as well as its day life, and the
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sojourner who enters his hotel in the Rue de Rivoli or the Rue Centenaar late
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at night or leaves it early in the morning, can guess, in coming
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near Montrouge, if he has not done so already, the purpose of those
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great wagons that look like boilers on wheels, which he finds halting everywhere as
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he passes. Every city has its peculiar institutions created out of its own needs,
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and one of the most notable institutions of Paris is its ragpicking population.
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In the early morning and Parisian life commences at an early hour. May be
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seen in most streets, standing on the pathway, opposite every courtin alley,
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and between every few houses, as still in some American cities, even imparts
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of New York, large wooden boxes into which the domestics or tenement holders empty
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the accumulated dust of the past day. Around these boxes gather and pass on
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when the work is done, to fresh fields of labor and pastors new squalid,
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hungry looking men and women, the implements of whose craft consists of a
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coarse bag or basket slung over the shoulder, and a little rake with which
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they turn over and probe and examine in the minutest manner. The dustbins they
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pick up and deposit in their baskets by eight of their rakes, whatever they
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may find, with the same facility as a chinaman uses his chopsticks. Paris
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is a city of centralization, and centralization and classification are closely allied. In
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the early times, when centralization is becoming a fact, its forerunner is classification.
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All things which are similar or analogous become grouped together, and from the
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grouping of groups rises one whole or central point. We see radiating many long
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arms with innumerable tenticulae, and in the center rises a gigantic head with a
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comprehensive brain, and keen eyes to look on every side, and ears sensitive
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to hear, and a voracious mouth to swallow. Other cities resemble all the
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birds and beasts and fishes whose appetites and digestions are normal. Paris alone is
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the analogical hypothesis of the octopus, product of centralization, carried in an ad
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absurdum. It fairly represents the devilfish, and in no respects is the resemblance
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more curious than in the similarity of the digestive apparatus. Those intelligent tourists who,
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having surrendered their individuality in to the hands of sher's cooker gouze, do
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Paris in three days, are often puzzled to know how it is that the
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dinner which in London would cost about six shillings, can be had for three
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francs in a cafe at the Palais Royale. They need have no more wonder
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if they will but consider the classification, which is a theoretic specialty of Parisian
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life, and adopt all round the fact from which the Schiffer has his genesis.
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The Paris of eighteen fifty was not like the Paris of today, and
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those who see the Paris of Napoleon and Baron Haussmann can hardly realize the existence
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of the state of things forty five years ago. Amongst other things, however,
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which have not changed, or those districts where the waste is gathered.
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Dust is dust all the world over, in every age, and the family
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likeness of dust heaps is perfect. The traveler, therefore, who visits the
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environs of Montrouge can go back and fancy without difficulty to the year eighteen fifty.
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In this year I was making a prolonged stay in Paris. I was
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very much in love with a young lady, who, though she returned my
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passion, so far yielded to the wishes of her parents that she had promised
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not to see me or to correspond with me for a year. I too,
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had been compelled to accede to these conditions under a vague hope of parental
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approval. During the term of probation, I had promised to remain out of
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the country and not to write to my dear one until the expiration of the
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year. Naturally, the time went heavily with me. There was not one
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of my own family or circle who could tell me of Alice, and none
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of her own folk had, I am sorry to say, sufficient generosity to
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send me even an occasional word of comfort regarding her health and well being.
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I spent six months wandering about Europe, but as I could find no satisfactory
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distraction in travel, I determined to come to Paris, where at least I
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would be with an easy hail of London in case any good fortune should call
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me thither before the appointed time. That hope deferred maketh the heart sick was
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never better exemplified than in my case, For in addition to the perpetual longing
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to see the face I loved, there was always with me a heroine anxiety
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lest some accident should prevent me showing Alice in due time that I had,
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throughout the long period of probation, been faithful to her trust and my own
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love. Thus every adventure which I undertook had a fierce pleasure of its own,
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for it was fraught with possible consequences greater than it would have ordinarily borne.
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Like all travelers, I exhausted the places of most interest in the first
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month of my stay, and was driven in the second month to look for
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amusement whithersoever I might. Having made sundry journeys to the better known suburbs,
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I began to see that there was a terror incognita in so far as the
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guide book was concerned, in the social wilderness lying between these attractive points.
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Accordingly, I began to systematize my researches, and every day took up the
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thread of my exploration at the place where I had on the previous day dropped
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it. In the process of time, my wanderings led me near Montrouge,
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and I saw that hereabouts lay the ultimathula of social exploration, a country as
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little known as that round the source of the White Nile. And so I
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determined to investigate philosophically the Chiffonier, his habitat, his life, and his
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means of life. The job was an unsavory one, difficult of accomplishment,
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and with little hope of adequate reward. However, despite reason, obstinacy prevailed,
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and I entered into my new investigation with a keener energy than I could
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have summoned to aid me in any investigation leading to any end valuable or worthy.
