type="note">[23] at the Day of Judgment when they come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped[24] together an’ trying’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was, some of them trimmlin’ an’ dithering, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippery from lyin’ in the sea that they can’t even keep their gurp o’ them.’
I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was ‘showing off,’ so I put in a word to keep him going.
‘Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not all wrong?’
‘Yabblins![25] There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make out the people too good, for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl[26] be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here. You come here a stranger, an’ you see this kirkgarth.[27]’
I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.
He went on, ‘And you consate[28] that all these steans be aboon folk that be haped here,[29] snod an’ snog?[30]’ I assented again. ‘Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these laybeds that be toom[31] as old Dun’s ’baccabox[32] on Friday night.’
He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. ‘And, my gog! How could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank,[33] read it!’
I went over and read, ‘Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, age 30.’ When I came back Mr. Swales went on,
‘Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast of Andres! An’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above,’ he pointed northwards, ‘or where the currants may have drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowery, I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in ‘20, or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777, or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later, or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums[34] aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ and jostlin’[35] one another that way that it ’ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’ tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the aurora borealis.’ This was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.
‘But,’ I said, ‘surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really necessary?’
‘Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!’
‘To please their relatives, I suppose.’
‘To please their relatives, you suppose!’ This he said with intense scorn. ‘How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?’
He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. ‘Read the lies on that thruff-stone,[36]’ he said.
The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read, ‘Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on July 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son. ‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’ ‘Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!’ She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
‘Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that’s because ye don’t gawm[37] the sorrowin’mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk’d,[38] a regular lamiter[39] he was, an’ he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin’ crows with. ’twarn’t for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps[40] to him. That’s the way he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to addle where she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate,’ he hammered it with his stick as he spoke, ‘a pack of lies? And won’t it make Gabriel[41] keckle[42] when Geordie comes pantin’ ut the grees with the tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks to be took as evidence!’
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up, ‘Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favorite seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide.’
‘That won’t harm ye, my pretty, an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There’s the clock, and’I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!’ And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we took hands as we sat, and she told me all over again about Arthur and their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.
The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly. They run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next to the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys’ hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he were here.
Dr. Seward’s Diary
The case
Jouped – перемешались.
Yabblins! – Возможно!
Balm-bowl – ночной горшок.
Kirkgarth – кладбище.
Consate – воображать, представлять себе.
Be haped here – погребены здесь.
Snod an’ snog – гладкий и компактный.
Toom – пустой.
’Baccabox = tobacco box – табакерка.
Aftest abaft the bier-bank – aft – это «корма», здесь производные от этого слова используются в значении «сзади». Bier-bank – дорога к кладбищу. Вероятно, имеется в виду крайняя могила.
Antherums – сомнения.
Jommling and jostling – пихать и толкать.
Thruff-stone – плоская могильная плита, закрывающая все тело.
Gawm – понимать.
Acrewk’d – кривой, перекошенный.
Lamiter – человек с деформированным телом.
The clegs and dowps – мухи и вороны.
Gabriel – Архангел Гавриил, посланник Бога людям.
Keckle = cackle – хихикать.