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One day, late, in a fine afternoon, toward the end of
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September, I entered the holy of holies of the city of Dust. The
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place was evidently the recognized abode of a number of chiffoniers, for some sort
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of arrangement was manifested in the formation of the dust heaps near the road.
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I passed among these heaps, which stood like orderly sentries, determined to penetrate
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further and trace dust to its ultimate location. As I passed along, I
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saw behind the dust heaps a few forms that flitted to and fro, evidently
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watching with great interest the adment of any stranger to such a place. The
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district was like a small Switzerland, and as I went forward, my torturous
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course shut out the path behind me. Presently I got into what seemed a
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small city or community of chiffoniers. There were a number of shanties or huts
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such as may be met with in the remote part of the bog of Allen,
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rude places with wattled walls plastered with mud, and roofs of rude thatch
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made from stable refuse. Such places as one would not like to enter for
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any consideration, and which even in water color, could only look picturesque if
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judiciously treated. In the midst of these huts was one of the strangest adaptations
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I cannot say habitations I had ever seen. An immense old wardrobe, a
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colossal remnant of some boudoir of Charles the seventh or Henry the second, had
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been converted into a dwelling house. The double doors lay open, so that
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the entire menage was open to public view. In the open half of the
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wardrobe was a common sitting room of some four feet by six in which sat
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smoking their pipes round a charcoal brazier no fewer than six old soldiers of the
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First Republic, with their uniforms torn and worn threadbare. Evidently they were of
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the mauvais suget class. Their bleary eyes and limp jaws told plainly of a
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common love of absinthe, and their eyes had that haggard worn look of slumber
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and ferocity which follows hard in the wake of drink. The other side stood
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as of old, with its shelves intact save that they were cut to half
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their depth, and in each shelf, of which there were six, was
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a bed made with rags and straw. The aft dozen of worthies who inhabited
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this structure looked at me curiously as I passed, and when I looked back
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after going a little way, I saw their heads together in a whispered conference.
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I did not like the look of this at all, for the place
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was very lonely, and the men looked very, very villainous. However,
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I did not see any cause for fear, and went on my way,
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penetrating further and further into the Sahara. The way was torturous to a degree,
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and from going round in a series of semicircles as one goes in skating
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with the Dutch roll, I got rather confused with regard to the points of
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the compass. When I had penetrated a little way, I saw as I
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turned the corner of a half made heap. Sitting on a heap of straw,
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an old soldier with threadbare coat. Hallo, said I to myself,
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the First Republic is well represented here in its soldiery. As I passed him,
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the old man never even looked up at me, but gazed on the
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ground with stolid persistency. Again, I remarked to myself, see what a
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life. A rude warfare can do this. Old man's curiosity is a thing
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of the past. When I had gone a few steps, however, I
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looked back suddenly and saw that curiosity was not dead. For the veteran had
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raised his head and was regarding me with a very queer expression. He seemed
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to me to look very like one of the six worthies in the press.
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When he saw me looking, he dropped his head, and without thinking further
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of him, I went on my way, satisfied that there was a trained
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likeness between these old warriors. Presently, I met another soldier in a similar
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manner. He too did not notice me whilst I was passing. By this
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time it was getting late in the afternoon, and I began to think of
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retracing my steps. Accordingly, I turned to go back, but could see
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a number of tracks leading between different mounds, and could not ascertain which of
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them I should take. In my perplexity, I wanted to see some one
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of whom to ask the way, but could see no one. I determined
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to go on a few mounds further and so try to see someone not a
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veteran. I gained my object, for after a couple of hundred yards,
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I saw before me a single shanty, such as I had seen before,
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with however, the difference that this was not one for living in, but
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merely a roof with three walls open in front. From the evidences which the
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neighborhood exhibited, I took it to be a place for sortin. Within it
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was an old woman, wrinkled and bent with age. I approached her to
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ask her the way. She rose as I came cloaks and I asked her
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my way. She immediately commenced a conversation, and it occurred to me that
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here, in the very center of the Kingdom of dust, was a place
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to gather details of the history of Parisian ragpicking, particularly as I could do
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so from the lips of one who looked like the oldest inhabitant. I began
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my inquiries, and the old woman gave me most interest in answers. She
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had been one of the setosas who had sat daily before the guillotine, and
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had taken an active part among the women who signalized themselves by their violence in
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the revolution. While we were talking, she said, suddenly, but Monsieur
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must be tad standing and dusted a rickety old stool for me to sit down.
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I hardly liked to do so for many reasons, but the poor old
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woman was so civil that I did not like to run the risk of hurting
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her by refusing. And moreover, the conversation of one who had been at
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the taking of the bas Steele was so interesting that I sat down, and
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so our conversation went on. While we were talking, an old man,
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older and more bent and wrinkled even than the woman, appeared from behind the
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shanty. Here is Pierre, said she, Monsieur can hear studies now if
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he wishes. For Pierre was in everything from the Bastille to Waterloo. The
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old man took another stool at my request, and we plunged into a sea
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of revolutionary reminiscences. This old man, albeit clothed like a scarecrow, was
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like any one of the six veterans. I was now sitting in the center
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of the low hut, with the woman on my left hand and the man
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on my right, each of them being somewhat in front of me. The
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place was full of all sorts of curious objects of lumber, and of many
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things that I wished far away. In one corner was a heap of rags,
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which seemed to move from the number of bermin it contained, and in
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the other a heap of bones, whose odor was something shocking. Every now
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and then, glancing at the heaps, I could see the gleaming eyes of
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some of the rats which had vested the place. These loathsome objects were bad
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enough, but what looked even more dreadful was an old butcher's axe with an
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iron handle, stayed with clots of blood, leaning up against the wall on
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the right hand side. Still, these things did not give me much concern.
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The talk of the two old people was so fascinating that I stayed on
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and on till the evening came, and the dust heaps threw dark shadows over
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the vales between them. After a time I began to grow uneasy. I
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could not tell how or why, but somehow I did not feel satisfied.
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Uneasiness is an instinct in means warning. The psychic faculties are often the centuries
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of the intellect, and when they sound alarm, the reason begins to act,
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Although perhaps not consciously, this was so with me. I began to
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bethink me where I was and by what surrounded and to wonder how I should
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fare in case I should be attacked. And then the thought suddenly burst upon
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me, although without any overt cause, that I was in danger. Prudence
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whispered, be still and make no sign. And so I was still and
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made no sign, for I knew that four cunning eyes were on me,
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four eyes, if not more. My god, what a horrible thought,
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Oh shanty might be surrounded on three so ey with villains. I might be
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in the midst of a band of such desperadoes as only half a century of
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periodic revolution can produce. With a sense of danger, my intellect and observation
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quickened, and I grew more watchful than was my wont I noticed that the
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old woman's eyes were constantly wondering toward my hands. I looked at them,
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too, and saw the cause. My rings on my left little finger,
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I had a large signet on the right, a good diamond. I thought
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that if there was any danger, my first care was to avert suspicion.
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Accordingly, I began to work the conversation round to ragpickin to the drains of
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the things found there, and so by easy stages to jewels. Then season
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a favorable opportunity, I asked the old woman if she knew anything of such
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things. She answered that she did a little. I held out my right
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hand, and showing her the diamond, asked her what she thought of that.
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She answered that her eyes were bad, and stooped over my hand.
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I said, as nonchalantly as I could, pardon me, you'll see better,
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thus, and taking it off, handed it to her. An unholy
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light came into her withered old face. As she touched it. She stole
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one glance at me, swift and keen as a flash of lightnin'. She
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bent over the ring for a moment, her face quite concealed, as though
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examining it. The old man looked straight out in front of the shanty before
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him, at the same time fumbling in his pockets and producing the screw of
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tobacco in a paper and a pipe, which he proceeded to fill. I
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took advantage of the paws and the momentary rest from the searching eyes on my
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face to look carefully round the place, now dim and shadowy in the gloaming.
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There still lay all the heaps of very reeking foulness. There the terrible
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blood stained axe leaning against the wall in the right hand corner, and everywhere,
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despite the gloom, the baleful glitter of the eyes of the rats.
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I could see them even through some of the chinks of the boards at the
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back, low down close to the ground. But stay, these latter eyes
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seemed more than usually large and bright and baleful. For an instant, my
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heart stood still, and I felt in that whirl and condition of mind in
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which one feels a sort of spiritual drunkenness, and as though the body is
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only maintained erect, and that there is no time for it to fall before
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recovery. Then in another second I was calm, coldly calm, with all
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my energies in full vigor, with the self control which I felt to be
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perfect, and with all my feeling and instincts alert. Now I knew the
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full extent of my danger. I was watched and surrounded by desperate people.
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I cannot even guess at how many of them were lying there on the ground
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behind the shanty, waiting for the moment to strike. I knew that I
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was big and strong, and they knew it too. They knew also as
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I did, that I was an Englishman and would make a fight for it,
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And so we waited. I had I felt gaining advantage in the last
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few seconds, for I knew my danger and understood the situation. Now,
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I thought, is the test of my courage, enduring test? The fighting
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test may come lighter. The old woman raised her head and said to me
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in a satisfied kind of way, a very fine ring, indeed, a
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beautiful ring, Oh me, I once had such rings, plenty of them,
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and bracelets and earrings of For in those days I led the town a
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dance. But they've forgotten me. Now they've forgotten me. They why they
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never heard of me? Perhaps their grandfathers remember me, some of them.
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And she laughed, a horse croaken laugh. And then I am bound to
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say that she astonished me, for she handed me back the ring with a
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certain suggestion of old fashioned grace, which was not without its pythos. The
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old man either with a sort of sudden ferocity, half rising from a stool,
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and said to me, suddenly and hoarsely, let me see it.
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I was about to hand him the ring, when the old woman said,
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non, non, do not give it to Pierre. Pierre is eccentric,
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he loses things. And such a pretty ring, cat, said the old
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man savagely. Suddenly, the old woman said, rather more loudly than was
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necessary. Wait, I shall tell you something about a ring. There was
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something in the sound of a voice that jarred upon me. Perhaps it was
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my hypersensitiveness, brought up as I was, to such a pitch of nervous
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excitement. But I seemed to think she was not addressing me. As I
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stole a glance round the place, I saw the eyes of the rats in
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the bone heaps, but missed the eyes along the back. But even as
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I looked, I saw them again appear. The old woman's wit had given
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me a respite from attack, and the men had sunk back to their reclining
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posture. I once lost a ring, a beautiful diamond hoope that had belonged
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to a queen, and which was given to me by a farmer of Zetexis,
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who afterwards cut his throat because I sent him away. I thought it
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must have been stolen and taxed my people, but I could get no trace.
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The police came and suggested that it had found its way to the drain.
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We descended I in my fine clothes, for I would not trust them
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with my beautiful ring. I know more of the drains since then, En
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of rats too, But I shall never forget the horror of that place,
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alive with blazing eyes, a wall of them just outside the light of our
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torches. Well, we got beneath my house. We searched the outlet of
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the drain, and there in the filth found my ring, and we came
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out. But we found something else also before we came. As we were
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coming toward the opening, a lot of sewer rats, human ones this time,
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came towards us. They told the police that one of their number had
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gone into the drain and had not returned. He had gone in only shortly
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before we had, and if lost, could hardly be far off. They
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asked help to seek him. So we turned back. They tried to prevent
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me going, but I insisted it was a new excitement, and had I
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not recovered my ring. Not far did we go till we came on something.
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There was but a little water, and the bottom of the drain was
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raised with brick, rubbish, and much matter of the kind. He had
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made a fight for it, even when his torch had gone out, but
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there were too many for him. They had not been long about it.
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The bones were still warm, but they were picked clean. They had even
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eaten their own dead ones, and there were bones of rats as well as
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of the man. They took it cool enough, those others, the human
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ones, and joked of their comrade when they found him dead, though they
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would have helped him living. Bah, what matters it life or death?
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And you had no fear, I asked her. Fear, she said,
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with a laugh of me, have fear, ask Pierre. But I was
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younger then, And as I came through that horrible drain, with its wall
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of greedy eyes, always moving with the circle of the light from the torches,
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I did not feel easy. I kept on before the men know it
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is a way I have. I never let the men get it before me.
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All I want is a chance and a means. And they ate him
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up, took every tlace away except the buns, and no one knew it.
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No one's sound of him ever was made Here She broke into a chucklin
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fit of the ghastliest merriment, which it was ever my lot to hear and
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see. A great poetist describes her heroine singing, oh to see or hear
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her singing scarce, I know which is divinest, and I can apply the
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same idea to the old crone in all save the divinity. For I scarce
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could tell which was the most hellish, the harsh, malicious, satisfied,
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cruel laugh, or the leering grin and the horrible square opened into the mouth
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like a tragic mask, and the yellow gleam of a few discolored teeth in
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the shapeless guns. In that laugh, and with that grin and the chucklan's
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satisfaction, I knew, as well as if it had been spoken to me
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in words of thunder, that my murder was settled, and the murderers only
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bided the proper time for its accomplishment. I could read between the lines of
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her gruesome story commands to her accomplices. Wait, she seemed to say,
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bide your time. I shall strike the first blow. Find the weapon for
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me, and I shall make the opportunity. He shall not escape, keeping
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quiet, and then no one will be the wiser. There will be no
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outcry, and the rats will do their work. It was growing darker and
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darker, the night was coming. I stole a glance round the shanty,
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Still all the same, the bloody acts in the corner, the heaps of
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filth, and the eyes on the bone, heaps and in the crannies of
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the floor. Pierre had been still ostensibly filling his pipe. He now struck
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a light and began to puff away at it. The old woman said,
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dear, hat, how dark it is, Pierre, like a good lad
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like the lamp. Pierre got up and, with the lighted match in his
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hand, touched the wick of a lamp which hung at one side of the
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entrance to the shanty, in which had a reflector that threw the light all
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over the place. It was evidently that which was used for their sortin at
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night. Not that stupid Not at the lantern, she called out to him.
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He immediately blew it out, saying all right, mother, I'll find
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it, And he hustled about the left corner of the room. The old
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woman sianging through the darkness the lentn the lenton. Oh, that is the
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light that is most useful to us, poor folks. The lantern was the
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friend of the revolution. It is the friend of the chiffonnia. It helps
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us when all else fails hardly. And she said the word. When there
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was a kind of creaking at the whole place, and something was steadily dragged
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over the roof. Again, I seemed to read between the lines of her
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words. I knew the lesson of the lantern. One of you get on
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the roof with a noose and strangle him as he passes out, if we
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file within. As I looked out of the opening, I saw a loop
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of rope outlined black against the lurid sky. I was now indeed the set.
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Pierre was not long in finding the lantern. I kept my eyes fixed
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through the darkness on the old woman. Pierre struck his light. By its
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flash, I saw the old woman raise from the ground beside her, where
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it had mysteriously appeared, and then high in the folds of her gown,
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a long, sharp knife or dagger. It seemed to be like a butter's
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sharpening iron find to a keen point. The lantern was lit. Bring it
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here, Pierre, she said, Place it in the doorway where we can
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see it. See how nice it is. It shuts out the darkness from
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us. It is just right, just right for her and her purposes.
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And threw all its light on my face, leaving in gloom the faces of
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both Pierre and the woman who sat outside of me on each side. I
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felt that the time of action was approaching. But I knew now that the
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first signal and movement would come from the woman, and so watched her.
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I was all unarmed, but I had made up my mind what to do.
24:41
At the first movement, I would seize the butcher's acte in the right
24:45
hand corner and fight my way out. At least I would die hard.
24:48
I stole a glance round to fix its exact locality so I could not fail
24:52
to seize it at the first effort, For then, if ever time and
24:56
accuracy would be precious. Good God, it was gone. All the horror
25:03
the situation burst upon me. But the bitterest thought of all was that if
25:07
the issue of the terrible position should be against me, Alice would infallibly suffer.
25:11
Either she would believe me false, and any lover or anyone who has
25:15
ever been one can imagine the bitterness of the thought, or else she would
25:18
go on loving long after I had been lost to her and to the world,
25:22
so that her life would be broken and embittered, shattered with disappointment and
25:26
despair. The very magnitude of the pain braced me up and nerved me to
25:30
bear the dread scrutiny of the plotters I think I did not betray myself.
25:36
The old woman was watching me as a cat does a mouse, and had
25:38
her right hand hidden in the folds of her gown, clutching. I knew
25:41
that long, cruel looking dagger. Had she seen any disappointment in my face,
25:47
she would, I felt, have known that the moment had come,
25:49
and would have sprung on me like a tigress, certain of taking me unprepared.
25:53
I looked out into the night, and there I saw a new cause
25:56
for danger. Before and around the hut were at a little distance some shadowy
26:02
forms, and they were quite still, but I knew that they were all
26:06
alerting on guard. Small chance for me now in that direction again, I
26:11
stole a glance around the place. In moments of great excitement and of great
26:14
danger, which is excitement, the mine works very quickly, and the keenness
26:18
of the faculties which depend on the mind grow in proportion. I now felt
26:22
this in an instant. I took in the whole situation. I saw that
26:27
the axe had been taken through a small hole made in one of the rotten
26:30
boards. How rotten they must be to allow of such a thing being done
26:34
without a particle and noise the hut was a regular murder trap, and was
26:38
guarded all round. A garriter lay on the roof, ready to entangle me
26:42
with his noose if I should escape the dagger of the old hag. In
26:47
front the way was guarded by I know not how many watchers, and at
26:49
the back was a row of desperate men. I had seen their eyes still
26:53
through the crack on the boards of the floor when last I looked as I
26:56
lay prone, waiting for the signal to start a wrecked if it was to
27:00
be, ever, now for it. End of the Burial of the Rats,
27:06
Part one, recording by Haley Flag of Texas.